#been working on those for like two or three days...

[anonf1writer]

Lando gives you his 4 tally mark necklace so everyone knows you're his 😍

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written. 3,1k words. warning: suggestive language. +18. note: this took me almost two months to get done. I'm so, so sorry! I hope you're still around to read it, and I hope I didn't disappoint. Thanks for the request, it means a lot to me!

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The context of your relationship with Lando was easy to describe: you two had met through mutual friends less than a year ago, started casually hooking up right away, and had been officially dating for over six months now.

Giving the nature of Lando’s occupation, and the attention his every move got, things were still pretty private between you, meaning that the general public new nothing about your existence yet. Or of what was happening behind closed doors. Like the fact that you had met each other’s families, that you were comfortable around each other’s friends, and that at this point your visits to his apartment had been frequent enough for you to consider his place a little bit yours, too.

For the most part, when he was traveling and busy being a Formula 1 driver, you spent your time at your own place, doing your own thing. But on those weekends when he was back, or during those rare two or three days off in between races, you joined him in a blink of an eye. No invitation needed—not anymore. Both always on the same page when it came to making the most of it, as in everything, together.

On that particular Monday night, the one that set this storyline into motion, it wasn’t any different. You and Lando were at home, his home that was slowly becoming your home, and one of your closest friends was over for some wine and food. The two of you enjoying each other’s company in the living room, laughing and gossiping on the couch, while Lando distracted himself and livestreamed with his own friends behind closed doors. Nothing big, nothing new.

Sometimes, as you two blabbered and laughed, he would pop out of the room to get a snack, to go to the restroom, or just to check up on you. Just to say hello. To make a silly joke and move on. Never a big deal. Never anything that interrupted the conversation that was going on between you and your friend. Not even when the topic shifted to your new co-worker, a guy who had joined the company you worked at less than three weeks ago, and had quickly developed a not-so-subtle crush on you.

“What about that guy from work?” your friend asked, synced with the opening of Lando’s game room door. “Is he still texting you at random hours?”

Busy chewing the last remains of your pizza, you just grimaced and shook your head. Then watched Lando cross the living room and disappear into the kitchen.

“I think…” you said, then stopped to swallow the food, “I think he finally got the message.”

“Good...” Your friend nodded, and took a sip of her wine. “What was his name again?”

“Vincent.”

Mimicking her earlier movements, you leaned in and grabbed your half-finished glass from the coffee table. And then, as you were sitting back and bringing the wine to your lips, a tiny snort left your nose, and you shook your head. All to yourself.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing... He just followed me on insta the other day.”

“Shut up...”

“Mhm…”

You sipped more of your wine, watching your friend frown as you did so.

“How did he even find you?”

“I don’t know…” You shrugged. “But he did, and then he liked a bunch of my older pictures.”

“Noooo!”

“Yeah…”

“Oh my God! Can a guy ever read the room?”

A soft chuckle left your mouth.

“I didn’t follow him back tho, so again, I think he got the message.”

“He knows you’ve got a boyfriend, right?”

You shrugged again, then shuffled on the couch, pulling your legs up and making yourself comfortable.

“Everyone at the office knows, so maybe someone told him? I don’t know.”

“Wait, so you didn’t tell him?”

“I  didn’t even tell him my name, let alone the fact that I’m dating someone I can’t really talk about.”

Your friend rolled her eyes, and then sighed. “Look, I think it’s lovely how consistent you two are on keeping each other a secret, but just this once I think you should tell him you’re dating and therefore not available.”

At that, it was your time to roll your eyes. “Or... He could realize I’ve done nothing to suggest I’m interest and back off because I don’t want him.”

“Right,” she laughed. “You’re talking about a guy that’s been acting like a creep.”

“Exactly. So if he bothers me again, I’ll raise a complaint to HR for harassing.”

You changed the topic after that, and a few minutes later Lando stepped out of the kitchen, the salad he had ordered in hands. He paused to chat a bit with you two, then kissed your temple and made his way back to the game room.

Eventually, your friend said goodbye and left Lando’s apartment, and you took a moment to clean up the mess left behind. Lando was still busy in his own world, his loud laughter vibrating through the walls and making you laugh along from time to time.

It was on your way to the bedroom that you decided to stop by. Just to let him know.

You knocked on the door once, and then another two times—the code you had unintentionally created to avoid interrupting his livestream and getting caught on camera.

“Yeah?” he shouted, but you knew better than shout back at him. Instead, you cracked the door open slightly. Barely. Only enough for you to peek inside and glance at him.

Lando’s eyes were already waiting for you, his head turned to the side while he fully leaned back into his chair.

“Heyyy…” he breathed out, lips curling up into the cutest, softest smile while he stretched his arms up in the air.

“Hey...” you whispered back, lips curling up as well.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you said quietly. “Just saying hi before I get to bed.”

Lando dropped his arms and placed his hands on his lap, then tilted his chin towards the computer.

“It’s muted,” he said. “No need to be quiet.”

You raised your eyebrows, not changing the volume of your voice as you answered, “That’s what you said last time.”

Lando’s smile got bigger, and his eyes wrinkled at the sides. Mischief and playfulness taking all over his expression at the mention of that chaotic memory—when a female voice laughed loudly in the background of an allegedly muted livestream and caused a very serious online meltdown.

“I checked twice,” Lando said, turning back to the camera and giving a thumbs up. “Right, chat? You can’t hear me right now, can ya?”

He leaned in, then, squeezing his eyes to the screen.

“See? They are all lecturing me. Lando, we can’t hear you. Mic’s off, Lando. Lando turn your mic on. Lan—”

“Okay, okay.” You rolled your eyes and pressed your temple against the frame, but a soft chuckle still left your chest at his silliness. “Got it, yeah.”

He leaned back and turned his head to you, smugness written all over him. “Told ya. I learn from my mistakes.”

He winked. And, once again, you raised your eyebrows.

“They can still see tho, can’t they? So don’t get cocky.”

“You’ve barely opened the door,” he laughed. “Not even I can see you, I doubt they’ll be able to.”

“Yeah? Just watch them read your lips or start analysing who you’re talking to so late at night.”

“C’mon…” he laughed again. Head tilting back as he faced the ceiling. “Don’t be si—”

“Ooookay…” you snorted and stepped back from the door, a little too tired to get into one of his playful arguments. “I’ll save you from finishing that sentence.”

“What? C’mon… I’m just teasing.”

“I know. You’re having fun while I’m worried trying to protect your wishes. Then tomorrow you’ll be snapping at me because someone found out you’re not alone and I’ll have to watch you overthink while trying to find ways to prove I don’t exist.”

The world paused around you.

Time paused inside the room.

You watched the moment his face fell. How his expression changed along with the drop of his shoulders. As if some unknown truth had been thrown at him.

And just like that, regret dawned on you, a tight knot twisting low in your gut as you tried to make sense of your words. Of your abrupt change of mood.

You looked down to your feet and sighed, your voice coming out like a whisper when you spoke again. “Sorry… I don’t know why I said that.”

Lando nodded.

You noticed his movements, the way he turned back to his computer and leaned forward to reach his keyboard. How he typed, then clicked a few things, and then how everything went off. Heavy silence easily filling the room.

“C’mere,” he said, once again leaning back into his chair, then fully turning it towards you. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and Lando tilted his head slightly to the side. “Please?” He stretched his arm to you. “I’m not streaming anymore, I promise.”

You checked the screen, just to be sure, then dropped your arms to your sides and sighed. Embarrassment taking over your chest—and flushing across your neck and cheeks—as you walked towards him.

Lando didn’t wait for you to stand in front of him before reaching out for your waist, hands grabbing your sides and pulling you down to his lap with the easiness of someone who had pulled that move hundreds of times before.

You gasped, even squealed a little, a smile curving your mouth as you adjusted yourself to sit on his thighs. Body to the side and legs hanging in the air. Arms circling around his neck. Eyes settling inside his gaze.

Silent.

Comfortable.

Easy.

“Sorry,” you said. Again. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

“I know,” Lando smiled, placing your hair behind your ear, then cradling your cheek. “I never tried to prove you don’t exist. You know that, right?”

“Of course, yeah.”

“Is it how I make you feel, tho? Like I’m trying to hide you or something?”

“No... C’mon... I understand why you’re so... Protective. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Ok…” He nodded, arms settling around your waist, pulling you a bit closer to him. “Just making sure.”

“Sorry for making you end the stream.”

Lando smiled. “Thank you for making me end the stream.”

A smile grew on your face, too.

There was a pause, in which he held your stare in silence as he moved one hand to the back of your neck.

“C’mere,” he said, then pulled you in, his lips brushing over yours once, then twice. Slowly. Softly. As if it was the first time he was getting a taste of them. As if he wasn’t really sure he was allowed to do that.

Your chest fluttered, and you leaned into him. Melted into him. Eyes falling shut and hands moving to curl tightly around his jumper. To hold onto its neckline like you were afraid he would suddenly stop and leave. Like he could vanish.

A low, contented hum escaped him, almost like he didn’t mean it. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he was melting into you, too. Hand pressing on the nape of your neck and arm anchoring around your waist, guiding the pace while he tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

You exhaled through your nose and followed his lead. Stomach flipping and thoughts blurring. Getting lost into the tenderness and casually of it. Into how personal, intimate, and affectionate it felt. How soft, how steady, how electric it was. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he tasted. How he treated you with respect and carefulness, like you were the most delicate and precious thing in the world, and yet made you feel breathless and powerless, like you could die if you didn’t get more of it. Of him. Or this.

And then, Lando pulled away. Panting. Hand still holding the back of your head and lips still brushing yours when he asked, “Who’s Victor?”

Your lips searched for him, unwillingly. Automatically. Your body craving for more before his words clicked inside your mind.

He didn’t stop you, kissing you back and allowing your mouths to ghost over each other as you spoke between kisses. Never quite gone.

“Victor?” you asked.

“Mhmm…” His nose bumped against yours, and he slipped his hand between your hair, making sure you wouldn’t lose the pace.

“I don’t… Hmm… I don’t know… Shit… Who’s Victor?”

“I don’t know…” he repeated. “Someone that’s been hitting on my girlfriend… Or so I’ve heard…”

You blinked your eyes open and flinched back. Just an inch. As far as he allowed you to. Only enough to meet his eyes.

“What?”

Lando shrugged, and you licked your lips. Trying to gather your thoughts. Trying to make sense of what the heck was going on.

“You mean Vincent?”

He rolled his eyes and pulled you back in, his lips barely touching yours before he was tilting your head back and moving them down your jaw.

“Potato, patahto,” he murmured, his warm breath hitting your neck while he kept smothering your skin. Your throat. “Still hitting on my girlfriend.”

A smirk grew on your lips, and you closed your eyes, feeling his lips kissing your sensitive spots. Feeling his tongue getting its own taste, his teeth grazing right behind.

“Didn’t know you were listening to us...”

“Was I supposed not to?”

He sucked onto your sweet spot, and you gasped. Thighs clenching and fingers twisting even tighter around his jumper.

“Fuck…” you breathed out.

“I know…” Lando murmured, brushing the tip of his nose up and down the same spot. “I wonder how many until I leave a mark…”

“You never leave any…”

“Maybe I should start…”

He kissed you again, softly, moving his mouth and making sure no inch would go unattended.

Heat built low in your belly, slow and relentless, and you shuffled on his lap—even though the position you were in didn’t allow you to feel much of him.

“Jealous?” you managed to ask.

Lando snorted and pulled away, guiding your head so you would look at him.

“Just annoyed… Pissed, actually… Why is some random guy texting you and going through your photos? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

You smiled, hands loosening up around his clothing and moving up through the back of his neck. Fingers tangling with his curls as you said, “Someone who stopped texting after I left him on read, and who never got a follow back from me…”

“Hm…” He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut while you ran your nails up and down his scalp. “Can’t say I’m not happy to hear that.”

You chuckled. “Did you think I’d react differently?”

“No…” he said, eyes meeting yours again. “But as confident in our relationship as I am, can’t ever get too comfortable, can I?”

You tilted your head, not really knowing what to say at that.

Thankfully, Lando didn’t give you too much time to think about it before he added, “Don’t want him to think you’re single, tho.”

“We don’t know if he thinks that.”

“Then I want to make sure he knows you’re taken.”

You smiled. “I’m taken, huh?”

Lando rolled his eyes, hands sliding down your spine while he stretched his back and got taller underneath you.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice an octave lower and fingers reaching to the hem of your sweater. “Just like I’m yours. Yeah?”

You nodded, curling your body to place your forehead against his. Feeling his bare touch pressing on your lower back, warm and needy.

“Yeah... You know I am… Yours.”

“I know… I want him to know, tho. Not just him, everyone.”

“Lan…” you sighed. “If this is because of what I said, you don’t have to—”

“Not saying this because of what happened,” he said. “I’m saying it because I love you and because you’re beautiful and I don’t want stupid wankers hitting on you when I’m not around.”

“Well… That’s not really fair, is it? I can’t stop girls from hitting on you while you’re not around.”

“Babe, not one single girl has flirted or—”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. Loudly enough that you had to bring one hand to cover your mouth.

Lando smiled. And you noticed how something softened inside him. How he dropped his shoulders. How his touch went from greedy to affectionate. Still pulling you closer, still holding you in place, but with a different intention behind it.

 “I mean it, tho,” he said. “I don’t want to keep hiding it anymore. I heard when you said I’m someone you can’t really talk about, and I don’t want you to feel that. I want you to say ‘I’ve got a boyfriend’ and throw my name into a conversation if you feel like it. Just… Y’know… Want it to be natural.”

You pressed your lips together and sighed, pushing the playfulness aside to understand the seriousness of what he was suggesting with that.

“Okay… But just so you know, this feels natural to me. I don’t have to say ‘my boyfriend Lando Norris’ for me to talk about you. People who know me know I’m not single, the only reason why I haven’t told Vincent it’s because I haven’t really sat to chat with him. He saw me twice and decided it would be a good idea to get my number without even asking me about it.”

“Fucking idiot.” 

“Right?”

“Can’t really blame him, though… Kinda hard to look at you and not to fall in love.”

“Oh my God…” You rolled your eyes, but also smiled, shoving his shoulder playfully before hugging his neck. “Shut up.”

He did as you told, busying himself by kissing you instead of talking again.

From then on, the kissing melted into something more. The chair becoming uncomfortable to hold so much want and so much need from both of you, and your touches and steps guiding you blindly to his bedroom. To your bedroom. To your bed. Clothes getting lost along the way.

“I love you,” he said, over and over again.

Stealing your breath away.

Making you forget your name.

How you got there in the first place.

Until you were shaking and falling on top of him, his hips digging and pushing until he got the last bit of pleasure out of you. Of him. Of both.

Erratic. Intense. Everything.

The next morning, Lando left earlier than you. You didn’t even hear him, didn’t even feel him. Tangled and sprawled in the sheets. Blissfully happy. Satisfied.

You saw it when your alarm went off, though. His tally mark necklace, his number four shining in the sunlight. Right on top of his pillow. And a post it right in between the two.

For you. So everyone knows you’re mine ;) Love you. LN.

And that’s how it happened.

That’s how you ended up clasping his necklace around your neck.

And that’s how now, every time you think of him, you bring your hand to your chest and hold onto him. How you know he’s always there, like a part of you. Loving you. Whether everyone knows it...

Or not.

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[super-ion]

I didn't react well this morning.

I mean... no... I'm not going to finish that thought. I don't have an excuse.

And today of all days. The one day where I have meetings and deadlines and presentations all fucking day. I spent the entire commute this morning coming up with a wholly inadequate text of "Let's get coffee after work".

And then when I checked my phone at lunch was just a single letter reply of "k" that had me on edge all day long.

I already knew Amelia was a shapeshifter. It's kind of hard not to notice all those little moments when her attention slips, maybe her eyes are mismatched, maybe her chin isn't quite right. It happens when she's tired.

I guess I just didn't know exactly what kind of shapeshifter until this morning.

I never said anything about it. It seemed like it would be rude to bring up and maybe make her feel unwelcome.

She's a really good roommate.

Maybe...

Okay, so I'm in our favorite bakery right now and the cashier didn't even have to take my order before he started picking out one of those weird ube doughnuts that Amelia likes. He hands me the bag with a knowing smile.

Maybe there's more to this than me not wanting to go through the ordeal of finding a new roommate.

Maybe I don't want to lose a friend.

Maybe I've been wanting more than that?

I step back out into the early autumn sun and start making my way down to the park.

I smooth down the fabric of my skirt. Amelia helped me pick it out when I realized I didn't have any business formal clothes. She... well, she helped out with shopping. Back when it was horrible and terrifying.

I think she was one of the first people I came out to. Three months into our current living arrangement and the whole house of cards of my gender identity came crashing down around me...

No. Today's not about me.

Today. Right now. Is about me telling Amelia that it's okay. Whatever she is, that mass of eyes and tentacles, it's fine. I accept her for who she is because she did exactly the same for me.

I arrive at the park and there she is. Six foot three, golden skin practically glowing in the afternoon light. She's like a goddess.

She's dressed for the gym, tank top and leggings and slightly mussed hair. She only works out when she's nervous.

Seeing me, she plucks headphones from off of her head and stands to greet me with a strained smile.

"Hey," she says, handing me a cup, wet with condensation.

"Hi," I reply back. I take a sip of the coldbrew, half milk with the tiniest bit of vanilla.

I heft the bag of pastries.

See? This is fine. Perfectly normal routine. Two roommates out for a walk in the park. Two roommates that have eachother's orders memorized...

We start down the path. Tense silence stretches out. I should say something. One of us needs to say something.

"So..." she begins, finally.

"I love you!"

We both freeze. She blinks at me, mouth slightly parted in startlement as my face rapidly heats.

Probably not the best way to start this conversation, but I guess I'm committed now.

"Bottom line up front," I say. "I love you."

(Wow... that feels really good to say out loud...)

"You've been an amazing friend and I couldn't ask for a better roommate and I think I've fallen in love with you and I guess I want you to know that regardless of how else this conversation goes."

"Okay," she replies. "Wow... I'm... I wasn't expecting that, but okay..."

She relaxes. I didn't realize how much tension she was holding until her shoulders droop in relief.

Then she grins at me. Sweet and goofy and bashful.

"Okay," she repeats. "I guess I owe you an explanation. Let's start from the beginning..."

You scream, seeing a monster in place of your roommate. "Yeah," it says, staring back, "not my best morning."

[bullet-prooflove]

Together: Jack Abbot x Reader x Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

Tagging: @kmc1989

Just because it's my birthday and it's been a while since I've played with a throuple.

Summary: Jack comes home to find Robby in the kitchen and you sleeping the morning away.

It’s late when Jack gets in, or early depending on how you look at it. The morning sun is starting to filter in through the blinds and he can already hear Robby ambling about the kitchen as he hangs up his jacket on the coat stand by the door.

His footsteps are quiet as he pads towards the doorway, he lingers for a second watching the other man as he sets out three mugs, one for each of the people he loves. He’s wearing his faded Penguins t-shirt this morning, the one you usually like to sleep in. The blue is faded and the fabric pilled but it still looks like a million dollars clinging to his form like a second skin.

“Sleeping beauty still resting?” He asks as he pushes off the door frame. His palm comes to rest on Robby’s lower back, thumb rubbing a soothing circle to alleviate some of the tension the other man’s carrying in those broad shoulders of his.

“Yeah.” Robby responds, spooning in the decaf into Jack’s Bob Dylan mug. “It was a tough one for her last night, the smoke was still clinging to her skin when she got in.”

This is the problem with falling in love with a firefighter, they have an entire bathroom full of expensive products that help get rid of all the hazardous shit you end up coming into contact with. The good smelling stuff costs an arm and leg but their girl, she’s worth every penny. He knows that Robby would have taken good care of you when you stumbled through that door. His cock twitches in his combat pants as he imagines the two of you in the shower, Robby washing the soot from your hair as you made that contented little noise of yours.

He doesn’t remember the last time he showered with you or the last time he braided your hair.

“She’s got a shift in a couple of hours if you wanna go wake her up.” Robby informs him, his lips brushing over Jack’s temple. “She’s covering for Casey so the three of us can take that trip to the cabin next weekend.”

“Christ that can’t come quickly enough.” Jack murmurs, his cheek coming to rest on Robby’s shoulder, his arm encircling his waist, giving him a squeeze. “I want nothing more than three uninterrupted days with the two of you, fucking in front of the fire, making smores, bathing in the lake…”

That’s Jack’s idea of paradise right now. The shifts you all work, it can make it hard sometimes to catch enough of that quality time together, but when it does happen, that shit is magical.

“I’m feeling it too.” Robby assures him. “It doesn’t feel like there’s been much time to connect recently and I miss…”

He trails off, busying himself with the coffee but Jack knows what he means. There’s a sense of completion when the three of you are in the same space together, it makes his world feel full, happy. It’s been lacking over the past couple of weeks because you’ve been floating between firehouses.

“Why don’t you come with me?” Jack murmurs, his fingers threading through Robby’s as he tugs him towards the bedroom. “Why don’t we wake her up together?”

Love Jack x Robby x Reader? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[pxpecxdy]

Just thinking about if Robby takes a viagra sometime in the last hour or so of work because you guys have Big Plans but something happens and he cannot take you right home and there’s a lot of teasing and sexual tension in another setting (that does not compromise patient care. Or we could suspend fictional reality and keep it at the hospital. I’m up for anything).

YES YES YES YES YES YESSSSSSSSSSSS

TRAFFIC JAM

I've been thinking about this ask since I got it and just haven't had time to write it. I've done something similar to this and/or encouraged Rue to write something like this so my apologies if it's repetitive.

It's been a long day for the two of you. Multi vehicle pile up on the expressway. Both of your shifts ended three hours ago but right as you thought you were free to leave another patient coded. Finally everyone is stable and admitted and the two of you can go home. You both need that stress release. Robby jokes and teases as you walk to his car together that he's already taken one of those little blue pills. The rush to get home is even greater now.

However, one thing neither of you thought of was the detours caused by that never ending mess on the expressway. Normally, it's only a fifteen minute drive from the hospital to your shared place. But everyone has been rerouted to the side streets that makes your commute reaching the forty minute mark with stand still traffic. Robby keeps shifting in the drivers seat. At first you think he's just annoyed with all the traffic. Then you notice he's rock hard underneath his cargos.

You can't help but smirk at the sight. Your hand slips from your lap into his. He groans at the contact over his pants. His eyes snap from the car ahead and over towards your face. If looks could kill, you'd be buried six feet under. Your fingers work to undo the buttons and his hands tighten on the wheel.

"Let me make it better." You hush as you lean over the center console. His eyes are darting back and forth at the cars around them.

"Fuck..." He grunts as your hand pulls out his throbbing cock and your lips press against the tip. Robby can feel your smile against his dick and it's unfair. You slide your tongue up and down the length of him. He watches as you take him fully into your mouth, wet lips parted around his girth. Traffic is the last thing on his mind.

A car honks and he tenses up, only to realize he needs to move up more and he does. You begin to bob your head up and down his length. Vibrations from your moans buzz through him. It's not often that he lets you blow him, not when he wants to make the pills last. One of his hands stays white knuckled on the steering wheel. His other hand covers most of your head. His eyes are moving everywhere. He looks to his left and the driver next to him is looking at him.

"Stay down." He shoves your head down all the way. You bite back a gag. You try to pull away but his hand is holding you down. "There's people looking. Be good to me and swallow it all." He whispers like the other car can hear him. You hum in response, not able to do much else. His hips shift. He's lifting them up to your mouth. He's fucking your face. It's not long before he's cursing and grunting and filling your throat with his seed.

[bunnyrights]

PAC reading - it won't be easy, but it'll be so worth it

hi lovelies <3 happy saturn day & summer/winter solstice! this felt like the right kind of reading for today's energy; a celebration of the midpoint of the season on a day ruled by saturn, like a metaphor for being half way through an arduous journey. what is requiring far more effort than you'd like that will surely be rewarded? and how can you keep faith through it? let's find out!

take a deep breath and ask yourself what group holds guidance for you. it's more than alright to be drawn to more than one as this is a general reading. if you'd like a more personalized one, take advantage of the $3 flash sale i have going on (⁠◠⁠ᴥ⁠◕⁠ʋ⁠)

group one

three of pentacles + king of wands + the moon + the magician

you're pursuing a creative project that doesn't seem to be progressing as quickly as you'd like, and it's revealing the insecurities you have about your capabilities. firstly, it's okay to doubt yourself, dwelling in it is what's harmful. you're being encouraged to work with other people, and don't cower from leading and being more direct; you genuinely are knowledgeable and skilled enough to do so. it makes sense to look to the lack of physical results as proof of your lack of experience, but there is so much value in things taking time. as trite as it sounds, great work isn't achieved without hard work, especially when it's done to last.

step into a more authoritative role; you are capable and your work is not in vain, so stop basing your progress on what you see or hear on social media. for someone here, stop comparing your efforts to trust fund kids. it's not that you're not manifesting hard enough or believing hard enough, those people literally have everything they need already and you don't.

group two

ten of cups + knight of pentacles + the emperor + eight of cups

you have been tasked with being the one to overcome the generational trauma that's a result of an overbearingly patriarchal lineage, and it feels like it's in vain because everyone and everything is challenging your efforts. what you're doing is bigger than you; you're unlearning beliefs that have kept the women in your family oppressed. this is not just for your own good, but for the relatives that will come after you. someone, and that's you, has to carve out the path for it to feel like a possibility.

it feels like thankless work, especially when you get shut down or punished for it, but it's so necessary. you are being supported by past loved ones who have the insight to see how these oppressive familial beliefs continue to impact how you and others carry yourself in the world. you are truly a trailblazer and it's not about being validated in this, because frankly you won't be, it's about learning that you deserve respect simply for existing too.

group three

judgment + seven of swords + justice + queen of pentacles

you are choosing to stand up for what is right and just, and it baffles you how much pushback you're getting for it. you are choosing to stick to moral integrity against rising fascism and bigotry, and it can feel threatening to your life at times. you are not in it for social reward, so it doesn't need to be said that you shouldn't expect it, but what you're doing is not in vain. you are standing up for the disenfranchised when it truly matters, and that's incredibly commendable.

now is not the time to back down, but do practice more self-care. not in the commercialized way, but as the radical act of defiance like audre lorde referred to it as. you cannot help anyone when you're burnt out and overwhelmed from how difficult things are, so please prioritize taking care of your basic needs – food, sleep, etc – to be able to sustain your efforts. safely find community with your local organizers to ensure you can speak to people who can reassure you that this fight is tedious but necessary.

[nanamisbbygirl]

—☆ friends with benefits!

chapter 3. sneaking around

paring: geto suguru x reader

genre: college au, drama, smut with plot

summary: a pact of pleasure between friends runs the risk of ruining everything. passionate flames burn the hardest. you and geto care about each other, but what happens when sex gets tangled with friendship?

cw: ft. choso, jealousy, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex + fingering, angst, toxic dynamics

prev. < masterlist > next

“Satoru wants to know if you wanna come out tonight?” Shoko quietly tells you while the two of you sit in the library. You look back between her and your computer screen, wondering if going out will be worth it. Midterms are around the corner, and reading week is approaching. That means a boat load of work all piling in at once. 

You shrug, you’re sure you’ll have time to get everything done eventually. “Yeah I’ll probably have most of this done by tonight anyways.” 

She hums and gets back to your friend before returning her attention to her own studies. 

Although, Shoko had failed to mention if Geto would be there, you hoped he would be. You wished you could just tell Shoko about it–how since that day in his shower, your little friends with benefits shenanigans were making you happier and hornier than ever. 

You’d been sneaking off together, letting him bend you in unthinkable positions. You’d lost count of the orgasms you’d had together. The way he’d cram his cock down your throat and paint your face with his cum. Or better yet, when you’d disappear at parties, just to find yourself in a bedroom, your legs spread and his face pussy deep in your juices. Maybe tonight would be one of those nights again, and your thighs pressed together just thinking about it. 

That was motivation alone to get your work done, envisioning what you were going to wear, hopefully something he would like. Although, before you could think so far ahead, you had to remind yourself that the whole point was to not get attached. You shouldn’t be thinking of trying to impress him. It would be in clear violation of your rules. 

So that night at the party, you dressed up– but not for him. You made that very clear to your subconscious. Your tiny skirt and low cut top were not for Geto, but simply just for the occasion of going out. In hindsight, though, you should have gone with an outfit that took into consideration the brisk fall weather. 

“Haha! Let’s take shots!” Shoko announced, holding three mini solo cups in her hand. She first gave one to Gojo, and then to you. You looked around, no sight of Geto. Gojo mentioned that they came together, and that the black haired boy was lingering somewhere. The night was still young, you shouldn't be fussing about his whereabouts. What was one shot to let loose? 

Downing the shot, the three of you laughed, in search of another one. The most famous last words, you realized, were ‘I’m just gonna have one drink.’ 

Your lips kept sipping throughout the night, and your heart beat started to mix with the bass of the speaker. The crowded rooms and hallways made your feet sway, finding yourself still looking for Geto. You hated to admit how horny the alcohol had made you, and all you could do was imagine his hands; their veins, the way they flexed, how sexy they were when they were rubbing your clit. Then, your mind wandered back to his dick; the girth, the way it pulsed inside of you, how deep it felt in your throat. 

That was when you spotted him. 

He was huddled in a corner, talking to other people, a beer in his hand. Your throat felt dry, but you still found some courage to speak to him– but why were you so nervous? Was it because the people around him were girls? Your spine shivered, whether that was from the anxiety or from the fact you were freezing, you didn’t know. 

“Hi Su!” You say, playfully tugging at the sweater he was wearing. Without thinking, you asked, “do you think I can borrow this? I’m cooold.” 

His head snapped back to look at you, he had an angry expression on. The one girl he was speaking with awkwardly smiled. 

“Oh- I didn’t realise you had a girlfriend,” she said, her friends giving him a disgusted look. You felt your face fluster with heat, a stark contrast to the chill you felt when you caught his gaze. 

“That’s because I don’t.” He grunted, scanning you up and down, “she’s just my friend.” 

The group of girls looked at you while you nodded, “yeah, we’re friends. But please Su I’m freezing my ass off!” 

“I don’t care. Go ask Satoru or something.” He shoos you away, trying to return to his conversation– or from what it seems, his little flirt session. 

“Fine.” You huff, walking away, heart stinging. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the pang of jealousy, but you wanted him to apologize. You didn’t want to find Gojo, or to borrow his sweater. You wanted Suguru. 

Your head was starting to feel dizzy, your body still cold. Gojo and Shoko had dispersed and were once again lost among the crowd. Everything was buzzing so loud, you could barely concentrate. That was until there was a gentle tap on your shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says, and it takes you a minute to recognize him. 

“Hey, Choso, right? We have Lit 112 together, with Dr. Hendrick?” He lets out a small yeah with a chuckle. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks and you shrug. 

“What’s it look like,” you smile at him, “enjoying the party– but it’s cold as hell in here.” You wrap your arms around yourself, looking away before feeling fabric against your bare shoulders. 

It’s his sweater, draping over you, protecting you from the cold of the room. Choso doesn’t seem flustered at all, standing back with a neutral look. “You wanna go talk somewhere? It’s so noisy.” 

You wanted to go with him, but before you could leave, you had to take a peek at Geto, to see if he was still with that girl. That’s when your heart dropped. Her friends had vanished, and it was just the two of them. Kissing. Geto’s hand was brushing against her neck, reaching towards her jaw. He was clearly into her, and that stung. 

“Okay, maybe we can go to a room upstairs?” you offer, tugging on his sweater properly. Even though he was distracted, you wanted to make him jealous, hoping that he would eventually notice that you had also found someone else to pleasure you. 

“Sounds good, let’s stop for a drink first.” And that’s what you do. Holding his hand, he leads you into the kitchen, the lifesource of the alcohol. 

“Anything in particular? I’m a pretty good bartender,” he says a little cockily. You only hum, requesting a vodka cran. “Aw no fun for me, but here you go, doll.” 

He hands you the drink before pouring the same thing for himself. Then, like your knight in shining armour he leads you upstairs. You have to crack open a few doors before finding one that’s actually free. Choso guides you to the bed, sitting down next to you, thigh-to-thigh. 

“Did you finish the paper for Henrick’s class?” He asks, chugging down his beverage. You nod, explaining how you had to cram it in at the last minute. “I’m just gonna accept the late penalty.” He laughs. 

“How are you finding the readings?” You ask, leaning towards him subconsciously. 

“Borning.” You giggle at his response. 

“Now can I ask you something off topic?” He, too, leaned into you. 

“Shoot.” 

“Did you come here with anyone?” 

“I mean, I came with my friends,” you swirl your cup, thinking of Geto. He was still your friend– and technically you didn’t come to the party with him. There was a growing heat in between your legs, and you wondered if Choso was picking up on it. 

“But not a boyfriend, right?” You shook your head at his question, making him grin. He lifted his arm, turning your head over to look at him with just his finger. His lips were close to yours, and you could feel your heart racing. Why did it feel so wrong to be enjoying the moment? It wasn’t like you were cheating, and it’s not like Geto would care. 

You decided to kiss Choso, to give into the desire that was a blaze within you. If Geto couldn’t satisfy you, why not look towards Choso? He seemed more than happy to help. Your kiss quickly turned into a sloppy make-out, his hands freely roaming your body, grabbing and groping. 

“God you look so cute in my sweater,” he whispered, before cracking another joke: “I’m gonna hate having to take it off.” 

With that, he removed it from you, before attacking your shirt. Without even realizing it, you were almost naked while the boy you were with was snatching your drink and putting it to the side while he was pushing you against the bed. 

His knee slipped between your thighs, crawling up towards your panties. Applying pressure, his face was hovering over yours, a smile gracing his lips before restarting your little makeout. 

You let out a small moan, letting his hands continue on their journey over your body. It’s blissful, really, except for the fact that you can’t stop thinking about Geto. He’s the only one I’ve done stuff like this with, you rationalize. It’s normal– I’m only thinking about him because I know it’s wrong, you speculate while trying to subdue the irrational thoughts. 

“Are you on the pill?” He grunts, meeting your eyes. 

You shake your head, and he sighs. 

“That’s okay, fingers it is,” he lightly laughs, and you too, smile, as his fingers meet your panties. 

He was about to push them to the side before the door opened. You didn’t get a good look, but Choso’s head turned towards the door. 

“Uh, we’re kinda busy here.” He said, and you closed your legs, trying to get a peek over his body. It wasn’t an unusual thing to happen, you and him must’ve walked in on three different couples when you were trying to find a room. 

“Sorry, man.” The voice said– his voice. You propped your body up, seeing Geto standing there, the other girl behind him, looking at the two of you shyly. 

His eyes met yours, and you tried to gulp down the lump in your throat. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, his expression blank, vision teetering between you and Choso. You watched as he gripped the door knob tighter, and it felt as though you were in a stand-off for hours instead of seconds. You hoped that this would be reason enough to make him jealous, to make him feel the way you did when he was making out with that other girl. 

That’s when his expression darkened, and before you could think straight, he had grabbed Choso, prying him off you. “Get away from her, dude.” You heard Geto say between grit teeth. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Choso snaps. 

“I thought you said that chick wasn’t your girlfriend?” The other girl chimes in. 

“She’s not. She’s my friend, why the fuck are you trying to take advantage of her, huh?” He holds Choso up by the collar of his shirt, staring him down like he’s prey. 

You scramble to get to your feet, screaming back at Geto in the process, “he’s not fucking taking advantage of me you stupid idiot.” You try to push Geto away but his stance is firm. 

“Yeah right,” he scoffs, “you think this asshole doesn’t know you’re drunk? For fucks sake, I can smell it on you.” 

Geto’s eyes pierce into your heart as he finally drops Choso from his gasp. The boy you were with curses him, “whatever it’s not worth the trouble– I’ll see you in class, y/n.” 

“Like hell you will!” Geto shouts at him as he leaves. By then the girl he’s been stringing alone had vanished, probably fed up with the behaviour. Choso slams the door, leaving you and Geto alone. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You try to push him but he doesn’t budge. 

“What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” He took a step closer, sizing you up. “You’re just so desperate you’re running around with guys you just met?” 

“Oh look who's talking?” You could feel your face twisting into an angered expression, “you literally were on your way to hook up with that girl! You’re really gonna lecture me on sleeping around?” 

“You know it’s different– you’re drunk. I was just trying to look out for you, but clearly you think you know everything.” His eyes narrowed, “you were trying to get my attention earlier, just like you’re trying to do now. So go on, you got it.” 

“I can’t believe you.” You huff, turning around, trying to collect your shirt. Before you could put it back on, you continued: “first of all, you know for a fact I’m not drunk. You just don’t want me to sleep with anyone who isn’t you.” 

“Oh please,” he scoffed, “don’t be so pathetic. I could care less.” 

“Oh yeah? It doesn’t seem like it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so worked up.” 

“Don’t be so full of yourself.” He rolled his arms, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” You made your way to the door, but his large frame stopped you. 

“And you’re such a brat,” he continued to argue, his sly face looking down at you, a particular darkness shining in his eyes. 

Your breath slowed down. You were angry at him. It was obvious. But with the way he was staring down at you, it was easy to forget the whole point to this whole argument. He was close to you, closer than he should’ve been, and you felt helpless to what happened next. 

Geto kissed you, smashing his lips onto yours, cradling your head in his hands. You could feel the anger that was emanating off his own body, and the frustration that seemed to be pent up inside of him. It was difficult to pull away from him, not because you didn’t like the kiss, but because of the hold that he had over you. 

“I thought you didn’t care,” you breathed out again, only causing Geto to hold you harder. 

“I don’t.” He grunted, but that didn’t stop him from tracing over your body with his large hands, spinning you around so that your back was pressed against his chest. He rubbed your tits, face in the crook of your neck. “You’re just really pissing me off.” 

“Oh and that turns you on?” For a second, you forgot what you were mad about, feeling a surge of pleasure rushing through your veins. Although, his skillful lips were not enough to make you completely stupid to his previous actions. 

You wiggled free, turning around to face him. “What? You think some kisses will distract me from what you just did. You're literally a dickhead. I don’t even know how we’re friends.” 

“We can stop, if you want.” He hissed, his ego slightly bruised from your rejection. His voice was lined with poison, his words cutting you like a blade. 

“Perfect. Sounds good to me!” You reacted, trying not to sound upset with what you said. You wanted to hurt him back, to make him miserable like what he had just put you through. 

That’s all it took before you stormed out of the room, pushing through the people lingering in the halls. You made a swift exit, not bothering to tell Gojo or Shoko about where you were going. 

You didn’t want to talk to anyone, you wanted to hold a strong front and you knew the minute your roommate asked you what happened, you would break down and confess everything. It was embarrassing. Pathetic. Desperate. You couldn’t be bothered with it. 

The pounding of your heart made you deaf to the world around you. Everything was ringing in your ear. A mixture of rage and melancholy sat in your stomach and as you reached your room you didn’t bother to change, nor to take off your make up. 

You and Geto were done. Not friends with benefits. Not even friends. Fuck. It was the one thing you didn’t want. It was the only part of the deal that needed to stay in tack. The future became more uncertain, but you figured that at least you’d be able to go home over the reading week, and hopefully have a good enough excuse to ignore everyone. 

You could lie your way out of it for a little bit, but the precarious nature of your relationship had already been hanging by a threat. And now that the thread had snapped, the only thing you could do was cry yourself to sleep. 

taglist: [open]@bunnygorex @iwas-baby @coffee-and-geto @i2s2m @zeunys @murasakiyams @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @izluvsyou @goonforgeto @multistan-247 @chosoclub @idyllicsam @0tsukie @suckkuna @loverzxi @lilbxtchsyndrome @blombat @ll0rona @astrokenny @izluvsyou @saint-boudica @cutehobii @shadyd3ar

© all work belongs to nanamisbbygirl on tumblr, please do not plagiarize, repost or translate anywhere

[chrisfawns]

𝜗ৎ i'm still your boy

pairing: matt sturniolo x reader

ᯓ★ in which matt reminds you that no matter what, he'll always be your boy 🌀 part of my writing marathon!

warnings: smut, post break up sex, mentions of drugs and alcohol, oral (f receiving), anger issues

wc: 1k

matt sighed, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. he’d been sitting in your driveway for the past ten minutes, but he hadn’t been able to work up the courage to go up and knock on your door. he looked around at your yard, the yard he’d once shared with you. the green picket fence had faded and slightly sunken in since the last time he’d been here at the beginning of the summer, but your flower garden remained as pristine as it always had. 

he wished that he could rewind three years to when you’d first started dating, even if he knew how it would inevitably end. maybe you two could’ve stayed friends if he would’ve just gotten it right, or maybe he would’ve made moving to orlando, florida happen like you had always dreamed about. 

before he had the chance to think anymore, your front door opened and there you were, glaring at him. matt knew that he had torn you apart. he’d put you through hell and back, trying to find himself, but even now, you still looked as beautiful as the day he’d met you. 

“baby, hi, i…” matt breathed, stepping out of the car. “i missed you.”

“what do you want, matt?” you said curtly. 

“i came to see you.”

“so now you want to come back?” you asked. “it’s been three months with no word from you and you think you can just show up, say you missed me, and everything will be okay again?”

“no,” matt started, but he didn’t know what else to say. “i just…missed you. that’s all. wanted to see how you’re doing.”

you fanned your face, the august heat and matt’s excuses making you feel irritated. “you can come inside and we can talk, but only because it’s hot out here.”

the brunette breathed a sigh of relief; at least you were giving him this chance. as you led him into your once shared house, matt realized that there were still pieces and memories of him littered throughout the space. a picture he had taken of you at disneyland on the mantle, a mug from a shared set you two had had on the kitchen counter, the mat he had picked out by the back door. 

“i don’t understand why you came back,” you said, leaning against the counter. “you’ve obviously been fine for three months.” you stated, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“i haven’t been fine,” matt argued back, running a hand through his hair. “goddamn it, baby. i think about you every fuckin’ hour of every fuckin’ day.”

despite your best attempts at avoiding it, the butterflies in your tummy took flight at those words. still though, you knew words meant nothing, especially after all of matt’s actions. you definitely weren’t a stranger to what had gone on in his life post-breakup, either. being a famous youtuber, you had seen the photos of him nearly every weekend, snorting lines of coke followed by shots of tequila. 

“matt, i can’t do this,” you tried to keep your voice steady, but even you heard the crack. “everything was fine until…y’know.” you gestured to the hole in the wall that was shaped like matt’s fist, the one you’d yet to fix. 

even matt knew that that had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. he’d let his anger get the best of him in some stupid argument, and now here he was, heartbroken over what could’ve been. 

“please,” he practically begged. “let me show that i’m sorry, baby. let me show you that i’m still your boy.”

“matt–” you started, but before you could speak again, he had pulled your body against his own, trailing soft kisses along your neck. 

“i can’t be without you, my love.” matt mumbled, sucking on the sweet spot behind your ear. 

“oh…” you breathed, tangling your fingers in matt’s curls. every part of you was screaming at you to stop before you got too far in, but you just couldn’t. you had always been wrapped around his fingers. 

“gonna show you how sorry i am, pretty girl,” he hummed, pinning you against the countertops. “you like that, yeah?”

you nodded quickly, matt’s name rolling off your tongue effortlessly like it always had. matt sunk to his knees, looking up at you with those blue, pleading eyes that you had missed so much. you nodded, and your now ex draped your legs over his shoulders, smirking as he slid your sundress up to reveal your soaking, lace panties.

he effortlessly slid them down your legs with his teeth, putting your glistening cunt on full display. legs still draped over his shoulders, matt kitten-licked your folds, moaning into your pussy as he tasted that sweetness that he had missed oh-so-much. 

“taste so good, baby.” he purred. 

you whimpered at the sensation of matt’s tongue flicking dizzying rhythms over your clit. as mad as you wanted to be, you couldn’t think of anything else besides how much you had missed the feeling of matt devouring your cunt like it was the last meal on earth. 

his rings bore into your thighs as he thrust his tongue in and out of you, feeling your pretty pink walls clenching around him. every so often, matt would look at you, eyes big, blue, and pussy drunk, and that would only make you moan louder, bucking your hips against his face as you tangled your hands in his hair. 

“matt…” you whined. “gonna c-cum.”

“gotta say it first, baby. say i’m still yours.” matt murmured into your pussy.

“still mine…oh god.” you moaned. “you’ll always be mine, matt.”

you couldn’t hold it any longer. as soon as matt gave you permission, you were cumming hard, releasing the months of built up tension you’d had since matt left. your legs were shaking as matt pulled you close to him and kissed you. you didn’t know if you were making the right choice right now, but what you did know was that even now, matt was still your boy.

© chrisfawns

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡: first part of my writing marathon is here! i hope you all love it as much as i do 🤭 writing marathon inspired by @delilahsturniolo

tags ⋆. 𐙚 ̊: @mattslilies @backwardshatnick

if you'd like to be added to my taglist, inbox me/dm me/comment!!

[laceyhearts]

౨ৎ WHITE GIRL MUSIC ; QUINN HUGHES !

➪ summary: y/n arrives home to her boyfriend and his brothers doing something unexpected

➪ pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader, jack hughes x platonic!reader, luke hughes x platonic!reader

➪ warnings: none, not proofread per usual

➪ word count: 0.6k

➪ emma's notes: uhhhh idk why i wanted to edit this, i truly have no notes. but yes, i did listen to my white girl music playlist while editing this.

© laceyhearts ; do not copy, repost, translate, or put my work through ai generators. do not copy or remake my themes, graphics, or layouts.

The day had been long; it was one of those days where tasks seemed to prolong, people asked too many questions, and with breaks shorter than she was. She could feel the weight of the past 9 hours weighing down on her as she walked up the steps and down the hallway to her and Quinn’s apartment, a dull ache forming behind her eyes. 

Her bag slipped off her shoulder when she reached the door, eyes narrowing on the muddy footprints on the welcome mat. She wasn’t expecting company, the season had ended leaving Quinn free as she tied up a few loose ends at work, which meant her night would be filled with homemade pizzas, cuddles, and watching a crappy reality tv show, that’s the way it always was. 

She stuck her key in the lock, turning it and pushing the door open, pausing when she heard the familiar rhythm of a Selena Gomez song paired with three distinctive male voices. Maybe she was delirious, maybe the music was coming from across the hall or next door.

Y/n shook her head, walking further into the apartment, kicking her shoes off quietly. As she went, the music only got louder, and soon she was met with the sight of her boyfriend and his two brothers, dancing and singing in the living room. 

“I, I love you like a love song baby and I keep hitting repeat-peat-peat-peat-peat-peat”

She leaned against the wall, her lips turned up in a smirk, her arms crossed, looking like a mom watching her kids get along for the first time in ages. She watched Jack jump on the couch, holding a spatula that she was sure she hadn’t seen in months, since she moved in. 

Luke stood on a bean bag, one that she had bought one day when Quinn was gone, and she had spent too much time on Pinterest, his white socks standing out against the navy blue fabric. Quinn was just off to the side, not as hyper as his younger brothers, but he still sang along, nodding his head to the beat while he scrolled on his phone, a wide smile on his face.

“Hi, boys.”

The three froze, exchanging looks with one another before turning, seeing her standing there, laughing uncontrollably. Their faces flushed a deep red, Jack slowly lowering his arm, hiding the spatula behind his back, acting as if the past 3 minutes that she was in the apartment weren’t long enough for her to notice it. 

Luke hesitantly spoke, his voice filled with embarrassment, “Hi y/n.”

Her boyfriend stayed silent, walking over to her, his steps cautious. Never in a million years did Quinn think he’d be singing pop music in his apartment with his two younger brothers, much less getting caught by the girl he loves while doing it. 

When he reached her, his hands found their home on her hips, letting her rise to her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I come home from an exhausting day at work to find you and your brothers listening to Selena Gomez in my living room?”

They didn’t say anything, just shifted their weight from foot to foot, looking everywhere but at her. She narrowed her eyes as he glanced at the middle brother, frowning, “And Jack Rowden Hughes, if you do not get off my couch in the next five seconds-”

He didn’t let her finish her sentence, jumping off the couch, landing on his feet with a heavy thud that caused her and Quinn to cringe, “Sorry.”

“What are you two even doing here? I thought you didn’t get in until this weekend.”

The two just looked at her and gave her a fake smile. “We missed Quinn?”

“Mhm, okay. Well, I for one am exhausted, and I will be going into the bedroom. But you three are more than okay to continue listening to your white girl playlist and singing your hearts out.”

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[thepartyresponsible]

prompt fill! i got two requests for clint barton and the prompt "i did good, right?" but one of them asked for clint and frank, so here's a short fic about frank castle and clint barton meeting in a war zone.

warnings for some references to torture, but nothing too graphic.

---

Frank doesn’t work with SHIELD often, but their paths cross occasionally. Often enough, anyway, that Frank learns SHIELD controls access to the best sniper alive.

Sometimes, when they’re lucky, Cerberus gets to secure that sniper’s nests. They don’t get as many chances as Frank would like, but his team knows their hunting grounds better than anyone else, so they get exactly four opportunities to watch the sniper work.

Frank’s on three missions with the guy before he ever sees his face, and it’s a shock, finally, when he matches those beautiful shots to the friendly blonde mess of him, all those lanky limbs and scattershot freckles and lingering Midwestern vowels.

“Your fucking aim,” Frank tells him, because Russo’s been charming him for fifteen minutes, but all Frank can think about are the angles, and the drop, and the unholy gift of this guy’s brain, the precise calculations he runs, his unbelievable capacity for multitracking variables. 

“You should see me with a bow,” the guy says, cheerful and goofy-grinning, and Frank thinks, sure, he’d like to.

But the next time Frank sees him, he’s a body dropping onto the metal floor of a quinjet. A bloody sack of bruised meat half out of uniform, white t-shirt soaked in blood and dragged through dirt, skin ripped beneath it. One eye swollen shut, throat ringed in lapping lines of red and purple.

It’s a waste. Best mind of a generation, best aim of the century.

Frank’s processing the loss of it, grieving all those pristine killshots, and then the sniper breathes in hard and chokes on it, and Frank realizes Jesus, that body’s still alive.

“Rumlow,” the suit says, rolling his eyes, “for fuck’s sake.”

“You fucking carry him,” Rumlow snaps back, wiping his stained hands on his shirt. “He’s been an asshole the whole way.”

The suit crouches down and checks vitals. Pulse and pupils, airway. “Barton,” he says, thumbing open the sniper’s good eye. “Barton,” he says, louder, “you with us? Hey. Barton!”

“Fucking,” Barton says, and then, “Sitwell. Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, “you here?”

Barton licks his busted lips. His eye is open but unfocused, rolling. “Yeah,” he says. “Here.”

“He’s high as shit,” Rumlow reports. “I didn’t see anything broken. Got some bruises.”

“They had him for seventeen hours,” Sitwell says. “Of course there are bruises. What else? We need to document anything Coulson’s going to be sensitive about.”

“He’s fine,” Rumlow says. Sounds petulant. “Didn’t lose any fingers. He’s still got his eyes.”

Beside him, Billy’s completely still. If he thinks they shouldn’t interrupt, he’s probably right. But Frank’s struggling with the fact that the asset reclamation mission he was briefed on was actually a rescue.

“Can we go?” Rumlow asks. “We lost a whole day to this shit.”

Sitwell rises to his feet. He’s in charge here, apparently. Frank’s not impressed with his leadership. “If you’d kept a better eye on him---”

Rumlow throws his hands up. “Not my fucking job. I did my job. He got grabbed. That’s his shit.”

“I’m sure Coulson will be very reassured to hear that,” Sitwell says. “And very willing, naturally, to lend his agent out in the future.”

“So get us our own sniper, and we won’t have to deal with this shit again.”

This shit is still semi-conscious on the floor. He flinches when Sitwell steps past him, whacks his head against a metal post.

“Jesus,” Rumlow says, “this guy.”

He reaches down, fists his hand in what’s left of the sniper’s shirt, and drags him to the center aisle. Frank studies the smear of blood on metal, thinks, if this were his team, he’d throw Rumlow to the ground instead. Or maybe out of the back of the plane.

“He should be secured,” Frank says.

“Yeah, that was kinda the whole fucking problem,” Rumlow replies. “He never fucking stays where you put him.”

There were never any issues on the missions Frank ran. But there usually aren’t.

“For takeoff,” Frank clarifies. “So you don’t concuss the guy we just raided a compound for.”

Rumlow shrugs. “He’s already concussed.”

Billy breathes in. He shifts, just a little, leans his shoulder into Frank. It’s a warning, probably, but Frank doesn’t listen.

“You know anything about second impact syndrome?” he asks.

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Christ.”

“You want a demonstration?” Frank says.

“Who the fuck are you?” Rumlow asks. “Some loaner boots we picked up? Look, asshole---”

“Secure your fucking sniper,” Frank says.

“Or fucking what?”

“Gentlemen,” Sitwell says, leaning back from the cockpit to glare at them.

“Who is this fucking guy?” Rumlow asks, gesturing toward Frank in a way that makes Frank want to break every single one of his fingers. And then possibly his neck.

Sitwell looks at Frank, looks at Billy, and then looks back to Rumlow. “Looks like the guy who’s about to give you two weeks of medical leave, Rumlow. I don’t know who they are. Coulson requisitioned them personally, though, so you can put those puzzle pieces together yourself.”

Frank doesn’t know who Coulson is, but he’s the only name that seems to give Rumlow any kind of pause. When he looks back toward Frank, that name weighs on him enough that he opts not to engage further.

“This shithead missed evac,” Rumlow says, “and ruined my whole Goddamn weekend. So if you wanna fuss over him, feel free. But I’m done babysitting.”

He turns his back, and Frank thinks about punching in him the head. But Rumlow has more men on this plane than he does, and Frank’s not here to fix SHIELD’s fuckups for them.

“C’mon,” he says, instead, as he crouches down next to the sniper, “let’s get you up.”

Seventeen hours, Frank thinks, and this guy’s wearing every single one of those hours on his skin. Someone beat the absolute shit out of him.

“Oh, hey,” the sniper says, squinting up at him and Billy with his good eye. “The hot Marines are here. Nice.”

Frank glances up at Billy, who just shrugs, like, Fuck off, Frank, you know who we are.

“Yeah,” Frank says, because he might as well. “Let’s get you ready for takeoff, huh?”

The sniper hums. “Hell yeah, this place sucks.”

It takes some careful maneuvering, and some help from Billy, but they get him upright and slumped between them, buckled enough to hold.

He wheezes when he breathes. He shakes a little, sometimes, from the cold or the comedown or both. He gets less and less vertical until his head is fully on Frank’s shoulder, both eyes closed, swaying.

Twenty minutes into the flight, his fingers twitch and then tighten against Frank’s hip, and he says, quiet enough that probably nobody but Billy hears, “That fucking sucked.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, and then, “sure.”

Because yeah, sure. Looks like it really, really did.

“I did okay though, right?” he asks, murmuring it into Frank’s neck, frayed out and bloodied and still dazed by whatever they gave him. “I did good?”

“Sure,” Frank says, and he thinks maybe he’s going to fight Rumlow after all. Maybe, after they land, after they get this sniper to someone who knows enough to care about him, Frank’s gonna drag Rumlow from one side of the runway to the other until his arms get tired. “You did, yeah.”

[woradat]

just wonder.. will you write for rodimus? 🥺 I mean, that jump-to-your-soul pic of him have to mean something right??

also do you take any req?

Done with your ex

SUMMARY – just an ego through the roof captain and his ex on the same ship, long trip together

PAIRING – rodimus x reader

NOTE – you take a hint huh. What are you, a government spy? I'm already working on him for a while now. And yes, I do a requests. You can see the rules/details in the pinned post. I just added+edit about few day ago

The loading ramp of the Lost Light hissed open like the universe itself was trying to be dramatic

Rodimus barely glanced up. He was in the middle of arguing with Swerve about whether installing retractable flame decals on the hull would count as 'atmospheric augmentation" or just "unnecessary and definitely going to kill us"

Then he saw movement out of the corner of his optic—and everything in his CPU short-circuited

There you were

Striding up the ramp like you owned it. Like you hadn’t ghosted out of his life with nothing but a pointed sentence and that half-smile that always meant checkmate. Like you hadn’t once told him—flatly, and with clinical precision—that loving him felt like "trying to put a fire out with gasoline"

And dammit if you didn’t look exactly the same. Polished. Poised. Primed for war and polite company. Elegant as ever. Calm as a sunset before a Category Five energon storm

You weren’t flash, never were—but you had that aura. That smooth, coiled presence like a vibroblade sheathed in silk. Oh the look—that faint, unreadable smile like you knew something he didn’t and were gracious enough to let him flounder in ignorance. That same neutral expression you used when pretending not to judge the tactical decisions of people clearly beneath your IQ range. That same stride that said “I’ve already calculated the probability of this going sideways and I brought snacks"

Rodimus froze, his spark dropped so hard it might’ve left a dent in his internals ‘No. Nope. Absolutely not!’

It couldn’t be you

Except, of course, it was. Because the universe loved poetic suffering and apparently it was his turn to monologue through one. He stared. You stared back. Unbothered. Professional. Radiating the exact same emotional energy as someone walking past their ex at a high-society gala—with better posture and zero regrets

Rodimus blinked so hard his optic lens recalibrates “What— what are you doing here?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just turned to him with a look that was one part serene and two parts smug, tilted your helm slightly. That little angle that always meant “I heard that. I’m just choosing violence later” Your voice, when it came, was like silk over sharpened steel

“Captain. How lovely to see you again”

“You’ve got to be—this is—no. Nope. Absolutely not”

Ultra Magnus appeared like a summoned ghost behind you, arms crossed, expression stiffer than a rusted gear “As I explained in my three prior reports, they’ve been appointed to the crew as strategic analyst”

Rodimus blinked "Three reports?"

“High-level pattern recognition. Crisis forecasting, multi-factional battle simulations, inter-faction negotiation” Magnus went on, tone flatter than the C.I.C. floor “They’ve been correct approximately 91.3% of the time. Statistically, that qualifies them as one of the best. They will be a valuable addition”

You gave a modest nod. Like someone who totally didn’t memorize those numbers already “Besides” you added smoothly

“I’m here for work. Nothing more. You can unclench now, Captain”

Rodimus looked like someone had just served him a steaming mug of his own poor life choices “Right. Work. Of course. Just work. Nothing else weird about this at all. Nope. Totally chill"

You stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that your electromagnetic field skimmed his. Cool, clean, unreadable. Like an encrypted data packet wrapped in charm and sarcasm

“You always did have trouble being chill” you murmured “Still trying to solve everything by flying straight into it?”

“But don’t worry, captain. I’m not here to relive the past”

Rodimus sputtered. Behind him, Swerve audibly choked on a laugh “Oh, Primus, it is the ex. The one who called him ‘reckless with delusions of grandeur' I thought that was a metaphor”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. Just tilted your helm, optics flicked to him—neutral. But your smirk said “I win”

And with that, you turned and start walking down the hall—measured, composed, calculating—like a battlefield was unfolding beneath your pedes and you’d already chosen where all the pieces would fall – Rodimus stared after you like he’d just watched his worst mistake reappear in haute couture and get a standing ovation, as if to twist the energon dagger in his spark just a little further, you said—without turning back

“And for the record… I liked you better before you started trying to be respectable

Rodimus stood frozen, expression somewhere between awe, horror, and very mild arousal

“This is fine” he said out loud “This is great.. This is the best worst day I’ve ever had”

“Wanna talk about it?” Swerve offered

“Wanna be spaced through an airlock?”

“You’ve been out here for twenty minutes” Drift said, suddenly beside him. Rodimus jumped like he’d been caught digging through a black ops file “I’m not spying..!” “Sure” Drift glanced pointedly at the window “Just… monitoring morale with your face pressed against the glass?” Rodimus shoved a blank datapad into his hands "I’m checking their reassignment logs! That’s normal. Curiosity is normal” "You could just ask” “I can’t just ask! What if they think I still care?” “Rodimus, you’re literally stalking them through a wall" Rodimus made a noise somewhere between static and a dying turbo-ratchet “Okay, fine. Then you ask”

“Me?” “Yeah. You’ve got that wise monk aura. People think your invasive questions are… philosophical" Drift gave him a look so dry it might’ve been illegal in five star systems “If they throw something at me” he said, turning to leave “I’m blaming you”

Rodimus was not asking

He was simply conducting a targeted data acquisition exercise. Command-level intel. Tactical morale assessment. Strategic background audit on one of his newest officers. Perfectly normal captain things. Not weird. Not personal. Absolutely not fueled by the gnawing ache of unresolved emotional abandonment

“So” he began, too casually, sidling up to the corner of Swerve’s bar where Drift was trying to enjoy a moment of monk-like silence and absolutely not entertain any of Rodimus’s mid-spark crises “hypothetically—if someone used to date someone, and that someone got assigned to their ship without, say, any warning whatsoever, that would be… strange, right?”

“Strange. Uncomfortable. Emotionally volatile” Drift didn’t even look up from his cup “So yes. Very you”

Rodimus scoffed. Loudly. Overcompensating “This isn’t about me”

“Of course not” Drift said blandly “We’re speaking in totally neutral hypotheticals about your insanely sharp, tactically brilliant, emotionally impenetrable ex who now occupies a front-row seat in every strategy meeting like an elegantly silent death sentence”

Rodimus’s scowl could have curdled energon “They’re not that elegant”

“They once ended a meeting by folding a datachip in half. With one hand. While smiling”

Rodimus muttered something under his breath about “intimidation tactics” and “showoffs”. Drift, clearly bored of the deflection game, pulled up a datapad with a flick of the wrist—graceful, like a librarian about to ruin your life “Alright. Let’s see what your not at all relevant ex has been up to post-breakup…”

Rodimus leaned in. But not like he cared. More like he was... intellectually engaged. Professionally intrigued. Possibly a little nauseous

“They worked under Prowl"

“PROWL?! You mean—rules incarnate? Mister ‘Let’s Commit War Crimes But Quietly’ !?”

“The one and only” Drift confirmed smoothly “High-level strategy corps. Joint command ops. Dozens of successful missions. Commendations for tactical elegance, command precision—”

“Okay, okay, you can stop reading their résumé, this isn’t a talent show” Rodimus began to pace, movements sharp and erratic like a hovercraft trying to salsa “They worked with me and said I was reckless, but then they go partner up with Prowl? That sentient flowchart? Seriously?”

Drift was already sipping again “Maybe they like the quiet, measured type now. The kind who doesn’t detonate their own escape pod just to spell ‘hello’ in midair”

“That happened one time”

“And it was somehow still in the mission report”

Rodimus groaned into his hands. He imagined you and Prowl standing next to each other, talking shop, making flawless tactical adjustments while not even blinking at each other — It was horrible. It was clinical. It was worse than anything he could’ve imagined

“What else?” he asked, in the voice of someone about to regret every answer

Drift’s optics flicked “They turned down a permanent command position. Said they wanted a ‘change of pace' ”

“—So… they chose this ship. My ship”

“Seems that way”

“Knowing I was the captain”

“Still seems that way”

Rodimus blinked. Then frowned. Then blinked again, slower. Like it would change the data “So what you’re telling me is: either they’ve secretly forgiven me and came to rekindle the flame—”

“Highly unlikely”

“—or they came here to watch me fail up close, with popcorn in hand and a tactical spreadsheet”

“That one sounds more plausible”

Rodimus placed both hands dramatically on the bartop and huffed. Dramatically. Theatrically. The only way he could before he declared, straightening up “I’m fine.. I’m a professional. This is my ship. I am not threatened by my ex working with a glorified calculator"

...

..

“…Do you think they ever kissed?”

“Please go to therapy”

—

The outpost was still burning behind you

Fires licked at twisted steel frames and shattered windowpanes, the heat rippling off slagged ground like a second atmosphere. The smoke stung your optics, even with the filters on, but you didn’t blink. Hot Rod stood a few paces away, armor scorched and mouth set in that stubborn line that always came right before he said something reckless. You didn’t give him the chance

“What were you thinking?” Your voice was level. Too level. The kind of calm that meant someone was furious. Hot Rod flinched. Not visibly—but you knew the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker in his EM field when he was caught “I saved them”

He said “I had to”

“You disobeyed a coordinated strategy, blew through our cover, and almost got yourself killed—again”

He looked at you now. Really looked. Heat still clung to him like a second skin, optics burning, frame vibrating with leftover adrenaline. And somewhere underneath all that fire was a flicker of… confusion. As if he still didn’t understand why you weren’t proud of him

“But it worked”

“That’s not the point”

You turned to face him fully, field tightening, anger settling into your shoulders like weight “You’re not a one-mech army, Hot Rod. You’re not invincible. You can’t keep throwing yourself into every explosion and expecting everyone else to clean up after you”

He stepped forward, hands half-raised “I did it to protect other”

“No. You did it because you wanted to be seen protecting other”

There it was. The silence after a sharp cut. His optics widened, and for a moment you saw it, that bare, wounded flicker of a spark hit too close to the truth. But he covered it with bravado—because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did “So that’s it? You think I’m just some attention seeking show off?”

“I think you’re brave. I think you’re passionate. I think you’ll make a great hero one day–”

“..But I also think you’ll never learn how to lead, if you can’t learn how to listen” That hit deeper than the last shot he’d taken in the field

He turned away, jaw locked, fists clenched “So what, then?” he said, voice tight

“You’re walking away? Just like that?”

You hesitated—but only for a moment “I don’t want to. But I can’t spend my life patching up the aftermath of every decision you make on impulse –You always dive first and ask questions later. And I.. I want to build something that lasts. Not chase something that burns” you admitted softly

The silence between you was long and cruel —without another word—you stepped back. Hot Rod didn’t stop you. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what hurt the most

After the breakup with Hot Rod, you took a high-ranking strategic position under Prowl—not romantically, but deeply professionally and intellectually tense

Prowl respected your mindset but hated your moral flexibility and tendency to “go rogue if the math is prettier that way” You – in turn, found Prowl’s rigid morality fascinating and enjoyed poking holes in his logic — Their relationship was legendary among staff—half strategy meetings, half philosophy battles. You both made an unstoppable duo on paper. But behind closed doors?

“That is not regulation protocol”

“Neither is surviving half the war. I’ll take my odds”

Eventually, you left when the war ended, saying something like: “If I stay any longer, I’ll either become you or throw you out an airlock. Neither’s ideal”

The medbay lights flickered once before steadying again. Outside, the sky over the outpost glowed red with the aftermath of an explosion. You stood at the outside, arms crossed, helm tilted just enough to convey “I’m not mad, but I’m seconds away from strangling you with my own field”

The door hissed open with a battered flair, and there he was—Hot Rod in all his half-scorched, grinning, chaos-stained glory. One arm was covered in carbon scoring. His left shoulder was leaking a thin trickle of energon. There was what looked like a thruster casing lodged in his hip plate

And he was still smiling. Of course he was

“You should’ve seen it” Hot Rod said, voice bouncing with adrenaline “I looped around the ridge, came in low—boom! Took out the flank in one go. Didn’t even need backup”

You didn’t look up from your datapad “You told me you’d follow the plan”

“Technically, I did. For the first ten seconds”

“And after that?”

“...It got boring?”

You set the datapad down. Slowly

Hot Rod’s grin twitched “It worked, didn’t it?” he said, stepping closer “Mission success. I’m standing. The ridge is rubble. Everyone’s cheering”

“You nearly didn’t come back”

You stared at him—really stared. All that molten gold, still burning in his optics. His armor still warm from the blast. That stupid, crooked grin he wore like a shield

“You know I hate improvising. Not because it’s reckless. But because it’s you. You gamble like your life isn’t worth anything”

“Hey, come on—”

“Rod”

That landed. His grin faltered for real now

“I’m serious. Every time you run off-script, it’s like you’re testing fate. And I’m the one stuck writing the damage report” You stepped closer, thumb brushing a burn mark near his jaw. The scorch made your spark ache a little. He leaned into your touch without thinking. Like a reflex. Like your hand on his face was the only real thing in the place

“One of these days” you murmured “you’ll pull that stunt and I won’t be there to drag your aft out”

“That’s not true” he said softly

“No?”

“You’d come back for me. Always”

You wanted to argue. But you couldn’t. Not really. Because even now—even furious, even worn out—you were here. And when he leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth his head dipped low down to your jaw, kissing soft like apology, you let him. His hands found your waist. Familiar. Easy. A rhythm you both still remembered

“You love it when I push my luck” he said into your helm

“I love you, Roddy. That doesn’t mean I love watching you destroy yourself”

That hit harder than a mine to the chest. He didn’t pull away. Just held you tighter. You sighed, pressing your faceplate against his shoulder. He still smelled faintly like ozone and energon. Still radiated that wild, sun-hot energy that made you both love and fear him

“Next time” you said into the space between you “you disobey a field order, I’m duct-taping you to Ultra Magnus”

“...Kinky”

You laughed. Just a little. Couldn’t help it “Don’t make me regret loving you”

There was a long silence. No snappy comeback. No flirt. Just a stillness that made your spark ache. His arms tightened around you and for one fleeting, fragile moment—you let yourself believe this would last

—

You are alone in the quiet of the hallway. Staring at the window, the stars wheeling slowly past beyond the glass. It wasn't dramatic solitude—you weren't hiding. Just… decompressing. That was all. Your optics drifted to your own reflection—faint, transparent, caught in the black

And for some damn reason, his voice echoed there instead

“You'd come back for me. Always"

Primus

You let your head fall back with a soft thunk against the reinforced wall. He wasn't wrong

You had come back. Not for him—never that, never openly. But… well. You hadn't exactly gone out of your way to avoid the Lost Light, either. And when Magnus had offered the post? You could've said no. You didn't and now here you were. Sharing meetings. Sharing air. Sharing old ghosts

Your fingers tapped against your datapad in a slow, guilty rhythm

“Stupid charming idiot with fire in his optics and no sense of self-preservation” you muttered under your breath. You knew that smile he gave you in the last meeting. Knew it like a habit you never quite kicked and the worst part? That stupid little ember in your spark still glowed when he looked your way

“Okay. Fine. He was right” You let out a small, strangled sound through your vents

Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Just the noise of someone on the edge of "Why am I like this?" and "I could still jump out the airlock and make it look like strategy” You pressed your head lightly against the cool surface of the wall. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the metal and imagine it was hitting you back. No matter how reckless he was. No matter how much he grinned like the universe owed him forgiveness. No matter how much it still ached when you looked at him and remembered the way things used to be. You stood upright again with a snap of your shoulders and a squint of righteous self-annoyance

“Next time if he opens that mouth" you mumbled “I’m going to verbally gut him. Real clean. Sharp. Professional. Something with bite, doubling the sarcasm. Go for the ego. Aim for the fins. That’ll shut him up" You narrowed your optics at your reflection—your own face looking smug in the glass “He gets one more pass. After that, I’m escalating. He’s going to wish I never came back”

“Stars, I hope he does that thing with his optics again though…” and maybe—maybe—if you kept throwing enough barbs, you could stop remembering how it felt when he held you like that and made you believe the fire wouldn’t burn

You buried your face in your hand

“..I need therapy"

[keirareidss]

sexy in uniform - s.r

♡ summary: you love the way your boyfriend looks in his FBI vest pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, p in v wc: 4.3k a/n: this was requested as a longer fic so I tried to add more storyline, hope you enjoy! based on this request

Dating an FBI agent came with many perks. You felt secure and protected when he was home and being so close to him and his team, just a phone call away, made you feel very safe. Another plus was the fact that your boyfriend is a genius. He could basically explain any outlandish question you had with facts to back it up. But your favorite part of Spencer Reid's job, was his uniform.

You loved the formal wear, his button up, cute sweater vests, and perfectly fitted slacks, but you were obsessed with the way he looked with that holstered gun on his hip and that kevlar vest, tight around his chest.

You rarely got to see it, Spencer typically leaving his vest at work and stowing his gun in the safe right when he got home, but damn if you weren't tempted to call in an emergency just to see that sexy uniform.

Sometimes, you'd find a reason to go into his work, maybe deciding to take him out for lunch on a slow day or distracting him in the morning so he'd forget his own lunch and you could bring it to him, all to see that uniform.

Today, it seemed you didn't need to make a reason to see him. That would happen naturally.

You weren't an FBI agent, like your boyfriend. No, you worked at a cozy library, where'd the two of you had met. You'd been working the counter when Spencer Reid came up, asking if you had 'Time is a mother' by Ocean Vuong. Your favorite poetry book. You found it for him and the two of you got to talking. You found out you shared interest in a lot of the same books and authors.

He was the one to ask you out, after some convincing from Derek and Penelope that it was the right choice, and the rest is history.

You were working today, sitting behind the counter, engrossed in one of the thrillers that your boyfriend had recommended to you. Said boyfriend was at work as well, his kiss goodbye that morning still lingering on your lips.

It was a slow day, but then again, working at a library, every day is a slow day. You heard the bell ding at the front door and took a moment to finish the page before glancing up. What you saw made your heart skip a beat.

Three men in black clothing and ski masks had entered, guns in their hands, and were corralling the few patrons against a wall. One of them spotted you and started towards your desk. You stood quickly, reaching for your phone in your pocket when suddenly the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol was pointed right at your forehead. Your breath hitched and you froze.

"Put your hands in the air! Now!" You complied, thinking back on what Spencer had informed you to do in a hostage situation. When Spencer started getting serious, seeing a real future with you, he felt the need to ensure your safety. Remain calm. Cooperate. Do not try to be a hero.

He briefed you on hostage situations, shootouts, kidnapping, files, the whole nine yards. Of course, these were hypothetical scenarios about what typically happens in those situations. You could still be doing everything right and still get hurt. Spencer didn't want to think about that.

"Get out from behind the desk!" The masked man ordered and you nodded, following slowly. You pressed the emergency button under the desk with your foot, the button strategically placed near the floor, hidden from view. The man kept his gun pointed at you until you joined the other people against the wall.

You had no clue why they were here. It's not like there was a lot of cash here, I mean, who robs a library of all places?

The BAU had been called in for a hostage situation. Apparently a panic alarm had been triggered and they were needed to negotiate with the criminals.

When the SUV pulled out outside the building and Spencer saw where they were, he swore his heart stopped. He scrambled out of the car, starting to rush towards the library when he was grabbed, a hand clamping on his bicep, yanking him back.

"Reid! What are you doing? Stop, Reid-" Morgan struggled to keep the man from sprinting into an active crime scene.

"I have to get in there, my girlfriend, she-"

"Hey, slow down."

"My girlfriend is in there, let me go, I need to-"

"Reid, listen, just calm down. It'll be okay, we'll get her out." Spencer's breathing was erratic and he wanted nothing more than to rush inside and get you out of danger as soon as possible, but he knew his friend was right. He gave a small nod and followed Derek to where the rest of the team was setting up.

He wanted to call you. Or text you. Contact you in some way just to know you were alright. But if you were hidden somewhere safe, your phone ringing could give you away and get you hurt. He pulled the kevlar vest onto his body that Morgan held out to him.

"Can we get in contact with them somehow?" Hotch asked one of the police officers.

"We could call the library phone. They might pick up."

"Try that, let me know when you reach them." Hotch ordered.

~♡~

Your hands were ziptied in front of you, your feet as well. There were five of you, three customers, your coworker, and you. The more you observe your captors, the more you realized how stupid they are.

All they did was argue with each other, waving their guns around like idiots. Suddenly, the phone on your desk rang and all three of their heads snapped in its direction.

"Just let it ring." The "leader" snapped. The other two complied but seconds after it stopped ringing, it started again. The leader grunted in frustration, storming over and answering the phone. "What?" There was a pause as he listened and the man cursed under his breath, stalking across the room to peek out the window, spotting the police along with the FBI all set up outside. "No, no one's hurt." He grunts, heading back to the desk. "Five... no. No fucking way... listen to me. We're not leaving this building unit you meet our demands. 500,000 dollars and a car waiting outside."

You didn't know what the person on the other end was saying. You'd heard about hostage negotiations, mainly from Spencer, seen a few on the news, but you'd never experienced one before. It was strange being on this end.

Suddenly the man slammed the phone back down on the receiver and stormed back over to the other two.

"What'd they say?"

"We'll get half the money when we release the hostages, the other half will be waiting in the car."

"Well great." One of the other dumbasses said.

"No! Not great! We're not releasing the hostages!"

~♡~

"They're not going to release the hostages." Hotch said after he hung up the phone. "We need to be able to make sure the hostages are out of the way before we storm the building."

"Can we figure out a way to send someone in?" Prentiss asked and Hotch sighed.

"I don't know. It'd be tricky."

"I could try to text my girlfriend." Spencer offers and the team looks at him. "Maybe she could warn the other hostages and get them all out of the way."

"Or she could get caught with her phone and get one of them shot." Hotch responds, making Spencer winced at the thought of you being shot. Hotch sighs, his voice taking a softer tone. "We'll circle back to that." He amends, back to brainstorming. He dials the phone number again, waiting for the man to pick up again.

"Marcus, this is Agent Hotchner again, I'll send someone in with the money as soon as possible."

"Change of plans. I want all the money now. And don't send anyone in, leave it at the back door, unguarded."

"Are any of the hostages hurt?" Hotch tries to redirect the conversation instead of promising something he couldn't do.

"No, but they will be if you don't meet my demands." He snaps and then hangs up. Hotch glances at Spencer.

"Alright. Text her."

Your phone buzzed quietly in the back pocket of your jeans. You glanced at the three men before nudging your coworker with your elbow.

"Hey. Can you grab my phone? It's in my pocket." You shuffled closer to her slightly and she reached out, going slow as to not alert your captors. When it's slid out of your pocket, you shift, lifting your thigh so she can hide it under your leg.

"What are you doing?" She whispers, watching as you covertly slide your phone between your thighs, unlocking it to find a text from Spencer. You turn your phone on silent, glancing at the men every few seconds so you're not caught.

Spencer: Are you okay? I'm outside with my team.

You: I'm fine.

Your phone buzzed a few seconds later.

Spencer: How close are you to the unsub's?

You: A few feet. Why?

Spencer: Is there a safe place for you to easily get to?

You: I don't understand.

Spencer: We're planning on storming the building but we can't risk the hostages lives.

You glance around the library. You could try to get the hostages to one of the conference rooms. Maybe if you distracted the men, you could give the others time to run. They didn't seem like the type to shoot a hostage.

You: Do you know any of the unsub's?

Spencer: What do you mean?

You: Their names? Anything about them?

It was a minute or two before he responded.

Spencer: Marcus Richards is the name of the man who answered the phone. Why?

You: I can get the hostages away, when are you coming in?

Spencer: How soon can you get them safe?

You: Now.

The team was preparing to go in. They were banking on the fact that you had gotten the hostages out of the way.

"Ready?" Morgan asked, glancing back at the team behind him. The other half of the team had gone to the back door, police officers on both sides. Hotch nodded and Morgan kicked the door open, agents storming in, guns raised.

"FBI hands in the air!" Morgan shouted. What they saw was not what they expected. The hostages were gone, all of them except you who was pinned to one of the bookshelves, Marcus's gun aimed at your temple.

Your plan to get the others to safety was to distract Marcus. You'd called his name, standing up and holding your tied hands out as a sign of peace. You antagonized him to keep their attention on you while the others snuck to the conference room. He eventually got angry enough to put his gun to your head, but luckily it didn't go any farther than that.

When the FBI came in the door, they dropped their guns and surrendered pretty quickly. Spencer, whose breath had caught when he saw you in that position, quickly rushed over to you. He was wearing his kevlar vest and holstering his gun as he stood in front of you.

"Are you okay? You said you were getting to safety." His hands found your upper arms as he checked you over.

"I said I was getting the hostages to safety."

"You were a hostage, angel."

"Um, can you maybe cut these off me?" You change the subject, holding up your wrists. He finds scissors at the front desk, cutting your ties before kneeling down to cut the ones at your feet.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little frazzled." You wanted to pretend having a gun to your head didn't scare you but Spencer's soft gaze pulled it out of you. The fact that your hands were shaking slightly gave it away as well.

"Come on, let me take you home."

Maybe it was the rush he was in to get you to safety or back in comfortable territory, or maybe it was just plain old forgetfulness that made Spencer keep his kevlar vest on as he brought you home. He only realized he was still wearing it as he stepped through your door.

What he didn't realize was the way your eyes followed him. You stared at how the vest clung tight to his chest, the white of his button up contrasting with the navy blue admirably.

"What is it? Are you alright?" He asked when he noticed your stare.

"No I'm fine, you're just... you look really hot right now."

"What?" His face grew red as his eyebrows raised slightly. You stepped closer, your hands finding the straps of the vest, grasping tightly as you pressed your body to him.

"You look sexy in this vest." You purred, grinning up at him.

"Oh, uh- I forgot I was wearing it." He murmurs.

"I wish you'd wear it more." You said, leaning up to kiss his jaw, trailing your lips down his neck, pulling his tie out from under the vest and yanking it loose. You push him back against the front door, tossing his tie aside and undoing the buttons of his shirt you can reach without him taking off the vest.

"Well, technically wearing it more would mean there's a situation in which I'm at risk of being shot, so I don't know if that'd be the best-"

"Spence, I meant here. Wear it more while you're here. And the only thing that'll be shot is your energy after I'm done with you." You teased, kissing at the bits of skin you'd revealed.

"I- I don't understand." He stammers and you pull back a bit to look up at him.

"You don't think you look sexy right now?"

"Well, I don't think I look sexy ever."

"Oh that's just insane. You look sexy all the time!" He clears his throat, avoiding your gaze awkwardly. "Let me show you how much you turn me on." You murmured, pulling him forward. You tug him down to kiss you, sliding your tongue past his lips as the two of you stumble to the bedroom. When the backs of your thighs hit the foot of the bed, you pull away, sitting down on the edge.

Biting your lip, you lean back on your hands to look up at him. You shuffled back until you were at the pillows, waiting for Spencer to crawl over to you. He followed, meeting your lips once he was hovering over you. He reached up, starting to undo the vest but you stopped him.

"No, no, baby, leave it on."

"What?" He looked down at you, brows furrowed, a confused frown on his lips.

"Leave the vest on. I want you to fuck me in it." He stops breathing for a moment and you have to pay his cheek to bring him back to reality. He nods, dropping his hand to the mattress. He kissed you again, his body pressing down into yours.

"You know, people are often attracted to uniforms because of the power, authority, and confidence they convey." He murmurs against your lips, unable to help himself from spouting off his knowledge. Where he learned this, you're not sure. "They also evoke a sense of security, protection, and even heroism." You pull back to look at him.

"Oh yeah? Well, you're my hero." You catch a glimpse of his blush before he's smashing his lips against yours once again. He moves his bruising kisses to your neck, humming against you. "Uniforms can also imply a sense of grooming and discipline which can be appealing to many people. It's very common with professions like military, police, and firefighters."

"And FBI agents?"

"That too." He agrees, nearing your chest with the drag of his lips.

"Well you don't have a strict uniform, so why do you think I'm so attracted to your attire?" He glanced up at you from where he's kissing the top of your breasts.

"You're attracted to my clothes?"

"No, silly, I'm attracted to the way you look in them." You grinned teasingly.

"What does that mean?"

"It means..." Your hands slide over his shoulders, down his back, to his waist where you grip tightly. "That you look hot in your button downs and your well-fitted slacks."

"So you're saying it's the proper appearance that attracts you? The cleanliness?"

"Maybe." You shrugged. "Or maybe it's just you." His head tilts in confusion, so you continue. "You could be wearing frilly pink shorts, a garbage bag for a top, and clown shows and I'd still be attracted to you. It's just a sweet addition that you look really good in a Kevlar vest." He chuckles before moving back up to kiss you again. "Now please, for the love of God, can you just fuck me already?"

Your hands find his belt as he pulls off your shirt. Your pants come off next, and you're left in your bra and panties. Spencer's hand slides down your stomach, pinky finger toying with the land band of your underwear before his hand slides beneath the fabric.

You gasp when his fingers find your wetness, sliding the slick across your core before one of his finger plunges inside you. He starts pumping and before long, another finger goes in, the stretch welcoming and satisfying.

"Is that good?'

"Yes, baby. Perfect." You breathed, letting your head fall back against the pillows. But it's not enough. You need more. "Spencer, I- I need you. I need you inside me." He pulled his fingers out of you, the emptiness making you whine. You were soon placated as Spencer freed his cock from his pants, sliding the head along the seam of your pussy before thrusting in. You moan in tandem, your lips inches apart as you breathe into each other.

He starts slow but, as it always goes when he fucks you, he speeds up, the feeling of his impending orgasm taking over his need to savor the moment. You're grasping onto the straps on his kevlar vest as he fucks into you, his moans and whines stifled in your neck where he'd buried his face.

His hands are roaming your body, finding the clasp of your bra where he undoes it with one flick on his wrist, tossing the garment across the room as his fingers find your nipple. He pinches, brushes softly, rolls the hard bud between his pointer and thumb. He squeezed your breast in his palm, grinding into you faster.

"I'm so close." He whimpers in the warm crevice between your shoulder and jaw.

"Me too baby, cum for me." You fist a hand in his brown locks, tugging roughly. With just a few more thrusts, he's moaning and releasing inside you, his orgasm triggering yours. You clench around him and, with a loud moan, you're pushed past the edge as well, holding tightly to your boyfriend as you come.

His body melts on top of you, the two of you breathing heavily, coming down from your high. Your arms are around his shoulders, his legs entangled with yours, his cock going soft inside you.

"Are you okay?" You ask after a moment, running your fingers through his brown locks.

"Yeah, just a little sweaty." He mumbles, peeling himself off of you. He was in fact sweating, you guessed due to the fact that he was fully dressed wearing a thick bulletproof vest.

"Do you want to go shower?" You asked softly, brushing his hair behind his ears.

"Are you coming with?" He asked hopefully and you grinned.

"If you want me to." He nodded eagerly and you giggled, the two of you clambering out of bed and making your way to the bathroom for round two.

It was a stupid fight. Something about the dishes maybe? You couldn't remember. All you knew was that since the argument last night, your whole day had been ruined. You hadn't gotten your kiss goodbye from Spencer, you hadn't had your extra ten minute cuddle session like every other morning, you had just gotten ready for work separately, and gone your separate way without texting or calling each other.

Spencer was having a similar dilemma, unable to focus on his work because all he could think about was how to make it up to you. He didn't know which one of you was in the wrong, you probably thought it was him and he, childishly thought it was you. He would go to one of his friends for help but he didn't want to bother them with relationship drama.

He was refilling his coffee for the third time when he had an idea. Just last week you had ravished him after seeing him in his FBI vest in the safety of your home. Maybe, if he brought it home again, you'd be too distracted by the way he looks in it, which he still didn't understand by the way, to even remember the fight.

He just had to find a way to sneak it out of work. This part of the plan turned out not to be too hard. Hotch sent everyone home early since it was just another paperwork day. Spencer, on his way out, took a detour to the storage room, snagged a vest, and took a back exit before rushing through the parking garage to his car.

Before walking into your apartment, he slipped the kevlar vest on, tightening it against his torso. He took out his spare set of keys, unlocking the door.

"Angel, are you here?" He called, dropping his bag, toeing off his shoes, and hanging his jacket up before trudging further inside to find you. You come walking out of the bedroom, rubbing your eye sleepily. You'd fallen asleep reading in bed again.

You stop in your tracks once you see him. More specifically, when you see what he's wearing.

"What... what is that?"

"What's what?"

"Why are you wearing that?"

"Oh, I must have forgotten to take it off." He feigned innocence, glancing down at it. You swallow, feeling a wetness pool between your legs. "Is everything alright?" He asks when you don't say anything, only staring at him.

"Yeah. I'm fine." You said roughly. You slowly move closer to him. Your anticipation of continuing the argument had disappeared when you'd seen what he was wearing and know, any thoughts of the fight at all had left your brain entirely.

Your hands find purchase on his chest as you finally tilt your head up to look at his face. He's clearly holding back a smug grin. He's won.

You can't hold back anymore, surging forward to crash your lips against his, your arms winding around his neck. His wrap around your waist, pulling your body flush against his. You both stumbled to the living room, bumping into end tables and armchairs in your blind trail to the couch before you fall onto the cushions, Spencer on his back, you on his lap.

"Fuck, you did this on purpose didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He lets the grin onto his face, pleased with himself. You lean down over him, sucking and biting at his neck, jaw, and chest as you yank his belt off frantically, unzipping and unbuttoning his pants. You palm him through his slacks, making him let out a soft moan.

You can't wait anymore, needing to feel him inside you again. You're sure the FBI vest is magic. It does something to you, multiplies your sex drive by a thousand. You pull him free from his pants and boxers, pumping him a few times to ready him before pulling your shorts and panties off and sinking down onto his length.

You take a moment to adjust to the stretch, whining softly at the feeling of being so full.

"Don't hurt yourself angel." Spencer chides softly, hands at your hips, holding you still you you don't sprain something with how bad you need to ride him.

"I'm fine." You breathed, moving your hips slowly. Spencer guides your movements, groaning from below you, his eyes squeezing shut. His hips thrust upwards, meeting the roll of your hips deliciously.

"Fuck, oh god... so good, Spence." You moaned, dropping your head back. Spencer sits up, the new angle filling you even more. He kisses at the exposed skin before deciding he needs more, pulling your shirt over your head. He kisses and nips at your breasts, leaving possessive marks.

You start moving faster, chasing your release. Spencer moans as your hands scrape at the vest before clinging tightly to the neckline. Spencer's hands slide up from your waist, cupping your jaw and bringing your face down to meet his lips in a passionate kiss.

"Mphf, gonna cum, gonna-" You mumble, your lips still pressed against his.

"Me too." He says on a whimper, grasping at your hips, pulling you to move faster. You comply and, after a few more thrusts, you're both cumming, releases mixing with each other and spilling out.

You sigh as you slump into him, his arms wrapped around you as he falls back to the cushions. You bury your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of him as you feel your eyes fluttering closed. Spencer carefully pulls himself out of you, struggling to take the kevlar vest off while keeping you on top of him. He's eventually able to shrug out of it, tossing it to the floor and wrapping his arms around you again.

You're asleep in no time, no doubt having dreams of Spencer heroically saving you in his kevlar vest followed by lots and lots of sex. Spencer, going limp underneath you, dreamt of the exact same thing.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre, @tinythebunni

[wh0reforoldmen]

I'm hungry for more mafia Dante, could I request for one shot or maybe headcanons how they ended up dating and what's it like dating him?

(I'm so down bad for him 😩)

Parings: Mafia!Dante X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hospital settings, angst, mention of smut but minors can interact, not beta read

Word count: 1.32k

A/N: Who isn't down bad for him?

Dating Dante is a joy ride, nothing is miserable with him, even if the weather is. His goofy and joyfulness is like a plague, and no matter how sad you may be, he can always make that pretty smile crack from your lips. That's either through his terrible, corny jokes and pickup lines or him acting like a complete idiot, it never fails. 

With you running a shop, it causes you to have to get up at stupid o'clock in the morning, and Dante hates that. He’s tried getting you to hire people to help you run the shop, but you decline, saying that you can easily do it yourself and you’ve been doing it for too long, and so you’re used to the early mornings and sometimes late nights. So when you do have your two days off, a Thursday and a Sunday, he is spending those days with you, doing whatever you want to do. Shopping, staying in bed and watching films, catching up on your favourite TV show, or reading, whatever you wanna do, he’s doing it with you. 

Shopping is fun with him as you don’t have to lift a finger, he brings people to hold bags with your purchased items, and Dante carries your purse with him. The only things you have to hold are the item(s) you want and give them to Dante while he carries them around the store. Oh, and you don’t pay. Never. You learned what happened last time when you paid, and sure, it earned you multiple orgasms, but you were sore for the next few days.

While you're working, he will walk in and check up on you, ordering his usual, of course, which was a strawberry donut and small coffee, and occasionally a berry delight to take out for his brother. There, he will endlessly flirt with you, busy or not, he makes sure that everyone knows that you are his.

The sex is phenomenal, of course, and he knows it. Sure, he’s had his fair share of one-night stands with women, however, none of them beats you and your pussy. The way it quivers around his cock when he whispers in your ear about how good you feel, the sweet moans that are like cotton candy, sweet and addictive. 

______________________________________________________________

Dante knew how to treat a woman right, his mother taught him well. He’s taken you out on multiple dates, places where you wanted to go by mentioning them to him, even if you don’t remember. Picnics late at night on the cliff by his home, the stars shining brightly as you both point out collections of stars. 

A new restaurant opened in town, but it was too expensive for you. Dante has that converted. A nice dinner on a warm summer night. A place that has amazing service and treats you and Dante like royalty. 

Or just a simple shopping date, taking you around the stores you want and him holding and paying for everything. You wanted to pay him back, but he refused. 

It was a normal sunny day in June, the weather hot as hell, the AC on full so that you don't end up like the chocolate you melted earlier. You texted Dante when you got to your shop, not expecting a reply until later on in the day, however, that text never happened. 

Saturdays were always the busiest, and so you were so caught up with customers that you didn't check your phone, but when you did, disappointment filled you. No text. It was three PM and still no reply from him. Letting out a sigh, you continued your job until 8. 

You were about to lock up, ready to go home and accept that Dante may have just ghosted you. However, before you could walk away, someone called your name. You turned around, hoping it was Dante, even if the voice sounded nothing like him, to see a man very similar to him. His white hair was slicked back, with small strands falling over his forehead. He had similar sharp features to Dante. His tailored dark blue suit was crisp, no creases or stains to see in sight, covered by a black trench coat with white details on the sleeves, shoulders, and chest.

It had to be Vergil, Dante’s twin. You’ve seen him a few times with Dante, but never properly had a conversation, so you were confused why he was finding you this late at night. 

“What’s up?” You asked, holding onto your bag a little tighter. You didn’t know why, but your gut told you something was wrong, the way dread ate you up from the inside. It was telling you something. 

“Dante’s been shot.” He spoke. Your heart stopped. The world around you just stopped. The worst things come into your mind: is he dead? How bad is his condition? 

“I'll take you to the hospital.” He added, swiftly turning around and going to his car. You jogged after him, your heart pounding in your chest. 

The drive there none of you spoke, just the sound of the radio filling the space. The drive was 20 minutes: Vergil got it down to 10. 

Once you arrived, you jumped out and ran to the reception, leaving Vergil to park the car. ‘Visiting times were over’ she simply said, her condescending tone cutting through you. You didn't even tell her who you're visiting, and sure, you get that visiting times are over, but what happened to being polite?

Luckily, Vergil came in, and once he did, she was polite and smiley. “Did she tell you where he was?” Vergil asked, his eyes on you and ignoring the receptionist completely. You watched her face contort in horror as she realised you were with him, her demeanour towards you improved significantly, smiley and polite. She told you the room that he was in, and you thanked her, despite the rudeness she showed prior. Maybe she was having a rough shift, no need to be rude back. 

You walked in the room, beeping filled the room as your eyes landed on Dante, his eyes open and looking at you with a smile. “Hi, Angel.” He smiled like nothing was wrong, like you didn’t have a heart attack once you found out he was in the hospital, like you haven't spent all day worrying about him. 

“Don’t ‘Hi Angel’ me, Dante. You scared me!” You dropped your bag near his bed. “No text, no call, nothing. Just silence, and your brother comes up after my shift and says you’ve been shot! I- I was scared, Dante.” 

Tears that you have been holding in since the car ride slipped down your cheeks. You don’t know how you can put into words how scared you were, terrified, petrified, frightened? None of them fit. “I don’t know anything! You could have died and I wouldn’t know!” You exclaimed, getting everything off your chest, and he just listened. 

You sat next to him, faintly seeing the bandages under the hospital gown. You wiped your eyes and held his hand, not wanting to lift his arm as you didn’t know where the wounds were. “I just don’t want to lose you… I love you, Dante.” 

Silence. 

Was that bad? Did you say that too soon? Shit. Shit.

The heart monitors beeping spiked as you said it, his heart rate raised as you said it. Still, that meant nothing. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Why on earth would you say that? And here of all places, smart move. 

A deep and crisp chuckle came from him, making you worry more. “And I thought I was going to say it first.” He spoke, a smile on his face as he pulled you down to him, his hand that was holding yours was now on your lower back. “C’mere.” His voice was quiet, but gruff. 

You slowly leaned down, doing as he asked as heat rises in your cheeks and butterflies swarm your stomach. Nerves swirled in your throat, but all that disappeared as your lips connected to his, soft but slightly chapped. Fireworks exploded behind your eyes and your mind raced with celebrations. You have wanted to kiss him for so long, and here you are. Sure, it was an awkward place, but better now than never, right? 

Both of you didn’t want to pull away as the kiss got sloppy, headed and needy, but Vergil banged on the glass, breaking you two apart. Vergil shook his head at Dante as he flipped his twin the finger with a wide smirk. 

[fisherld3]

could you write melissa x reader where melissa struggles with her dyslexia and is insecure about it?

Between the Lines

Word Count: 3,150 words

Genre List: Romance, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship,Insecurity,Emotional Intimacy and Slice of Life

Between the Lines

It started with a pile of papers on the coffee table.

You walked into Melissa’s apartment after a long Friday, grocery bag in hand, only to find her hunched over a stack of worksheets and printouts. Her brow was furrowed, red pen clutched tightly in one hand, her knuckles white.

“Hey, Mel.” You set the bag down and leaned over to kiss her cheek, but she barely looked up, mumbling a distracted hello.

You gave her space, unpacking the groceries and putting water on for tea. After ten minutes, though, you noticed the tension in her shoulders wasn’t letting up. Her jaw clenched, her fingers tapping nervously against the table. Every few moments, she would rub her eyes or scowl down at the page as if it had personally offended her.

Curious, you wandered over and gently touched her shoulder.

“Everything okay?”

Melissa stiffened slightly, then forced a small smile. “Yeah. Just… grading.”

But when you glanced at the papers, your heart sank. Her red marks stopped midway through sentences, her handwriting uneven. Some words were circled, others underlined—then scratched out. The page next to it had a few entire sections crossed off.

“Want me to help?” you offered softly.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “No. I got it.”

But you could hear the edge in her voice.

You sat beside her anyway, resting a hand on her knee. “You’ve been at this for a while, huh?”

Melissa let out a breath. “Two hours. I keep… reading it wrong.” Her voice was tight, frustrated. “It’s like the words keep movin’ on me. I read one sentence three times and still couldn’t tell if it made sense.”

There it was.

She rarely talked about it, but you knew Melissa struggled with dyslexia. She’d learned tricks over the years—colored overlays, audiobooks, voice-to-text apps on her phone—but every now and then, it got to her. Nights like this left her spiraling into old insecurities she usually kept buried under layers of confidence and dry wit.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you said gently.

Melissa gave a bitter little laugh. “It’s ridiculous. I’ve been teaching for how long? And I still can’t grade a damn paragraph without messing it up.”

“That’s not true,” you said, rubbing her knee. “You’re one of the best teachers I know. You care more than half the staff combined.”

“That don’t matter if I can’t do the work,” she muttered. Her shoulders slumped. “What kinda example is that? Strugglin’ through basic sentences? It’s embarrassing.”

Your chest ached. You hated seeing her like this—so hard on herself over something out of her control.

You reached over, gently tugging the red pen from her hand. “Melissa. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, she turned, eyes dark with frustration and shame.

“You are not less of a teacher because you struggle with this. You are not less of a person.” You cupped her cheek. “And it’s not embarrassing. You work harder than anyone I know, and you still show up every day for those kids. That takes strength.”

She swallowed, her jaw working. “You don’t get it,” she whispered. “It makes me feel stupid. Like… every time I open a book, it’s this fight just to keep up. And some days, I just—” Her voice broke. “I hate it.”

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around her, pulling her close. Melissa buried her face in your neck, the tension in her body slowly melting as you held her.

“It’s okay to hate it sometimes,” you murmured. “But it doesn’t define you. And you don’t have to fight alone, okay? We can do this together.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I can help you grade. We can find more tools, if you want. Whatever you need.”

For a long moment, Melissa stayed quiet, her fingers curling into your shirt.

Finally, she whispered, “I love you.”

You kissed her temple. “I love you too.”

Later that night, with her head resting on your shoulder, Melissa finally let you read through the stack of papers with her. Slowly, patiently, the two of you worked side by side, your hand resting over hers when her nerves flared.

And if she leaned into you a little more than usual, you didn’t say a word—just held her close between the lines.

⸻

[noxitsnox]

just come kiss me and bite me - p. jay x reader

non idol!park jay x reader

summary: three months in your relationship jay finally introduces you to his friends. despite the nervousness of the first meeting, you find that they are all very nice-especially heeseung. you and him get very close much to jay's disapproval. he doesn't say anything, but you can see something in him changed. and so one day, tired of you always hanging out with heeseung he confronts you about it in his own way.

tags: non idol au, jealous jay, poor heeseung is mentioned, relationship issues, estabilished relationship, second person pov, heejake briefly mentioned, petnames (baby), possessiveness, rough make out session, making out (also in non physical terms), wrote this with f!reader in mind but i shouldn't have used any feminine pronouns so it can be read as gn!reader

a/n: aaaa here's the request!!! first time writing for jay 🙂‍↕️ also why is heeseung the best friend in every fic i write?

*this fic contains suggestive content*

you arrived late to jay's apartment, shopping bags in your hands and sending a voice text to heeseung, thanking him for the ride. jay opened the door with an annoyed look on his face.

"let me guess, you were at the mall with heeseung." he crossed his arms on his chest and sighed. you had been spending a lot of time with him, but you didn't think it was a problem at all. ever since jay introduced you to him, you found a new best friend. at first jay tried not to care, he didn't want to be that kind of boyfriend. he should've been happy that his partner and his friends got along- just, you two spend so much time without him and jay knew very well how charismatic and good looking heeseung was. he couldn't help but be jealous.

you tried to hug him but he stayed still in his position.

mean, you thought, but you could understand where he was coming from. "i'm really sorry, baby. we were trying on some make up and we lost track of time."

one thing about jay: he'd preach for communication but would never tell you how he feels before it's too late. you might notice something is off, but he'd brush it off saying he's just stressed with work... and then you'd be in this situation.

it was your fault too, if there were faults in this. but heeseung was nice and you two happened to have the same day off so it was perfect to hangout, and this last week alone you and him spent so much time together because heeseung wanted to confess to jake and was planning how to do it. you didn't tell jay, heeseung asked to keep it a secret- even if you tried to tell him now, he wouldn't believe you. it was a mess.

your boyfriend started walking to his room and you followed him. "jay you don't have to be jealous of heeseung, he's just a friend... i'm sorry i'm late, we were really just buying make up!"

he walked closer to you. "oh c'mon, do you really think i'm that stupid?" he didn't scream, jay never screamed- he didn't need to, he had other ways to show he was mad: he'd clench his jaw, grin before talking, licked his teeth.

he was hot like that.

you hated it, you hated how good he looked. so good he'd make you forget why you were arguing inthe first place. he could just look at you with those dark eyes and it'd be enough for you to go crazy.

"i'm serious, i'd never do this to you."

jay grabbed your waist, shaking his head. he didn't say anything at first, he just laughed turning his head away. "it's not you i'm worried about, i know my friends and i know why i can't trust them..."

he pushed you on the bed, placing himself between your legs. "tell me...", he said in a whisper as a hand moved to your waist. "can heeseung do this, mh?"

you hated how good he looked right now, on top of you, his face so close to yours. "should we ask hi-", you teased only to be stopped by a sudden intruder in your mouth.

jay kissed you and you felt like dying. it was wet and passionate. he worked with his tounge in a way that would make you forget even there were other boys on earth in the moment. one boys was entertaining all your thoughts. jay bit your lower lip before pulling away.

"don't you dare..." his breath was heavy, you felt it hot against your skin.

he quickly repositioned himself on yor body- now his growing bulge was pressing hard on your thigh. he kissed your neck and sucked and pulled your skin like a vampire looking for blood. after a few minutes, he pulled away and admired the swollen bruise he made. it was big and dark, a shade of purple impossible to hide with make up; it was his claim on you.

and then... and then he got up and walked away.

he left you there, panting and alone on the bed wishing for more as he slowly approached the door.

"i can't believe you... where are you going ?!"

jay turned to you with that fake innocent look that made you lose your mind in anger. "mh? oh, jungwon asked for helo building the new couch he got. i'm heading over, y'know, with the traffic it might take me a while to get there." as he said this last part, he started walking towards the entrance door.

you got up from the bed followed him close behind. "jay you can't just do this- you gestured to your messy hair and clothes- and just leave!"

he chuckled, "try calling heeseung, he might help you." you just stared at him for seconds that felt like an eternity. "well, i love you. see ya later!"

"get lost!", you screamed as he opened the door and walked to the elevator.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 9

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5.5k+

Note: LMAO i wrote this at 'work' (i have a weekend job where i work as a 'supervisor' and i sit in an office and play the sims and get paid for it). THNAK YOU EVERYONE for the kindest of words. my heart is so full with everyone talking about this series.

also this chapter is a bit of a love letter to my friends at my own version of The Van. i pray they never see this but i love those guys. also also you all need to play Beerio Kart it goes so hard.

xxx

By the time I get to Ruth’s, her flat is already buzzing. It's the Tuesday crew from The Van, and a few extra people I don’t recognise.

There’s someone from the soup run — I think his name’s Leon — curled up in the armchair, nursing a can of lager and shouting advice at the screen. One of the newer volunteers, Naomi, is painting her nails on the coffee table like it’s not covered in half-eaten biscuits and empty crisp packets. And someone I don’t recognise — probably someone’s partner or flatmate — is crouched in front of the TV cabinet, trying to get the Switch working, sleeves rolled up like it's been a tough day at work.

Ruth lights up when she sees me. “Ugh, finally. We’re all sick of Quiplash. Come teach everyone Beerio Kart”

She claps her hands like a teacher calling a class to order. “Okay! Y/N is going to explain the rules for those of us who don’t know how to play… which is all of us.”

She practically shoves me onto the couch like I’m about to deliver a TED Talk.

I lean in, pointing to my fellow volunteers like a revolutionary leader. “Rule one: you can’t drink and drive. Mario world has standards. Both hands off the controller while you’re drinking.”

“Justice for Toad!” someone yells. Laughter ripples through the room.

“Two: you have to finish your beer before the race ends. Or you lose. Morally.” Everyone is now calculating their strategies.

“You can drink during countdowns, when you fall off the track, when you get shelled—”

“—when your ex texts you mid-race and ruins your whole life,” Naomi adds from the floor. More laughter. I laugh but I do not get the joke, or if there even is a joke.

So I drop into the last open spot — a beanbag wedged between Tom (a guy from Thursday nights who always brings his own gloves) and someone covered in tattoos who’s currently balancing a beer can on their head.

“Three… two… one—GO!” someone shouts, and half the room starts chugging like we’re at some sacred, chaotic communion.

To my left, Amina (who's homemade banana bread is to die for) downs her entire beer before her kart even moves. By the time she slams her can down, she’s already in 12th place, but she’s grinning. “Now I can actually drive, losers!”

Across the room, one of the quieter volunteers — Sam, I think — is casually cruising in second place until he brakes right before the finish line and sips the rest of his can like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Bold move, Sam,” someone mutters, as he finishes with one dramatic gulp and crosses the line with milliseconds to spare.

I, on the other hand, am doing what most of us are doing: swerving off Rainbow Road, nursing bruises from red shells, and sneaking sips during every crash. I’ve barely made it through half the can and I’m losing spectacularly, but Ruth keeps shouting, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie!” every time I get back on track.

There’s shouting, laughing, cans cracking open. Someone yells, “Wait, I spilled beer in my controller!” and no one stops playing. No one even really cares who’s winning. The flat smells like beer, dry shampoo, and warm energy.

My character flies off the edge of the course for the third time in one lap.

“Perfect time for a drink,” I mutter, tipping my can back.

From across the room, Ruth hollers, “THAT’S the spirit!”

It’s stupid and chaotic and none of it makes sense. But for once, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in. Not even a little bit.

I'm still getting to know these people, but they’re kind. Loud in the right ways. Familiar in a way that doesn’t ask too much of me. Ruth shoots me a grin from the corner, one that says: See? Told you this would be fun.

And for a minute, it is.

Even if I've been inked and and I’ve been hit by three shells in a row.

Even if the memory of Will’s kiss — and George’s look — hovers at the edge of my mind like stormclouds threatening to crack open.

Right now, I’m here.

And I’m winning.

Sort of.

Xxx

The Uber was called, and the room still buzzed with energy. People darted around, perfecting eyeliner flicks and dabbing on last-minute lipstick. The chaos from Beerio Kart had settled into a warm, tipsy glow — everyone flushed and laughing, convinced the game had been a smashing success.

Ruth caught my eye and tilted her head, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“So, why were you late?” she whispered, eyes sparkling.

I hesitated, cheeks heating up. “Kissing Will,” I blurted, half proud, half embarrassed.

Her eyes practically popped. “WHAT, no way! Spill the tea — I did not see that coming. I mean I did, but I was thinking in like, 3 to 6 months.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but damn, the memory of his lips was still burning a hole in my brain.

We lean in like we’re conspirators plotting something way more interesting than makeup tips.

I explain to her that George had a bunch of his friends over for pre-drinks, “So, he texts me, right?” I grin, leaning in like I’m spilling some top-secret intel. “He can see my shadows moving—and straight-up demands to be let into my room. Like, no ‘hey’ or ‘what’s up,’ just full-on ‘open this door now’ energy.”

Ruth bursts out laughing. “Oh girl, that’s borderline stalker-chic. I’m here for it.”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, well, it worked. Then he hits me with, ‘I’m tired of pretending I don’t like you,’ which is like, okay, chill.”

Ruth raises an eyebrow. “Ooooh, so he’s got a soft side? Didn’t know that was in his skill set.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Right? And then he goes, ‘I would’ve kissed you back’—which is crazy work, so obviously he’s been talking to George.” Ruth looks unamused at that.

“But then we kiss, because, what else do you say to that? It was literally crazy. Fully like Nick-And-Jess-From-New-Girl-First-Kiss-Vibes. It was soooo unexpected but damn, electric.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Electric, huh? And then what? Spill.”

I laugh, cheeks warming. “Okay, so then I tell him to leave, and he pushes me against the wall and kisses me again. More like ‘can’t-help-myself’ vibes. I swear my brain took a coffee break and my lips just did their own thing.”

Ruth claps her hands softly. “Girl, that’s textbook ‘can’t resist’ behaviour. Love it.”

I’m laughing. Genuinely. Not performative or polite — real.

Then Maya—Ruth’s close friend—sits cross-legged on the floor, phone out as a mirror. She's moving her lip gloss wand with the precision of a heart surgeon. She glances up at me, wine glass wobbling in her hand. “Wait, is this Will? Like, your friend WillNE on YouTube?”

I don’t even have to wonder how she knows; Ruth’s been bragging about living with ‘influencers’ all week. I freeze just enough for Maya to catch it.

She grins, totally misreading my silence. “Sorry, I only ask ‘cause I thought he had a girlfriend.”

My stomach twists. A tiny, traitorous lurch.

“What?” I say, too casual, too fast.

Maya’s already scrolling on her phone but keeps talking. “Yeah, he’s all over this girl’s Insta. Brunette, Welsh, really pretty. Posted a pic with him at some gig last week—total boyfriend vibes. Hands-on-thigh kind of thing.”

Ruth shoots me a pointed look, but I don’t meet it. My face stays calm, but inside my heart is pounding like a drum.  

“Oh?” I say, voice thin, stretched too tight, like a balloon about to pop.

I stare into my drink, the buzz fading fast, the edges of the room blurring and going cold.

Cue the slow-motion crash in my chest. Sharp, hollow, humiliating. Will never mentioned her. Not once. And here I am, catching feelings like an idiot, clinging to every glance, every inside joke, every stupid little moment like it meant something. Like he meant something.

I thought he was a friend. That’s the worst part. He’s been inviting me everywhere, pulling me into his life like there was space for me. Making me feel like I belonged. I thought he saw me. Really saw me.

And now? Now I just feel used. Like a placeholder. Like some sad, temporary girl who was dumb enough to believe that any of it was real. That feeling creeps in, the feeling where he looks at me like some kind of charity case. Something broken he could fix to feel better about himself. A project. Nothing permanent, just a distraction dressed up as concern.

I feel like an idiot.

Stupid for letting myself want more — for a second kiss, a text that means something, anything that isn’t just some blurry grey area he gets to walk away from untouched.

I take a long sip of my drink, trying to wash the embarrassment down with cheap rosé and bravado. But it lingers, tight in my throat, prickling behind my eyes. God, I feel so naive. Like a punchline he forgot to tell me I was part of.

Maya’s already moved on, chatting about something else, blissfully unaware of the landmine she just stepped on. But my mind is miles away now — back in my bedroom, back against the door, his mouth on my neck, whispering things that now feel like lies. Or worse.

Just meaningless.

I decide I'm back to hating him again, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not at all.

But I already know that I will.

Xxx

The club is a boiling pot of chaos — packed, sweaty, East London at its wildest. Bodies press against each other in a blur of sequins, smoke, and flashing lights. The bass doesn’t just shake the floor — it owns it — thudding through my chest with a relentless rhythm that matches the anger simmering just beneath my skin. Every beat feels like a dare, every strobe flash a spotlight on the pieces of me I’m trying to burn away.

I’m already buzzed, teetering on the edge of drunk, riding that sharp, reckless wave heartbreak always leaves behind — the kind that makes everything shimmer and sting at the same time. There’s glitter stuck to my collarbones, a smear of lipstick I don’t remember applying, and a voice in my head saying: Don’t think. Just move.

So I do.

I dance with my head thrown back, laughing too loud, drinking too fast. My arms are in the air, hair sticking to the back of my neck, spinning in circles like I can outrun the memory of his mouth on my skin. Around me, strangers cheer and twirl and grind and kiss like they’ve never been hurt. Like none of it matters. And maybe, for a moment, it doesn’t.

Someone hands me a drink — I don’t ask what it is. I just down it like it’s a potion to forget. Like it might bleach out the part of me still holding onto his name like it’s something sacred.

I’m hot, dizzy, untouchable. Or at least, I’m pretending to be. There’s something feral in me tonight — a girl made of spite and vodka and eyeliner, just daring the universe to give her another reason to self-destruct.

And under the lights, with my heart cracked wide open and every nerve on fire, I almost feel free.

Almost.

Then I see them.

George, Chris, and a few other familiar faces slice through the crowd like sharks hunting territory. I spot the two Arthurs  and Bach, who I’m pretty sure I met once, maybe? One of the group I recognise as he threw a party the first week I got to London. A couple are Sidemen members — I know that because Will’s hyped about them all the time and even showed me a video where he was in. There are others too, faces I don’t fully recognize but feel like I’ve seen somewhere—maybe on my FYP, scrolling past late at night.

How did this even happen? How do a bunch of broke volunteers and a pack of overpaid YouTubers end up in the same club in East London? It feels like a cosmic joke, like the universe just couldn’t resist putting me in the middle of some weird influencer fever dream. I’m in op-shop boots and borrowed eyeliner, and they’re in designer jackets and thousand-pound smiles, casually famous in ways I still don’t fully understand.

Basically, I feel surrounded. Like I’m the odd one in a sea of familiar strangers.

Then, my eyes lock on the girl Maya showed me earlier. Small, built, gorgeous—she moves through the crowd like she owns it, every inch the part. And yeah, she’s with Will.

George locks eyes with me — that same deer-in-headlights look I’ve seen on him before, like he wasn’t expecting me to be here, like I’m some ghost that just stepped through the smoke machine haze. But there’s something else tangled in his expression now. Something darker. Jealousy? Regret? I can’t tell.

His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to say something — or maybe it’s just shock. He doesn’t move. Just stares across the crowd like I’ve knocked the air out of him. And maybe I have. I’m not sure what I was expecting from him — a wave? A smirk? Indifference? Anything would’ve hurt, but this uncertainty burns.

The lights flash blue, then red, then white, catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He looks good. Stupidly good. Which only pisses me off more.

So I turn away first.

I throw my head back and laugh at something someone beside me didn’t even say, just to make sure he sees it. I let my hands slide down the arms of the person dancing with me. It's Quiet Sam. He's a bit confused, but he's also very drunk (he played Beerio Kart with shots). He smells like sweat and cheap cologne and safety. It’s petty. It’s deliberate. It’s survival.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see George shift. Like he wants to move toward me, or maybe away? Like he’s caught in the middle of two impulses and doesn’t trust either one. He raises his drink to his lips and downs half of it in one go. His hand is tight around the glass like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

There’s a beat, just one, where the crowd parts a little and there’s nothing between us. No bodies. No bass. Just silence and neon. And in that breathless, glittering pause, I see it again. Not just jealousy. Not just regret.

Longing.

And it knocks the wind out of me, because for a second, I want to reach for him too.

But then Amina grabs my hand, spinning me in a lazy circle. I let it happen. I let the moment pass. I don’t look back.

And then, Will spots me.

It happens mid-laugh — his, not mine. He’s leaning against the bar, drink in one hand, surrounded by people who probably don't even know his last name. His head’s thrown back, mouth open in that easy, effortless way that used to make my stomach flutter, fuck it still does. Then his eyes flick toward the dance floor—just casually, just a sweep—and he sees me.

He freezes.

Like a record scratch in the middle of a perfect song. Like I’ve just stepped out of a dream he thought he was still safely inside.

And to be fair, last time we spoke — what, five hours ago? — we were making out like idiots in my bedroom when all of his friends were in the next room. Breathless. Hands tangled in clothes. Him saying things like “I’m tired of pretending”, me believing them for long enough to let my guard down. He texted me after and I didn’t text back.

He has no idea I’m mad.

He has no idea.

So when he sees me now — glitter-smeared, mascara smudged, drink in hand like a weapon — he’s smiling. That same smile he wore when his mouth was on my neck. Open, stupid, happy. Like we’re still in that soft moment. Like nothing’s changed.

I make sure it shatters.

I don’t smile. I don’t wave. I don’t acknowledge him.

Instead, I tilt my head back and laugh at something that Sam says in my ear— laugh like I’m free, like nothing in the world is heavy or complicated or still haunting me. Then, without even thinking, I lean in and kiss that same guy on the cheek. Just loud enough that Will sees it. That everyone sees it. A blatant, glittering middle finger. A declaration: I’ve moved on. You were never that important.

It’s petty. It’s calculated. It’s completely unhinged.

But God, it feels good.

And when I finally glance back — just for a second, just to twist the knife — Will’s no longer smiling.

He looks confused. Hurt. Like he can’t quite compute what the hell just happened. He shifts his weight, scanning my face for any version of the girl who kissed him against a doorframe just hours ago. And he can’t find her. Because I buried her the second Maya said “girlfriend.”

He’s blinking too fast. Adjusting. You can see it all playing out behind his eyes: Did I do something? Did she regret it? Is this a joke?

And maybe I should feel bad — but I don’t. Because I did mean it. Every second of it.

And he didn’t think I deserved the truth.

Eventually, Will corners me at the bar, where neon flashes bounce off the bottles. He leans in, shouting over the bass. “You’re ignoring me!” He doesn’t let go of my gaze.

I raise my voice back, trying to sound casual but fierce: “Figured you’ve got options. Don’t let me get in the way.”

He blinks, clearly thrown. “What are you talking about?” He says loudly, confused, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t even know existed.

Before he can say more, the girl sidles up to him, shouting something I can’t quite catch over the pounding bass. She pats his back like she owns the moment, then turns and walks away, leaving him standing there like a question mark.

Will’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick away, darting to the floor, to the crowd—anywhere but me. I can almost hear the shame vibrating through the thrum of the music, mixing with the sweat and heat and everything else suffocating the room.

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe to explain, maybe to beg.

So I spin away from him, grab another drink, down half of it in one go. The sting in my chest has nothing to do with the tequila. I throw myself into the rhythm—into the chaos—trying to drown the ache in bodies and basslines. The club is heaving, sweat and light and noise pressing in on all sides.

And then it changes.

A slower song pulses through the speakers, the bass heavy and honey-thick, like it’s moving through molasses. The lights shift, casting everything in a red-blue haze. It’s still loud, but the energy has dipped into something darker, more charged.

I feel him before I see him. The heat of him at my back. His breath close to my ear, just above the music: “Let me just talk to you.”

I don’t move. Not right away. My body goes still, rigid.

And then—I turn.

And we lock eyes.

And for a second, just one suspended moment in the chaos, it’s like the entire club goes silent. Like the bass cuts out, the crowd dissolves, the song holds its breath. Just me, him, and the gravity pulling between us. His face is flushed, eyes wide, desperate and soft all at once.

I nod. Barely. But he sees it.

And he reaches for my hand.

The noise crashes back around us as we move—shoulders bumping, drinks sloshing, bodies pressing past—but it all feels distant now. He’s pulling me toward the exit, and the club peels away behind us, like a fever breaking.

Like the night’s about to change.

We slip out of the chaos of the dancefloor together and into the smokers’ area. Neither of us smokes—thank God—because I hate the smell of cigarettes. I had a boyfriend in high school who smoked, and I remember how the smell clung to everything—his clothes, his hair, even his lips. I swore back then that I’d never kiss anyone who smoked again. It was one of those teenage promises I thought I’d never break.

To be fair, most people out here are vaping instead, that sweet, artificial fog hanging in the air instead of smoke. It’s better, I guess—less harsh, less lingering—but the smell still makes me wrinkle my nose. It’s a reminder of all the times I tried to convince myself that love could change things. That people could change.

The cold night air hits my skin, sharp and real against the muffled thrum of the club behind us. Suddenly, everything feels quieter, slower—the kind of space where you can finally breathe, and maybe even say what’s been tangled up inside your chest all day.

I glance over at him, searching his face in the dim light, and wonder if he has any idea how much has shifted in these last five hours since we were tangled up, kissing, careless. Five hours since he sent that text, expecting a reply I never gave. Five hours since I decided to hold all my words inside, bottled up like a secret I wasn’t ready to share.

Here, away from the crowd, away from the noise and flashing lights, the weight of it all presses down. And maybe, just maybe, this is the moment where we either break or begin to mend.

“What's going on? Why didn’t you answer my text?” Will asks, his voice low but urgent.

I meet his eyes, steady. “I heard about your girlfriend. I’m not interested in being the sidepiece, especially for someone like you.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Okay, ouch. Also… what girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I nod toward the club. “That girl in there. She’s touching you like she owns you. Maya showed me her Instagram.”

He scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. “Becky? She’s a YouTuber like me. She touches everyone when she’s drunk.”

I fold my arms, unconvinced. “I don’t believe you.”

He looks hurt, defensive. “You’re going to believe Maya—someone you’ve never even spoken about—over me?”

“Yeah,” I say, voice flat.

He shakes his head, frustrated. “God, if you actually watched any YouTube, you’d know this.”

“Sorry, I have a real job,” I snap back. He looks at me in a way I can’t describe — hurt, maybe, or just tired of this. Of me. I don’t mean it, obviously, but I go for the kill anyway, aiming for something I know will land. “I never asked to be your little project, Will. I don’t need your charity.”

He breathes in deeply, and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m going back. We can have this conversation when were both sober”

He’s true to his word. Without another glance, he turns and melts back into the smoky swirl of strawberry-ice haze, leaving me standing there with the sharp sting of unanswered questions—and a bitter taste that isn’t from a vape.

I return inside, the club swallowing me back up like nothing happened. Like I hadn’t just stood outside in a fog of strawberry vape and bad decisions, tearing into someone who maybe didn’t even deserve it.

The music has shifted — something bouncier now, unserious and sticky with synths. I find the guy with too many tattoos by the speakers, his shirt half-unbuttoned and grinning like the night owes him something. He pulls me into a lazy twirl without asking, and I let him. It feels good to move. To not think.

Leon joins us halfway through the song, clutching two drinks and somehow still managing to shimmy in time with the beat. “I lost the others,” he yells over the music. “Maya tried to get into VIP by pretending to be Dua Lipa’s cousin.”

"She’s got the eyebrows for it,” I shout, grinning.

We fall into step, hips swinging, limbs loose. At some point, Tattoo Guy tries to do a body roll and almost knocks over Leon’s drink. We’re all giggling too hard to care. Leon makes a show of pretending to sue him for emotional damages.

“My cocktail is trauma now,” he shouts, faking solemnity, holding up the sloshed glass.

“I want that on a t-shirt,” I say, and Tattoo Guy immediately offers to design it — “I’ve got a guy who prints stuff.”

The lights spin above us, dizzy-bright. The kind that make everything feel a little more alive. For a while, I let myself forget. The boys who can’t decide. The messages left on read. The city that wants to swallow me whole.

But then I catch sight of George across the club — dim corner, low lighting, the kind of shadows that swallow things. He’s kissing a girl.

At first, I think my brain’s playing tricks on me.

She looks just like me.

Same hair — dark and messy like we both ran our fingers through it too many times tonight. Same build — same height, same posture, same kind of slightly hunched shoulders that come from never being sure if you’re taking up too much space. She’s even wearing a lace top and trousers combo that looks so similar to mine it’s almost funny. Almost.

My stomach flips. Sharp. Sour. Like I’ve swallowed something that’s about to come back up.

They’re by the bar — George and this almost-me — and he’s leaning in close, hand brushing her hip like he’s done it before. She’s laughing at something he’s said, tilting her head the way I do when I’m pretending not to care. And then, just like that, he kisses her.

It’s not even a maybe. It’s a full, real kiss. Slow, certain. Like he’s trying to say something with it. Like he means it.

And all I can think is: Is that what I looked like, when it was me?

Is that the version of me he wanted? Or maybe — and this might be worse — maybe any girl who looks vaguely like me would’ve done.

Suddenly the music is too loud, the lights too bright. The sticky heat of the club clings to my skin like shame. Like rejection. Like I’ve been replaced by a mirror image who doesn’t know yet that this ends in heartbreak.

She’s laughing into his mouth like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t once sit on his bedroom floor and paint his toenails. Like he didn’t say he was glad I moved back to him and then reject me entirely.

It hits me in the throat. A weird, mirrored ache. Like watching yourself be replaced in real time — upgraded or downgraded, who knows. Just... swapped out.

I turn away so fast the room spins.

And that’s when I see Will again.

He's leaning against the bar, shoulders slouched, hair a little too perfectly messy. I make my way toward him before I’ve even decided what I’m doing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s self-destruction. Maybe it’s both.

When he sees me, something in his jaw tenses. But I don’t give him time to speak.

I slide close to him, too close. My fingers ghost along his wrist as the music blares, low and dirty. He stiffens at first, but then his hands find my hips like muscle memory.

“I still hate you,” I whisper, eyes locked on his like it’s a dare. I don’t even know why I hate him now. Maybe I just want to. I’m angry and humiliated and wired with adrenaline, and he’s standing there looking at me like I matter. He’s probably telling the truth about Becky — I know that, deep down. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. I also lost count of the amount of assorted alcohol in my system hours ago. Somewhere between the cheap rosé and someone handing me a tequila shot “for vibes,” I stopped keeping track.

“I know,” he says, low and hoarse.

We dance. Or something like it.

It’s all teeth and tension, hips brushing, hands lingering where they shouldn’t. It’s not romantic. It’s not even flirty. It’s messy and desperate and soaked in the complicated residue of our back-and-forths and bad timing and too many feelings left unspoken.

When I left Ruth’s flat, I hadn’t planned on pressing my body against Will like that. I’d planned on ignoring him, on rolling my eyes and laughing with someone else, on pretending he didn’t exist. But here I am—hips swaying to a beat I can barely register, sweat slicking the small of my back, and his hands firm on my waist like he needs something to hold onto before the whole damn room spins away.

It’s messy and deliberate, our bodies in sync and out of sync all at once. I can feel the tension in his grip, the way his thumbs press a little harder when I move against him, like he thinks I might vanish if he lets go. His mouth is near my ear, but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he knows words are useless here—too loud, too late.

I toss a look over my shoulder just to see how wrecked he looks. He does. His jaw’s tight, brows drawn together like this whole thing is hurting him in ways he doesn’t know how to name. Good. I want him wrecked. I want him to feel something other than smug certainty.

“I still hate you,” I murmur, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough to keep it intimate, like a confession sealed in bass and sweat and noise.

His grip falters just for a second, then tightens again. Like he knows this is the only version of an apology he’s going to get right now. Me—still dancing, still close, but furious and unforgiving in every breath. This is punishment. This is power.

And maybe, a little bit, it’s still wanting him.

I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. To him. To myself. To George, who’s somewhere out there kissing the ghost of me.

Will says nothing else, just moves with me. And I let him.

There’s no forgiveness in it, not really. Just rhythm and proximity and the quiet relief of being touched by someone who still feels like home, even if that home is full of cracks. We don’t speak—our bodies do all the talking. Frustration, guilt, want. It thrums between us like a second beat under the music.

I don’t know when the plan changes, but we end up sharing an Uber home. Silent, shoulder to shoulder, the air between us is thick and buzzing like static.

I don’t reach for his hand.

And he doesn’t ask me to explain.

We sit there like two halves of a broken thought, still tethered by something neither of us wants to name. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe the memory of his mouth on mine just hours ago, back when the night still felt full of promise.

Six months ago, the Uber with George to his flat was a bubble of warmth and quiet friendship — the heater cranked just right, the soft lo-fi humming through the speakers, raindrops blurring the city outside into a watercolor dream. Inside, I felt safe, like slipping back into an old jumper. The awkwardness dissolved into easy banter and the kind of comfort that only years of knowing someone can build.

Tonight’s Uber to Will’s flat couldn’t be more different. It’s too warm again, but the heat feels like a weight pressing down instead of a gentle hug. The windows are fogged, but the city beyond feels colder, more distant — the raindrops tracing lazy patterns like a slow, mocking countdown. The scent inside is less familiar: a mix of cheap air freshener and something synthetic, sterile.

There’s no easy music, no quiet laughter — just the hum of the engine and the tight knot twisting in my chest. I lean against the window, but instead of city lights bleeding into soft memories, I’m staring at shadows, wondering how I ended up here.

When the car pulls up outside his flat, neither of us moves at first. The engine hums softly, the night stretching between us.

We both get out of the Uber, the cool air hitting me like a shock after the warmth inside. I stand there for a moment, hesitant, the quiet buzzing in my ears louder than the city around us.

Then I turn toward Will’s apartment foyer, the glass doors glowing faintly in the dark.

I breathe in the echo of the night and try to figure out if stepping inside with him is power… or just another kind of surrender.

[izzyssurfcheese]

how did cassandra clare's books save your life 🎤🎤🎤🎤

Sorry I’ve been on vacation with spotty internet connection.

So basically. It went like this:

Several years ago, I was in a relationship with an avoidantly attached person (pro-tip: don’t) and this person would do this really mean thing where they starved me of affection for weeks at a time, until I was ready to end things. Then they would flood me with attention and convince me to stay.

Fun fact: this technique is called “hot and cold” and it’s been used in war as a torture method. If you do this to someone, you are being mean, bordering on torture.

This person watched me, over the course of two years, go from a securely attached partner, to remarkably anxious one, as a result of the constant emotional roller coaster, and never having support when I needed it, and constantly giving to the other person.

I became severely depressed. I felt that I couldn’t leave - and in that headspace, I really couldn’t.

This person often insinuated that there was something wrong with me,

ie: you are depressed, therefore something is wrong with you, not the situation;

and because they were the person I trusted most I believed them.

So I went to my doctor, and he prescribed me antidepressants.

The antidepressant, “worked”(?) for me, by stopping me from being able to feel anything at all. No emotions whatsoever.

Which actually felt, really amazing at first. (I know how that sounds, just hear me out.)

In six months, I went from being so depressed I wouldn’t eat for days at a time, spent days in bed, and showering very sporadically, to being able to make and keep appointments.

Often pre-antidepressant - I would be driving somewhere, and feel so depressed that I couldn’t find a reason to actually get where I was needed to, and I would just pull over, turn off my car, and stare straight ahead, at nothing, for hours. (I had never done that prior to meeting this partner)

No motivation to go home, no motivation to go anywhere.

Needless to say, I felt absolutely awful at all times, like the world was this brown mud, and I was drowning in it, and there was no escape.

And then when I started the antidepressant, most of that started actually going away.

I didn’t notice at first that I was also unable to feel compassion, or joy, or happiness.

The medicine worked as a sort of gradient, it wasn’t like I woke up completely emotionless one day, it was more like after three months I noticed.

By the time I noticed that I didn’t have emotions at all anymore, I just didn’t care. I didn’t feel shocked, or scared or worried, because all of those are emotions that I didn’t have.

I knew what happened to me, and I knew that the old-me would have been upset, but mostly, I just kept on with life. I ran the numbers and I was more productive without emotions, and as a bonus, I didn’t feel awful anymore. In my (new) book, that was a win.

There was one, huge benefit to not having emotions though that I am still grateful for:

I was finally able to dump that awful boyfriend.

When he tried to manipulate me into staying with his normal dance - [redacted because who needs to be bummed out?]

I just did not care.

I ran the numbers on how much good he was bringing to my life, and how much bad, and he came up staggeringly negative, so I dumped him.

These days, I feel 7% bad about it. While he was profoundly avoidantly attached - and an awful partner - I can see post breakup that he did love me in his own way, and I’ve genuinely never seen another human being break, the way he broke for me once he realized he couldn’t win me back.

I was done sacrificing my whole life for an ounce of affection from him.

But once I dumped him, my life still didn’t really change, because I still couldn’t feel anything.

Fun fact: without emotions, the entire world, just becomes one, big, math problem.

After about a year of being single and emotionless, the sheer boredom of life had really set in. I started thinking about my past, and what I used to like, and I remembered Cassandra Clare’s books.

So I opened my library app, and started re-listening to the audiobooks.

Although I couldn’t feel emotions anymore, I could remember what it was like.

Since that was the closest thing I had, I used it.

Re-listening to Clary and Jace fall in love reminded me of everything I used to be excited about. What I felt in middle school at the time I read them, what I thought romance could feel like, etc.

But most importantly, her books reminded me:

That caring about something isn’t supposed to make you feel worthless.

That you should feel confident that your partner wants to be around you, and that a good partner will listen to you, respect you, and stop when the vibes say stop.

But the book that saved my life, was QoAaD.

When Julian removes his emotions to furlough the effects of the parabati curse, I immediately recognized myself.

P.S. Cassandra Clare nailed the experience of not having emotions.

The book explained to me, in a way that I could understand at the time, why it’s important to have emotions, and all that we lose without them.

When the Seeliee queen says to Julian “you are in the cage” I started to genuinely consider life without the antidepressants.

I knew that I didn’t feel anything because of the medicine, but the idea of going back to being that level of depressed, was daunting. I didn’t know what I would face on the other side.

But seeing Julian have the courage to get his back and that it was worth the struggle, even when the emotions were unpleasant, gave me the courage to try.

So for the first time in two years, I went back to my doctor, and told him I wanted to look at stepping down the medication.

We came up with a plan to do so, and it took about a year 6-7 months to step down safely.

I didn’t notice any change whatsoever, until the final step down, from a teeny tiny dose, to zero.

And about two weeks after my last dose, it was like a dam broke.

What I thought has been an absence of emotions, turned out to be just a wall. Everything from the last two years came flooding at me, and it stayed like that for about two weeks.

After a very rough re-entry, I felt, like myself again, like I hadn’t in years.

Things like hugging my mom had meaning again.

I would walk outside and see butterflies and it actually felt nice.

I cared about people, and myself, and sunlight, and summer, and winter, and swimming.

And it wasn’t perfect, or all nice, but it was remarkably, my life.

And I felt grateful to have it, after losing it for so long.

Ever since then I have felt profoundly fond of her books, for giving me back what I had lost.