#printed lipstick boxes

[verdancepackaging]

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[custompackagingboxes]

Printed Boxes Make Products Highly Adaptable for Brands

In the business sector, packing guarantees that goods reach customers undamaged. Packaging conveys a brand's identity and message and is a valuable marketing tool in addition to its functional use. Printed Boxes stand out among the many forms of packaging because they are functional, attractive, and highly adjustable options that significantly affect both customers and businesses. These are canvases for branding and artistic expression. These boxes come with elaborate patterns, eye-catching hues, and educational text to make them exciting brand ambassadors. Printing product details, phrases, and logos on boxes enables companies to create a recognizable and influential brand identity.

Make Printed Boxes Valuable to Boost Sales

The adaptability of boxes is one of their most significant benefits. They can meet the unique requirements of various products and sectors. Manufacturers can use Printed Boxes to showcase appetizing pictures of their goods, increasing appetite and boosting sales. Conversely, pharmaceutical corporations might utilize these boxes to offer vital medication-related information, guaranteeing patient compliance and safety. Companies that place a high priority on sustainability can use these environmentally friendly boxes to demonstrate their dedication to the environment. Customers who care about the environment will find this appealing, enhancing the brand's reputation. It is possible to engineer these boxes to offer the required protection.

Printed Boxes Arouse Anticipation and Excitement by Opening

Many customers decide to save or repurpose these boxes for decoration or storage, which presents a long-term marketing potential. When a branded box finds a new use, it maintains brand awareness and could even lead to discussions and recommendations. Printed Boxes have an impact that goes beyond the first purchase. These boxes are not just for store-bought goods. They are also quite valuable for the e-commerce industry. Make sure your consumers have an experience by using these boxes. A well-designed, branded box can arouse anticipation and excitement, improving the consumer experience. These boxes are more than just practical storage; they are effective instruments for product preservation, branding, and marketing.

Use Printed Boxes for Effective Product Presentation

Boxes make a lasting impression in a world where first impressions count, transforming standard packaging into remarkable chances for companies to engage with their clientele. Printed Boxes have practical benefits besides aesthetic value and ecological benefits. They come to keep goods safe from harm and guarantee they arrive in excellent condition while in transit. Because recyclable and biodegradable materials come to make them, these boxes are also environmentally beneficial. Furthermore, these boxes can be ordered in size, shape, and structural layout to satisfy the unique needs of various items. Because of its adaptability, firms can maximize packaging for effective display, transit, and storage.

Maintain the Product Quality by Incorporating Lipstick Boxes

The importance of packaging in the glitzy world of cosmetics, where beauty items compete for attention on crowded shelves, cannot be emphasized. They are a distinctive kind of cosmetic among many others. A single touch with these tiny, cylindrical wonders may change someone's appearance. However, have you ever thought about Lipstick Boxes that hold your most beloved shade? While it might not be the center of attention, it is essential to maintaining the quality and appeal of your lipstick. They are a crucial component of the cosmetic procedure. The delicate beauty inside these boxes is to stay protected. Because of their sensitive nature, lipsticks can be harmed by heat, dampness, and physical abuse.

Lipstick Boxes Become Recognizable with Brand Information

In a market where options abound, branding is critical. Cosmetics companies use these boxes as a blank canvas to display their identities. The box's logo, color scheme, and design were carefully designed to connect with customers and deliver a message. Lipstick Boxes are a statement of quality and confidence while protecting the product. Buyers know they are purchasing a portion of a brand's history and reputation when they spot that recognizable box on the shelf. These enclosures are about more than protection and how the lipstick box sets the tone. The whole experience of utilizing the product is enhanced by it. These boxes protect them from these outside influences, guaranteeing their safety.

Use Sustainable Material in Making Lipstick Boxes Appropriate

The cosmetics business has been moving toward sustainability in recent years, and boxes are no exception. To lessen the impact of their products on the environment, many firms choose to use Eco-friendly materials for their boxes. Consider a lipstick not in its protective container, let to deteriorate or become contaminated. The lipstick is protected in Lipstick Boxes until it's time to show off its allure. These boxes are essential to transparency because they let customers know exactly what they put on their lips. This knowledge may help those with particular sensitivities or preferences while selecting lipstick. These boxes are undoubtedly the unsung heroes of the cosmetics industry, even though they might not be the stars.

[jonemax]

Give a hot touch to the bomb lipstick with custom lipstick boxes. Customize to set fire in the make-up brand market. Available in all shapes, sizes and dimensions. Design themselves with iCustom boxes with first-class packaging tools. Utilize these tools with the assistance of the best and most experienced packaging team. And then compare your previous record with the new one.

[estesphantom]

Ex-Husband John Price |

John Price headcanon

reader is she/her & works as a medic. John Price might be a little (insanely obsessed) love sick over his silly ex wife. He’s Joe Goldberg.

The two of you didn’t divorce because you fell out of love, or someone cheated, or any true “marital” problems many couples would divorce for. In fact, divorcing him killed you as it did him.

Being in the military is a job that is very demanding and although you knew of that when you married, you didn’t realize how much of an effect it had on the both of you. Though it was wrong, you felt like you could have more from a man that didn’t have a job that required more attention than your marriage did to him. John told you he understood your decision and respected you. He took weeks to sign the papers, though, with an excuse of being too busy.

The truth was that he let you divorce him because he knew you wouldn’t find a man that was better molded for you than he was. He was right. Of course he was.

“Mm, and how are you holding up, love?” he inquires while you fill up a pot of coffee in the break room. His eyes peered up at yours while you took a seat across from him on the couch. You two were making small talk and it had been only a few weeks after your divorce.

John let you keep the house, the dog, everything you would ask for. You felt guilty and pleaded with him to take something, anything he hadn’t already taken (which was only his clothes and documentations) but he refused. He wanted to prove he still respected and loved you after the divorce.

“Just fine. And you?” your delicate fingers rubbed your temples as you tried to free the stress from the first half of your shift. He stared at your badge which still had ‘DR. PRICE’ printed in bold black with a picture of your kind face above it.

“Good for you,” he smiles at you kindly, the same warm, handsome smile he’d given you a hundred times before and the first smile he’d given you when pronounced husband and wife. He didn’t answer the second part of your question.

Your attempts of finding a man that had enough time for you, or even any ounce of attraction towards you was rough. It seemed as if any man at work you would approach would dodge your attempts at flirting like the plague.

Men in the military were like starved lions; desperate, needy, and impulsive. You were a very attractive, young woman, which checked all of the boxes for the dogs working in the military. Hell, before you and the Captain became a thing, you had to bring pepper spray every day to make sure none of the men tried anything.

The absence of attention made you think. Then, you thought of your ex husband. The influence he has. His love that withstood signing the divorce papers and moving out of his home for your comfort and happiness.

You remembered the way he would make you promise you would never replace him. You remembered his vow to always look out for you and to never let anything become between you two. You remembered sleeping over at his apartment for the first time and finding a collection of your belongings that you thought went missing over the past few months. You remembered fiddling with the dusty mascara, the acrylic nail that had broken off during a date, the lipstick, the panties. You loved John because of how much he’d noticed of you and how much he loved you.

So, when your shifts were over and you were scrambling to find him, you felt mistaken for the divorce in the first place. Your feet stepped quickly as you called his name. His broad shoulders turned to face you and his facial expression immediately softened. Your heart slowed.

“Can you come home with me? There’s a- my air conditioning doesn’t really work anymore,” your face blushed up immediately as you came up with a dumb excuse on the spot. You wanted to slap yourself square in the face.

John chuckled. He was amused. He crossed his arms and cocked his head slightly to the side, staying quiet for a few seconds while contemplating his next move. He uncrossed his arms and grabbed his keys out of his pocket, using his free hand to pull your smaller hand into his. He saw right through you.

“Okay, love. It’ll cost you, though,” his thumb rubbed against yours as if it were always home for him. You hummed in response as he led you out of the base’s office to the car park where you would approach his car.

As you climbed into the car, you realized there truly wasn’t anyone out there who was meant for you the way John Price was.

His love wasn’t obsession, it was gratitude.

Right?

[myteavsricochet]

latest fanfictions read (firstprince edition):

forehead kisses.

Movie nights had become a weekly tradition for Alex and Henry.

As per usual, the movie Henry had chosen had Alex slowly dozing off next to him, his body relaxing onto the couch. He feels Henry grab the blanket and place it over him, and then-

Well, then, Henry’s fingers begin carding through his hair, and Alex doesn’t know what the fuck to do. It’s evident Henry doesn’t know he’s awake, but the touch feels… nice. Safe. Comforting in a way he didn’t realize he needed.

And then… well. And then.

Henry leans down and kisses his forehead, and his entire fucking world tips on its axis.

tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Collage, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Humor, Roommates, Forehead Kisses, Bisexuality, bisexual awakening, Alex is really dense, Nora is exhausted, First Kiss

when you know, you know

With shaky hands, Henry pulls out the ring from the box, looking at Alex with tearful eyes that he adores so much. Asks, "Alex, darling, will you marry me?"

Alex lets out a watery laugh, swiping an arm across his face to get rid of the rapidly falling tears. He kneels down to cup Henry's face and brushes his thumbs across his cheekbones softly.

"Baby. Don't you remember?" Alex whispers, leaning their foreheads together. "We're already married."

or,

Alex "marries" his best friend when he's six-years-old. It just takes some time for them to fall in love, but they get there.

tags: Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, not kidding it's so fluffy, Getting Together, Feelings Realization, Pining, Mutual Pining, Jealous Alex Claremont-Diaz, Protective Alex Claremont-Diaz, Alternate Universe, Roommates, Growing Up Together, Idiots in Love

When you smile, I am overcome

Alex smiles into kisses, and Henry notices. It’s a bit of an issue.

tags: Post-Canon, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Kissing, so much kissing!, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, They love each other so much!, Canon - Movie, Canon Compliant

(this fic was inspired by one of my posts 🥲🥲❤️‍🩹)

Your lips on the collar of my shirt

What happened after karaoke. Inspired by Alex’s lipstick printed shirt.

notes: this fic is referenced in when you smile, I am overcome. Please read that before or after if you want more fluff and sweet kisses.

tags: Canon - Movie, Canon Compliant, Missing Scene, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Kissing, drunk henry

something weird happened (that might change my life)

Exactly how much wine has he had tonight? He wasn’t sure what to think or how to react, only the sudden realisation that he had to stay really still because if he moved and Henry realised what his fingers were doing, tangling like that in his curls, he might stop, and Alex was quickly becoming aware that he didn’t think he wanted that to happen.

So, he forces his eyes back to the screen and tries to focus once again on Princess Leia and Han Solo instead of on Henry Fox. It doesn’t work. He wants so badly to lean into Henry’s body, encourage his fingers to keep moving through his hair … across his cheek, down the curve of his neck ... Suddenly, he’s wondering what Henry’s tongue would feel like on his skin, tracing the lines of his hipbones, licking stripes along the mounds of his thighs ... His mind jerks him back to the room and to reality. What the fuck?

Or

Oblivious Alex mistakes Henry for a pillow, things escalate from there.

Based on that one Reddit post.

tags: Roommates, Alex has a sexual awakening, After he mistakes Henry for a cushion, Shower Sex, Rimming, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Explicit Sexual Content, Bisexual Disaster Alex Claremont-Diaz, POV Alternating, Explicit Language

Giving Yourself Grace

Isabella is very young, and Alex is home alone with her for the first time while Henry is away for the shelter. He learns some dark truths about himself when he struggles to help Isabella.

tags: Canon Compliant, Future Fic, Alex and Henry are Girl Dads, crying baby, Stressed Parents, Neurodivergent Alex Claremont-Diaz, Alex Claremont-Diaz Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Henry gives him that hug but good

darling, you're the one i want

"Henry, thank God.” Alex’s voice is slurred so much that it takes Henry a few seconds to put the words together, and even then all thoughts of the date escape his mind. He frowns.

“Everything okay?”

“No. Yes. I don’t—it’s okay, baby, I’m not mad.” Alex takes a shaky breath and Henry swears he hears a sob from the background, small and desperate, carving out whatever’s left of his heart. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine, just… Andres is sick.”

Or, the one in which Alex has to cancel a date because his son is sick, and Henry shows up for the two of them anyway.

Part 2 of in paper rings, in picture frames, in latte art

tags: Alternative Universe, Single parents, Kid fic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Sickfic, Single Dad Alex Claremont-Diaz

when he walks in (i am loved)

Henry has chores. They’re chores he’s allocated to himself, ones he loves to do in his free time, when he’s home alone. But he can’t keep thinking about Alex, what he did to him this morning, and it proves to be a distraction.

or, henry gets well fucked and well loved

tags: Post-Canon, ousewife henry ftw, Top Alex Claremont-Diaz, Bottom Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Dom/sub Undertones, henry has a bit of a size kink, Anal Fingering, Rimming, Anal Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Morning Sex, Aftercare, dabbles into subspace, gratuitous use of petnames, this is just porn with little plot, Domestic Fluff

i'll show you every version

Alex and Henry are joined at the hip. the world takes notice.

king of my heart, body, and soul

“Did you finally find what you so rudely abandoned me for?” Henry says with a pout.

“Hush, you big baby,” Alex chides as he fiddles with the object in his hand. It’s a tube of… lipstick?

or: in the midst of sleepy delirium, alex writes the word “king” in red lipstick on henry’s chest and they go a smidge insane over it.

tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Sex, Blow Jobs, Rimming, Wet & Messy, inappropriate use of lipstick

born a restless child

Henry’s heart nearly gives out at the sound of Alex’s bedroom door opening. He jumps and then winces, thinking that he might have jostled Alex. But if an intruder is breaking into Alex’s home, he would want Alex to be awake for that.

The intruder in question is Alex’s five-year-old daughter, Ellie.

And she’s crying.

or: when Alex's daughter has a nightmare, his new boyfriend henry makes the cautious decision to comfort her.

tags: Not Canon Compliant, Single Parent Alex Claremont-Diaz, Nightmares, Comfort, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Family Fluff

in the blur

‘It really was a beautiful speech,’ he says, glancing towards her. She’s in a pair of leggings and a faded UT Austin sweatshirt, hair piled into a bun and her eyes rimmed with dark circles. She's barely slept, still worrying about Alex. There’s a mug of steaming tea in front of her, and one clasped in Henry’s hands.

She shrugs. ‘I was just trying to think about, you know.' She waves her arm in the air. 'What the two of you mean to people, what he means too.’

---

After his speech, Alex falls asleep. Henry takes the opportunity to talk to June.

tags: Missing Scene, Sibling bonding, Conversations, Found Family, Big Sisters

of smoke trails

Alex is more than happy to accompany a visiting group of twenty third graders on a school trip to the White House. But escaping electrical fires was not among the learning points of this trip. And to make matters worse, one of the students is marked missing during the evacuation.

Armed with a fire extinguisher and the suit on his back, Alex dives back into the building without a second thought. Henry, already evacuated and standing on the lawn, can’t do anything but watch as his boyfriend disappears through the heavy smoke.

tags: Major Character Injury, Fires, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Alex Claremont-Diaz, Worried Henry Fox-Mounchristen-Windsor, Whump, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Field Trip, Established Relationship, Hospitals, Hospitalization, Angst, Fluff and Angst

you can see it with the lights out

Alex thinks of the water. Of feeling like he might never reach the surface, might never reach Henry. But Henry is here; Alex remembers falling asleep in the glow of his presence, and beneath his shaking fingers, Henry’s chest is warm and his heart is beating steadily and Henry is here.

Alex is afraid, but Henry is here.

tags: nightmare fic, Alex Claremont-Diaz Has Abandonment Issues, Alex Claremont-Diaz Needs a Hug, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Loves Alex Claremont-Diaz, Location: The Lake House (Red White & Royal Blue), Henry comforts Alex, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Hurt/Comfort

wanting

It slammed into him with the force of a semi truck out of the blue on a random Tuesday in July. the AC was out; they were sprawled out in the living room in nothing but their boxers, complaining about the heat and threatening to off their landlord in a million different ways. Alex was on the floor, Henry was on the couch, one leg draped over the back, his arms thrown up over his head. Henry had said something; something absurd and hilarious and Alex can’t for the life of him remember what it was, because all he remembers is lifting his head off the floor, and catching sight of that shining head of golden hair caught in a sunbeam and thinking—

And thinking.

God, I love him.

tags: Love Confessions, Frottage, Longing, Pining

The Domestication of Household Spiders

"How thick do you think I am, exactly?”

Alex mumbles something under his breath that sounds like, “Got away with it this long, didn’t I?”

Henry’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “I’m sorry, are you bragging about lying to me?”

After a long pause, Alex says, “...No.” slowly.

“Hm. Thought not.”

In which Henry can’t recognise the sound of his own boyfriend’s voice, Alex isn’t as good of a liar as he thinks he is, and living with a superhero is both exactly, and not at all, what Henry thought it would be.

tags: Alternate Universe - Spider-Man Fusion, Spider-Man Identity Reveal, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Lawyer!Alex, Spider-Man!Alex, Concerned!Henry, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Bliss, Secret Identity, Injury Recovery, Mental Health Issues, Established Relationship, Cute David the Beagle (Red White & Royal Blue), Moving In Together, POV Henry

Burnt Offering

He just needs to get through washing his hair. Simple.

Except washing his hair has never been simple. It’s the polar opposite, actually.

The more he thinks about the task set out in front of him, the more daunting and impossible it feels. His limbs feel like lead and the weight of the hot water pouring over him makes his head buzz.

But Alex can do this. He’s done it before. A shower after a long lacrosse game or that one time he had the flu and had to stop three times to sit under the water and collect himself.

He can handle a little finals week exhaustion. He has to.

---

Or, Alex’s hair care routine is elaborate, he struggles to let Henry help him, and he learns some important things about receiving love through service.

icy keys & heated skin.

Alex discovers something in the bedroom. Something involving icy cold keys and flushed feverish skin.

or Henry likes the key a little too much, and Alex finds out.

[coqxettee]

Coquette Winter Gift Guide:

🎀 Gift ideas for yourself or your friends who love the Coquette aesthetic:

Clothes/Fashion:

1. Anything from Brandy Melville (Amara heart lace pyjamas)

2. Bailey bow uggs or normal uggs

3. Ralph Lauren sweaters

4. A ballet wrap

5. Floral pyjama sets, Cami’s & Long sleeve shirts

6. Grandma cardigans

7. A cable knit sweater

8. Legwarmers/pretty tights

9. A pair of cute gloves

10. ANY clothing from “Mymummadeit”

11. ANY clothing from “Favourite child collective”

12. Any clothing from the “Cutey” section on Romwe

13. A dress/anything from “Selkie”

14. Any slogan tee’s / baby tee’s from small businesses and independent brands

15. Victoria secret Pyjamas/Robe

16. Pink puffa coat

17. Tiffany & co earrings or necklace

18. The “Mymummadeit” puffa bag

19. Kate spade heart bag/Vivienne Westwood one or just a heart purse

20. A printed tote bag

21. Ted baker bags/cosmetic bags

22. Any dresses from - Cider, Motel rocks, Pretty little thing, Oh polly

23. A ballet skirt

24. ECOSUSI summer garden romance bags

25. A cape/fur shaul//A glam doll coat

26. Vintage nightgowns/nightwear

27. Cute earmuffs & things to decorate them with

28. Mary Janes & frilly ankle socks

Beauty:

29. Any products from “Glossier”

30. Dior (addict) makeup products (Lip oil’s, Blush, lip balm,

31. Anything from “Flowerknows” “Etude house” “Too faced” or “Charlotte Tilbury” “C beauty mall products”

32. Chanel lipstick

33. A quilted floral coquette makeup bag

34. W7 Tinted kiss lip oil

35. Miss Dior perfume

36. Chanel mamoiselle perfume

37. Any of the Ariana Grande perfumes/body sprays

38. Penhaligons “The favourite”

39. Oriana “Parfums de Marly”

40. Victoria secret body sprays

41. Paul & Joe Cinamoroll collection

Homeware:

42. The Amazon floral bedsheets

43. A heart mirror

44. Love shack fancy homeware items

45. Anything from Paris Hilton’s new cookery line

46. A ballerina/music box jewellery box

47. Pink/Vanilla Yankee candles

48. FreePrints photos to make a wall collage

49. Roccoco style picture frames

50. An angel tray dish

51. Fake flowers

52. Pretty Cushions / A large throw fluffy blanket,

53. Caroline medium jewellery case

54. Fake cake jewellery boxes

55. Tall candles and a candle holder

56. Posters of celebrity’s/artists etc

57. Any pretty art that can be displayed/put into frames

Self care:

58. Spa headbands, and wrist bands (Kylie skin headband)

59. Inn is free skincare products

60. Philosophy shower and skin products

61. Chanel eye patches

62. Mulberry silk eye mask (pink)

63. Look fantastic heartless hair curlers

64. Dior prestige skin products and body lotions

65. Baylis & Harding products

66. Angel tangle brush

67. Charlotte Tilbury skincare gift sets

68. Elasti - cream

69. Embellished claw clips

70. Sol de Janerio body cream

71. Mugs, hand warmers, face masks, lip scrubs

Miscellaneous: ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚

72. AirPod max

73. Wildflower phone cases & airpod cases

74. A pink waterbottle (Stanley or Lululemon)

75. Lana del rey vinyls

76. Coquette notebooks

77. Dior & Chanel fashion books

78. My year of rest and relaxation

79. The seven husbands of Evelyn Hugo

80. Jellycats

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛

I hope this helped you think of some ideas of things you want to ask or get someone for Christmas 🎀✨🎄

Merry Pinkmas coquette doves

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛

[aspirationalpeony]

Quit Playin' Games (With My Heart)

Summary: While you're trying to puzzle out the mysterious Ms. Schemmenti, Janine invites you to a dinner party--at Melissa's house. Board games, bonding, and lasagna... What could go wrong? (See author's note at the end for prompt credit.) Content Warnings: A brief paragraph discussing homophobia. AO3 Link

Does Melissa Schemmenti like you?

You've got everyone else figured out. Janine would befriend an electrical pole if it had a smiley face stapled to it; Jacob befriends anyone Janine befriends. Gregory stays a little aloof, but he's been warming up the more you show him your LEGO sets. Barbara--well, she sees you as another one of the kids, you think, but you know she appreciates your self-sufficiency, tolerates you with a smile when you're in the conversation. And Ava is... Ava.

Melissa? Who knows? She called you by the wrong name the first month you were at Abbott, knowingly, watching your face with a wry twist to her mouth, waiting for you to take the bait. When you didn't, you earned your name back. She started making dry comments to you, like "You got enough glitter glue there, Martha Stewart?" as you passed her in the hall, arms full of art supplies. She saw you struggling with the copy machine one day and said, "Here," giving it a swift kick that brought it wheezing to life, but followed up with, "Thought your generation was good with tech. What do we keep you around for, huh?"

After those backhands you'd be in a spin, wondering and confused; then later that day or the day after she'd say something else, like, "Hey, not bad, shortstop," when you got something off a high shelf for her (why shortstop when you’re taller than her? Reverse psychology?), or "Good job on lunch duty. They didn't kill ya," and you'd go warm all over and your confusion would deepen and all you would think was: does she like me or not?

You’re just not sure. So you try not to listen the day they’re all in the break room, talking about a party at Melissa’s house. You can’t help but overhear snatches—Janine insisting she’ll bring lasagna, Jacob saying he’ll do dessert, Melissa saying “oh, brother” and Barbara assuring her gently, a smile in her voice, “And I’ll bring the wine”—but you keep your head down over your lunch and turn the page of your lesson plan and ignore them until Janine realizes, suddenly, that the room isn’t empty, that you’re at the table just next to them, and burbles, “Hey, you should come, too!”

Your eyes go to Melissa right away. She glances up over her cat-eye glasses and her look is inscrutable.

“Oh,” you say, “um, I don’t know. I have, like, a thing—“

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Janine says. “We’ll eat some amazing food—“ she flicks a curl over her shoulder, playing at an Ava-like preen—“we’ll play board games, we’ll bond…”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding!” Janine looks imploringly at her friends. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Melissa says at last, still looking at you. Your heart thumps. “You should come.”

And that’s how you end up here: Melissa’s house. You crossed the welcome mat reading GO AWAY, a cheesecake in your hands, and tried not to make it obvious how badly you wanted to stare around yourself, scrutinize every photo and every piece of furniture, trying to get a window onto this woman you can’t figure out. Everyone’s piled onto the couch or onto chairs, plastic creaking under them as they lean forward to the table to swipe a snack or their glass of wine, and there’s an open box, a few stacks of cards.

“I found this amazing get-to-know-you game,” Janine declares, sliding down to sit on Mel’s carpeted floor. “So, you spin the spinner, right, and whatever it lands on, you take a card with the same color, and then you ask the question that’s on it, and everybody answers, and—“

“How do you win?” Melissa says. She’s holding a glass of wine, its rim printed with her pink lipstick. She’s got her hair in a ponytail that leaves lots of little curls hanging everywhere. She’s wearing a tank top. These details feel incredibly important; you try not to think about them.

“Oh, uh…” Janine frowns at the instruction booklet. “I don’t think you win.”

“What’s the point of a game if nobody wins?” Melissa leans over to the coffee table, grabs a grape off a serving plate, pops it into her mouth. She glances over at Barbara, who’s perched very straight-backed in a plastic-covered armchair, nursing a little bit of wine.

“I, for one,” Jacob says, “think competition is over-valued in our society. American individualism—"

“Just spin it, Janine,” Barbara says.

Beaming at the approval of her mentor, Janine spins. She plucks a blue card: “What’s your favorite sexual—“ her eyes widen. “Uh.”

“Oh, this just got interestin’,” Melissa says, and sits up straighter.

“Let me take another one.” Janine puts that card aside. “Have you ever had a threes—okay, no. Are they all like this?”

Gregory, a silent presence sitting stiffly alongside Janine, turns over a card from the green and red piles. He reads one: “How do you like your partner to style their pubic hair?” Then, the red: “Confess to a sexual fantasy you’ve had about… A member of the group.” The questions sound even more bizarre in his level voice, although his lifted eyebrows and widened eyes telegraph his discomfort. His gaze darts to Janine, then away.

“Janine, what’s the name of this game, please,” Barbara says, looking as though she’s one syllable from combustion.

Janine lifts the lid of the box. “Adult Dinner Party. But I thought, you know, adult dinner party, a classy kind of—oh.”

Jacob picks up a blue card gingerly and turns it over. “Have you ever had sex in a public place?”

“I have,” you say. Every face in the room turns toward you. Your cheeks heat. Your eyes flicker between each incredulous look. “What? We’re supposed to answer them, aren’t we?”

“This just got interestin’,” Melissa repeats. There’s a strange look on her face, not quite amusement; you wonder if it’s respect. “Me, too.”

“Melissa!” Barbara gasps.

“What? You never got fingered in a dark ride at an amusement park?”

Barbara stands up with her wine and walks out of the room, muttering to herself. Glances pass between the rest of you. The corner of Melissa’s mouth curves up. “Spin again,” she says.

The next few questions are mercifully tamer: do you think French kissing is overrated, what’s one thing you’ll never do for a partner? More wine is poured, Melissa going around and topping off each glass, saying to Gregory and Janine, “Lighten up a little, will you?” Eventually she comes to sit on the floor with everyone else, four people around the coffee table. She’s picked a spot right at your side, your knees bumping, thighs aligned.

“Is Barbara okay?” you ask. You can smell her perfume; it’s spicy and floral and it makes you feel tipsier than you are.

“Oh, she’ll be fine,” Melissa says. “You don’t wanna know how many of my parties she’s walked out of. Hey, Barb!” She bellows it close to your ear, making you wince; it’s followed by a twinge of peculiar affection that so much volume can come from one little woman. “Check the lasagna, will ya!”

There’s an indistinct answer from the other room, full of barely-contained irritation. Melissa slugs back another swallow of wine as Jacob flicks the spinner.

He draws a card and reads, “Have you ever kissed a member of the same sex? Oh, well—obviously.”

Gregory and Janine shake their heads.

Melissa says, “Listen, what happens in cheer squad stays in cheer squad, alright,” to scandalized gasps from her audience. She looks at you. “How about you? No girls, huh?”

You’re arrested by her green gaze so close, the wine on her breath, the question itself. You start to tell her, yes, plenty of girls, but you’re blushing again, embarrassed, all your bravado from earlier draining away into the floorboards.

“Here,” she says, and leans in. You register the thought Holy shit in the moment before her lips touch yours. Her nose brushes your cheek. Her mouth is very soft and a hot breath puffs over you in the instant before she delicately parts her lips and you feel the sweet flick of her tongue. She leans back again. “Now you’ve kissed a girl.”

“Melissa!” Janine says, outraged, bewildered.

“I bet Ava would have come, if she’d known it was this kind of party,” Jacob mumbles to the bowl of pretzels in front of him.

“I’m going to go check on Barbara,” Gregory says, his shellshocked eyes firmly on the ground as he gets up.

“Hey, I’ll come with you,” Janine says, all nerves, “maybe the lasagna needs more parm,” and scrambles up after him.

Melissa’s pouring herself the last of the wine. She’s smiling to herself. You don’t get it: what was that for? Was it bait, like your name, like the ribbing comments, trying to get a rise out of you? Or maybe just out of the people around you—trying to be the most shocking in the room? You stare, trying to read the look of satisfaction on her face.

"I'll--the bathroom," you say, and get to your feet. "'Scuse me."

You've got kind of an idea where it is. The problem, you realize, is that you have to cut through the kitchen to get there. It's savory-smelling, rich with tomato scent, and full of furious whispering that dies instantly as you cross the threshold; Janine, intently grating parmigiano into a bowl, gives you a guilty look as Gregory quickly parts from her side. Barbara is at the island counter, maybe only half-participating, but she looks at you, too, and you know they've told her.

You feel it all over again: these are people who've had years to get to know each other. Who are you to them? Not really a friend, just a colleague, half-acquaintance. You're the new invitee, the odd one out, and even though it was Melissa that kissed you, you'll be the one who gets the blame for the ruined party, the awkwardness now swamping Mel's rowhouse. Your gut clenches. "Excuse me," you repeat and dart past them to the bathroom.

You run cold water from the tap and stick your wrists underneath the faucet, like you've got heatstroke. You wet your hands and press them to your cheeks, your neck, your nape, trying to quiet your thumping heart. You look in the mirror: there's a glazed look in your eye; you're conscious your lips are tingling. Why'd she do that?

You've been played with by straight women before. Not always out of conscious cruelty: some women, you've realized, are hungry for a kind of attraction that doesn't have fear and imbalance, and they can't always have that with men. They want to be wanted by someone they think won't hurt them, and they pick you--never thinking about what it does to your heart; never imagining that desire for a woman can be real, that it can mean anything to anyone.

Is that Melissa? She said that thing about the cheer squad. If she likes women, too, why would she mess with you? If she thinks you're straight, is she just trying to shock, the way she did Barb with that dirty answer about fingering, needling at what she thinks are your reservations and limitations? Because that's what she does, what she's been doing. Poking and poking, trying to get a rise. Should you have shouted? Should you have cried? What would satisfy her?

"Melissa Ann Schemmenti," you hear Barb say from the kitchen, muffled on the other side of the door. You freeze a moment, heart pounding all over again, then turn the water down to a trickle and inch toward the door, leaning closer. All you can hear are bits and pieces of what must be a thunderous lecture: "That girl... Well, I won't... You know that... Sweet, but... Learn to behave."

There's a sulky rumble in Mel's voice in answer.

You're going to have to go out there eventually. You listen a few more seconds, but if there's footsteps of people dispersing, or more conversation as they linger, you can't hear it. You resign yourself, turn off the water, dry off your hands. You give your cheeks a last press with your cold fingers, trying to ground yourself. You'll go out there and pretend it didn't happen. You'll make it through the night and see what happens tomorrow. That's all you can do.

Of course, you go out into the kitchen, and everyone else is gone, and Melissa's there.

She's frowning deeply and scrupulously wrapping the parmigiano in plastic. She says something under her breath; you catch a Sicilian curse and a "kids don't know..." When she hears the bathroom door click, her head goes up, and there's a moment, her eyes meeting yours, where she looks as nervous as you feel. She looks back down at the cheese, tightly sealing and wrapping its edges, then crosses to the big stainless fridge to put it away.

"Guess I scared you back there," she says. There's a challenge in her voice. Suddenly, your fear and loneliness uncoil; they spool out into anger. It's one thing to mess with you in words. You could call that friendliness, call it teasing. It's not fair to mess with you like this.

"You didn't scare me," you say. Your voice is stronger than you expected. Not loud, but sure. "I've kissed more girls than a cheer squad."

"Huh, look at you," Melissa says, "big player."

"What is your problem with me?"

The question catches her in the act of moving to the oven. She looks sharply at you--then away. There's something strangely un-Melissa about the act. She fiddles with the oven dial, then leans her hip against the counter and folds her arms over her chest. "Hon, if I had a problem with you, you'd know."

"Then what the hell was that?" You catch yourself starting to cross your arms, to mirror her, and lower them to your sides, where your hands clench tightly.

"I kissed ya." She lifts her chin and looks at you. "What, you didn't like it?"

Your anger wobbles; the question stumps you. "It--that doesn't--look, you've been doing this all year. Pushing me around. I don't get it. I didn't do anything to you. Maybe you think I'm annoying, or stupid, or--"

"Pushing you around?" Mel moves closer. Her voice gets a little tighter, a little louder. Her eyes glitter with challenge. "I invited you to my house."

"Yeah, you invited Jacob and Janine to your house, too."

"I don't like them the way I like you," she says, and freezes. You have a sense she's blurted something she didn't mean to say. It's stopped her right in the tracks of what she might have made an argument, draining the confidence out of her posture.

Your heart is thundering in your ears again. You replay that delicate, barely-there kiss: her face leaning toward yours, spicy scent of her perfume, wine on her breath, her green eyes, her soft, hot mouth. Her tongue. "What?" you say.

Her mouth twists. There's something faintly absurd about it, how it turns a grown woman toddleresque, and you get another pang of that strange affection from before, when she yelled right in your ear. It's strong enough to filter through your anger.

She shifts from foot to foot. With her shoes off in her own home, she suddenly looks half her usual height. Fondness washes against you. "Look," she says, "I'm forget-about-it years older'n you and I don't have time to play games, so--"

"This isn't playing games?"

She ducks her chin toward her chest. It's another gesture that's strangely unlike her. You hear Barbara's voice in your head: Melissa Ann Schemmenti... Learn to behave.

You move closer again. Her eyes flick up to yours and there's a sulky defiance in them, even when they drop briefly to your lips.

"Is this..." You don't know how to ask it. How do you ask Melissa Schemmenti do you want me in her own kitchen? "Melissa, what do you want?"

"C'mere," she says. She takes your chin in her grasp and brings you closer and kisses you again.

Wine, perfume, her skin. This time, it's not some playful schoolgirl thing. You can feel intention behind the slow press of her lips against yours. She lets it linger for a second, two, then leans back, looking into your eyes.

Whatever she sees has her turning you, your back against the counter, a hard line of granite. This time, you lean forward into her kiss. Her body presses into yours, all hips, soft belly, breasts. Her hands bracket your body against the edge of the countertop. Her way of deepening the kiss is to nip your lower lip and make you gasp, so that her tongue can flick into your mouth, brushing against yours and sending tingling ripples through your whole body.

You cup her jaw. She’s so, so warm. You slide a hand back and brush some of those loose, careless locks of red hair behind her ear. You kiss her and kiss her; when your tongue teases against hers, deliberately now, she makes a sound like a whimper that you feel head to toe, like a current of lightning passing through you, dispersing into the ground.

“So,” she says, with you securely pinned, flushed, breathing hard, “what do you think?”

What do you think? You go back in for another kiss. She chuckles against your mouth and can barely kiss you back for her smug smile. This time, it’s your kiss, not hers, and you explore exactly how you want to: sucking and nibbling her lower lip, licking into her mouth, your hands dropping to her waist, pulling her against you. She melts into you, and there’s a thunderous sense of power and desire in you, tied to how her arms come up to loop around your neck, how her spine softens and her body sways into yours.

When you’ve got your breath back, you ask her, “Should we go back out there?” You know you have to, but you don’t know how you’ll manage it. You’re sure you have this moment written all over your face, glassy-eyed and out of breath. Melissa does, too: her lipstick is smeared. “Maybe in a few minutes?”

“I think,” she says, “I should kick all of ‘em outta here, and you’n’me keep the game and the lasagna, and we have some fun.” Her hand drops, intervening between your body and the counter so she can firmly grab your ass. You squeak. “Huh?”

“I—I think that would be pretty rude.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she says, though she doesn’t let go of your ass. “And they planned this whole thing for us, so…”

“Wait—” you lean back a little to get a clear picture of her face. “What?”

“Janine’s idea,” she says. “I found out after they invited you. They knew I thought you were cute—“

“You told them that?”

“Course I didn’t,” Melissa says, “I look like somebody who goes splashin’ their business everywhere? ‘Specially where Janine can hear it? I’ll tell you about what she did to me’n my sister some time. They figured it out on their own. I mighta been lookin’ at your ass at work.” She gives it a pinch.

“So the board game…” You frown.

“I think that was an accident for real.” Her face pinches in a frown. “‘Magine Janine tryin’ to get us to talk dirty to each other out there?” The frown vanishes and the leer she gives you makes you feel very, very naked. “We could talk dirty in here, if you wanna.”

“Okay,” you say, “I think we have to go serve dinner.” If you let her keep going, you don’t know if you’ll have the will to stop her. You hear the next thought in her voice: What? You never got fingered in a kitchen with all your coworkers right outside? “Wait—“ your brow creases. “Did Barbara seriously go along with this?”

Melissa clears her throat. “She didn’t know at first—and then, I wanted her here, y’know, in case, uh…”

“Things went badly?” you supply. Melissa pinks. You smile at the sweet strangeness of it. “Were you guys going to drink a bottle of wine so you could… Mope about me?”

“I wasn’t gonna mope about ya,” Mel says, “because I knew you weren’t gonna turn me down, and you’d be an idiot if you did, so.”

“I would,” you agree, and have to go back in for another kiss, two, three. “I would be an idiot,” you murmur against her.

“Okay,” she says when you can finally stop kissing her, “okay.” She gives your ass a slap that makes you gasp. Her eyes narrow, cataloguing that response, and her smirk, of course, resurfaces. “You take the lasagna out of the oven. I gotta fix my lipstick.” She steps away, and pauses. “You might wanna…” She gestures to her mouth.

You rub your tingling lips and your fingers come away with the pink of her lipstick. Your face heats.

“Or keep it,” Melissa says, “looks good on you,” and she gives a preening toss of her high ponytail as she turns away to the bathroom.

You watch her go, her hips swaying as she moves. You have a sense of the world tilted on its axis: all that teasing and game-playing—because she likes you? More than likes you—wants you? Janine inviting you, Jacob and Gregory playing along—because they really do care? Barbara scolding Melissa in this kitchen—because she wants her best friend to treat you right?

You find a napkin and scrub the lipstick off your mouth. Each step you take across the kitchen feels like levitation, an inch or two above the floor. You check the lasagna. There’s two: one big lasagna, and another small, plain one for Gregory. You lift each casserole dish out of the oven, and they smell better than ever in a house full of friends.

You cross to the doorway and peek out into the living room. “Lasagna’s ready,” you say to the four faces that turn to yours, and you know you’re smiling like an idiot, but you can’t help it.

Janine bounces up. “I can’t wait for you to tryyyy itttttt,” she sing-songs. “I learned from the best!”

Barbara passes you to find plates and ready the table. She gives your arm a little pat as she goes—the first time she’s ever touched you. You feel a Janine-like burst of effervescence at the thought that Melissa’s best friend approves.

Melissa reappears. She picks up a cutter for each lasagna, an armful of cloth napkins, another bottle of wine. Jacob and Gregory gather the glasses from the coffee table. You stick your hands back into the oven mitts to carry each dish in.

As everybody gets settled in, pulling out chairs, Janine proudly adding her bowl of grated parmigiano to the table (“just in case!” she burbles), you catch Melissa’s eye. She’s looking at you, a soft fondness in the gaze; the tender creases at the corners of her eyes make your chest squeeze around your heart, which feels three, four times as large as it was before.

“What do you think?” you ask the table. “Should we bring over the cards?”

Your friends laugh. Barbara shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Melissa Schemmenti, looking at you, smiles.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Author's Note:

My next fic was intended to be a sadder hurt/comfort fic, but I received the following prompt from @morgana-larkin:

I love your first fic and I wanted to know if you could do one more on the fun side. Where the whole group goes to either Melissa or reader’s place for game night and they all end up playing truth or dare while drunk and someone dares one of them to kiss the other. Then after everyone leaves the two of them end up admitting their feelings. Thank you!

I did make some tweaks to the premise to suit my storytelling style, which I hope is okay. I did my best to honor this fun and lovely prompt. Thank you so much!

[hyunribbon]

canceled plans- oneshot

pairings- reader x hyunjin

genre- fluff, oneshot, newer relationship

warnings- making out, cussing

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

valentine’s day. the typical holiday where couples would wear matching outfits, buy each other boxes of lindt goodies, and be all lovey-dovey in public. to be honest, you and hyunjin did some of those things on a regular basis, but the two of you have been dating for the past 3 months so this happened to be your first valentine’s as a couple. the other day you were at the mall, shopping for an outfit to wear. as you were behind the enclosed walls of the dressing room trying on clothes, you found a dress that suited you pretty well. it fitted tightly, which you weren’t crazy about. you didn’t usually wear clothing that exposed your chest either, but you felt somewhat confident in it. deciding on the dress, you bought a pair of socks to match with it, matching with your pair of pink platform heels.

the next day, you woke up to the feeling of kisses being peppered over your face and the body next to you rolling into your side. your eyelids opened as you met the sharp gaze of the person mumbling into your ear. “baby, wake up. today’s a special day for us,” hyunjin’s lips brushed against your ear, moving down to place small pecks along your jaw.

groaning and cuddling him closer, you hoped that he would fall back asleep with you. “hyun, not now. please, just twenty more minutes.”

he shook his head and gently pulled the comforter off of you, earning another groan in response. “hyunjin, I swear to god.”

he placed a gentle kiss behind your ear. “did you forget what day it is?”

your eyebrow raised, “saturday? which is why we should be sleeping right now.”

pulling at your top, hyunjin urged you to sit up. “it’s valentine's day!”

eyebrows raising and pupils dilating, your jaw dropped “oh shit, i’m sorry baby! I promise I didn’t forget! I have your gifts ready and everythi-”

hyunjin shushed you with a gentle kiss, smiling when he felt your hair fall against his cheeks. “it’s alright, sweetheart. and you didn’t even have to buy me anything, being with you is enough,” he giggled at his own cliche demeanor as he pulled away.

you stared at how gorgeous hyunjin was, legs crossed with his chin resting on his palm as he looked at you dreamily. you cooed, “what did I do to deserve you?”

his cheeks turned a bright shade of pink, “alright, alright, enough flirting. go get ready for the plans I have today.”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

as you pulled on the white, lace socks so they reached your ankles, you took a look at your outfit in your full length mirror. you wore the light pink, off-shoulder dress you bought the other day. It had a darker pink floral print, complementing the color of the dress. the bottom of the dress had a white laced border with occasional bows around the edge of the lace. to pull the outfit together, you slipped on your heels then shyly walked out of the room. hyunjin’s eyes were on you, taking in every detail of your outfit.

“sweetheart, fuck.”

“hm?”

“you look ethereal.”

the corners of your lips tugged upwards. “you think so?”

hyunjin stood up and began walking towards you. “I think that.. you know how gorgeous you look right now.”

you shyly walked backwards at the same pace, until your back hit the shelf. “yeah?”

once hyunjin reached you, his arms met your sides, hands on the wall for support. “yeah.” his plump lips met yours, eagerly, tearing you to pieces. you felt his hot breath fanning your face as your bodys were pressed up as tightly as possible, making this moment all the more delectable. soon, you found your hands in his dark locks, gently tugging the strands just for hyunjin to let out a noise unfamiliar to you. he pulled away so your lips were grazing one another and started messily kissing his way down to your jaw, smearing your lipstick with his saliva. “hyu-” before you could utter his name, his finger was at your mouth, gently bringing down your bottom lip and shushing you. “shh, you don’t need to say a word, darling. I completely understand.”

“I’m canceling our plans.”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

a/n- I honestly didn’t know that the fic would end up like this 💀 hope you enjoyed nonetheless!!

[ofmermaidstories]

there’s something so bittersweet and lovely about fanfic, at it’s core. it’s so impermeable, because it’s so individual. fics don’t get finished. fics get lost because they were typed out and sent to friends, in the 70s, and somewhere along the way someone packed it up in a cardboard box and their kids shuffled it to the attic. websites go down. archives get built, but then people lose faith in the story or the canon or the creator and delete them. you read it at like, 3am, and can’t remember the title months later when you look for it again.

the tiktok these comments are from was lamenting about the loss of a favourite fic—it (the tiktok) had 85k+ likes, and over 700 comments, mostly similar to these. people talking about downloading fics to read on a tablet only for them to disappear the next day. using the wayback machine and combing through results, just to find something they loved. i think it’s sweet because it’s so human—how easily we love something, and how easily we lose it. i used to print out my favourite fics, as a kid—i still have a binder of them, buried under yearbooks and the old journals i kept during those topsy turvy preteen years. i could tell you the overarching plot to a Cardcaptor Sakura fantasy AU i read (and loved; it became my personality for months afterwards) but i can’t remember how it ended, or if it even did. i finally broke down and signed up for an account on AO3 specifically to bookmark an old, old fic that i had read somewhere else, years and years and years ago and found again on AO3 only because i accidentally stumbled on the author here on tumblr (i had only found the fic in the first place all those years ago because of a playlist). i used the same shade of lipstick for years purely because a fic i really liked had the main character apply it (it was a limited edition one at the time; i bought my first one from a ebay seller in the UK at double the retail price, lmao) while the love interest watched them, but i can’t remember the name of it, only how it made me feel (and how, for years afterwards, i would wear that shade whenever i felt like the day had something promising to it).

one of the first anon’s i ever got, in the early days of this tumblr, was someone who asked me if it was okay if they downloaded surrender—and of course it was. of course it is. there was a point, during the final stretch when i was trying to write the last chapter, that i almost lost the entirety of what i had written for that fic—and i mean, it was on AO3 by that stage so it would’ve only set me back a chapter or so, but it goes to show how fragile things can be. how sometimes fics only last in tiny ways—because of the unfinished PDF file someone downloads. The patchy memory of someone’s who’s jumbling it and three other fics together. Because someone wore the same shade of lipstick you mentioned, off-hand, for years afterwards.

(this is a love letter to the silent readers; the silent savers. the lurkers. fandom and the internet at large is made of lurkers (eighty-five thousand likes. seven hundred comments). people who saved fics and waybacked them and will reread them, even uncompleted. telling each other we did a good job, that we liked this or we liked that is wonderful, and fun, and a great (and important) way to build a community and has also given me my current friends—but sometimes something you make will matter and live on in a way you will never, ever know. and it’s just how it is. it’s part of the fun and it’s part of the charm. it’s just how we work as people.)

[noxturnalpascal]

The Chase (Part 1)

SerialKiller!Joel x F!Reader   (5.4k)

DARKAU! SEQUEL TO THE HUNTED. POV will switch between Joel and Reader. This is dark, even darker than the first part. Read the warnings if you’re worried. Skip them if you don’t want anything to be spoiled.

Summary: Joel Miller is on the run after being released by his captor - a woman who claims to be a killer just like him. He’s so focused on trying to outrun her that he hasn’t killed anyone in months. Will her obsession or his own be his undoing?

Warnings for Part 1&2: 18+ MDNI. This is dark. Unprotected PiV sex, oral sex (f receiving), masturbation, kidnapping, stalking, bondage, violence, punching, kicking, slapping, choking, blood, mention of needles, talk of murder. *TW: Character Death*

A/N: REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOD! When you see "*****" - that indicates a POV switch. This is Part 1, at 5.4k words (there is almost no smut here - sorry), Part 2 will be slightly longer and will have smut.

He’s been on the run for almost five months now, though it feels longer. He saw the hungry look in your eyes when he suggested you let him go in order to chase after him again, but when the needle went into his neck he thought it was all over. Suffice to say that ever since he came-to in that empty garage he has been scrambling to stay two steps ahead of you. 

What he realized too late was that you still weren’t planning on playing fair. You left his wallet but took his driver’s license. His actual driver’s license with his actual home address on it. He also realized you had searched through his truck when you cleared out his cabin, taking all of his ‘hunting supplies’. And finally, it struck him much later than it should have that the phone you kept waving in front of his face was his own phone, which you also took with you.

So you have the location of his northern cabin, his home address, and would probably be able to find his secondary southern cabin with his map data in his phone. All three were burned. He has to start from scratch, and he has to do it all while staying hidden. He decides to risk it and immediately heads home, thinking there’s a chance that if he drives through the night, he might beat you there. If you didn’t head there as soon as you left, and maybe you didn’t - thinking it was too obvious of a place to start  - he has a shot.

He gets there and the house appears empty, no strange car in the driveway, doors locked the way he left them. He thinks things are looking up. Then he finds another note on his kitchen table. It says ‘Miss me yet?’ in a looser, more erratic handwriting scrawled in the middle of a large piece of paper. Covering the rest of the paper are lipstick prints smooched in varying shades and intensities. Jesus fuckin’ christ, he thinks, you are unhinged.

He checks the house carefully, looking in closets and under furniture, but you aren’t there. You must have been there for a little bit, there is evidence you made yourself some food and took a shower, but didn’t stick around. He gets right to work on his plan. He showers, his reflection and another lipstick print staring back at him from the vanity mirror. Then he spends the morning packing up anything he thinks he’ll need into boxes and totes and limping them out to his truck bed, his leg wound still fresh.

He doesn’t pack much, he’s not that sentimental. He packs up some old photo albums, all of his non-perishable food, a bunch of cash, a variety of clothes, a variety of weapons, and all of his camping supplies. While packing he notices that you spent enough time in the house to go through a lot of his things. You have stolen a bunch of his clothes, his toothbrush, some photos off his walls, and his pillow.

He makes some phone calls to arrange for the packing up and donating of the rest of the items in his house and then selling the house itself, making up some excuse about moving to his cabin permanently. He gives his forwarding contact number as the burner phone that he picked up at a Walmart halfway back home. 

Neither of his cabins were purchased through ‘regular channels’ and his real name isn’t associated with either of them, so they should be safe to hold on to for now but as long as you know about them he can’t step foot near them. He gives his truck a very thorough once-over for tracking equipment and leaves his neighborhood. 

That was 21 weeks and 3 days ago.

He was so careful at first. He would constantly check his mirrors to watch for following cars. He wouldn’t use any roadside motels or even register at campsites, preferring to drive deep into public land and boondock in his tent. He washed up and did his laundry in creeks, ate the canned food he’d packed up, and even utilized his boy scout skills - foraging for edible plants and hunting small game animals. 

He would think about you constantly. Not even because he wanted to, but because he was constantly gripped by the panic that you were on his tail. One time he could have sworn he heard your voice calling his name as he leaned over a mountain stream, the bubbling water carrying it downstream. He saw movement across the water out of the corner of his eye, but when his head jerked up, all he could track was the tall dried grass swaying in the light breeze. 

After a couple months of this behavior his food supply was completely tapped out. He was tired of sleeping on the ground, tired of washing his body in cold streams, and tired of hiding away like a prey animal. He got in his truck and drove for three straight days back to the deep south, so he could escape the cold of winter where he had been further north. Halfway through the second day he was so tired he almost pulled over to sleep, but then it was as if lightning jolted through his entire body when he thought he saw your face in a passing car. A double take relieved him of that fear, but it woke him up enough to keep him going for another day.

He checked into an old roadside inn that he drove by twice before stopping. He didn’t see any security system outside of the building. In the office he inquired about a room and noticed that they weren’t even using electronic equipment, instead keeping a written logbook of guests. He paid for a week in cash and when they asked for his ID, he handed them one of his fakes, watching as they copied the false information into their book.

The musty smell of the room didn’t bother him, nor did the squeaking of the ancient air conditioner in the window, nor did the roaches that scurried out of view when he turned on the bathroom light. This place was such an upgrade to what he’d been living with, it felt like the Ritz. He took one of the longest showers he’d ever taken, groaning with relief at the warm water and the clean feeling of his skin when he’d slathered it with soap. 

He gave his hair a proper wash, the first in many weeks, and felt just how long it’d grown. He ran his fingers through his hair and remembered your fingers in his hair, scratching his skull and tugging at his curls. He remembered your mouth on his neck, and your moans in his ear, and before he could stop his thoughts, he was half hard in the shower. He refused to touch himself and give any merit to those thoughts of you, that his traitorous body was enjoying.

What he should have been thinking about is not what happened last time you caught him, but what might happen if you catch him again. He knows you’re crazy. He thinks you’re like him, at least that’s what you said. And if you’re anything like him, then he knows you’re very dangerous. He tried many times to search for you with the limited clues he had, using his data on his prepaid phone. But with almost nothing to go on, any attempt at getting additional information about you had been futile.

After a week of sleeping in scratchy sheets and listening to the sink drip all hours of the day, he’s ready to move on. He didn’t just stop somewhere for the relative comforts. He stopped somewhere in order to stop running. He wanted to stand still for a time, to see if you would pop up behind him. He wondered if he could catch your scent on the wind, sense any sign of you approaching. It was a week of silence, of stillness, of nothing. It was a week of peace.

His next weeks of travel took him to remote towns along back roads. He didn’t spend more than a couple nights in each place, but he was able to replenish his canned food stash, wash clothes at a laundromat, do some repairs on his truck, and replace some of his hunting and camping supplies that had worn out with use. He even splurged and got himself a new tent, the old one having sprung a leak a week before he stopped using it.

The pressure to stay hidden starts to lift off his shoulders. He feels less like a frightened baby gazelle being stalked by a lioness. He doesn’t feel the need to constantly check over his shoulder, fearing the ghost of your hot breath on the back of his neck. He is careful but he’s more relaxed. He decides to stick by the Gulf of Mexico, and travels between four states now, repeating stops in little out-of-the-way towns. He sees familiar faces, but finds that it benefits him.

In another life he was handy, taught by his dad to build things, to fix them, to take them apart and put them back together. He has struck up a deal with some of the motel owners to do some minor repairs when he stays there, in exchange for a reduced rate. He doesn’t have to go more than a week now without a hot shower. He helps repair machines at the laundromats in exchange for free laundry services, so now he doesn’t have to re-wear dirty clothes. 

Several food markets give him boxes full of dented cans and near-expired products. He may wait until he looks dirty and unkempt enough and stop by these places to give them the impression that he’s struggling and homeless. It very well may be a working ruse, but it also might not be a total ruse. He kind of is struggling and homeless, thanks to you. It’s been almost two months of this routine. He still uses fake IDs, pays in cash, and doubles back when driving well-worn roads.

To further conserve his cash supply, he alternates between stopping at the motels and camping on public land. If he’s honest with himself it’s also not just about saving money. He isn’t ashamed to admit that he enjoys the amenities that the cheap little roadside stops provide as compared to the backwoods camping he endures, but his urges start to creep up on him when he’s around people for too long. Sticking himself in a tent all alone in the middle of the woods keeps him from killing anyone.

One afternoon last month he entered a small room in a dump outside of Lafayette, LA, where the guest complained the door wouldn’t lock properly. Without even needing the masterkey, he entered the empty room and was overwhelmed with the feminine smell that hit him immediately. An open suitcase laid on the bed, items of clothing draped along the side. A bottle of perfume, hand lotion, and lip gloss sat on the dresser next to the TV. Each item his eyes landed on was more tempting than the last. 

How badly he wanted to snatch a piece of clothing, to pocket the perfume, to leave the lock unfixed so he could return to the room later and put his hands around the throat of the woman who was staying there. It took every ounce of self control to only fix the lock and leave empty-handed. He couldn’t give into his urges. He couldn’t draw any attention. He couldn’t risk you hearing about his lapse in judgment.

He checked out of the hotel that very day and drove into Mississippi to escape the scent of the room with the now-fixed lock. You were on his mind the entire drive. He hadn’t thought about you that much in a long time. But as he laid in his tent in the growing dark, his mind was consumed by you. He couldn’t remember what you smelled like, but he imagined. He barely got the chance to touch your skin last time, but he fantasized. He definitely recalled what you felt like; the weight of you bouncing on his lap, the wetness of your tight cunt. Your moans played on repeat in his mind as he, not for the first time, fucked his fist while dreaming of fucking you again. 

The moniker little bird passes his lips as his cum spills over his hand, and he wonders if this delusion will ever come true. Will he get to fuck you again? Will he want to? Will you want to? What will happen if you catch him? Sex might be the last thing on your mind. You’re fucking crazy. You might just kill him. He might not even see it coming.

Yesterday he was working on the back of a dryer in a laundromat and he listened as a young man, trying to impress a young lady, explained how he was traveling alone in an old cargo van across the country to the grand canyon. He listened to this man confess everything you don’t want a stranger to know, only to have the girl giggle and walk away, excusing herself while admitting that she doesn’t speak English very well. 

Joel took almost three hours to repair the dryer because he spent so much time kneeled behind it planning a way to inconspicuously kill the young idiot without alerting you or the authorities as to his activities. By the time he had a plan in place and emerged from behind the appliances, the young man was gone. He allowed common sense to return to him before he could run outside to seek the camper out, and carry out his desire for blood.

And that is how Joel finds himself setting up his tent again, this time in the Florida Panhandle. He has once again had to run away from his urges, which grow stronger with each passing week. It’s been almost five months since you left him in that rented storage garage and almost six months since he killed anyone. He hasn’t gone this long between kills in a very long time. He likes to think of himself as methodical and controlled, even though you called his cabin disgusting and implied he was sloppy. 

But he has self control. He doesn’t kill on a whim, he plans it. He keeps it discreet. No cop has ever come knocking on his door. No one at all has. Except you. Even if you picked berries in his yard instead of knocking, you knew what you were doing. You were hunting him. He had no idea. He thought you were alone. He thought you were scared. He thought you were weak. He thought he was in control. How wrong he was.

And how wrong he is now. How wrong he’s been to have stopped looking over his shoulder. How wrong he’s been to let himself get comfortable with his surroundings. How wrong he’s been to ever doubt that you could catch up to him. Because as he turns around to reach for the rainfly to his tent, there you stand. Hands on your hips at the tailgate of his truck, smiling.

“Hi honey.”

*****

You watch him intake a quick breath, his face falling in dismay, his pupils dilating. It’s so obvious how hard he’s trying not to look at his rifle, which sits on the tailgate behind you, partially covered up by his tent’s rainfly. He makes a quick calculation as his brows knit on his forehead and you see him twitch forward an inch.

“Watch it now honey,” you point one finger to your hip, tilting your pelvis to display the 8” knife hanging from your belt. He freezes again and eyes the knife, then rolls his eyes. He must recognize it. You took it from his truck almost five months ago.

“Looks a little familiar,” he huffs.

“Does it? I had to replace the one I used to have…. left it somewhere a while back,” and you nod towards his leg. He winces, then looks at you for a moment before a cocky smile settles on his face. There’s that shit-eating grin you missed.

“I got myself a new one too,” and he tilts his own hip, showing off the sheathed knife hanging from his belt loop. “It’s ten inches.”

Your eyes go wide in a mocking display and you tsk your tongue against your teeth. “Oh honey, haven’t you heard? It’s not about size…. it’s about knowin’ what to do with it.”

His smile turns ugly. He’s feeling confident. He slowly reaches his hand back as he takes a step forward, muttering, “oh trust me I know what to do with it.”

You quickly reach your hand back into your waistband and grab the small revolver out, pointing it at him with a smile. “This look familiar too?” You ask him, mockingly, watching as he once again freezes in place. His smile is gone, replaced by an annoyed look as he registers that the gun you now have aimed at him also once belonged to him.

“You don’t really look happy to see me, honey.”

“Should I be?”

“Well the way we left things, I just thought you were gonna be missin’ me a lot more.” He is frozen still, watching you wide-eyed, struggling to find the words that will piss you off the least. He kind of looks scared shitless, this is amazing. He looks down for a moment and when he meets your eyes again, his whole face has softened.

“I did miss you sweetheart.”

There he is, there’s your charmer. You can’t help the smile that flashes across your face.

“Oh you did? You missed me?”

“All the time,” he nods slowly. “Every single day,” he adds. Now he’s pushing it. You try not to roll your eyes. You don’t want to be a brat after all this time apart.

“What’d you miss about me?”

Silence. Too long of a pause. He holds his breath and then begins to stutter something out. It’s too late. You’ve caught his lie.

“You didn’t miss me you fuckin’ liar. You’ve been runnin’ away from me for months,” you seethe.

“Runnin’ away was the point sweetheart,” he attempts to soothe you. “This game we’re playin’. Me: Mouse, You: Cat. That’s the game, right?” 

Maybe he has a point. It still annoys you. Maybe it even hurts your feelings a little. Feelings?

“I just thought you’d be sufferin’ more than you seem to be,” you try not to sound whiny.

“I’ve been so busy sweetheart,” he coos.

“Busy?”

“Busy tryin’ to stay two steps ahead of yo-” 

You can’t even help the laugh that bursts out of you. You clap your empty hand over your mouth but it’s too late. He’s got his face scrunched up, watching you too closely. Oops. You might as well tell him.

“That’s what you’ve been busy doin’? Is that what you think?”

The crease between his eyes deepens, his body settling into his stance while also visibly tensing up. He’s bracing for your next sentence. 

“Were you two steps ahead of me washin’ your laundry in that creek in Wyoming?” He’s holding his breath. “Or what about when you finally came back to civilization in Arkansas? Man, you really needed that shower. You stunk to high heaven!” His eyes look like they could pop out of his head. “How many steps ahead of me did you think you were in Mississippi, when you got in your tent, turned off your lantern, and whispered little bird into the dark?”

“What the fuck?!?” he gasps out, expression wild. “What th- How long- Did-,” he can’t even think of what question to ask first. “Was I ever even one step ahead of you?” he says through clenched teeth.

You just shrug your shoulders, trying your best to hide your smile, fully enjoying his realization and subsequent freakout.

“I shoulda fuckin’ known you weren’t gonna play fair,” he’s shaking his head, scowling.

“The fuck you mean by that? Play fair?”

“You always had the upper hand. You haven’t been playin’ fair. AGAIN.”

You mockingly frown at him. “If I wasn’t playin’ fair then why didn’t I just hide under your bed and kill you when you went home?” Men always have something to fucking complain about.

“I dunno. Probably has to do with the fact you’re fuckin’ crazy.”

What the fuck did he just say? Your right eye twitches. Your fingers tighten on the revolver.

“You had all the advantages,” he continues. “You had my first and last name, my home address, and my fuckin’ cellphone. I don’t even know your first nam-”

“And whose fuckin’ fault is that?” you interrupt, absolutely livid.

He snaps his eyes to yours, noting your tone. “I-”

“You never asked me my fuckin’ name did you?” you snarl.

“I-”

“You didn’t. Never asked. It was all wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” you glower.

“That’s not exactly how I remember it goin’ down,” he mutters under his breath.

“What’s my fuckin’ name?” you take a step forward, white-knuckle gripping the gun now.

His eyes flicker between yours and the revolver in your hand.

Your eyes bore into his, growing wider and wider. His mouth opens and then shuts, his pupils fully dilated. He swallows loudly, the only sound he makes.

“Get in the fuckin’ truck,” you growl, pointing towards the passenger side with the gun.

He stiffly marches to the passenger side and plops himself on the seat, pulling the door closed once seated. You raise your leg and stop the door from closing with your foot.

“Wait a fuckin’ minute cowboy,” you mock. You grab handcuffs out of your back pocket with your free hand, the other still pointing the revolver at him. You toss him the handcuffs and warn him, “make ‘em tight, this ain’t my first rodeo.” He clicks them into place and then you double check them, giving each a couple more clicks until the metal is digging into his wrist bones. 

Slamming the door closed and walking around the back, your arm sweeps his rainfly and his rifle off the tailgate onto the ground. You close and lock the back up, and round the truck to the driver’s side door. You look in through the window and make eye contact with him, his face expressionless. You know that getting into a small space with him is dangerous even if he’s handcuffed. Better not to have a gun for him to grab.

Well below the window and out of his eye-line, you flip the revolver open and let the loaded bullets fall into the grass. You flip it closed and tuck it back in your waistband at the small of your back. Opening the door, you climb in the driver’s seat. You hope he thinks it’s still loaded. Part of you even hopes he reaches for it, so you can punish him for his indiscretion.

He lied about missing you. He didn’t seem to be suffering without you. He looked like he was having fun playing cub scout in the woods. He called you crazy. He said you weren’t playing fair. He’s acting like a fucking victim when you gave him 21 weeks and 3 days more to live than you had originally planned. What an ungrateful fucking asshole. He has ruined this reunion.

*****

You drive in silence, which he takes as a bad sign. He can vaguely hear you grumbling under your breath through clenched teeth and see you white-knuckle gripping the steering wheel. He thought he had you calm for a minute back there. He was smiling, you were smiling, things were looking up. And then he said something that pissed you off, right about when he said you weren’t playing fair. He’d insulted you and now you were taking him somewhere, probably to kill him.

He thinks about grabbing the wheel, about grabbing his knife, about going for the gun he’s pretty sure is back in your waistband. But he knows you have the knife on your left side and probably a syringe hidden somewhere waiting to stab him with if he makes the wrong move. He sits in silence during the short drive and feels slight relief when you pull his truck up to a cabin, smoke billowing out of the chimney. This is better than what he was expecting - a six foot hole in the ground.

You park the truck right outside the cabin’s front door, exit the vehicle and head inside, front door slamming behind you. You’ve left him out in the truck alone. He should run. But he’s handcuffed, and you have his truck keys. What did you do with his rifle? He slowly exits the truck cab and shuts the door as quietly as possible, watching for movement at the cabin’s door. He heads to the back of the truck and quickly realizes you’ve locked both the tailgate and the bed cap’s door closed. Looking through the windows he doesn’t see his rifle and assumes you left it at his campsite. 

He might be willing to run for it with these handcuffs still on but he can’t leave everything in this truck and take off with no weapon at all. You’d catch him again in no time. He can’t run, he has nowhere else to go. He has to go inside the cabin, which of course you already knew and is the reason why you didn’t bother to drag him inside or babysit him until he came in.

He walks inside the front door and you immediately shout “SHOES!” His feet shuffle as he skids to a stop. You’re less than six feet away, at the sink of the small kitchen, not even bothering to turn and look at him. He toes his dirty boots off at the door as he looks around the small cabin, assessing the layout. To his left is a small couch, chair, and wood burning stove. Beyond the small sitting area is probably a bathroom and at the back of the cabin he sees a bunk bed through the open door.. On his right is the tiny kitchenette and directly in front of him sits a small dining table. 

He can’t help but notice that sitting on top of the otherwise empty table is the small, shiny revolver. He can’t help but notice it because it’s glaringly obvious. It’s clearly not an accident. You left that there for him to see as soon as he entered the cabin, turning your back to entice him into grabbing it, probably so you could shoot him with a different gun you have tucked into your waistband now. It’s such an obvious trap, he’s actually insulted that you think he’s that stupid. 

“Come ‘ere,” you snap, grabbing his attention.

He waits a beat but shuffles towards you, your back still turned. When he comes up behind you, you turn around, a knife in your hand. He flinches slightly and hopes you don’t notice. It’s a paring knife. You’re peeling potatoes. Knife still in your right hand you grab onto his handcuffs, pulling his arms up in front of him. You reach into your pocket with your other hand and produce the handcuff key, unlocking them without a word. 

He resists the urge to rub at his wrists where the metal has been digging into his bones. You point towards the back, at the door he assumes is the bathroom, and then turn back to the sink. You still aren’t speaking. You must still be pissed but at least he’s still alive. He won’t test your patience. He heads into the bathroom and quietly closes the door behind him, noticing a cardboard box sitting on the toilet. 

Inside the box is a change of clothes, a toothbrush, deodorant, and shaving supplies. He recognizes all of them as items you stole from his home all those months ago. He showers, shaves, changes, and takes a deep breath to steel himself as he exits the bathroom. You remain at the kitchen sink, the gun remains on the table.

He stands just outside the bathroom, able to see the entire cabin from his vantage point. Behind him is the bedroom, bunk bed on one side of the room and a double bed on the other. He can’t help but notice his old pillow on the unmade side of the double bed, presumably where you’ve been sleeping. The larger room in front of him is filled with the smell of dinner, a large stockpot simmering on the stove.

He slowly makes his way into the kitchen, looking into the pot and seeing a creamy stew, green flecks rolling along the surface as it gently bubbles. He approaches you timidly and sees you’re still armed with a paring knife, slicing strawberries now. He takes a risk and places his hands on your hips. You still your movements, but don’t move to stop him. 

He’s pretty sure you have a weapon stashed somewhere. He slowly moves his hands along your hips towards your belly button. No gun tucked in the front. He presses the front of his body up against the back of yours. He hopes it’s not obvious that he’s checking for a weapon at your back now. He feels nothing but your hair tickling his nose. He inhales. You smell like a campfire. 

He presses his nose deeper into the back of your head and inhales again. He faintly smells the shampoo from the shower. He realizes he’s still gripping you at your stomach and pulling you into him while pressing himself into you. He also notices his growing erection is pressed against you, digging into your ass. You haven’t resumed your strawberry slicing but you haven’t stabbed him either, which is a surprise.

He lets go of his squeezing grip of you and puts his hands chastely back on your hips. He waits while you slowly resume your preparation of the last of the strawberries. Impulsively, he moves his head to the side of yours and noses around the shell of your ear, his freshly shaved face brushing against your cheek. He can’t stop himself from inhaling again, memorizing your scent.

Suddenly losing all control, he closes his eyes, kissing just below your ear and slowly down your neck. A part of his brain tells him to keep checking for weapons and so he moves one hand up to cup your breast and the other hand down, fingers dipping below your waistband. He hears the clatter of the knife being dropped in the sink and his eyes snap open, you turn in his arms to face him. You gently push him backwards, his arms dropping back to his sides.

“Dinner’s ready,” as you nod to the table, an obvious instruction to sit down.

You ladle the stew from the pot on the stove into two bowls, setting one down in front of him and the other down in front of you. You drop a spoon in each bowl and sit down across from him, the revolver now serving as the meal’s centerpiece. He still won’t look at it, knowing it’s a trap. You bring a spoonful to your lips, blowing on the steaming liquid.

“Eat,” you order, your eyes not leaving his.

He grabs the spoon and mimics you, blowing on the steaming soup before taking a loud slurp. It’s very hot. You’re still watching him. What even is this? He thought you were going to kill him but instead you brought him here. What are you doing? You made him shower. You implied he should shave. You cooked him dinner. He swallows another burning spoonful. Are you playing house? What the fuck is going on?

This is just part of your game. You’re fucking crazy. 

You’re still blowing on the spoon in front of your face, watching him. He lifts another spoonful to his lips, and freezes. You haven’t put that spoon in your mouth. You’re just staring at him, watching him eat. He looks down, past his spoon, into the bowl. What is this? What is he eating? He looks back to you, your eyes still boring into his own, still gently blowing on your spoon.

“Eat your dinner,” you bark, “little bird,” you quietly add.

What. 

Is. 

This?

*****

NEXT PART: The Chase (Part 2)

**CABIN LAYOUT POST IF YOU'RE A VISUAL PERSON LIKE ME**

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

There's Beauty in Tragedy: Part Two

Pairing: Jennifer Jareau x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.5k

Warnings: fluff

Summary: JJ gets a taste of the rich life when you take her on a dinner date on a yacht.

read part one here: There’s Beauty in Tragedy

Square Filled: jennifer jareau for @badbitchesbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

JJ walks into work with a big smile on her face. She is so invested in her phone that she doesn't see who she almost ends up walking into.

“Why are you smiling so much?” Spencer asks.

“Oh, hey, Spence. No reason. I’m just having a good morning.”

“She was on the phone with her girlfriend,” Derek teases as he passes by with coffee in his hands.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” JJ says and slaps Derek’s arm lightly. All he does is laugh and sit at his desk. “She’s just a friend.”

“Then why is your face red?” Spencer asks innocently.

JJ touches her cheeks to find them really warm. That only causes her to blush even deeper.

“When are we gonna meet her?”

“I met her briefly while on her case, but JJ dealt with her the most,” Derek says.

“She’s a busy woman. Maybe later. You guys should really get back to work.”

JJ makes a quick escape while she can, leaving her friends to laugh and speculate about the status of her relationship. She doesn’t even know what you two are. You two flirted while on the case, you took her out for coffee afterward, and nothing happened. You two talk when you can, but you two went out on an official date. You never asked her to be your girlfriend. Still, that doesn’t mean JJ won’t smile every time your name pops up on her phone.

She gets to her office where there are piles of files waiting to be sorted through. Different police departments across the country send in their files for her to look over, and she picks the ones she feels her team needs to be involved with. The ones she rejects go back to their respective departments with a letter explaining why the FBI decided not to take on their case.

Some of the files she sees break her heart, especially ones with children involved. She has two kids with her ex-husband whom she loves dearly. She can’t fathom the idea of her children being in one of these files. She gets through five of them and decides to take a small break. She leans back in her desk and picks up her phone but there is no message from you.

“Agent Jareau?” someone knocks on her open door.

“Yeah, come in.”

“There is a package for you.”

“Thank you,” she smiles and grabs it.

The only thing on the top is her name handwritten in beautiful cursive letters. She opens the box to see a velvet jewelry box and a note inside.

I thought of your eyes when I saw these. I couldn’t resist.

There is a lipstick print of a pair of lips on the corner of the page indicating whoever sent this is romantically linked to JJ. She doesn't have to see a name to know who sent this. She opens the small velvet box to reveal a set of bright blue sapphire earrings that dangle delicately. She gasps and picks one up carefully, scared she might drop it and break it. She’s never seen this kind of design before, so they must be super expensive. 

Or they might be a one-of-a-kind. You do own a multi-billion dollar jewelry business.

JJ doesn't know what to say. She’s never grown up with money. The most expensive thing she can afford is a three-day cruise to New York and back. The most expensive thing she was gifted besides the earrings was a crystal wine glass set she got at her wedding. Being spoiled with such nice things is a bit overwhelming but she knows you’re doing it in a place of love.

She picks up her phone and calls you. You’re in Quantico at a business meeting that has just finished. You look at your phone and grin when you see JJ’s name and face.

“Did you like my present?” you answer.

“They’re beautiful. I wasn’t expecting them.”

“I know. They’re a prototype of something I’m designing. They’re one-of-a-kind. I might just keep it that way. That way you’ll be the only one to have them.”

“If only you could see me now,” JJ blushes.

“Listen, I’m glad you called. I’m going to be in town for the rest of the week. I want to take you out to dinner. I can pick you up tonight. If you’re not busy.”

“Yeah, I don’t have anything planned.”

“Great. Wear something nice. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Okay, see you then.” As soon as JJ hangs up, she rushes over to Penelope’s office where Pen and Emily are. “I need help.”

“Whoa, where’s the fire?”

“Y/N asked me out to dinner.” Pen and Emily start to squeal like school girls but JJ shuts them down. “No, I don’t have anything to wear. She wants me to wear something nice, and I highly doubt Hotch will let me take some time to go shopping.”

“Okay, don’t worry. I might have something,” Emily says. “The last case needed me to wear something nice but it was a little tight. You’re smaller than me so it might fit you. Come on.”

Emily, Pen, and JJ walk to Emily’s desk where her go bag is. Emily produces a slim, elegant, beautiful dress. It’s mint green that’s backless except for a few spaghetti straps crossing over each other. It’s very simple with no design but elegant and silky. It’s perfect for what you requested… JJ hopes.

“This is perfect. I hope she likes it.”

“Oh, she will,” Penelope grins.

Come the end of the day when everyone is packing up to go home, JJ is nervously waiting for you to pick her up. Everyone stays behind to meet the elusive billionaire, and you pull up to the building at six sharp. You chose six because this is when the sun is going down, and where you’re taking her needs to have a beautiful sunset.

“I’ll be right back,” you say to your driver and exit the sleek SUV. You walk inside the building, and the only thing that sounds is your heels on the glossy floor. You reach the third floor where the BAU is, and you pull open the glass doors. You’re greeted by four people who look eager for your arrival. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Jennifer Jareau?”

“She’s on her way down. I’m Emily. I’m one of her coworkers.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you smile and shake her hand. The next hand you shake belongs to Derek, then Penelope, and finally Spencer. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”

“I’m a huge fan of your work,” Penelope says. “My mother got me one of your necklaces as a present one year. Princess cut single diamond necklace.”

“Princess cut is always a favorite of my customers.”

“You better treat our girl right,” Derek says as a half-joke.

“Don’t worry, Derek. She’s in good hands. I promise to bring her back in one piece,” you chuckle.

Speaking of the devil, JJ walks down the short staircase from the second story to the first. She looks absolutely breathtaking in the mint green dress with the bright blue sapphire earrings. There’s nothing about her that doesn’t blow you away.

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to get even more beautiful,” you grin and kiss her cheek.

“I was about to say the same thing.”

“Okay, you two have fun. I expect a full report tomorrow,” Penelope smiles.

You escort JJ down to the car which catches her by surprise. It shouldn’t considering how wealthy you are, but it does. Once inside the car, the driver takes you to the port where there are loads of boats. The colors of the sunset bounce off the water. All shades of purple, pink, orange, and yellow make the water shimmer beautifully. The driver parks by the docks and gets out to open your doors. Waiting on the water is your private yacht with a personal chef, cleaner, and pilot.

“Wow, I can’t believe this,” JJ gasps.

“I had my yacht sail in when I knew I’d be coming here. We’re having dinner and taking a tour of the coast.”

JJ has no words so she decides not to say anything. You take her on board and that’s when the pilot takes off. The first course goes by quickly but you allow the next course to last as long as you can. The sunset makes JJ’s skin shine and shimmer and her blue eyes pop in the light contrast.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she chuckles.

“Only the best for the best. I can offer you all this and more if you want me to.”

You reach and scoop some food onto the fork and bring it to her lips. She moans when she tastes the delicious food the chef made. You set the fork down, pull her in, and press your lips to hers. This is the first time you’ve kissed her since meeting her but nothing feels out of place. Everything is as it should be at this moment.

“Stay the night with me,” you whisper.

“I think I can make that happen,” she giggles.

She kisses you this time as the boat slowly sails on the open water.

x

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[oddree13]

To Find a Kiss of Yours

[Read on AO3]

Steve remembers his first Valentine's Day. He was in first grade and spent the day prior decorating a shoebox to act as a makeshift mailbox. The next day the class had a party where all the cards were passed out, but throughout the gathering, girls came up to give him extra candy. One girl even kissed him on the cheek and ran off. 

Steve felt butterflies in his stomach for the first time that day and decided Valentine’s wasn’t all that bad. 

As the years went on, Steve looked forward to the holiday for reasons beyond extra candy. February 14 was used to fill the void of affection his parents were slowly taking from him.

And once Steve started middle school, and class-wide valentines were no longer mandatory, he realized the holiday was different for him than other boys. He’d get more cards and candy than some of his friends, and in seventh grade, a girl pulled Steve aside to let him know how much she liked him. Steve only knew the girl because they shared a couple of classes, but figured he should be polite and ask her out. After all, that is what all the boys around him would do. 

Years later Robin would unpack just how wrong this was to do. 

In short, Steve always looked forward to Valentine's Day and even kept a box under his bed where he kept his favorites - the standouts among the mass-printed, store-bought postcards that were delivered to Steve with a personal touch.

When he started Hawkins High a part of him was nervous that one of his steady sources of affection would dry up, but Steve found the exact opposite. The school encouraged the holiday by allowing students to send each other candy-grams and flowers throughout the day. Even among the students, there was a buzz. In the days leading up to V-day, photocopied maps of lockers would be passed around where people could write their friend’s name on it, in the hopes that it would encourage more personal gifts and confessions. 

In his four years at Hawkins High Steve’s name always made it on the map before he could write it. 

During his freshman year, Steve gets more than a few candy-grams in homeroom, prompting Tommy and Carol to tease him as they steal his candy. 

In between classes, he takes more trips than usual to his locker to collect the cards and notes left for him. Some are signed, some are just a phone number with a name and a lipstick print. Steve can’t help but get high off the constant reminders of want as the day goes on.

Needing to kill time before the bus towards Loch Nora arrives, Steve heads to his locker after basketball practice. Sure it could have waited until morning, but Steve’s never been a patient man. 

Inside his locker are a few more notes, but among the pink and pastels that have filled his vision all day, the crimson card stands out. He opens the front flap to find the card is actually an origami note, and not wanting to rip it, carefully unfolds the missive. 

His eyes are immediately pulled to the drawing at the bottom: a half-sun and half-moon face on a backdrop of stars. His eyes then wander up to the note to find not a letter, but a short poem - 

Some people say my love cannot be true Please believe me, my love, and I'll show you I will give you those things you thought unreal The sun, the moon, the stars all bear my seal

It takes Steve a few times to read it to get the gist of the meaning, and he can’t help but blush. Either the writer is talented or she copied someone. Either way, Steve knows this is making it into his special box. Before folding it back Steve’s eyes searched the page for a name or phone number, only to find a small “E” at the corner of the note. 

Steve spends the rest of the week wracking his brain for all the girls in his class and even the year above whose name starts with an E, even going so far as to approach a few of them. 

When he gets no answer other than a few dates he puts it out of his mind. 

*

Sophomore year is almost an identical repeat of the year before. Candygrams were delivered and stolen by Tommy and Carol. Notes stuffed in his locker, getting more lascivious as the day goes on. It seems his reputation preceded him, and there are more than a few propositions in letter form.

And just like the year before there is a crimson note waiting for him after practice. Steve wasn’t even anticipating the note, figuring it was a one-off from the year prior. But seeing it sitting on top of his books, Steve can’t help but ignore all the other letters and notes in favor of opening another message from E.

Like last time there’s a drawing, this time of a detailed headstone citing a kiss as the cause of death, the skull atop bearing a lip print. And just like the year before is a poem - 

To find a kiss of yours what would I give A kiss that strayed from your lips dead to love

Steve restarts his attempts to find E, only this time he goes for a more subtle approach, flirting with instead of confronting any girl whose name starts with the offending letter. 

It doesn’t end with Steve solving the mystery but does end with Steve going on dates with Elizabeth, Evelyn, Emily, and Erin. 

*

The Valentines of his junior year is an interesting one. Sure he’s been dating Nancy for almost three months now, but that doesn’t stop some very ambitious girls from sending candy and cards his way. He details each gift to Nancy as the day goes on because that's what a good boyfriend would do, right? And sure, he wishes Nancy would look more perturbed, but all he gets is small kisses on his cheek with her saying they can use the candy as dessert when she makes him dinner this weekend. 

The only thing Steve keeps to himself though is his hope for a third crimson note.

Sure Steve hasn’t gotten any luck with finding out who the sender is. And even if he did find out this year he couldn’t act on it. But there's something about the effort that Steve craves. That someone cares enough about Steve to write, draw, and fold the letter each year. 

And just like the years prior the note is there, drawing and all.

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast.   How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.   Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day.   Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time.

Not only is this year's poem longer, but the drawing also intrigues Steve. The picture is of a winged man, gazing up at the words written above him with an almost longing expression, while flames dance at his feet. Steve can’t help but examine the detail that went into the drawing, and even blushes at how handsome he is. 

So the next day when Nancy drags him to the library to study, he sneaks away to ask the librarian if she recognizes the poem (without showing her the note). She walks him over to the poetry section and hands him a collection of British poetry, turning to the section on W.H. Auden. 

Steve reads a brief description of the poem, about the unrequited love between the poet and the stars. He bitterly thinks that this love might not be unrequited if he could figure out who his secret admirer was. 

Years later Steve would realize two things - Indiana public school books didn't care to mention that W.H. Auden was gay and that he really should have looked at the checkout card inside the book cover.

* 

Steve contemplates staying home for the last Valentine's Day of his high school career. He's certain he won't get any grams now that he’s fallen from grace and taken no steps to climb back up. 

But despite how obnoxious sharing court with Hargrove is, basketball practice is the only thing keeping him sane as he counts down the days till graduation. 

Steve didn't even mean to go back to his locker that day not wanting to be disappointed by the lack of a crimson note. But he needs his notes to study for chemistry, and as he pulls out the binder the crimson letter falls to the floor. 

Steve can't help the way his heart clenches at the sight. How such a simple thing can remind him why he loves his holiday so much? 

He then figures that the sender. Must be someone in his grade if they've kept these notes coming all four years. 

Passing stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you, You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,) I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you, All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured, You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me , I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only, You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return, I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

Steve sinks onto the floor as he reads the poem over and over again. He can't help but smirk at how the bits about girls are stricken through, but also that it's a farewell of sorts. It leaves Steve with a bittersweet feeling to know he'll never find out the sender's identity. 

* 

Over piles of discount candy in 1986, Steve shares with Robin the details of the crimson notes tucked under his bed. Robin can't help but laugh as she looks through them pointing out to Steve how fucking homo erotic all the poems are. 

After a bit of denial, Steve finally admits that Robin may be right and kicks himself for only searching for girls back when he was in high school. Realizing he didn't bother to get a copy of the yearbook he asks Robin if he can come one day to search the pages at her house for clues. But a few weeks later literal hell breaks loose and he forgets all about it

Part of Steve wishes he actually bothered to get a copy of the yearbook so he could search the pages, but a few weeks later literal hell breaks loose and he forgets all about it

*

It's February 1987 and Steve is wondering how he's spending Valentine's Day Eve cleaning up his kitchen after the party wraps their D&D session for the night. 

Eddie is helping him tidy as he recounts how on the ride over to Steve's, Dustin was explaining how nervous he was about his radio date with Suzie the next day wanting to do something special but not cheesy. 

“I told him he should recite some poetry and he told me that's lame,” Eddie says in a way that expresses their mutual frustration with Henderson. 

“It's not lame. If it's done right,” Steve agrees. 

“The little shit then told me that metal lyrics don't count as poetry and I told him that I know more than just metal lyrics.” 

Steve can't help but look amused and gestures for Eddie to regale him with a poem. 

Eddie clears his throat and begins, “To find a kiss of yours what I would give…”

“A kiss that strayed from your lips...dead to love,” Steve finishes unthinking. After all, he read those words hundreds of times. 

That's when it clicks for Steve. The E written in the corner of all those notes stood for Eddie. 

Eddie's eyes catch Steve's and he visibly swallows. His complexion pails and he looks like he's about to run for it, but Steve sputters out his confession. 

“I kept them all.” 

Eddie's eyes widened even further at that as if he couldn't believe what Steve was saying.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Want to see them? They're in my room.”

“That's quite a line, Harrington”

“Well not all of us can be poets.”

[footballerimaginess]

My first Valentine

credit to @gavidaily​ for the gif x 

Valentine’s Day Prompts  2. “My first valentine”  Pablo Gavi  Word Count: 493 14th February arrived, you were heading over to Pablo’s flat.  Despite you being here many times, you felt this huge wave of nerves coming over you as you got closer and closer to his flat.  “Hi” you smiled as you were just about to knock on the door. 

“How did you know I was here? I hadn’t even got to the main door yet” you laughed as you gave him a cuddle before he closed the door. “The guard told me, he let you in. He must have recognised your pretty face” he cupped your chin with him hand as he leaned into you as he pressed a kiss on your lips. “Hey, you messed up my lipstick” you huffed as you gently wiped the lipstick off of his face.  “Sorry” he laughed as you looked in the mirror, quickly touching up your makeup.  “Now come on in, happy valentine’s day angel” he cuddled you tightly as you held onto him as tight as you could.  “Happy valentine’s day” you whispered as you pulled away from him and walked into his living room.  “Oh Pab, you did this” you gasped as you looked at how cute he had decorated it all.  “I can’t believe you did this, just for me. I didn’t know that you were cute like that” you smirked as you sat down on the sofa next to an adorable white stuffed teddy bear.  “Course I can always be cute, had to treat you didn’t I” you nodded as you picked the teddy up and gave it a squeeze.  “You didn’t need to at all, this is just enough. I don’t need any gifts” you told Pablo as he shook his head as he handed you a bag.  “Aww this is so cute, flowers?” you gasped as he handed you a small bouquet of pink flowers. “These are so cute, my favourite colour of flowers actually” you smiled.  “My first Valentine” you melted as you opened up the card as he had got printed was a photo of you and him on your first date.  “Oh Pabs, this is so stinking cute. I love this so much” you grinned as you handed him a box that you had made for him. “What is this?” he asked as he opened the box up and revealed lots of little memories.  “Aww this is a cute babe, these are all the photos we took when we had all our dates. I wanted this to be our memory box and I want us to use this, well forever” he smiled as he grabbed your hand gently.  “I love this box, it is so cute. I appreciate you just so much and I love you” he kissed you again.  “I love you too, just the cutest” you pinched his cheek softly.  “I best get dinner on, we have our favourite for tonight” he smiled as he quickly headed into the kitchen to make your valentine dinner.  Taglist: @footballffbarbiex​ @football-and-fanfics​ @footballxixstars​ @mrseriksen​ @percervall​ @0alanasworld0​ @simpingmyassoff​ @ghwoticz​

[creative-caramel-coffee]

Stomach Struggles

Pairings: Wandanat x R

Word count: 1.7K

Summary: R struggles while her girls are away, chronic stomach aches are no fun and r just wants her girls

TW: anxiety, stomach ache, slight angst, crying, vulnerability, vomiting

|| PART 2 ||

Stomach aches were the bane of your existence. They hurt and they made you sick almost every single time without fail.

So when you woke up on the day you and Wanda had finally scheduled a date for the first time in months and felt like you were going to spending the day with your head in the toilet you couldn’t help the tears that fell. Wanda and Nat were still on their mission and should be getting back at around four this afternoon.

You put all of your energy into rolling over, gazing at your phone screen and unplugging it you blearily looked at the time. You couldn’t help the few extra tears that fell, 4:30am. No wonder it was still dark and you hadn’t heard your alarm. It wasn’t going to go off for another two hours. You knew there was no going back to sleep now. The pain was too much but you couldn’t find it in you to find some pain medicine that your girls had stashed somewhere in the bathroom.

Deciding there was no point being sad about something you couldn’t change you began to sift through the bedside table’s draw. You were sure you had hidden som stuff in there incase you got sick in the night.

The chronic stomach aches hit whenever so it was good to be prepared. And you knew Wanda had restocked the stash before she left. Nat had made a big fuss with fury about leaving you all alone for a few days. Worried they wouldn’t be there if you needed them.

You were sad when they left but it was nothing on how much you missed them now. Now when you needed them most.

Your finger wrapped around what you were looking for. Pulling out the small container of your emergency supplies your sleepy fingers fumbled with the small lid before it finally came off with a small pop. You checked what was there. Gratefully and teary eyed as you knew Wanda had taken extra care this time, you pulled out the small note. Written in her loopy script it said how much they loved you and how if you needed anything from the box at all you were to call them and tell them. Wanda signed it with a kiss of her red lipstick on the note. Your fingers brushed over the print and another few tears fell. Carefully you folded the note and placed it on the bedside.

Reaching into the box you found a small packet of pain meds and sobbed in relief. Carefully you took the right dose and put them on the bedside beside the note. With shaking hands you pulled out on the sickbags from the small pile of them in the bottom of the box. You knew it was better to have it ready if you need it than not.

Looking in the rest of the box there were three more things. A bottle of pepto bismol which you turned your nose up at. Another bottle of water and a small pack of crackers. And lastly a small stuffed plushie of a frog. You rolled your eyes but pulled it out and hugged it to your chest. Burying your face in the soft fuzzy fur, it smelt like Wanda and you let another few tears fall.

Turning to the bedside and placing the box on the ground you picked up your phone. Wanda had said to call them if you needed them. But would they get in trouble? With the plushie still under one arm you hesitated before tapping her contact. Was it too early to call them?

The line trilled once, twice, three times and then Wanda picked up

“Y/n?” Her sleepy voice came through the line and you choked back another sob but it didn’t work as a small noise came out. That seemed to wake Wanda up.

“Baby?” She asked sounding more alert. “Are you ok my sweet?”

“Where’s natty?” You asked sounding small and vulnerable you dodged the question.

“Shes here sleeping beside me. Baby are you ok?” She repeated, “did you have a nightmare my love?” She asked with a soft voice.

“N-no.” You hated that your voice shook and let out another small sob.

“Is it your tummy baby girl?” Wanda asked now waking up nat who would be mad if she missed a chance to talk to you. Nat grumbled and threw a hand over her eyes. Wanda nudged her side and covered the phone receiver.

“Its Y/n/n she doesn’t feel good.” Wanda said and nat sat bolt upright. Taking the phone from Wanda.

“Y/n? Are you ok my love?” She said her voice slightly sleepy but still alert.

“N-natty?” You asked.

“Yes baby I’m here.” She cooed.

“H-hurts.” You said.

“Oh baby where does it hurt my love?” Wanda asked and you realised you were on speaker.

“S-stomach a-and head.” You muttered brokenly. You heard shuffling on the other side.

“W-wands whats g-going on a-are you guys o-ok?” You asked.

“We’re fine baby natty’s packing the bags, the missions basically over they can send a relief team, our girl needs us fury can shove it u-“

“Baby lets go. Ill call fury on the way.” nat cut her off making you giggle.

“N-no i-i-ill be ok. Y-you don’t need to come b-back.” Wanda frowned.

“Baby we want to make sure your ok. You don’t have to do it all by yourself anymore sweets natty and i are here now.” She said frowning deeper as your didn’t respond.

You wanted to, you really did. You wanted to tell her how much you owed her and nat but the nausea peaked, and you found yourself leaning forward and dropping the phone as you clumsily pulled the sickbag under you chin and gaged.

“Baby?” Wanda’s voice came through the phone that was where in the sheets.

Nat was by her side and mimicked the sentiment.

“Y/n? Are you alright?” She said sounding urgent. All they were met with were the sounds of you being sick as you threw up into the sick bag.

If they weren’t worried before they were now.

“Oh sweetheart.” Wands cooed. “Its ok. Your ok” she hushed knowing how much you hated being sick.

“Baby we’ll be there soon ok? Stay on the phone with us.” You merely sobbed in response as you gagged again into the bag. Your tiny whimpers broke Nat’s heart.

“Screw this.” Nat said and Wanda raised an eyebrow “I’m calling tony to send us a jet it’ll be way faster.” Wanda nodded and return her attention to you.

“Crap baby my phones gonna die. We haven’t been able to charge them. I want you to keep track of how often your sick and natty and i will be home soon. I lov-“ the phone cut out and the beep told you the line was dead.

You sobbed and stood on shaky legs to dispose of the sickbag. Your head swam and you sat back down.

“Bad idea” you muttered and put the gross bag into the small bin by the bed, unable to full get rid of it.

Pulling the sheets up exhaustion hit and you tried to go back to sleep. After tossing and turning for about a half hour the nausea was back again. You quickly pulled out another bag and threw up again. After another few bouts of dry heaving you were throwing up again. With you head in the bag you didn’t see the door open. Unaware of another presence in the room until a warm hand was rubbing circles on your back. You flinched away and dry heaved again through the sobs.

“Oh baby its ok we’re here now.” You felt the bed dip on either-side and almost cried as you realised they were here. They were back.

When you were done you carefully set the bag in the bin and nat raised an eyebrow at the sickbags in the bin, as you threw yourself into their arms.

“Oof” nat said and wrapped her arms around you anyway.

“Oh baby it’s ok” Wanda said taking you from nat and rocking you back and forth in her arms. “How many times my sweet.”

With a small voice you replied “two.” Wanda sucked a breath in.

“And why are they still here?” Nat said looking at the sickbags and earning a glare from Wanda who was also curious.

“Couldn’t get up. Lightheaded. Thought was gonna pass out” you said snuggling into Wanda’s chest and missing the two girls exchanged worried looks.

“Baby are you feeling anything else? Do you feel warm at all?” She said pulling you back slightly and laying a hand on your forehead. You had your eyes closed but hummed at the skin to skin contact.

“Does she?” Nat asked

“No. She feels fine.” Wanda said and you snuggled back into her.

“Let’s just hope it what it normally is and nothing more or we’ll have to see Bruce.” Nat said standing up and taking the bin away to dispose of them properly.

“Baby have you had anything since you were sick?” You shook your head against Wanda’s neck and she sighed. Pulling you close she swung her legs onto the bed and positioned herself against the headboard with you still in her lap. She picked up the pepto ignoring your whines she made you take it followed by pain meds.

“You did so well my sweet.” She said as you gaged at the taste. “Shh shh shh.” She said ready with the sick bag. Luckily you weren’t sick this time and so she pulled you close again and hummed a soft tune.

“Go to sleep baby I’ll be here when you wake up. Natty and i will take care of you now sleep bubs.”

And you did.

A/N Anyone want a part 2? Imma write a part 2 anyways…

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