fullbelieverheart

[fullbelieverheart]

bruce wayne with a much younger partner seems so troublesome. people think that you’re just using him for his money and fame. whenever you post on your socials of your new fashion, car, and a sweet little puppy named bow, everyone rolls their eyes.

obviously they’re jealous, who wouldn’t be? but, in reality that’s not what they should be jealous of. yeah, the lavish gifts and five star dinners are nice, but what really seals the deal is bruce’s incredible stamina.

he says it’s because he works out—which is no lie, but when he shots load after load into your body, with no sign of stopping, it makes you wonder if he really is that much older than you.

bruce doesn’t stop after one round, never, he’ll hold your body close to his, pounding himself on top of you, kissing into the back of your neck as you babble out any incoherent thoughts. he’s a filthy man and whenever he’s finally finished, he’ll still remind you of his age.

“not bad for a 55 year old, huh sweetheart?”

[fullbelieverheart]

────★𝑺𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝑻𝐀𝐋𝐊 & 𝑺𝐈𝐍 ˙💐 ̟ !!

୭˚. ᵎᵎ summary… BatBoys with talkative!yapper!reader

୭˚. ᵎᵎ contains… Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne x gn!reader (but described as female in the nsfw section.)

୭˚. ᵎᵎ warnings… contains nsfw (18+) content after the warning divider. — mentions of sex, overstimulation, female-receiving!oral, foreplay mentions, dirty talk, missionary, cowgirl, rough sex, slight choking (it’s Jason, duh), praise, bro idek anymore, semi!public sex mention, fingering mention, teasing, etc. wow

• Dick adores it. Dick is naturally social and emotionally in tune, so your chatter is like background music to him — warm, colorful, comforting. He genuinely listens, even if he doesn’t understand 100% of what you’re saying (especially when you go on niche rants).

• You’ll be venting about the emotional downfall of a TV character while he’s brushing his teeth, and he’ll just nod with foam in his mouth, giving you heart eyes in the mirror like, I love this little disaster so much.

• Big on physical affection while you talk: back hugs while you ramble, kisses to your forehead mid-monologue, tracing patterns on your thigh while you’re going on about your dream wedding color scheme (even though he knows you’ll change it by next week).

• Will 100% instigate more talking with:

➜ “What happened next?”

➜ “Wait, I need all the details again but with gossip voice this time.”

➜ “Hold up — I want the tea but tell it from the drama queen perspective.”

• When you say something wild mid-ramble, like “I could totally fake my death if I had a fog machine and three raccoons,” he pauses and goes, “I believe in you.”

• Sends you voice memos back just so you have something to respond to, even if it’s just him going, “Hi, I’m walking and I saw a pigeon do a backflip and thought of you.”

• Loves how expressive you are. “God, you’re like a comic book panel. I always know what page I’m on with you.”

⸻

• Jason pretends to be annoyed. He is not.

• He sits there looking pissy while you talk for fifteen minutes straight about a dream you had where he was a barista with goat legs, but secretly he’s cataloging every second of it like a favorite podcast.

• Falls asleep to the sound of your voice on the couch — not because you’re boring, but because it soothes him. The safe, repetitive rhythm of you filling space makes his shoulders loosen for the first time all day.

• Will interrupt your long rants with a:

➜ “Babe. Breathe.”

➜ “ You’ve changed topics four times. Go back to the American Dad cult thing.”

• He’s a sucker for when your words start spiraling into chaotic territory. You’ll be like, “And then I thought, what if I just legally changed my name to Knife?” and he’ll be like, “Oh my god. I’d marry Knife.”

• Deep down? It makes him feel wanted. You want to tell him everything. Even the nonsense. Even the little things no one else would care about. That trust means more to him than he’ll admit.

• When you go quiet for more than ten minutes, he immediately side-eyes you like, Who hurt you. Why are you plotting. Are you possessed.

• Sometimes he’ll just look at you mid-rant, blinking slow, and mutter, “You’re exhausting. I’m obsessed with you.”

⸻

• You would think Tim would be overwhelmed by a chatterbox… and you’d be right. At first.

• The first few dates, he’s overstimulated and blinking like a buffering screen while you bounce from topic to topic like a pinball machine. But he gets addicted fast.

• He starts structuring his schedule around “Y/N talk time” because it’s the only thing that can get him to log off his 40-hour research spirals.

• “I’ve been inside my own head too long,” he’ll mumble, rubbing his eyes, “Can you talk about anything? Literally anything. Just… fill the air, please.”

• Loves when you info-dump to him. You have ADHD-coded tangents about mythology, glitter, or reality TV? He’s in. Ask him questions, even mid-rant. Tell him about what evil thing Kim did in ‘Keeping Up With The Kardashians,’ It wakes him up.

• Will slowly become more talkative around you, like you infected him. He starts matching your energy. You’ll be like “—and then I started wondering if pigeons are just spy drones—” and he’ll go, “Actually, during the Cold War they did—”

• Late night calls are filled with you talking and him muttering, “Mmhm,” “Yeah,” and soft chuckles. You think he’s half-asleep. He remembers everything you said the next day.

• Once, during a long ramble, you worriedly stopped and asked, “Wait, do I talk too much?”

Tim looked up with soft, tired eyes and said, “I love that you never make the silence awkward.”

⸻

• Oh, this is Damian’s villain origin story. Or so he says…

• “You are like a crow trapped in an echo chamber,” he’ll scowl, arms crossed. “Why do you have so many thoughts. Why must you share all of them.”

• But he listens. Every time. Even when he’s glaring at you.

• His version of affection is sarcastic commentary during your rants:

➜ “ That is the dumbest theory I’ve ever heard.”

➜ “ Please, tell me more about this dream where you adopted a blood-thirsty dragon and became mayor.”

➜ “ Are you done yet, or do you plan to set a world record for uninterrupted verbal nonsense?”

• He secretly loves that you never stop. Because he never has to wonder what you’re thinking. No games. No manipulations. Just pure, unfiltered you.

• When he’s hurt or upset, your talking is the only thing that gets through to him. You don’t even realize it. You’re pacing and yelling about socks going missing in the dryer and he’s sitting there, silently pulling your hand into his lap.

• You’ll ask, “Do I annoy you?” and he’ll go:

➜ “ You enrage me. You bewilder me. You exhaust me.”

➜ Then under his breath: “I am madly in love with you.”

• He remembers every word you say. You’ll make some dumb offhand comment about how you want a custom dagger with your name on it, and six weeks later there’s a velvet box on your pillow.

• And God help anyone who tries to tell you to shut up in public. Damian will ruin them.

(because of course I have to include smut.)

• At first? Dick thinks it’s adorable. You’re talkative during sex like you are with everything else — giggling, gasping, teasing him mid-thrust with things like, “You’re so good at this—wait, have you always been this good or is this just for me?”

• It feeds him. He lives for it. Loves hearing your voice breathy, moaning, overstimulated — and even better when you start talking too much and get flustered mid-sentence.

• He gets handsy and worships you when you’re being noisy. Your voice is his favorite sound. Especially when you’re whimpering and trying to finish your sentences while he’s buried between your thighs.

• “C’mon, baby, don’t stop talking now,” he’ll murmur with his tongue teasing your clit. “You were giving me such a good speech about how much you like my cock—what happened?”

• When you ramble during foreplay, he’ll slowly slide his hand down your stomach like, “You gonna keep talking through this too?”

• Loves slow sex with eye contact while you’re blabbering sweetly and moaning through everything. His favorite thing is when you lose track of what you’re saying mid-orgasm. He’ll chuckle and kiss your neck, whispering, “Thought so, baby.”

• Bonus: If you ever get bratty while talking, expect to be pinned and told, “Put your mouth to better use.”

⸻

• Jason’s obsessed with the way your mouth runs. Teasing, sultry, shameless — especially when you’re being a little too smug in bed.

• You’ll be making jokes, breathless and giggly, riding him and saying things like, “Sooo, how does it feel being Gotham’s most fuckable vigilante?”

• Jason just growls. He grabs your hips tighter and thrusts harder until you’re choking on your own smugness.

• Has a hand on your throat when you talk too much during sex. Not to shut you up — to feel every little sound you make.

• “Keep talking, baby,” he snarls in your ear. “Let’s see how long you can run your mouth when you’re shaking on my cock.”

• If you’re especially flirty and playful, he does not hold back — bends you over whatever surface is closest and pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you until your voice goes hoarse.

• Kink for overstimulating you until you’re whimpering, half-talking nonsense, and he’ll say things like:

➜ “You still got words, pretty girl?”

➜ “Where’s all that mouth now?”

➜ “Thought you had something smart to say while I was tongue-deep in your pussy.”

• But if you’re soft and sweet and praising him through the whole thing? He melts. Growls “fuck, you’re gonna kill me” into your shoulder and loses himself in you.

⸻

• Tim’s kink? Being talked through sex like it’s a shared secret. You describe everything you’re feeling — and he lives for it.

• You’ll be breathlessly saying things like:

➜ “It’s so deep, Tim, I can feel you right there—”

➜ “God, you’re stretching me so perfectly—did you plan this? You did, didn’t you?”

➜ “You love how wet I get when you talk nerdy to me, admit it.”

• He gets red in the face, totally overwhelmed but so turned on. Half the time he’s like, “You’re doing this on purpose—”

• You talk him through his own dominance: “Harder, Tim. Faster. You know how I like it, don’t pretend you don’t.”

• His voice gets all low and breathy once he breaks — “You really don’t stop, do you?” — and suddenly he’s flipping you over and pinning your wrists.

• Loves semi-public sex with whispered commentary. Your breathy, daring little comments like, “You’re so hard right now. Bet if I touched you, you’d lose it in thirty seconds.”

• Will absolutely finger you just to shut you up — but he wants you to talk. To beg. To describe what he’s doing to you like it’s a thesis.

• Bonus: Tim gets dangerously turned on when you moan his name in between teasing rambles. “Tim, fuck—okay okay wait wait—this is so good—wait—!”

⸻

• At first? Damian acts like your constant chatter is insufferable. He groans when you talk in bed—“Must you narrate everything?”

• But you see it. The way his pupils dilate when you do.

• You’ll be moaning his name and saying wild, reckless things like, “You’re so fucking deep, Dami—God—I think you rearranged my liver—” and he’ll cover your mouth with his hand and hiss, “You are utterly insufferable.”

• But his hips don’t stop moving. Not even a little.

• Loves to tame you. The more you talk, the more he takes control — bending you, flipping you, pushing you into the mattress until the only sound you’re making is his name.

• “Let’s see you speak in complete sentences now,” he growls, and you’re suddenly choking on a moan as he ruins you with slow, deliberate thrusts.

• But when you praise him? Call him your good boy, the perfect man, best you’ve ever had? Damian gets possessive and animalistic. Growling. Biting. Holding you in place like you’re his.

• Secretly records your voice when you’re in bed. Not to be creepy — he just loves hearing you whimper and gasp and beg.

• “You talk so much,” he mutters after you come for the third time, breathless. “But you say the sweetest things when I fuck you properly.”

[fullbelieverheart]

please please do a Sam x dumb reader. that man is a genius and I feel like he would have fun with a partner that has to pull out the calculator to make sure that 2+2 is really 4 and their mind isn't tricking on them (that could be me lol)

₊˚⊹♡ beauty and the braincell,

summary. math is not your forte. you know it. sam knows it. he doesn't love you any less because of it.

pairing. sam winchester x dumb!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 451

notes / warnings. soft!dumb!reader (affectionately dumb, okay?), math confusion, teasing, gentle banter, sam being the patient, loving nerd king he is, cuddles, and mutual adoration despite drastically different brain wiring

You stare at the screen of your phone like it just told you your dog ran away. Then, slowly, you open the calculator app and punch in the numbers again.

2 + 2 = 4

You blink.

“…Are you sure though?” you mutter under your breath, chewing the tip of your pinky and staring like the answer might change if you blink fast enough.

Across the motel room, Sam glances up from his book—something thick and menacing with a Latin title you can’t even pronounce. He watches you suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

He raises an eyebrow. “You just asked your calculator if it was sure.”

You sigh dramatically and flop back onto the bed. “I thought the answer was four. But I didn’t trust myself. What if my brain was lying? What if it’s not four? What if we’ve all just been told it’s four our whole lives and it’s actually, like… five? Or three and a half?”

Sam closes his book, very gently, like he’s afraid he’ll break you if he’s too loud. “You think the government is gaslighting us about basic addition?”

“Not intentionally,” you mumble.

He walks over, towering over the bed, looking down at you like you’re both the cutest thing he’s ever seen and possibly a walking red flag. “Baby.”

You groan. “I know, I know! I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“I googled what a preposition was yesterday and the definition made me cry.”

He smiles. Not mocking, not smug. That soft little Sam smile he gets when he’s holding back a laugh but also deeply, irrevocably in love. “Okay, sure, maybe you’re not built for academia—”

“Rude—”

“—but you’re brilliant in other ways.”

You squint up at him, suspicious. “Like what? Say something hot.”

Sam leans down, presses a kiss to your temple, then lays beside you on the bed. “You can read people better than anyone I know. You pick up on moods and feelings like magic. You remember exactly how someone takes their coffee even if you only met them once. You’re hilarious. You’re kind. And when I forget to take care of myself, you do it for me.”

You blink, a little stunned. “…Okay, that was hot.”

He chuckles, brushing your hair back from your face. “You think I care that you need a calculator for basic math? I’d still choose you over every genius I’ve ever met.”

You pout. “Even over yourself?”

“Especially over myself.”

You nuzzle into his chest, warm and glowing now.

And somewhere, your calculator app is still open—confirming, once again, that 2 + 2 really is 4.

Sam doesn’t care. He already did the math.

You + him = everything.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[fullbelieverheart]

I like to think that Dick Grayson has a hair tie on his wrist for you—and you only.

———💋

He stole it from your nightstand one night and has worn it ever since. And now, whenever he sees you struggling with your hair, he immediately walks up behind you and ties it for you.

"Dick, I can tie my own hair," you muttered, letting him do it anyway as you continued whatever task you were doing.

"I know, sweetheart. Let me," he murmured, his brows furrowing in concentration. All senses focused on tying your hair properly keeping it from distracting you any longer.

———

He would be so... protective and possessive about that damn hair tie. When someone asked if he had an extra, he'd pretend he didn’t hear a thing, subtly covering the tie with his other hand.

———

Whenever someone flirted with him, he’d casually brush his hair back, making sure they saw the tie on his wrist—a silent warning that he was already taken. Then he’d flash them an innocent smile and say, "No, I’m taken," before walking away.

———

When he was out on a mission or patrolling, he’d subconsciously play with it—a gentle reminder that someone was waiting for him. It was small, but meaningful. A quiet sign that you were still here—his sanctuary.

[fullbelieverheart]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ insecure!dean headcanons ๋࣭ ⭑

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

──★˙. He brushes compliments off like they're nothing. Especially when they're about him, and not his work, nor what he's done. When you genuinely tell him you're proud of him, he goes quiet. Real quiet. He doesn't know what to do when kindness is handed to him that he believes he hasn't earned.

──★˙. When he sees you talking to someone he thinks is better than him--someone softer, smarter, more stable... he distances himself. It takes time for him to admit, "I don't know what you see in me."

──★˙. Dean keeps things of yours tucked away in his space. Your hair tie on the gearshift, a note you wrote months ago in his wallet, a polaroid of you tucked in his sun visor. Not because he's sentimental (he denies it every time), but because he can't believe you're his, and he needs proof of it.

──★˙. He doesn't believe in forever. So when you're talking about the future with him, growing old, life after hunting... he listens like it's a bedtime story. It's something he wants to believe in, even if he doesn't think it's for him.

──★˙. After fights, even small arguments, he'll think he's pushed it too far. That maybe this time, you'll finally leave. He'll work on Baby--or pretend to--until you come find him to tell him you're not going anywhere.

──★˙. He's never sure how to ask for reassurance. So instead, Dean gives it to you, even when he's running on empty. When you realise exactly what he's doing, you have to remind him, "you don't have to carry it all, Dean," and he'll reply, "I don't know how to put it down."

[fullbelieverheart]

MURDER ON THE DANCEFLOOR

requested by anon

pairing: dick grayson x fem! reader

summary: He hands you his drink, a simple, innocent gesture. Twenty minutes later, you're unresponsive in his arms, and what started as a pleasant night evolves into the worst moment of his life.

word count: 5.6k

"I hate these things." Dick grumped, fiddling with his tie for the hundredth time that night.

You reached up to swat his hands away gently. "What, the tie or the gala?"

"Both." He whines, grabbing one of your hands and tangling your fingers with his.

"You say that every time Bruce drags you to one of these, you're such a baby." You mock, leaning in to peck his pouty lips.

His lips twitch with the effort it takes to keep pretending to frown. "You know, I'm starting to think you keep showing up on my arm just because you like watching me suffer."

"You caught me," you grin slyly before adjusting his tie properly, "Or maybe I just like seeing you in a tux."

His breath hitches, adoration painted across his face as he leans closer, "That so? You’re not so bad yourself, y’know. Very distracting."

You rolled your eyes, trying to appear nonchalant, but you couldn't prevent the flutter in your stomach at his attention. It was hardly your first gala together, Dick had seen you dressed up plenty of times before, but everytime he looked at you as if you were a goddess.

He drapes an arm over your shoulder, pulling you snug against his side. "Let’s just get through this thing. Then it’s you, me, some cheap Chinese takeout, and most importantly, no pants."

"Oh, baby, you really know how to treat a woman." You giggled, kissing his jaw and leaving a lipstick stain that he either doesn't notice or doesn't care to wipe off.

The two of you stay like that, standing on the fringes of the room, content to ignore everyone else, until you spot Cass looking longingly at the dancefloor.

"Dick," you nudged him, "you should dance with Cassie."

You can tell he's hesitant to leave you, but Cassie clearly wants to dance and Dick would do anything to make his siblings happy. "Take this?" He holds out the drink he'd been nursing for 10 minutes but had yet to touch.

"Why, Mr Grayson, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk." You joked, gently tugging him closer by the lapels of his jacket.

He grins as you steal a kiss just before lifting the rim of the glass to your lips. "Moscato?" You raise a brow at the choice, your favourite, "You really were planning this."

"I didn't say drink it." He tries to play innocent, but you both know he's been waiting to hand it off to you. You give the liquid a swirl before taking another sip, relishing in the sweet taste as it coats your tongue.

"Now go on, dance with your sister."

Dick’s still smiling when he leans in, brushing your cheek with a kiss. "I’ll be back in a minute."

"I'll count the seconds." You joke, waving him off like a woman seeing her husband off for war, delighting in the way Cassandra lights up as Dick leads her onto the floor.

With Dick gone, Tim sidles up to your side seamlessly, your own sleepy little guard dog as he eyes the other gala goers mistrustfully.

You snort before pulling him into your side, which he readily accepts. Your heart swells with affection for the boy you'd come to view as your own little brother.

You take another drink, trying to stave off your sudden bout of cotton mouth. When that doesn't work, you clear your throat before downing the rest of your glass.

Tim gives you an odd look, but you wave off his concern, "just a little thirsty." You don't admit that your throat is suddenly drier than the Sahara as you take a glass of water from the nearest waiter.

You take slow sips, but no matter what you do, your tongue still feels like paper. Annoying, but not unbearable, an unfortunate side effect you sometimes suffered when drinking.

A few minutes pass, and you start to think something might be wrong when your vision blurs a little. You unconsciously lean slightly against Tim, who startles as he feels the heat emanating from you. Placing the back of his palm against your forehead, before you can stop him. "Jesus, you're hot."

"Careful Timmers, wouldn't wanna make Dick jealous." You joke weakly, fanning yourself with your free hand as the heat crawls down the back of your neck and chest. "Though, it is kind of hot in here."

"I guess." Tim seemed a little unconvinced, pulling out of your grip, only for you to stumble. "Oh wow, I think you might've had a bit too much to drink."

"Hmm, maybe." You agree even if you don't remember having that much. You turn your head, wincing a little as the light reflects harshly from the chandeliers into your eyes.

"Ok, I think it's time we get you home." You nod your head, only to immediately regret it when the world spins a little bit.

"What's this? My little brother is trying to abscond with my girlfriend? Say it ain't so." Dick suddenly appeared, a hint of worry hiding behind his good natured demeanour.

You beam, going to embrace your boyfriend, only to trip when your ankle wobbles. Your heart thumps wildly against your chest, as you lean heavily against Dick's chest.

You don't see the alarmed glances Tim and Dick exchange, keeping your eyes closed to try and abate the odd pressure building up behind them.

Dick says something, hand cupping your jaw as he keeps your head upright, but you don't hear it. His voice is muffled, as if he is trying to speak to you through water.

He seems worried, but you don't understand why; everything's so floaty.

"I'm fine... think I just need to... to" you trail off, losing your train of thought.

"Hey—hey, no, no, no. Stay with me." Dick’s voice cuts through the haze, low and urgent, a stark contrast to the earlier soft teasing you’d shared over stolen kisses and that glass of Moscato.

His hand is warm against your jaw, gently cradling it, thumb brushing your cheek as he keeps your head propped up.

Despite your best efforts, your vision slips in and out of focus. All you can see is Dick's face, so pretty even in his panic. You don't want him to look at you like that, you never want him to be upset, you want him happy, always.

You try to tell him that, but your tongue refuses to cooperate. You don't know why he's so frantic; you're just a little overheated. Your mouth finally opens, but you can't remember what you wanted to say. The thought, whatever it was, slips from your grasp like sand.

Your legs suddenly give out, the new glass of water you'd been clutching slipping from your lax grasp and shattering against the marble floor.

Dick is already moving, catching you before you hit the ground. His arms wrap tightly around you, cushioning your fall.

"Hey, hey—look at me. Look at me, baby."

The sound is distant to your ears, as if from another world entirely. But the commotion grabs the attention of the nearby gala goers, and alarmed whispers reach Bruce's ears from across the room just in time for him to witness his eldest catch you and sink to the floor.

He forgets his charming, genial mask, shoving through scandalised socialites as he runs to reach his son.

Tim's already calling an ambulance, and Damian has appeared suddenly as if from thin air, snarling at anyone attempting to get a closer look.

Dick is hysterical, tears in his eyes as he holds your face in his hands as he tries to get you to respond, but any words he can elicit from you are slurred and confused.

His son doesn't even register his presence until he's kneeling opposite him, clasping a grounding hand on his shoulder. Dick looks up at him, tears sliding down his devastated face. "Bruce, Dad, help her, please!" He begs, voice cracking.

Bruce inhales sharply, the word Dad hitting him like a freight train. Dick hadn’t called him that in months. Years, maybe. It's a word he'd secretly ached to hear for so long, but not like this, not tinted with raw desperation.

Bruce inhales sharply at that, at his son desperately looking at him to fix something they're both powerless to combat.

"She’s going to be okay," Bruce tells him, quietly, as if trying to soothe a wounded animal.

"You can't know that! You can't promise me that!"

Dick looks down at you, taking in the way you gasped raggedly for air, pupils blown wide as you twitch in his grasp.

"Dick." Bruce squeezed his shoulder, grounding him and forcing him back to the present moment. "The ambulance will be here soon. She's still breathing and still has a pulse, she's going to be okay."

"She just... she just collapsed," Dick babbles, as if he hadn't even heard Bruce. "She was fine when I left her, she was, she was fine! But when I got back she couldn't, couldn't breathe - "

"She’s breathing," Bruce murmurs, his hand pressed lightly to your neck. "Pulse is faint, but still there."

"She couldn’t focus. She can’t speak, Bruce." Dick sounds like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. "I don’t... I don’t know what’s happening!"

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Not because he doesn’t care—God, he cares so much it aches—but because he doesn’t know, and that terrifies him.

Dick is muttering, a mindless stream of thoughts as he clutches you tighter against his chest. "I gave her my drink," he stammers suddenly, as if the memory just struck him. "I didn’t touch it, I just… handed it to her. It was moscato, she likes moscato."

He looks up at Bruce, haunted. "Did I do this? Did I—was it the drink? Or—what if it was something else, what if something's wrong with her heart, or she's sick or something, she was unwell last week. I don't know. I don’t know."

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Not yet. His mind is already spinning, cataloguing symptoms, possibilities: low blood sugar, dehydration, cardiac event, something neurological. The possibilities were endless.

"We’re going to figure it out," he tells Dick quietly. "Help will be here soon, she'll be ok son."

"She has to be," Dick whimpers, thumb brushing over your cheekbones, and then a little quieter. "She promised me forever."

Bruce watches, his heart in his throat as he watches Dick's hand absentmindedly reach into his pocket for something. Was that... a ring?

That train of thought is abruptly derailed when the paramedics finally arrive.

Dick tries to stay with you as they check your vitals, his hand gripping yours like a vice even as you're lifted onto a stretched and rolled into the back of the ambulance.

One medic tries to gently pull him back, but he doesn’t budge, refusing to leave your side. "I’m staying," he snaps, voice low and dangerous. The paramedic hesitates, glancing at his colleague, who just nods their assent.

"Just stay out of our way," he mutters, but Dick barely hears him, already sinking onto the bench beside the gurney, white-knuckled fingers still wrapped around yours. 

"She was fine," he whispers to no one in particular. "Twenty minutes ago, she was teasing me about getting her drunk. We were laughing."

He can't stop the tears from falling any longer when they attach an oxygen mask, your eyelids fluttering open and closed at random intervals.

"Stay with me, please, baby, just hang in there." He begs you feverishly. Your head lolls toward him, something like recognition flashing in your eyes before it's gone again in a blink. 

"Miss," the second paramedic says suddenly, gently lifting one of your eyelids and shining a small penlight into your eyes. "Miss, can you hear me?"

"Pupils are dilated. Sluggish response," he mutters, more to his partner now. "Could be neurological."

Dick’s stomach drops. "Neurological? Like what, a stroke?"

"We won’t know until we get her stable. It could be toxins. It could be a reaction to something. Could be—" The medic stops himself, shooting Dick a look. "Could be a lot of things."

"She didn’t take anything," Dick says quickly, defensively. "She doesn’t even like taking Tylenol without checking with her doctor first."

"You gave her a drink?" the other medic asks.

Dick nods slowly. "Moscato. Mine. I hadn’t touched it; I was holding it for too long. I didn’t want to waste it—" He swallows. "She was happy. She kissed me. She was fine."

You let out a soft, breathless sound. Not quite a moan. Not quite a word. But it yanks Dick forward like a lifeline, his hand tightening around yours.

"Hey, hey, I’m here," he says urgently. "Babe, can you hear me? Just squeeze my hand, yeah? Just let me know you can hear me."

You don’t respond, you can’t, and Dick nearly starts to sob again. Helpless to do anything but watch and pray to a god he doesn’t believe in, as the paramedics work around him. He rests your clasped hands against his lips, rocking restlessly back and forth as he watches for any change in your condition. 

Your eyes flutter weakly open for half a second, glassy and unfocused, and he leaps to reassure you. "I’ve got you," he whispers, running his free hand gently down your cheek. "I swear, I’ve got you. Just stay with me."

Your fingers twitch—the smallest, weakest movement, but Dick clings to that like a lifeline. His hand tightens around yours, and you suddenly twitch again, your whole body flinching as your eyelids blink rapidly.

"Hey, sweetheart." His voice shakes as he leans forward, cupping your cheek again. "You with me?"

Your eyes are wide open, but they’re not focused, unseeing as you stare right through him before abruptly attempting to recoil. "Don’t touch me!" you gasp, trying to pull your hand away, though he doesn’t let go. "Get off me, get—"

"Hey, hey, it’s me!" Dick says quickly, panic clawing up his throat. "It’s me. It’s Dick, you’re safe, baby, you’re safe."

You’re thrashing now, feeble but undoubtedly panicked. Your pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the colour of your irises. 

"There’s someone! He’s behind you, Dick!" you sob suddenly, eyes locked on the corner of the ambulance where no one sits. "He’s watching me, he’s watching me. Stop looking at me—"

"There’s no one there," Dick breathes, helpless. "There’s no one there, I promise, I swear—"

One of the medics leans over. "Hallucinations. She’s panicking, we need to sedate her before she hurts herself."

"No," Dick says reflexively. "She’s scared. She needs to know she’s not alone. She doesn’t like being sedated."

"She can’t hear you right now," the paramedic says gently, already preparing a sedative. "You have to let us do our job."

You scream again, incoherent, like you’re fighting something only you can see. "I’m right here. I’m not leaving," he says, voice trembling. "You’re okay, I’ve got you. There’s no one else here, just me. It’s just me."

But you don’t hear him, head thrashing from side to side, murmuring something over and over, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. His heart splinters.

"Give it to her," he says quietly. "If it’ll help her stop being afraid... do it."

The sedative enters your bloodstream through the IV, and your breathing begins to slow within moments. Your muscles go slack, and your face's tension eases slightly.

Dick swallows hard, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand once more.

"I’m right here," he whispers. "You’re safe now. Whatever you’re seeing… It’s not real. I promise. I won’t let anything hurt you." But the words feel cheap and hollow against his tongue, because he’s already failed to keep you safe. 

His mind's a mess, but Dick’s sure that this whole thing really is his fault. The timeline, the symptoms, you’ve been poisoned, with a glass of wine that had been meant for him. If you die, it’ll be all his fault. If you die, then Dick thinks he might just die with you. 

The thought hits him like a bullet to the chest. He can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t hear your laugh, doesn’t feel your hand reaching for his across crowded rooms, doesn’t get to kiss you goodnight and pretend, just for a moment, that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

You whimper in his arms, body twitching against the restraints that keep you from hurting yourself. The EMT had told him it was necessary, but it felt like cruelty.

You start to seize right as they get to the hospital, thrashing against your restraints as they wheel you through the ER doors. The paramedics speak rapid fire at the awaiting nurses and doctors, Dick barely hears any of it.

"Sir, you need to stay here—" someone tries to stop him from pushing past the double doors, but Dick shrugs them off with more force than necessary.

"I’m not leaving her!" he shouts, his voice cracking at the last word. His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that they tremble.

"Mr. Grayson!" An overworked nurse tried to calm him down, and had he been in his right mind Dick would have been appalled at his behaviour.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, pulling him back and Dick whirls around, snarling in Bruce's face.

"Let them work," Bruce says quietly, yet sternly.

Collapsing into Bruce's awaiting arms, Dick feels like a small child again. Completely helpless. He's sobbing, gasping against Bruce's chest.

The man is silent, aware that nothing he says can make it better, no matter how badly he wants to take away his son's pain. He wishes he could absorb it all and make everything magically better. But he can't, so he remains a pillar of support, holding his son up.

Time doesn’t pass normally in the hospital. Every second feels like an eternity, every tick of the clock on the far wall drawn out like torture. Bruce tries to get him to sit, but Dick refuses, staring at the doors they wheeled you through like it will bring you back.

"Please be okay," he whispers into the silence, his voice barely audible. "Please." He doesn't know who he's begging anymore: you, the doctors, God, or himself.

The hours feel eternal, a torturous, maddening slog as they wait for any sort of news.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly white glow that makes the hospital hallway feel more like a purgatory than a place of healing.

Dick’s been pacing outside the ICU for so long he’s probably worn a hole in the ludicrously expensive shoes. Every nurse who walks by earns a hopeful glance, and every time they pass without stopping, it feels like another knife to the gut.

He’s running on adrenaline and guilt, the phantom image of your limp body in his arms haunting every breath.

Then, finally, footsteps approach, and Dick's nearly manic when someone finally adresses him.

"She’s stable. Still weak, but the anticholinergic treatment’s working. We’ve flushed most of the toxins from her system. You can see her now"

Anticholinergic treatment? That meant... poison.

Dick's already moving before she finishes, murmuring a breathless "Thank you" as he slips past her and into the private room Bruce is undoubtedlybpaying for.

The sight of you hooked up to various machines, IV lines, oxygen monitors, heart rate beeping slow and steady, makes his chest tighten, but at least you’re here. Alive.

He drags a chair up to your bedside and takes your hand, careful not to jostle the IV. It’s warm, but no longer searing like it had been in the ambulance.

"Hey, baby." He murmurs, voice cracking as he brushes his thumb gently across your knuckles.

You don’t respond.

He speaks softly anyway. He promises you’re safe, that everything's fine, that he’s right here, and that his family is already tearing Gotham apart, trying to figure out who did this.

The nurses try to get him to leave when visiting hours are over, but Dick kicks up a such a fuss that he's sure he accidentally scares them. Bruce ends up flashing some money to smooth things over, the benefits of being rich.

He refuses to leave your side; he won't leave you alone when you're so vulnerable. He does his best to stay awake, he needs to be there for you when you wake up, but eventually he succumbs to the exhaustion.

The room is quiet, save for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the soft mechanical whir of the machines monitoring your vitals.

Dick sits slouched in the chair beside your hospital bed, one arm resting awkwardly across his chest, the other still holding your hand like a lifeline. His head is bowed forward, chin tucked against his chest, breathing deep and even.

His suit jacket has long since been discarded, his tie loosened, his hair a mess, and dark circles paint shadows beneath his eyes.

You stir slowly, fighting desperately against the lethargy. Your eyelids feel like cement is weighing them down as you attempt to open them.

Your fingers twitch. A slight, barely perceptible movement before you manage to curl them around the hand clasped in yours.

The light is blinding, burning your retinas when you finally manage to pry them open. The world swims, but you push through it, turning your head as you follow the trail of the hand holding yours up to the blurry image of your sleeping boyfriend.

"…Dick?" Your voice is raw, no louder than a whisper. Not enough to stir him from his exhausted slump.

You squeeze his hand weakly, but it’s enough for him to jerk upright, eyes wild with panic, before they lock on yours.

"Hey," you croak, attempting to smile, but your facial muscles won't cooperate.

For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s not sure he’s really awake. He lets out a shaky, tearful laugh before dragging the chair closer. "You’re awake," he breathes through a sob.

"I… yeah," you rasp, coughing from the dryness of your throat. "Hurts."

"I know love." He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You’ve been out for almost a day. They said you were stable, but, god, I didn’t know if—" His voice cracks on a sob, and you want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him but your sluggish body refuses to obey.

"M'sorry, didn’t wanna scare you."

"No, no, no, honey. Don't apologise, this isn't your fault." He shakes his head, eyes wet with unshed tears. "It's mine—"

"Don’t," you interrupt as sternly as you're able. "Don’t do that. Not your fault. I’m okay. I'm okay."

You start to cough again, and Dick reaches for the cup of water on the bedside, helping you drink slowly through the straw.

He helps you lie back down against the pillows, looking at you with such tenderness you almost cry. "You didn’t leave."

He smiles, a broken, crooked thing, but still shining with so much love. "I never will, never."

And you believe him.

[fullbelieverheart]

HIII, so I was wondering if you could write something with Dick Grayson x fem reader, in like a lazy morning and just a bunch of fluff. THANK YOU IF YOU EVER DO IT <3

────── ⋆⋅☆ LAZY TIME, DICK GRAYSON

⭑.ᐟ I rarely get to requests that quickly but this was so fun to write he’s so cute thank you for sending it 🤭 please interact and send requests if you have any:)

Read ☆ ⋅ ⋆ dating dick headcanons

word count. 621

My masterlist

──────────୨ৎ──────────

Your eyes flutter open in one swift motion when Dick lays kisses on your bare shoulder. It’s sweet, it’s barely there- like ghosts running smoothly right in that same spot.

You hum in pleasure, warning him that you’re awake.

‘Good morning.’ He whispers in your ear, his voice hoarse because he’s still half awake, his hands tracing patterns on your stomach.

You turn away slowly embracing him without a word. Your head buried in his neck, your hands on each other’s backs.

‘You tired?’ He asks, his lips lingering on your forehead right under your hairline.

‘Too tired.’ You mumble in his neck, it’s barely audible. It’s so intimate- so normal.

‘Aren’t you always?’ He jokes as your head retires from his neck to look up at him.

‘Well if you hadn’t kept me up all night I wouldn’t be so tired now, would I?’ You’re fully awake now, your voice is louder than his.

‘Oh-I kept you up all night? Is that what you’re going with?’ He smiles big like after last night, this is the most fun he’s had in a while.

‘Are you saying I kept you up? Me?’ Your hand goes to lay on your heart pretending to be offended like this isn’t you.

‘Yeah, okay. You’re impossible you know that?’ He rolls his eyes as you laugh.

Your legs move quickly and soon enough, he’s under you.

‘You love me.’ Your lips are on his in a second. His hands are in your hair, it’s sweet but rough. His lips move against yours like it’s a second nature, like he depends on you to breathe. Like you’re an old habit he never wants to shake. He wants to sink into you, he never wants to let you go. He’s not sure he can control it anymore.

Dick hums as to say ‘yes I do’ but he doesn’t break it- he deepens it even more.

You’re both out of breath, and yet you still crave him. Your lips finally detach from his, reattaching themselves to his neck, biting, nipping.

It’s another second before Dick flips you, your back hitting the mattress, a little yelp of surprise coming out your mouth.

‘You know, I could get used to this.’ His hand puts a strand of your hair behind your ear, so he can see you- all of you.

‘Me too.’ You shy under him, as if you weren’t on top of him just a minute ago.

Dick takes that opportunity to kiss you again. It’s not as rough this time, it’s sweeter, like he’s taking his time tasting you, memorizing what your lips feel like against his.

You both jump out when a voice rings from the bedroom door.

‘Oh my god!’ Rachel is horrified. You’re both under the covers but she feels like she just witnessed the grossest thing ever.

‘I’m sorry! I’m leaving! I heard you talking I thought- ugh!’ She doesn’t finish her sentence before she’s out the door. Although it’s closed now, you still hear her complains from the corridor. Gar is laughing, Jason is thinking about how he can potentially ruin your life with this information.

Dick looks even more horrified, but the sound of your laugh makes him break too.

His head drops to your neck, vibrations from both of your laughter.

The familiarity, the feeling that you could do this forever. Him, you, this entire family makes your heart soften even more.

The rest of the morning consists in good time. Pleasure and not a single care in the world for anything else.

It’s sweet time, normalcy that you don’t have every day but that you breathe in every second in case it’s ripped out from you before you have the chance to do it again.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Taglist: @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @l0v33-rey @mostlymarvelgirl @that-stanford-girlie @sunnyteume @bohoooitsme @beelzebzb (comment to be added!)

[fullbelieverheart]

GOLDEN HOUR- D. GRAYSON

day nine of the june bug masterlist

pairing: dick grayson x florist! fem! reader (sex pollen)

word count: 4.1k

summary: a handsome stranger has captured your heart and affections, so its only natural you call for him when a mysterious plant sprays you in your flower shop, and you start to feel... rather funny.

warnings: SMUT, sex pollen used, riding dick grayson on the floor (hell yeah), heavy praise kink, lots of petnames, grinding/ dry humping, man handling, fluff and yearning, making out, swearing, slight masturbation

 “ baby, don't you know? that you're my golden hour, the color of my sky/ you set my world on fire, and i know, i know everything's gonna be alright”- golden hour, kacey musgraves 

The birds chirping in the morning was so peaceful it reminded you of heaven on earth.

Or at least- your version of it.

It reminded you of the soft countryside you called home, before you moved to the big scary city of Gotham. All you needed now was the soft hum of the lawnmowers from the neighbours, or the soft patter of rain that was an open invitation for you to go out in your bare feet, letting the morning dew tickle your toes as you searched for frogs in nothing but your nightgown.

But sadly, home was far away now- and so was the country.

It was a burning dream of yours to go back, to build or find a little cottage where you could grow all the flowers you wanted, having a little garden, filled with sweet delights like berries you could make into jam for your homemade sourdough.

With whoever tended to your dreams with you.

It was what you were working for. And if you found someone along the way, you supposed it would make the cloudy days a bit more comforting.

For now, the closest you could get was your little job at the local florist shop.

It brought you joy, especially on sunny days like today, where business was booming and you could meet lovely people of all ages. Either trying to get some tulip bulbs they could plant in their yard in the fall, or if they needed a bouquet for their loved ones.

The thought of your regular, a sweet older woman named Barbra made you smile at the idea she’d come in, grumbling as usual about the traffic or whatever it may be, just to burst into a smile as soon as she saw you tie a new bouquet together with pink ribbon.

You always snuck her a little flower, typically a baby's breath for her under the counter, to add to her collection of random florals.

You stretched, letting the rarity of sunlight in Gotham trickle through your window and onto your face, savouring the warmth of the summer months. Although you noticed it was a lot more sunny than you were told it would be, since moving here.

An odd fluke, you supposed.

Taking your time, as you always woke up early enough to savour the light of the day as if you were Snow White herself, you made your bed, sheets smelling of the lavender spray from the florals you’d collected yourself.

Next was the tea of course, herbals often woke you up. Letting the soft lace of your nightgown brush your thighs, you headed towards the kitchen towards the kettle, the fresh batch of scones you made the other night your next destination.

As you waited for the water to boil, you couldn't help but lean back against the counter, a soft smile on your face as you observed your indoor plants.

It wasn't the end goal, but it was a beautiful pit-stop along the way. And that, you could be happy with.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

Barbra’s presence could be felt before it could be heard.

You peered up at her little frame, slightly hunched over, but in working condition, nonetheless. You called her a well oiled machine. She called herself a grouchy piece of shit.

But today, something was different.

Was that… a smile on her face? Before she had come inside to greet you?

Odd.

You peered out the window, trying not to seem too obvious as you glanced outside, and saw her talking to… a man?

A beautiful man, at that. Tall, at least a foot or so taller than you, his  muscles practically bulging out of his little Black Canary Tour shirt.

You could tie a pretty pink ribbon around them just for it to snap the second he did so much as move his bicep.

But what really captivated you was the baby blues that gleamed at Barbra. The way his smile seemed to twinkle in the sun, real and genuine as he laughed. He was so animated, hands moving as he talked, before his fingers pointed to you.

You froze.

Quickly scurrying away, out of sight to make yourself busy, and to tend to your racing heart.

Soon, a little jingle of the shop bell rang out, and you poked your head out from the daisies, preparing for the worst.

“You’re smiling? Who are you, and what did you do with Barbra?” you teased, making her laugh.

“You got yourself a suitor out there eh? A handsome one at that.” Barbra smiled, wacking your arm gently with her newspaper. Your eyes widened.

“Suitor?”

“Yeah dolly he’s right into ya. I was about to go harass him, as he was staring at you a little too much for my liking, like some black cat on a windowsill. Spooked the damn boy, was about to give him hell until I saw the look in his eye.”

You raised your eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What look in his eye?”

“Love.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Love. Right.”

“You know better than to question me girl. I know best. I’ve lived a lot more lives than you, and I know what love looks like. That man is head over heels.”

Something like warmth bloomed in your chest at her words, and you couldn't help but hope it was true. He was so handsome, and if he could manage to make Barbra laugh, there must have been something about him that was special.

“I’m sure. In love with a nobody flower shop girl who clips flower stems in her free time.”

“The most beautiful girl in the city, who happens to clip flower stems in her free time. Now, shut up and give me some sunflowers dear. I’m on my way to bridge practice and I need to get these to my sister.”

You nodded, collecting her flowers and ignoring her payment.

“Well, get on then you grouch.”

She laughed, slipping you a twenty despite your protests, and was out the door before you could process the sneaky bill slip she performed and give it back to her.

For an older woman, she was fast.

The bell rang again, and you expected her to toss another comment about getting your head out of your ass, but you were royally surprised when the handsome stranger was there instead.

Sun shown from the back of his head, illuminating him like he was an angel, halo burning brightly. You urged yourself to not let his beauty consume you.

“Do you always just watch girls from outside their work, or is this special treatment?” you asked, leaning against the counter.

He smiled. “Only you. Isn't that so cheesy?”

“Or creepy, depending on how you look at it. But Barbra likes you. So I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you for your vigilante activities.”

His hand went to his heart, bowing his head almost in solitude.

“She really knows how to scare a man.”

“I heard one time she twisted a man's balls so hard he had to go to the hospital, because he thought they were going to fall off.”

You laughed at his shocked reaction, turning into an easy grin as he walked towards you, towering over you from behind the counter.

“Now, are you here to buy anything? Or just flirt with me?” you asked boldly.

“Both. Is that okay?”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks and you looked away quickly, shrugging.

“Suppose.”

“Y/N…” he read your delicate nametag, the writing in your own penmanship, swirly, girly font with a little blooming tulip next to it.

“Forgive me if this question sounds odd but… what's a pretty thing like you doing in Gotham? You’re the human form of the sun. You shine so brightly here it's almost blinding.”

You froze at his words, trying to not let them know how much they impact you.

You’re the human form of the sun.

No one, no man- had ever said anything so kind to you. So near and dear to your heart. It nearly caught you off guard. All you could do was smile at him softly, batting your lashes at him as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, letting your bracelets jangle.

“I’m here to shine.” was all you said as you shrugged, turning your back to him to gather flowers that matched his energy.

You didn't even know what he was in here for. You were too flustered to ask.

Instead, you felt his eyes following your figure as you selected the blossoms, reaching up on your tiptoes to select some that were out of reach.

Soft blues and whites- blue stars, baby's breath, and columbines. You sprinkled in some soft yellows, buttercups and primroses. Tying it all together with a soft, pale baby blue ribbon, humming to yourself softly.

“For…?” you asked, pen hovering just above the little card.

“Dick. Dick Grayson.” You nodded, writing his name, and feeling even so bold as to even scratch your number just under it. Maybe your countryside future could be closer than you thought.

And by the look on his face as he saw your number on that very same tea stained card, he must have thought the same.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

You had fallen.

Hard.

And god, could anyone blame you?

God himself couldn't blame you, for all the time Richard Grayson had swirled through your mind, clouding your thoughts until they were sprinkles of pollen.

He was sweet, like the lemonade you made for him when he first came over to visit your place.

He had a green thumb. He liked mint chocolate chip ice cream, which you would never give him the satisfaction of knowing, but you liked it too. He was polite, always holding the door for you, a soft palm on your back as he’d lead you inside, always closing his eyes whenever you changed in front of him, claiming it wasn't gentleman like to watch a woman change (though you caught his fingers peel from his eyes a few times).

He was an animal lover. He was nurturing, and wanting nothing more than to provide for you.

And he always listened. About anything, really- but especially when you talked about your future.

With him in it.

It made his heart swell up so large he feared it would break his ribcage, at the mention of your garden, and your chickens, dogs, ducks, cats- the homemade meals and soft cuddles by the stone fireplace.

All involving him.

Of course you included his interests- referring to the dogs as his dogs, mentioning his favourite dishes, and his brothers coming to visit whenever they wanted. Talks on your couch turned into sweet kisses, gentle touches and addicting tastes of mint, coffee and the musk of cinnamon.

It was all you had wanted, and if God, or anyone judged you for the temptations of Eve’s apple, it was something you’d collect seeds from and grow yourself.

An apple tree of temptation, the branches of Dicks embrace wrapping you tightly.

Barbra noticed it too, the effect he had on you. How somehow- someway, she had stated, you seemed even more bright.

Butterflies had practically found their way to you, fluttering on the flowers outside the store, resting on your fingers as you sent them off to the sun. Birds chirped even louder, the faint smell of honey and cinnamon a constant warm embrace around you as you left Dicks arms in the morning, spreading your wings to go off on your own, to tend to the store.

It was an unusual day today though, you noted.

It was cloudier than it had been lately, though that was Gotham. Light sprinkles of rain pattered off your umbrella as you walked to the floral shop, and despite the rain, you still found it in your heart to smile at anyone who passed by.

It was quiet today, and you had expected just as much. Tonight would be equally as quiet, as Dick had plans with his brother, Jason. You urged him to go off and do his own thing, as even sometimes you needed your own space.

Tonight would be filled with fluffy blankets, buttery popcorn, some mint chip ice cream, and superhero movies. A perfect night, in your opinion. Perhaps a beeswax candle could be lit- a reminder of Dicks sweet smell that stained the pillows.

Your thoughts of the Friday night ahead were whisked away as a customer stepped inside, shaking the rain from her bright red hair.

She smiled, waving slightly as she adjusted her very large purse, starting to browse around. You smiled back, turning your back to resume your task, letting her browse in peace. You never liked to hound anyone, knowing how annoying it could be as a customer yourself, when pesky store owners nagged at you, or pressured you to buy something you were having doubts on.

Plus, if she had questions, she’d ask.

You were approachable enough. Or at least you hoped you were.

By the time you turned around again, she was out of sight. Nothing left of her but the gentle chime of the door bell as her heels clicked against the pavement.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

As you were doing your rounds before closing, something had you stop in your tracks.

A plant.

Of course, a plant was not out of place in a florist shop, but this particular one, captured your attention. It was foreign to you, which was unusual, considering you had spent countless years pouring over plant textbooks, and gathering as much hands-on experience in the garden that you could muster.

But this… this was not something you had ordered in.

Then how the hell had it gotten here?

You picked up the pot, observing the unusual markings on the petals. It was beautiful, the flowers almost mimicking those of a lilly. But you knew deep down, it wasn't.

As you picked up the pot, you were blinded.

You gasped, inhaling pollen as it sprayed at you, almost like a mist of freckles that splattered on your cheeks, getting in your nose, your mouth, clouding your vision.

You coughed, setting the plant down where it had rested, waving the air as your vision blurred, tears starting to trickle down your cheeks. Making your way over to the counter, you started to sneeze and cough, feeling as if the vapors were choking you.

At least you could see now, scrambling off your apron and tossing it somewhere- unknown to you.

You’d deal with it tomorrow. For now, you needed fresh air, and a clear head. Whatever had sprayed you, it was having an effect- fast.

Your body felt tense. Like it had been strung up on a live wire. Heat curled in your gut, strong and fast- like a current that threatened to drag you under its vicious waves.

Sweat dotted at your forehead, your fingers curling into fists. It was so hot you fought the urge not to strip naked and lay on the cool wooden floor.

But no, god no- you needed to get home. To lay down, get some rest, and let this do its thing.

But your head was clouded. Foggy.

All you knew was that you felt hot, bothered and needy.

You wanted Dick. But Dick was with his brother and he needed time to himself, and to enjoy his family… and yet you dialed his number anyways.

He would know what to do. He could help you, could touch you, could take away this pain, this need- this want that consumed you whole- like Goya's Satan consuming your very flesh.

It took two quick rings before his gentle voice answered, quickly turning to concern as you moaned.

“Sweetheart? What's going on?”

“Some plant. I found some plant when I was closing, I don't know what the hell it is but it sprayed me and now I can’t- I can't think- God its so hot-” you panted, slouching against the counter, grounding yourself onto the floor as you let your head lull back.

“Fuck. Fuck sweetheart, where are you now? I’m coming right now.”

“N-no s’okay stay with Jason. I just didn't know if you knew-” you hiccuped, groaning again as you felt your clothes start to stick to your body.

“If you knew what it was. Maybe I can sleep it off.”

You heard a low voice in the background, catching some of the words the man, presumably Jason, mumbled. “Its Ivy. That sex pollen shit we saw a while ago, but fuck Bruce hasnt found a cure yet.”

“Sweetheart, did anyone new come into the shop today that looked unfamiliar?”

You nodded, even though you knew he couldn't see you. The drug was making you hazy.

“Some redhead came in with a large purse. But I didn't think anything of it. She was gone before I could offer her help.”

You heard cursing on the other line, before Dick begged for you to stay conscious. “I’m gonna be right there sweetheart, you just stay put okay? Shut the blinds, lock the door and if it's me, I’ll knock three times.”

You tossed your phone as he hung up, tugging at your top. You had turned the air on, yet it felt so stuffy and hot you felt like you might puke.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck I need-” you gasped, letting your hands cup your breasts, toying at your hardened nipples through the lacy floral bra fabric, feeling heavy and aching. You started to unbutton your pants, shimmying them off your body, sweat sticking to them.

Trapped in your own head, you let your fingers trace your body, but it wasn't enough.

Whatever had sprayed you, it wanted more. It wanted him.

And almost as if it was some divine intervention, the plant weaving its vines around Dick Grayson to tug him to the front door, you heard three quick wraps on a knuckle on the door.

“Sweetheart? It's me honey, can you let me in please? I’m gonna make you feel better okay?”

You groaned, starting to crawl to the front door, reaching up to unlock the door for your savour. And fuck, the sight before him made him hard.

It felt wrong, and dirty to feel so turned on at the sight of you- but he couldn't help it.

There you were, on your knees, looking up at him with so much need in your eyes, lips quivering as sweat trickled down your neck. The pollen stained your cheeks like golden freckles, like constellations in the sky that sang to him.

“Oh my poor, sweet girl.” he cooed, locking the door behind him as he crouched down, cupping your cheek with his palm, stroking little circles gently with his thumb.

“M’gonna make you feel better little dove, okay? You just tell me what you need from me. But we gotta, we gotta get this out of your system.”

You nodded, wincing slightly, not from pain- but from overstimulation as his hand trickled down to stroke your bare collarbones, eyes darting to your pretty pink floral set that sent his mind reeling.

“H-how do we fix this Dickie?” you whimpered, his heart nearly crackling into pieces at how sweet his nickname sounded from your cherry blossom lips.

“Well it's a sex pollen honey so I think- well we have to…”

“Have sex?” you asked and he nodded.

“That would make me feel better. All I can think of and feel is this fuzzy, burning need. It hurts.”

He cooed, letting his hand rest just above your throbbing core. “Right here honey? Is this where it hurts?”

You nodded frantically, guiding his hand down to your soaked panties, juices already coating his fingers from the simple brush of his fingers.

He groaned, the sound making you whimper in delight.

“And right here. M’so sorry Dickie-”

“No, no you don't get to apologise for this honey. You take what you need from me, okay? I’m gonna help you feel all better again, get that fuzziness out of your head.”

Your hands slipped up to tangle in his hair, tugging at the soft, dark raven locks hungrily as your lips found his. He melted into your touch, and you couldn't help but savour the feeling of dominance you had over him.

Even if it was an illusion.

You felt so hungry you couldn't help but straddle him, letting your hands roam over his body, touching anywhere you could reach. It was as if he had been sprayed as well, with the way he was touching you back.

Manhandling you up into his lap, gripping your ass as you began to grind on the fly of his jeans, letting the cool flicker of the zipper soothe your ache as you dampened the fabric.

Guiding you with his hands, urging you to do whatever you wanted to him. As if he was in this as much as you were.

Your equal.

“Need- need you now please.” you practically whined, tugging his shirt over his head, his warm chest now flush with yours, his fingers toying with the back of your bra strap. You gasped as it fell, sliding down your arms, his fingers wrapping around the nipple and tugging on it harshly.

The pain was delicious. You needed more.

“Take what you need sweetheart. My sweet flower.”

You wasted no time tugging his pants off, throwing them haphazardly on the floor with your undergarments, hands guiding him down to the floor.

“You’re so good to me.” you whispered, head bowing as he ran his cock through your soaked folds, before slowly guiding himself in.

Your eyes widened, as if sparks had gone off and illuminated throughout your body.

This. This was what you needed.

All of this, the feeling of him stretching you, guiding you in with such compassion and tender praises, cooing at your little expressions and sounds as he filled you to the brim.

It was as if the pain had stopped, just briefly. Dick Grayson was your cure.

“Big stretch I know baby. I’m sorry, I didn't have time to prep you m’just worried… oh-” he was cut off by your sudden movements, riding him like your life depended on it.

Which it did. You didn't have time to waste. And it was like this thing- this pollen had taken hold of your body, and you were a puppet on its strings.

Gripping his chest, your nails dug and scratched him as you tossed your head back, letting him admire you as much as he wanted. The way your lips hung open as your sweet little moans trailed from them, your forehead scrunched in concentration, letting the waves of the pleasure consume you.

Your eyes, closed, lashes fluttering your cheeks, crying out his name.

The sight alone almost had Dick Grayson come undone. But he had to hold off for you, had to help you first. That was always his rule.

“There you go sweetheart, doing so good for me. Feels so fuckin good oh my god- ridin me like that..” he cooed, hands firm on your hips as he thrusted up, meeting you half way.

Until he couldn't control himself, picking a rhythm that you mindlessly followed, body going limp as he pounded into you- taking control. Knowing that was what you needed.

You didn't even need to tell him where you were, he knew, could feel you squeezing him.

“Let go for me honey. Good girl..” he cooed softly, holding you close to his chest as you came down from your high, legs quivering as you clung to him like a teddy bear.

“Is it over?” You asked softly, your head on his steady heartbeat as he stroked your hair. He shook his head.

“I’m not sure honey. You might need a few more rounds, but I promise, you’ll be okay. Its almost out of your system.”

You nodded, feeling the surge of pleasure lap at your insides, letting it consume you wholly again.

“I’m so sorry Dickie.”

He stopped you, silencing you with a kiss. “Stop apologizing, my sweet girl. We’re gonna get through this. We’re in the home stretch, and I’ve got you. I’m here. Gonna make it all better.”

And deep down, you knew that was the truth.

It had taken a few more rounds for your fiery insides to burn down to little embers, loud moans turning to soft whimpers and hiccups. And he was there with you for all of it, on the floor, against the wall, up on the counter.

And each way he handled you, made you feel like a delicate little petal, despite your actions being anything but.

Holding you in his arms when the flush from your body subsided, and your skin had cooled to a normal temperature, when sleep consumed your body as you lay curled in his lap, his shirt acting as a blanket that you breathed in deeply.

His cum trickling down your thighs, that he had cleaned up before slipping you back into your clothes, and carrying you back to your apartment.

And you knew then, that he’d never leave you. Not now, and not ever. 

[fullbelieverheart]

SHE JUST WANTS TO F**K ME ALL THE TIME ▬▬ ( Dick grayson )

tw: sex, nothing too explicit cause I'm afraid of success

summary: Dick loved sex, and thought no one could surpass how high his sex drive is, until he started a relationship with you and you are all the time trying to get him to fuck you.

pairing: dick grayson x fem reader

open request ‐ dick grayson masterlist

"I tried to leave the house but she won't let me out."

"Again? "

The morning had been a bit rough for Dick, he'd woken up to your ass moving painfully on his cock, leaving him ready for their usual morning fuck.

Dick is shirtless, sweaty, his hair a mess, and the sheets still stuck to his back. He shakes his head, chuckling as you try to drag him back toward you by the waistband of his boxers.

Your fingers play with the elastic, and your eyes are begging for one more round. “It’s your fault,” you murmur, leaving wet kisses on his abdomen. “You shouldn’t look like this right after we finish. You tempt me all the time.”

He lets out a hoarse laugh and drops back onto the bed, propped up on his elbows. "You're literally draining me."

"You're more than fit, Nightwing. You can handle another one."

"You think so?" In a second, his expression changes. Dick grabs you by the wrists, twists your body with ridiculous ease, and leaves you beneath him, one knee between your legs and your arms pinned above your head.

"You know normal people only get one round?" he mutters playfully.

He slides his mouth down your neck, to your collarbone. He sucks right where you know he'll leave a mark. His hands release your wrists, but only to run his rough hands all over your naked body, stroking that impatient, dripping pussy of yours.

"That's it," he whispers against your ear. "You're going to make me late again, you know?"

You don't answer. You just moan under his touch, and that brings out a cocky smile from him. He knew the answer. He always does.

His fingers sink into you without warning, moving with a delicious rhythm that forces your back to arch. But he gives you no respite.

"Did you want another round, gorgeous?" he asks, his lips brushing against yours, barely touching you. "Then you're going to earn it."

Before you can say anything, he's already sliding down. He spreads your legs with ease and begins to eat you out with a mixture of hunger and devotion that leaves you breathless. His tongue works as if it has a damn mission. And in part, it does: to leave you so trembling that you can't drag him back down for hours.

Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging unintentionally as your body writhes beneath his mouth.

"Dick... please..."

"Please, what?" he asks in a husky voice, his lips wet, his eyes shining with perversion. "Did you want another one? I'll give it to you. But I'll ruin you first."

▬★

"She wants me at the party, she wants me at the mall"

Dick Grayson always looks impeccable, but there was no better version than Dick Grayson in a tailored black suit, his blue tie, charming smile, and his usual confident posture. He's an expert at moving through high society without losing that mischievous air that distinguishes him. And, as always, he has the attention of every woman in the room.

You just watch him from a distance, drink in hand, dressed in that dress he'd picked out for you once. The one that left him spellbound, so he couldn't take his eyes off your chest. And every movement you made made Dick want to forget about the gala, about Bruce, about all of Gotham.

Since he looked so good in that white shirt that perfectly covered his hard-working body, the one you slept in every night, you should definitely make him wear more suits.

You approached him through the crowd, Dick interrupts his conversation kindly once he sees you closer.

“Can we talk for a second?” you asked, in the sweetest tone you could muster, not letting on any malice you had in mind.

Dick nods immediately, and reflexively follows you without asking any questions.

You lead him down one of the hall's side corridors, to a quiet area, away from the hustle and bustle and prying eyes. The light is soft, golden. The sound of the music barely reaches you. Dick crosses his arms, curious.

“What's up?” he asks with a smile. “Are you bored without me?”

You chuckled softly and shook your head, taking a step closer. Your eyes were brighter than ever, with that mischievous reflex you usually had when you wanted to tell him something in secret. You fiddled with the fabric of your own dress, lowering your gaze slightly, as if you were embarrassed by what you were about to say.

“It’s just… I don’t know if I should say this now,” you whisper, biting your lip.

Dick leans in slightly, intrigued. “Tell me what, swet heart?” He runs his hand gently through your hair, gently tucking a strand behind your ear.

You looked up, looked at him with those good-girl eyes he knew so well. And you let go, softly, sweetly, as if you were saying "I love you" for the first time.

“I want to suck your cock.”

The silence is immediate.

Dick blinks. Once. Twice. The air suddenly feels thick. He stands there, staring at her, processing the sentence. Because it wasn't just what you said. It was how she said it. So cute, so damn sweet.

“You…” he begins, a nervous laugh escaping him. “You can’t say that like that, not here. Not with that voice.”

You tilted your head, pretending not to understand. “What did I do wrong?”

“What did you do wrong?” he repeats, his eyes darting around, as if he were already deciding which wall to use. “Do you know what you do to me when you talk like that?”

You shake your head with completely feigned innocence. “What if I just… walk you to your car? Just a second. Just to… distract you, you look a little overwhelmed,” you say, running a finger along his tie.

Dick closes his eyes for a moment, as if it takes all his willpower not to drag her down that hallway right now. “You’re going to be the death of me. You know that, right?”

Dick didn't respond immediately. Instead, he took your hand firmly, and without looking back, led you through one of the side doors that led to the building's private parking lot. No one saw them. No one dared to stop him.

The car was just steps away. One of Bruce's. Tinted windows, total luxury… and, above all, privacy.

He opened the back door without a word, and before you could even mock his urgency, he'd helped you in carefully, without wrinkling your dress too much. He closed it behind him and stared at you, still kneeling in the seat, breathing heavily.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he murmured, unable to stop staring at your mouth.

You, with the same innocent sweetness as before, leaned towards him, brought your hands to the knot of his blue tie and slowly loosened it.

“I have a couple of ideas, but we need more space.”

Your fingers moved down his white shirt, unbuttoning the first button, then the second… but Dick was barely breathing. His gaze burned, fixed on you, somewhere between exhaustion and on the verge of collapse.

Slowly, you knelt between the seats, your smile as soft as it was dangerous.

“Is this okay?” you asked in a low voice, unbuckling his belt with a skill only someone who knew him so well could possess.

Dick let out a stifled laugh, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the seat. "Now you're worried about that?"

You looked at him once more, as if seeking confirmation that he really wanted this. He looked back at you, completely lost in you.

And then you did it .

Slowly, as if you were tasting a sweet treat for the first time. Caressing him with your lips, with your tongue, with that tenderness and adoration that only you knew how to turn into torture.

Dick placed one hand against the fogged-up glass of the car, the other on the back of your neck, not pressing you, just holding you, as if he needed to hold on to something real to keep from losing control.

Your every move was measured, precise, delicate, and devastating at the same time. You knew him so well that you knew exactly when to speed up, when to play, when to stop for a second and look down on him, with that angelic face that had already earned its place in heaven...

▬▬★

"She just wants to fuck me all the time"

The sound of gloves hitting, the creaking of mats, and the rhythmic panting of labored breaths filled the space. you were in the middle of a sparring session. you and Dick, face to face on the mat, exchanging measured but intense blows.

He was focused, sweaty, his black T-shirt clinging to his body, his arm muscles flexing with every movement. Every kick, every spin, made him look even more irresistible. There was no way to hide it: you were distracted. Very distracted.

The roll of his hips as he kicked. The way he panted. The deep sound of his voice as he gave orders. Your mind wasn't on the practice. It was on his body above yours.

At one point, he takes a few steps back to give you space. He cranes his neck, wipes the sweat with the back of his forearm, and looks at you.

"Your turn. come on"

His voice snaps you out of your trance, but it's too late. You're horny. Too horny to be honest.

You stand, hiding it as best you can, but as soon as you get close, he notices. Dick always notices. Your dilated pupils. Your breathing. The way you lower your gaze directly to his neck.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Are you okay?”

"Perfect" you lie.

"Then fight," he smiles, giving you the first soft blow with his glove, as a provocation.

But as soon as you're in front of him, you give in to temptation. Your hand doesn't go to the glove. It goes to the collar of his shirt. You get closer than necessary. Your lips brush his ear. "You're all sweaty... it smells so good..."

Dick lets out a grunt and in a second he has you cornered against the mat wall, his forearm blocking your way. "Are you horny? Here, while we're training? such a needy whore" he whispers, his voice tense and dark.

"It's not my fault you're so fucking sexy when you give orders."

He looks you for a few seconds, assessing. Then he shakes his head, a crooked smile crossing his face."You're impossible."

He quickly spins you around, pressing your body against the wall, his hard crotch already resting against your ass. His hand moves straight down to your crotch inside your leggings, and when he feels how wet you are, he lets out an exasperated sigh. "Jesus Christ… You’re soaked."

Dick already had his hand inside your leggings when you reacted with a sly smile.

"I'm not going to let you win that easily," you whisper to him, just before turning around abruptly.

He didn't expect it.

You hook him with a swift kick to the thigh and take advantage of his slightest distraction to pull on his arm, knocking him off balance. You both fall to the mat with a thud, but you remain on top, with your knees on either side of his hips.

Dick snorts, clearly surprised, and looks at you with a mixture of pride and annoyance. "Are you playing, or do you want to fight for real?"

"this is my foreplay " you say, with a mischievous smile. You lean over him, placing one hand firmly on his chest while the other goes straight to his waist. He doesn't even move. He just watches you, his eyes narrowed.

"Don't even think about it… "

But you don't let him finish. With a swift movement, you push your hips down, positioning yourself right over his erection through his clothes. The moan he lets out isn't from pain. It's pure instinct.

"What are you doing?" he growls, grabbing your hips. "This is a workout, not an invitation to fuck me with my clothes on."

“Then take me down,” you challenge, starting to move slowly, pressing your core against his member with a friction that draws a low sigh from you.

He grits his teeth. His hands tighten around your waist, as if he's struggling between pushing you off him and pushing you closer. "You're a fucking temptation," he says, his voice deep and husky. "A fucking distraction with legs."

"You're too weak," you tease. "Look at you, you can't even concentrate."

He flips you over with a ferocious snarl, trapping you underneath him in the blink of an eye, his body pressing yours into the mats.

But just as he's about to rip your leggings off...

"Richard." Bruce's dry voice comes back through the cave's speaker.

The silence falls. Dick rests his forehead against your collarbone. He says nothing.

"Five minutes until you are dressed and out."

[fullbelieverheart]

Hi! Can you do one showcasing all the ways the reader protects/watches out for Dean. He’s always the afterthought for everyone because they just expect him to lead and be strong. Your last response about his version of Heaven probably being bittersweet had me sad! So, reader putting her foot down for her man, please! Reminds him he’s hers and not a soldier, not expendable. When someone comes up with a plot that requires him to sacrifice, she speaks up for him tells them to F off

read the heaven bit first .ᐟ

so first off, let's clarify the core dynamic here: 𖤐 dean is everyone's weapon or leader, but never their priority. it's always let's save the world, instead of let's keep each other safe. 𖤐 everyone is just used to him sacrificing himself because that's his default setting. 𖤐 you ( aka reader ) flip the damn table and say not anymore. it's the prompt he's not a weapon, he's mine and i'm lowkey totally here for it.

‧₊˚✩彡 the pattern that needs breaking sam loves dean but tends to go along with dangerous plans, trusting dean will handle it. cas is always focused on the mission, kind of emotionally stunted, tends to expect dean to endure because he has. mary and john? ugh. never really saw him--as said previously--saw a soldier, not a son. jack is a whole celestial being born with a messiah complex. thinks sacrifice = love because that was what dean and the others always showed him too. they all value dean, but none of them really protect him. because they think they don't have to. but you do.

‧₊˚✩彡 moments where you put your foot down 𓂃⋆ you speak up against the plans where dean is bait or the one bargin in as the distraction. and god damn the moment you do? everyone's stunned into silence. dean most of all. because he doesn't expect anyone to stand up to him--to stop the mission for him. 𓂃⋆ they always assume dean will handle dangerous people. but not you. "no. he's not your buffer. try talking to your own damn shady contacts." maybe you even go instead of him once and everyone's like oh, okay. 𓂃⋆ dean tries to pull the "if i don't come back" speech. you cut him off. "don't you dare act like you're a ghost in front of me. you come back. you always come back." you don't romanticize his self-destruction like others do. you hate it. 𓂃⋆ cas suggests an angelic solution that risks dean's soul. like, maybe siphoning something through him or binding him to a sigil. "use anyone else. he's not your empty vessel." cas looks conflicted. you stand between him and dean and he's flabbergasted like she's actually challeging a damn angel. 𓂃⋆ mary mentions all the things dean's good at and it's all war-related. "you ever ask him what he actually wants to be good at?" it's awkward. it's uncomfortable. maybe even explosive. but it cracks open something for dean. he's never heard someone challenge his family on his behalf.

‧₊˚✩彡 the emotional undercurrent of this: dean doesn't think he's allowed to be safe. he doesn't even notice when people don't choose him because it's so normalized. you saying "you are not theirs. you are mine." is like pouring honey on a lifetime of bruises. it's not just protective--it's possessive, but in a way that restores his sense of self. you're saying you're not just worth fighting for. you're worth keeping safe. every damn time.

They’re talking about him like he isn’t standing right there.

Like he’s just a checklist item. Like his life is a resource—burnable, forgettable, expendable.

Dean’s got that mask on. The one he thinks is subtle—stone face, arms crossed, jaw ticking every few seconds like a time bomb. You can tell he’s already accepted the role. The “if it gets ugly, I’ll take the fall” card.

You’ve seen this play before.

You hated it the first time.

So when Sam starts laying out the plan—meticulously, logically, with words like “timed entry” and “distract the hellhounds long enough,” and then casually drops Dean’s name as bait, your hands curl into fists without thinking.

“Sorry, what?” Your voice cuts in like a blade.

They blink. You never interrupt these planning sessions. You’re the quiet one. The observer. The one with a hand on Dean’s back under the table while the world maps out how to use him.

Sam looks confused. “It’s just that he’s the best shot we have at getting the demon away from the door. You know Dean—he can take it.”

Take it.

Like he’s a wall. Like he’s a gun.

Not a man.

Dean shifts beside you. He’s about to say “It’s fine”—you can feel it in your bones—but you’re already standing.

“No. He’s not doing it.”

The room goes quiet.

Dean tilts his head, looking up at you like you just spoke Enochian. You never do this. But now? Now you’re fire in a gasoline world.

“I’m serious,” you continue. “You all act like he’s made of Kevlar and pure damn luck, but he’s tired. He’s bleeding from that werewolf hunt yesterday. And I don’t care how good of a shot he is or how much ground he can cover—he’s not being used as a sacrifice so you all can sleep at night.”

Sam looks like you slapped him.

Cas shifts like maybe he agrees but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to say it.

And Dean… God, Dean looks like you just gave him breath after drowning.

You step closer to him. You don’t even care how dramatic it looks. Your fingers find the edge of his sleeve, tugging it like a lifeline.

“He is not your weapon. He is not your armor. He is mine.”

The words hit the floor like thunder. No one speaks.

You kneel slightly and tap his knee, forcing him to look you in the eyes.

“You hear me, Dean?” you whisper, just for him now. “You’re not the one who has to go first. You’re not the shield anymore. Not when I’m here.”

He swallows hard. His eyes are glassy, like maybe no one’s ever said that before. Like maybe he forgot he was allowed to hear it.

You straighten back up and look at the room.

“Find another plan.”

And they do. They scramble. They rearrange. Because your tone is sharp and final and God help anyone who tries to touch him without your say-so.

Later, you’re patching him up on the edge of a dusty motel bed. He’s shirtless, bruised, quiet.

“You meant all that?” he asks, voice low.

You blink at him. “What kind of question is that?”

“I just… no one’s ever…” He trails off. Like it hurts to say it out loud. “It felt good. Hearing it. You fighting for me.”

You look at him—really look at him.

He’s so used to doing. Saving. Bleeding. Leading. Everyone thinks he’s bulletproof because he acts like he is. But you see the cracks. You kiss them. You love them.

“I’ll always fight for you,” you murmur, smoothing your fingers over the bruise on his side. “You’re not alone anymore, Dean. You don’t have to carry the weight. Not while I’m still breathing.”

He leans forward, cups your face like you’re the miracle. Kisses you slow. Deep. Desperate.

“Thank you,” he breathes against your lips.

You pull back just enough to whisper:

“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll let me protect you, too.”

His voice breaks a little when he says, “I will.”

And you know he means it. For once.

[fullbelieverheart]

never too much.

maxine baker x female reader.

synopsis. in which you comfort max after she begins to question her worth, wondering if she truly is too much to deal with.

tags. none.

notes. unedited. first imagine, enjoy <3

ᯓ★

Your feelings can be a lot sometimes, Max.

Max silently sits in her room, the words of Abby haunting her. She rolls over onto her side in bed, checking the time on her phone and then shutting her eyes, sighing. Her phone drops from her hands and onto the bed with a small thump.

She tries not to let it affect her, she really tries. But the words play in her head like a broken record, looping over and over.

The room is quiet, it makes the noise in her head even louder.

Was this really what everyone thought of her? That she was too much? That her feelings weren’t valid enough?

Max knows she feels a lot, it’s not her fault that she wears her heart on her sleeve. She loves with everything in her, lives her life as loudly as possible. It was never a bad thing, so why now?

She grumbles under her breath and sits up against the pillows, raking a hand through her messy hair. Max tries to distract herself for another few minutes, before she decides it’s no use and walks out her bedroom, making her way to the kitchen for a glass of water.

She works swiftly and quietly, making sure not to wake her parents. It’s only once she places the now empty glass on the drying rack does she notice the sound of the TV. Max walks towards the living room, seeing you sitting comfortably against the couch cushions.

“Hey,” she calls out, softly. “Where’s Marcus?”

“Bathroom.” you answer, tossing some popcorn in your mouth. Max nods, sitting down and begins to tap her fingers against her thighs.

You barely pay her any mind, keeping your eyes on the screen.

You knew Max for as long as you knew Marcus, having met at the start of high school. Although Max was the first Baker twin you had met, you were more Marcus’ friend than you were hers. You’d even go so far as to say that he was your best friend.

Max was nice, kind. But Marcus was the one that you truly bonded with.

Of course, with being over at the Bakers’ house to hang out with Marcus meant seeing his sister a lot more than you’d like to admit.

That also meant you could notice when something was up.

“Are you okay?” you ask, raising a brow and taking a quick look in her direction. Max was being oddly quiet, it somehow worried you.

She nodded and hummed. “Mh, all good.” Max shoots you a smile but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

You briefly examine the room, listening for any indication of Marcus finishing his business in the bathroom. When you come to the conclusion that you’d have enough time for a quick talk, you pause the TV and set the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.

“Alright, that’s clearly a lie.” you say and settle back into the couch, dusting your hands.

Max sighs.

The room is silent.

She doesn’t know how you could tell, but you had somehow picked up on her quiet demeanor, her low mood. Max feels oddly happy at this, because at least someone noticed, right?

You were here. Here and willing to listen.

She bits her lip. “I— I just..” Max cuts herself off, not knowing where to start.

She looks over to you, your eyes on her. Waiting, expecting. Yet there’s a hint of gentleness, like you didn’t care that she’d just unintentionally interrupted your night.

She fiddles with her fingers, and lets out a breath.

“Do you think I’m too much?”

Her words fall from her lips softly, almost too soft and too quiet for you to hear. She’s afraid of the answer, her eyes trained on the floor.

You don’t miss a beat in answering. “You mean, like, you’re a lot to deal with?”

“Yeah,” Max nods, and with enough courage, she finally looks at you. “Do you think it— it’s true?”

Your eyebrows furrow together, confused. Where was all this coming from? Max was never one to worry about what others thought of her. Shit, if she did, she really hid it well.

“I think.. when you meet someone, you either give too much or too little of yourself. No one’s ever satisfied. But, for the right person, you can never be too much. There’s only enough.”

Max chuckles. It’s subtle, but it’s enough for you to crack a tiny smile too.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to go all philosophical.” you scratch the back of your neck. “What I mean is, I don’t think you’re too much, Max. Well, okay sometimes you are, but it’s a part for your charm. Nothing to feel bad or embarrassed about.”

You laugh nervously, thinking over if you’d said the right answer or not. Nevertheless, the corner of Max’s lips twitch into a smile.

Another second of silence passes by, and you hope Max is feeling a lot better. You’re wondering if the conversation is over, silently watching the girl, until she speaks up again.

Max wrings her hands together once again. “Sometimes, I— I wonder if people think about me.. as much as I think about them.”

There’s something tugging at your chest to pull her close to you. To hold her, comfort her.

So, you pat the spot next to you and peel the blankets off your legs, opening it up for Max to easily sit down beside you and cover herself with the blanket. She does so swiftly, and without hesitation, you drape an arm over her shoulder.

You give a gentle squeeze. “Of course you’re thought about, even if at times it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Really?” Max lays her head in the crook of your neck, her voice now a whisper.

Her chest feels heavy, she grips the blanket for some kind of attempt to ground herself. Emotions swirl around in her, too many at a time for her to handle. Max can feel herself slipping further and further away from the edge.

“Yes,” you tell her firmly. “All your friends, your parents, Marcus — even if he doesn’t show it — they all think about you.”

She sniffles, her eyes filling with tears. Her vision becomes a little blurry, quickly rubbing her eyes with her knuckles so the tears won’t fall.

“You think so?”

You give her another reassuring squeeze. “I know so. Myself included, trust me. You’re important, and you’re selfless, caring. And remember, you’re never too much, ‘kay?”

Max shuts her eyes tightly. Then, she blinks a couple times until she knows there’s no tears. She snuggles into the crook of your neck, sighing in content. Her eyelashes brush against your skin, eliciting a giggle from you.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

“Anytime,” you have an urge to press a kiss on her temple, but you push that aside and settle for simply holding her.

You sit like that in complete silence. Max falls into you, an arm wrapped around her, providing her with this safe and comforting space. You’re so caught up in making sure she’s okay that you don’t notice the footsteps walking your way.

“Woah,” you hear Marcus say. “Hold on.. what is this?” He asks, scrunching his face up.

“Hey, c’mon, be nice.” you tell him, shooting him a look as Max gently pulls away. The space where her head was laying now felt cold.

Marcus shakes his head, “Did I somehow walk into an alternate dimension after leaving the bathroom?”

Instead of sitting back beside you, Marcus walks past the both of you and grabs the bowl of popcorn off the table, settling in the other couch. He munches down on some popcorn, chewing in concentrating.

“Haha, very funny.” Max says, laughing sarcastically and scowls. “Ass.”

You chortle as Marcus chucks a couple popcorn kernels her way, landing over the blanket covering her legs and her lap. Max easily shoots him a faux smile and takes two kernels, eating them.

“What took you so long, anyways?”

“Oh, you know, got so distracted by my gorgeous self in the mirror.” He jokes, sending you a wink.

And from that you wink you already know what he’d really been up to. Whatever it was, it had involved Ginny, as usual.

“Are you staying for the rest of the movie?” your question was directed at Max, who looks back at you and then at her brother.

“Can I?” she shoots back. Marcus shrugs soundlessly, continuing to eat some more popcorn.

“I don’t mind.” you tell her, reaching for the remote in order to unpause the TV.

Max nods and leans further into the couch, her back now resting against the cushions, much like your own sitting position. Her shoulders ever so briefly brush against yours as she wiggles to get comfortable.

She smiles, thinks that maybe it isn’t such a bad thing that she feels too much. Maxine thinks, perhaps, you are right. One day, the right person would come long and she wouldn’t be too much.

She’d be just enough.

[fullbelieverheart]

hiii lovely, I hope you’re doing well 💙 i’m on the verge of sleep lol, but I have a fun question for youu :) in your opinion which jackles character likes to say “my wife” the most? 😗 (I mean i’m sure they’d all be down bad for their spouse lmao, but who do you think takes the cake? 🤣)

sidenote; I hope everything is going good for you !! If I remember correctly you had a lot goin on lately, I hope everything is settling smoothly <33

Hey, friend!! Sorry it's taken me a while to answer. I just started a new job this week, so my brain is all over the place. 🤪 (Thank you for asking! 💕) But I loooove this question lol. Let's say we're talking about the Big Four - Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy, and Russell Shaw.

HEADCANON: Who says "my wife" the most?

Yeah I feel like if they all got to the point of letting someone in that deep, all of them would be down bad for their girl lol. But I feel like it would go something like this:

Dean Winchester + Soldier Boy (Ben): Protective 👿

Not to say that Beau and Russell aren't protective bois too, but I feel like Dean and Ben are more likely to "say it" in that gut punch situation where they're about to tear someone a new orifice.

"Fuck off, asshole. That's my wife."

"That's my wife. Show her some fucking respect, before I break every limp-dick fucking bone in your body."

Beau Arlen + Russell Shaw: Playful 😘

I think Beau and Russ are more likely to "say it" more often, but in that playful, endearing, flirty teasing way.

"How's my lovely wife doing on this beautiful evening?" He wraps you up in his arms, fully knowing how late he is and trying to lighten up your glare. "Waiting three hours for her husband to get off work so we can actually make it to our anniversary dinner," you snip. "I managed to rechedule the reservation, but we've gotta move quick if we're going to make it in half an hour." He butters you up in any way possible, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek. "That's why I love you. You always think ahead." Rolling your eyes, but still smiling, you grab ahold of his tie. "All right, cowboy. Let's go."

"Ooh, I can't be seen with the likes of you, sweetheart. My wife would kill me." Cue a mischievous smirk. You shake your head in amusement. God. This man. You still let him slip his arms around your waist and pull you in close, so he can trail his lips up your neck, inhaling the alluring scent of your perfume. You giggle breathlessly. This is one of his favorite little games. The gold band on the ring finger of your left hand matching the one on his calls his bluff though. "She doesn't have to know," you purr. Your lips are just shy of a whisper near his ear. "This can be our little secret."

AN: @wvffles I hope this answers your question! 😘💓

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Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

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[fullbelieverheart]

Crazy

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x F!Reader

Summary: Jensen is trying to work but you love to drive him crazy.

Warnings: Smut. Oral (M Receiving). Dom!Jensen. Semi-Public (In Front Of Others Without Them Knowing). Rough Sex. Slapping. Some Pet names. No Use Of Y/N.

A/N: We were being very horny in a gc with some friends of mine and we started talking about this scenario, so I had to write it. Also ignore the stupid dates and random words, I just threw like big meeting words in it.

masterlist — taglist

Jensen sat back in his chair, the screen of his laptop casting cool blue light across his face.

He looked effortless — one arm resting on the desk, the other lazily curled near his chin, fingers brushing his jaw while his agent and the showrunner rattled off potential dates for the next month of production.

“We’re tentatively thinking the 10th through the 24th,” the showrunner said. "You good with that?"

“Depends on flights,” Jensen replied, tone smooth, even. “And whether I get a bed that isn’t moving for more than two days.” His voice was calm and professional.

You entered the room without a word.

You didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t speak.

You just sank slowly to your knees and slid beneath the desk between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body through his joggers.

He didn’t look down.

But his thigh twitched the moment your fingers brushed the inside of it.

Still, he kept talking.

“If we’re going into press immediately after the shoot,” he said, “I want my call times locked by the 5th.”

Your hands slid higher, slow, steady, deliberate.

He clicked mute.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he muttered, low and sharp.

Your mouth was already on him.

You pressed your lips right where he was already starting to harden beneath the soft fabric of his joggers. His hips shifted — reflex, not choice. His knuckles tightened against the desk.

You smiled. And kissed him again.

"You're fucking crazy, y'know that?" He murmured.

You traced the shape of him with your mouth, kissing slow and patient, until he was fully hard and straining against the fabric. Then your fingers hooked his waistband, tugged it down just enough to free him.

Thick. Hot. Already leaking.

You wrapped your hand around him and stroked once, slow and tight.

Then took him into your mouth.

He didn’t breathe for a second. Then he let out a low, harsh exhale and clicked back to unmute.

“If we push press to the week after, I can flex the 29th and 30th,” he said, his voice raspier now, just a hair off. “But I need confirmation by end of day.”

You swallowed him deeper.

His hand slid under the desk and into your hair. Not guiding. Just holding. Anchoring. Like he needed the contact to survive the storm you were pulling him into.

You sucked him slow and deep, your rhythm perfect, your tongue circling with precision. He tried to stay still. Tried to keep the mask on. But his thighs flexed, his hand trembled, and you could feel how badly he wanted to lose control.

Muted again.

“You keep going like that,” he growled, “and I’m gonna cum all over your tongue with three people still watching me.”

You moaned around him.

His cock twitched hard in your mouth.

“You like that?” he said, breath breaking. “Knowing they’re listening while you take me apart under the desk?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your mouth was too full, too busy wrecking him inch by inch.

He clicked unmute again, barely hanging on.

“Uh...yeah,” he said, voice rough, strained. “I’m good with that.”

No one on the call noticed. They had no idea what was going on beneath the camera.

But you felt everything. The way his muscles tensed, the heat building fast beneath his skin, the way his hips started to roll against your mouth, searching for friction he knew he shouldn’t chase.

Muted.

“Fuck. I’m gonna—”

And then he did.

He came with a stifled groan, hand clamped over his mouth, thighs shaking around you as his cock pulsed his hot cum against your tongue. You swallowed every drop, held him there, let him ride it out while he came completely undone.

The meeting ended with a quiet click.

And then silence.

His chest rose and fell. He looked down at you.

Eyes dark. Mouth parted.

“Get out from under that desk,” he said, “and bend the fuck over it.”

You didn’t even get the chance to stand.

Jensen grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you out from under the desk, his grip firm, possessive, not cruel, but firm. He was done pretending to keep it together. The moment that meeting ended, he snapped.

“You want to act like a little fucking distraction,” he growled, voice low and dangerous, “then you’re gonna take what you fucking asked for.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he turned you around and shoved you down onto the desk. Papers scattered. Your hands hit the wood hard, legs trembling.

He didn’t undress you carefully. He yanked your pants down fast, rough, baring you completely, his palm dragging across your ass as he kicked your legs farther apart.

“Stay there. Don’t move.”

The warning in his voice was sharp enough to sting. He wasn't playing around any longer.

You heard the sound of his joggers hitting the floor, and then he shoved inside, thick and deep, in one brutal thrust.

You cried out, your hands clawing at the edge of the desk. He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask. Didn’t soothe.

He just grabbed your hips and started using you.

His pace was relentless, deep, pounding thrusts that sent the desk rattling under your body, your breath punched out of you with every slam. His fingers dug into your waist, holding you in place like he owned you. You are his.

“Thought you were so fucking clever, huh baby girl?" he snarled, fucking you harder. “Sitting under that desk, moaning around my cock while I’m trying to talk.”

You tried to answer but couldn’t.

He reached up, grabbed your hair, yanked your head back just enough to growl in your ear.

“You wanted my attention, yeah? Like the little slut you are," His hips slammed forward. “Now you’ve got all of it.”

You choked out a gasp, pleasure blooming fast inside you. Your body was already close, already raw and wet from everything before, and now he was wrecking you, ruining you with each punishing thrust.

“You’re dripping,” he hissed. “You fucking like this, huh? My fucking slut."

You nodded frantically, your voice broken. “Yes. God, yes—”

He smacked your ass hard.

“Louder.”

“Yes, Jensen—!”

His hand wrapped around your throat and pinned you flat against the desk, his body caging you in while he thrust deeper, angrier. His cock filled you completely, slamming into that spot that made you scream.

“Good girl,” he growled. “You don’t get to be quiet now.”

You came first, back arching, breath breaking, your orgasm crashing through you so violently your knees gave out. But he held you up. Fucked you through it.

And he didn’t stop.

Not until you were whimpering and pleading under him.

Only then did his rhythm falter. His grip tightened. A vicious growl ripped out of his chest as he came, hard, deep inside you, every muscle locked down as he emptied himself with a final punishing thrust that left you gasping.

Then silence. Just your bodies. Breathless. Sweat-covered. His cock still inside you. His hand still holding you down.

Then his voice, ragged and low against your ear.

“You want to pull that stunt again?” he breathed. “Next time, I won’t be this nice.”

A/N: I went to SPN NJ this past Sunday and I miss it so much. Jensen and Jared give such good hugs. Ugh I miss them.

tags: @animelucky @mystic-writings @magster196 @soldierboysdoll @caplanbuckybarnes @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @mostlymarvelgirl @waynes-multiverse @deanspookiebear @multiversefanfics @chevroletdean @skywalker0809 @winchesterwild78 @cas-is-my-angel7

[fullbelieverheart]

Wrong Turn, Right Arms

Pairing: Dean Winchester x You // Established relationship

Summary: Living with your boyfriend is great… until his brother gets flashbanged by your bare ass at 7 AM.

Warnings: Um—mentions of nudity, I guess? Fluffy domestic, slightly spicy, comedy

You were warm. That kind of warm that only came from tangled limbs under bunker-thick sheets, skin on skin, and Dean’s lazy morning breath tickling the back of your neck.

His arm was slung low around your waist, heavy and protective. One of his legs had somehow gotten wedged between yours in the middle of the night, and now you were trapped in a very naked human pretzel. Not that you were complaining.

“Morning,” he mumbled against your shoulder, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you whispered, shifting slightly.

Dean’s voice rasped low in your ear, a gruff blend of morning gravel and satisfaction. “You smell like me.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Well, considering how you manhandled me last night…”

He huffed a soft laugh, nuzzling closer, his stubble scraping lightly against your neck. “I should make that a nightly thing.”

“You already do.”

Dean chuckled again, squeezing you. “Damn right.”

It was perfect.

Until your bladder reminded you that comfort has a time limit.

“I need to pee,” you mumbled, stretching slowly like a lazy cat under his arm.

Dean groaned, pressing his face into your neck like you’d just told him the world was ending. “No you don’t. Just stay here. Ignore your internal organs. I’m cuddling you.”

You laughed and pried his hand off your belly with gentle determination, untangling yourself. “You can have me back in two minutes. Bathroom’s across the hall.”

The air was cooler outside the bed, but the bathroom was literally across the hall. Two seconds. Tops.

“You might wanna grab something,” Dean said, voice still muffled in the pillow. “You know, in case Sam’s lurking.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s probably in the kitchen with his fifth cup of health juice or whatever. I’ll be fast.”

Dean didn’t push it. Just grinned and gave your bare ass a light smack as you padded toward the door. “Your funeral.”

You cracked the door open, half-asleep and still wrapped in the haze of Dean’s warmth. One foot out. Then two. Then—

“OHMYGOD—!”

You and Sam both froze like someone had just tossed holy water at you.

He was standing right there. Outside his door. Coffee mug in hand. Eyes wide. Face completely blank except for the overwhelming wave of internal screaming written across it.

You screamed internally too. Then externally.

“NOPE!”

You yanked the door shut so fast it probably rattled the hinges, your heart practically doing a full sprint in your chest. You didn’t even make it to the bathroom. You ran straight back to bed, dove in, and buried yourself under the covers and Dean.

He blinked as you launched into him like a cannonball, squealing, “I SAW SAM I SAW SAM I SAW SAM—”

Dean burst out laughing, the kind of deep, wheezy belly laugh that only made you feel more exposed, more ridiculous. He wrapped his arms around you as you buried your face in his chest, burning with embarrassment from the tips of your ears to your toes.

“I told you!” he wheezed. “Didn’t I tell you?!”

“I hate everything,” you groaned into his chest. “I want to dissolve into the floor.”

Dean kissed your hair, still chuckling. “Pretty sure Sam already did.”

You whimpered. “We’re never making eye contact again, are we?”

“Doubt it.”

You eventually made it to the kitchen, fully clothed and about seventeen kinds of mortified. Sam was already at the table, sipping his coffee and staring very intently at his laptop.

You cleared your throat. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied, still not looking up.

Dean just grinned as he poured himself some coffee. “Everyone alive? No trauma?”

Sam blinked slowly. “I’m gonna put a bell on your door.”

Dean snorted.

You just turned crimson again.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you found this funny! This happened to me years ago while my ex and I were living with a flatmate and it was mortifying. I thought it would be hilarious as a Dean and Sam fic tho 😂

[fullbelieverheart]

everytime dean winchester cries during sex, an angel gains its wings. it's the praise that gets him. it's always the praise, the gentle way you soothe him with your sweet words. your so soft n warm and his brain has turned to absolute mush, face buried in your neck and him buried deep inside you. it's slow and tender, the way his cock drags against your walls, the way your hands roam his broad back to his lil waist, squeezing his hips and moaning softly in his ear. but the tears don't well up until your mouth starts running.

"feels s'good, baby. my pretty baby, all f'me. jus' like that, so perfect. y'so perfect, dean, so fucking good ohhhh fuck!" and christ, its almost too much for him, his hips stutter and pace speeds up, whining and whimpering into your neck, but it feels so good you can't shut the fuck up. "such a good boy f'me, my baby. y'so beautiful." the tears spill over, he's getting so overwhelmed but he wants more and more and more :(( he tries to respond but all he can manage between soft moans is incoherent babbles and your name over and over, the only thing he can or needs to think of right now is you.

"you like being good for me? y'love me? i love you- fuck, dean! i love you, i love you, i love you-" your orgasm washes over you and god, your poor baby, big fat tears are rolling down his cheeks n his long lashes are damp. he can't help it, can't even help the way he spills into your cunt, whimpering against your warm, soft skin, whining when he pulls out. you feel the hot, wet tears on his cheek and coo at him, cupping his face and pressing a kiss to his temple. he grumbles something against your neck but it trails off, already melting into you.

he's a touch starved little thing, craving your affection and fondness. it isn't hard to love a pretty sight like him, and he loves the way you love him. he loves the way you know how to scratch that itch he has, loves the way you coddle him n call him your baby, the way you like him with an empty head. you love him with an empty head, all floaty n sweet, full weight collapsed on top of you and pressing kisses to your skin as long as he can keep his eyes open. it's real hard though, the way your holding his so lovingly, running your fingers through his hair and rubbing his back, gently stroking his skin with your thumbs. before he gets too sleepy, he mumbles to you "love y'so much, sweetheart. my girl."

[fullbelieverheart]

𝐴𝑈𝑆𝑇𝐼𝑁 𝐶𝐼𝑇𝑌 𝐿𝐼𝑀𝐼𝑇𝑆

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: 𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑡, 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟��� 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛'𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑, ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝐴𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑥 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 (𝑛𝑜 𝑦/𝑛)

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔: +𝟷𝟾! (𝑛𝑜 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑜𝑟𝑠), 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡, 𝑝𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑐 𝑠𝑒𝑥, 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑔𝑒, 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑡𝑦 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘, 𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑜ℎ𝑜𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑔 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑝𝑒𝑡 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 (𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦, ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑦…), 𝑏𝑖𝑔 𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑔𝑎𝑝.

𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠: 𝐼 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑛𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑚. 𝐸𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝐸𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑓𝑖𝑐, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼'𝑚 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑒. 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘.

- 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝐼'𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝟹𝟶 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒, ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑦. - 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠, 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒, 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑎𝑟.

- 𝑂ℎ, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑛, 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑒! 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝟹𝟶-𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑢𝑦𝑠.

𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝟻𝟶𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑏𝑒, ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑒. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑟, ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡, 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑚. 𝐵𝑢𝑡, 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐻𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘:

- 𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑠𝑜, 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑡, 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑝 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑡 ℎ𝑢𝑔𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑖𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡. 𝐻𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑉𝐼𝑃 𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑎 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙. 𝐴𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛 𝐶𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝐿𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑑𝑒𝑑, 𝐽𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐺𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐻𝑜𝑧𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝐽𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑎𝑟:

- … 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢…

𝐻𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑡, 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑎𝑠𝑠, 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑘, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

- 𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑛, 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑛. - 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑦, 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑎 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒.

𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎�� 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑝𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑐, 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑠, 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑡, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒. 𝑁𝑜𝑤, 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝐽𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑'𝑠 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑡, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑤𝑜.

- 𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑢𝑙𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑡, 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑒. - 𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠, 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑒𝑧𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡.

𝐻𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝐽𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑢𝑝𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑒, 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝐻𝑜𝑧𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠. 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘, 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦'𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑡ℎ 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑘, 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛'𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝐽𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑'𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐺𝑒𝑛, 𝐽𝑒𝑛 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑝 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑝 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟, 𝑝𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑡, 𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒.

- 𝐻𝑒𝑦, 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑤𝑜 - 𝐽𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠, 𝑝𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐽𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑟, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑦𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑙. - 𝐴𝑐𝑘, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑔, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑑? - ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠, 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟.

𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛'𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑡𝑠, 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑗𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦��𝑛𝑔, 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑠. 𝐻𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝐽𝑎𝑟, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑑𝑠. 𝐻𝑜𝑧𝑖𝑒𝑟'𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑗𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐽𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡. 𝐴𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠, 𝐽𝑒𝑛 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟, 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑦, 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒, 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑘.

- 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑙. - 𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠.

- 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑦, 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦. - 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑦, 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑘𝑒, 𝑟𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑎𝑠𝑠 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑐ℎ, 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢. - 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑑?

- 𝑂ℎ, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑, 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒. 𝐵𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑠, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡…

- 𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒… 𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑟…

- 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑠𝑜? 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡? 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢, ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑦? - 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑇𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑙 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑡. - 𝑀𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑡𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑠𝑙𝑢𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑟, ℎ𝑢ℎ? - 𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑎𝑟, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑠, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.

- 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒. - 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎.

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑧𝑒, ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐽𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑗𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛'𝑠 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑡 𝑎𝑢𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙. 𝐻𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑜𝑓. 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑎 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑦, 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑠. 𝐼𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝐽𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ, 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑘, 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡, ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑡, 𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑, 𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛, 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡, 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑚𝑖𝑥𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑟𝑠 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑. 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 '𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑠, 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑟𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠:

- 𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑒? - 𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠, 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑒. - 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔?

- 𝑉𝑒𝑟𝑦. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑑. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ - 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟, 𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑘, 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ.

- 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑡𝑦. - 𝐻𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠, 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑁𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑: 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑡, 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑠, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑤𝑒𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚. - 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑤𝑒𝑡, ℎ𝑜𝑛'. 𝑊𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑑. - 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑎𝑟, 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑘 𝑖𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠. - 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑤𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑎 𝑏𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑡. - 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒.

𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑢𝑠𝑠𝑦, 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ, 𝑠𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦, 𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑒, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑜𝑎𝑛 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝐽𝑒𝑛 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑚 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑡, 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑡. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑐𝑘, 𝑏𝑜𝑥𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ, ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑚, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑢𝑝, 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑖𝑟𝑐𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑠, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐵𝑜𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠, 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘, ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑝𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠, 𝑔𝑟𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠, 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.

- 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑠𝑜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑒, 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦.

- 𝑂ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑑, 𝐽𝑒𝑛. 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝.

𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑠𝑚 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟: 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒; 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑒𝑓𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑙𝑦; ℎ𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡; 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑠, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔; 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑎𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒, ℎ𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑜𝑡, ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑧𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑢𝑠𝑠𝑦, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑠𝑚𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑜.

- 𝐹𝑢𝑐𝑘, 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑒. 𝐷𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑑 - ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠, 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑚. 𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑘, 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑑, 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑓𝑖𝑥𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠, 𝑎 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑝 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑦, 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑤𝑜. 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑝 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑢𝑛 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐽𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐺𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑤.

- 𝐶𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒, 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 - 𝐽𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠.

[fullbelieverheart]

Hi! Since you take requests, can you do one with Dean Winchester x type1diabetic reader? It can be about whatever, that if you are comfortable doing so. Please and thank you!

SUGAR AND STEEL

Dean Winchester x Type1Diabetic!Reader

AUTHORS NOTE: Heyheyheyyy ! This is a little cute slice of life fanfiction and I hope I didn’t give out misinformation about type 1 diabetics in any way ! I have done some research just so I can write this properly and not go off with what I knew- which wasn’t very much tbh :,0

I hope you enjoy & thank you for being the first request :p !!

WARNINGS: 

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Dean Winchester wasn’t exactly the textbook definition of a caretaker. He was more "duct tape and whiskey" than "tender love and care." 

But somehow, when it came to you, he figured it out.

It was well past midnight and the bunker was quiet. The pattern of the machines humming, making the whole place rumble faintly- it was a white noise that can put anyone to a deep sleep. You had crashed early, thinking you'd make it through the night without an issue, but something tugged you awake. Your blood sugar was tanking, and you felt it in the tremble of your hands and the fog in your head.

You fumbled for your glucose tabs on the nightstand, cursing softly when you knocked the container to the floor- the sounds of the tablets crashing on the floor wasn't exactly the comforting sound you needed at the moment. 

Dean’s voice came from the doorway- breaking your deep concentration for breathing as you looked up from the floor-, rough with sleep, but alert. Always alert. You assumed he was in the library, doing endless research and finding more hunts to do the next morning… he was still wearing those ridiculously adorable reading glasses you gave him a while back when you noticed how he would squint ever so slightly when he reads. 

You didn’t even have to answer before he was by your side, crouching down to pick up the scattered tabs and handing one to you like it was second nature.

“You okay?” he asked, watching you closely, eyes scanning you like he would a wounded hunter. Not panicked, but focused. Ready.

You nodded, chewing slowly, savoring the bittersweet taste that exploded on your tongue. “Low. I felt it coming on.”

“Yeah, figured. You get that look,” he said, softening just a little. “Like you’re here, but not really.”

You gave a weak smile. “Sexy, huh?”

Dean chuckled and carefully wrapped his arms around you, carrying you onto the bed before climbing in beside you, wrapping an arm around you once again gently,

“Yeah, well. Beats the hell outta demons and ghost guts.”

You leaned into him, the warmth of his chest grounding you while your body started to stabilize. He didn’t say much-just held you like it was something he’d trained for, like he’d done a hundred times. 

Because he had.

After a moment, he nudged your forehead with his lips. “I hate that you have to deal with this. I’d take it from you if I could.”

You swallowed, the sugar finally kicking in, and whispered, “It’s really not that bad once you get used to it. But you being here? That helps more than you think.”

Dean stayed quiet after that, letting his hand trace lazy circles on your arm until your heartbeat settled. 

You both drifted off- him curled around you protectively, as if daring the world to mess with you while he was there.

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AUTHORS NOTE: Requests are still open xx