#maybe i will write a longer piece for this... maybe...... i most likely will | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yukkiji · 3 days ago

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love again

when a chance return to blue lock reunites you with your ex, otoya eita—the boy who once broke your heart and the only one who ever truly had it—you’re forced to confront the past you never fully let go of. amidst old wounds, meddling fathers, and second chances, he begins to show you that maybe love doesn’t always have to be perfect to be real. maybe, just maybe, this is what it means to love again.

blue lock masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. otoya eita x fem!reader ft bachira meguru

genre: fluff, romance, mild angst, second chance trope

wc: 9.3k

author's note: this has been the longest and i just found myself writing more while proof reading this hehe

you weren’t supposed to be here.

technically, you weren’t even on the list of medics scheduled for duty today. you only ever filled in from time to time—volunteer work, mostly—thanks to your dad, who happened to be one of the senior physicians working with blue lock’s rotating medical team. he’d drag you along whenever someone bailed, mumbling something about “real-world experience” and “pulling your weight.”

today was one of those days.

the medic who was supposed to be on duty had called in sick, and your dad, already drowning in work, gave you that look—the one that meant you didn’t really have a choice. so here you were, standing inside the blue lock arena, medical kit in hand, trying not to look completely out of place.

the air buzzed with intensity. even from the edge of the field, you could feel it—the heat, the ambition, the need to be seen. it was different watching from a screen back in the medical bay. back there, you were just an observer. now, you were close enough to feel the weight of it all.

and then you saw him.

otoya eita.

quick, fluid, all confidence and charm wrapped in sweat and sunlight. you’d seen his name in reports, heard bits and pieces—how he’d nearly thrown it all away, how he clawed his way back. he was reformed, they said. focused. dangerous, in a way that made you wonder what it cost him to smile like that.

you looked down, pretending to check something in your kit.

you first met otoya eita back in middle school.

he was the well-known playboy in those days. breaking hearts like it was part of his routine. either he’d flirt until someone fell for him, or he’d say just enough to leave them wondering if he ever meant it. it was all a game to him. attention, affection, and then—nothing.

when you two became classmates, he found himself drawn to you—and he didn’t know why. you weren’t flashy. you weren’t the loudest or the prettiest or the kind of girl that begged for attention.

you were just… kind.

the typical sweet girl. a quiet ray of sunshine. the one who always remembered to bring an extra pen. the one who smiled at everyone like it didn’t cost a thing. soft voice, warm eyes, and a laugh that stayed with him longer than he cared to admit.

and maybe that was what unsettled him the most.

you weren’t trying to impress him. you didn’t giggle at his stupid jokes or blush when he teased you. you treated him the same way you treated everyone else—gently, genuinely, like he wasn’t someone to chase or be wary of.

and that… confused him.

he flirted anyway, of course. it was second nature by then. made his usual comments. tested the waters.

but you never played along.

one day, while he was leaning against your desk, doing that thing where he smirks and says your name like it’s a secret only he knows, you looked up at him—calm, collected—and said:

“you should stop.”

he blinked. “stop what?”

“this,” you gestured vaguely between the two of you. “whatever game you think you’re playing. you flirt with every girl who breathes near you, and it’s getting old.”

you didn’t raise your voice. didn’t sound angry. but the words hit him harder than if you had.

“you’re not serious,” he’d said, a weak laugh slipping out. but something about your eyes made him pause.

“i am,” you said, still with that same polite smile. “you’re the biggest flirt i’ve ever met, otoya. and i don’t think you even realize how much it hurts people when you treat their feelings like a pastime.”

he didn’t know what to say to that. no one had ever called him out before. not like that. not with honesty instead of bitterness. not with clarity instead of jealousy.

you’d gone back to your notebook after that, like the conversation was over.

no drama. no lingering stare. no satisfaction in calling him out. just a quiet shift, like you’d decided it wasn’t worth your time.

and maybe that should’ve been the end of it.

but otoya found himself even more drawn to you after that.

because for the first time, someone hadn’t melted under his attention. you didn’t treat his words like gifts—you weighed them, called them empty, and handed them right back.

he realized then that you were like a camellia.

beautiful in a way that wasn’t loud or overwhelming—just steady. graceful. the kind of flower that blooms in winter, when everything else gives up. soft petals layered with quiet strength.

but camellias have thorns too. ones you don’t always see right away. and he hadn’t seen them—not until that moment, when you cut through his charm with a single sentence.

he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

after that day, something in otoya shifted. slowly, then all at once.

he started showing up early to help set up for school events. not just to be near you—at least, that’s what he told himself—but because he liked the way your eyes lit up when someone actually followed through on their promises.

he began waiting for you after class. never said it outright, but he’d linger by the gates, hands in his pockets, pretending like it was just a coincidence. like he just happened to be heading the same way.

and eventually, he started walking you home.

he never pushed. never flirted the way he used to. instead, he asked about your day. listened when you talked. remembered the small things.

the rumors never fully stopped. some people said he was just bored. others said you’d be next. a few whispered that you’d changed him—like that was a bad thing.

but you didn’t listen to any of it.

because you believed in what you had.

you believed in him.

and somewhere between the quiet walks home and the way he started remembering the things that mattered to you—your favorite snacks, the songs you hummed under your breath, the way you liked the sky best when it was overcast—you found yourself falling for him.

not in the loud, all-consuming way people expected. but in the quiet, steady way that felt like trust.

you knew he was being genuine.

knew it in the way he looked at you—no teasing, no games, just something soft and uncertain. knew it in the way he stopped entertaining the attention from others, like he didn’t need it anymore.

he was still otoya—still charming, still cocky sometimes, still figuring himself out.

but with you, he let his guard down.

and that meant more to you than any perfect romance ever could.

you started dating sometime around your third year in middle school.

there wasn’t a grand confession. no big moment under the cherry blossoms or dramatic “will you be mine” in the hallway. just the two of you walking home one afternoon, shoulders brushing, and him reaching out to quietly take your hand.

and that was enough.

otoya proved himself in the ways that mattered. he showed up. he listened. he stayed. and for you, that was all it took.

rumors still followed him like shadows—whispers in the hallways, passing comments from people who still thought they knew who he was. but you chose to ignore them.

not out of naivety, but for your own peace of mind. because you knew what he was like when it was just the two of you. no masks, no act. just eita.

and you loved him for that.

you thought maybe—if the two of you held on long enough—you could carry that feeling into high school, into something more.

but not all stories go the way you hope they will.

when high school came around, things felt… different.

you started volunteering occasionally with the athletics committee—mostly on the first aid team. it wasn’t glamorous work, but it kept you close to something you cared about. helping. staying useful. staying present.

otoya, of course, was already making a name for himself on the soccer team.

he was fast, relentless, impossible to miss on the field. even when he was drenched in sweat and surrounded by cheering crowds, his eyes always searched for you in the sidelines. and when he found you—just a glance, just a second—it was like nothing else mattered.

despite his packed schedule—practices, matches, meetings—he still made time for you. he’d walk you home whenever he could, even if it meant running to practice afterward. he’d bring you energy drinks during long committee meetings, sneak you your favorite bread from the cafeteria, show up after games with that tired, crooked smile and ask, “did you see that goal?”

and you thought—maybe being in almost the same circle, being around the same events, the same people—meant you’d get more time together.

that it’d bring you closer.

but sometimes, even when you’re running in the same direction… it doesn’t mean you’re still side by side.

you started to notice the changes in little things.

his replies came slower. plans got pushed back, or canceled entirely. he forgot to walk you home more often than not—but always apologized, always with that tired voice and the same soft excuse: “sorry, practice ran late.”

you believed him. you always did. but that didn’t stop the ache from settling in your chest.

and it wasn’t helping that he was getting more popular.

on the field, he was electric—fast, confident, untouchable. off the field, people started noticing. upperclassmen. girls from other schools. even some of the younger players who looked up to him like he was already something legendary.

you weren’t the jealous type.

you never had been.

but even so, something ugly started to bloom in your chest—quiet and tight and heavy. insecurity.

because the more people praised him, the more you started to wonder if you were still enough.

he never gave you a reason to doubt him—not really. he still brought you little things when he remembered. still smiled at you when your eyes met across the field. still held your hand when no one else was looking.

but it felt different now.

like you were holding onto something slipping between your fingers.

and the worst part? you didn’t want to ask for more—not when you knew how hard he was working, how much pressure he was under.

so you stayed quiet and kept showing up. kept loving him the only way you knew how.

but deep down, you could feel it—something shifting.

the slow, steady unraveling.

you just didn’t know how much longer the thread would hold.

sadly, the thread broke.

the locker room.

it wasn’t intentional—just a quick trip to drop off a first aid kit after the game. exhaustion clung to your skin like something permanent after a long day of standing, running, managing cramps and bruises.

then came the sound—bright, too familiar. a girl’s laugh.

you turned the corner, and the world stopped.

her arms wrapped tightly around him, his back against the lockers, and her lips on his.

he didn’t pull away. he didn’t push her off. he didn’t even move.

it lasted only a second—maybe less—but it was enough.

your breath caught somewhere in your chest. the kit slipped slightly in your hand, suddenly heavier than it should’ve been. the hallway rang with silence, except for the echo of her laugh and the pounding in your ears.

she had always been there. always stayed a little too long after games. always smiled too wide when he was around. always looked at you like she was waiting to prove a point.

and deep down, you knew.

some part of you always knew.

but that? that felt like betrayal wrapped in confirmation.

you didn’t confront him. didn’t shout.

you turned and walked.

fast.

his voice never came, but his footsteps did—rushed, familiar, echoing down the corridor behind you.

you didn’t want to hear him. didn’t want to give him the chance.

so you ducked into the nearest storage room, pulled the door shut, and pressed your back to the wall. the air was cold. the silence even colder.

outside, his footsteps slowed.

lingered.

then faded.

he never saw where you went and you never gave him the chance to explain.

a week later, you sent a message. short. final.

“don’t reach out. we’re done.”

he never replied.

and maybe that hurt more than anything else. maybe part of you wanted him to fight for it. maybe you were afraid of what he’d say if he did.

you had told him once—clear, serious:

“cheating is non-negotiable, eita.” “i know what people say about you. i know your past. but if we do this… i need to know i’m the only one.”

he had promised. “you are. i swear.”

but promises, it seemed, were meant to be broken.

what you didn’t know—what you never stayed long enough to see— was that he did push her off. did shove her away like her touch was poison. did snap at her, furious, telling her it meant nothing. that it wasn’t her he was thinking about.

but by then, you were already gone.

he disappeared into blue lock.

you disappeared into silence.

and just like that, you stopped existing in each other’s lives—like none of it had happened. like first love wasn’t supposed to leave that kind of mark.

a few months later, here you are—back in it, though you hadn’t planned to be.

the arena is colder than you expected. sleek and sterile, all sharp lines and too-bright lights. a place built to turn hunger into greatness. you're not even supposed to be on duty. the original medic called in sick, and your father—ever persuasive—asked you to fill in.

so here you are. wandering unfamiliar hallways with a med kit slung over one shoulder, muttering under your breath as you look for the bathroom. the signage is useless. the layout’s a maze. and the lights overhead hum like they’re mocking you.

your sneakers squeak slightly on the polished floor as you turn the corner.

then, footsteps.

familiar. steady. unhurried.

a tall shadow appears ahead.

you freeze.

and when he rounds the corner—just a few feet away—it’s him.

otoya eita.

older now. sharper. still tall, still wearing that same wild, lazy hair. there’s still something cocky in his eyes, but it’s quieter now. dulled. like something in him got worn down over time.

he sees you.

he stops.

and in one second, everything comes rushing back, third year. his stupid grin after practice. your hand in his. his lips on your temple. the quiet ache in your chest when you walked away.

and just like that, the thread pulls tight again.

“…you’re not supposed to be here,” he says, voice low—surprised, not accusing.

your grip tightens around the strap of your kit. “yeah,” you reply, just as quietly. “i’m not.”

you don’t look at him. not fully. not yet.

he takes a step forward. hesitant. careful, like you might vanish if he gets too close.

“i didn’t think i’d see you again.”

“you can thank the medic who called in sick,” you mutter. “i’m just a fill-in.”

he almost smiles, but there’s no light in it. just the shadow of something older. heavier.

there’s a long pause. then—

“that day, back then—”

“don’t,” you cut in, firm but not unkind. “not here.”

he nods, once. but the silence between you stretches thin, fragile.

then, he says it. “you didn’t stay long enough to see what actually happened.”

your throat tightens.

“i saw enough.”

“did you?” he asks, softly. not defensive. just… hurt.

you look away, jaw clenched. “don’t.”

“don’t what?”

“don’t make me doubt what i saw. don’t act like it didn’t ruin me.”

“i’m not,” he says, stepping a little closer. “i just—i didn’t kiss her back. i didn’t want it. i pushed her off.”

your heart stutters. because those are the words you wanted to hear months ago—words you needed.

but now? now they just sound like an echo from a place you no longer live in.

you lift your eyes to his. and then you say it—quiet, steady:

“you know i only had one condition, eita.”

he freezes.

“one,” you continue. “don’t make me look stupid. don’t make me feel like just another girl in your past.”

his voice cracks, almost like he’s holding back more than just words. “you weren’t.”

“but i felt like i was,” you say. “and that was enough.”

he takes a breath, slow and tight. “i promised you.”

“you did.” you nod. “and then you broke it.”

“no,” he shakes his head, urgently now. “i didn’t. i didn’t cheat on you. i never would’ve.”

“but i didn’t see that,” you whisper. “i saw her. i saw you. and i couldn’t stay long enough to learn the difference.”

he opens his mouth again—but before anything else can be said, voices echo down the hall.

“yo, otoya! where the hell’d you go?” “coach is looking for you!”

you both freeze.

the footsteps are getting closer. teammates turning the corner.

otoya looks over his shoulder, then back at you. his jaw clenches. there’s something desperate in his eyes.

“i’ll talk to you after the match,” he says quickly, quietly. like a promise. like he means it this time.

you don’t answer.

you just step back as his teammates reach him, loud and oblivious.

and even as he walks away, even as he throws one last glance over his shoulder—you don’t move.

because this isn’t the version of him you used to know.

and you’re not the same girl who used to wait around to be chosen.

the match ended.

blue lock won.

the crowd roared, lights flashed, names echoed through the arena—and somewhere in the chaos, you stood with your kit clutched to your chest, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

he looked for you once, eyes scanning the crowd from the field. you turned before he could catch your gaze.

you weren’t sure if you were supposed to stay. if you wanted to stay. if seeing him again would do anything but crack open everything you spent months sealing shut.

you told yourself you’d just patch up whoever needed it, then leave.

quick, clean, professional.

but when the final whistle blew and the players filed back inside, part of you lingered in the tunnel—just far enough to not be noticed, just close enough to feel the weight of it all.

you were having second thoughts.

about staying.

about meeting him.

about what it would mean to look him in the eye after pretending he didn’t exist.

you told yourself it wouldn’t matter. that it was in the past. that it didn’t deserve to crawl back into your chest and take up space.

but the ache was still there. deep, dull, constant. the kind of ache that didn’t listen to logic. the kind that came with unanswered questions and the memory of a promise he swore he wouldn’t break.

and now, here you are—still standing there, frozen in the hallway outside the locker rooms, when you hear it:

his laugh.

soft. quiet. real.

the sliding door suddenly opens, and the sharp hiss of it makes you flinch. instinctively, you take a step back.

“ah—sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

it’s not otoya.

bachira meguru stands in the doorway, slightly damp from a post-match rinse, hair curling around his face and jersey half on like he was too impatient to dry off properly. he blinks at you, eyes curious and bright.

“you’re the medic, right?” he tilts his head, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to place you. “don’t think i’ve seen you around before.”

you force a smile, small and polite. “i’m just filling in.”

“hm,” he hums, rocking on his heels. “well, you’re lucky. you came on a win.”

you nod, shifting the med kit in your hand. “yeah. congratulations.”

bachira’s smile widens, then his gaze flickers behind him for a moment. “oh—hey, otoya—”

your chest tightens.

“he’s looking for someone,” bachira adds absentmindedly, before glancing back at you. something unreadable flickers in his eyes, like maybe he connects the dots too quickly for comfort. “i’ll, uh… let you two talk.”

and just like that, he slips past you with a grin and a wave, leaving the door half-open behind him.

you don’t move.

your fingers curl around the strap of your kit like it might anchor you to the floor.

because you know who’s coming next.

you just don’t know what version of him you’ll be looking at.

or what version of you he’s expecting to find.

you don’t move.

not when footsteps echo from inside the locker room. not when his voice—low, a little rough from exertion—says something you can’t quite make out. not even when you hear your name.

then—

he steps into view.

otoya eita.

his hair’s damp, strands clinging to his forehead. his jersey is slung over one shoulder now, a towel in the other hand. when he sees you, he stops short—like he wasn’t ready. like maybe he didn’t expect you to still be there.

his eyes lock on yours.

and for a second, neither of you speaks.

just silence. and history.

he takes a step closer, cautious. “you waited.”

you shake your head, eyes flicking to the floor. “i wasn’t going to.”

“but you did.”

his voice is quiet. softer than you remember. none of that flirty, smug ease you were so used to. just plain honesty, hanging heavy between you.

you sigh, shifting the med kit higher on your shoulder. “i don’t know why.”

he doesn’t press it. doesn’t try to close the distance.

you glance past him, toward the noise behind the door. “you should go back in. they’re probably looking for you.”

“i told them i’d come back,” he says. “after i talked to you.”

his gaze doesn’t waver. neither does yours.

“eita…” your voice trails, too many thoughts trying to push through at once. “i’m not saying i forgive you. i’m not even saying i understand what happened that day.”

his jaw tightens. “you didn’t stay long enough for me to explain.”

“i know.”

you take a breath.

“but i’ll think about it.”

his eyes search yours, like he’s trying not to get his hopes up—but failing a little anyway.

“you will?”

“i said i’ll think about it,” you repeat, softer. “that’s all i can offer right now.”

and for now, that’s enough.

he nods, once. “then i’ll wait.”

after the match against the u-20 team, blue lock gave its players a two-week break. a rare sliver of rest between battles. for most of them, it meant a return to normalcy—sleeping in, catching up with friends, maybe going home.

but for otoya, it meant something else entirely.

you had once told him, back when everything fell apart, “you didn’t chase me.” and he hadn’t. not really.

he had let you walk away. let the silence settle and harden. maybe out of guilt. maybe because he thought it was what you wanted.

but now—he’s chasing you.

not with words. not with excuses. but with action. quiet, consistent effort that slipped into your life like sunlight through drawn curtains.

the first time, he showed up outside your gate with a bundle of wildflowers clutched awkwardly in both hands. they weren’t perfect—some petals already wilting, stems unevenly cut—but his eyes were soft and unsure when he said, “i didn’t know which ones you’d like, so i just picked the ones that looked the most like you.”

you hadn’t known what to say to that. so you let him hand them over.

after that, he came around more often. never uninvited. never demanding.

sometimes he brought flowers, sometimes your favorite snacks, and once—just once—a folded paper crane with a scribbled note inside: “if i could go back to that day, i’d run after you sooner.”

he never stayed long. ten minutes, fifteen at most. asked how you were. smiled when you smiled. listened when you spoke.

it wasn’t perfect.

some days, the ache in your chest whispered that you shouldn’t let him in again. that trust broken once might never hold the same shape.

but other days, when he laughed—soft and warm, like the version of him only you ever got to see—you caught yourself remembering. not the end. not the pain.

just the beginning. when it all felt easy. when he made you feel chosen.

your mother said nothing at first. just eyed the growing collection of vases by the windowsill, each one filled with different blooms. but on the fifth day, she leaned over your shoulder and said quietly, “he’s trying. you see that, right?”

and you did. even if you hadn’t said anything yet.

then the two weeks passed in a blink.

the evening before he was due back at blue lock, he came by again—but this time, no flowers, no folded notes. just him.

he stood outside your house under the fading orange sky, the porch light flickering to life above him. his bag was slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly windswept, eyes tired in a way that told you he hadn’t slept much the night before.

“this is the last day of break,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “i’ll be gone again starting tomorrow. might not get time to visit.”

you stood in the doorway, arms loosely folded, heart thudding a little louder than you wanted to admit.

he took a breath, looked straight at you. “but i wanted to say… please wait for me.”

your breath caught.

“i’ll still wait for your answer,” he added. “even if it takes weeks. months. i’ll wait. because this time, i want to do it right.”

your fingers tightened around the edge of your sleeves. it was hard to speak past the knot in your throat.

“…you’re serious about this?”

he nodded, without hesitation. “i’m serious about you.”

silence lingered for a beat. then you exhaled, slowly.

“i’ll think about it.”

his eyes softened, but he didn’t try to press more. didn’t ask for a timeline, didn’t demand anything.

instead, he took a step closer, then paused.

“…can i hug you?”

he asked it so gently, like the answer could either break or remake him.

you stared at him for a long second, searching for any trace of the boy who broke your heart—and finding only someone trying to piece it back together.

so you nodded. “yeah. it’s okay.”

and when he wrapped his arms around you, he held you like he’d been waiting months to do it.

you didn’t lean away.

you let yourself be still in it. just for a moment.

“good luck, eita,” you murmured against his shoulder, voice barely above a whisper.

he pulled back, just enough to meet your eyes. and in that look was a silent promise:

i’ll come back.

when you thought it would be a while before you saw him again, fate—ever unpredictable—had other plans.

because barely two weeks after that night at your doorstep, you found yourself walking past the familiar white halls of blue lock once more.

your father had asked for a favor. his usual assistant—an experienced medic who helped monitor and care for the players—was placed on temporary leave due to a family emergency. with the neo egoist league entering a critical stretch, and medical personnel stretched thin, he needed someone he could trust.

“just until my assistant gets back,” he had said, pressing the schedule into your hand. “i know it’s a lot to ask, but you know the environment. you know the work. and… i think you’re ready.”

you weren’t sure what he meant by that last part.

but you said yes.

so now here you are again—wearing the familiar badge clipped to your collar, carrying the same first aid kit, standing beneath the same cold fluorescent lights.

you weren’t supposed to be here.

not really.

but the universe has a habit of looping you back into unfinished chapters. and the moment your name was listed as part of the temporary staff for blue lock’s medical rotation during the neo egoist league, you knew exactly what it meant.

you were going to see otoya again.

not in passing. not across the street. but here—up close, often, and in the same space where it all began.

you tried to tell yourself it was fine. you had boundaries now. clarity. time had done its work on you.

and yet, as you stepped into the arena again—hearts racing just a little faster, footsteps echoing softly down the polished hallway—it was impossible to ignore the quiet buzz under your skin.

you weren’t even supposed to run into him that soon, but your father, as always, had other ideas.

"come with me," he said that morning, clipboard in hand, already walking too fast for someone who hadn’t even finished his coffee. "we need to do a quick round at the spanish stratum—fc barcha. they’ve been overworking in training again, and i want updated vitals from the forward line."

you barely managed to throw on your jacket and grab your kit before he was already halfway down the corridor.

"dad, don’t you have, like, three interns for this kind of thing?"

"they’re busy. and you already know most of the players. it'll be faster with you."

he didn’t even bother to hide his smug tone. and that’s when it hit you—he was doing this on purpose.

he knew exactly who was stationed under fc barcha.

he was trying to push you back into otoya’s orbit, pretending it was part of the job.

you sighed, adjusting the strap of your med kit over your shoulder, following him through the now-familiar blue lock halls. the sound of shouting echoed faintly in the distance—cleats on turf, a whistle being blown, someone yelling directions in clipped spanish.

fc barcha’s stratum was tucked in one of the sunlit wings of the facility—wide glass windows, synthetic grass that looked almost too perfect, and a row of players wrapping up their drills at the far end of the field.

and there he was.

otoya eita. jogging off the pitch with a towel slung over his neck, damp hair clinging to his forehead, laughing at something one of his teammates said.

but the moment his eyes found you—everything stopped.

his smile faltered just slightly.

your heart did too.

he didn’t say anything. not right away. but he walked over, slowing as he reached you and your father like the weight of the last few months was finally catching up.

"there he is," your dad said, pointing without subtlety. "otoya, come here. we’re running a quick check before i report the stats."

you resisted the urge to groan.

otoya stopped right in front of you, eyes never quite leaving your face.

"wasn’t expecting to see you here," he said, voice lower than you remembered.

"me neither," you answered, trying to stay neutral. "temporary. just covering until your medic’s back."

your father shoved the chart into your hands like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"take his vitals for me, would you?"

you stared at him, eyebrows raised, but he’d already turned away to greet another staff member, clearly giving you both space.

you narrowed your eyes. suspicious.

he was absolutely doing this on purpose.

and now you were standing there—face to face with the boy who’d once cracked your heart right down the center—while he waited quietly, the tension between you thick enough to choke on.

"i’ll be quick," you said, pulling out your stethoscope.

otoya just gave a small smile. "no rush. i don’t mind you staying a little longer."

you hated that your chest fluttered at that.

hated it even more that some part of you didn’t want to leave just yet.

you pretend not to notice the warmth in his voice. pretend your hands don’t tremble ever so slightly as you wrap the cuff around his arm. the tension is barely there—so subtle it could pass as nerves from working with a pro-level team.

but you know better.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just watches you.

and that’s somehow worse. the silence between you hums with everything unsaid. like dust hanging in still air—waiting to settle, but never quite falling. it’s strange how easily he still fits into your peripheral vision. how quickly your body remembers the rhythm of being near him.

you scribble down the vitals, quick and efficient.

“heart rate’s normal,” you murmur.

“of course,” he says, a half-laugh curling into the edges of his voice. “you’re the one checking it.”

you glance at him, unamused. “don’t flirt with me during vitals.”

he tilts his head. “it’s not flirting if it’s the truth.”

you don’t answer. don’t rise to the bait. but your hands slow just slightly, and you hate how he notices—how he always notices.

he shifts on the bench, glancing down at the floor for a beat, then back up. “you look good,” he says, quieter now. “i mean—not just… you know. like you’re doing okay.”

you hesitate. the words hit differently when they’re soft. when they aren’t part of his usual charm.

“i’ve been… busy,” you reply. “just doing what needs to be done.”

he nods, slow and solemn. “yeah. i get that.”

you close the medical kit with a quiet snap. the weight of the moment settles heavily between you. there’s history in it—too much, really. unspoken things and old scars, stitched up clumsily but never quite healed.

“i’m trying,” he says suddenly. “i didn’t chase you back then. i should have. but i’m doing it now… even if it’s late.”

you look at him—really look—and for a second, it’s hard to breathe.

“i know,” you say, and the honesty in your voice startles even you. “i can see that.”

before either of you can say anything more, a familiar voice breaks through the moment.

“otooooya! coach is calling, man!” bachira’s voice echoes across the training grounds, bright and teasing. “stop flirting with the medic and move!”

otoya sighs through his nose, muttering a quiet curse, and glances at you like he’s torn between obligation and the conversation that just started.

“can we talk after this?” he asks, voice gentle. “like really talk. no running. no hiding.”

you pause.

but the way he’s looking at you—so open, so afraid of the word no—makes something in your chest soften.

“…yeah,” you say. “after your review. i’ll wait.”

his shoulders ease, just a little. a breath he’d been holding finally released.

he hesitates, then asks, “is it okay if i… hug you?”

you blink, surprised.

still, you nod. slowly.

he steps forward, arms wrapping around you carefully, like you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. he smells like sweat and grass and something distinctly him. your hands stay at your sides at first—then lift slightly, settling against his back.

and just as you're about to pull away—

he leans in, pressing a light kiss to the top of your head.

your entire body stiffens.

he freezes too.

“…shit—sorry,” he mutters, pulling back quickly, eyes wide. “i didn’t mean to—it just—i used to do that a lot, didn’t i?”

your heartbeat’s too loud in your ears.

you nod. “yeah. you did.”

his lips part like he wants to apologize again—but the look on your face stops him. not angry. just tired. overwhelmed.

he rubs the back of his neck, stepping back.

“i really am trying to get this right.”

you meet his eyes one last time before turning away.

“we’ll talk after,” you say. “don’t make me regret saying yes.”

“i won’t,” he says, more certain than you’ve heard him in months. “i swear.”

and then you leave—pulse still quick, steps unsteady, and the ghost of a kiss still lingering where his lips had touched your hair.

you needed air.

not just oxygen—but distance. from him. from memories. from how easy it still is to fall into step with otoya eita, even after everything.

you told yourself it was nothing. just a reflex. an accident. the kind of thing someone does out of old habit without thinking. but your body remembered it too vividly. the way he used to greet you. the way he always kissed the top of your head like it was second nature.

you hated that it still made you feel something.

so now, you’re tucked away inside your father’s office—door locked, curtains drawn, pretending like you’re reviewing notes on the tablet in front of you. you’re not. the screen's dim, untouched for the past ten minutes.

your phone buzzes once, a notification lighting up the corner.

not him. just a reminder from your calendar: “n.e.l. — observe stratum assignments (tentative).”

you sigh, head tipping back against the couch.

your father had told you earlier, “i’ll be heading around to check on the other stratums. taking a few interns with me. you can stay here and rest.” but he had left the fc barcha player medical files open on the desk. hadn’t even tried to be subtle about it.

you know what he’s doing.

he didn’t drag you back into the arena by chance. didn’t ask you to fill in just because of a missing medic. he’s trying to fix something neither of you have had the courage to face.

he knows about otoya.

of course he does. he always liked him, maybe more than you expected. maybe more than he should have. and now he’s orchestrating little reunions under the guise of work assignments and medical rotations.

you glance toward the door.

your chest still feels too full. too heavy. like something is trying to press its way out from under your ribs.

“check on fc barcha,” he had said casually.

right.

as if you didn’t know exactly who was assigned there.

you close the tablet and shove it into your bag.

your feet drag a little on the way back toward the fc barcha stratum. exhaustion settles in your bones—not the kind that comes from work, but from feeling too much, too fast. your father had messaged you just five minutes ago:

“check on barcha one last time before you call it a day. few of them might’ve gotten banged up.”

short. simple. not even a hint of the real reason he was probably sending you back there.

you exhale through your nose as you walk the winding corridors of blue lock. the halls are quieter now, echoing with only the occasional voice or footsteps from a far-off training room. you keep your head down, kit slung over your shoulder, silently rehearsing what you’ll say if you run into anyone you don’t feel ready to face.

what you didn’t expect was seeing him again—already.

the clinic door is half-open, soft chatter spilling out.

you peek in.

and there he is.

otoya sits on the edge of the bed with a faintly sheepish smile, one ankle raised on a foam block while bachira applies an ice pack with exaggerated care.

"stop squirming, man," bachira huffs, pressing the pack down harder than necessary. "you're worse than isagi when he gets a paper cut."

otoya winces. “it’s cold, you demon.”

you blink. of course. of course this is how the universe chooses to set up your next conversation—with him mildly injured, bachira grinning like a cat, and you standing in the doorway feeling like you've walked into a scene from some weird sitcom.

they both turn to look at you.

otoya straightens immediately, his expression shifting—brightening with a hint of nervousness.

"hey," he says.

you glance at his ankle, then at him.

“i wasn’t expecting to talk to you in this kind of situation,” you say, stepping fully into the room and dropping your kit gently onto the nearby counter.

otoya laughs lightly, scratching the back of his neck. “yeah… not exactly how i imagined our next conversation either.”

bachira, still holding the ice pack, grins between the two of you like he’s watching his favorite drama unfold in real time.

“do you want me to, uh… give you guys a moment?” he asks, far too entertained.

you don’t answer right away. your eyes stay on otoya’s ankle—swollen slightly but not alarming.

“you rolled it?” you ask.

“during the final sprint,” otoya says. “nothing serious. just being dramatic, apparently.”

“very dramatic,” bachira echoes, already standing up and handing the pack off to you. “i’ll go… hydrate. or nap. or spy on rin.”

he exits with a two-finger salute, humming a tune as he disappears down the hall.

now it’s just you and otoya. again.

you place the ice pack more securely and adjust the elevation of his leg. you don’t say much at first—too aware of the silence. of his eyes on you. of the way he’s trying so hard to read you without pushing too far.

“so,” he finally says, soft, careful. “guess fate really doesn’t want us to stop bumping into each other.”

you don’t smile, but you don’t look away either.

“maybe fate’s just testing whether or not i’ll hit you with this clipboard.”

he chuckles under his breath. “fair.”

and then quieter, more serious: “but i’m glad you came.”

your hands freeze just slightly in their motion, before resuming.

“…i said we’d talk,” you reply.

“yeah,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “and i meant it when i said i’d wait.”

there’s a beat of silence, but it’s not uncomfortable—just… familiar.

you glance down at the ice pack, adjusting it just slightly, then brushing your thumb carefully along the edge of the wrap. it’s automatic, second nature now. like muscle memory.

and suddenly, the moment feels too close to another lifetime.

you’re reminded of middle school—of sitting beside him on the edge of the field with a scraped knee or a twisted wrist. of him wincing dramatically while you dabbed antiseptic on his cuts. of high school afternoons when he’d come find you after games with grass in his hair and that boyish grin, holding out some new bruise like it was a trophy.

"you always manage to get hurt in the dumbest ways," you'd say back then, shaking your head.

and he’d laugh and say, “just an excuse to see you fuss over me.”

you swallow hard, blinking back to the present where he’s older, a little more careful with his words, but somehow still the same.

“this feels… familiar,” you murmur.

his smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, a little wistful. “yeah. like we’ve rewound time or something.”

you shift on your feet, not quite meeting his eyes.

“…i’ve been thinking about us,” you finally say, voice quiet but steady.

his breath catches—just barely. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush you. he just waits. like he promised.

you place the ice pack down gently on the metal tray beside you, your fingers lingering on the cold surface for a few seconds longer than necessary. it gives you something to focus on, something to hold onto while your thoughts race. the room is quiet—too quiet—and the sterile scent of antiseptic in the air reminds you too much of before. of middle school afternoons and soccer matches and the way he used to wince but smile anyway when you wrapped his wrist or iced his knee.

this moment feels like those. and yet, completely different.

you finally look up.

he’s still watching you, his expression unreadable but open—like he’s bracing for whatever you might say next. and somehow, that makes it harder.

"i’ve been thinking," you start, voice soft, slow, uncertain at first. "about us. about what happened."

he doesn’t react. not yet. just listens. quietly, carefully. like each word is something he wants to remember.

you inhale deeply. it steadies you enough to continue.

"i spent so much time convincing myself that walking away was the right thing. that maybe if i left first, i’d hurt less. that if i didn’t ask for answers, i wouldn’t have to hear something that would shatter everything." your voice falters, but you push through it.

"but i should’ve listened. i should’ve stayed long enough to hear you out. and when i didn’t… i just kept wondering what if i was wrong.”

you glance down at your hands, twisting them in your lap.

“i didn’t believe you, eita. and i’m sorry.”

you expect silence—or worse, a flash of disappointment in his eyes. but instead, when you meet his gaze again, it’s not disappointment you see. it’s something softer. something sadder. understanding.

“you don’t have to apologize,” he says, voice low but steady. “not for that.”

you blink. “but i—”

before you can finish, otoya’s hand lifts—gentle, familiar—and brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. his fingers linger just a little longer as he tucks it behind your ear, the gesture so soft it nearly undoes you.

“you were hurt,” he says, voice quieter now. steadier. “i saw it in your face.”

his gaze drops briefly, like the memory of it still stings. “you looked at me like i’d proven every awful thing you were afraid of. like everything we built just cracked open in front of you. and then you turned away—so fast, like even staying in the same room with me was too much.”

he draws in a slow breath, his fingers now curling into the fabric of his shorts. not out of nervousness, but restraint.

“i saw how hard you were trying not to fall apart right there. and i didn’t stop you. i didn’t even say your name.”

he lifts his head again, meeting your eyes with that same look that once made your heart race—honest and open, with none of the charm he used to hide behind.

“so no, you don’t owe me an apology,” he says, quietly but firmly. “you trusted me. you believed in me, even when you had every reason not to. i broke that. and i should’ve fought harder to fix it.”

his voice lowers even more now—barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t. because i was afraid. and maybe because i thought you deserved better than a guy who keeps messing up the only good thing he ever had.”

your chest tightens.

this—this version of otoya. unguarded. stripped down. not trying to win you over, not trying to flirt his way out. just… being here. showing up.

it makes your throat burn with something you’re not sure you have the words for. the weight of everything—what was lost, what was misunderstood, what was still lingering—settles somewhere in your chest, warm and aching.

then otoya speaks again, voice softer than before, carrying none of the usual teasing edge.

“if you want to take things slow,” he says, eyes steady on yours, “i’m fine with that. even if it means we just stand here. even if all it means is that you’re here with me again.”

he says it like a promise. like patience isn’t a price, but a privilege. like waiting—even in silence—is still better than never being close to you again.

“you changed me for the better, sweets,” he says softly, his voice dipping into something more vulnerable than you’re used to hearing. “and i didn’t even realize it until you weren’t there anymore.”

the nickname—sweets—slips from his lips like a reflex. it was always his favorite to call you. back then, he’d say it with a smirk, just to make you roll your eyes or hide your smile. now, it comes out gentler, less playful. more like something sacred he’s afraid to break.

he lets out a breath, shaking his head a little.

“i didn’t know the things i saw in movies—the way guys would do stupid, over-the-top stuff just to get the girl—i didn’t realize i was doing that too. not until way later.” he chuckles under his breath, a little sheepish. “bringing you snacks, waiting for you after class, volunteering at that dumb school festival just because you were in charge of it.”

his eyes meet yours again, softer now.

“i wasn’t acting. i just… really wanted you to see me. the real me. not the version everyone else talked about.”

you feel something pull tight in your chest—nostalgia, regret, affection. all tangled up in the boy he used to be and the man standing in front of you now.

he’s still him. but not exactly. he’s grown into something steadier, softer in the ways that matter.

“and when i got that text,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges, “i knew i messed everything the fuck up.”

your breath catches. he’s never said it out loud before. not like this.

“i was about to decline my blue lock application,” he admits, eyes not leaving yours. “i was this close. i didn’t care about rankings or japan’s future strikers or any of that shit—i just wanted to fix us. but… i knew you wouldn’t want me to give it all up for you. not like that.”

he swallows, jaw tight, as if forcing himself to keep going.

“so i accepted it. told myself that chasing something you believed in was still something you would’ve told me to do. and look—” he huffs a soft laugh, like he still can’t believe it. “i guess fate wasn’t done with us. you’re here. again. and i’m not gonna waste it this time.”

his voice dips lower, more certain.

“not if i still have the chance to try. to earn this. to earn you.”

this was the otoya eita you fell in love with. the one that the public doesn't know and you only know.

"you still do, eita, but we'lll take things slow

“not if i still have the chance to try. to earn this. to earn you.”

this—this was the otoya eita you fell in love with.

not the flirt everyone used to whisper about in crowded hallways. not the boy who smiled too easily and made girls fall harder than he meant to. this was the version no one else really got to see. the one who stayed behind to help you clean up after school events. who tied your shoelaces before a big exam because your hands were shaking. the one who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that ever made sense.

this version? he was real. and he was standing right in front of you again.

your voice is quiet, but steady.

“have the chance, eita,” you say, meeting his eyes. “but we’ll take things slow.”

a pause stretches between you. not heavy. not tense. just full of everything unsaid.

and then he smiles—small, almost relieved. the kind of smile that doesn’t need words to say thank you or i’ll wait or i’m still yours, even now.

“slow,” he repeats, like it’s a promise. “whatever pace you need, i’m right there.”

before you can say anything back, his hands move—gently, deliberately. one finds your waist, pulling you in with a familiarity that still makes your breath hitch. the other comes up to your face, calloused fingertips brushing your cheek, then settling there, cradling it like something fragile and precious.

your heart skips. he leans in.

and then—

his lips press against yours.

it’s soft. not rushed. not hungry or desperate. just real. steady. sure.

you’re caught off guard. your breath stutters, eyes fluttering shut, and for a second you don’t move—because it’s been so long, and this is so much.

but then your body stops thinking, and simply remembers.

the feel of his touch. the way he always kissed you like the world could end in the next second.

so you let it happen.

you let yourself fall forward into the moment, into him, just this once.

when he pulls away, barely, his forehead rests against yours. his breath mingles with yours in the narrow space between.

your voice comes out softer than you expected.

“i said we take things slow.”

he chuckles, sheepish. “couldn’t help it. months sweets.

your voice comes out softer than you expected.

“i said we take things slow.”

he chuckles, sheepish. “couldn’t help it. i waited months, sweets.”

your chest tightens at the nickname—soft, familiar, his favorite.

“months of dreaming about this. about you,” he continues, voice dropping into something more vulnerable, more raw. “do you know how hard it was? walking away from every match, every win, and not having you there by the benches? not hearing you yell at me for getting bruised or skipping cooldowns? when my instinct was always to run to you first…”

his words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of everything he hadn’t said before. and your heart aches—not in pain, but in remembrance. with the echo of what used to be. and maybe, just maybe, with what still is.

because you remember it all.

how he used to pull you aside after school, grinning, sweaty from practice and holding out a crumpled flower from the school yard like it was some grand romantic gesture. how he’d wait outside your class with your favorite drink. how he’d joke, stumble over his words, and try to impress you even when he was already enough.

he changed for you once before.

he became someone better just to be worthy of your heart back in middle school. and you believed in him then.

but somewhere along the way—high school, maybe—your pride and your fears grew louder than your trust. you started listening to the whispers, to the stories. your own insecurities crept in, no matter how tightly you tried to keep them locked away.

you saw what you feared, and you ran. you didn’t give him a chance to explain, and maybe that was your biggest mistake.

“i knew you changed,” you murmur, eyes not quite meeting his. “i knew it even then. but… i was scared. i didn’t want to be wrong about you. and my pride… it got in the way.”

your voice wavers, not from weakness, but from finally saying what’s sat at the bottom of your chest for so long. “i let my pride talk louder than my heart. i let my fear of being hurt make the decision for me.”

otoya doesn’t say anything at first. he just reaches out, gently slipping his hand into yours. his thumb brushes the inside of your palm, slow and steady.

“i was selfish too,” he says, after a moment. “i thought staying silent was safer than risking more damage. i thought maybe it was what you needed… but i see now it just made things worse.”

he looks at you like he’s memorizing this moment. like he’s not going to take it for granted this time.

“i never stopped wanting to fix what broke between us,” he adds, voice lower now. “i just… didn’t know if you’d ever let me.”

you look at him fully, and this time, it’s without hesitation.

maybe you're both still a little bruised. maybe there's still history to sift through and spaces to fill.

but he’s here. and so are you.

“we’ll take things slow,” you say again, stronger this time, your fingers squeezing his. “but… i’m here.”

and this time, it feels like a beginning—quiet, uncertain, but full of something that’s undeniably real. not perfect, not seamless, but honest.

a second chance written in soft silences and lingering glances. in stitched-up wounds and the willingness to try, again.

finally—love, not like the dizzy kind from middle school, or the aching one from high school. but something steadier. grown. weathered. earned.

you glance down at your still-intertwined hands, the warmth between them like a small flame.

and maybe… just maybe, you owe your father a thank you. for meddling. for nudging. for seeing something you weren’t ready to admit out loud.

because if he hadn’t dragged you back into this world—into blue lock, into fc barcha, into otoya’s orbit again—you might’ve never realized:

some things don’t end. they just wait. for healing. for timing. for love—real love—to begin again.

and this time, it feels like a beginning—quiet, uncertain, but full of something that’s undeniably real.

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kale-of-the-forbidden-cities · 3 days ago

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Snippet of the Bill Isn't Real AU - Probably will be titled "Dipper's Guide to the Unsolved" because it mostly follows Dipper and him figuring out the past

@iwasonceabookworm because you asked to be tagged :)

this is just part of chapter 1, but depending on how much more i write it might be most of it (as "chapter 1" is currently 5k words and still not done. so i might split it). I'm posting mostly as a sort of interest check to see if people like it.

enjoy and feedback appreciated :) also none of this is 100% final

△▽△▽△▽△

“Welcome back to Dipper’s Guide to the Unsolved. I’ve been running this podcast for, um, a few years, and, I think it was last year, I discovered an unsolved case that really interests me. It interests me because it’s actually kind of… personal.

“My name is Dipper Pines, and today, I will begin my investigation into the unsolved murder of Stanford and Stanley Pines.”

△▽△▽△▽△

Piedmont, California

March 2019

“How’s that?” Dipper asked, clearing his throat before taking a sip from his water bottle.

“It sounds great!” Mabel encouraged him. “Nice and catchy.”

“I think I stuttered too much.” He picked up the script laid out in front of him and glanced over it. “And I forgot I was supposed to look at the camera. You’d think after two years of video stuff, I’d remember to do something so basic.”

“Aw, don’t be so hard on yourself,” his sister said as she came over. “People love you despite your awkwardness.”

Dipper scoffed. “First of all, not true. They don’t love me, they just come for the true crime and whatever. Second of all…” He paused, considering. “I mean, I guess I am awkward in most of the stuff I do.”

“Like your first TV interview?”

“Oh god, don’t remind me,” he laughed, his face reddening at the thought. “There’s a reason they never invited me back.”

Mabel giggled. “It was funny, though!”

Dipper tossed a crumpled piece of paper from his desk her way. She dodged before picking it up and throwing it right back at him. He sighed and turned his swivel chair back to the desk.

“...Do you think it’s weird that I’m doing this?” he wondered aloud.

“Huh?” Mabel walked over and leaned on the desk. “What do you mean? You’ve been solving cases since you were sixteen, and making true crime stuff even longer.”

“I mean, like,” Dipper paused, fumbling for words. “Like, I’m investigating the suspected murders of people in our family. Is it weird to be documenting it like this and posting it online?”

Mabel thought for a moment. “I don’t think so? It’s not like you’re doing this for any of them. You never were, you just like doing this stuff. Cause you’re a nerd.” She flicked his bangs. “They’re just along for the ride.”

“I guess,” he admitted. “In any case—”

“Any case?”

He gave half a smile to his sister’s joke. “...This whole thing is weird. Did I tell you that I already covered a case that happened in the same town? Though way more recent. It was only… a year ago, maybe? Closer to two.”

“Yeah, I remember you mentioning it! Axe murderer?”

“Yep. But when I was looking for stuff about Stanford and Stanley, I found out something weird.” He rolled his chair over to the bulletin board that Mabel had dubbed his “conspiracy board,” because, he had to admit it, it did look like some kind of conspiracy was happening, from the pinned up photos, notes, and string. “Apparently, a bunch of people go missing in that town all the time.”

“Ooh, and we’ll be going there!” Mabel said with enthusiasm that sounded genuine, but really shouldn’t have been.

“Yeah, I already told you you don’t have to—”

“I want to come! It’ll be fun!” she insisted. “Plus, the only thing worse than going to a town where people go missing on the regular is letting you go to that town alone.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“Plus! I get to help out with your channel in person! And self advertise!”

Mabel had helped Dipper with his little hobby of a podcast since the very beginning, drawing his profile picture (a little blue pine tree inspired by a “lucky hat” he’d had as a kid), and later a banner for his channel, as well as putting together thumbnails and such. Dipper also helped Mabel with the things she liked to do, from doing the shopping for her baking, to grabbing any yarn he thought she’d like when he saw it. He wishes he could do more for her, but other than researching and talking about criminal cases, he didn’t seem to be good at much at all. So the least he could do would be to let her promote her baking channel, which was already linked in his profile.

“We’re already all packed for tomorrow, so it’s a little late to cancel anyway,” Mabel pointed out.

“Yeah, I know,” he admitted. “I guess I’m just a bit nervous.”

“You’re always nervous.”

“Heh, you’re right about that…”

The conversation died down after that. Dipper did a couple more takes of the introduction, and wasn’t happy with any of them, so Mabel picked the one she thought was best. Now all he had to do was finish writing out what he was going to say to cover the basics of what he knew at the moment.

Mabel had suggested that they do a “vlog” style video as they investigated the town and the case. Which actually wasn’t a bad idea. Not because Dipper had any interest in vlog content, but because he was a strong believer in the sentiment of always having a camera to catch something, just in case. He had an old VHS camera that still worked, and, despite the low quality, it’s what he preferred to use. Easy to hold, don’t have to worry about literally everything ever being lost if something happened to it (like with a phone camera).

He wasn’t all old fashioned or anything, don’t get him wrong. He actually considered himself pretty tech savvy. He could never admit it publicly, but he had hacked his way into security camera files in the past. Nowhere too protected, so it wasn’t like it was hard. He’d been able to make connections that police couldn’t, which is what eventually led to him solving his first case. When talking about it online, he would just say he “gained access” and leave it at that.

“Make sure to get some sleep, Dip,” Mabel said as she got up to go to bed for the night. “We leave bright and early, remember!”

“I know, I know.” Dipper suppressed a yawn at the thought. “Night, Mabel.”

“Night!”

With Mabel gone, it didn’t take him long to fall into his habit of chewing on the neckline of his shirt. It made him feel like a kid, but it helped him focus. And didn’t hurt his teeth as much as biting his nails or pens. By two in the morning he’d written generally what he wanted to say. He would let Mabel know that she could say whatever she wanted. He planned to upload the video right before they left for Gravity Falls.

#say hello to my first gf fic that isn't terrible #(my other attempts are unposted)#gravity falls #gravity falls au #dipper's guide to the unsolved #dipper pines #mabel pines #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls fic

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bookshelf-in-progress · 1 year ago

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June Writing Wishlist

Finish something for each of the unfinished Chesterton Challenge prompts (current plans are for two pieces of flash fiction, a bit of Arateph worldbuilding, and two scenes from Shadowstruck)

Write at least 10,000 words of a single project (or, possibly, divide it up between two shorter retellings)

#adventures in writing #this is probably absurdly ambitious #given that i'm trying to write half as many stories as i wrote all last month #you know my most ambitious writing month ever #plus write more words than i've written on any story in years #but there's a reason this is a wishlist instead of a goal list #after a month of a bunch of little pieces i'd really like to sink into one longer work #i've got two main contenders at the moment #but i do also want to write those pieces i couldn't get to at the end of may #maybe if shadowstruck comes together better than expected i could expand it so it fills both goals #since i have the short ideas in place i'm hoping those would take no more than a week #and since the longer works are things i've been building for years #it's possible the writing could go faster than it did when i was trying to brainstorm tons of different ideas all at once #just dive into writing instead of needing to do all the brainstorming #also on top of all this i've got two or three shorter summertime retellings that are demanding attention #but there's no way i could hit all three goals #which is why i have a second option for 2 #we'll see how it goes

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sageblus · 2 months ago

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started working on a long piece for the first time in like a year and feeling a little giddy about it

#most of my writing lately (aside from like. journaling) has been pieces that are about a page or less #which i enjoy and for what they were they didn’t need to be any longer. it was less about plot or specific characters #and more about me playing w words and sounds like they were legos #which is super super fun but i’ve been itching for something different #i say ‘long’ it’s maybe ten pages but there’s still so much to go #the last long piece i started i abandoned like a year ago bc i got stuck. i have a better grip on this one though i think #talks

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queenerdloser · 8 months ago

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me: huh i finally had a workshop where no one told me i should expand my short story into a longer piece! maybe i AM getting better at figuring out what should be a short story vs a novel.

my writing instructor in a 1:1: actually i think this short story you submitted would benefit from being more like a novella length

me: by talos this cant be happening

#liveblogging life #i think that may be the most consistent feedback i've ever gotten across all workshops lmao #and like. i do like writing longer pieces!!! i find them easier to manage in some ways.#and i like having the space and breadth to really figure things out.#but i find it funny that even pieces i write primarily to be short fiction... still always get this comment #like the story i submitted is actually maybe the shortest i've ever written as a completed piece????#under 4k which is a miracle for me #anyway i just really do find it funny that's all. maybe i'm just not meant to write short stories.

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plumsdoll · 22 days ago

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Enchanted

Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky finally found his missing piece and it was you. He knew from the first moment he saw you.

Word counts: 2.8k

Warning: FLUFF. Cursing. Congressman Barnes era. Mentioned and described about anxiety. Bucky mourned Steve. Reader have long hair. Reader didn't have any specific age but look like in 20s or 30s. The story took place before Thunderbolts*. No beta read.

Notes: Hi~! this is my first Bucky Barnes fanfiction ever!! I've been hiding for sometime until I had a courage to write my own Bucky Barnes fanfiction! and English is not my first language so if you find any mistake I hope you don't mind. I hope everyone enjoy my work and if you do, it would be more than thankful to know your thoughts! Please enjoy!

P.S. Anxiety is very serious. I—myself—am dealing with it and I want more people to be aware of it and be aware of people who is dealing with it. And 333 rule is really helpful for anyone who's encountering anxiety. Thank you so much!

Nightmares were gone.

He was finally free. No more fighting. No more carrying guilt like a shadow that followed him everywhere. No more reminiscing of distressing bygone days. Eventually, Bucky could choose to live the life he always wanted. But…why did he still feel empty inside? A missing piece lingered in his heart, one he couldn't quite name.

This missing piece was considerable. It kept Bucky in an uneasy episode. It was difficult enough to be a man out of time in the modern world. He was drained to keep up with current political predicament as a congressman. And not to mention cutting-edge technology which was really helpful but confusing. It was different. Everything was different without Steve. Maybe the void, the missing space was Steve, the space that was impossible to fill.

Every day was the same. He woke up at 6 a.m., or earlier if he couldn't sleep, and went for a walk to clear his mind before going to work. He still didn't fully understand the modern protocols of Congress. It was significantly changed after the war—as it should. Sometimes he called Sam to keep in touch. It helped—talking with Sam—but still, it couldn't fill the emptiness inside him.

It had been bothering him a whole lot lately. He never felt like that before. He couldn't work, couldn't keep focused. His mind wandered around like a puppy that lost its owner. What was happening to him? He was always able to suppress the feeling but not this time. He felt like it was near, but what is it?

Bucky shook his head before keeping focused on his bowtie—the damn bowtie. One of the disadvantages of being a congressman were social events. He couldn't avoid it under any circumstances now that he merely had the position for six months.

It was ironic. He used to love social events, he was the one who dragged Steve to the fair but look at him now, whining about how he hated it. Maybe he had to admit that he was too old for this.

Bucky exhaled before checking himself in the mirror for one last time, stared at his figure and thought about how far he had come. Evidence of viability was written all over his face. He couldn't deny it but it was what made him who he is today. Maybe he was finally ready—like he always told himself—but he never was. It scared him every time he thought about it. The thought of how he was never going to fit in. Even though everything was better, however, the hungry eyes were fixed on him. It was a mind game in the sealed room. He had to prove himself that he was worthy. Of what— he didn't know. It was just that he felt like he had to prove himself that he was no longer the person who was once the most feared individual on the planet. Bucky told himself one last time—He's not him. He's James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky was being dragged from one conversation to another. He met countless people that he didn't even have time to remember. Throughout the entire encounter, he avoided any eye contact that followed him everywhere like he was a sculpture in the museum for people to extract the gist. He was forcing laughter and faking smiles. People seemed to be amazed that he was genuinely a normal person and learned of what he thought, he could hear them thinking; He's not what we have read in the museum!

The fifth champagne didn't help in this situation. He was looking around to find an excuse for a moment before someone asked him about his time as the Winter Soldier. The question caught him off guard and left him momentarily speechless. He wasn't prepared for the question and the fact that it had done something to him. The storm of feelings crawled back expeditiously and ultimately it caught on his throat. Bucky started to feel overwhelmed amongst people who shot questions perpetually at him. Everything around him seemed blurry and he couldn't keep focused. His heart was beating faster, he was grasping for some air but the air suddenly was heavy to breathe in. His grip faltered and the champagne flute in his hand dropped to the floor. The champagne splashed on the marble, some droplets caught on the margin of dresses and tailored pants, then someone made a joke;

“Oh, it seems like congressman Barnes is already sloshed.” And they laughed. Bucky shot a look at the person who said it but she didn't seem to notice.

“Excuse me, I need a moment.” Bucky declared before broke his way out of the group of people who circled around him. He found a place where there were not many people around. He grabbed the marble pillar to help him stand straight. His legs went limp, it felt like if he loses his grip he would outright fall to the ground. Bucky was trying to breathe slowly before turning his face to focus on his vicinity.

“Ok. 333 rule, come on.” Bucky said before looking around the room.

“Three things I can see…the red cocktail dress…ummm congressman Gary? Man, where the hell have you been all night. That's definitely a pre-tied bowtie. God, I hate pre-tied…and…” Bucky shifted his eyes from congressman Gary to the person who he was talking to. It was you.

“The white satin dress on the most beautiful woman I've…ever seen.” Everything around him stopped all at once. His eyes fixed on you and only you. He captured every possible detail that he could see. Your perfectly curled hair rested on your exposed shoulders. Your sweet eyes. Lovely nose. Irresistible lips. He was wonderstruck by your beauty across the room. Everything went black and white but you shone golden radiant through the room and gave them light. You were an oasis in the desert. The rainbow after the storm. The first snow of winter. The missing piece in his heart. Bucky knew at that moment that he couldn't lose you. You were the one who he was missing dearly even though you never met.

Bucky saw you excused yourself from congressman Gary. His consciousness was back and then he was starting to follow his heart. His legs, instantly, had the strength to walk again. He followed you to the bar and sat at the adequate distance. He ordered something strong to encourage himself. There was only you and him at the bar. It was quite awkward even though he thought you didn't even notice him. You didn't say anything and he was too anxious to speak. There was no conversation going on between you for a short while, somehow Bucky didn't feel uneasy in this situation. He felt relaxed and easier to breathe now that he had your company.

“It’s intense, isn't it? This endless abyss” You broke the silence. He wasn't fully looking at your direction because he wasn't sure if you were talking to him or not.

“I'm talking to you, congressman Barnes.” You giggled when he startled before facing you. He swore your voice was so sweet like a bird chirping in the crisp morning.

“Oh, umm, yes. Yes, it is.” He cleared his voice after and changed his focus to the glass in front of him. He didn't know what to say. He cursed to himself; You can't lose her, James Buchanan Barnes. Fucking do something! Say something!

“You—”

You looked at each other for a second or two before his eyes went wide and you laughed simultaneously. He looked at you, threw your head back and laughed at him. He felt embarrassed but in a good way. How long has it been since he courted someone? He felt petrified at the idea of it. His body went numb and he didn't want to move too fast. It was a strange feeling when he thought that you were at most in your 20s or 30s but now he's an old man who was 110 years old merely last month. It wasn't like in the 1940s anymore and it suddenly scared him.

“You, first.” Your voice broke through his thoughts.

“Oh, no. There's nothing—”

“Oh, come on. If you want to court me. Here's your chance. Is that what you called it in your days? Court?” You laughed again and then his face turned red. He tried to hide it by sipping the whiskey in his hand but it was still obviously in the exposed light at the bar.

“It’s not and I wasn't trying to court you.” He tried to hide his smile but he hated to admit that those times when he was out on the mission was easier than trying to not swoon at your presence. His hand was meddling with the rocks glass, fingers playing with the beads around it. Your eyes followed his fingers, it sent heat through your body.

“Who are you, by the way. I never saw you anywhere.” Bucky shot a question to keep the conversation going but it was also his genuine question too. He never saw you at any other social events that he went to. Nothing could escape his eagle-eye and surely not even a pretty little thing like you. You would be the first in the room that caught his attention.

“Maybe I was there but you never saw me.”

“That's impossible.”

“Oh, of course. I forgot that you were a spy.” You lifted your hand up and did the O shape around your eye. Bucky chuckled and licked his lips. He knew at that moment that you were going to be the death of him. Gosh, it must have been too long since he's falling head over heels for someone. It's a strange feeling that he willingly submitted to.

“No. I mean—I don't think if I ever saw you, I'm going to let you out of my sight that easily.” Suddenly, the world stopped again. You exchanged eye contact across the adequate space. It felt too far, he needed to get closer to hold you. The piano caught his ears and the idea came into his mind. He needed to make a move and it had to be a move that he was familiar with.

“Dance with me.” He extended his hand to you. You laughed because you thought it was a joke but then you looked at him and there was nothing playful written on his face. You looked at the group of people standing, no one was dancing along the music. You looked at him again.

Fuck it.

The moment you took his hand was something new entirely. The feeling was overwhelming but in a good way. There was something that you didn't know how to describe. It was like lightning—a magnet that pulled you closer. He led you in the center of the room. Everyone was looking. You could see their bewildered eyes staring. Your heart was beating fast. It was a ludicrous idea and you liked it but now you weren't entirely sure.

“Hey, look at me.” Bucky grabbed your waist and pulled you closer. You looked up at him and met his piercing blue eyes. His vibranium arm guided your hands to rest on his shoulders. The coldness of the material sent shivers through you. He rested the arm on your waist and started to move.

“Don't be scared. Just follow me.” Bucky started to sway and lead you to smooth movement. You were restricted at first but then started to relax and follow his steps. You never shifted your eyes from his. You were embarrassed at the idea but didn't regret it at all.

“Are they still looking?” You asked with a trembling voice. Suddenly, you wanted to disappear into the ground.

“Yes. They're always looking.” You swallowed nervously.

“You know what? I haven't danced since 1943…Feels like.” Bucky said with that playful glint in his smile and you burst out laughing and buried your face in his chest. At this close you could hear his heart pounding fast like he just went on a marathon. His cologne kicked your nose, it was earthy and fresh. It helped you feel relaxed.

“This is a bad idea.” You said while shutting your eyes and breathing in his scent.

“I know.”

“But I like it.”

“Me too.” Bucky said and kissed the top of your head. You were surprised at his move but you didn't complain. You wanted to keep this moment forever. You wanted to keep him forever.

You didn't know how long the time passed. The next move that brought you back to reality was when Bucky touched your wrists. You opened your eyes and realized that everyone was now dancing. You were amazed at your surroundings. You looked at Bucky and he was already looking. A spark of delight drew all over your face.

“They're looking at you.” You said with the awed in your voice.

“No. They're looking at you.” Bucky said and looked into your eyes. His eyes always looked like it was telling you something, something that wasn't a word or a number but a feeling. He wanted to preserve this moment forever.

“It's almost time. Can I bring you somewhere?” You nodded and then he guided you to the garden outside the estate where there's nobody there. The moon was full. The sky was clear. Everything was quiet. It looked like a dream. You looked at him while he was already looking. He didn't seem to shift his eyes off you. Just like he said.

“Are you going to kill me here?” You told a joke and smiled. If you are going to die tonight, it might be worth it.

“Maybe.” Bucky smiled. It felt like he was bewitched by you—heart and soul. Merely a minute, you could catch his heart and play with it. He was more than willing to give you everything. If you want him to kill, he would kill for you. If you want him to die, he would die for you. If you want a star he would find a way and give it to you. Because all of this wasn't hard at all compared to all this time he was waiting for you.

“What do you want to show me?” You asked.

“You have to lie down first.” Bucky guided you on the fresh green grass. It was poking on your sensitive skin but after a minute, you got used to it.

“I have these strange feelings.” Bucky said while lying on his side and looked at your face.

“What feelings?”

“I think you bewitched me.”

“What?” You laughed out loud like no one would hear. In fact, there was no one there to hear you anyway.

“I never felt this way before. It had been so long since I fell in love. It was a feeling that seemed unfamiliar to me until I saw you tonight.” There was no evidence of playfulness on his face. Everything was genuine. Under the moonlight he was still undoubtedly attractive. It scared you for a moment; the thought of losing him.

“You may think this is crazy but I would kill for you. I would die for you, if you say so.” You caressed his face with your hand and looked straight into his eyes.

“Live for me. Never let me go.” Tears welled up in his eyes and dropped on the grass, filling the earth with his blissful tears. You were getting closer and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips. He pulled you in for a more passionate and longing kiss. You were yearning for each other like it had been so long since you met but it was odd when you realized this is the first time.

You startled when the sound of an explosion echoe in the sky. Bursts of color lit up in the night. You looked straight and saw fireworks cracked and popped above. The flickering lights filled the inky sky and danced around the full moon. It was magical.

“You like it?” Bucky asked but there was no answer. You just pulled him in for another kiss. Surely, you won't let him go. He bewitched your heart and soul. It might have taken him more than decades to finally find you but ultimately he did. And he was grateful that it happened at the right time—when he was ready for you. Ready to live for you and love you wholeheartedly. Maybe the myth was true, the one that said you were meant to find your other half and fortunately, now the missing piece had been filled.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes

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pipermca · 10 months ago

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New AO3 Tag Wrangling Policy and the Transformers Fandom

Edit in the event people come back to the original post: Please do not email AO3 about this issue. See their response about this issue!

(This is a long one, folks, but I think it's important.)

A new tag-wrangling policy on AO3 has the potential to create some massive confusion and chaos in the Transformers fanfic community, with regards to fandom tags. There is a Reddit post about it here with a focus on anime fandoms, but I want to give some concrete examples for the Transformers fandom on why we DO NOT WANT this, and why I think it's a horrible idea.

The Problem

Basically, AO3 is looking to get rid of the "All Media Types" fandom tag across the board, either by dismantling them or just not maintaining them. The Transformers - All Media Types tag has been an all-purpose tag that you could select when your story doesn't fall into any one specific continuity. Additionally, all most (see below) TF continuities on AO3 are considered a subtag of the Transformers - All Media Types tag. For example, if you look at the link above for all works in the All Media Types tag, you will see fics that are also tagged ONLY with Transformers: Animated, because it falls under the All Media Types tag.

One exception: With the upcoming Transformers: One movie coming out imminently, there will likely be a big influx of stories tagged with Transformers: One. In fact, there are several already. However, it hasn't been linked to the larger Transformers - All Media Types tag yet. I wasn't worrying about it though, because I know these things can take time.

With information about this new tagging policy, however, I'm now wondering whether it'll EVER get linked to the All Media Types tag. If that happens, and when more continuities are developed in the coming years (since you know Hasbro loves creating new universes) this has the potential to cause massive confusion when looking for stories to read.

Searching for Stories with the New Tagging System

So let's say the All Media Types fandom tag isn't accurate anymore, because it no longer includes ALL of the continuities (such as TF:One). You will need to include ALL the Transformers continuities when browsing for TF fics.

How many tags is that? Well, here are all of the tags currently listed under the Transformers - All Media Types tag:

Note that this doesn't include Transformers: One since it hasn't been categorized yet.

You will potentially have to have 40 or more different fandom tags in your search, just in case the author tagged their story with something you weren't expecting.

This massively decreases the findability of a story.

Tagging with the New System

The email response from the Tag Wrangling group (see the linked Reddit post above) seems to be a bit flip in the response to the user's concern. "...encourages creators to tag with the media they intend."

While I appreciate what they are attempting to do, this policy change feels like a solution in search of a problem, especially in larger fandoms with multiple continuities, versions, and media types that are all cross-pollinated in both canon and fanon. While I'm focusing on Transformers fandom, imagine a creator in the DC comic universe writing a story that incorporates bits and pieces from a dozen different reboots.

For example, let's say that I am writing a fic about Ratchet. I am using the setting of the original G1 episodes, but I also am using the characterization of him as a bit of an old man grump. That characterization originated in the Animated continuity, but I want to incorporate bits of pieces of his other characterizations as well (old friend of Optimus from TFP, Ratchet ran a faction-free clinic like he did in the War for Cybertron series, he's got a Decepticon boyfriend like in IDW1 - or maybe even Cyberverse, etc.)

With this new tagging structure, I might potentially have to tag the story with ALL of those continuities. So instead of just slapping down the "All Media Types" tag (and maybe one other fandom tag that matches the characters as best I can), I'll have to analyze my story and try to figure out how best to tag for the characters I used.

And what if you're doing a completely AU version of the story? For example, a humanformers story, or merformers? Using the All Media Types tag along with a Alternate Universe - Human or Alternate Universe - Mermaid tag worked perfectly, since you weren't writing the story to fit into one specific continuity. But now, that might not be an option.

What To Do??

The first thing I would suggest is to contact AO3 (using the Feedback and Support page) and let them know (nicely) that you think this is a horrible idea. Give them some examples on how you use the All Media Types tag to find stories to read, or to help you tag a story. People outside of the Transformers fandom don't always appreciate how absolutely tangled the continuities can be with each other, and providing examples might help them see why this would be a really messy change.

Readers: Be aware that when you are looking in the All Media Types tag, it will no longer show newer continuities. And if AO3 starts dismantling that tag like they suggested they are doing, be aware that some stories won't show up in that tag like they used to. You can also create and then bookmark a custom search page that includes all 40+ continuities. REALLY annoying, but it's a workaround.

Writers: Until they start dismantling the All Media Types tag, ALWAYS ALWAYS tag your stories using Transformers - All Media Types... Especially for newer continuities. This will be especially important if you are writing a Transformers: One story. Right now, anyone who is only browsing the All Media Types tag will not see a story tagged only with Transformers: One. Make sure you're aware of how tags work and how they can affect the visibility and findability of your story.

Epilogue

Ugh. That's a lot of words for a long-weekend Saturday. And maybe I'm overreacting a tiny bit. But my work involves information architecture, and this change just absolutely baffles me. It's almost as though they want to make it harder to find stories. Considering that AO3 won a Hugo partially because of its fantastic tagging system, this change seems like AO3 is doing its best to shoot itself in the foot.

When you have a square hole, a round hole, and a rectangular hole… Yeah, you DO want each peg to go in the "right" hole. But if all of the pegs fit in the square hole, who cares? You got the job done.

I love you @ao3org, but please reconsider this change... Especially for IPs that are as old and are as varied as Transformers.

#ao3 #on writing #important #maccadam

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bitters-n-sweets · 11 days ago

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i love him — jack abbot x fem!reader inspired by a scene from Jerry Maguire | Jack overhears the reader having a “secret” conversation with her best friend

warnings: unspecified age gap, just some cute fluff, Jack calls reader ‘sweets’, reader and her best friend calls him 'doctor daddy' for obvious reasons, not proofread, self indulgent, mdni masterlist i was writing angst for a few days and now need a breather haha

You and Jack have been dating for a while. About a few months now. You just became an attending at PTMC, and that really what kickstarted your relationship—he’s no longer your boss. The pining, the almosts, the what-ifs—they were there in every lingering glance, every shared laugh in the on-call room, every late-night case that ended with his hand brushing yours just a second too long.

But Jack never let it cross the line. Not while you were under him professionally. He saw what happened with Robby and Collins—how quickly things could spiral, how reputations could fracture. He wasn’t going to let that happen to you. To both of you.

When you finally became an attending at PTMC, it felt like the last piece clicking into place. You waited to open the manila folder—the one with your future inside—until you were at Jack’s place. You wanted him to be the first to know. To be there for the moment. And when you unfolded the letter and saw those words—“We’re pleased to inform you…”—you practically jumped into his arms. Jack held you tight, a proud, steady smile on his face like he’d known it all along.

“I knew you could do it, sweets.”

He’d asked you out not long after that. A quiet breakfast date after your night shift—flowers already waiting on the table, a small wrapped box with a bracelet inside. Something simple. Something thoughtful. Something so very Jack.

Of course, there’ve been arguments. Small things—a forgotten dinner plan, a tense call on a bad day—but nothing that ever felt like it could undo you. Jack doesn’t raise his voice. He listens, then speaks. Calm, grounded, but never cold. He never makes you feel like you’re too much.

But what surprises you most about Jack Abbot isn’t his patience, or his discipline, or even his skill in bed.

It’s how romantic he is.

The kind of man who keeps a sticky note in his wallet with your coffee order. The kind who kisses your hand before work, like an old-school gentleman from a black-and-white movie.

You’ve been covering the day shift for three days straight, and today’s your day off. You’re planning to reset your sleep schedule to prepare for the night shift rotation starting tomorrow. You stayed up all night just so you could sleep together with Jack—but, of course, he texts that he’s going to be a little late. Hazards of being an ER doc.

Then, your phone buzzes. It’s your friend Diana.

Diana: How’s the attending life so far, doc?

Diana’s your best friend. You don’t live close to each other, and don’t text every day, but you have monthly check-ins with each other to catch up on each other’s lives. You smile as you read her text and press the call button.

“Hey!”

“Hey!” She replies with matching energy. “How’s my ER girlie doing?”

“Trying to survive.” You chuckle. “How about you? How’s work for my corporate girlie?”

“Busy as I’ll ever be.” You can practically see her roll her eyes. “But seriously, how’s life? Oh! How is Doctor Daddy doing?”

You glance at the door, you thought you heard a noise.

“Doctor Daddy’s doing fine,” you say, trying not to laugh. “And… yeah. Life’s good. I have no complaints.”

“Ooh you have that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The ‘I’m in love and I don’t know what to do with myself’ voice.”

“I do not!” You gasp, then pause. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“Oh my God.” Diana gasps. “You’re in love with Jack.”

You sigh, a smile etched on your face. “Yeah, I guess I do love him. Ugh, I mean, how can I not? He’s sweet, and good, and—God, Diana, I love him for—for the man he already is, and for the man he wants to be. He makes me feel like I’m home. Even when he’s being annoying, I still want him next to me.”

You laugh softly, running your fingers through your hair. “I’m really in love with him. I guess I’m doomed, huh?”

“Now why would you be doomed, sweets?”

You nearly jump out of your skin, turning around and clutching your phone. Jack’s leaning against the back of the couch, bag dropped by his feet, smirking faintly—curious and amused.

“Diana… I’m… gonna call you back.”

“OMG DID DOCTOR DADDY HEAR YOU—” Click. You hang up, but Jack’s already heard the nickname he apparently has.

You can feel your ears getting hot, and you’ll bet your face is red by now.

“How much did you hear?” you ask, not meeting his eyes.

He shrugs, stepping closer. “Only the important parts. Do you really mean everything you said?”

You freeze, fumbling. “Look, I know it’s early. Maybe too soon. We don’t have to talk about it. We can pretend you didn’t hear—”

“Say it again.” He steps closer.

You glance up. He’s right in front of you now, arms sliding gently around your waist.

Your hands rest on his chest, grounding yourself. “I—I love you.”

And then Jack pulls you in, a smile now on his face. “I love you, too.”

Then he kisses you like he’s never done before. Passionate yet slow, he’s taking his time to taste you, devour you, claim you as his. Because there’s no way he’s letting you go. Ever.

You pull away shortly after, breathless.

The smirk comes back to his lips and he teases you, “Doctor Daddy, huh?”

“Oh my God.” You groan, pressing your face into his chest. “Never speak of it again.”

“Call me that when we’re having sex and see what happens.” He whispers, voice low near your ear, sending you shivers.

“Jack!”

#jack abbot fluff #jack abbot the pitt #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x female reader #female reader #the pitt #dr abbot #jack abbot #jack abbot x fem reader

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hughiecampbelle · 11 months ago

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The Boys Preference: Wearing Their Clothes

Requested: i followed you for succession and currently im the boys brainrotted so you wouldnt believe my excitement when i realised you wrote for the boys too!!!!! i want to request maybe hc on how the boys would react to reader wearing their sweater/tshirts - anon

A/N: My love, the brain rot is so real!!! When I tell you I have an entire folder of The Boys edits, I mean I am kicking my feet and giggling at these people covered in blood lol. Thank you for requesting! Please feel free to again, I absolutely love writing preferences! I hope you like it!!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜

Butcher absolutely adores you wearing his coat. It drives him wild. It started one night where you two were alone, the group split up. While everyone else had their own jobs, you and Butcher were on surveillance. It was freezing out. He noticed the goosebumps on your arms. You swore you were fine, but he could tell you were putting up a front. Oi, just take it. Not wanting to blow your cover and fight, you put his coat around your shoulders, thanking him. It's a long night and you take shifts. When he catches you curled in a ball, his coat wrapped around you, it tugs at his heartstrings. Something about this image of you just makes him melt. After that, he's eager to see it again. Realizing this, you never turn down his offer. Now you basically have 50/50 custody. You like it. It's warm and worn, but it also smells like him and, when you're apart, remains a reminder that he's always looking out for you. Both M.M. and Frenchie are full of jokes when they catch you wearing it, but Annie and Hughie find it endearing.

Hughie loves that you wear his t-shirts and hates it. Not only do you look better in them than him, which is annoying enough, and now everyone finds them funny now that you're wearing them, but now he can never find the one shirt he wants to wear. It's either on your body or in your closet. Of course he would never stop you, he doesn't want you to stop, but he does wish there was a little bit more of a compromise. You wore it the first time you slept over. Your shirt had been discarded somewhere you couldn't find, but Hughie's was right there. He tried not to show it, he tried not to get caught smiling, but he was way too obvious. Something about seeing you in his shirt made his day, his life. It never gets old. When it's laundry day, most of your clothes end up being his. Now he has double the laundry. Still, it's worth it. His clothes always come back smelling like you. When they get ripped or torn from fights you apologize profusely, but he's just glad you're okay. Who cares about a stupid shirt?

Annie has always loved you in her clothes. When you moved in together, your clothes just sort of became jumbled. Neither of you felt the need to separate them, so you really can't tell if the sweater you're wearing is hers of yours. When she buys clothes she always makes sure you like what she's picking out so that you both can wear it. No one even noticed what you two were doing, that one day you'd be wearing a shirt and a few days later it would be her turn, it's just sort of become a thing. When something gets ripped or torn or covered in blood, you're the first to make jokes. I loved that sweater, you say, though Annie knows what you really mean is it's a stupid piece of clothing, you're just glad she's okay, that's all that matters. Your favorite thing is to look at pictures where, in one, you're wearing this sweater and, in the next, she is. Something about that puts a smile on your face.

M.M. feels a little insecure. You used to love wearing his shirts. Truthfully, no one can tell what's his and what's yours, your and his clothes are so blended. Since becoming in charge of The Boys, as close to a leader as possible, he's lost a lot of weight. Grown smaller, and his clothes no longer fit you. You of course still have his old shirts, but his new wardrobe just doesn't fit. You assure him it's just temporary. The anxiety, the OCD, it really hurts his appetite. He can't even think about food anymore. Still, realizing that you can no longer share, it makes him self-conscious. Something about you wearing his clothes made him think that he was there with you always, that this was a way to protect you, as silly as it might sound. Now that you wear your clothes more, he isn't there to save you. It just adds to his many worries. You assure him you'll be safe, you'll always come back to him, but he just can't help it. You make a point to wear his older shirts as much as possible, not wanting him to worry more than he does.

Frenchie literally can't tell when you're wearing his clothes vs. your own. His style is pretty eclectic. His pants alone are bright and patterned and, to his friends, a fashion offense. His clothes are rarely organized, so you end up picking through piles to find something specific. Most of the time you have to point out when you've got one of his jackets or shirts on. He of course thinks you look better in them than him and he makes it known. Your friends make fun of you and him for some of the outrageous outfits you put together. Everything is worn in and soft and smells like him, a mix of cologne and fabric softener and smoke. Not realizing, Frenchie wears your clothes, too. Only when you ask for a shirt back or where it is does he realize oh! so this belongs to you. Neither of you mind. It makes you happy seeing him wear your clothes. He definitely styles is better than you.

Kimiko's entire closet is all black. Not only is it easy to blend in with the crowd, and it all matches, but it can also hide the sight of blood. Neither of you can really tell whose shirt or pants or jacket belongs to who, considering most of your clothes are pretty identical. Still, she'll poke fun at you every so often when she realizes you've got on one of her shirts. Is that mine? She smiles. Is it? You didn't even realize. You always ask her if she wants it back, if she wants you to change, but she shakes her head. She tells you look good in it, badass even, and you shrug it off, though it means a lot. You and Kimiko both are still figuring out how relationships work. It takes a lot of trust, something neither of you were very well versed in. Sharing clothes is just another way you two show that you're a partnership. No one else can tell, but you can. That kind of attention would normally make alarm bells go off in your head, but you know Kimiko, you know she does it out of affection and not something more sinister.

Bonus! Homelander rarely, if ever, wears civilian clothes. If he's not in his suit, he's probably naked. You've never seen him in anything else. The only time he's done it was to see Sage and that was in secret. Still, you find a way to share by wearing his cape. Typically wrapped around you after you slip from the bed, in search of your own clothes, half-naked and embarrassed. He assured you you have never looked better. Homelander likes power. He likes when people listen to him, respect him, and show him their loyalty. You wearing his cape shows him all of that and more. He never thought he'd like you in his clothes, it's just another thing he's territorial about, but he's pleasantly surprised. Now he expects it. If you forget or just don't wear it, his ego is pretty wounded. You assure him it's nothing against him. Now you go out of your way to do so, knowing it makes him so happy.

Bonus! Soldier Boy feels such an attraction to you when you wear his clothes. He doesn't really wear anything but his suit, so one day you jokingly put it on. You filled it out differently than he did, but it didn't look horrible. When he saw you, he was all smiles. The first thing that comes to mind is wanting to take it off you *wink wink*. What was a joke is now something you do on special occasions, putting it on and parading around in it. The things he says are awfully dirty and make you laugh every time. You never thought something as silly and simple as putting on his suit would end up driving him this wild. You should have known, it makes perfect sense, but you just never realized. When he does, on rare occasions, wear regular clothes, he's the first to suggest that you share. It isn't as enticing as wearing his suit, but the attraction is still there. It makes him feel like you belong to him, that you want to show that off. Nothing matters more to him than that. Nothing makes him feel more seen.

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carbonfiction · 7 months ago

Text

Dark Desires

older, best friends dad!Logan x reader

summary: a week ago you found yourself drunk texting your best friends dad; something that should've been a mistake, but you were sure in that drunken moment that Logan would know everything you'd kept from him all those years. You'd been thinking about it for longer than you'd care to admit; adding to the fantasy. so what happens when logan finally indulges you..

warnings: Swearing, dirty talk, F!Receiving oral, PIV smut, prone bone and missionary, Somnophilla (technically??), daddy kink, roleplay?? pussy sniffing?? Kind of voyeurism? But the person is very much asleep. Also tagging this for dubcon but it’s more pre established consent/free use and slight CNC vibes depending on how you view it? Tagged this the best i believe i can but ultimately you are responsible for your media consumption.

A/N: i don't know where this came from, other than i had a glass of wine and a naughty thought. i tried real hard on this and its a little darker than i usually write- not to mention longer- but i hope yall enjoy a filth filled piece of my intoxicated brain anyway. Et voilà.

Masterlist Words: little over 4k (oop- longest thing ive ever written.. i got carried away..)

Your heart is hammering away inside of your chest so insistently that it feels like your ribs are bruised and your breasts are trying to punch their way out of your dress.

You're still wearing the stupid thing and Laura is drinking another mimosa. Part of you is grateful for that. Yet while you want her drunk and snoring tonight, part of you can't help trying to stop her.

You make eye contact, give her the look. Tell her to slow down because you two have been down this road before. She gets wild, has fun for half an hour, and then spends the rest of the night dizzy in a bathroom asking deep philosophical questions like why do my eyes hurt? And why do guys suck? And do i still have puke in my hair?

But if she's drunk tonight, just enough to sleep like the dead, then what?

You set your own drink aside to check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time this hour and lift a shaky thumb to your texts.

You've read the thread again and again and again, and still you don't quite believe it. The party swirls around you. A hurricane of sound and the smell of cocktails is sour in your nose. You feel the heat of your friends, your fellow graduates. one day lawyers, doctors, professors, professionals in their field; and yet here you are reading over the texts again.

You feel like a little girl and yet simultaneously the most grown of women because you have a secret, a dirty little secret.

You were nearly as drunk as Laura is now when you sent the first text a week ago. You were celebrating the end of finals and you were curled up in bed after a long night out.

One of your other friends had flirted with the bartender. You'd told the girl to stop and Laura had reached from her stool and pinched your leg. Asking if you'd ever needed something so badly that you actually made a bad decision.

Everyone had laughed, all except you.

You know she was teasing and complimenting in the same breath. You're a good girl and everybody knows it. Reliable, honest and never involved with the wrong kind of guys.. Always a reason to why you were too busy to bother. You were studying, too busy hanging out with Laura. Too busy prepping for school, internships and the next two decades of your life.

You're no angel, although of course, no one was. You've had your share of regrettable hookups and disappointing boyfriends, but nothing that set your world alight. Nothing worth risking anything for.

But maybe what Laura had said thread under your skin more than you'd like to admit. Maybe you were just drunk enough to ignore the obvious risk.. Or was it that you'd been thinking about him for an indecently long amount of time?

So with finals over, diploma practically in hand. There was nothing preventing years of pent up lust from sending a jolt down between your legs, setting a crackling fire in your heart and making you sweat. Dripping down your neck, stomach, that spot on your lower back, they all tingled as you crouched on the corner of your bed and wrote a single text.

You: I need something.

You sent it. Had forced yourself to before you chickened out and immediately regretted it. You thought you'd worded it in such a way that you could play it off, pretend it didn't happen.

But you were sure in that drunken moment that Logan would read those three words and know everything you'd kept from him all those years. Every dirty thought, every horny fantasy, everything.

It was all right there in the text. 2am on a Thursday night and truly it could only mean one thing. You put the phone down, tried to make yourself go to sleep.

Logan was an older man with a life. A job, house and a child- your best friend- and you were sure he wouldn't even see the stupid thing until the morning when you could say you meant to message Laura. Not him, not her father. But then you picked up the phone again, half panicked and ready to change your mind, when you'd saw those little dots.

That meant he was writing something back, at 2am on a Thursday night, either in bed or his limo.

Logan: You need to go to sleep

Of course.. Responsible. That was the responsible thing to do. And you would do just that. But first you'd just write a quick text to apologize. Say it was the wrong number and sleep this off; pretend it didn't happen for the rest of your lives.

But.. what if, for once in your life, it could be easy? What if Logan did know everything? What if.. There was something else? Because that was how this all started, hadn't it?

You'd always felt something more, saw something different in his worn eyes, his gruff demeanor. Heard something he was saying when he really wasn't saying anything at all.

Or.. Was it all in your head? Was this only ever a one way infatuation? A young woman's crush, a dark fantasy that only grew darker with each new kink you discovered in yourself? Losing all confidence, you texted back.

You: sorry. Wrong number.

And that was that- or it should've been that- If it was only ever a one way street. You put the phone down, tried desperately to keep your eyes closed, but the moment you heard the phone buzz again you peek.

Logan: Is that true sweetheart?

Oh no, no. it wasn't true at all. You knew he knew exactly who'd texted and why; what you wanted him to do. You'd been thinking about it for years. Adding to the fantasy. Soaking your sheets in the middle of the night when you couldn't sleep, all that brought a temporary relief. If only for a little while; So, you text back.

You: No

Just that. A simple No.

Logan: You telling a lie?

You: Not exactly

Logan: So you wanted my attention then?

You: Wanted? No Logan.. Need.

And yes, you know need is a very strong word.

Logan: You feel very strongly about that huh? Strong feelings can be dangerous sweetheart.

You: what if i want something dangerous.

You answered back with the most honest thing you could say. And then there was a pause, a very long pause, in which you could see no dots, and even started to wonder if he'd abandoned you. Left you on read.

A thousand images erupted in your mind, different versions of him sitting and staring at your number- your words. Those cheap reading glasses perched on his nose as he wondered if this was some kind of game.

But if it was a game.. Logan was ready to play and after a few minutes your phone dings again.

Logan: you're being a real bad girl tonight, aren't you?

And then it wasn't your best friend's father you were texting. Well, it very much was- that was the crux of it, wasn't it? But now it was also the man. The man on the other side of the phone who was paying close attention.

You: Yes, daddy. very, very bad.

Now, In the darkness of his daughter's room, You imagine colors swirling on her ceiling. Your heart restless like a caged animal and there is a knot in your stomach twisting tighter and tighter by the second.

You don't know how long you've been lying here. 5 minutes or 5 hours. But you know you can't possibly wait another moment... But then you do, because you have to.

You haven't heard from Logan all day and that makes you afraid. Really genuinely afraid that He's forgotten or changed his mind.

Because, well, it's just you and Laura in here, isn't it? You're lying on the floor, a lumpy pillow under your head, and a spare, slightly musty blanket folded under your breasts.

Laura is snoring away in her bed, her limbs tangled with a stuffed animal almost the size of her- one you'd won her from a carnival. It was like old times, she slurred drunkenly. The three of you huddled together in her bed, giggling and watching some crappy reality show.

She'd tried to get you to join her and the animal in the bed, but you'd said no. Insisted that it was too hot tonight. That you'd rather be able to spread out on the floor. Fortunately, by the time you made it up to Laura's room, she was too far gone to argue.

Unfortunately, now though, there's a very drunk girl in her bed beside you, a possible witness to your depravity. And so you lie there, staring at the ceiling and forcing yourself not to text. Not to call. To just ignore the nagging doubt in your gut.

And yet again, you still find yourself opening the text thread. Reading through the things you told him, the things he'd told you. A formed plan and line after line of you promising things. All of the 'Yes, daddy I want this' the 'Please do that to me' The repetitive 'ill be a good girl, Promise' And then, at the very bottom, a safe word. It was when you'd agreed on the safe word that you knew this was for real. Not a fiction in a book or a fantasy playing out in a movie.

The word. Kitty. An inside joke from years ago. The word proof that all the little confidences and conversations held an attraction you were both willing to hide for the sake of decency

But.. you don't want to be decent anymore. You'd confided your fantasy, one that you had dreamt so many nights. Wished for it in the hot, comfortable haven of Laura's bed every time you'd stayed over. The thought of her older, attractively gruff father coming to you in the night and making you submit to his secret lust.

Of him pulling your panties to the side while Laura slept untroubled. Logan ravishing you while you whispered and mewled 'please, daddy, make me your filthy slut'

You've always been his filthy slut, haven't you? Deep In your heart. The thought is turning the wet spot between your legs into a soggen menace. You've been horny before, You've been needy before, but never like this- because you've never tried something like this.

Never wanted something badly enough to ask for it; or even beg for it. This was a dream, a dirty desire, a secret yearning never to be true.

Then you'd drunk texted. You told him and he'd responded, not with shock or disgust, but enthusiasm, cautious enthusiasm. But it was still only text messages. You haven't spoken to him yet, not properly at least. Even when you saw him walk in at the party, or in the limo on the way back to Laura's. You couldn't bring yourself to say a word. Your mouth was so dry, cheeks so hot. Laura had laughed and said you were flushed in the backseat- a lightweight to end all lightweights- when in fact you haven't had a drop to drink tonight.

You're going to throw your phone at the wall, you swear it. But No, that would probably wake her up. Instead, you conclude that you're going to find your pants, and you're going to leave this house and never come back. You love Laura but you can't bear it, can't believe you trusted him with this. You can't lie here and torment yourself about your decisions a minute longer about your need.

Then, your heart leaps into your throat. phone dropping onto your chest with a soft thud. Quickly you brush it off and turn onto your stomach. Your head hitting the pillow, eyes squeezed shut and pulse racing like you've run a marathon.

Through your closed eyelids, you see the glow of the hall light from the open door, only for it to vanish moments later. Either the door has closed or the light's been turned off, but you're not sure which because blood is racing so loudly in your ears. Breath escaping in overwhelming gasps.

Do you hear calculated heavy footsteps or is that your imagination? You struggle to listen for Laura. Is she awake or still sleeping? The tension so tight in your chest that you begin to feel dizzy, almost nauseous. Then comes the creak of the floor at the foot of your makeshift bed, the unmistakable presence of another person in the room, their eyes on you.

You can't stop your body from trembling slightly as the sheet is softly yanked away. Adrenaline courses through your veins, making your body buzz with anticipation.

Your legs are bare the cool air of Laura's bedroom. You're laying on your stomach. Face pushed into the pillow, eyes clenched shut as if you're locked into a deep, drunken sleep- like you should be.

Your legs are splayed out, dark lacey panties riding up the crevice of your ass. One of your ass cheek's indecently exposed... then a rough touch caresses over the swell of that exposed cheek, two big exploring hands, gliding over you.

You hear the grunt of a man, and you know it can only be Logan. He's the only other person home.

Your heart is beating so hard you're afraid you're going to pass out. Laura is on the bed, sleeping mere feet away, and her father is groping you in your supposed sleep.

So the question becomes: are you dreaming now? or are you praying this is as far as he'll go?

when Logan pull's the fabric of your panties to the side, you know he's willing to go much further. He's quiet in the darkness around you, but he's big and the house is old; the floor creaking and groaning as he readjust's his heavy weight.

Your panties are roughly hiked over one cheek of your ass, the sound of ripping lace filling your ears. Logan's hot breath roll's over your ass and the tremble in your limbs becomes a full shiver.

You can feel his scruffy face so close to your body, Feel his nose against the crevice of your ass as he roves lower. Dipping further until his mouth- his nose - is pressed into the folds of your bared cunt.

You hear how he inhales deeply, toes curling in response. Your fingers lay over Laura's spare pillow, the case tight in your grip. He's smelling you, nuzzling against your dampening skin not once, but many times. Lewdly breathing in your scent like a dog that's found something it likes.

His calloused hands spread you open so he can breathe deeper still and when hes as deep into your cunt as his face will allow, his wet tongue slides out to lick at you. You cannot stifle your moan at the feeling, immediately biting your lip to keep from growing any louder.

But with this the culmination of so many fevered late night fantasies, you dont know if you are dreaming.

His wide tongue laps at your swollen clit, swiping open the seam of your pussy and to the point just shy of your tighter hole. You hear logan growl into your wet slit like a monster unleashed from beneath the bed. Feeling how how his licks grow stronger, longer and twice as ravenous as he steadily turn your pussy into a drooling, dripping mess.

He laps at you in the quiet darkness of Laura's room, calculated and experienced as you fight to not to cry out. The pressure of an impending orgasm building so tight in your body that it feels time you woke up.

And so you take a deep breath, a rough gasped sound falling out too. Your fingers claw at the pillow as you flex your lower half.

"Hmm?"You grumble, pretending to bat away the cobwebs of sleep. "Wha-whats happening, What are you doing?" You ask, voice thick with mock confusion.

Within moments you feel Logan's tongue retreat from your pussy, a weight so much heavier than your own crawl over your half naked body. You feel him pressed tight against you, still clothed if the scratchy fabric tells you anything, but an unmistakable bulge is hidden inside. Hard and large against your ass you feel Logan's arm rub against your shoulder. A big hand sliding over your mouth.

"Quiet, sweetheart" he growls in your ear. "Daddy's had enough of your teasing"

Another large hand slides beneath your sleep shirt to cup your tender tits, The nipples diamond hard against Logan's palm. You cant help but moan into his hand as you plead.

"Please. Didn't mean to tease" its a wine, petulant in tone.

"Course you didnt.. Shame S' Too late now" he whispers against your ear, teeth biting into your earlobe. The hand on your breast trails down. Right the way down to his slacks.

"B-but Laura" You warn him in a whispered panic, hearing the sound of a zipper sliding down. you struggle teasingly, hips bucking back against him. Its not enough to cause a scene or enough to wake your sleeping friend- his sleeping daughter- but just enough to make him pin your body down. Enough for you to feel a fraction of his real strength.

Logan's muscles bulge from the effort of caging you against the floor and spreading your legs.

"Nuh uh, Stay still. Stay right where ive got you" he murmurs darkly in your ear, voice a low rumble. the words fire through you like liquid lightning as you bite into his palm, not to fight but to restrain a high pitched moan that you fear could wake the neighbors- not just Laura.

"nothing you can do now sweetheart, just gotta take it" Logan says and you hear the mocking smile in the words, feel the throb of his thick cock as it emerges from the confines of his pants. "Kept telling me you were a good girl, so show me"

With your stomach flat against the ground, legs spread wide beneath him, you can do nothing but tremble as his cock slips between your legs. The cock belonging to your best friend's father sliding deliciously across that little bundle of nerves that sparks a whimper of pleasure.

Your eyes roll back as Logans hips buck, cock brushing your clit again, running up and down your slit torturously slow. "fuuuck, you feel that? How hard you've got my cock?"

You're kicking your legs now, moving your hips. It could be viewed as a struggle but its not, not really, you're just so desperately excited you can't keep still.

"Don't need to fight me baby. Just let daddy in hm? let it happen sweetheart."

And then he's pushing inside your body in one heavy thrust; slow and impossibly deep. The weight of him inside your cunt making you mewl against his palm. All the years of secret yearning, wet fantasies and subtle flirtations have all led to this moment.

It doesn't take many thrusts before your tongue is rolling out of your mouth, licking wetly against his palm like a grateful dog- a bitch in heat. You try to use it to muffle the moan that follows, a pitiful sound mixed with pleasure, like you're ashamed to be in the situation.

Used and humiliated around logans cock.

Its push followed by retreat, a half thrust and then withdrawal over and over. "So fucking tight" Logan growls as you wiggle your ass, not certain if your trying to squirm further in to his grip or out.

He's stretching your walls apart, the burn of his size delicious with each heavy he offers. Each bringing a pulsing throb on your clit. "Yeaaaa, that's it, take it like a good girl.." he groans. "S' what you wanted isn't it."

Logans right, this is exactly what you wanted and more. His body trembles atop yours from the exertion, balls squeezed against your ass, his hand on and off clenching around your breast. His thrusts picking up in pace as you struggle and squirm to keep quiet even under his palm

"L-logan" you whimper as he pushes particularly deep, pussy squelching lewdly from your arousal, his hand barley muffling the word. He knows your close before you do, can feel your cunt clenching desperately.

"Getting fucked so good your gonna cum sweetheart?" he rasps in your ear, panting into it. "C'mon, tell daddy how good his cock feels."

"S-so good.. F-fuck yes daddy, please"

You whine and It is a struggle to pry his strong hand off your mouth to get the words out.

"Go on sweetheart. Cum, coat my fuckin cock. Show me this cute little pussy is mine"

and then his big hand clamps back over your lips as he begins to fuck you into the floor. Your orgasm crashes over you in burning waves. Every stroke becoming an ecstatic agony, overstimulation starting to buzz over your bones. Its a constant struggle to hold your moans and neither of you can move properly for the risk of waking Laura .

But Logans hips remain unrelenting, Fucking you prone on your friends floor. His balls swinging, swatting unbearably at your clit with every entry. The heat of him and being trapped against the floor is almost unbearable, but so is having to keep your whimpers quiet. sweat beads hot on your brow

you can hear his own desperate attempts at staying quiet. Broken only by muffled groans, grunts of exertion, and primal chesty growls as your cunt clenches wetly around him.

Yet the discomfort of overstimulation is no match for the absolute bliss of your submission. Your toes curling so hard you're on the verge of a cramp.

The friction between your clit, Logan's cock and the floor builds to an intolerable pressure. Something must give way. The temptation to lose all control and scream his name too great. Now that possibility of you blacking out is too dangerous to ignore. So you say it the word.

"Kitty!"

Not because you want to, but because in this moment you have to. Almost as soon as the word leaves your lips and sinks into the pillow, wet from saliva and tears, you feel his body shudder. muscles seizing while a heavy groan sounding out into the skin of your neck.

"you okay?" he pants softly worry creasing his brow. "Was it too much?"

Your wordless and it worries him. Making him pull back, cock slipping free with a hushed hiss as he helps you shift onto your back, so he can look at you properly.

Your hands rise, fingers caressing his scruffy cheeks. "M'okay" you pant, eyes on him. "wasn't too much. Promise."

No, in fact, It was just right- before it all overwhelmed you that is. Now? now you just want to hold him, make love to him. Hold onto something- someone that isn't really yours. Eye to eye, your mouth slides back over his, legs spread back open, ready to welcome his length back inside. Without a word you buck your hips down, beckoning him to fuck you again.

Things are much quieter this time. Pace slowed to deep grinds rather than shallow thrusts, pleasure once again coiling in your gut as you lean up to watch his cock disappear inside.

"Feel so good sweetheart, my good girl" he coos, lips against yours as his hand slips back to cup your breast. "My good girl with a fuckin perfect body"

You keep your eyes on logan, blissful smile across your face, and for this moment he's not your best friends father. Not with the way he's gazing down at you with a mixture of lust and long held affection. "always wanted you" he whispers, hand moving back from your breast to cup your cheek. "But I would have kept that secret forever.."

You squeeze him to your chest, heart stuttering at the admission as you lock your arms behind his neck, legs tight around logans waist. You whimper back his name, a plea on your tongue.

"Want you to cum logan.. Please, need to feel it"

You want it more than anything, to feel his cum pushed inside you; for it to drip out later as a downright filthy reminder. You kiss his neck, then cheek, and finally his lips. You want Logan to claim you right here on the floor, right under her nose and you know it makes you a bad friend. Your eyes roll back, hands clawing down his chest as you feel yourself giving up all thought to the rush that flows down the center of your body. The one that begins and ends in the wet, sticky place between your legs, Where the sensitive bud of your clit pulses like a dying star.

it's then he growls much too loud, and you respond back in a whimper, lips pressing tight as you cum together in panted kisses. Him pumping hot heady ropes of cum inside your cunt without reservation or regret as you clench in a vice grip around him.

Tomorrow you will be sore, you know it for a fact. But Tonight.. Tonight You can revel in a fantasy made flesh, your flesh and Logans wrapped around each tight. You drag weak fingers down through his damp hair, then his back, feeling the way his shirt is soaked through with sweat.

Logans panting has subsided by now, breaths no longer crackling besides your ear. He plants mouthy kisses at the juncture of your neck, ever so gently, like a sated wolf nuzzling at the muzzle of his mate. You giggle quietly as those kisses grow fiercer, teeth nipping at your neck.

"my good, great, naughty girl" he murmurs against your skin, voice soft. "you feeling okay sweetheart? sure it wasn't too much?"

You nod and he can feel the enthusiasm seep from the move as you grasp his face again. "Mhm, better than okay. Was perfect" you hum sleeplily, content in his hold, in the scent of him. Your eyes flutter, lashes tickling his cheeks as you kiss him long and deep, until the rub of his beard hurts your face and sleep begins to take you under.

You both know tonight was the culmination of so many fevered dreams. The breaking point of lust and its power that can't be fully expressed in words. So he holds you close- just as you do him in your rest- for a little while longer, until light begins to filter soft through the curtains and the reality of what you'd both done really begins to set in.

thats it!! lemme know what you thought anddddd yea! asks are always open to shoot the shit, drabbles and more! <333

#carbonsfics #old man logan #logan howlett x reader smut #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett #wolverine #wolverine smut #wolverine x reader #dark logan howlett #dark wolverine #oldman logan howlett #logan 2017 #logan x reader

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nereidprinc3ss · 10 months ago

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please don't say you love me

in which fwb!spencer reid and fem!reader get into an argument about the nature of their relationship.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: friends with benefits arrangement, it goes bad, reader is so clearly anxious avoidant, reader is so me-coded, self-loathing, difficulties with emotional intimacy, arguing, derek and penelope make an appearance woo, a little dramatic, no happy ending (a nereidprinc3ss first!) a/n: it happened guys I stopped writing for a few days and last night randomly was inspired to finish this fwb piece and it essentially turned into a vent and went a completely different direction than i thought it would but here we are!!! i hope you enjoy, I loved writing, ilysm

“Are you reading it? Did you get to the part yet?” You ask, buzzing as you peer around Spencer’s arm to see where he’s at in the book you’d handed him. Sometimes you think it takes him longer to flip the pages than to read them.

He doesn’t answer, but you see the flickering quirk of his lip like something is amusing him. It’s been a few minutes and he’s maybe halfway through. He has to have seen it by now.

You’re clinging to his arm, eyes darting pointlessly between the text and his face, searching for a reaction. It comes in the form of a furrowed brow, a disbelieving smile, and something between a barking laugh and an exclamation of, “what?”

“You read it?”

His eyes narrow and he flips back a page, taking a bit longer to reevaluate.

“Our moans and grunts drowned out the screams of the dead and dying only a few hundred feet away.”

You giggle furiously, clapping a hand to your mouth when you snort, and you feel Spencer’s focus shifting to you, even with your eyes screwed shut.

“And you read this whole series?”

At that you sober up some, still hiding the bottom half of your face and brows drawn sorrowfully as mirthful tears well. You’re slow to admit your guilt with a nod, and his expression is somewhere between horror and fascination.

Your cheeks heat and you cover your face, laughing again and shaking your head shamefully as he ridicules you.

“Why? Why would you do that to yourself? I don’t even know if I can be seen in public with you, that’s—” he’s haphazardly tossed the book back on its display table and grabbed your wrists, pulling gently and laughing too. “No, show me your face. This is—you need to explain yourself. This is unforgivable.”

“No! I swear it was a morbid curiosity, I didn’t like it, I’m sorry! I—”

“Reid?”

You both freeze.

It’s not the most dignified position, admittedly—hidden among the shelves in a bookstore, pressed too close to be friendly, his hands around your wrists.

So you don’t mind when he drops them like hot potatoes and gives you a few inches of breathing room.

“Hey! Uh—you’re—”

Spencer is looking between you and two other people at the end of the aisle—a quirky bespectacled blonde in a flouncy polka-dot dress and her taller companion, ripped and head shaved, sporting some impressive eyebrows. Right now they’re conspicuously raised—his eyes are also pinballing between you and Spencer.

For a moment, everyone is just sort of… looking at each other.

It’s a little bit… awful?

Finally Spencer clears his throat.

“Um, what are you guys doing here? Just… looking at books?”

Something is off, and you feel like shrinking or running, but you just stay glued to your spot.

In sync, they hold up copies of the same book—and it takes you not a second to place the author’s name, in imposing red font at the bottom like it’s important. Rossi.

The pieces click into place. These must be Spencer’s co-workers—Penelope and Derek, if his descriptions of the team have served you well. Part of you is starstruck. Part of you is embarrassed. They’re clearly shocked to see Spencer with a girl in the wild, so you know he hasn’t told them about you—and why should he, you think, why should he tell his friends about the girl he’s been sleeping with for months now?

Finally, the blonder half of the duo speaks.

“You’re—this is a girl. That’s. Who is that? Hi! Who are you?”

She’s literally pointing at you, eyes drifting between you and Spencer like it just doesn’t make any sense. Derek gives her a look and gently pushes her hand down.

“Hey. That’s enough.” Then he offers you a polite smile, though you sense a bit strained, and his eyes too keep wandering back to the man next to you. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no! You’re not… interrupting…” Spencer trails off and you sense he’s looking at you and gauging a reaction but you’re just smiling idly at his friends and waiting for this to be over. He finally thinks to introduce you by name, and you offer a shy wave and a smile to your new acquaintances.

Penelope points (that damn finger again) but this time it’s less accusatory, and stays below chin level.

“Cool shirt. I love that band,” she offers genially. Your brows raise and you look down, trying to remember what shirt you’d tossed on before leaving Spencer’s apartment an hour ago.

“Oh! Thanks,” you smile, and you’re relieved to mean it this time.

Another frosty silence begins to descend, but Derek doesn’t let it settle so much this time, to everyone’s satisfaction.

“Alright, well. It was nice to meet you. Enjoy your date.”

There’s too much weight on the last sentence, and Derek gives Spencer a eyebrows-raised-meaningfully look you don’t understand. You’re just glad Spencer keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t immediately insist that it’s not a date, because it’s not, and that’s fine, but the vehement denial would bum you out.

The pair walk away in the kind of clenched silence that means they’ll start fervently whispering as soon as they are out of ear shot. You watch their retreating figures and chew your lip, sensing that the carefree and playful energy of five minutes ago will have evaporated by the time you turn back to face your companion.

“Strange,” you murmur, mostly to yourself, and you’re slightly jarred when Spencer replies from beside you.

“Which part?”

All of it.

Turning to face him, you smile, and it doesn’t reach your eyes but it doesn’t need to.

“Oh—nothing, sorry.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, only stares at a point somewhere above your head and narrows his eyes like he’s thinking unpleasant thoughts.

“Was I an asshole, to you, just now?”

It’s unexpected. You don’t have an answer prepared, so you say something that feels like a lie because you can’t prove that it’s not the truth.

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I just… I don’t know. I get weird around them, sometimes. I don’t always know what to say, like, when my personal life and my work life intersect, because for a long time I didn’t really have a personal life. And I think they still think I don’t know how to talk to girls, so…”

“You don’t know how to talk to girls,” you remind him. “Let’s go look at the puzzles.”

Maybe you spend too much time with Spencer Reid. Maybe that’s the problem—too long in his presence and he’s eating away at your neural tissue like you’ve got cysticercosis and he’s the T. solium (a terrible thing he had explained to you a few weeks ago.)

Maybe you need a break from him, to stop breathing his air and sleeping in his bed and wearing his clothing, because you’re forgetting that he’s not the entire world and that is a very bad thing to forget in a situation like yours. The entire world cannot be the size of his apartment.

But you also just like him so much. As a friend, of course. That goes without saying. You like his strange sense of humor, and the way he lights up when you ask him an obscure question. You like your legs across his lap while you watch his old shows. You also like being kissed by him, and hugged by him. You like being taken care of like no one has ever taken care of you, and you like the way he always touches you, soft and kind and so on purpose.

You never meant to like him so much.

This affection—it has grown, insidious and parasitic, and now that it’s been pointed out to you like a lump in your side, it’s impossible to ignore.

What you and Spencer have works precisely because you’ve kept things platonic and casual. That way, there’s no worrying about emotional baggage or arguing about feelings because there are none to be found and no precedent that any such things should or need to occur. You can’t hurt each other’s feelings if your feelings aren’t on the table.

So why can’t you stop thinking about earlier?

Why can’t you help caring that he’s been keeping you a secret from the people he loves most?

“So, essentially the book is his first deep dive into meta-fiction. It was pretty revolutionary at the time, and while not his most celebrated novel, I’d argue it was his most relevant and culturally pervasive. I’d actually love to hear your interpretation of the story—it’s truly different for everyone. It’s a little like… like a literary Rorschach test. Do you wanna borrow it?”

You’re a tangle on his bed—arms, legs, sheets—it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins. All you’re sure of is his hand, tracing his fingers in chaste lines, feather-light up and down your inner thigh in the way he knows you like. Usually it’s so soothing you melt and fall asleep within minutes. Right now it’s only stoking some sparking electrical fire in your chest—the buzzes and bursts from which have you on edge. Ready to cave in at any second. You wish you could relax. You’ve been trying.

Spencer is in no hurry for you to respond, and so doesn’t seem to mind when it takes you a long while to find your answer.

“I think I need to go home.”

It comes out too scratchy, as you haven’t really spoken for several hours. Not as casual as you were going for. He angles his head down toward you and his hand stops and you realize it’s actually worse like that.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah! Everything is fine, I just… I wanna sleep in my own bed tonight, I think.”

It’s late and you shouldn’t be making him drive you across town, but he’s always amenable to what you want. This is the longest you’ve ever stayed at his place, after all—a rare long weekend—and before that a few weeks had passed with no cases to speak of, during which time you’ve been staying with him more and more. Spencer seems to be completely content letting you eat his food and use his shower if it means you don’t leave.

“I know the feeling well,” he admits, and your heart twinges with the care he takes to not bump or bend you or pull your hair as he shifts. He’s already been out of bed, and so is more dressed than you. Really, most people on the planet are more dressed than you, and you pull his nice sheet higher up your chest as he sits on the edge of the mattress, looking down at you and with a sort of worry in his eyes. He finds your knee through the fabric. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been quiet.”

Stop paying such close attention, you want to tell him. And in the same breath, please don’t ever look away.

“I’m… good.”

It is easily the least convincing performance of your life. Either you’re self sabotaging or you want him to push you further, and you don’t know which is worse.

When his brow ramps just the slightest bit, you know you’ve fumbled it.

“I don’t believe you.”

You shrug. “I don’t need you to.” And then you sit up, still holding the sheet to your chest. “Can you hand me a shirt?”

Enough clothing has accumulated around the room recently that he could pretty much reach out in any direction and find something for you to wear. He grabs a sweatshirt hanging from the bedpost and holds it out for you, and you pull it over your head, before dropping your feet onto the cool wooden floor and grabbing the first bottoms you see—a pair of floral pajama shorts. How have so many of your clothes ended up at his apartment?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

You scoop your bag up from a chair and flit around the room, haphazardly stuffing away discarded clothing to take back home. It’s true that it’ll be nice to get back to your stuff—your shower products and your closet and your silk pillow cases. You shouldn’t be spending so much time here. It’s not your space and you’ve been sacrificing your own needs to be closer to him, which is something you’d rather not do for any man.

“You can drive me home. I’ll send you gas money.”

“You don’t need to send me gas money,” he says, tacking your name on to the end of the sentence in a way that raises your hackles instantly.

“Yeah, I do. You drive me around constantly. I’ll pay you back and start taking the metro, or something.”

“I don’t want your money,” he scoffs.

“Fine. Then I’ll call a car.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’m happy to drive you.”

“Why?”

Silence hangs. Spencer has by this point stood up, and he’s watching you with a furrowed brow and slightly parted lips like he doesn’t understand where this animosity has come from. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure either. You didn’t realize you were harboring so much of it.

“Am I supposed to see you as an inconvenience?”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“No. You’re not. We have a relationship and I don’t mind doing things for you.”

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

You didn’t mean to say it, but you sure as hell were thinking it.

It feels good to say, like stretching a sore muscle beyond its limits or pressing into a bruise until you get past the ache. Sometimes when things hurt, it’s best to feel the pain and move on.

He looks absolutely perplexed, the lines between his brows only ditching deeper.

“Is that what this is about?”

“Oh my god, Spencer, no, I don’t care—”

“Because earlier at the bookstore I asked you if I was being an asshole and—”

“I do not give a fuck about earlier at the fucking bookstore!”

It’s too late to be yelling, but he doesn’t scold you. He just sort of looks at you, like you’re something mildly unpleasant. It makes you feel worse.

A long moment goes by.

“Fine. I’ll take you home.”

You let him brush past you, nothing more than a breeze on your shoulders as he disappears from the darkened bedroom. For a moment, you can’t follow him. All you can do is stand there and try to contain that sour, stinging, crying feeling in your eyes and nose because there’s no reason for you to be crying right now.

From the living room, he calls, rather abrasively, “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” you huff, and it is as wavering as it is insolent, so obviously the only word holding back a full-fledged deluge of tears.

One minute. One minute to sniffle and take deep breaths and wipe abashedly under your eyes because you refuse to be dramatic about this. Refuse to get over-emotional. You will not let it matter this much to you.

When you decide you can show your face without making a scene, you march out of his bedroom and straight past where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, keys in hand, to the front door.

He doesn’t move. You burn smoking holes into the dark wood of the door with your eyes, and the two of you are apparently at an impasse.

“I’m ready,” you eventually snap, always the impatient one between the two of you, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder.

“I’m not.”

“You said you would—”

“I know what I said,” Spencer cuts you off and shuts you up, “and I changed my mind. I’d prefer to talk about it before I take you home.”

By the time he finishes the sentence you’re already wrestling your phone from the depths of your bag in search of a ride sharing app.

“Okay, well I’m done talking because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, so—”

“No, you’re done talking because this is what you do. You can never admit it when you want something because that would mean acknowledging that you’re a human being with emotions, and that’s too scary for you.”

Surely you misheard him. You turn around, a deep frown contorting your features.

“Excuse me?”

He only looks at you in that expectant, knowing way of his.

“It’s too scary so you run away. You’d rather burn your relationships to the ground and rebuild them with a new person every time than actually let someone in.”

“You don’t know me!” You yell.

“Do you actually think that’s true?” Spencer says, pushing off his perch against the counter, voice shrilling and raised slightly as he gets visibly agitated. “You think I’ve spent hours upon hours with you and I don’t know you at all?”

“You have no idea what I’m like in a relationship because this isn’t one. You have no fucking idea what I want, so do not presume to,” you seethe.

“You want a relationship. You wanted my friends to know you and you didn’t tell me that because you’re fucking terrified of the fact that I do know you. You can’t stand the idea that regardless of how many times you tell yourself it’s just sex, you have been vulnerable with me, and you’ve told me things you’ve never told anyone before, like why your last three relationships really ended, and how you constantly self-sabotage when you’re on the verge of getting what you want because you think you don’t deserve it.”

“Shut up!”

“No. I’m not just going to let you walk away from me like you did everyone else who could’ve ever cared about you because I know once you walk out that door you’ll stop responding to my calls and texts and I’ll never see you again, which is a juvenile pattern and completely unsustainable if you don’t want to keep pushing people away for the rest of your life!”

“God, Spencer, stop!” You sob, staggering back like you’ve been stabbed.

The urgency, the raw, desperate scratch of your voice, stops him in his tracks.

Every place an arrow penetrated a chink in your armor aches, and it hurts so much worse because he knew exactly where they were. You don’t know when or how it happened, but he’s right. Despite your most valiant efforts, Spencer Reid knows you. Somehow he crept in and grew over every limb like ivy. It’s crawled over your feet and up your legs and it’s keeping you there, rooted in place in his apartment, sobbing silently into the crook of your arm because you feel utterly paralyzed with fear.

Just as he’d said.

It’s silent for a long stretch of time, unquantifiable the same way the distance between the beach and the horizon is unquantifiable. It’s sprawling and infinite and desolate. The only relief from the drowning quiet is the occasional gulp of air or gasp from you which furthers your humiliation.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer finally whispers, soft and unsure like rays of weak sunlight over staggered tides, in the grey morning after a raging storm. It’s an attempt. It’s earnest and afraid.

The energy radiating off of him is so tangible that you can sense his desire to come near. To hold you. But that would be your worst nightmare come to fruition. This—this warbling and crying in front of him in silence in his dark apartment is god-awful enough. But to be comforted? For him to bear witness up close and personal to your humility and your ugly, jagged pieces—that inspires true catatonia. That is everything he said you were afraid of, and he was right.

You resent your human nature, and the fact that you care how his friends look at you and that it stung when they did so with little more than apathy. You hate that you care that he hasn’t told them about you. You hate that you feel so unimportant—because more than anything, you want to be fine with being unimportant.

You want to be fine. Constantly.

You hate that you feel. You hate that you care.

But you always have. And so fucking deeply.

Somehow, Spencer Reid is the only one who has ever noticed.

Eventually, his self-restraint snaps and he surges forward at the same time as you take a shuddering inhale and step back.

“Please don’t touch me,” you whisper. Afraid that if he did, his fingers would only sink into your flesh like decaying fruit. That you would disintegrate in his hands, and he’d finally see you’d been rotten the whole time.

He speaks softly, holding his hands up to show you he’s not a threat.

“Okay. I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“I need to go home.”

“I’ll—”

“No. I don’t want a ride. I’ll get a car.” You speak quietly. Efficiently. There’s no point in pretending this doesn’t feel catastrophic anymore.

His brows furrow. Like a moth to flame, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, he draws nearer again.

“I’m not comfortable with you on the street at this hour.”

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” you insist, pleading, a wounded animal, because he doesn’t seem to understand how every casual notion of kindness is a violence, how he’s ripping into you and making it so you’ll never be able to put yourself back together. He can’t be kind like you’re easy to be kind to.

If you’re easy to be kind to, you are just as easy to hurt. Accepting that kindness is a sort of vulnerability you feel you can’t afford right now.

Another moment of silence, of stillness, as if you’re both bolted to the ground where you stand.

When he speaks it’s a blow to the chest because you’ve made him cry too.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quietly, and a venomous self-hatred drips down your throat. Because you’re doing it again.

Maybe this is all you will ever be.

You fail to stifle a sob and Spencer steps closer still, saying your name desperately and so quietly like it’s his last rite.

And you try. You try harder than you ever have to stay in one place, to get a hold of your vibrating and to swallow all those slithery feelings and ignore every alarm telling you to panic when he reaches out to touch your arm because it’s never safe to let people in. But when his hand finally brushes you, it’s like a cow prod. You jolt backward.

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” you whisper all in one harrowed breath, and there’s so much you’d like to say—you’re right, about everything, you do know me, you know what I want, I tried, I’m ashamed—but none of it matters. None of it is enough. He’s backed you into a corner of your own making, and the only way out is by pushing him aside even if it hurts you both.

So you don’t say anything else. You leave him there, in the dark of his own apartment, and you disappear down the hall.

Maybe this is all you will ever be.

#spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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matsunoluvr · 11 months ago

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୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ how I think the boys from love and deepspace would give a first kiss :3

warnings: suggestive content (obviously?), writing might be out of character, spoilers in general, i get carried away explaining everything because i'm afraid of being accused of mischaracterisation

[story spoiler] first kiss = first kiss where mc is a hunter/the timeline in game

authors notes: i have favourites and it will show CLEARLY in my writing… sorry (not sorry no1 rafayel stan) and i am a yapper

characters: rafayel, xavier, zayne and sylus

link to my master list here!!

more below the cut :3

sorry rafayel... but i feel like he's the most unskilled at kisses because - hear me out - you're his very first kiss. lemurians as a species seem to value bonds and loyalty, and as the literal sea god he wasn't able to nor wanted to just hook up or mess around - he's looking for devotion!!!

(okay, we ignore the kiss in forgotten sea myth story because like come on there was literally no romance mc was drowning)

definitely waits a while before kissing you, rayafel really takes his time to fall into place. after all, he needs to make sure his beloved bride/groom is well and truly his!!!

the type to wait for the ‘right moment’ - but doesn’t force or stage it ykwim? like the time comes naturally - e.g. watching the sunset, or you’re leaning close to him whilst he’s painting

he’s a romantic 100% like there’s a reason his 'floral promise' card was (imo) way fluffier compared to the others - like xavier's was tender-ish but rafayel was fucking melting

he's a sweet talker I just know it.

that charm he uses on his clients? he doesn't want to nor will he manipulate you with it but you know he's going to ramp up the charm to tease you a little

definitely knows his effect on you and uses it to his full advantage (cough cough fiery undercurrents secret times) like whispering in your ear, making excuses to touch you or get close to you

(i think he’d be more 'traditional' because of lemurian customs - the whole bonding + [forgotten sea spoilers] the sea god ceremony where the mc must devote themselves to rafayel displaying a strong level of devotion)

SUCH A GENTLE KISSER OMG like compared to his almost bratty and childish personality he’s a gentleman when it comes to kisses (also because he's kind of unsure what to do...)

the type to tuck strand of your hair behind your ear, fiddle with it a little maybe twirl it around his finger before trailing a finger along your jawline... i can see him like massaging your ear too? idk how to describe it he's a handsy man

first kiss was definitely more sweet than passionate ugawhriulgs he's such a cutie

right after the first kiss i think he’d be pretty affectionate, rather than bratty/tsundere since for him to kiss someone i believe he’d really need to love them (and therefore is more open to being vulnerable)

affectionate as in saying something cheesy probably, commenting on how you tasted or another one of his poetic, artistic quotes (dw raf we love it)

wouldn't be satisfied with just one after that, i can see him going in for a more passionate second and even a third (i mean look at his 'floral promise' memory OR 'fiery undercurrents') in the same few minutes

these follow up kisses would probably be longer and way less chaste, hands moving from tilting your chin up to your waist ahahahahahuwfa

you'd have to show him the appeal of tongue if that's your thing because he's seen it before but never really saw what was nice about it

"But... you're just drinking each other's saliva?" "Rafayel that's hot-"

definitely relived the moment in his head hundreds of times after that night - and you bet your ass he painted a piece inspired from your first kiss with him

any kisses after that i feel like they would follow this default pattern;

if he initiated the kiss i think he’d be more cocky and teasing, especially if he surprised you with one and he sees your flustered face

“Didn’t expect that huh, cutie?”

if you surprised him, however, get ready for typical rafayel childish behaviour, blushing and averting his eyes, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and a pout

“Hey- what was that for!!” Σ（・□・；）

either way rafayel is the worlds silliest man and would cave into literally anything with just a few kisses from you

ALSO KISS HIS COLLAR BONES AND YOU'VE GOT A WHOLE NEW SCENARIO TO UNFOLD

oh i just have a feeling this man is devouring you because puh-LEASEE?? sir we aren't forgetting your 'tender night' card i know that night was anything but tender

xavier is the definition of pent-up desire because this man has been waiting a LONG time and he's not going to be able to hold back very well

(taking heavy inspiration from his '21 days' memory because with his reaction it kind of feels like his first kiss with mc... but tbh i don't know much about xavi)

he's definitely not shy when it comes down to it, yeah he gets flustered if he thinks about it because of course imagining kissing the person he's pined over for centuries is going to fluster the shit out of him but he doesn't shy away form the idea or avoid the topic in conversation

i feel like he'd bring it up casually - like in the 'partner go go' event (aka heartbreaker-chasing-rhythm-game event) he was so insistent on the 'kissing page'

mc was like "apparently you can solve arguments with a kiss" and this mf straight up said "we can argue then" this man is STARVED

i feel like you'd need to initiate the kiss or give him very clear signs you'd be okay with a kiss for it to happen, i don't know why i just feel like he's that type of person

the first kiss is deep despite him trying his best to hold back - you can just feel his desire and longing oozing out of him and he's definitely on fucking cloud nine

xavier's holding your face and stroking his thumb along your cheek and god damn he's good at kissing where the fuck did he learn this from?

the type to break the kiss and then fucking bulldoze into the next one and my god his restraints have broken and he's actually kissing you as if it's the last thing he's able to do on earth

100% a tongue user he's biting at your bottom lip before slipping it in the sly minx

after the kiss he's more flustered than he expected to be - kissing the love of his life (literally) sends him into a flurry of emotions he's never really experienced before

given how possessive xavier is i wouldn't be surprised if halfway through making out he managed to leave a hickey or two in very. visible. places.

he isn't even pretending to feel guilty in the slightest, a smug grin as he shrugs out a half-assed apology.

"Sorry, I guess you'll have to try hide it. Or don't, that would be easier."

if you leave any marks on him he's not leaving you along that night. forget sleeping you two are recreating 'tender night' ALL night.

but seriously, if you leave hickeys over his neck (his canonical sensitive area and where he feels vulnerable) he's going to go crazy because what do you mean you want everyone to know he's yours??? what do you mean you want him as much as he wants you??

tldr; xavier is unusually talented with his mouth and is desperate to prove it to you.

i accidentally wrote way more for xavier than i expected i even cut out some bits holy crap maybe i’m more into xavi than i thought

oh no... zayne you beautiful man i am so sorry... (here comes the one character i have no idea how to characterise + no clue about his lore zayne fans pls bear with me)

okay - zayne looks like a gentleman and i'm sure he very much is even in intimate moments, but i cannot get rid of the idea that his first kiss w you was lowk spicyyyyy

like OH MY GOD I JUST WATCHED SNOWY SERENITY RN I FUCKIGN KNEW IT

that man was pouncing on you in a hospital bed, dishevelled, and kissing you deep my god like the type of kiss that literally as you forgetting where you are

i feel like zayne would be the one to initiate the kiss, again no idea why maybe i'm falling into the dominant zayne agenda

you're probably surprised when he kisses you because he's usually so composed, the 'cold unfeeling' dr zayne - then suddenly he's panting and pushing himself on top of you (consensually of course), pinning you down and going to town.

when he kisses you i don't think he's much of a lip biter, but if you bite his lips or lick at him or anything he's not opposed, as long as your lips are on his and vice versa

after the first kiss he's going straight into another one, his patience has thinned to the point of snapping and now he just needs you.

his hands what does he do with his hands? i'm thinking the typical otome face hold, gentle grasp juxtaposing his fervent kisses LOL

now, why does he kiss you?? how does this all build up? unfortunately all i can think of to match this scenario is something angsty or something along the lines of zayne has fucking had it and all he wants is you

"I need you... please."

this is the type of kiss where he wants to drown in you, breathe you in and just smother his being into yours to forget and erase whatever else is happening/happened

if he's kissing you and pinning you down and you bring up your hand to interlock fingers with him - your warm hands against his cool hands? wow his kissing is all of a sudden even more passionate.

after the little make out session he's going to go all mushy on you, physical affection of an embrace something uncharacteristic of him to match his dishevelled state

in kisses after the first i like the idea that he checks your pulse mid make-out and just silently smirks/chuckles when he notices it's faster and more erratic than usual

"Why are you nervous, this isn't our first time."

he also has this sneaky habit of whispering incredibly close to your ear, the reason why i choose to point this out it because i feel like sometimes he uses his evol to his advantage to like, breathe out cool air on your neck/ear and likes to watch you shiver

the ultimate dominant figure if you try to kiss him first and take control he somehow manages to overcome you and take the lead without using his strength, just good ol' sweet talking and technique

congratulations, you managed to snatch a kiss from the renown leader sylus!!!

i can see why people would think he's promiscuous or a fuck-boy because honestly i see it, but imo just because he is more flirtatious, assertive and... responsive (try tapping his... crotch... in the café LOL) does NOT = play boy

to me it just shows that - unlike the other LIs - sylus is just more forward with his approach, he has that devil-may-care like feel to him ykwim?

"Do I like you? What type of question is that, isn't it obvious? Or do I need to show you?" is much different to "Hey baby girl lemme rock your world tnite xx"

but just because he's got a 'fuck-all' attitude doesn't mean he fucks around with random people, he's 1. got standards and 2. living in the n109 zone?? do you THINK he can afford to let random people close just to fuck???

that being said i don't think he's a kiss virgin, just very selective and honest man when it comes to love and physical intimacy

now, when i say he isn't a fuckboy, that doesn't mean i don't believe in cocky-smugass-know-it-all sylus - he kisses well. and with PASSION. and probably the worst part is that he knows it.

first kiss with sylus? i can't imagine him making a large fuss about it like rafayel, nor it having to be some "i'm-at-deaths-door-and-need-to-kiss-you-atleast-once" situation like zayne, but no matter where or when you two share a first kiss he is making sure you remember

that being said, there was definitely a LOT of romantic and sexual tension between you and sylus for at least weeks before the kiss, i mean the air was thick with suggestive glances and denial

i think you two'd have to already be in close proximity which is very easy to achieve with sylus (touchiest man award goes to him) for the first kiss to initiate

he's grabbing your waist, or your face, makings sure your eyes are on. him. as you two kiss. watching with delight no matter what reactions you have, he admires you through surprised and flustered to confident and defiant

rather than a tender first kiss it’s probably a full blown make out session, just desire and lust flooding out of the both of you after having built up for over a month.

assertive does not mean he's going to force a kiss on you to clear this up, more that he likes to take the initiative and take control as you two kiss <3

yeah he's into biting (wow what a big shock) - likes biting your ear, or neck, or bottom lip, one time he tried nipping at your tongue too.

you can bite him back, he likes it.

"Hah, looks like someone is baring their claws tonight..." he’s really into that whole cat thing huh.

what does mr sylus do with his hands? waist, hips, ass, around your neck, pulling your face in by squeezing your cheeks, fingers threading through the hair on the back of your head, you name it he does it. again, i think sylus is a touchy man.

he doesn't mind if you try to take control, just dont expect to be successful. different to zayne - as in he will overcome your control with his evol and strength…

inappropriate use of his evol has occurred (he ‘tied’ you up and made out with you (CONSENSUALLY))

after his affinity 15 (i think) memory i can just tell he’s freaky with it bruhhh so yeah handcuffs are probably something he indulges in

if you’re persistent or physically overcome sylus you might get rewarded with a resigned, more submissive sylus

the idea or sight of someone man handling/overcoming his strength really sets him off.. i mean have you seen “no defence zone”?? but you’re really going to need to work to get him to this stage, and he’s going to have to love you

“No one’s ever seen me like this, lying on my back and begging for you.”

secretly finds out through you that he enjoys being dominated (BRAT SYLUS FOR 2024) so climb on top of him and kiss him until he’s blushing and panting hahahahahaha

tldr: sylus isn’t a fuck-boy but he sure kisses like one

AN; as an ao3 writer may say, no beta we die like caleb i wrote half of this when i was half asleep LMAOO anyways i hope this was okay please dont attack me BYE

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rosycheekeddawn · 3 months ago

Note

hiiiii could you do smth where the reader gets dropped into olympus some how and all the gods lowk get interested and decide to keep the little mortal

they end up all fighting over the mortals attention and assistance 🫣

maybe apollo hermes and poseidon (and zues obvi) try to woo and have the readers love the most 👀

Mortal Affections

A/N: This was such a cool request to get for my first one! I’ve decided to write it in headcanons for now, but it gave me a great idea for a series that I’ll get around to when I have some more time.

Hermes

Hermes is the first to sweep you off your feet… literally

He sees you sitting on a bench, most likely pondering your situation, and a mischievous grin lights up his face as he zooms over to you, grabs you by the wrists and hoists you into the air

When you realise your feet are no longer touching the ground, your first instinct is to thrash, flail and scream until you hear a smooth voice from above you

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there, beautiful,” he chuckles, letting go of your wrists and quickly catching you bridal-style in his arms. “You really think I’d drop you?” he teases. “I just had to get you out of there before Apollo or Poseidon got any ideas.”

He spends pretty much the whole flight complimenting you, saying how good you’d be together, and trash-talking his ‘competition’

He finally sets you down in what seems to be a massive orchard, filled with Greek strawberry trees; you turn to face him, and he’s holding up two baskets with a large smile

The next two hours are filled with laughter as he cracks joke after joke (again, most are at the expense of Poseidon and Apollo to try and put you off them) just to admire the unique way your laugh sounds and your smile looks, while you happily fill your basket with delicious fruit

He definitely insists on feeding you some if you’re not too uncomfortable with that

Apollo

He finds you after you’ve returned from Hermes’ strawberry field, and he knows he needs to do whatever he can to top that; he still considers Hermes one of his biggest rivals since the Cattle Incident

He walks over to you with his usual bright smile, the tiny scar on his lip that he got from his time as a mortal twitching slightly with the movement

“It is an honour to finally meet you in person, my dear,” he says, with a voice that sounds like a melody. “I was wondering if you might allow me to show you something?”

At your confirmation, he smiles again and loops his arm through yours as he leads you to a large marble building; when you walk inside, you’re met with the largest library you’ve ever seen

The walls are lined with bookshelves, each one filled to the brim with books and scrolls; in the gaps between the shelves are marvellous paintings and statues

“This library is my reprieve,” he explains to you. “As the god of knowledge, there’s little I enjoy more than a good read. Except, of course, spending time with you, my dear.”

Time with Apollo is much calmer than your time with Hermes; he allows you to pick whichever book or scroll you would like, and while you curl up on his most comfortable piece of furniture, he may feel compelled to create something

He’ll write a poem dedicated to your beauty and impressive focus, paint the scene in front of him with meticulous attention to detail, or even compose a new tune inspired by you

You both engage in some idle conversation; it isn’t non-stop like Hermes’ is, much more calm and relaxed, like you have all the time in the world

He may tell you some embarrassing stories about Hermes or Poseidon, but for the most part, he focuses on showing you he is the best rather than telling you

When you’re finished, he lets you keep the book you chose as a gift

Poseidon

He saw you go into Apollo’s library, and he’s been waiting impatiently ever since

He’s pacing in front of the building impatiently, wondering what could be taking you so long

When you emerge, he immediately stops his pacing and smiles at you, his sea glass eyes lighting up

“I was wondering what was taking you so long, sea star,” he says. “I thought for a moment my nephew had bored you to death. Now, if you’ll follow me…”

Unsurprisingly, Poseidon leads you to a beach, the waves crashing and overlapping in a surprisingly calming way

He sits on the sand and offers for you to do the same, which you do

“The sea here reflects my thoughts and emotions,” he explains as he looks out at the sea with a small, but genuine smile. “As such, I can manipulate however I want.”

Before you can ask what he means, the water in front of you swirls and rises, before it forms the shape of a small horse who immediately trots over to you

The laugh Poseidon lets out at your surprised face when the horse nuzzles your cheek and leaves a patch of wetness makes it seem like the ocean is laughing along with him

He creates some more water creatures, the original horse sitting by your side and whinnying as a trail of liquid sea creatures flies overhead, sprinkling the top of your head with water droplets

Unlike his nephews, Poseidon doesn’t really mention them at all; he’s older and more experienced than his nephews, and he knows he won’t get anywhere with trash talk

You two don’t talk a lot, but it doesn’t feel like you have to; the silence is comfortable, broken occasionally by laughter from the two of you

When the sun sets, the creatures dissolve into the water once more, and he pulls something else from it

It’s a sea glass mosaic of you, him, the water horse by your side and the sea creatures surrounding you in the shape of a heart

#greek mythology x reader #greek mythology x you #greek gods x reader #greek gods x you #hermes x reader #hermes x you #apollo x reader #apollo x you #poseidon x reader #poseidon x you

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seresinhangmanjake · 11 months ago

Text

Come Back Together

Benny Cross x reader

Summary in bullet points:

Now that Benny is back in your life, he is trying to be a better husband

Benny is insecure about his relationship and a barfight ensues

Reader is pregnant (three months)

Benny does a bit of pining and is emotionally vulnerable

Fluffiness

Part 2 of Come Back Knockin’

Notes/Warnings: *Spoiler free*, angst and fluff, relationship struggles, physical altercations (fist fight), mention of blood and injury, mention of pregnancy, mention of alcohol, cursing, kissing, happy stuff, typos. I think that’s it. This took me forever to write for some reason and I was weirdly stressed about it. tf is wrong with me, right? Anyway…

Words: alright no one freak out…it’s 4300. Idk why it’s a lot longer than the first part but I always do that. If you’re willing to venture onward, I appreciate it :)

Benny Cross Masterlist

Part 3: Together and More

He stares at you incessantly. Which isn’t out of the ordinary—he used to stare at you all the time—but there’s something else to it now. He stares as if he thinks you’ll disappear the second he takes his eyes off of you. Like you'll slip through his fingers. Ironic, really, since disappearing in the blink of an eye is more his thing.

“Can I make you something?” he asks, staring at you from his chair while you pull a carton of eggs from the fridge. “You should be sitting instead of me.”

“You don’t know how to cook, Benny,” you state matter-of-factly, turning your back to him as you switch on the stove and set a pan on the lit burner.

Cooking has always been your responsibility. It was one of the things you brought to this relationship. And you liked being the one to keep Benny fed, never chiming in when the other Vandals’ wives and girlfriends mentioned how exhausting it was to satisfy their man’s grumbling stomach. You liked that Benny appreciated you for it.

Now you wonder if subconsciously you believed that as long as you fed him, he’d stay by your side, regardless of his wild nature. Kind of like a puppy. But Benny Cross is no puppy.

“I should probably learn,” he says. “You know, for the kid.”

You hum, cracking an egg on the edge of the pan. “Maybe you should stick to learning how not to ditch your family,” you retort, and immediately your features twist in a wince.

You can’t believe you let those words out of your mouth. You’d been doing so well at holding in the little jabs and remarks, no matter how hard they’ve pushed at your sealed lips. Not to say a few of them haven’t slipped through in the last month, they have, but each time they did, you received instant punishment in the form of Benny’s heart crumbling right before your eyes.

He’s never tried to make you feel guilty about your slip-ups, but he can’t seem to hide his expressions around you anymore. Ever since Benny returned, he’s been different. Your husband who was once so stoic has untethered his emotions from the piece inside of him that, for years, refused to let them show. His affection is more outward now, but unfortunately, so is his pain. So you made a rule to stop doing that to him; stop catching him off guard with words of hurt during a time of pending forgiveness. What he did was damaging, yes, but it’s unfair to pick at him when he’s been doing everything he can to show you he has value to this family; things he never would have done before.

He wakes earlier than you to clean the most-used areas of the house—a poorly done job; you still find dust in spaces dust should have easily been wiped up, but he tries. He found work at a mechanic’s shop not too far from the house, and surprisingly, he has yet to complain about it—a decent job was always something he physically and mentally shunned. He got rid of everything in the spare room and has begun painting the walls from the deep brown left over from the prior owners to a soft, light green that matches the baby blanket he brought you. It’s cute, and significantly better than you would have done without him. You would’ve been too stressed to put together a nice nursery.

Benny awkwardly clears his throat, breaking up your thoughts and bringing you back to the present. The lingering discomfort from your snide tone is palpable, heavy, just short of physically formed, and you can’t escape it.

“I didn’t mean that,” you tell him as you flip the egg.

The sizzle in the pan is louder as uncooked egg hits the heat, but you can still hear his deep breath, easily picturing the weak smile on his face when he softly says, “It’s ok. I deserve it.”

You’re about to protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“I was thinkin’ about goin’ to a meeting tonight,” Benny says. “You wanna come with me?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Oh…” he says, dejected. “It's been a while since you've been to one. I know you stopped goin’ when I was…away, so I thought…”

You set the spatula down and turn to face him, crossing your arms. “I wasn’t going to go without you. And considering everything, everyone just would have pitied me. I'm sure they still do.”

His blue eyes fall to the tiled floor. You know he hates that such a thought would enter your mind, but it’s not as if you’re capable of stopping it. He put you in a pitiful situation, and were the circumstances placed upon another woman, you would have felt those same feelings for her.

“No one pities you, baby. I promise,” he says. “They miss you.” His head lifts so he can meet your stare. “But if you don’t want to go then I'll stay here with you. We can watch a movie or somethin’.”

Your eyes widen. “No!” you yelp. Benny’s head jerks back at the sudden outburst and you swallow to buy yourself time to sort your thoughts into words, but the best you come up with is: “You’re right, actually. We should go.”

“But you just–” His brow raises in skepticism. “Are you sure?”

If your options are club meeting surrounded by a large group of people or movie-watching with you and Benny alone, then yes, you are absolutely sure. The movie channels have rallied against you lately. Out of the five times you and Benny have watched a film since he came back, all five have been romances. All of them!

You don’t know if he scours the TV Guide without you noticing or if the television channels have simply rallied against you, but sitting beside your husband who you are trying not to give in to is made all the more difficult when watching Audrey Hepburn fall in love with George Peppard or Cary Grant or Greggory Peck for God's sake. You see them and it makes you forget things. You forget that you’re as upset as you are, and with Benny so close, your heart starts to pound and you can’t focus on anything else. You want to crawl right into his arms, let him hold you and kiss you and take you on the couch after what has felt like an eternity apart. But you can’t do that. It’s too soon. So no movies.

“Positive,” you nod.

An easy smile slides onto his face. “Well that’s great, baby. It'll be fun.”

“Yea. Sure.”

“Alright,” he says, standing. “I gotta get to the shop.”

He pauses as he passes by you, and you hold his gaze as he squashes the instinct to press his lips to your forehead.

You weren’t married to Benny for long before he panicked and left—only a handful of months—but it was long enough for the two of you to develop your own set of rituals. And by the consistency and ease with which Benny performed those rituals, anyone would have assumed they’d been in place for decades.

A kiss on the forehead after breakfast was one ritual. As was the bedtime cuddling with your leg slotted between his. And the way he’d stare at you in the mirror, his arms crossed and body leaning against the doorframe as he watched you brush your teeth with a grin on his face.

But the one you miss the most is the hug from behind that you'd receive once he’d decided to come home for the night. He’d circle his arms around your waist and place a kiss on your neck, and then he’d chuckle because he was so determined to sneak up on you and give you a little scare but was never successful. You could feel him before he touched you, you could smell his cologne, but you didn’t want to ruin his fun, so you let him have hope that one day he would finally surprise you.

Benny blows out a long breath through his nose. “I’ll see you tonight,” he mutters with a brief hint of a smile.

As the front door closes behind him, a carbon smell grabs your attention and you look over your shoulder at your breakfast. It’s charred, inedible, and you don’t even care, you just knock the pan off to the side to keep the house from burning down.

—

“Well, thank the lord,” Betty’s voice travels across the bar as she and Kathy approach you and Benny. “We weren’t sure we’d ever see you again, honey.”

Kathy draws you into a tight hug that rips you from Benny’s side. “Things have not been the same with you gone,” she says as she leans back, rubbing her hands up and down your arms. She smiles so sweetly and you breathe a sigh of relief. These women were your friends and you feel guilty for abandoning them just because Benny abandoned you. “Come sit.”

“Benny Cross, we are stealin’ your wife,” Betty declares, “And you don't get to whine about it.” There’s a dash of vitriol in her tone that nibbles at your gut and you hope it’s simply an effect of the alcohol she must’ve had prior to your arrival.

“Oh,” Benny says. You glance at him, at the disappointed look on his face—subtle, but there. He wanted you by his side tonight, but he’s not going to force you to deny their offer. “Ok.”

Kathy and Betty each take one of your hands and lead you to a small rounded table. It’s the centerpiece of the room, and as one of three surrounding it, so are you, unfortunately. As Betty sticks a cigarette in her mouth and Kathy takes a sip of her beer, your eyes scan the low-lit space.

Stares from the men lining the walls burn your cheeks. You recognize only half of them—the Vets, as they’re known—and they give you their smiles and nods in a ‘welcome back’ gesture, Johnny, in particular, sporting a rare grin.

The others—the Newcomers; out-of-towners who came specifically to join the club—look at you with something else in their eyes. Amusement? Curiosity? They seem to know exactly who you are and enjoy a little too much putting a face to the name. You, however, don’t know a single one of them. They’d arrived shortly before Benny left, and while some faces, those with distinct features, you can recall from nuggets of your memory, you’ve never spoken to them. You never got their names.

“Why this table?” you ask your friends.

“Best view of the pool table, obviously,” Betty chuckles after snapping Johnny’s lighter shut. She nudges her head in that direction. “Nothin’ wrong with lookin’, I say.”

Flanking the table are Cal, Wahoo, and Benny; Wahoo watching and chattering from the sidelines as Cal and Benny alternate between shots.

Benny edges from one side of the table to the other, sizing up his options. Then, cue in hand, cigarette dangling from his lips, he bends at the waist and lines up the shot.

He’s so stupidly beautiful. The lamp hanging above the table illuminates him, defining his muscles by highlighting the hills and casting the valleys into shadow. A haze of smoke coats your view, but his pure essence and magnetism break through it like rays of sun through parted clouds.

Benny’s eyes flick up to yours and he winks as he shoots, driving two balls directly into their nets.

Your mouth goes dry. You swallow sandpaper, leaving your throat all raw and scratchy.

“So, how’ve you been, honey?” Betty asks, and you turn your head. “How've you been feelin’? How’s that nausea?”

“Yea,” Kathy adds, leaning in close as if seeking out a secret, “and how’s it been goin’ with him? Any trouble?”

“Um, I'm fine,” you say, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind your ear. “Nausea’s manageable.

As far as Benny goes, there's no trouble,” you tell them, “It’s just–” You pause.

What can you say? That you haven’t fully forgiven him even though he’s working so hard to be a good husband? That some of the things he’s doing around the house are swoon-worthy compared to what most men you know would do but you’re too stubborn to express the depth of your appreciation? Any woman would look at you like you’re insane.

When you think about it like that, maybe you are insane.

“I don't know,” you say with a shrug and a shake of your head. “It's hard to explain.”

“Well, according to Johnny, Benny’s worried each day in the house will be his last,” Betty says, blowing a stream of smoke off to the side. “That boy’s so afraid he’s gonna mess up and let you down again that I'm surprised he hasn't lost his marbles. I read in Life that bein’ that anxious wreaks havoc on the body and mind.”

Betty’s always reading something in Life, and a good portion of the time you are hesitant to take her seriously. Not necessarily because you don’t trust what the magazine reports, but that Betty tends to exaggerate for kicks.

You have a feeling she’s not exaggerating this time.

Your face falls.

“Don’t you feel bad about it for one second,” Kathy scolds, placing her hand on top of yours. “You’re well within your rights to make him earn his place.”

“I know, but I don’t want him to be scared that I'm going to–”

You’re cut off by a male voice slipping through a brief lull in the cacophony of noise.

“If she don’t want Benny no more, she can bring her sweet ass right on over to me,” a Newcomer says in a slurring mess. “I’d sure take better care of her than he did.”

Every soul in the room falls deadly silent—the only remaining sound being the melody of Elvis's Baby Let's Play House from the jukebox—and the world around you freezes.

Cigarettes are held over ashtrays, their ashes yet to be knocked off. Beer bottles are raised to lips without the satisfaction of a sip. The bartender’s rag has only wiped up half of a drunken man’s spill. No one is breathing and everyone’s eyes are glued to either the Newcomer or your husband. Yours are on Newcomer, watching his features shift and tick as he soaks in the weight of what he just said, and what it’s about to cost him.

Kathy sighs. “Oh, god.”

The whole bar hears her—impossible not to; you could hear a mouse skitter across the floor—and her words seem to carry with them the wave of a green flag, because a moment later, Benny rushes the guy and tackles him to the ground.

Chaos erupts. All at once, shouts, curses, and hateful name-calling explode like the impact of a bomb. Nearly every man in the club is taking sides in the war between Newcomers and Vets. Fists fly into faces. Faces are shoved against walls. Walls are cracked from bodies slamming into them. There’s the distinct sound of bone meeting bone. Blood splatters across your table.

“Jesus, fellas!” Kathy snaps as she and Betty hop up, dragging you out of the danger zone.

In a panic, your head whips in all directions. You can’t find Benny, but you need to find him and you need to find him now.

You’ve seen him throw punches at races and members’ houses but this is too public a space, and if the cops are called, he can’t be caught fighting again. Nor can he risk having fingers pointed his way for instigating. He already has a record, and though you didn’t know him during his few stints behind bars, you know he has exhausted the sheriff's leniency. If you leave now, Johnny will come up with something to excise Benny’s participation should questions arise.

You take a step forward but Kathy’s grip is tight. “Where do you think you’re goin’?” she shouts.

“To get my husband.”

Betty gapes. “Are you crazy? You're pregnant!” But you ignore her, shaking Kathy off and heading into the storm. “Johnny! Johnny, grab her!”

You weave through fight after fight, stopping short when a body lands at your feet, but he’s up and out of your way in an instant, and you continue dodging and ducking until you spot a blond head. From what you can see, there’s hardly a scratch on him. The same cannot be said for the drunk guy beneath him.

Before you can move another inch, an arm circles your waist and jerks you back.

“Hey!” you snap. “Let go!”

“Not a chance, sweetheart. You stay out of it,” Johnny says, lifting you off the ground and setting you down in a safer area. He puts his hands on your shoulders and dips his head to your eye level, locking on to your gaze. “I’ll get ‘im, ok? I’ll get ‘im. Stay right here.”

You nod in agreement, your brows knitted and teeth chewing on your bottom lip.

From this location, you have a better view of your husband and the friend who is trying and failing to break up the fight. Johnny yanking on Benny’s dominant arm is not enough to stop the attacks. Neither is the forearm locked around his neck.

When Cal notices Johnny’s struggle, he pushes his opponent into a table and races over to take hold of Benny’s other bicep. Together they pull him off the man whose face no longer resembles a human’s. It’s a bloody mess. His nose is dented in, eyes swollen shut, lips split and mouth hanging open to reveal an empty space where a tooth used to be.

Benny’s chest heaves. Murder is in his glare. He jerks against his restraints but struggles to break free with the force of two men weighing him to the ground.

Then Johnny mutters something in Benny’s ear that immediately halts his thrashing. His breathing slows. The fire fades from his irises, returning them to their soft cerulean, and his eyes tear away from the beaten man to dart around the room in search of you.

As Benny spots you, Johnny's lips move, seemingly forming the words ‘Get outta here,’ before he pats Benny on the chest and lets him rise to his feet.

Benny comes to you and without stopping grasps your hand and leads you out of the bar.

—

“You think you fractured anything?” You ask as you slide the key into the lock and turn.

Benny stretches and flexes his fingers. “No,” he answers, trailing into the house behind you and shutting the front door. “Are you upset with me?”

He’s been wanting to ask that question since you left the bar. As he'd placed the helmet on your head and clipped the strap under your chin, you'd observed his lips, how they were parting as if to speak but unable to get anything out. And when he'd helped you off the bike in front of the house, his expression was far away, his jaw shifting, teeth clenching—the look of your husband in intense thought.

At least he finally spit it out. Normally, he would have run his fingers through his hair and sighed, opting not to bother you with the question; a behavior that used to drive you crazy. It took weeks after you met for you to accept that while Benny was willing to share a lot with you—things he didn’t intend to share with anyone; a life, for instance—there were things best not to pester him into revealing.

So you’re a patient partner. If it needs to be said or asked, it’ll be said or asked. And you're glad he decided this was one question that needed to be asked.

You sigh, hanging your jacket on the rack, and Benny follows, selecting the hook closest to yours.

“I mean, you nearly killed him,” you say as you make your way to the back of the living room and open the closet that houses the first aid kit.

On tippy toes, you can barely brush your fingers along the metal tin, and you grumble each time you unintentionally push it a little further back on the shelf.

A muscled arm reaches above your head to grab the kit. Benny places it in your hands before stepping back into the seating area and dropping down onto the footstool, his standard perch when you’re fixing him up.

Blue eyes are glued to your body as you take a seat on the couch.

You pull the lid off of the tin and riffle through it for the small bottle of alcohol—you’ll have to buy more soon, it’s getting low—and a clean rag. With the alcohol-soaked fabric at the ready, you slip your fingers under his warm palm, bring his hand close, and get to work dabbing the wounds and wiping off some of the dried blood. He doesn’t so much as hiss at the shot of pain that makes any other human groan and pinch their eyes tight.

“He was out of line,” he tells you.

“I’m not saying he wasn’t out of line, but I really don't need you getting in trouble and being taken away from me, Benny.” You’re focused on his injury, but out of the corner of your eye, he winces in shame. “Besides, he was just mouthing off.”

“Mouthin’ off about my wife.”

With a huff, you drop your joined hands onto your lap and shoot him a look. “I know, but do you honestly believe what he said could ever happen? Do you think I would leave you for some other man?”

You ask with the full expectation of a whip-quick reply—‘of course not, baby’—but Benny adam’s apple bobs, and his teeth clench as his eyes flit to the undoubtedly less interesting carpet.

“Benny…?”

He runs his uninjured hand down his face and looks up at you. “C'mon, baby, it's not that wild of a thought. Not after what I did to you,” he says, his thumb slowly running over your knuckles. “You are so much better than anything I should be allowed to have. But me? You could throw a rock in any direction and you'd hit a man better than me. One that wouldn’t have panicked and left you pregnant and alone for six weeks.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.”

“It is true.”

“It is not, and even if it was, I don't want another man,” you confess. A beat passes as you exhale heavily to stave off the stinging of oncoming tears. “It hurts that you left, but I am working through it, we are working through it, ok? You’re not going to lose me, Benny Cross. Not unless you leave me.”

“I'm never leavin’ you,” he says.

You place your free hand on his cheek. “Then you’re never losing me.”

Benny swallows hard and scans your face—each and every feature—lingering on your lips before meeting your eyes. As your thumb strokes his cheekbone, he wraps his fingers around your wrist, turns his head, and presses a kiss to your palm.

“Baby, I miss you so much,” he mutters, his brows pinched in anguish. “I miss touchin’ you. I miss holdin’ you. I miss sleepin’ next to you.” He lightly shakes his head. “I know I don’t deserve you, and I sure as hell don’t deserve our baby, but I fuckin’ miss you.”

The unit that is your heart and body and soul feels as if it’s being cleaved in two. This isn’t what the past month of your lives was meant to be about. It was supposed to be about building trust, not dishing out punishment. And yes, you’ve messed up before, said things that weren’t fair, but keeping him at arm's length is more than that. It’s a deeper pain. Stronger. More potent. Not just for him, but for you as well, and now you can’t quite see the point anymore. Staying away from his touch does not help anything if what you want at the end of the day is to be together. And that is what you want.

When you touch your lips to his for the first time in almost three months, you whimper. You whimper and you melt and the tears want to come back because it’s so much easier to resist desire when you haven’t entertained it in a while. But now you’ve given in. You’re tasting him like you used to, tasting the remnants of gin and cigarettes and the blueberry pie you made for dessert, and it’s all Benny. Benny, who is so shocked that you’ve kissed him that it takes a handful of seconds before he kisses you back and becomes the Benny you know. And then he’s curling his arm around your waist and pulling you into his lap, and his hands are everywhere. Squeezing your thighs, sliding over your ass, tracing up your spine, holding the back of your neck to guide you closer so he can kiss you harder, and yea, you are never depriving yourself of your husband again.

Benny stands, taking you with him, supporting your weight as he keeps kissing you and you keep kissing him. He blindly turns and settles into the comfort of the couch with your legs on either side of his hips.

You lean back, breaking the connection of your lips. “Benny.”

He’s staring at you like you’re hypnotic, mesmerizing. Like he’s drunk on kisses. His fingers trace the curvature of your face. A thumb ghosts over the swollen pillows of your mouth.

“Yea, baby,” he says, voice gravelly, just above a whisper.

“Do you want to be back in our bed?”

Benny stiffens and he blinks away that glazed-over expression. “You mean it?” He asks. You nod.

“Are you gonna be in the bed too?” he says, sifting his fingers through your hair. “We're not just swappin’, are we?”

You smile. “No, we aren't swapping,” you promise him, your forehead falling against his. “I'm making room.”

---

A/N: I kind of want to do a time jump Part 3 with lots of Dad!Benny stuff. Let me know if you’d be interested in reading that. Thanks :)

Taglist (if you wanna join)

#benny cross x reader #benny cross #bikeriders #austin butler #the bikeriders #benny cross fic #austin butler x reader

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reiderwriter · 1 year ago

Text

🧺 Any More 🧺

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge 2024

Requested: spencer realizing that he’ll never love someone as much as he loves you. (whether that be because of a case or what have you), his mind is absolutely blown with how much he worships you and how much you love and care for him and he shows you that with the softest most sickeningly sweet sex you and him has ever done. <3

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI! Discussions of case details, case burnout, very close friends to lovers, oral (f receiving), vanilla sex (p in v penetration). Discussions of mental health, and two idiots in love.

A/N: I'm hitting the prompt Vanilla for this one, so please don't be scared off by the KinkBingo tags! I had a lot of fun writing this one (and adding Pride and Prejudice quotes into the smut scene because HELLO). Let me know what you think in the replies~♡

Masterlist || Bingo Board

You hadn't seen Spencer in 100 days. Which in the grand scheme of things wasn't that long, trapped in the purgatory of a ‘what if’ the way you had been for the last eight years.

You'd lived without him for longer than 100 days before. He'd been in prison, you'd been on assignments, you'd lived an entire life before meeting him, but now somehow 100 days was too much time, and you were exhausted. You understood why Spencer had to take some time away from you, from the team in an official capacity after everything he'd been through. You supported him even.

But when even your free time didn't overlap anymore, you wondered if your relationship would ever be the same again.

Spencer was a friend, your best friend, probably. You'd arrived on the BAU team, he'd rattled off some statistics, stammering the way through them, and you'd immediately warmed to the man. He was brilliant, funny, and fiercely loyal, and you tried your best to protect him even when the job seemed designed to break people like him into thousands of little pieces.

You'd tried to convince him to leave before, after Maeve had died. You didn't want to see him heart broken again, but no one else had seemed to agree.

“Reid needs purpose,” they'd said. “Reid needs something to do.”

What Reid needed was to not end up dead before he had a chance to be happy, and happiness didn't come often in your field of work.

You'd been almost vindicated a year later when he'd been shot again, almost fatally. Vindicated, maybe but distraught and inconsolable. Morgan had to carry you screaming and clawing out of his hospital room multiple times. It sounded stupid enough to yourself that it was only then you realized your feelings for the man.

You wanted to be Spencer Reid's happiness, which was why you were so lost without him.

He was coming back on Monday, and at least you had the weekend to sort your feelings out about everything.not just about him, but about the job you'd found didn't fit you well enough anymore, about the team you loved like family, about the relationship you knew would likely never come to fruition.

You dumped your bags at your door when you'd arrived in your house that night, pushed yourself into your bedroom and let yourself collapse on your bed, balling up into as cozy a position as you could. You didn't even bother taking your jacket off, you just let your brain haze over and sleep rush in.

Three quiet raps at your door lifted you up and out of bed again, not an hour later.

You grabbed your phone, grabbed the second go-bag you kept at your house, put your shoes back on, and opened the door, expecting Emily and a new case.

“Where are we going?” You said, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, not even looking up at your guest.

“Hopefully, nowhere? I brought takeout.”

Your eyes widened then, taking in all 185cm of Doctor Spencer Reid, tweed jacket and plastic bag full of chow mein included.

“Spencer,” you breathed out, like a sigh of relief, letting the bag drop to the floor next to the first one and letting yourself into his arms.

He held you carefully there for a second before leading you back into the apartment, wrapping an arm around you and ruffling your hair. It was brotherly, and it made you sick to your stomach.

“What are you doing here?”

“Emily said you were back from a case,” he started, unpacking the takeaway from the containers. “And it feels wrong to eat this without you.”

You rolled your eyes and followed him into the kitchen, pulling two forks out of the drawer nearer you and stabbing them in the top of your two cups.

“Hey, I can use chopsticks now,” he said, defending himself against an inside joke. Spencer was always useless with his hands.

“I don't care if you can use them, I care that they don't accidentally end up stabbing me,” you said, taking yourself back to your bedroom, Spencer following.

“You'd hardly die from being stabbed by a wooden chopstick, maybe a papercut or a splinter but-”

“But you're just bad enough that I don't want to risk it.”

You kicked off your shoes again and climbed onto your bed. Spencer followed.

“Remind me again why we aren't sitting on your couch?”

“Uncomfortable.”

“Or at your breakfast bar?”

“Glorified filing cabinet right now. Eat.”

He shook his head but complied, leaning back against your pillows as you both began carefully eating. Silently, you pulled your laptop onto your bed, opened it up, and pressed play on a movie, one you'd seen more than once, and you'd forced Spencer to watch before as well.

In a comfortable, friendly silence, you finished your food. You stretched out in a yawn once and then curled into his side, letting his mumbling voice, repeating the movie lines as they were spoken, lull you softly into sleep.

Spencer knew he had to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to wake you. The movie had finished hours ago, he'd closed the laptop and turned off the bug lights, but he couldn't leave.

Unlike you, he hadn't counted the days that you'd been apart. He hadn't needed to. He knew you'd be waiting there for him when he returned, knew you'd give him a smile and a pat on the back, and immediately start bouncing ideas off of him. It was what he loved about you.

As he laid next to you in your bed, a place he'd absolutely been before, his heart thumped. Just once, but hard.

Even in sleep, you looked exhausted. Your shirt was crumpled, hair a mess, you were still wearing makeup, and he knew he'd probably get an earful for letting you sleep like that in the morning. You were a mess, and he still wanted you.

The thought came to him suddenly, another painful thump of his chest echoing in his mind. He rubbed absent mindedly at his chest as if experiencing heartburn. In the dim light of the room, he let his head drop to the pillow and wrapped two shaky arms around you and pulled you in closer.

The two of you were a picture - both in suits, both with badges still somewhere on your person, both dearly clinging to the person they feared losing the most.

When you woke the next morning, it was actually the afternoon.

“Spencer,” you groaned, melting under the heat of his embrace. Somehow, during the night, he'd rolled on top of you, pressing you into the bed with a delightful pressure, head nuzzled into your neck, arms tucked around your waist.

“Spencer, we should get up,” you said again, forcing your eyelids apart as your mascara tried to glue them together.

“Mmmmhh,” he groaned, moving to pick himself up off you for a minute but lowering himself again. If asked, he'd blame your hand in his hair, stroking the rogue curls gently, as if he were a prized pet and you their carer.

“Spencer, its 2pm.”

“On a Saturday.” You laughed at how pouty his voice sounded, but he complied and rolled off of you slightly, arms still wrapped around you.

“Come on. Get up. I've got some clothes that might fit you, let's get you out of the tweed.”

He huffed but nodded and lifted himself halfway to upright, eyes still closed lazily as he let in the light millimetre by millimetre.

“God, my face feels horrible,” you said, itching at your nose. “How did we even sleep so long like this? My belt is still on, Spencer, my belt.”

“If you were still wearing a weapon, then I'd be worried,” he smiled.

You shot him a sarcastic look and finally detangled yourself, only to clasp his hands and pull him forward as well, letting him trail you to your closet.

“Here, change in the bathroom,” he nodded and walked away, following directions with eyes still closed, as if it were really his apartment and not your own.

100 days without him, and it was as if it had only been 100 hours. Your entire body chemistry changed when he was around, the stick holding your spine rigidly in place, dissolving into calm, into a smile and a free giggle. It felt right again, and you almost forgot you'd ever felt wrong.

After briefly changing, you swapped place with Spencer, who'd exited the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and wet hair.

“Dry it for me?” He asked, sitting on your couch, and you nodded your ascent. A shower and a quick change later, and you were doing just that.

As much as he tried to keep his head upright, it kept lolling onto your thigh, yawns stretching out of him as he nuzzled closer to you.

“Spencer, you're like a big kid, keep your head up.”

“I'm not a kid,” he laughed, hooking his arms behind your knees and nuzzling closer into your soft sweats. “I'm just tired.”

“You're right. A child would probably be better behaved.”

“Our child would be,” he sighed, but you'd already turned the hairdryer back on, drowning out everything. Everything but that thump again. A child, he was thinking about children, and more importantly, he was thinking about your children. With him.

He'd always imagined himself with a family, knowing it would ultimately stay in his imagination. But for a second, his visions changed. It wasn't just a child or two. It was you. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He only released the image when you finally pushed his head off of you and stood, turning away from him to get a glass of water from your kitchen.

“So, any plans today? Books to read, papers to mark, undergrads to run away screaming from?” You let the ice water cool your hot cheeks, but kept your back to him. You were hot, embarrassed, and you were looking at him in a sickeningly sweet way that could only be described as love struck or struck dumb.

“No, no, I finished all my obligations at the college yesterday,” he said, following behind you and picking up your cup when you set it down, taking a sip himself.

“I was… I was actually hoping we could spend some time together? Unless you had plans, which is totally fine-”

“No, Spencer, yeah, I have no plans, that's…. Well I have to do laundry, which is a bit boring but, no. No plans.”

“Laundry?”

“Two week case in Florida, I don't know how you didn't smell me yesterday, Spencer. I'd be running for the hills.”

He laughed and stepped away again, grabbing the two go bags by the door and coming back into your space.

“How about we get this done now so we can spend the day in a Who-Trek marathon?”

“Make that a Who-Greys Anatomy Marathon, and you have yourself a deal.”

He pouted again, and you snorted at the sight, taking another sip of water to calm yourself before you could react safely to that face.

“Come on, you know you've been dying to know what happens next at the Grey Sloane Memorial Hospital.”

“I thought it was called the Seattle Grace Mercy?”

“Oh we better get to that laundry now. You have a lot to catch up on.”

Grabbing a bag in one hand and his free hand in your other, you made your way down to your building's laundry room. But despite the man by your side and the relaxing day threatening to stretch ahead of you, a gloom caught you in the corridors.

You'd worked for two weeks, practically solid. You'd killed a man two days ago, or at least someone on your team had multiple shots having been fired. Another day on your job, another unsub felled, and everyone else was content with this just being a part of the job description.

It felt like each step towards the laundry room, each thing you did that was normal, that was regular, threw back in your face the pain you endured to save lives.

The bag in your hand weighed you down, pulling you lower and lower by the second.

You reached the laundry room, and you found the weight almost unbearable, stopping just before you could step in. You didn't have to think about what came next though, because suddenly the bag was out of your hands and Spencer was sorting your laundry for you.

“It's a Saturday, so your neighbour's won't complain if we separate the darks and lights into two machines, will they?” He asked, not looking up at you as he worked pouring out the fabric softener and the detergent. “Y/N?”

You hadn't noticed the lightness in your body until the tears hit your cheeks, the weight gone with his support.

“Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?” He said, hands cupping your face, because of course he was immediately at your side.

“I-I can't do it, Spencer…” your voice shook, pitching upwards, your vision blurring with tears.

“Can't do what, Y/N? Talk to me please, let me help?”

“I can't do laundry!” You said, finally bursting into a full fit of tears and burying your head in his waiting chest.

“L-Laundry?” He said, trying not to laugh, but the smile slipping out anyway now you were holding him.

You only sobbed again, nodding into his shirt, aware you were probably leaving snot all over it but not being able to care. It was your shirt anyway. You would just have to add it back to your laundry pile.

The thought set you off on another wave of sobs, and Spencer set about comforting you again. Keeping an arm wrapped around you, he put his quarters into the machines and set them off before quickly ushering you back up the stairs into your apartment.

“Y/N? Y/N, please talk to me,” he begged, smoothing your hair out of your eyes as you tried to gather yourself.

“I don't…. I can't….” You took a breath again, aware of the way your breathing hitched in your chest as you did.

“I don't think I can do this anymore,” you said, and his eyes widened quickly.

“This? Y/N, if you mean this as in us, then I can't-”

“This job,” you clarified, hands digging into the soft flesh of his arms further as he held you, finally sitting back on your couch.

“The job. Okay, the job. That's okay. We all feel like this at some point.”

You sniffed again and refused to meet his eyes.

“But this isn't like the other times this - It's like my whole b-body is protesting, and I can't sleep, and if I don't, then I might get sloppy and an unsub could-”

“Y/N, focus on my voice. You're spiralling. Listen to my voice, let's take some breaths, and think about this for a second.”

He guided you through some breathing, a hand on your back tapping out beats even as his voice grew quiet.

When you finally relaxed, you were sat on top of him, his hand rubbing circles into your back.

“I think it started when you left,” you whispered. “When you went to Mexico, and then, you know,” you've voice thickened, and you couldn't get the words out.

“And then these last 100 days they've just been…difficult.”

“100…difficult,” he echoed, almost breathless as he listened to you.

“It's like I can't do it without you. I never had to try to do it without you, and now I get what people say when they say this job is shitty, because it is when your best friend isn't there.”

You gave him a weak smile and wiped away your tears, trying to climb from his lap. But his firm arms held you still, and you didn't really want out anyways.

“When I get home, everything is different, and I can't make myself do anything. If you weren't here, I wouldn't have done that laundry. I'd let it sit and avoid it for weeks. Do you understand?”

“Y/N, lots of people feel depressed sometimes-”

“It's not - Spencer, I don't think this is something I can medicate my way out of. I don't know what to do because I can't do my job without you, and I can't be happy doing my job, and if I leave my job I'll be without you and then-”

Your voice cracked again.

“And then I still won't be happy.” The words were barely a whisper, but they were a plea, too. You weren't sure what for.

“You can't be happy without me?” He asked, but it was more a statement than anything else. Spencer felt horrible in that moment as his chest rattled, gleeful that he was your happiness.

“I love you,” he said, outloud finally after eight years.

“I love you, too, Spencer, but-”

“No, Y/N. Listen to me. I. Love. You.” The thumping of his heart set the tempo for the choir that was his senses to begin singing, as he finally leaned forward and kissed you.

“I love you, and I don't care if you're working at the BAU or if you're avoiding laundry at home. I, god, you're amazing and wonderful, and you're a human being, and you've our yourself under so much pressure for the last decade to keep me alive, to keep all of us alive really and….”

He took another breath, leaning into kiss you one more time.

“And you deserve a break.”

“W-When we take breaks, people die.”

“Did anyone die when I was teaching for the last three months? When JJ went on maternity leave?”

You shook your head, but your brain was still a mess.

“You all had reasons, I-”

“You have reasons, too. Y/N…. Y/N, let me be your reason.”

For a moment or two, Spencer truly thought you were going to say no. He thought you would get up and walk away, or better yet, ask him to leave and never come back.

So when you pressed your lips to his, he was sure that this was a dream.

But to you, it was salvation. Spencer Reid's love was the lifeline you'd been thrown, and it was buoyant enough to make you start floating.

His hands kneaded the flesh at your hips as he pulled you closer still to him, his tongue slipping into your mouth to explore every part of you there.

“Y/N… love…you,” he mumbled with each spare breath he caught, and you only detangled your lips to hear him say it again as he pressed similarly heated kisses against every inch of your exposed skin.

When Spencer's mind lost its ability to create original speech, he leant back on a lifetime of information, of learning love through books and people and marathons with you.

“I know that all I know right now is that I love you. And I know that I always will,” he whispered, lifting you and carrying you back to the bed you'd only crawled from an hour hence.

A hand slid under your shirt, and slowly pushed it over your head, letting it slowly drop to the floor as he held you tenderly.

“To me, you are perfect.”

His mouth found one nipple, and he gently kissed, then suckled at it, hands softly caressing your stomach, feeling along every ridge of you as you writhed under him.

“Of all the FBI Units, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.”

“Spencer,” you said, voice still thick with tears, but these ones more tender, more joyful.

His hand eased your sweats over your ass and off, his hips settling between your legs as if he found the place he was made to lie forever.

“The truth of it is, I’ve loved you from the first second I met you.”

His mouth trailed lower until his tongue hit your clit, brushing against it languidly, as if it was his deepest desire to taste you and nothing else ever again.

His tongue flattened and flicked and pushed inside of you as you replayed his words again and again and again. You found yourself repeating them with him.

“I love you,” you echoed as he pushed a finger inside of you.

“I.. love you,” you gasped as he added another.

“I love you,” you screamed as your back arched up off the bed, finding your pleasure in his tongue, just ad you'd found love in his words.

“You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love….” He freed his cock from his pants, and took it in hand.

“I love…” With another kiss, he pressed the tip of it against you, asking for permission silently as you nodded your head.

“I love you.” He pushed in slowly, but it wouldn't matter how he did it because now you knew how he felt, and you didn't want to return to a time of not knowing.

Hooking your legs around him, Spencer dropped his forehead to yours and looked you directly in the eyes as he began moving. In and out, he thrust, mouth open in a moan of pleasure, likely mirroring your own.

The poetry, the movie lines, they were gone now, and Spencer was left with nothing but you, and love, and love for you.

“Spencer,” you moaned out, and he felt his chest swell. Pride. His name on your tongue, his body pressed to yours, claiming you as his ad you claimed him as yours.

He came with a shudder and you were not far behind, his undoing sending a shiver up your spine as his fingers grazed your clit again.

You sat panting for a minute, still attached, still forehead to forehead.

You weren't sure if it was him who giggled first or if it was you, but you were glad it was one of you.

You spent the rest of the night, the rest of the weekend, wrapped in his warmth, dressed in his love, taking each day a step at a time as you basked in his adoration.

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