#so i should come up with a tag for it.. just maybe...

[parfaitblogs]

in a world of boys, he's a gentleman ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your night out comes to an end, and your boyfriend has to try to keep your wandering hands off of him. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff tags: alcohol consumption. reader is drunk. reader is a brat. spencer is so exasperated. but he loves you so bad. age gap probably.��suggestive content. word count: 2.1k a/n: oh my god i miss having a man to pick me up and love me when im drunk #thisshouldbeme final boss level 1000. simple fun fluff i love when he's nice to us i should do this more often. circa summer 2024 ass title i'm rebuilding spencer reid tumblr brick by brick. 

You were never meant to be this drunk. 

Truly, you had grandeur plans for it to be a one and done night. Entertain the birthday girl — your best friend — with your presence and take care of her, for it is her night, and then go home and pass out early enough in dark green sheets and the sound of your boyfriend sleeping next to you. 

You'd even told him about these plans. 

Instead? He's staring down at his phone with a locked jaw, and four different messages from you glaring back up at him. Incomprehensible, if he weren't as smart as he were. If he weren't as attuned to you and your mannerisms down to the way you text. A man who doesn't even like texting, and he's memorised how you do. 

Something about him picking you up, maybe, if he wants. Another thing about you finding him pretty. Another with a photo of the — and he quotes — really good vodka coke the bartender made you (he's certain it tastes the same as the last three you mentioned drinking). Finally, a photo of you in the bathrooms, arms around your best friend, grinning at the mirror through your phone, showing off your outfit to him. As if he hadn't memorised, documented, the way the skirt looked on you when you left hours earlier. 

When he doesn't reply to a single message, you call him, and endearment for you grows, for he can hear the pout on your lips as you speak into the phone. 

"Why're you ignorin' me?" you mumble, which isn't much help considering how loud the world around you is, your voice nearly drowning out. 

"I'm not, honey," he says. "I only just checked your messages. I was about to respond."

"Liar. You're ignoring me. You hate me."

"I can assure you I don't," he's amused. He's so stupidly amused, you want to kick him for it. You don't. You can't. Instead, you let him keep sweet talking you out of your predisposed anger. "Are you having a good night?"

"Yes!" you brighten almost immediately. "Did you see the photo I sent?"

"Of your outfit? Yeah, angel. You look pretty," he's practically perfected how to talk to you when drunk. You're oblivious to it, always too intoxicated to register he is extra nice when you're barely able to hold yourself upright. 

"Thank you," you reply, and he can hear the fluster. "Look prettier in—in person."

"I know. I saw you before you left, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah," your cheeks heat, and you roll your bottom lip between your teeth. The bricks are a juxtaposing cold against your back. Rough, too. Oddly comforting. "Are you busy? Am I keeping you from somethin'? S'that why you were ignorin' me?"

"No," he replies. "I'm waiting for you to be ready to come home. Is that why you're calling?"

"Mm-mm," you shake your head, giggling to yourself because you remember he can't see that. He doesn't know why you're laughing, but he smiles at it nonetheless. "Jus' wanted to hear your voice. Miss you."

"I miss you too, honey," he says, and you can hear that smile in his voice. 

"What're you doin' then?" you ask, staring at the door to the club you had deserted, keeping an eye out for your friends to emerge. 

"Reading."

"Reading what?"

"Sofia Petrovna," he tells you, and, as if he can see the way your eyebrows furrow, he adds, "Russian novel by Lydia Chukovskaya. I'll find a translation so you can read it, I think you'd like it."

"You should jus' read it to me right now," you mumble, crouching down to the floor, resting your head on your knees. "Translate for me."

"You most certainly won't remember a thing I'm saying. Where are your friends?"

"In the club. It got overstimulating," you tell him. 

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and an excuse about how you can actually see your friends still — you can't — manifests on your tongue, preempting the scolding he's no doubt formulating. 

However, two simple, stern — but not too scary — words kill the faux reassurance immediately. "You're alone?" 

You hesitate. "...No?"

"Can you go find your friends, please? I don't want you outside alone."

"Yes, sir," you stand back up. His jaw clenches, biting back his reprimand. He doesn't have the energy to lecture you about the dangers of being this drunk alone, and he's sure you wouldn't appreciate it anyways. Or remember it. "I will call you back later! Bye! Love you!"

He continues to hear from you for the two hours following. A photo once you find your friends to assure him you're safe, a mistyped message about how you love him more than anything in the world, another asking if he's mad at you when he doesn't reply. Eventually, you're calling him again, chatter from the smoker's lounge you'd disappeared into loud, but he can faintly make out you asking him to pick you up. 

He finds himself in an empty enough street just a block away from the last club you told him you were going to, waiting. 

There were people everywhere, just past the corner of the street. Girls with their bags hanging limply down by their calves, fast food paper bags held up to some of their mouths. Never his scene, but he's shown up enough for you since you started dating to know what he's looking out for. 

He can see you before you spot him, but when you do, he can't fight the smile at the sight of you brightening up in an instant. Distantly, he hears you call his name, pointing him out to your friends and stumbling towards the car. 

"Hi!" you collapse against the passenger's seat door, window open and waiting for you, as you lean into the car. 

Recognising the offer for what it was, he leans across the console to kiss you before you can start drunkenly accusing him of not loving you. Or whatever you can come up with to start a baseless, completely harmless argument with him. 

"Hi, honey. Good night?" he asks as you finally pull open the door, settling into the seat with a sigh, head nodding as you peel your shoes off of your feet and curl up. 

"I think so," you murmur, hair covering your face as you drop your head, and a yawn stretches your mouth open. "I'll tell you all about it t'morrow."

"Can't wait," he muses. 

"You never answered me," you then say — which is generous, considering he could barely make out a word — looking over at him. "'Bout if you're mad."

"I wasn't mad," he reassures you. "Just worried. Thought we talked about not being out and alone when you're this intoxicated?"

"Yeah. I know. Sorry."

Tomorrow, as it turns out, follows a quiet drive home for you to collect your thoughts, and his helping hands at removing your makeup and getting you into the shower. A year old promise that he will always force you under the water before bed no matter what protests you come up with.

Now, here you are, rambling his ear off animatedly on the edge of the bathroom sink, as he brushes a wet comb through your hair. 

He's listening intently, soaking in every word you were saying about your night out, even if it entirely made no sense to him. Your attempt at stringing together your night's events was poor at best, and he's pretty sure you've re-explained four times that you went into then night with fake names and backstories to try and fool everyone.

"And then we went to... um... I forgot the name. But it was free entry, so we went in, obviously, and this guy bought us drinks because of the birthday sash she was wearing, so that was awesome. That was the vodka coke I sent you, it was so goo—can I have a kiss?"

Your request catches him off guard, and the comb clatters to the basin beside you when his hand drops from your hair. 

"Is that all you want?" he hums, leaning forwards. His lips brush against your own, and you smile.

"Yep. Just a kiss," you chirp, slouching your shoulders so you could look up at him with wide eyes you know all too well he can't deny. "Please?"

You just had to ask so nicely, and he was left with very little choice in the matter in the end. 

He kisses you for only a second, aiming to pull away and successfully get you into bed before you can take this any further. 

Ever so sneaky, though, you catch your fingers into his hair and tug him back into you, legs hooking around his waist to keep him locked. His hips knock the cabinets, but he's distracted by your lips back on his to fully register the hit. 

"Honey," he mumbles against your lips. A warning, you think. It sounds it. 

You don't listen. 

Instead, you inch closer to the edge of the basin until he's forced to roll his hips into yours to push you back, saving you from falling off. 

You whine, and the sound has him coming back to reality, deftly pulling away from your lips. You protest, quietly, and he's forced to tangle a hand in your hair to tug your head back, keeping you away from him.

"No," he says, firmly. If you were sober, maybe you'd back down under the demand. Then again, if you were sober, he wouldn't be saying no to you. Instead, his tone of voice only makes your smile widen, and your skin tingle. 

"It was just a kiss," you protest, slipping off the sink once he steps back, letting him guide you like a lost puppy back into his bedroom. "Spencer?"

"No it wasn't," he says, hand on your back as he navigates you over to his bed. "We've talked about this."

He sits down before you, and despite the scolding, lets you climb over him into the bed anyways, hips straddling his waist as he lays back on the bed. 

"Just a kiss. I promise," you affirm, breath warm against his lips. 

He gives in, as he always does, and lets you kiss him again. 

Hips square above his, chest pressing on his, fingers ruffling the sheets beside his head. You kiss him until you're out of air, and convinced he's drunk enough on your taste to let you go further. 

He isn't. 

"Behave," he quips when your hand drops to his waistband, his fingers catching your wrist and lifting it back up. You're too focussed on the way his hand fits around the joint to argue. 

"I am," you huff, tilting your head with a lopsided grin. "Didn't do anything!"

"Brat," he pinches your hip, and you squirm, bursting into a fit of giggles. "Go to bed."

"Can't. You've got me caged up on top of you," you jut your chin out. "Maybe you're the problem."

"Yep. Sure am," he confirms, letting his arms around you go slack, just to watch you fall off his chest and to the mattress beside him. "Sleep."

"Or what?"

He pushes air out of his nose, but it's all too difficult to stay frustrated with you when you're staring up at him with the hugest smile on your face. You know exactly what you're doing — and he's just letting you.

He thinks he will forever.

He pauses in choosing a response. "Do you want me to be nice when I wake you up tomorrow?"

"Depends," you study him, eyes narrowing; drunken skepticism. "What's your version of nice?"

"You're a smart girl. Figure it out," he kisses your nose, "and go to sleep."

"Are you being suggestive?" you sit up abruptly, and his palms find comfort in his face, running down it. "Spencer."

"I'm not answering that. Go to sleep, honey."

"I can't. Why would you say that? You're such a tease. Oh my God. I hate you," you moan, dramatically falling back down to the bed, head finding the space between his shoulder and his neck. "Do you promise?"

It's like he knows you're giving up, for his voice has dropped into a drawl, exhaustion he'd been expertly masking coming out as he speaks. "Promise what?" 

"To wake me up nicely?"

"If you're good and go to sleep now, yes."

"Pinky promise?" his eyes are now closed, but you still search his face with keen interest. He smiles. He can feel it. 

"Pinky promise," he affirms, and he finally — finally — fully relaxes as he feels you curl into him. "Goodnight, honey."

"G'night, Spence."

[sailorsoons]

Please | Teaser (c.sc)

PAIRING: Alpha!Seungcheol x Omega! f.reader 

SUMMARY: A heatwave in your city makes dealing with your hormones more difficult than usual. Getting locked in a lobby at work for an hour with an alpha makes it ten times worse. Thankfully, Seungcheol is there to help you - and maybe a little more. 

WC: TBD

AU: Omegaverse, Coworkers to Lovers

GENRE: Smut, A bit of Fluff, the barest hint of angst

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

TEASER WARNINGS: Reader is suffering a medical event (going into heat while locked in at work) and is distressed, a little bit of internal shame at falling apart in front of Seungcheol, reader needs assistance to get to a car etc. a/b/o dynamics. 

A/N: I lost all sense and control of myself. I’ve wanted to write a/b/o for so long and I finally gave up and dove in head first with this one. It’s very light on the actual science/society/tropes but outside of a random fic I did a few years ago, this is my actual first attempt at the genre :)

A/N 2: This is your friendly neighborhood reminder that a/b/o should always be written with the backslashes included, as the acronym without them is a slur in some countries. Please be mindful :)

MASTERLIST | ASK | REQUEST TO BE TAGGED

COMING FRIDAY, MAY 23

“Hey,” Seungcheol says, causing you to look at him. His face is soft. Concerned. “You still with me?”

The way he says it, soft and gentle make things worse. Makes you want to whine and cross the lobby floor to him, to let him pull you in tight and tell you it’ll be okay. To comfort you. The desire is so bad that you realize you’re much farther into Stage 1 than you thought.

Panic starts to nip at your heels. You’re unsure what to do. There’s nothing on you besides your nasal spray and your patches to help you out, but those aren’t what you need. Your patches protect others from your scent and the nasal spray protects you from others - from Seungcheol. 

You try to answer, but your voice catches in your throat, coming out thin and shaky. “I’m okay.”

“Are you in prodrome?” he asks quietly, voice pitched low and careful.

You flinch when he finally says it out loud, letting the acknowledgement ring in the lobby. You close your eyes for a moment, your silence an answer in itself. 

Seungcheol sighs and pulls his phone back out of his pocket, dialing as he lifts it to his ear. “Yeah, I know. Look, you need to expedite. My colleague needs medical assistance and we’re still locked in the lobby. No… no.” Seungcheol glances at you. “She’s experiencing prodrome. Can you please expedite? Yes. Thank you.” 

He hangs up and turns back to you, stepping slowly so he doesn’t overwhelm, arms loose at his sides in a show of calm. “They’re sending someone now. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nod, but your breathing is uneven, shallow now. You can feel the sweat dripping down your spine, the pressure behind your eyes. Everything smells too sharp, too thick. Especially him. Spice and warmth and safety. It’s awful. 

Seungcheol stays where he is, a careful distance between you, but his voice is steady when he says, “Tell me what you need. What I can do to help.”

“I’m fine.”

“I mean it. If you need space, I’ll back off. If you need something cold, we’ll figure it out. Just don’t… don’t try to pretend this isn’t happening. Let me help you.” 

The kindness in his voice cracks something in your chest. No judgment, no pressure, just him, steady and solid, offering help while your body betrays you one symptom at a time. 

You swallow hard. “I just need to get out. I just need to make it home before it gets worse.”

Seungcheol nods, no hesitation. “Then we’ll get you home. I promise.”

Time moves like molasses. The silence between you thickens. You give up on standing, sitting on the cool tile floor. It only offers momentary respite until you’re panting again, struggling to maintain your grip on yourself. 

It’s not working. Your entire body is pulsing, tingling, burning in waves that crest and fall without rhythm. Your skin itches with hypersensitivity, every shift of your clothes unbearable, your breath slow and ragged. It feels like you’re melting, burning up from the forge in your chest.

You can feel Seungcheol watching you from his assigned corner. He says nothing, keeping a respectful distance. You steal a glance at him through bleary eyes. He’s just leaning against the wall, hands clenched and jaw tight. He’s doing his best to appear calm, but you see signs of irritation. His throat works and your eyes linger on the way his Adam's apple bobs for too long. You think about sinking your teeth into his neck, tasting him-

His scent, normally warm and grounded, spikes. You sense the shift and it makes you squirm, pressing yourself further into the wall. You look away from him, hiding your face in your shoulder while you squeeze your eyes shut as another wave of cramping crashes into you. 

Seungcheol’s irritation is sharp. Shame floods you, thick and fast. Of course he’s annoyed. Today has gone from bad to worse. He’s now stuck in a lobby with an omega in prodrome, a liability that he now has to be responsible for, and you’re barely holding it together, shaking like a live wire. You’re stuck, and he’s stuck with you, and-

The lobby doors beep and hiss open. You don’t even lift your head. Don’t even hear the first few words from the guards. You only feel cool night air and the sudden shift in pressure, making you keen and melt into the tile. 

Seungcheol appears at your side, his scent fading from acrid to soothing. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, crouching down to your level. It’s the closest he’s been to you all day. You feel the heat of him, the nearness overwhelming. “They’re here. We can go.”

You don’t move. The thought of moving suddenly seems like an insurmountable task. Your world is tilting, your ears ringing. Your limbs feel detached from your brain and your body is locked, curled in on itself. Heat prickles across your skin like static.

Worst of all, you’re starting to panic. Fear sets in, stabbing deep. You don’t know how to get up and take the train home. Don’t know how to get yourself up the stairs and into your apartment. To the cabinet to take a suppressant. To the fridge for water. 

Seungcheol’s voice sharpens. “Hey. Look at me.”

It’s a command. You blink up at him, barely able to focus. Something flashes behind his eyes and he’s on the phone again. “Hi, I need emergency assistance for an omega. She’s in heat prodrome and she’s deteriorating fast. No, she’s conscious. She’s overheating, but having trouble standing and struggling to focus. I have no idea what to do.” 

You barely hear the voice on the other end of the line, but Seungcheol does. His expression shifts, each word they say tightening his jaw.

“She’s a coworker - we were locked in a lobby at work but I can take her to an omega hospital.” You whimper and shake your head vehemently, whining. He softens. “They said they can give you a heat inhibitor on-site” 

“No,” you pant. “Those hurt.”

He nods. “I can’t do that, she doesn’t want to go.” The operator says something else and he nods. His eyes tighten at the corners and he glances at you. “I can take you to a service clinic. They can assign you-”

“Home,” you plead. “I just need to get home. I can- I can deal with it.”

“I don’t know… do you have um. Do you have an alpha you usually…?”

“No.”

Tears well up fast and hot, blurring your vision, sliding down your cheeks in silent streaks. Your whole body feels wrong, like you’ve been unraveled from the inside, trembling and raw.

“I just want to go home,” you whisper, folding in on yourself. “I have my meds. I can manage if I can just get home. Please.”

He repeats what you say into the phone. They say something and he shakes his head and hangs up, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Okay. Alright. We’re going to get you home, okay?”

JOIN THE PLEASE TAG LIST

[whambamsami]

private show

summary: your shitty boyfriend wants to go to a strip club for his birthday. one of the dancers is desperate to give you the attention you deserve. stripper!bucky pt.1

pt.2

warnings: 18+, adult themes, eventual smut, language, alcohol, let me know if i miss anything!

note: not proofread, so sorry if there's any errors/plot holes! let me know if there's anything i should fix <3

You didn’t want to be here.

Not in the dimly lit, velvet-drenched VIP lounge of a high-end strip club your boyfriend had insisted on for his birthday. Not in the too-tight dress he told you to wear. Not beside him while he ogled other women like you weren’t even there.

“Loosen up,” Nick said, draping his arm around you, with that smile that had won you over months ago, but now just rubbed you the wrong way. “It’s my birthday party.” 

You’d smiled too. Barely. Enough to keep the peace.

He’d begged for this, told you only an insecure woman wouldn’t let him go on his birthday. Hell, he’d even wanted you to tag along.

You thought he wanted you to come with him and his belligerent friends to see that it wasn’t all that bad, to make you more comfortable.

But you were starting to think he got off on making you watch. 

He was generous enough to at least take you to a club that let both genders dance alike, and it was almost overwhelming, seeing men and women’s bodies, some fully exposed, some adorning tiny leather getups, gyrating on stage.

Your boyfriend, the perfect gentleman. 

And he wonders why you won’t take him home to meet your parents.

His friends are all practically howling at a woman onstage, pushing your boyfriend up to get closer to her. She’s wearing nipple pasties, crotchless panties, a pair of stilettos that have you fearing for her ankles, and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

Not that Nick would notice. He never noticed that kind of thing when it came to women. That, or he didn’t care.

“You won’t mind if I get a private dance, will you, babe?”

You wanted to feel angry at him. For him to see just how fucked this entire situation was. You should be feeling more.

But you just felt disgust. He made your skin crawl. You couldn’t give a shit about what he did here. He’d lost you the second he suggested this. 

So you nod tightly. An apology flashes in the woman’s eyes as she slinks off the stage next to him. 

You can’t be mad at her. It’s just business. 

And honestly, the fact that someone else would be filling in for you tonight, pretending to derive any pleasure from whatever Nick planned on doing, was a relief. You weren’t sure you would have it in you.

Not wanting to hear what his pitiful friends had to say about the situation you now found yourself in, you made a break for the bar, flagging down a topless bartender and politely asking for one of the craft cocktails. 

Hey, at least you could get something out of tonight. 

The bartender returned with your cocktail in hand. On the house, he’d said. You wished he was just being friendly, but the look in his eyes told you what this really was.

Pity. 

Whatever. The drink was good. Strong. Exactly what you needed to dull your senses a little, to get your mind off how you even ended up in this club in the first place. 

As you sipped, admittedly a bit faster than you should, the music shifted- bass-heavy and seductive.

The next performer was about to take the stage. 

You turned to face the velvet curtains that hid whoever was up next. Maybe you could pick up a few things, some tips that you could bring to your next relationship.

Your next boyfriend would be more appreciative, you promised yourself.

Better in bed, too. 

The second you saw him, though, everything else blurred.

Huh. A male performer.

All’s fair, right?

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark stubble shadowing a wicked mouth. Ice-blue eyes that swept the room with slow, calculated confidence. His body was lethal, dressed in nothing but black dress pants and a white button-down-half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, like sin in motion.

Your breath caught.

The performer didn’t smile. Not at first. 

But you swear he made eye contact with you.

And when he did, he flashed his canines. Just for a second. Like he knew every dirty thought that was flashing in your head. Like he knew something you didn’t.

The lights dim. The music gets louder. Or maybe everything else gets quieter, you’re not sure.

And suddenly, he’s all you could see.

He walks onto the stage like he’s stalking prey-calm, confident, dangerous. Not a trace of performance in his stride. He doesn’t play it for laughs or gimmicks. He doesn’t wink. He hunts.

The music pulses dark and slow. He unbuttons his shirt one button at a time, each flick of fabric revealing warm, taut muscle, tattoos, scars, shadows that make your mouth dry.

He glances down-just once-and finds your eyes again in the dark.

You squeeze your thighs together, shift again, try to look anywhere else-but it’s no use. He knows what he’s doing. He knows he’s got you.

He unzips his pants. Just an inch. Just enough to make your exhale stutter.

And the second you breathe out, his tongue drags across his bottom lip.

You’re going to combust.

“There you are!” 

You’re snapped out of whatever spell he had you under.

Your boyfriend returned from his little dance, wearing a smile that was a little too wide. Nick and his friends surrounded you at the bar, cutting off what you could see of the performance, much to your disappointment. You didn’t even care when you saw him whispering excitedly to his buddies, when you watched them pat him on the back like he’d won some kind of game, when their eyes would dart over to you like you didn’t know any better. 

Like you were stupid.

You steal a glance at the stage to try and catch the end of the man’s performance, but all you see is the swish of curtains closing as he disappears backstage.

Could this night get any worse?

As if the bartender could read your mind, he appeared again, placing what appeared to be a very expensive bottle of chilled champagne in front of you. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t order-”

“On the house.” he stated simply, as if you should have known. The little gold name tag that rested low on his waistband told you his name was Sam. 

God, at least the service here was great. 

Nick and his friends hooted and hollered, reaching for the bottle, excited to grab a glass, but Sam stopped them, pulling the bottle just far enough out of reach. 

“Sorry, boys, but I’m under strict instructions that this is for the lady only. No sharing.”

Your boyfriend’s lips pursed. 

“What, did somebody roofie that or something? Babe, you’re not drinking that. I don’t trust it.” and to solidify his point, he wrapped his arm around you. His sweaty, gross arm. 

You hated that he still felt like he could touch you like this. 

“Actually, sir, that bottle is for her to take to one of the private rooms. This doesn’t happen often, but she’s been asked to join one of our dancers.”

Your stomach dipped.

The champagne sparkled in the light, a little ribbon of condensation sliding down the glass like it knew how flustered you felt.

“She’s been… what?” Nick scoffed, voice rising with laughter he clearly didn’t feel. “Asked to join a dancer?”

Sam nodded, unbothered. You could have sworn you saw a glimpse of a smile on his face, like he was secretly enjoying this. 

“That’s right. Bucky requested her personally.” You could have sworn you saw a glimpse of a smile on his face, like he was secretly enjoying this. “Very rare, especially for him. I’d take it as a compliment.”

Nick scoffed again, turning to you like it was some kind of joke. 

“You’re not seriously considering that, are you?”

You blinked. Slowly. 

Then you looked down at his arm around your waist-the one that had gotten too heavy, too tight, too possessive over time-and peeled it off like it burned.

“You got a dance too, right?” you said evenly, reaching for the neck of the bottle, “At least mine is free.”

Nick’s friends laughed awkwardly. He didn’t.

“He’s probably just trying to upsell you some bullshit champagne fantasy. It’s a trick.”

Sam snorted as he grabbed two champagne flutes.

“Yeah, well. If it is, it’s working.”

Nick reached for your waist, and for once, you were thankful that he was so fucking sweaty all the time, because it let you slip out of his grip. 

“You don’t know what kind of guy he is.”

That made you laugh. It sounded more bitter than you’d ever heard it.

“He’s a stripper, Nick. Not exactly looking for Prince Charming right now. But whatever kind of guy he is, it looks like he’s interested in treating me a bit better than you are.”

Then you turned, grabbed the bottle, and followed Sam toward the back—heart hammering, adrenaline singing through your veins.

You didn’t know what was waiting for you behind the curtain.

But whatever it was?

It had to be better than this.

[aespabangedbang]

'SCULPTED KAZUHA'

- This story is completely tailored for Kazuha, to appreciate everything about her.

MOST UNDERRATED BITCH IN KPOP. Her visual is a superior version of Bae Suzy yet she is not the next nation's GF. They don't appreciate her much being a foreigner. But look at that peachy ass, choco abs and mango pussy. Her body is pure art, I am in club KABS... Fucking delicious 😋

Writer's Note : That leg spreading ready to fuck gym pic is such a nasty fan service from Kazuha. It sold me to dirty her, so here is one of my best writing so far. Kazuha Nakamura deserve this.

Tags : FULL CON and everything. Kissing to pissing, INSANELY DETAILED MAKEOVER to sensual fuck, this is peak 1 on 1.

Warning : Nothing.

Word Count : 4780 words of romance and body appreciation!

I've been a personal trainer at this high end Korean gym for years. Many famous clients like Kpop idols, models and all the shorts of celebrities come here for their fitness training sessions.

Among all, I have always found Kazuha of Le Sserafim to be the most captivating. From the day she first stepped into my gym, her tantalizing figure with rock-hard abs, thin waist, toned thighs and perfectly rounded pechy ass had me weak at the knees.

She gives me a hard on every time she does squats or lunges in her tight yoga pants and sports bra, flaunting her abs and ass like the most prized thing. it's like her body calls my cock to ravage it, sigh…

But I'm a professional and I know my boundaries. I always kept my lust for this Japanese beauty in check, focusing only on her workout. That is until today. She seems very stressed and depressed. Her usual smile and enthusiasm is missing. Something is troubling her.

"Hey Kazuha, what's the matter? You seem troubled," I said as I approached her, noticing her shoulders slumped over the exercise ball.

"Oh sensei, I'm not feeling so well. Maybe we should cancel today's session," she says with a sigh, avoiding my eyes. “What happened?” I ask her with a gentle caring voice and soft eyes.

"It's just… the comeback preparations are taking a toll on me. The endless dance practices, vocal lessons, media training… then there is fans’ expectations and hater’s hate…” She scoffs painfully. “I feel like I'm going to break," she sighed, her eyes almost watery from mental stress.

Underneath the glamorous K-pop idol image, she's just a vulnerable young girl. My heart aches seeing her like this. Today seeing her so down and stressed out gave me the courage to finally make my move on my sexy Zuha.

I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I know it's tough right now, but you'll get through this. Just focus on the present moment. Zuha, you know I'm not just a trainer but also like a friend. I can help you with depression. Please tell me what troubles you," I say softly, stroking her silky hair.

She looks up at me, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Sensei, I can't take it anymore. The constant pressure, expectations, judgments... I feel like I'm losing myself in all this. I'm so tired..."

Her voice cracks as she breaks down in my arms. I hold her close, my hands rubbing her back soothingly. "Shh, it's alright. I'm here. Sensei will take good care of you," I whisper.

She was so vulnerable, so in need of release. And I was going to give it to her in the most pleasurable way possible.

"Actually, I have an idea that will help relieve some of that stress and anxiety," I said smoothly. “Do you trust me?” She nodded her head, just wanting to cling on to anything so that she doesn't get washed away in despair.

Stroking her hair, I press my lips on her soft temple in a gentle kiss. She doesn't pull away, instead melting into my embrace. Emboldened, I trail my lips down her jawline, feeling her shiver. My tongue flicks out to taste her there. "Mmm you taste so sweet, Kazuha-chan."

I take her mouth in a deep, sensual kiss, my tongue invading to claim her. She whimpers but kisses me back, desperate for comfort. I kiss her thoroughly, my hands kneading the firm cheeks of her ass as I grind my hard cock against her.

Breaking the kiss, I scoop her up in my arms, her legs automatically wrapping around my waist. I carry her to the private training room, locking the door behind us. I set her on her feet, taking a moment to admire her gorgeous figure in those sinful workout clothes.

Kazuha is wearing a cropped sports bra that barely contained her full breasts and skintight leggings that hugged her shapely legs. My mouth watered at the sight of her. She is looking uncertain but incredibly sexy. I stepped closer, my eyes roaming over her flawless skin.

“I'm going to help you release all that tension, Kazuha. Just let go and trust me."

Without warning, I start licking and kissing her perfect abs, or as the fans call it KABS. Her packs are chiseled and defined like greek sculptures, not an ounce of fat on her. She gasped as I savor every inch of her beautiful tummy, my tongue playing with her finely shaped oval belly button. “You taste so fucking good Zuha, like ripe fruits!”

"How do you make this body, this abs look so perfect everyday?" I groaned, enjoying her incredible figure with my lips and tongue. "It's okay Kazuha, let me take care of you," I crooned, trailing reverent hands over her abdomen. "I'm going to worship this body like the temple it is. I'm going to pleasure you in ways you've never been pleasured before.”

I grabbed the front of her sports bra and yanked hard, the flimsy fabric ripping away to reveal her gorgeous tits topped with perky pink nipples. Kazuha gasped, "A-ahh!" I am going crazy with her irresistible body.

I groaned at the erotic sight. "Fuck, your body is so incredible..." I throw the torn bra away, her bountiful breasts making me go crazy. I cupped the heavy mounds, relishing their soft weight. "Mmm, so full and ripe. I've been dying to touch them."

Kazuha whimpered, her nipples stiffening under my touch. "N-no...we shouldn't…” With a low growl, I push her onto the mat, descending upon her to worship her perfect tits. I suck and nibble the pink buds, making them harden between my teeth. "Such a good girl, Kazuha-chan. My pretty idol!"

Kazuha whimpered, her nipples stiffening under my touch. "N-no...we shouldn't..." "Shh, just feel good baby," I cooed, kneading her tits and tweaking her sensitive buds. "I'm going to take care of you so well.”

My other hand slid down her chiseled stomach to palm her pussy through her leggings. The thin material was already damp. "You're so wet already...you want this badly, don't you?" "Yes...please..." she mewled, arching into my touch. I could feel she can't resist her body's urges any more.

I sit back on my knees, ripping off her yoga pants in one swift motion. “Oh fuck yes..." I breathed, drinking in the sight of her naked pussy. It was completely bare, plump and glistening with arousal. She gasps, instinctively covering herself, face going flushed, chest heaving and but the lip bite betrays her innocent image.

"Don't be shy, baby. Your body is divine. I want to see all of it." I pull her hands away, spreading her full flexible thighs apart, fold her in half as her legs draping over her shoulders to reveal my long awaited desire; her glistening pink pussy on full display. I like how neatly shaved and cute her pussy is. "Ohh you're already so wet for me. Sensei's going to devour this sweet cunt."

I bury my face between her legs, inhaling her musky arousal. "Mmm you smell heavenly." I lap at her folds, swirling my tongue around her wet clit. "Ahhh!" Kazuha cried out the moment my mouth made contact, my tongue delving between her slick folds to lap up her tangy juices. She tasted fucking divine.

She mewls and arches, fisting my hair. I tongue-fuck her hole, drinking down her honey. "That's it, baby. Let sensei take care of you. Feed me your stress and depression. I'll suck it all out of this pretty pussy." I bury my nose between her folds, "I'm going to eat this sweet cunt until you're screaming for me.”

“Y-yes...oh god..." she panted, pulling my hair with her hands. I slid my tongue up to circle her throbbing clit, flicking the sensitive bud rapidly. She thrust her hips against my face shamelessly, smearing her honey all over my chin.

I sealed my lips around her clit and suckled hard, making her scream. "FUCK! Don't stop, please don't stop!"

Her cries were like the sweetest music to my ears. I tongue-fucked her clenching hole, reveling in her musky flavor. "Mmm you taste so fucking good, I could eat this pussy all day," I mumbled against her sex.

Kazuha's thighs quaked and tensed around my head, her pussy gushing and fluttering wildly. "I'm cumming! Ahhhh!"

Her juices flooded my mouth as she came hard, her clit pulsing against my tongue. I lapped up every drop greedily, not letting a single bit go to waste. She collapsed against me, trembling and mewling through the aftershocks.

But I am just starting with her. I stood up and spun her around, bending her over the exercise bench. Her perfect tight bubble butts were presented to me, her juicy pussy winking at me, glistening with her cum and my saliva. I cup and roam my hands around her roundy perky shape, basking the revered butt that millions only dream off to touch.

I raise my hand as high in the air as I can, then bring it down like a thunderstruck to imprint my hand on her tight and bouncy milky buttcheek. A guttural moan escapes her mouth, so I slap her again and again… Each slap sends shockwaves through her tight muscles and her butts bouncing around. “Oh fuck that feels so good!” She screams in pain and pleasure.

“Argg fuck Kazuha, your butt is so rubbery and the shape is so good. That's what you call a peachy butt!” I praise her butt like a fine art piece. By the time I stop drumming her ass the flesh have gone tender red.

Then I spread her ass cheeks apart, exposing her tight pink asshole. "I'm going to wreck this smelly hole," I growled. Without warning, I dove in face-first, burying my tongue in her puckered star. My hands pushing her cheeks from both side, my face getting squeezed between her bottoms.

"AHHH! Oh fuck!!" Kazuha shrieked, hands scrabbling at the bench. I ate her ass like a starving man of a few weeks, slurping and suckling at her most intimate place. The taste of her was indescribable, so dirty and forbidden yet so delicious.

I tongue-fucked her ass, wriggling my tongue deep into the hot velvet channel. She was so tight and her rim fluttered around the intrusion deliciously. "Mmmfh fuck… your ass is deliciousb Zuha, do you shit cake or something out of here?" I mumbled, cheeks hollowing as I sucked her vice hole so hard.

Kazuha was lost to the intense pleasure of having her asshole devoured. "Haaahh fffuckk yesss more moreee! Nnggghh it's s-so good!" Her pussy starts drooling steadily, making the most enchanting musky smell while I savor into her backdoor. The room filled with the sounds of my slurping and her wanton moans. I rimmed her ass until she starts begging me to fuck her.

Pulling back, I rise up to worship her body, kissing a trail up her toned stomach, licking her pierced navel. I suck hickies onto her abs, leaving my mark on her creamy skin. "Fuck, you're so sexy. I'm going to destroy this tight little body for my pleasure."

I slide two fingers into her soaked cunt, pumping them fast and hard. She cries out, mind going blank from the pleasure. "Yes, scream for sensei! Let it all out. I'll fill up this needy hole and fuck your ass too. You'll be sensei's perfect little cocksleeve."

I finger-fuck her roughly, curling into her g-spot. My thumb rubs firm circles on her clit as I nibble her tits. She writhes and thrashes, babbling incoherently. "Ahhh fuck yes sensei! I'm gonna... gonna... ahhhHHH!!"

Her pussy clamps around my fingers as she thrashes through another intense orgasm. I work her through it, not letting her come down, prolonging her pleasure. As soon as she starts to float, arching her back, "Turn around and get on your knees," I commanded huskily.

Kazuha obeyed in a daze, sinking down in front of me. Her eyes widened at the sight of my massive erection, flushed dark red and leaking pre-cum. "Oh my god...it's so big," she whimpered. I flip her over onto her hands and knees in everyone's favorite doggystyle.

"Ass up in the air, baby. I'm going to wreck this stressed cunt of yours gaping and creamed," I growled, slapping her booties hard multiple times.

Gripping her hips, I rub the fat head of my cock through her slick folds, coating myself in her arousal. "Mmm you're leaking so much honey. Your tight cunt is going to suck me in. I'm going to split you open on my big cock.”

I aim the leaking head of my cock at her entrance. With one hard thrust, I bury myself to the hilt in her tight heat. She screams, back arching at the sudden intrusion. "Fuck, you're so goddamn tight! Clenching around me like a vice. Milking my cock like a good girl.”

Luckily she isn't a virgin. "FUCK! Oh fuck you're so big argh!" Kazuha wailed, back bowing as I split her open on my girthy shaft.

I set a punishing pace, pistoning in and out of her sopping wet cunt. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed through the room along with her mindless screams. "YESSS! HARDER! RUIN MY PUSSY!"

I start to grunt with the force of my thrusts. The wet squelching of her pussy and whorish moans are melodies in my ears. "Take it, Kazuha-chan! Take sensei's big cock! I'm going to reshape this cunt to fit only me. You'll be my little fuckdoll!”

Pulling out abruptly, I flip her onto her back and raise one of her leg to my shoulder, her flexible leg easily split open and ready to get fucked. I thrust back into her, yo-yoing her on my shaft. In this position I can easily penetrate deep into her pussy, hitting her cervix. She moans in sharp pain of her uterus getting poked but I keep railing into her, my heavy balls slapping against her ass.

I lean down, her leg got completely bent 180° with me so that I can capture her mouth in a sloppy kiss, muffling her screams. I angle my hips to pound directly into her g-spot with each thrust. "Fffuuuccckkk I'm cumming again!” She cries out loud. I'm going to fill this fertile cunt with my seed," I roared.

I piston into her wildly, the wet sounds obscene. "Fuck, gonna cum! Gonna pump you so full! Ohhh fuck, here it comes!!" My cock jerks as I explode, painting her insides white. I grind against her cervix, making sure every drop of my cum coats her womb. Getting filled with my hot milk sends her over the edge and she starts convulsing.

I fuck her through another mind-blowing orgasm, not stopping to let her recover. Her pussy is so slick and hot, gripping me like a silken fist. "Ohh that's it, milk my cock! Squeeze the cum out of me! I'm going to overload this cunt with my seed. You'll be dripping with it!”

Kazuha shrieked as her pussy spasmed around me, milking my cock for all I was worth. I buried myself to the hilt inside her, emptying my balls deep in her womb. Searing jets of cum painted her cervix white until I can't anymore.

I collapsed on top of her, both of us panting harshly from our exertions, drenched in sweat and struggling to catch our breaths. "That was...incredible," she panted, clenching her pussy around my softening cock. She clings to me, trembling and mewling softly. I stroke her hair and back.

"Shh, you did so good, baby. Sensei is proud of you. I love you so much, Kazuha-chan. You're mine now, understood? This pussy belongs to sensei." I chuckled breathlessly, "We're just getting started, baby. I'm not done with this sexy body yet.”

"Yes, sensei. I'm yours," she whispers, nuzzling into my neck. I reached down and slowly pulled out of her abused hole. A river of pearly cum gushed out after me. Kazuha gasped and shuddered at the sensation. "Oh god… I've never felt so full before," she whimpered.

I scooped some of the spend leaking out of her pussy and brought my coated fingers to her lips. "Open up...clean them. Taste how well I bred this pretty cunt."

"Mmmfffuck..." Kazuha moaned, obediently lapping and suckling my digits clean of my own cum. I pushed them into her mouth, relishing how she swallowed eagerly.

When I finished feeding her my load, I gathered the cum dribbling down her thighs and smeared it all over her pussy lips. "Look at this sloppy cunt...so well used," I purred, sinking two fingers knuckle deep into her fluttering hole.

Kazuha keened and rolled her hips, fucking herself on my hand. "Yesss...I'm such a dirty slut for you," she panted, all traces of the prime idol completely erased and replaced by a wanton cock-hungry whore.

I fingered her through another intense orgasm, stroking her g-spot as I pumped my fingers in and out of her cum-drunk hole. She came with a scream, squirting all over my hand.

We bask in the afterglow for a little, tired. But I remember, my cock is still semi-hard and her ass is still untouched. I'm not nearly done with her yet.

Before she could recover, I flipped her over on her belly and pressed the tip of my reviving cock against her gaping asshole. "I'm going to wreck this tight hole now," I growled.

Her eyes widen but she obediently spreads her ass cheeks for me, exposing the tight pink pucker. "Ohh you want sensei to fuck this ass, don't you Kazuha-chan? Want me to split you open on my cock?"

"Yes sensei, please! I need your cock in my ass! Ruin me, make me yours!" she begs wantonly, shamelessly, pushing her hips back to take me inside. A far cry from the shy girl I was kissing minutes ago. The depravity is bringing out her true self.

Spitting crudely on her slit, I rub it over her rim, pressing the tip of my cock against it. I push forward, breaching the ring of tight muscle in one firm thrust. She throws her head back with a guttural moan as I sink into her ass, stretching her open. I groaned at the vise-like tightness gripping my shaft. "Fuck...even tighter than your pussy,"

I started pounding into her ass with deep, powerful strokes, stretching her back passage wide around my girth. Kazuha babbled incoherently, lost to the brutal anal stretching. "Harder! Break meee! FUCK!”

"Ffffuck, your ass is gripping me so tight! I'm going to fuck this hole raw until you're sobbing on my cock. Until you can't walk straight!" The bench creaked ominously under us as I rutted into her like a beast in heat. Her ass clenched and rippled around me, trying to milk my cock. "Gonna cum in this tight hole...gonna flood your guts with jizz," I snarled.

I am bottom hammering with a groan, My heavy aching sacks are hitting her cum soaked pussy. I pull back until just the tip is in her, then slam back in, burying myself to the hilt. I set a brutal pace, cock sawing in and out of her tight heat.

She sobs and writhes underneath me as I plough into her ass. Her cunt is drooling, arousal running down to drip onto the mat. "Ahhh sensei! It's so deep! You're in my stomach! Wrecking my ass! Ohhh fuck!"

I grab and pull her meaty ass wider, watching my shaft pistoning in and out, stretching her sphincter to its limit. I smack her ass like thunder strike, leaving a handprint on the abused flesh. "That's right, take it! Take sensei's cock in your ass like a good whore! Scream for me!"

Her screams echo off the walls as I fuck her into oblivion, my cock reaching impossibly deep. "Shit I'm cumming! You want sensei to fill this ass with cum? Pump you full until you're leaking? Beg for it baby. Beg me to cum in your ass!"

"Please sensei! Fill my ass with your cum! I want it so bad! Please please please cum in my ass!!"

With a roar, I bury myself deep and paint her bowels with my seed. I grind into her, making sure every drop takes lodge in her rectum. I pulled out with a wet squelch and watched in satisfaction as rivulets of creamy brown, mix of my cum and her own feaces oozed out of her gaping, ruined asshole. "Mmm look at that well-bred ass...such a good cumdump for me," I purred.

I scooped up some of the filthy jizz leaking from her asshole and pushed the coated fingers into her mouth. "Clean them. Taste how well I seeded your dirty ass."

She swallowed it down obediently, moaning at the tangy, bitter and foul taste of my cum mixed with her shit. When I finished feeding her my load, I pulled her up into my arms.

"You did so good, baby. Such an amazing little cockslut. I'm going to keep using this sexy body whenever I need to empty my balls," I praised, nuzzling into her hair.

Kazuha mewled into my chest, completely owned. She slurred, "Y-yours...all yours. Use me whenever you want. I'm your personal cumdump," she swore breathlessly, clenching her pussy and asshole at the thought of being my personal fucktoy. Completely fucked stupid by my cock.

I captured her lips in a deep, filthy kiss, our tongues sliding obscenely together and sharing our dirty fluids. When I finally pulled back, we were both panting. "I think it's time for your hydration drink after such a hard workout," I said with a smirk.

"What? Oh, um, yes of course," Kazuha replied, still dazed. I stepped back and fisted my semi-hard cock. "On your knees, baby. Open wide for your protein shake."

Her eyes widened as she caught on. "Y-you want me to...drink it? From there?" she asked hesitantly.

I nodded, stroking my shaft languidly. "That's right. Drink down every drop like a good girl. Replenish all those lost fluids."

Kazuha sank to her knees before me submissively. "Yes sensei," she breathed, parting her lips.

I positioned my cockhead at her waiting mouth and started pissing, hosing down her tongue and throat with my warm spunk. She gulped and swallowed frantically, struggling not to waste a single drop of my golden nectar.

Just to help her I shove my cock in her mouth but don't go deep. From there I keep slowly pissing as Kazuha does her best to drink all of my piss. Of course she can't, piss keep overflowing and gushing out the side of her stretched lips.

When my bladder emptied, I pulled out with a wet plop. Kazuha coughed and sputtered, rivulets of piss dribbling down her chin. "Mmmfffuck...tastes so good," she slurred, licking her lips.

I hauled her up into my arms and captured her mouth in another deep, filthy kiss, uncaring of the taste of my own piss. She melted against me, submitting sweetly to my mouth.

I make her sit on the bench, then sit down between her splayed thighs, lapping at her cum-filled pussy and ass, drinking down our combined release. She whimpers and mewls above me, more sensitive than ever from the thorough fucking I just gave her.

Pulling back, I grab her chin and make me look at my eyes. My cock is still rock hard, slick with her arousal. "Last round baby. Sensei's going to facefuck you now. Gonna make you choke on my cock until you drink my cum straight from the source."

I fisted her hair and pulled her face into my crotch. "Open wide, baby. Time to put that idol mouth to good use." She parted her lips obediently and I slid my thick shaft into the wet heat of her mouth. "Oh fuckkk yesss," I groaned, eyes rolling back as her tongue worked magic along my length. Kazuha took me deep, gagging and slobbering all over my cock like a total whore.

I started fucking her pretty face ruthlessly, grunting as I hilted in her throat over and over. She gags and chokes as I start thrusting in and out, holding her head in place. Tears run down her face but she takes me like a champ, swallowing around my shaft. She isn't resisting, submitting beautifully to the face-fucking.

I use her mouth like a fleshlight, Saliva drips down her chin as I hit the back of her throat with every deepthroating thrust. Her singer's throat bulged to make room for me. "That's it, take it all! Choke on sensei's big cock! Swallow it all like a good little cumslut!"

Take it all, you cock-hungry slut. Fuck I'm going to cum down your face and down your filthy throat," I snarled, hips pistoning at a brutal pace.

Kazuha moaned around my cock, sending delicious vibrations through me. Her lips tightened around my base as I erupted, firing thick ropes of jizz straight down her gullet. She struggled to swallow it all, some spilling out the corners of her stretched mouth.

I tug her off my cock abruptly, pulled out with a wet pop. Kazuha gasped for air, coughing and sputtering. I aim my canon at her face. With a strained grunt, I explode, painting her pretty features with my release.

She tries to turn away but I grip her jaw, repeatedly burying my cock deep down her throat and as I pull out, painting one rope of cum at a time. Once done I make sure to smear my cum all over her attractive face using my soft long cock to slap her around.

"Mmmffuck..." she whimpered but obediently licked and sucked my cock clean of my spend, I keep slapping her with my cock.

"There, drink and smear it all up like a good girl. You're so perfect Kazuha-chan. Sensei loves you so much." I kiss her deeply, sharing my cum between our mouths.

Finally pulling back, I take in the sight of her - face glazed with cum, eyes unfocused, body limp and sated. "How was that baby? Did sensei fuck you good?"

Kazuha was panting and trembling but looked more relaxed and satiated than I'd ever seen her. "Thank you...I feel so much better," she said softly, nuzzling into my tummy, hugging me around my waist. My cock literally poking her chest. "Sensei, it's the best fuck of my life... I'm ruined for anyone else now..." she slurs, a blissed out smile on her face.

I stroked her now unkept hair tenderly. "Anytime, baby. Whenever you need to release some stress, just call on me. I'll always take care of this sexy body."

She smiled up at me sweetly, already looking forward to our next session. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her into my chest, uncaring that we were both naked and sticky with various fluids.

As Kazuha nestled into my embrace with a content sigh, I silently vowed to be her pillar of strength and outlet for stress, even if it meant keeping our relationship a secret. She was worth it. This idol is my personal fuckdoll now, and I would use her tight holes to empty my balls whenever I wanted, consequences be damned.

I scoop her up and carry her to the locker room, helping her clean up. My hands roaming around her pussy, ass hole and face like we have been together for our whole life. We dress and exit, my arm wrapped around her waist possessively. From now on, she's mine. Only I get to see this side of her. Only I get to wreck her so thoroughly.

“Say Zuha, I know this good hotel. How about you don't go back to the dorm tonight, we can work more on your stress.” I say while giving her right butt a tight squeeze on the street, enough to make her flinch least someone saw it. But she doesn't say no and nod yes, I can already see the lust in her eyes.

I held her close, basking in the golden hour of such a meaningful, satisfying day. The first of many more to come. She clung to me just as tightly, equally addicted to my cock already. I'll make sure to keep her well-stressed and well cummed, my perfect little cocksleeve, just as she was meant to be.

As we sat in the car, I could feel her hand grabbing my cock under my gym trousers. Her long fingers griping it like she owns it. Kazuha is smirking, her little revenge for that butt squeeze. In that moment, I knew we were both fucked. And I wouldn't have it any other way…

Bye from KAZUHA SAN you fuckers! 👋

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Part Nine ～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, so good, so sweet, I love them so much

Word Count: 3,561

Synopsis: After your trip to Georgia, Mark is living on cloud nine. He never thought he could be this happy – and it takes an off world mission for him to realize he can’t risk going the rest of his life without knowing you’ll be there when he comes home.

a/n: this turned out better than the original version i had written out & i’m sooo happy with it. MARK DESERVES HAPPINESS DAMMIT

read part eight ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

It had been a couple weeks since the trip to Georgia, and Mark still couldn’t stop replaying it in his head.

Not just the peach cobbler or the porch swings or the way your mama had hugged him like she’d known him in a past life. Not just your brothers giving him a hard time at the dinner table, or your daddy watching with quiet eyes that said I see you, boy, and I’m lookin’ close.

No—it was you.

It was you in that sundress, swaying your hips in the kitchen while you helped your mama make breakfast like it was muscle memory. It was the way you looked at him across the yard, your hair caught in the breeze as you smiled all soft and shy like you didn’t know you’d stolen his heart from the beginning.

He didn’t fall in love with you in Georgia. He’d done that a long time ago.

But something did shift out there—some invisible string between you two tightening, cinching close, like the universe had finally stopped messing around and said this is it. This is your girl.

Mark had never been happier.

He felt like he was living in a waking dream. From the second he opened his eyes to the second he closed them, you were there. Not always physically—though you often were, curled up beside him with your cheek pressed to his chest and your hand tucked beneath his—but always present. Always lingering.

In the way his mind wandered mid-mission. In the scent of your perfume clinging to his shirt. In the ache he felt when he thought about the future and couldn’t picture a single version that didn’t include you.

Every time he left your side—even for a grocery run or a patrol shift—it felt wrong. Like he’d left the best part of himself behind.

And now, standing in a spaceship headed to a planet lightyears from Earth, Mark felt that wrongness in his bones.

He should be home. He should be with you. Sitting on the porch. Watching the sky. Listening to you complain about the mosquitoes like they were created just to ruin your life.

He should’ve kissed you one more time before he left.

Should’ve told you—really told you—just how hard he’d fallen.

Because somewhere between that first class senior year and the moment you pulled him into your childhood bedroom and whispered his name like it meant something… Mark had stopped imagining a future without you.

How could he now be expected to pay attention to the this droning voice go on about an alien debrief?

Some alien diplomat was rattling off intel about the mission—cultural norms, local customs, planetary terrain, and what not to do if they didn’t want to spark an intergalactic incident. It was all very important. Very official.

Mark caught maybe… seven percent of it.

He knew the basics: they were flying into a neutral sector to assist with an evacuation. He’d been brought on mostly for a show of strength, as usual—flex the muscle, give the impression that Earth wasn’t sending pushovers. And if things did go sideways? Well, that was when he’d be really useful.

Until then, he was just supposed to sit there. Look sharp. Absorb information.

He was doing a piss-poor job of it.

Because instead of alien terrain and potential conflict zones, all Mark could picture was you.

His head tilted slightly, lips parted, eyes blank and faraway as a single memory looped in his mind like some slow-spinning record.

You on the porch.

Hair still a little damp from your evening shower, tied up with one of those soft little scarves you always wore to bed. You were barefoot, of course—always were on that porch—and dressed in one of those sleep gowns you liked, the kind made of thin cotton with a row of tiny buttons down the front and lace along the neckline. It hit just above your knees and swayed when you walked, all soft and easy, like moonlight in motion.

Mark had no business staring the way he did—but God, you were pretty. Prettier than the stars. Prettier than anything he was about to fly off toward.

You were watering the flowerboxes with your little tin can, humming something under your breath. Barely even looked at him as he floated down from the sky, boots landing softly in the dirt path that ran along your fence.

“You back just to say goodbye again?” you’d teased, glancing over your shoulder with a grin that could’ve lassoed the moon.

He nodded, stepping closer.

“Mmhmm. Forgot my second goodbye kiss.”

You set the watering can down with a clink, walked over to him like he was just your man coming home from work and not someone about to rocket across the stars.

“I gotta tell ya baby,” you murmured, arms sliding around his neck, “someone’s getting awful greedy with their sugar.”

He kissed you like he wasn’t leaving. Like you were the only thing he ever had to do. Which, maybe, you were.

And when you pulled back—eyes bright, lips glossed with just a hint of his saliva—you tapped his chest lightly with your fingernail and said,

“Bring me back somethin’ weird—nothin’ illegal now. Just somethin’ shiny. And make sure it ain’t livin' neiher.”

He smiled even now, remembering it. The way you said it so breezy, like you weren’t worried at all. Like your heart wasn’t wrapped up in his ribs same as his was in yours.

“Ain't livin',” he echoed under his breath, mouth twitching into a half-smile.

God, he missed you.

—

They made landfall mid-morning, local time.

Mark stepped off the ship and into a haze of pale blue mist, the ground beneath him firm and spongy all at once—like walking across a memory. The sky above shimmered with soft clouds and hanging lights, the capital city blooming around them in quiet layers of movement. Not chaotic, not flashy. Just steady and strange and alive.

He was still mostly tuned out, but trying real hard not to be. Someone was speaking into his earpiece, explaining cultural expectations—how to greet the local leaders, which gestures were considered rude, what colors meant what. Mark nodded politely, taking it in where he could.

He wasn’t much help on the technical side of missions. Never had been. He wasn’t the planner, the strategist, the linguist. He was the muscle. The presence. The just-in-case. Half the time they brought him along just because he could take a hit no one else could and throw one even harder.

But he still paid attention. Still showed respect. Because his mom had raised him better than to tune out someone who was taking the time to talk to him.

So he kept nodding, following along, even as his mind drifted in and out. Not out of boredom. Just…

God, he really really missed you.

And that's when he saw it.

Tucked between two towering columns, draped in hanging vines that glowed faintly with movement, was a small vendor stall. Nothing fancy. Just a cloth canopy, a few low tables, and trays full of glimmering trinkets laid out like sea glass on sand.

And right in the middle of it all—there it was.

A ring.

Mark took a slow step forward.

His boots barely made a sound on the strange mossy path as he approached the stall. The rest of the diplomatic group moved on without noticing, voices fading into background noise. He didn’t care. Couldn’t.

He stopped just shy of the table, eyes locked on the ring like it might vanish if he looked away.

The vendor noticed him instantly.

They were small and soft-bodied, skin like polished jade, eyes dark and deep-set. Four arms moved in rhythmic calm as they adjusted trinkets and nodded in polite greeting.

“May I help you, traveler?” they asked, voice silky-smooth through the translator chip in his ear.

Mark hesitated, then pointed—not at the table broadly, but directly at it.

“That ring,” he said. “What is it?”

The vendor followed his gaze and gave the softest little hum, like wind moving through glass.

“Ah,” they said. “You see it.”

That gave him pause. “See what?”

“The bond,” the vendor replied. They reached for the ring with careful fingers and lifted it, cradling it in a small satin cloth before offering it for a closer look. “This was crafted on the moon of Arvalis, centuries ago. Their artisans do not forge with heat, but with harmony. Two metals wound together only when they vibrate in perfect resonance. No force. No binding. Only balance.”

Mark’s brows pulled together. “So it’s… symbolic?”

“It’s alive,” they said gently. “Not sentient, not in the way you or I are. But sensitive. Resonant. The stone at its center—virellium—reacts to the presence of emotional frequency. If it shines, the love is true. If it glows warmer, it is shared.”

Mark stared down at it.

The band was pale gold, soft and warm, twisted like two strands braided into one. The stone shimmered faintly, like sunlight through honey. And when he reached toward it, just barely brushing a fingertip against the edge of the satin cloth—

It pulsed.

Barely. Just a flicker of warmth. Like a heartbeat in the quiet.

Mark swallowed dryly. “Does that… mean something?”

The vendor’s smile was kind. “It means you are sure.”

Mark’s throat felt thick. “…I didn’t come here to get a ring.”

“Few do,” they replied. “But the bond calls when the soul is ready.”

Mark nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the tiny, glowing thing in front of him. It wasn’t just beautiful. It felt right. Like it already belonged to you. Like it had been waiting for him to find it and take it home.

He didn’t ask the price.

Didn’t even blink as he pulled out the currency chip and held it out.

The vendor accepted it with a bow. “May your union be eternal.”

Mark stared at the ring in his palm. And for the first time in his life, he wanted something more than strength. More than purpose. More than victory.

He wanted you. Forever.

—

Mark sat in the back of the ship on the way home, staring down at the piece of jewelry in his palm like it might start talking back.

He’d gone over what he wanted to say at least fifty times now.

“You’re my home.” No. Too vague.

“I’ve loved you since AP Bio.” Probably not the best – you might start thinking you were the reason he flubbed that class.

“Will you marry me?” Too fast. Too formal. Too not you.

He ran a hand through his hair and groaned softly, tilting his head back against the cold interior of the ship and shutting his eyes. Every version he tried sounded wrong. Too stiff. Too poetic. Too desperate. Too much.

And yet—not enough.

He wanted to get it right.

Not because he thought you needed some grand performance. Not because you were the kind of girl who needed sweeping declarations.

But because you deserved one anyway.

Because you made him want to speak in full sentences and not trip over his own heart.

Because he didn’t just want to ask you. He wanted you to know. Know what you were to him. Know what this meant.

He opened his eyes again, glancing down at the ring.

It glowed faintly in the low light. Warmer now. Like it had caught the edge of a thought and curled itself tighter in response.

“…She’s gonna kill me,” he murmured, almost fondly, “if she finds out this thing’s technically alive.”

“Romantic and potentially dangerous! Classic Earth bonding ritual!”

Mark jolted upright, nearly dropping the ring.

Shapesmith was leaning over the seat across from him with a theatrical flourish, arms wide like he was announcing the third act of a play.

“Jeez—How long have you been there?”

Shapesmith gave a knowing little smile, one hand pressed to his chest like he’d just witnessed a love confession in a soap opera. “Long enough to sense a powerful emotional climax in progress.”

“…It’s not a climax.”

“I humbly disagree,” he said, gesturing grandly at the ring. “The trembling hands, the brooding silence, the artifact of eternal union clutched dramatically in your lap—Invincible, my friend, this is textbook longing.”

Mark sighed, laughing despite himself. “It’s a bonding ring. Glows when there’s, y’know… love.”

Shapesmith gasped. “It’s sentient?!”

“Not—well, not really. It’s just reactive.” He tucked the ring back against his suit. “I’m gonna propose.”

Shapesmith’s face split into the most genuine grin Mark had ever seen on someone not born on Earth.

“Oh! OH. That’s wonderful! You’re to be mated!” He paused. “Or—married. That’s the word now. I’m working on it.”

Mark smirked. “Yeah, well… if I can stop messing up the speech part.”

Shapesmith leaned closer, tone suddenly sincere. “She loves you, doesn’t she?”

Mark didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

“Then speak like she already said yes.”

Mark stilled, suddenly feeling like the small piece of alien metal was getting warmer from where it was tucked away against his chest.

“Thanks, man,” he said quietly.

Shapesmith nodded solemnly, placing a dramatic hand on his shoulder. “May your courtship be legendary.”

—

By the time the ship broke atmosphere, the sky had already darkened.

Mark didn’t wait for formal clearance. Didn’t bother changing out of his suit. The moment they got within a hundred miles of Earth, he was gone—cutting through clouds, his heart racing faster than his flight path.

He touched down just past the edge of the gravel drive, the soft crunch beneath his boots swallowed up by the windchimes. The porch light was still on, casting its familiar glow across the little white farmhouse—the same one that looked like it belonged in another decade. Quiet. Private. Yours.

He’d told you once, half-laughing, “I didn’t even know places like this existed around here.”

You’d just smiled and said, “Well, now you do.”

Tonight, it felt like the only place in the world.

God, he hoped you were still awake.

The windows were dark. No movement. No voices. Just windchimes clinking lazily in the breeze, crickets chirping in the distance.

He lingered there at the edge of the gravel, boots sunk just slightly into the dirt, unsure if he should go knocking or just sit tight with the ring burning a hole in his chest.

Then he heard that familiar creak of the screen door.

His head snapped up.

And there you were.

Barefoot, nightgown catching the breeze, hair loose and soft around your shoulders like you’d just brushed it out. You looked like summer twilight—like a daydream half-forgotten and sweetened by time.

You spotted him immediately and leaned your hip against the doorframe, arms folded, grinning like he was late for dinner.

“Well if it ain’t my personal Wonderboy,” you called, voice warm and teasing. “Took your sweet time gettin’ home, huh?”

Mark’s breath caught.

God, you looked like everything. That porch. That voice. That nightgown. The way your silhouette framed against the glow of the house like he’d stepped into some dream he hadn’t dared ask for.

His throat tightened unexpectedly, and for a second—just a second—his vision blurred.

Not from speed. Not from altitude.

From you.

He blinked fast, grateful for the cover of darkness. Grateful you couldn’t see the way his eyes welled up out here in the yard, how hard he was gripping the ring against his chest just to keep from falling apart.

You gave a little shake of your head, eyes softening.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” you said, stepping onto the porch. “If I had, I’da made sure to have a plate ready for you.”

Mark swallowed hard.

She doesn’t even know, he thought. Doesn’t even realize I’d fly through stars just to hear her say that.

He took shaky steps up the porch, and before you could say another word—before he lost his nerve—he dropped to one knee onto the old creaking wood, love swelling so hard in his chest it hurt.

You gasped, one hand flying to your mouth, the other over your heart. Your whole body went still, eyes wide as saucers, voice barely above a whisper.

“Sug, what are you doin’?!” You weren’t teasing. Weren’t joking. You sounded almost breathless. Like someone had just knocked the wind right out of you.

Mark could barely get the ring out of the little flap in his suit where he’d tucked it away, but his fingers knew what they were doing even when his brain shorted out.

He looked up at you, the ring in his palm glowing brighter than he’d ever seen it—like it knew this was the moment.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Nightgown swaying gently in the breeze as you stood there like a painting come to life, eyes shining under the porchlight.

Mark swallowed.

“I’ve loved you since the day you sat next to me in class and handed me candy like you’d known me forever.” Your heart seized tight in your chest, a clamminess setting into your palms. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since.”

His voice cracked, and he blinked quickly, swallowing hard.

“The whole time I was gone, I was picturing you right here. On this swing. Reading one of your books. Talking to Meemaw about the weather, complaining about mosquitoes or how the tomatoes ‘ain’t ripenin’ right.’”

You let out a soft little laugh, watery and stunned.

Mark kept going, voice picking up with that classic rambling momentum, like once he started he couldn’t stop.

“I wondered if you were okay. If you were eating. If you missed me. I tried to focus, I really did, but every meal tasted like crap ‘cause all I could think was how you’d have made it better. Like—literally, you’ve ruined me. I can’t eat anything anymore unless it comes outta your kitchen.”

That pulled another breathy laugh from you, and you shook your head, lashes fluttering fast.

“And I kept thinking about your voice,” he said, “how it sounds when you say good morning to me, already dressed like a postcard before I even open my eyes. Like—your hair’s done, makeup’s perfect, wearing one of those little dresses that makes me lose my mind—and I’m just sitting there wondering how do you do that?”

He laughed softly, gaze warm.

“I’ve never once beat you out of bed. Not once. But I swear, even if I did—you’d still look like a dream.”

You were grinning now. Teary-eyed, stunned, but that signature little smile still crept across your lips like it couldn’t help itself.

“You goin’ somewhere with this, baby?” you asked gently, wiping at your cheek with one hand.

Mark exhaled a shaky laugh, heart damn near bursting.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I am.”

He lifted the ring.

“Marry me.”

Your hand trembled with how it pressed harder over your mouth, as if you could hold back the onslaught of feelings threatening to overtake you.

“Markus Sebastian Grayson…” you whispered, barely audible.

The sound of his full name—dripping off your lips like honey—made something twist sharp in his chest.

He was smiling, but it was tight. Strained. His brows pulled together like he was bracing for impact. Like the silence between you had teeth.

And then you moved.

Carefully. Slowly. Sinking to your knees in front of him with a softness so deliberate it made him scared. Like you were trying to let him down easy.

His heart plummeted.

Oh God. Oh God.

She’s gonna let me down sweet. She’s gonna take my hand and kiss my cheek and tell me I’m her favorite person, but not the one.

He stared at you, ring still held out in shaky fingers, eyes starting to blur again.

But then—

Your hands rose.

Not to push him away. Not to stop him.

But to cradle his face like it was something precious.

Your thumbs brushed under his eyes, catching the tears he didn’t even know were falling.

“Sug,” you breathed, voice breaking on a laugh, “you coulda asked me with a gum wrapper and a piece of twine and I’d still say yes.”

And just like that—his whole body slumped forward, heart crashing into yours like a wave.

You smiled through your tears, eyes so full of light you practically glowed.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He didn’t even have the chance to put the ring on your finger before you were kissing him—deep and breathless and a little messy, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. His hands found your waist, your back, your face—like he couldn’t decide what part of you he missed the most.

When you finally pulled back, cheeks flushed and lips trembling, he leaned his forehead against yours.

“You sure?” he whispered.

You let out the softest laugh, hands still cradling his face.

“I been sure since the moment you tried to kiss my hand in AP Bio, bless your heart.”

And with that, he kissed you again.

Long and sweet, while the wind picked up and the porch swing creaked and the world spun a little slower—just for the two of you.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT part thirteen, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, continuation of enobaria talking to reader, heavy emotions, president sn*w

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

you can’t move much, still strapped down in some places, still healing in others, but you’re sure your body reacts anyway. something in your face must shift, because enobaria doesn’t speak right away. she’s watching you, arms folded tight around herself, like she’s cold even though this room is boiling.

you don't know what emotion you’re feeling. you don’t even think there’s a name for it.

you should be happy. you should be relieved.

rafe is alive.

you glance at enobaria, and she takes the look as permission to keep going.

“look, you don't have to say anything right now,” she starts. her voice is quieter than you remember. it’s less clipped, more like . . . like a person, and not a trainer or a warrior or a capitol cog. “i just— i thought someone should be the one to tell you. properly.”

you blink slowly. the lights above sting your eyes. your throat itches. there’s an ache in your arm where you think an iv is buried deep.

“you’ve been asleep a long time, kid. we weren’t sure you were gonna wake up.”

your mouth stays shut. you can’t even part your lips. they feel too dry. you just breathe through your nose.

“they kept you under, said your body needed to recover, and it did. barely. you were . . . torn up pretty bad. worse than i thought anyone could survive. honestly, they didn’t think you’d make it past the first night.”

her eyes are glassy.

“rafe?” is all you manage, and it doesn’t even sound like a word, more like a breath escaping.

she knows what you’re trying to say. she expected it honestly, so she nods. “he’s alive. in another room. been healing too. he’ll ask about you, once or twice. every damn day until they told him to stop talking.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. you don’t know what you’re supposed to feel. your face twitches once, but you don’t know what expression it makes. something like guilt or maybe fear.

“they didn’t know what to do,” enobaria says, folding her hands in her lap now, leaning forward like in her seat. “no one expected it. you were too far gone, and he . . . i mean, he should’ve died with you. or before you. that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

you flinch.

“you were raised to believe the games were glory, right?” she says, almost gently now. “you win, you bring pride home. your district puts your face on posters. your name gets whispered like legend.”

you look at her, blank.

“that’s what they teach us. it’s what they taught me, too. but you know what they don’t teach?” she looks at you with guilt, almost like she doesn’t even want to be the one to tell you and make you face the harsh reality, “what happens after you win.”

your stomach twists from the way she’s behaving. you feel like scooting up higher on the hospital bed.

“you think the arena was bad?” she goes on, eyes fixed to the floor now like she’s ashamed of what she’s saying. “that was the easy part. this? what’s coming next? this is gonna be the real game for you.”

you’re breathing hard again.

“snow’s not happy,” she says finally. “you probably already guessed that. but it’s not even just snow. it’s the capitol, panem. no one knows what to do with you two.”

she starts to wring her hands in her lap. this is the first time you’ve seen her look nervous.

“two victors? it’s not just . . . rare, you know. it’s unacceptable. you changed something. and i mean, you didn’t even mean to, did you? you just wanted to keep him alive. or yourself. or both . . . but this isn’t what i meant by start a romance if things turn out for the worst.”

you close your eyes, just for a second. this obviously isn’t what you meant to do either.

“you kissed him.”

your eyes snap back open.

“and that—that—is what they’re going to use.”

you stare.

“it wasn’t even that romantic,” she says, frowning, almost a bitter smile. “you looked like you were both dying. which, i mean, you were. blood everywhere. but the camera caught it. just one kiss. just one moment. and that’s all they needed.”

she exhales.

“you know what a love story does in panem, y/n?”

you barely shake your head.

“it saves lives.”

your brow furrows.

“it gives them something to root for, something to cling to. because otherwise they’d have to see it for what it is: a system that lets kids tear each other apart and call it entertainment.”

you blink. she’s still going.

“so now they want you. both of you, all cleaned up, all shiny and tragic and perfect. they want a narrative. and you gave them one, without even trying. two victors, a surprise kiss, and a bond they can’t explain.”

you’re shaking. you only realize it now.

“you didn’t mean to rebel,” she says, voice quieter now. “but you did. and snow? he’s deciding what to do about it.”

you don’t ask what that means. you already know.

“he hasn’t asked for you yet,” she continues. “but he will. you’ll be called to meet him. maybe both of you, maybe just you. and whatever he says, you’re gonna listen. you’re gonna smile. you’re gonna play the part. because if you don’t—”

she doesn’t finish that part. she doesn’t need to.

you understand the risk, even if your brain doesn’t want to fully accept it yet.

you breathe out, shallow and strained. “so is rafe okay?”

her expression softens. she nods slowly. “you’ll see him soon. not yet. but soon.”

your eyebrows furrow. your lips part. “how soon?”

“depends on snow.”

depends on snow? what he says?

you don’t want to cry. you already have, maybe in your sleep, maybe when you were unconscious, maybe during the games. you don’t want to give them more.

“i’m sorry,” enobaria says, again.

you stare at her. you don’t know what to say. you don’t think there’s anything left to say, so you just lie there, still and aching and confused.

and for the first time since waking up, you want to go back to sleep.

when you meet president snow and you see rafe for the first time.

you’ve been told it’s the day. the day you’ll finally get to leave.

the day your body, still bruised and bound with healing flesh, gets to leave behind the antiseptic rooms and sealed windows. they tell you your family has been notified, that preparations are being made for your return, that soon you’ll be going home, back to district two, back to your worried parents.

when the nurse helps you out of your hospital gown and into a soft grey set of capitol-issued clothes, she brushes through your hair slowly, avoiding the scabbing at your temple.

you don’t speak much. your throat still feels like it’s full of blood sometimes. your body has stopped aching the way it used to, though your legs don’t hold you like they did before the games. everything inside you still feels raw but . . . dulled.

the nurse offers you a smile as she finishes, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear like you’re a child, and says something quiet you don’t quite register. you nod anyway, and she leaves.

the door closes.

you wait, hands folded, eyes on the window that doesn’t open. but when the door opens again, it’s not her that returns.

it’s peacekeepers.

not just one. but three.

your heart skips, not out of surprise. there’s been protocol, always guards posted, always quiet footsteps and mirrored glass. but this is different. they’re facing you, and they don’t speak.

you stare at them.

one of them gestures, not unkindly, just expectant. so it takes a second to move, but you do, slowly. you think at first they’re just escorting you down to the lobby to make sure you get on the train-ride home until you realize you’re in an entirely different wing of the building.

“where are we going?” you ask, voice quiet, barely used.

no answer. no need, apparently.

you walk. the hallway is unfamiliar, and that’s what makes the fear start creeping up again. the walls are too quiet and you swear the doors you pass look more sealed than open. you swallow, but the dryness in your mouth makes it harder to breathe.

you think of your parents, the promise of seeing them again, the idea of falling into their arms, or hearing your name spoken with warmth again. are they here, or?

you’re about to ask again, panic starting to swell, when the hallway bends, and you stop.

because up ahead, standing in front of a set of tall, dark doors, is someone you haven’t seen since the arena.

you don’t realize how tightly your chest is pulled until you see him and everything inside you lurches forward. your legs want to run before your brain even catches up. it’s instinct, it’s him and he really is alive. he’s real.

“rafe,” you breathe, like his name alone could close the distance.

his head turns slowly, and it takes only one look.

his posture doesn’t change, but his eyes meet yours and something behind them tightens. he lowers his chin just slightly, and shakes his head. sort of like a warning, and you feel it immediately. it’s like not here. not now.

you stop yourself as your lips press together.

you feel your face fall, just for a second, brows twitching in confusion. you want to ask why. you want to reach. but there are guards behind you, guards beside you, and rafe’s gaze tells you all you need to know.

you walk until you’re beside him, both of you facing the doors now.

you’re standing still, shoulder to shoulder with him but not touching, not speaking, not even breathing too loudly, because the peacekeepers are behind you like stone statues.

your eyes are just fixed on the wood. rafe’s head stays low, chin dipped like he’s glaring at the seam between the two doors. he looks carved out of stone, honestly unreadable and serious. you don’t dare look at him too long.

your chin is lifted slightly, but your fingers begin to tingle. they’ve done that on and off since you saw the peacekeepers. it’s like pins and needles, it’s anxiety. so you move your fingers just slightly, shifting them where they hang at your side.

then something brushes your hand. you almost flinch.

your first instinct is fear, it always is now, but then you recognize it. that warmth.

the kind that found you before the interviews, when you were being pushed into heels and corsets and coached to smile in front of thousands. that small, wordless gesture that had steadied your pulse when you needed it most. you remember how his fingers had ghosted across yours then, and how you’d leaned into it like it was the only real thing in the room.

now he does it again.

he moves slowly, subtle. it makes you hesitate. your hand hangs loose at your side, and you don’t dare turn your head, but you feel his knuckles brush yours again. it’s light, like a question or like a check-in. you don’t answer for a beat.

then slowly you move your fingers toward his, inch by inch. you feel him still, feel him hesitate the same way, feel him breathe through it.

your pinky bumps his, he doesn’t pull away, so you press again, and finally, finally, your hands find each other in the middle, barely touching at first, then his hand shifts open and yours slides into it like it was always meant to be there.

his palm is warm. your fingers tighten, and so do his.

the last time you felt his touch was when you thought you were aboit to die.

but this, it’s in a way to connect after the games. you want to think it’s rafe’s way of telling you it’s going to be okay, or maybe it has something to do with his thoughts from the arena. maybe a thank you? you aren’t sure actually if he’s appreciative that both of you are alive right now, at least to an extent.

but still, it’s comforting knowing he still wants to show this to you, despite everything. he’s just glad you’re okay.

you exhale just a little in a quiet, shuddered sigh as if you’ve been holding that breath for years. but rafe doesn’t move. he doesn’t even look at you. doesn’t wanna give anything away. he just breathes through his nose, spine straight, shoulder brushing yours.

the doors groan open.

your hands let go instantly, your fingers aching at the loss of his. your stomach flips at the sound of the hinges.

your eyes lift, and there he is.

sitting at the end of the room like a ghost in a throne, a single red rose gleaming at his chest, and that smile stretched thin across his face like it’s barely hiding the rot beneath.

president snow.

and he’s looking straight at you.

you glance sideways, and the peacekeeper closest to you jerks his chin forward, a silent command. your stomach turns.

your gaze flickers past him and lands on the table. a chair waits for you at the opposite end of snow, another one for rafe beside it.

your feet feel heavy, like they’re tethered to the floor, but you make yourself move and you sit.

a second later, rafe’s shadow shifts beside you. he’s slower, heavier in his steps. before he even reaches the table, you see the sharp tilt of his chin, the way his head turns ever so slightly toward the peacekeepers who flanked him in. there’s a glare in his eyes, but they don’t even blink at him.

he eventually turns and lowers himself into the seat beside you. no touch, no glance. but you can feel him. he’s tense.

your eyes finally lift.

president snow is already watching you. not rafe, but you. like he’s been waiting for you to look up. like he knew you’d try not to, but in the end, he always gets what he wants.

he doesn’t smile. but there’s something in his expression that just fucking chills you. there’s no warmth or welcome. more like interest maybe.

you swallow again, throat dry.

his fingers tap lightly against the armrest of his chair, knuckles ringless, nails neat. every movement is careful, precise. he’s not here to rant or rage. he’s not that kind of monster. no, snow studies his prey first.

“well,” he begins, voice low. he leans forward just slightly, folding his hands together atop the marble. “this isn’t quite how the story was supposed to end, is it?”

your hands are in your lap, fingers tangled, knotted tight. you don’t answer. neither does rafe. silence is safer. always.

snow lets the pause stretch a few seconds too long, like he enjoys watching you squirm.

“you believed, as victors, you’d be discharged back to your districts with some grand speech and a warm meal, a parade, a new house, a fresh start.”

his eyes harden.

“but that’s not what you earned.”

you blink, unsure if you heard him right. your eyebrows pull together, not quite angry, but confused.

snow turns his gaze fully to you now, and it pins you in place like a needle through silk. “you didn’t just win the games,” he says. “you rewrote them.”

your confusion only deepens. you feel your breath catch as he continues.

“your stunt in the finale,” he says, eyes flicking between the two of you, “has become more than just a tragic little act of desperation. the world saw something else. they saw love. devotion. defiance of death for the sake of another. it’s poetic. it’s dangerous . . . it’s useful.”

useful.

“and now,” he says, “that image must be maintained. not just for the sake of the capitol’s narrative, but for the stability of panem.”

you open your mouth, voice catching as you finally whisper, “what?” you stare at him like he’s speaking another language. “maintained?” you echo.

“from this moment on, the two of you will live in the public eye. you’ll smile at galas. you’ll sit side by side in interviews. you’ll hold hands, exchange sweet words, indulge in romantic gestures that reaffirm what the world already believes.”

he tilts his head slightly, like he’s giving you a gift. “you will be the capitol’s golden couple.”

you just . . . stare.

it doesn’t register at first. it sinks in slowly. it’s not like the plan itself is the worst thing in the world, it isn’t hell to pretend to be in love with someone like rafe. it’s just control.

you feel rafe shift beside you, not dramatically, just a subtle inhale through his nose. there’s another clench of his fist.

he finally speaks, and his voice is flat. “we already gave you what you wanted. we won.”

snow raises an eyebrow. “you won wrong.”

you swear the air in the room turns to ice.

“do you understand what your actions caused?” snow ask. “two victors walking out alive was not a triumph. it was a complication. and now i have to clean it up. i have to shape the outcome into something palatable. something inspiring.”

you don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until your chest tightens.

“and the only way i could do that was to turn your little . . . suicide pact . . . into a grand, star-crossed victory,” he says it with disgust. “a romance so moving that it eclipses the rule you broke.”

“we didn’t do it for a narrative,” you whisper, anger threading under your voice now. “we did it because we didn’t want to die.”

snow gives the softest nod. “and yet here you are. alive. which means, from now on, you’ll live exactly how i tell you to.”

you glance at rafe again, and he’s already looking at you. there’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before. it’s not just anger, not just fear. it’s the crushing, soul-deep exhaustion of someone realizing that no matter how hard they fought, the game never really ended.

you feel like crying, but you won’t. not in front of him.

“and if we don’t go along with it?” rafe says.

snow’s smile is thin, like a slit in paper. “then perhaps the next year’s victors will be told a different story. one about two ungrateful champions who couldn’t bear the weight of their own fame. a tragic ending, of course. the kind that keeps the people on edge.”

your stomach flips.

you know what he means. what he’s not saying.

he’s threatening your families.

he’s threatening your lives.

snow watches you both with vague interest, the pads of his fingers resting thoughtfully against his cheek, elbow perched on the arm of the chair. there’s something leisurely about him now, like a man who just finished winning a game of chess and is wondering if he should give you a second chance, just for fun.

then he speaks again.

“let’s see it.”

you blink, unsure if you misheard. snow’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“go on,” he says smoothly, his eyes trained on the two of you. “hold hands. right here. on the table.”

your stomach turns.

you’ve been fiddling with your fingers this entire time, pressing your thumbnail into your palm, rubbing the ridges of your knuckles to keep from shaking. your hands are clammy.

you glance at rafe but he’s already looking at you. and he doesn’t move, but you can see the hesitation in his eyes. he doesn’t want to do this either.

it’s just holding hands. that’s all. but suddenly it feels like the worst thing he could’ve asked of you.

your breath hitches as you tear your hand out of your lap and, despite the shame, you reach across the table and slide your fingers into rafe’s.

his hand closes around yours. he moves slow, reluctantly, but it’s solid.

you stare down at them—your hands, intertwined on the wood surface like a staged photo, and something in you curdles. it’s not rafe’s touch that makes your heart pound. it’s the context, the control, the fact that nothing you’ll do anymore feels like your own decision.

you don’t look up. you can’t. but snow forces you to.

“look at me,” he says. you do. your spine straightens like a string’s been yanked.

“i see potential in you both,” he says, lifting his chin like this has all been so very civilized. “that’s the only reason you were allowed to win. but that win is conditional. it always was.”

his eyes meet yours one last time.

“make it worth it.”

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[ollyissleepy]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 (𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞) 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞?

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 —𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞

summary: a breakdown on how (name)'s life would go if he was adopted at different ages. cw: neglect, abuse, mentions of death a/n: should I be working on part 5? probably.

~3 years old

would start of great probably, it's just him, Dick, Bruce and Alfred.

(Name) and Bruce would probably grow closer around the time Dick left. Bruce would not know what to really do with himself (since he'll have nobody to train) so he would end up spending a lot of time together with (name).

After Jason arrival, Bruce would start pushing (name) away, focusing on the new child.

Actual neglect would start after Jason's death. Bruce would not want to look at (name) and by the time Tim would come around, (name) would be buried deep inside Bruce's mind.

With Dick, he would start 'forgetting' about (name) around the time he would stop being a robin. Would all go downhill after Jason.

Would probably get close to (name) again after Jason's death due to guilt or something.

Jason and (name) would never get close, with the teenager being to busy running around as Robin.

Tim would try to bond with (name) just to get bored of him and grow disinterested.

~10 years old (right after his mom's death in this timeline)

Bruce would spare him some time (after all the child did just lost his mom), but due to how busy he would be, that probably wouldn't be enough to form a proper bond.

Dick would be kind to (name), but wouldn't be home enough to do much.

Jason is technically dead, so (name) wouldn't meet him until much later (when he stops being interested in the family)

Tim would interact with (name) when needed, maybe would try to do something with the boy, but (like I already said) would find him too boring and would stop trying to interact

Barbara and Stephanie would be kind, but (like Dick) would be too busy to form a proper bond.

And I feel like if (name) was taken in at 10, he would somehow get close to Cass. Something about finding solace in each other's silence.

what if he was never adopted?

would either be caught by the police at some point (as an adult) and end up in jail for years

or would end up getting killed by a shop owner or something (maybe even a villain if he would try to stela something from one). A 'job' gone wrong in a way.

taglist: @amber-content @bellethesleepypotato @leeiasure @sleepdeprivedcrappywriter @tenthmilo @eyeless-kun @holyfishbailiffpeanut @cuntiesweet @jsprien213 @marsmabe @cssammyyarts @ilovecoffe0 @phoenixgurl030 @esposadomd @alittlelostmoonchild @stargirl404 @xnutz0 @s4raahi @reeyy0-2@ironsaladwitch @chemicalwindexbottle@ityourguy @im-so-goddamn-tired@dirtydiavolo@etern1tyxxx

please let me know if you don't want to be tagged in drabbles and are only interested in the main story ヾ(•ω•`)o

[steddieas-shegoes]

future is bright

for @steddieholidaydrabbles pop up event 'school's out for summer'

rated t | 916 words | no cw | tags: mild hurt/comfort, strangers to lovers (implied), open ending, super senior eddie, eddie needs a hug, steve is ready to give it to him

also on ao3

🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫

He cannot believe he failed again.

Well, he can. But he figured the teachers would pass him just to get rid of him.

He avoids the school on graduation day, but he can’t resist moping in his van at the quarry. He knows most of the seniors won’t show up here until long after their celebratory dinners with family. He’s got the place to himself for a few hours at least.

Or he thought so, anyway.

He hears footsteps coming up behind him, and he turns to see Steve Harrington of all people walking up to him, still in his cap and gown.

“Not selling tonight, man. Sorry,” he says as he turns away from him. Hopefully that’s all he wanted and he leaves.

He doesn’t.

Steve sits down next to him, barely leaves any space between them.

“Is this an act of rebellion or did you really not graduate?” Steve asks him.

Eddie turns and prepares to reply with something cutting, something that’ll hurt Steve enough that he’ll leave. Steve’s looking at him with a genuine sadness, concern written in his frown.

“Isn’t it an act of rebellion to not graduate twice in a row?” Eddie asks, giving him a small, sad smile.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says and it sounds genuine so Eddie nods once in acceptance. “Gym?”

“Shockingly, no. Chem.”

“Chem sucks.”

Eddie snorts. “Yeah. I probably could’ve tried harder.”

“Eh. Next time.”

As if it’s that simple. As if a third senior year is an acceptable thing to be doing.

“Not sure I can do another year, man,” he says quietly, voice nearly breaking around the words. “Might just have to be what everyone expects me to be after all.”

“And what’s that?” Steve’s thigh is warm against his, but his gaze is hotter.

“A failure. Just like my dad. Loser who never leaves Hawkins or does anything,” Eddie shrugs. “Everything your buddies used to say I’d be.”

“I never said those things.” Steve pauses and sighs. “I don’t believe any of that.”

Which is at least partially true. Steve never did say any of that to his face, and maybe not even behind his back. Steve’s dad was actually Al Munson’s lawyer back in the day, probably knows more than anyone else besides Wayne and Eddie himself how shitty Al was as a person and father. But he never said anything. A part of him must’ve thought it, though.

“It’s okay if you do. Not much of a case for me to be any different.”

Wayne hugged him earlier, before he left for the shift he picked up, said he was proud of him no matter what. Wayne always believes in him, more than he should. But it doesn’t make Eddie feel any more confident.

“I dunno. The fact that you didn’t give up the first time is already a lot of proof you won’t be like him,” Steve’s smirking when Eddie looks over, but he doesn’t turn towards Eddie. “And the fact that I know you’re gonna try again proves you’re a lot better than he ever was.”

“You don’t even know me,” Eddie has to say, bites it out so Steve stops being nice to him.

“I know what it’s like to have expectations on you to be like your dad,” Steve finally turns to him. “Maybe mine isn’t the same as yours in some ways, but I think we have a lot more in common than you think.”

Eddie thinks about the time he saw Steve getting yelled at in his father’s office when Al dragged him to a meeting with his lawyer, how dejected Steve looked, eyes cast down to the floor. He didn’t know what it was about but he knows he couldn’t have been older than seven or eight, didn’t deserve to be berated in an office full of people over something that ultimately didn’t matter. He remembers Al saying something about rich people getting away with things poor people can’t, and remembers seeing Steve with bruises on his arms the next day.

He may have failed chemistry, but he got an A in math.

“You still trying to make him proud?” Eddie asks, unsure if he ever even tried in the first place.

“Nah. I learned a while ago nothing will. Not worth being someone I’m not,” Steve leans his weight against Eddie. “You gonna keep moping or come hang out at my house?”

Eddie’s jaw drops. “You want me to come to your party?”

“No,” Steve laughs. “I want you to come hang out with me and a few of my friends. Nancy and Jonathan and Robin. They’re cool. Promise.”

“Ah. To bring weed.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “No. To hangout. I mean you can bring whatever you want, but I’ve already got drinks and food and stuff so.”

Eddie thinks about it. He’s been wallowing for days now, and he’s pretty tired of himself. Steve’s offering something that seems like friendship, and he has no reason to believe he doesn’t actually mean it.

Wayne won’t be home until morning, and he probably wouldn’t notice if Eddie wasn’t around. He could smoke a little, maybe crash on one of Steve’s couches.

“I’m in.”

Steve beams at him like he just told him he won the lottery. It’s a beautiful smile, one that has Eddie’s heart skipping a beat traitorously.

Going back to school for another year will suck, he’s sure of that.

But he’s also pretty sure that he’s walking into a pretty great summer.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Watch your balls, boy!

Written for the May 2025 pop-up challenge of the @steddieholidaydrabbles

Prompt: School's out for summer

Rated: T

Tags: Summer jobs; Country club; Tennis; Eddie has a crush on Steve; Tommy Hagan being an asshole; Steve Harrington is a little shit

“Hey, ball boy! Don’t just stand there, go get it!” 

Eddie jerks out of his heat-induced daze and jogs after the ball that has rolled off to the remotest corner of the tennis court. Another bead of sweat escapes from under his hat and trickles down his burnt neck. 

“I got it,” says a voice, and before he can do anything, he is treated to the vision of a perfectly round, perfectly firm ass in tight tennis shorts wiggling merrily in the hot summer air as its owner bends at the hip. “Really, Tommy. You don’t need to have the staff do every little thing for you. What is he, your dog?”

Eddie bites back a snide remark and retreats into what little shade the wire fence provides. Great, not only is he about to die from heat stroke, now they’re adding unnecessary horniness and humiliation into the mix.

The ad for the summer job at the country club promised exciting tasks and plenty of opportunities to learn lessons for life. So far, Eddie has learned three things. 

One: White is not his color - especially not if paired with the violent lobster red that his skin turns after twenty minutes in the sun. 

Two: Baseball hats make his face look two inches too short - but the stupid thing is part of the uniform, so he hasn’t dared take it off.

And three: Steve Harrington in tennis gear will haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. 

He didn't even know the Harringtons were club members, or he would’ve thought twice about applying. After all, who in their right mind wants to spend their summer melting into a sweaty puddle while their crush prances around them like a bronze-skinned, honey-haired, painfully straight Adonis with a tennis racket? Harrington probably doesn't even know his name - the chances of anything coming out of this are as thin as Eddie’s flimsy uniform shirt. 

On the other side of the net, Tommy Hagan sneers. 

“It’s what he’s getting paid for, isn’t it?” he grumbles. “Maybe they should get a dog instead. It would only have advantages, don’t you think? Cuter, better at following instructions, probably smarter.”

His eyes flick over to Eddie, taking in the way his fingers curl, and his mouth curls into a cruel smile.

Hagan, of course, recognized him the second he saw him. He probably has every single face from school committed to memory - all neatly categorized into those above him, so that he can grovel and bow to them, and the lowly scum at the bottom of the ladder, so that he never misses an opportunity to kick at them. 

“Tommy, come on!” Harrington frowns unhappily, letting the ball bounce off the asphalt and twirling his racket. He, too, is sweating, but while Eddie is a sopping, miserable mess with a bird’s nest of wet bangs plastered to his forehead, he manages to make it look sexy, somehow. “I’d like to finish this match some time today, I still wanna hit the pool.” 

But Hagan is far from done. 

“Say, ball boy,” he drawls. “What does it feel like, being so dumb that a dog could do your job? What do they even pay you, huh?” 

Eddie flexes his hands and stares off into the middle distance, wishing he could ram his fist into Hagan’s stupid, arrogant face. 

“Hey, shitface, I am talking to you,” Hagan says, waving his racket in the air and scowling when Eddie doesn’t react. “Nevermind, whatever it is, it’s too much. Unless they pay you in dog treats, that would be- oooooow, motherfaaaaaaargh.” 

Eddie blinks, trying to understand what just happened. All he knows is that, one second ago, Hagan was standing there and jeering at him, and now he’s doubled over, howling in pain and clutching the crotch of his tennis shorts. 

It probably has a lot to do with the ball that just came zipping over the net and is now rolling away on the asphalt.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Hagan whimpers, looking up with accusing, teary eyes as Harrinton comes running. His freckled face has gone deadly pale and his voice is about half and octave higher. It’s almost enough to make Eddie cringe in sympathy, but only almost. 

“I’m sorry,” Harrington gushes. “I thought you were ready to continue.” 

“In what world did I look like I was ready?” Hagan snaps, then gasps again as another wave of pain ripples through him. “Oh fuck, you ruined me.” 

Harrington claps his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just go back to the club house and put some ice on it, I’ll bring the bags.” 

Eddie watches Hagan hobble away, still bent over and cursing under his breath, while Harrington packs up their gear. He just hopes the guy didn’t have any family plans with his bitchy little girlfriend. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Harrington says, walking up with two bags slung over his shoulder, and Eddie realizes a bit belatedly that he must’ve said that out loud. “I didn’t ruin him. Not in the way he’d like me to, that is. At least it’ll be a few days before he bugs anyone about balls again.” 

Eddie whirls, mouth wide open. He doesn’t get to say anything, though, because Harrington has just pulled something from his bag and pressed it into his hand. It’s a bottle of sunscreen. 

“This is my favorite brand, you should give it a try,” he says, gesturing at Eddie’s burned nose. And then, more quietly, “And don’t listen to him. You’re at least as cute as a dog. See you around, Eddie.” 

Eddie keeps standing in the middle of the court, mouth agape and staring into nothing, long after he has disappeared into the club house. It’s only when the next couple of players arrive and scare him out of his stupor that he realizes Harrington called him by his name. 

More holiday drabbles

[shiningjustforreid]

go easy (on me baby)

bau!fem!reader faces immense grief and the aftermath. Spencer attempts to be supportive. sometimes it backfires.

a/n: grief is cruel. and sometimes, even the most caring people don’t know what to say or do.

word count: 4k

warnings/tags: 18+ for content, reader goes through it, funeral, season 11ish boyfriend!Spencer, mental health crises, Spencer is trying his best, grief, reader is fem but only physical descriptions are long hair(?), no use of y/n, church is mentioned for the funeral, mild religious themes

Crisp July wind, warm and suffocating, leeches into the bullpen, somehow, through the windows. Spencer’s flipping through files at his desk, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose; you’d both been in a rush this morning - your hair in a barely holding on pony tail and his lack of contacts proves that. Across the room, he hardly glances your direction as your phone buzzes and a frown paints your face when you answer. The gentle hum of other people and their computers drown out whatever conversation you have with whoever, but he does look up when you’re suddenly at his side.

All the life and color has been washed away from your face, smoothing your hands over your slacks, eyes unseeing, as you look down at the dingy carpet.

“That was my mom.”

You breathe out, voice catching, creaking. It doesn’t go unnoticed, certainly not by your behaviorally tuned boyfriend. He stands, his hands taking your forearms, sliding down until he can hold both your hands. HR and ‘PDA’ and fraternization be damned; you look like you’re about to tip over, and he’s not going to let that happen.

Strangely, though, you don’t look close to tears, as empty as your tone is. Thumbs soothe over your knuckles, as he watches your face, voice low enough that it gets lost in the nine fifteen hustle and bustle.

“What’d your mom say, Angel?”

Faintly, you realize he’s talking to you like he would a victim, or a victim’s family. You’re too stunned to be bothered by it.

“My grandma. She’s gone. Stroke.”

Several thoughts fly through Spencer’s brain. Your grandma, who practically raised you, while your parents were working. Who calls you at least once a week to check in, and sends small trinkets she thinks you’ll like in the mail. Gone. With absolutely no warning.

Quickly, he goes through what he knows about grief. What does he know about grief? Statistics, and informational articles about the five stages (or more) fly through his brain, but he comes up empty with what he should say. So instead, a simple phrase falls out.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.”

Wrong response. Was it? He’s starting to freak out internally when all you do is raise your shoulders up, and down, a lethargic movement, as your eyes stay low.

“I suppose I should tell Hotch. My mom will want help. Planning the viewing. The funeral.”

Numbly, you turn, before he squeezes your hands tight, to keep you in place.

“Hey. Woah. Um, maybe you should just take a second and—“

“Spence. It’s fine. I’m fine. This— I’m just going to be very busy for a few days.”

You’ve got your ‘please-just-let-me-avoid-thinking-about-this’ face on, but to be honest, he’s considering having you go sit right back down and telling Hotch himself. Frozen to the spot, he watches you head up the stairs, how your fingers brush along the handrail.

As you initially described it, the next few days are a blur. Hotch gives you time off, and you spend it at your mother’s or the funeral home or your grandma’s house. The first night you come home after spending the day with family, Spencer’s already on the couch, book in lap, when you open the front door. He’s over at your side in a flash, too-quick hands shutting the door behind you and taking your freezing ones in his.

“Hey. You, uh, okay?”

You shrug, a half-hearted movement as your hands sit limply in his.

“I guess. I— maybe it hasn’t hit yet. I haven’t cried yet. My mom was crying, and my cousins, but I couldn’t. Think something might be wrong with me?”

Spencer’s face falls, and he’s quick to busy himself by smoothing through your hair, over the high plane of your cheek bone with his thumb; worrying with his hands so he maybe won’t say the wrong thing.

“Lovely, no. Nothing’s wrong. Grief, it, uh, comes in all types of patterns and forms, and maybe you’re still in denial?”

Still locked away somewhere in your mind, you shrug again, rubbing your hands over your arms. You might as well be underneath layers of ice, underwater, watching everyone up on the shore.

“That’s the first stage right? Makes sense. It’s cold in here, don’t you think?”

Frowning, he watches you head over the thermostat, and then to the kitchen.

Like nothing’s amiss. Like you didn’t just lose someone irreplaceable.

And yet—clearly, something’s very, very wrong.

“Angel…”

You don’t look up as you get out a pot, pan, a colander. Must be making pasta.

“Mm?”

“You can just go relax, okay, I’ll— let me get dinner tonight.”

Now it’s your turn to frown. He swallows, watching your face stay perfectly devoid of any real emotion, just carefully placed confusion as you turn his direction.

“Spence, why wouldn’t I make dinner? I usually do.”

“But I want to. Can you just let me? Please?”

He watches the indecision flicker through your eyes at his plea, and then you nod, slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll go— sit. For a bit. I’m really hungry anyways. Long day.”

Talking in cliches never good, especially when it’s you. Spencer watches you head to the couch, your eyes landing on a shelf — and he winces as you look dully at a frame.

He knows which picture rests behind the glass.

Staring for a moment, your muscles tense, and then you whisper, hoarse, like you’re talking to yourself more than him.

“It’s funny. How time works. Maybe ‘funny’ is the wrong word, but— how someone can be alive in a picture and you don’t think about it until they’re gone, it’s jarring. Wrong. That the picture is all you have.”

To your credit, you don’t choke, there’s no lump in your throat. But you sound so distant, and it absolutely crushes him.

“Baby, you—“

You head down the hall, before he can finish, and the soft click of the bedroom door is all he hears. Sighing, he turns back to dinner, anxiety bubbling in his chest. He knows you need a moment, to gather yourself back into something vaguely presentable, even for him.

How can he fix this? Can he? He can’t just apply his knowledge to his girlfriend like she’s a part of a case.

But he doesn’t know. And that terrifies him the most, that there’s something he can’t learn, can’t prepare for, because grief is different for everyone and God knows it’s going to be unique for you.

When the morning of the funeral dawns, you’re up before he is, taming your hair in the bathroom, already dressed — black skirt and a rather nice matching blouse that he’s never seen before. He comes up behind you, as you run the straightener down your hair, and you meet his eyes in the mirror. What he sees in your eyes is a whole lot of nothing. Emptiness. It’s deeply concerning.

“Hey. Morning, lovely.”

His lips find the side of your face, feather light, and then the column of your throat, but your face stays blank. Nodding your acknowledgment of his presence, your voice comes out dangerously close to emotionless. As if you’re discussing the schedule for a normal day.

“We need to leave by eleven. The funeral’s at 2, but the roads might be busy, there’s a lunch for us before, and a private last chance to—“

You stop. Compose yourself into something steel and put together, and continue.

“To see. Her. Before they close the-her- it. The casket.”

Spencer lets his hand come to rest against your hip, gentle, grounding.

“And then, there’s the funeral, and the burial, and—“

The recitation of the agenda halts as you finish your hair and set the straighter down with a clack against the laminate top. Hands falling against your un-made up face, as though you can hide yourself from the inevitable of today. As though you’re young again, believing that if something is not seen, it simply doesn’t exist.

And God, he wishes it could be done that way.

“Spencer, I don’t want to do this. I can’t, do this.”

A beat. He sighs, his other hand reaching to click the power button and unplug your tool.

“Baby, you have to.”

Perhaps, softer reassurances could have been spoken, but his gentle ones, firm in their candor, have you nodding, measured as you reach for your makeup bag. He can almost hear you repeating his reminder to yourself in your mind - an affirmation, that some things in this world are agonizing beyond human comprehension, because of how they remind us of our mortality. How small we are under the stars, but that we must use their light to keep going anyways.

Morning rushes into noon, and Spencer is dually impressed and unnerved as you stay polite but quiet through tearful family interactions and casserole. Right before the service, he pulls you to the side, some small room in the church, clicking the wood paneled door closed behind the two of you.

When he runs his hands over your arms, he winces at the chill he feels through your sleeves. Your eyes stay low, on the mulberry colored thinning carpet, avoiding his gaze, because you know — meeting his eyes and seeing the pain there will break you more than anything else.

“Angel girl. Hey. Listen. If you don’t feel these emotions, this grief, now, I’m afraid you’re going to regret it.”

Shaking your head, you look off to the side, voice hoarse.

“I can’t. I can’t fall apart in front of all these people, my mom, Spencer. I have to push it down, squash it so far into my heart that I can pretend it’s not even really happening to me.”

But it is happening to you.

Neither of you say it, but both of you feel it. Your mother weeps during the service, during the burial, until she’s all cried out and sort of just stands there and trembles. You? Stone. Several times, the urge to let out some sort of bitter little whimper crawls up your throat, but you shove it down.

You’re a gargoyle, watching the people you love and grew up with weep over the casket as it’s lowered into the dirt, your face impassive. Spencer’s fingers find yours when someone hands you a rose to toss in the grave, and on wobbling legs you move, tugging him with you, the breath in your lungs kept there only by the physical contact.

It’s not until you’re both back in the apartment, and you stand there, purse in when hand, dangling to the carpet, in the entryway, until Spencer turns to you, voice so soft you barely hear it.

“Baby? I can help with your shoes if you want, or—“

“I don’t need help with my fucking shoes.”

Immediately, the guilt replaces the anger, but not by much. Swallowing hard, you set your bag down on the counter with a little more force than necessary, and sigh, a quick, short burst of air.

“God, Spence, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

Pressing your fingers against your eyes, you vaguely realize that you’ll smudge your makeup. As if that matters. He’s silent, as you stand there, his hands darting over his slacks a few times, uneasy, before they’re shoved in his pockets.

“You didn’t mean it. I know. It’s okay.”

Is it? Does grief give you the right to respond in any way that rolls off your tongue? Looking away, out the living room window, you shake your head.

“No. It’s not okay. I’m sorry. None of this is okay. None of it. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I just can’t believe we just put her in the dirt like that in her dress; she doesn’t have her rose sweater, she’s going to get cold—“

During your ramble, your voice has gotten high, crackly, almost unintelligible, as you turn back to meet his eyes. The expression on his face borders on pity.

“Hey, come here. Let’s just sit for a bit, I can make tea.”

You can’t bear it.

“Don’t look at me like that!”

Spencer sighs, steps closer, lets his hand rest tentatively on your waist. Tensing, you turn, barely, out of his touch.

“Spencer, she can’t be gone, she— she didn’t even look like herself! Didn’t you see it? In the casket? That wasn’t her, they made her all up to look like her but it wasn’t, I swear to God, it wasn’t. How could my mom not tell? It couldn’t be, my grandma can’t be dead, she can’t, Spencer— she is.”

There’s the tears.

He folds you into his chest, feels your tears against his shirt for a moment, arms around your waist. In a desperate attempt to ground yourself, yours wind around his neck, lifting your head to rest on his shoulder so you can speak.

“I want it all to be some lie. That I’ll wake up tomorrow and call her again and she’ll tell me about the new cookies she baked for her neighbor and I would call every day, I would.”

What can he say? He’s never been well-versed in words when they matter, so he lets you get it out. His thumb drifts up and down the fabric covering your ribs as you hiccup another sob.

“It almost makes me sick. I can’t think about the fact that I didn’t return her calls, or that they all got together last Thanksgiving and we didn’t go, I can’t go back to see her, I can’t go back and fix it, I can’t—“

Breathless nearly, he shushes, gentle, one calloused hand coming to rest on your scalp, smoothing down the hair there.

“Breathe, angel. You will make yourself sick if you don’t stop hyperventilating. Just— let me help. Tonight. Okay?”

Somehow, the minutes tick by, and he’s managed to get you showered, in pajamas you love with tea in your hand, and he’s combing through your hair. Sitting, half nothing, half human, in front of him, you let him slide the plastic teeth through your damp locks.

“I was horrid today. You were nothing but supportive and helpful and I was terrible. I’m sorry.”

“You’re grieving. I can take it, okay? The anger. The pain, it’s all a part of this, and I want to be able to handle it with you. That’s— sort of my job, isn’t it? To help you. When you need it.”

Sighing, you turn to face him. He takes your hand, threading your fingers together and letting his thumb ghost over the side of your hand.

“I mean it, sweet girl. Grief is ugly. Horrid, as you say. I definitely can’t expect you to just act as though you’re fine when you’re not.”

“But you also don’t want it to consume me.”

You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek, and he grins softly through the light pink that stains his face. Somewhere inside your heart, something glows— still, your affection overwhelms him, just a little.

“And I’ll be damned if I let it.”

“Spencer.”

There’s a warning in your voice, gentle, sad.

“There are some things you just can’t control. No amount of knowledge of statistics or information can fix my heart. This just hurts.”

He blinks. Something flickers in his eyes — upset, raw fear, then, that he won’t be able to drag you out of the pit that you’re slowly sinking into.

“Okay, but I can still apply what I know. How to alleviate some stress, please, just let me.”

Your heart twists. The way his shoulders won’t relax, how tense he is as he tries to hold your eyes despite how you try to avoid avoid avoid.

“We’ll see.” You concede, before you let yourself be tugged under the quilt of your bed and into Spencer’s grasp and the warmth that seems to seep from him. Mentally, you promise to try to let him help. However he can.

God, you try, you do. At first, it’s easy, faking cohesiveness, and you begin to wonder if you’ll really need external assistance at all. Too much blush and caffeine. A tight grin when needed. Barely collected and rationed laughs that the entire team pretends aren’t flimsy like ash.

Until you take the first sick day. Spencer isn’t thrilled about leaving you home alone, but you tell him that you’re just sort of blech, and a day is all you need to recover, and tidy up around the apartment.

What you don’t mention to him is how you spend the entire day in bed. Nothing gets cleaned. The lights stay off all day, curtains drawn tight, your home a dim shadow of what it normally is. Normally? It’s a sanctuary. It’s starting to feel more like a crypt. Coffee cups pile up on your nightstand, on the end table, and the more you stay home, the harder it is to leave. At all.

Because there isn’t just one sick day. There’s another, a week later, after a night spent in tears. And another two days later, when you feel so nauseous and tense at dawn that you feign a stomach bug. Despite the guilt the first few times, each time, it becomes easier to text Garcia that you won’t be in, with excuses that begin to sound poorly crafted even to you. And you want to believe them more than anyone.

You stop looking in the mirror, because all you see is her, and your mom’s soft reminders from childhood turned haunting whispers of ‘you look so much like her.’

In some back corner of your mind, you begin to wonder how long you can wallow before the water fills your lungs and you drown off shore, a corpse waterlogged with muddy memories. The sea salt in your wounds is when you see a picture, hear a song she loved, or smell her perfume in public, and your lashes catch droplets you try to hide from Spencer. Before you know it, you stay home from a case. One in Florida, that you probably would’ve been helpful on.

You don’t care. Every time you close your eyes now, you see her body, fragile and made up to look less gray than she really was, cushioned by pale pink satin. Hotch calls early, to say there’s a case, and you refuse to go, numbly, dully.

Spencer is shocked; no matter the amount of recent absences you’ve had at work, he still can’t believe the development of your depression.

“Baby, you love cases. Please, come along. You can’t just keep taking sick days and not getting out of bed and—“

“Watch me. I’ll do whatever the hell I like.”

The words are empty, despite their vitriol quality, and he frowns. You’re sat on the edge of the bed, hugging your knees to your chest, cheek laid upon them.

“Easy. I didn’t say you couldn’t stay home, but you already took Monday off, and last Thursday, and—“

“Damn it, Spence, I know! I know. I just can’t. Okay? I can’t. I don’t want to. Let it fucking go.”

Now his face goes dangerously blank. You two rarely fight, but your tone is starting to border on hostile. Guilt creeps up your throat.

“Sorry. God, you didn’t deserve that.”

He glides his hands over his suit jacket, voice clipped as he looks down at his shoes.

“I’m not able to support you if you don’t want it. I’ll see you when we get back, then, I guess.”

Panic claws at your chest, sinks its teeth in and has you flying from your spot, voice shrill.

“Spencer, hey, stop, I’m sorry, please, I know—“

He turns, and the anguish in his eyes is intense.

“Baby, I don’t know. Okay? It is excruciating to watch you collapse in on yourself. I want to apply some study I’ve read or even just cheer you up and I’m beginning to think you don’t even want to be helped.”

Taking in a uneasy breath, you nod, color drained away from your face. Spencer’s fingers itch to comfort you. He doesn’t. There’s so much defeat in his eyes, unbound desperation to fix and heal.

“If I stop being sad, if I just keep going on with cases and life, it’s like she’s not even gone. It’s like she didn’t even die, Spencer! And she did! She’s gone, I can’t do anything to bring her back, please, just let me—“

The tears fall now, clumping on your lashes and dribbling down your cheeks, and the pit in Spencer’s chest gets bigger. Sometimes it feels like all time is anymore is minutes spent weeping or not. He steps forward to bring you against his suit coat, trembling hands smoothing over the linen of your pajama top as you heave silent sobs.

“I’m here. You’re not going to make me leave. Because the one thing I do know, Angel? Deep down, you want life to go back to normal. And it will. The grief won’t get smaller, but you’ll grow around it. Okay? I love you. So much.”

Tender hands trace up and down your spine, one eventually coming to tangle in your hair.

“Tell you what. We take this case, and then come home, and take some time off. Together. I’ll help you clean, and maybe—“

Is he pressing too much?

“Maybe we could go see her. It’s been a few months.”

Immediately, your brain lights up with a oh no please don’t I can’t-

“Sure. Yeah. When we get back.”

Florida is what it is — hot and humid and you manage to stay in the field office the entire time. Vaguely, you wonder if Spencer spoke to Hotch. Eventually, you decide it was probably for the best.

True to his word, the apartment is cleaned when you both return home, and two days plus the weekend is granted to the both of you. During the drive there, your heart twists and you’re pretty sure no interrogation has ever made your stomach turn like it does when Spencer slides the car into park, and his hand squeezes yours to help you out of the vehicle and onto sun starched grass.

A quick glance your way tells him you’re apprehensive to the extreme, and he stops halfway there, turning to face you.

“We uh, don’t have to do this. If you don’t think you’re ready.”

You shake your head, one quick movement.

“No. I need to do this.”

He looks relieved, his small smile growing after you try to smile too.

“A lot of people say that it can provide a lot of closure, and be cathartic. It might also… not be easy. Might be jarring, but really, the potential benefits of this outweigh the possibility that—“

You stop, pulling him to a halt with you. Fresh stone, neatly carved letters, her name, followed by years, followed by some lovely sentiment you can’t read because your eyes are clouded.

“They did a good job. With it.”

He says softly, and suddenly, the adrenaline kicks in, and you’re shaking so hard you might just collapse right there.

“We need to go. I’ll come back another, we’ll come back, but right now I need to go.”

Typically, he’d suggest that studies show facing fears can help with said fears, but one look at your terrified, gutted expression and he’s leading you back to his car, hands on shoulders, voice in your ear.

“You’re okay. Breathe baby. In, two three four, out, two, three, four. I’m not going anywhere.”

Once back at the car, you sink down, your back against the cold metal of the car, to land on the ground underneath. He follows suit, and your glossy eyes find the sky, a crisp, autumn cerulean that you just stare at.

“Think she’s watching? Like people say?”

He stares too, and takes your hand. He hears the guilt, the loss in your tone, and knows you’re afraid she wouldn’t be proud.

“That’s one thing I’m not sure about. Religion is, I think, at its core, a response to what people see in the world. A solution to the agony and problems we face down here. I can’t comment on whether or not she’s watching, but if she was, she’d still love you. Still be proud. Just like me.”

“Really? Proud? Of me? When I’ve spiraled into a caffeine and depressive lump that barely gets to work, let alone gets anything productive done?”

“Always. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that, well, I love you. Adore you, really, and you’re still in there, even if it feels like it’s all too foggy to see. I still see you.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, and then pulls back, flushed, and looks away.

“Sorry, that was probably cheesy. But I do. Love you. A lot, and it’s okay if you can’t do this yet, and I—“

You silence him gently with your own mouth, a lingering kiss before you stand.

“We should go. C’mon. Thanks for driving me all the way here. Even if I couldn’t do what I wanted to yet.”

“Good clarifier, ‘yet.’ You will. Eventually. And I’ll be here for each attempt. And, when you finally talk to her.”

In that, in him, you have no doubt.

[sawarusi]

nerdmin x reader (college au)

artist: musapylsa

YUP. YUH UH. 😋😋😋 sooo summary: armin and reader r studying buddies, armin's been crushing on reader since they became classmates in their college. one day, they met for a usual study sesh at armin's dorm, but oh... there's also a fire party this night... so reader takes armin there and uhhh... teehee ENJOY. btw i'm not a native eng speaker so sorry for any mistakes. mam hc że Armin jest fanem Elevena. jus saying tags: steamy, freaky loser armin, i cannot write fem x male smut for shit so it's just suggestive

it's Friday. the worst day to be studying, but here you were, at armin's dorm, studying with him for an upcoming chem test. you were both sitting at his desk, a comfortable distance between you two.

you wanted to get this over with asap, since there was a party in just an hour. you thought about cancelling this sesh, but you just couldn't do that to Armin.

thus you enetered hyper-focus mode - slouching over the worksheet, mouthing chem formulas while scribbling notes, teeth sinking into the end of your pen. the same pen he’d lent you two months ago, which you never gave back. he'd like to get it back, to chew on it himself, maybe do something... more.

to Armin, this sight next to him was the hottest thing he's ever seen. and so he just stared, unconsciously. he didn’t mean to stare at your mouth so much. he wished that pen was something else.

he was too occupied with his thoughts that he didn't notice you switching your gaze from your notes to him.

“earth to Armin.” you said, hoping to break him free from his trance.

he flinched, shook his head to regain his cool and blinked fast. “y-yeah?”

"you okay?" you snickered at his physical response. "thought I lost you for a second"

“oh. yeah. sorry. I was just…” he gestured vaguely at your shared chemistry worksheet. “…thinking about...this exothermic reaction”

you snickered and rolled your eyes "sure you did"

but little did you know that in theory he was thinking about it. you made him feel way too hot inside. you are the sole substratum that in combination with your pose, your focused form, makes him horny in as the product. he hated this synthesis. (where my chem enthusiasts at 😝)

also, did you know he has rules? well, he has rules. Armin Arlert Rules of Crushing on Someone Way Out of Your League. rule one: never act weird. rule two: don’t ruin the study sessions. rule three: don’t imagine them moaning your name when they lean over the desk and their shirt rides up a little.

he was failing rule three constantly.

“hey.” you nudged his ankle under the table. “you’re off again.”

“s-sorry.” he shoved his glasses up his nose and glanced away, cheeks flushing.

that’s when you stood up and stretched - and the hem of your shirt did ride up, and Armin nearly bit through his own pencil.

“you need a break” you said while looking down at him. oh lord.

he opened his mouth to argue. failed. closed it again.

“there’s a party tonight. off-campus. Jean’s place. come with me.”

his brain literally crashed. “i-what? no, no, i don’t… i can’t.” he waved a hand and chuckled nervously. “that’s not really my thing.” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking back at his notebook at his desk.

“you’ve been studying every night this week. you need to touch grass and talk to someone who isn't me, Arlert.” you leaned on his desk. "it'll be fun!"

“i touched grass yesterday.”

you leveled him with a 'seriously?' look.

“c’mon.” you smiled, and it hurt. that smile did things to him. twisted his stomach into knots and made his palms sweaty and his brain forget how words worked. “just for a little while.”

he should have said no. he wanted to. but then you said his name again, soft and warm like it meant something, and Armin -

Armin cracked. hard.

"alright.."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

he regretted it the moment you got to the party.

Jean’s place is chaos. bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, music vibrating through the floorboards, lights pulsing like the whole house is on the edge of combustion. it smells like cheap beer, cologne, and heat.

he's two steps behind you, heart pounding as you cut through the crowd like you own it. you're glowing under the purple light - smiling, laughing, hips swaying as the bass hums through your spine. you belong here.

he doesn't.

Armin had never been more aware of how he didn’t belong. he was in a green shirt worn over a black sweatshirt and jeans. everyone else looked like they came to the met gala.

you glance back at him, still leading him further. "you good?"

he nods, too fast. "yup. great. i love... loud... rooms full of strangers."

you snort "you'll survive. stick with me."

and God, that’s the problem. he wants to stick with you. to grab your hand and not let go. to pull you against him and bury his face in your neck and stay there forever. but that’s not how this works. you’re his friend. his study partner. he’s your dorky academic sidekick who gets a little too flustered when you wear shorts.

your hand grazes his lower back as you pass him a drink, and Armin almost drops it.

you don’t seem to notice. or maybe you do. that’s the thing - he can’t tell. not when you look at him like that. not when you smile at him like he’s anything more than a nervous mess in a goofy (´•_•`) shirt.

but then - you lean in - “relax,” you murmur against his ear. “i’ve got you.”

his brain blue-screens. He barely hears the music anymore. all he can focus on is the warmth of your breath, the closeness, the scent of your shampoo. his fingers twitch around his cup.

he hovered close to you, sipping from the drink you handed him and pretending he wasn’t absolutely vibrating with nerves.

you leaned close to say something. he didn’t hear it - his brain short-circuited at the feel of your breath on his neck. he felt every hair on his body rising.

“what?” he asked confused.

“i said,” you repeated, grinning, “you look really good tonight.”

Armin glitched. you, complimenting him?? he had to pase for a while to completely process what you just said “i-me? i look like i just got back from working a shift at a library.” he was worried that this compliment may not be sincere due to the few drinks you've already had.

"oh, you know i love libraries."

he didn’t know what to do with that. he just laughed awkwardly, heart racing, and looked anywhere but at you. he was absolutely malfunctioning at this point.

and as the night bled on, something shifted.

you danced a little, laughed. you kept touching his arm, his shoulder, his hand - and Armin, for all his social anxiety and fear of misreading signals, started to feel it. the tension, and the possibility.

when you pulled him toward the dance floor, he didn’t resist. it did help that not many people were dancing there, as most were already passed out or just in their own worlds. so it felt more intimate for you two.

he hesitates, unsure of himself, hovering awkwardly behind you - but you just grab his wrists and place his hands on your hips.

“there,” you say, looking over your shoulder to smile at him. “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Armin is fairly certain his soul just left his body.

you move with the beat - slow, steady, unapologetically close. he mirrors you awkwardly at first, cheeks hot, hands trembling where they rest on your waist.

but then you lean back - your back presses to his chest. your head tips onto his shoulder. your fingers find his.

this is dangerous. this is everything he’s wanted. and you have no idea. no idea how many nights he’s lain awake imagining you like this, warm and close and letting him touch. no idea how often he’s had to reread the same sentence in a textbook because your leg brushed his under the desk. no idea how much he wants you.

you sway your hips - grind back, just barely. his breath catches.

“still nervous?” you ask over your shoulder.

he forces a chuckle. “always.” his voice shakily.

“what would ease your nerves, professor?” oh lord.

he hesitates. face as red as a tomato. then - God help him, he's about to pass out - he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

he clears his throat “there’s this article I read once,” he murmurs, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “about how close dancing like this increases dopamine release. makes people associate physical pleasure with whoever’s nearest.” his breath is ragged.

“i didn’t just read it,” he adds. “i annotated it.”

you turn slowly to face him. “you're such a nerd, Armin." and then it hit you. "YOU ANNOTATED A SMUT ARTICLE?" you couldn't help but laugh a little.

his eyes meet yours, dark behind his glasses. “it was well-researched .”

you couldn't help but scoff a little. you then did a 180 so that you could properly face him. his eyes meet yours, dark behind his glasses. there’s a shift - the air changes. you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time.

his hand is still on your waist. your fingers brush his chest. your face is so, so close, and you don’t pull away. neither does he.

your bodies are still pressed close, music thumping through your bones. Armin’s hand tightens at your waist like he’s scared to let go.

you shift your hips just slightly - barely a grind - and feel it.

oh.

you look up at him - his lips parted, pupils blown wide behind foggy glasses. his face and ears were red, like, burgundy red. but what was lower to your vision was the true elephant in the room.

how that bulge was swelling more and more.

oh.

[323cutie]

licking your fingers like you're done. | jyh

pairing ୨୧ cowboy yunho x reader

word count ୨୧ 684

genre ୨୧ smut !! cowboy au, established relationship (maybe a little toxic but .. that's what makes it fun 😋)

warnings ୨୧ sexual content, swearing, kind of dubcon? but they get into it <3 smut warnings below the cut

author's note ୨୧ My laptop may be broken... I Will Find A Way. shoutout to joel miller being my inspo behind this i loveeee a good older southern cowboy

18+ only mdni!!!!

smut warnings ୨୧ no penetrative sex sawrry, dom!yunho x brat! reader, he's a little mean but in a sexy way, dirty talk, spanking, dry humping (briefly), fondling, a Single use of daddy (i really had no choice!!!!), not even really fingering but i'll tag it just in case

Yunho smoothes a hand up your back to press your chest to the passenger seat and it takes everything in you not to shiver.

"That’s it, baby," he mumbles when you arch. If you had any shame left you might feel embarrassed about the fact that your ass is almost hanging out the truck door, but now it only serves to turn you on more. Bent over the center console, you hum and wiggle.

"Gonna fuck me or just stare?" you ask. It’s on theme for today, and Yunho knows it too; so he just shrugs when you look back at him.

"I'll do what I want with ya," he responds, short and simple, the drawl of his accent sinking into your bones.

You’d be so angry if you weren't already dripping for him. Admittedly, it wasn't very smart of you to walk out during your argument earlier, but you weren't trying to be smart. Before you could even get to the gate at the end of the road, Yunho's headlights were lighting you up, yelling out the window at you to get in the damn truck.

(You told him to make you. He did.)

"Don’t think you deserve my dick, honey," he says after a moment, hands splaying across your ass as he takes a good, long look at you. "Been a brat today. Think maybe y'should ask me nicely."

You scoff, suppressing the wave of heat that covers your body. "I think you should go to hell."

Yunho doesn't bat an eye. "Mm, that's what i'm talkin' 'bout, baby," he murmurs, almost sympathetically. Before you can even register the loss of contact, he spanks you with enough force to shove you further into the center console. You gasp and yelp and he rubs your ass soothingly, a meaningless apology. "That's alright, I can teach you some manners. How many of these you think you can take 'fore you're beggin' the way I asked?"

You don't get a chance to answer -- whether it be genuine or another bratty comeback -- before Yunho slaps your other cheek. This time you can't help the way your gasp tapers off into a moan, and he notices. Smug the way he always is when he gets you where he wants to, he leans over your back, lips meeting the shell of your ear. "Don’t tell me you're done already, sweetheart. I was just gettin' started."

You sigh, feel yourself leak, press back against Yunho's belt buckle to feel the warm bulge beneath it. "N-never," you grit back.

The beauty is that both of you know how this ends. You aren't leaving this truck until you're painted by the lasting impressions of him, pretty bruises and tender skin. And the pleasure is finding out just how he'll make a mess of you.

He lands four more consecutive spanks, each one making it harder to hold back your noises. You let out a whimper when he drags the tips of his fingers along your skin, a feather-light touch reducing you to shivers.

Despite the soreness, you arch back into him. One of his hands comes around you to hold at your bare stomach, pulling you even closer to him. He's just as much bite as he is bark, but you know he can never deny you for too long. "Fuck, baby," he breathes out, resting his forehead on the back of your shoulder as he flexes his hips forward just enough for you to get a shred of friction. It makes you moan and he hisses. "Soakin’ me over here. You want it that bad?"

"Yes," you say. It feels like it's coming from your chest. "Want it so bad, daddy, please. I'll be good. Promise."

Yunho hums, separates himself from your back and drags his hands along his body until he finally, finally touches you, pressing his fingers through your slit. His pointer finger bumps your clit and you whine, pressing your face into the seat.

"Coulda just said that to begin with," he says, then you hear the clink of his belt. "'S alright. I'll take good care of you, honey."

[dokkamj]

HEAR ME OUT!

⚠️ Note: Due to some misunderstandings and assumptions that may have come off as disrespectful, I want to clarify that this story is set during the second year of college — meaning all characters depicted are 19–20 years old. Please keep in mind the post is tagged 18+, and the context should reflect that clearly.

saw this on my TikTok today and i do really can’t help myself but write a fiction about it, i know my topics are usually and only COD, but if you won’t mind sometimes me switching on something else lmk.

i think that armin and nerdarmin are two completely diff people, like the alterego or sum shi and man this is how i see nerdarmin👌🏻

this might can be a bit out of character 🥀

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE sorry for eventual grammars mistakes.

MDNI! this is a 18+ story, so as my whole profile this content contains: strong explicit language, sexual content explicit, if this makes you uncomfortable please scroll.

I FREAKING LOVE THIS.

art credit on TikTok: musapylsa

“nahh are u serious him??” your friend asked with a giggle, even if the whole school saw you as a heartless bitch, a popular one, your best friend sat just in front of you knows that you are sweet as chocolate.

“why that long face?” you ask back, rolling your eyes, the topic was, ,cute boys i would sleep with’

“because you are gorgeous and he is just—“ she turns around to look at Armin, baggy jeans t-shirt those glasses... “so nerdy…” she sighed, your speciality was to fell for losers literally.

“he is so pathetic i love it” you giggled, its been weeks you tried to catch his attention but it was like, he wasn’t even aware that you were teasing him all around.

when both of your gazes meet you just bit down you bottom lip nervously. “i wanna talk to him” you announced.

“gosh no do not—“ you can hear your friend calling out your name but too late, your heeled boots where already tapping on the ground.

flare jeans, rolling stone t-shirt, that witch aura of yours and your hips swinging where already in front of Armin.

“Hello” you smirked, you were short too that’s why the heels, you reached his height and maybe a bit more.

“i— uh” he looks at his feet muttering your name, he was full aware of who you are and how many stupid ass guys follows you around like pets trying to have their sweet threat, at least one thing that he admires about you is the fact that instead of being like the others girls that sleep around here and there, you never.

at least… he never heard anything about you. “sorry if i disturb you” you said shoving your hands in your back jeans pocket “i just wanted to ask if maybe you could help me with math you know” you said trying to act as innocent as possible.

oh the only desire was to eat him alive.

“can’t Mikasa do it like she usually—“ you stopped him “i— actually asking you because i want someone that have a softer approach to me, that i struggle a lot.” you nodded, you where hella good in math but you really don’t know what excuses invent anymore.

he sighed, looking in to you completely, wow you where such a fucking pretty woman that everyone would show off like a trophy.

“i guess i can of course” he gulps down that strange feeling, no one beside his small group of friends talks to him in school so it was unexpected.

“uhm do you prefer idk, your house or mine?” you asked, looking at him for an answer “i uh my place sounds good,” he nods.

you hand him your phone “give me your number so we can accord when” you nodded and he shyly type in his phone number.

later after some classes you texted him ,hey i’m y/n so this weekend??’ the response came up fast, you wasn’t surprised he was always on his damn phone. ‘your place is good, i mean if this is okay,

you bit your bottom lip ,ok Friday evening? i live alone so no worries’ you texted back and forth nothing special, but you liked him, and it made you laugh how he was trying to approach you with respect and sweetness.

Friday came up really quickly and no one was aware of your evil plan, or at least no one knew you really liked that boy. Opening the door he was there, his hair tied in a little low messy bun, glasses loose on his nose, hoodie and jeans with converse.

“oh hey” you smiled, hugging him even if he didn’t hug you back but that was ok? you guess. You two started with math problems and he didn’t know how but you ended up teaching him.

he let his glasses rest on top of his head “sorry i mean you are even more better than me why did you asked me for teaching?” he rise up a eyebrow and you gulped.

“it was just that— you seem cute and i was just thinking what if i get to know you better??” you explained quickly “ah really?” he giggles, then smirked.

“poor y/n, you didn’t have enough attention?? you don’t like pretty boys that salivate at the sight of your ass?? why do you want me? so cruel to yourself to end up with a fucking looser like me?” he asks and your eyes widened you clearly didn’t see that coming.

“cat got your tongue? huh?” he stood up as you remain frozen on your chair in the living room. He stepped in front of you, his hand come up to grab your chin “what? did you want this?” he bend down and the second later his lips where against yours.

He took off his glasses and let them slide on the wooden table, you couldn’t help but kiss him back, with that passion and fire that you usually hold back. “who is the pathetic one, tell me” he bit your bottom lip “answer me y/n what the fuck.” he ansimate against you.

“me, fuck i’m sorry i needed to be more clear with my intentions.” you mumble, his hand on your bare tights, your pajama was doing such a bad job keeping you hidden.

“good pretty girl.” he murmurs, in all of this you kept kissing him back, and your hands slides down his hoodie, touching his bare stomach, you could tell he actually workout, not a lot but still.

and in a bunch of minutes he was on top of you on your bed, legs spread, shorts on the floor and panties tucked to the side as his slim fingers slides into your folds “already sucking me in so deeply?” he teased licking the outline of your lips and you moaned.

“pathetic.” he said almost proudly, this was a joke, the nerd with no friends and no social life was fucking you like a greek god? this was a damn dream. Mornings ago you were the one calling him pathetic and now? He got you creaming his fingers.

your legs tremble “yes this is how you like it mh?” he muttered, fingers deep and curling up inside of you as his thumb was playing with your clit he spits down just to lube that pretty bean of nerves to get you spasm against him before coming heavily. Hips jerking back and your gasps became screams.

“ah so this is your weak spot.” he tortures your clit mixing to the fact that you just came everything seems more sensible, overstimulating. “please— need you” you mutter shamelessly.

“no pretty girl, i decide here” his lips against your neck sucking heavily to leave hickeys to mark her, his cock was painful in his jeans but he wasn’t ready to let himself go yet, he wants you painfully undone.

he goes down on you, making you position your legs on his shoulders before he starts to slurp on your wet cunt, making you spasm and tremble following by his hand pressing on your lower belly to keep you down as the other was playing with your clit and his tongue slapping against your folds.

you taste fucking heavenly. That acid but sweet and your own perfume made him roll his eyes back into his skull, goddamn. And you cried as you came another time screaming his name like a slut that you where, at least at the moment.

He stayed there for a minute observing his masterpiece, your cunt dripping juices on the bed sheets your clit puffy and overstimulated and your legs still spasm from the orgasm.

“i think you are ready here.” he smirked his hair messy his body clean and neat almost like he did knew what he was about to do tonight, “bastard” you muttered to yourself.

when he take off his jeans and boxer, you gulped down, it was long thick enough to get that sweet spot scratched by him. “what you staring at? wanna a taste mh? say A” he smirked again, bringing you onto your knees on the floor as he stood before you.

“com’on be gentle mh? and suck on this dick” before grip on your hair to bring your mouth on his tip, you obey because hell this guy could make your cunt happy and you wasn’t going to say no.

you open up like a whore and swallowed him whole, making him gasp and rest his arms on the bed as he start to move his hips against your mouth “fuck” he mutters almost pathetically.

you could see how his moods shifts, sweet and rough, rude, then kinda fucking pathetic, and why does this turns you even more on?

“enough, com’here” he demand, helping you to go back to lay on the bed, your legs open wide for him as he was settle in the middle “so..” he begun “condom?” his tip slides sweetly on your clit “or no condom?” his tip now on your folds slapping it making your cunt doing those wet shame sounds.

you wined gasping for air, it was a torture but a goddamn sweet one. You swing your hips to get more friction even tried to lowers yourself on him to suck that cock with your cunt.

“i don’t fucking care Armin, fuck me and shut that nerdy mouth.” you came up with a little comeback too frustrated as you clench around nothing.

he smirked and exposed your chest before go all the way in, with only a trust making you curl up your toes and gasp and he moaned because he didn’t expect you to be this wet and this fucking tight.

“oh gods” he rolls his hips back and forth and his pathetic personality was coming back you could see it as he whines against your neck slapping his hips against yours as you moaned loudly.

“oh— fuck yes” you moaned encouraging him to go even rougher, your hands in his hair as he bites your breast angrily, the slaps sounds grew louder and more irregular. Your legs shook and Armin grabbed the occasion to overstimulates you by bringing his fingers to his mouth to lube them and torture your clit.

“com’on, i know you can do that…” he suggested but you clearly was too much wrapped up in your own feelings that you didn’t really heard him. And before you can knew it the orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks making your eyes roll back your legs spasms and your cunt squirting as he kept pumping into you before pulling out and stroking himself to release on your folds.

and that shit? made you even more turned on and you didn’t even knew how that was possible.

“what the fuck.” you gasped looking at him “what? never done that before? or— you didn’t know you could do it?” he asks with a smirk.

okay who is this guy? because the Armin you knew?! completely disappeared! completely wrong!

“how did you—“ you mumble “you know being a nerd and reading a lot, if you put that together with some sexual education books and, well that’s the result” he points at the mess making your face redden more than it already was.

“you done this before?” you asked breathing heavily, “i mean yes but you are my best masterpiece.” he smirked slapping on your ass playfully.

You spent the night together, and he was the sweetest soul you ever meet, the dom Armin? gone. It was like he had problems with personalities, well for what you just experienced with him.

the morning after he was there, handing you a mug of coffee “show together? i can massage your back.” he said with a shrug and you just pinch yourself because you still think this wasn’t true.

“how did you even know how to make coffee with my machine…” you said sleepy “tsk i just search the brand and scroll in their site find your machine—“ he cut himself off “just nerd things.” he said.

you smiled “you keep surprising me” your giggles filled the room suddenly, and if for you was like winning the lottery, for him it was like he just found heaven on earth, and it was a woman named y/n.

this is how you two ended up being a real couple, a damn weird one, but things worked because yourself too have so many interests like the videogames. Still today you try to understand how much he is just strange… a moment it’s the cute nerdy Armin and the second layer puff he is all horny and all over you.

[like-sunshine-and-gunpowder]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65613298

though i burn (how could i fall)

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/Yelena Belova

Fandom: Thunderbolts (2015), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Word count: 5,440

Tags: Angst, Fluff, Character Study, Getting Together, First Kiss, Kissing

Summary: A quiet moment in the Watchtower, where a dream and a dance are shared between two teammates.

——————————————————————————————————

"If the wind turns, if I hit a squall, allow the ground to find it’s brutal way to me”

——————————————————————————————————

There truly was no reason for him to still be living at the Tower other than this: Robert Reynolds was a hazard. Or a liability. Whatever technical term you preferred. He’d even heard an operative call him “Yelena’s pet”.

That last one was almost endearing, if it wasn’t just a bit pathetic.

Bob tilted back another Lithium pill- the second one for the day- and got started on his tea. Pots clanking and echoing along the big empty living quarters, like a depressive reminder. The New Avengers were on a mission, investigating some new flying object that had just entered the atmosphere, saving the world, being useful. Not... well, being a bum on borrowed time.

God, he felt like he was back in Florida, playing the 'unemployed-friend-who-dropped-out-of-college' part, all over again. All that was missing were the copious amounts of Mountain Dew bottles and scary drug dealers at his door asking for their money back. At least the weather was nicer here, where he could wear his long sleeves most of the time.

There was a tremor on his left hand- it wasn’t withdrawal, couldn’t be withdrawal, it had been so long ago- and the sound of a kettle boiling.

His other, also shaking hand, flew to his wrist. Was it just his disturbed perception or was it getting darker? Bob froze. Out of fear, or guilt, as the kettle continued to scream at him for a while, like a continuous omen.

Maybe it was just the new medication. Because, Dr. Briones had already described that it was a known side effect, to-

“You should probably get that,” a familiar raspy voice warned him from behind.

He hadn’t even heard her coming, though her footsteps were loud and intentional.

Bob turned to see Yelena in her suit. Not bloodied, not stained, no scratches, no cuts, no visible bruises and the mere sight of her (safe, unwounded) felt like a weight immediately slid off his shoulders. World's fastest massage.

She continued to stare at him in her usual furrowed brow, blue under-eye makeup. They stayed there for a while until she cocked her head sideways, as if not wanting to speak up again and pointed to the stove with her thumb.

“Ah, hm,” as if electrocuted into action, Bob suddenly remembered how to move again. Turning off the heat, he tried grabbing onto the now-burning handles of a very hot kettle. His fault for wanting to do things the vintage way instead of opting for the automatic ones. “Shit.”

He drew his hands back quickly, looking for a trustworthy dishtowel. Or any cloth, really-

“Here,” Yelena sprung beside him like an apparition, in a way that nearly put Ava to shame. “Gloves,” she explained, naturally.

He chuckled. It was kind of weird how much humor she could pack into so little words.

Honestly, laughter came easy when it came to Yelena. But that was very, very dangerous. See, if Bob had learned anything from having to deal with his emotions it was that laughing too much was usually a bad sign. The first indicator of a trajectory towards the upper polarity of his mental disorder.

There’s a certain kind of melancholy about having to worry when you actually feel content, though.

It was kind of a miserable existence, to have to go in for mandated check-ins because you’re feeling good. He was sure most people didn’t have to go for late night visits with their doctor because they felt okay for once in their goddamned life- but, he remembered, that was always how it started anyways. The manic episodes, the illusions of grandeur, they all started with just... feeling a little better than usual. And were all promptly followed by drug benders, self-harm, near death experiences and immense credit card debt.

The thing about his illusions of grandeur were this: they used to be illusions and now they were not. (Now, he was just wasting time.)

Still, Yelena smiled at him too, with just the corners of her mouth, and for only the tiniest of seconds. But Bob noticed.

He always noticed.

“Do you, hm,” he started, already pouring her a cup of chamomile tea. It supposedly helps you with sleep. “Want… some?”

“Doesn’t feel like I had any saying in it but okay,” she took the white teacup from his hands, fingers briefly meeting. He instantly missed the warmth.

Her body moved away from his, from her place near the kitchen counter and sat down in the common area’s big lounger.

“What’s with the lights being turned off? Very…” Yelena pointed to the ceiling, seemingly searching for a word, finally settling on: “…Noir. Yes?”

Bob laughed again. Damn it. There she goes, with that dry effortless humor of hers. Truth be told, he hadn’t even realized that it was already dark outside, the late afternon sky was diffult to miss when most their walls were made of glass. But, look, time got kind of hard to keep up with when you had so much not to do.

“Uh, yeah. Thought it’d give off a romantic vibe for my late afternoon tea, you know?”

Yelena scoffed before taking a sip. White porcelain, hitting her lips in a movement that made it impossible to look away from.

(It was only after she gave him her characteristic ‘not-so-bad’ pout that Bob was able to let out the breath he hadn’t even noticed he was holding.)

“Well,” Yelena said flatly, kicking her boots off with intensity and crossing her legs on the sofa, “if you wanted to be romantic, there’s a candle on second drawer. Near the sink.”

There was no way that was true. Bob moved to check, rustled around and, to his surprise, found an old candle. Right next to a .45 caliber. Huh. Better not to question if it’s even loaded.

“Wow. One, singular, dusty candle,” Bob picked it up, curiously. “Do you want me to light that up then?”

He had asked without thinking. He didn’t mean to make it romantic for her. Well, maybe he meant to. But he didn’t mean for her to think that he wanted her to think that-

Yelena simply nodded.

Bob suppressed a shaking sigh and brought the old candle next to her. Sitting close, but also not that close. He feared he would never really get the distance right– perpetually afraid to fly too close to Sun with his wax-made wings. Whenever he was too close to Yelena Belova, it felt overly confident; his skin felt rough and his breathing got too out of control. But, when he sat too far away, it felt purposedly avoidant, and he would ache to go near, heart pounding too loud to hear her sometimes. Always a lose-lose situation with her, truly.

Her knees moved, then, accidentally touching his and sending tiny energizing shocks all over. She was reaching for his book, Sylvia Plath’s ‘The Bell Jar’, that laid forgotten underneath a couch cushion. She looked over the summary quickly, pulled his bookmark without care, and opened it up on a random page instead.

Her brow furrowed, and, without tearing her eyes from the book, she’d asked:

“So… are you going to light it?”

Ah. Shit. He’d gotten distracted by her again. It was a daily occurrence by now. Bob blamed it on the lack of stimuli around the house. Afterall there were only so many novels to read and so little blonde assassins to stare at, all day.

Sometimes, it felt as if, looking at her, it could maybe be the last time he'd ever get to. So he took his time, whenever he could, memorizing each line that graced the whole of her.

Sometimes, her face, to him, already looked like a memory.

“Oh, right,” Bob ran a hand through his hair. “It’s, hm, I don’t… have a lighter. Or- or a matchbook, for that matter.”

She clicked her tongue at him, in a way that almost sounded like when she spoke Russian with Alexei. He somehow knew she was holding back a joke about how a former meth addict didn't have a lighter on him.

In one swift move, Yelena pulled a lighter from one of her infinite pant-pockets and gently deposited it in his left hand. It was one of those tiny, red ones they used to sell in newsstands. Bob briefly wondered if it was even hers. If it had sentimental value or just strictly tactical purpose. He wondered if she used to smoke.

There were flashes, images of her flooding his psyche. Moments that he wasn’t sure were her memories, or that he had simply created right then and there. Yelena smoking a blunt alone in her apartment. Lighting up a cigarette as she cleaned up her gun. A bomb fuse sparkling along, all the way to a-

Bob took the small lighter then, before the images drowned him in. Between them, the now-lit candle spread its miniscule warmth, illuminating Yelena’s soft features. It made her eyes glisten in a way he’d never seen. It was… mesmerizing.

Romantic, even. One might say.

With annoyingly shaking hands, Bob moved his knitting gear out of the way and carefully placed the candle on the center table near them. Using a few drops of wax and a Chinese takeout box as a makeshift candleholder, Bob sat back and admired his work for a bit.

He turned to Yelena then, who was staring at him sideways. Studying him in the way she constantly did everything. Different from the way everybody else studied him, he mused, but still. Where everybody else always looked at him as if questioning when he was about to explode, Lena’s eyes always fell on him with a certain type of care that made it hard to even accept. Maybe she was just questioning when that timebomb timer would go off, just like the rest. But God, she did it much more nicely. As if she was tracing back every single layer of him whenever bright green eyes found dark blue. As if she wasn’t disgusted by what she found in her search.

He wasn’t sure what to say in these moments. Bob wasn’t sure of what to say most of the time – except when he was absolutely sure of what to say, which was “usually a problem”, or so his psychiatrists said. Fair enough, he supposed.

Still, he forced himself to make small talk.

“Where’s the rest of the team?”

“Oh,” she tore her examining eyes away from him and back to the book. “Doing clean up, they will probably be out for a while.”

He should ask what exactly was being cleaned up. Why she, of all people, looked remarkably clean today. Hell, he should ask why she was suddenly so interested in Sylvia Plath instead of the potential aliens they might encounter. Instead, Bob just let out a simple:

“Ah… I see.”

And let silence fall upon the two of them again, with a disturbing lack of something to do with his hands.

He couldn’t particularly continue to read his book anymore; it belonged to Yelena’s gloved hands now. To be fair, everything he had, truly, belonged to her. He owed his heart, his mind, his peace to the 5’3” blonde sitting by his side (even if she did lie to everybody, saying she was 5’5”). The one person whose short legs, he didn’t mind finding, were about to find their comfortable way into his lap.

His breath picked up as she laid down on the couch with a low grunt, book still in hands.

He was staring again. Trying to cool down his racing mind and even faster heartbeat. God, maybe he should find something to do. Perhaps a job.

She just looked so- grown, every so often. Bob knew she was technically five years older than she looked due to being Snapped, (“So, does that mean Bobby’s into older women?" Walker had openly asked around the breakfast table once, and Bob had wanted to properly drown into his bowl of Wheaties in response) but there’s also an air of maturity for her that couldn’t simply be chalked up to chronological age.

“Yelena?”

The blonde looked up in acknowledgement, no other movements or sounds needed to let him know that she was listening.

There was clearly no need to be nervous, you know. It was just a simple request. Just out of boredom, really. And he was, essentially, trapped against the couch by an assassin, at the moment.

Bob cleared his throat before speaking up again.

“Can you, uh… read out loud for me?”

Yelena obliged. He didn’t know why, but she would always indulge him like that.

——————————————————————————————————

He didn’t particularly notice when exactly he dozed off. But Bob did realize he was now asleep- dreaming, even.

(It was a skill he had developed long ago, back in the good ol’ substance abuse days, to realize when he wasn’t entirely awake.)

In the near distance, though still in a somewhat distorted version of the Watchtower, Yelena was wearing his favorite Joy Division shirt, three sizes too big for her, humming a symphony he’d never heard before as she stirred something in a boiling pot. The T-shirt looked enormous on her, almost as big as a dress, while, at the same time, being perfectly tailored to her curves.

In the fake kitchen, she smiled at him much easier. A smile far wider than he had ever seen in real life, far brighter than he deserved. Perhaps that’s why he clocked in so fast that it had to be imaginary.

There was a mess of pans, tomato sauce and off-brand brandy along the counter, a container of milk and now, the mysterious big pot. What were they even supposed to be making in there?

Bob cautiously made his way closer and closer to Yelena, who continued to almost sing.

She then, wordlessly took the wooden spoon in her hands, blew at it for a few seconds and fed it directly into his mouth. Like he was a baby or something.

But to be fair, whatever food it was- was delicious. It tasted like sautéed beef and sour cream and– was it stroganoff? It didn’t taste like the very few stroganoffs he had ever had in his life, there was something about it that made it different.

“Ah!”

He must’ve made some type of face because she immediately burst out in laughter. God, he wanted to see that someday. Actually, truly, see that.

Yelena turned away from the stove then, hands against the counter, body towards him. An ache took hold of his heart at the sight, for whatever reason.

“Очень вкусно, да?” Yelena asked him, matter-of-factly. And she looked up at him like he understood it, too. “Папин Сторгонафф все же лучше. Не говори ему.”

Bob’s head was spinning. What was she saying? There was a word there he was sure he'd heard before. Actually he had to have heard all those words before in order to dream like this, no?

So, what was-

Her cold hands moved from the counter, choosing to be placed against his neck. Bob tensed up, because she then inched her whole waist against him. That’s how some of his dreams went, he wasn't going to lie. But there was something about her grip- something about her eyes that looked and felt very different.

It was still her, but it was much less distorted. Much more concrete. The air going into his lungs felt conscious and- and heavy.

The light emanating from her skin felt almost scorching to the touch.

“Расслабьтесь, Боб,” she ordered. That was his name there. She said his name.

What was she saying? What was she saying? What was she saying?

Why was he dreaming of her speaking in Russian like that? I mean, it was endearing and all. But still, something about it was almost overwhelming.

In between spinning stars and neurons firing up, dream-Yelena confidently placed her head against his shoulder and began to sing what sounded like a lullaby.

His body moving on his own, Bob carefully let his large hands hover against her waist, before finally deciding to rest them there. In a few seconds more they were swaying, in a clumsy rhythm, imperfectly tailored to him. Her hips swung against him with the expectation of the ballerina he knew her to be, and he struggled to match it.

He could get lost in it, if he allowed himself - it was just REM sleep, after all, even he was apparently region-locked in Russia for any reason. Bob allowed himself to touch her round cheek, slightly forcing her head up to look at him. There was something in those forest green eyes, something Bob couldn’t quite place, couldn’t read.

An alarm went off inside him, screaming that giving in would be a bad idea. If you put water in 300-degree heat, you later find it boiling. You give Robert Reynolds hope, you later find the Void.

But it was fine, this was just play pretend.

She touched her forehead to his and closed her eyes then. Her grip on him tightened, like she thought he would disappear- which was very funny considering she was the one who wasn’t real, she was the one about to disappear from him. Bob wanted to drink the moment in; wanted to forget it was all inside his head. Maybe he should allow himself to get lost in it, just this one time. Maybe.

“Вот это романтично,” she’d stopped singing to speak. Absolutely no idea what it meant though.

But there was her scent there, that intoxicating mixture of sweat and the Salonpas gel patches she always had on. There was her hair, with her roots, growing from dark red, to blonde to almost fried platinum. There was the fabric of his shirt– her shirt now, he supposed– a bit wrinkly, yet soft to the touch. And there was her tender grin, (so real so real so real), who grew when she approached.

His breath was wavering, too close to hers. The heat emanating from her was that of a million exploding suns.

He wanted to kiss her. He always did. Except, in that moment there was an unmistakable clarity: she wanted him to.

But, still, he should ask this version of Yelena first, anyways, since it was the polite thing to do. Or, at the very least, make conversation. Ask her about the dinner they were supposedly making, or whatever.

“Aren’t we about to burn up the kitchen, Yelena?”

Yelena’s eyes snapped open. Her entire frame froze, she blinked once, then twice- and with her sudden shift, so did the entire room. Everything around them completely stopped still. The crumpling of the fire on the stove, the ticking of the clock against the wall; all agonizingly silent.

This, Bob realized, wasn’t his creation. He was an intruder.

"Bob...?"

It wasn’t his dream, after all.

——————————————————————————————————

Long ago, Bob had been told that with each unmedicated manic episode, parts of his brain would be getting fried to a point of no return. He used to think that it meant, little by little, someday he wouldn’t be able to tell what was real and what wasn’t.

Well, now he wondered if his entire brain had effectively melted beyond repair.

They both had woken up with a start, simultaneously, as if the realization had grabbed them by the shoulders and shouted. Their previously intertwined fingers separating in the quickest instant.

Yelena jumped backwards, up from the couch and landed perfectly on her feet, just as Bob was only able to put his hands up in surrender.

It felt worse than walking in on her trauma rooms, somehow. God, it even felt worse than that time he accidently walked in on her and Ava changing uniforms.

“I- I didn’t mean to,” he flinched, not able to look at her directly.

She didn’t dignify that with an answer. Bob’s leg started stimming, prompting him to jump upwards. He should try harder.

“It’s… um, it’s probably because of the whole…” Bob didn’t want to say it, but he pointed towards his temple. “…Thing, you know? I swear it wasn’t on purpose, or anything.”

Yelena’s face contorted in quiet shame. He knew that look by now– it was the exact same as when Alexei showed him her high school pictures last week. Oh, Bob fucked up.

He fucked up big time.

He shouldn’t have acknowledged it. Now the cat was out of the bag and roaming around the uncomfortable silence freely.

“I’m sorry, Yelena.”

He wanted to physically slap himself. Shut up, shut up, shut up-

“It’s… okay.”

Was all she offered him, before turning on her heels and heading for the elevator. Leaving Bob alone in the very real Watchtower, fifty-one stories high in the sky, his copy of ‘The Bell Jar’ left forgotten on the floor and a blown-out candle dying out in the middle of his heart.

——————————————————————————————————

It was midnight and Robert couldn’t sleep.

Perhaps due to the leftover adrenaline of earlier, still finding its way around his bloodstream, or perhaps because he had, in fact, taken a nap a few hours before.

He’d paced around his room aimlessly, searched for beef stroganoff recipes and reviews on YouTube, took his 3mg of Zolpidem, stared at the ceiling, tried meditating.

It was 1 A.M. and Robert couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t go back to his book anymore; every word on it would be tainted with… that whole thing. Yeah, no, he shouldn’t. He started at the ceiling some more. Put on white noise. Counted sheep.

Looked back at the clock and it was still 2 A.M. Oh, so now time decided to slow down for him, yeah?

Bob sighed heavily, irritably pushing himself out of bed. He knew the whole insomnia drill by now, better to admit defeat already. Better to go and do something useful, instead of getting swallowed up by the closing walls of his bedroom.

After trading his pajamas for workout gear (careful not to even look at the Joy Division T-shirt thrown in the drawer), he went down the elevator and into the training grounds. He had hoped working out would get him tired enough to go back to sleep eventually. Or, at the very least, stop his mind from wandering back to dyed blonde hair and sweet foreign melodies.

The elevator dinged loudly, pulling him back to the present and out into the fitness center. Though, just as Bob stepped out, yawning mechanically, he could hear it. Just as his eyes landed on her figure.

She’d already spotted him by then, straightening out the fighting posture she held against the poor exercise mannequin.

So, not only had he invaded her very private subconscious- now he was invading her personal gym time too. Greeeeat. What an awesome guy he was.

The doors closed behind him, as his brain struggled to come up with what to do. Would it be more or less awkward to just moonwalk back into his floor?

More, he thought with certainty. Definitely more.

“Um…” Bob mumbled, trying to look at anywhere else, but at her direction. Somehow looking at her gaze now felt like staring straight into the Sun. And he was sure his face was just bright red and embarrassingly numb as an entire day without sunscreen too.

There was another beat, and then Yelena offered, like an olive branch to his nerves:

“Want to spar?”

They had done it before, of course, every Thursday, 8 P.M. sharp. No delays tolerated ("10 push-ups for each minute you're late, yes?"). She always kicked his ass brutally into the ground, and he knew she was still massively holding back.

(“Why are we even doing this? It can’t be useful to you,” Bob had wondered once. She chuckled ironically, already posing for another round. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Bob.”)

“It’s still Wednesday,” he tried, though he hesitantly took a few advancing small steps. Her gravity was already pulling him without much effort.

“Technically,” she started, picking up and moving the dummy out from the training arena. “It is already Thursday.”

Well, he knew she hated tardiness, but this was something else. Yelena cleaned her hands against one other, clapped once and motioned for him to 'come closer'. Her neck moving from side to side, in stretching and preparation.

She waited approximately one second before she landed her first punch. Bob actually managed to block the second attack, his head brutally hitting the floor after the fourth.

Round two was even quicker.

Round three shouldn’t even be able to count, Yelena hadn’t even waited for him to put his guard up, already having him by the legs and down on the hard pad in a single motion.

“Come on, Bob. Pay attention.”

He did. He tried to.

Round five had a bit more of an attempt. Now, he managed to land a kick against her ribcage- which turned to be a bad idea, in the end. Since she used his airborne leg to throw him up and away from her. Very, very bad idea.

“No distracting,” she cautioned, in a low tone.

Round seven started by her circling around him, like a lioness. He blocked her when she launched at him and she smirked momentarily, turning to try and trip him. He dodged it miraculously, trying to go for a punch- only to find her left hand closing in on his fist and twisting it. Bob felt a blow to the right side of his abdomen, then another. And another. His forearm moved to block it, his feet losing their stance momentarily.

No, he recognized it too late.

Yelena had both her hands on his shoulder, swinging him like a ragdoll. Bob blinked and her whole body had thrown him backwards into the familiar ground. Still, from that angle he saw something he had never seen before: an opening. A misplaced stance.

It was probably testing him, but he took the bait- and successfully took her down by the ankles, sweeping her off her feet in the most literal sense. A loud thud landing beside him.

If she was surprised by it, she didn’t show it. Already moving to be on top of him in a millisecond, with both thighs connecting him at the hip, holding his wrists against the hard training cushion.

“That was a dirty move, Bob,” and he almost apologized before she continued. “Good job.”

The grip hurt so much it could probably draw blood. His back was killing him. His head was pulsating from the previous falls. His breathing was jacked, but then again, he noticed- so was hers.

The Salonpas and sweat hit his nostrils from close proximity. She rendered him immobile promptly, straddling him with ease, but it’s not like he wished to move either way. Part of him wanted to stay there, soaking in as much of her as he could. Part of him wanted to escape, though.

Most of him worried about it all; about the instability that came with this; whatever this was even supposed to be. A shiver went along his spine.

Neither of them budged, though. And neither of them spoke.

There was a single bead of sweat running down Yelena’s forehead, Bob noticed. His eyes traced the water down until it hit her neck and eventually splashed against his ribcage, looking up towards her lips then her reflecting eyes. She was reading him again; he could almost see gears turning around and smoke coming from her ears, searching for something within him with intensity and focus.

Her grip on him tightened and he shifted reluctantly. There was not much else to do, he was at her mercy. Just as he had always been, ever since the day they met.

The instant he laid eyes on her, all those months ago, she already had him on the palm of her hand. He was hers to do as she pleased – to throw around, to protect, to neglect or to keep. And, in another reality, to dance with.

He was staring, pleading; she stared back. An immense dialog having just taken place in the small interaction.

Bob opened his mouth, then closed it. Not sure if he would even be able to produce coherent wording. But he should probably say something, right? Not outright confess he loved her but, like, tell her how much he liked her blue eyeliner. Or how much he liked her hoarse voice and the way her accent made every word flow into another with intensity. Or how much he liked her brutal honesty and how she kept everybody on their toes. Or how much he liked her weirdly frank peptalks, whenever he or anybody in the team was feeling down. Or how much he liked her kindness and how easy it came to her, sometimes to a martyr degree, other times from a place of sincere self-preservation. Or how much he liked that she always lit up a room whenever she walked in. The light inside her could even be blinding and oh, how he would gladly go blind for it.

(He would always be hers to blind, to break.)

Yelena slowly released the hands pinned to the side of his ears, moving backwards, triggering Bob to involuntarily reach for her, supporting himself with his elbows. She was still on top of him, however, and still breathing heavy.

Mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert, he had to lick his lips.

“…Lena, I-”

There was so much to say, so little distance between them. Distance that was abruptly closed by Yelena grabbing at his collar and crashing her lips hard into his. Bob swallowed the shock at record speed, closing his eyes and letting the weight of her fall against him.

And no sooner had it begun, it was already over.

That first kiss, at least.

Because soon Yelena angled forward again, this time positioning herself better against his mouth and deepening the kiss. She tasted like alcohol and chamomile, and he wanted to drink her whole, if she let him. Hands trembling (from exercise, from Lithium, from nervousness), he grabbed at the sides of her neck, his thumbs caressing her cheek, body no longer his own. It was all hers. And it was all her.

All the love he felt for her and the fear of ever causing her any harm again, the feelings clashing and converging paradoxically. Cascading into a river, the meeting of clear and muddy waters.

“Yelena…” Bob whispered, not sure if he wanted to say anything beyond her name.

Either way, she cut him off with finality, running her tongue against his own until he could only produce the most primal of sounds. Yelena kissed as if it was a combat– with brute force and a need for something greater. Though the toughness of her intent contrasted with the smoothness of her lips. Bob wasn't interested in winning any battles, just happy to be kissing her at all.

There was no drug more intoxicating, and that was no exaggeration or hyperbole – it was a fact. Simply so strong and so intense, you couldn’t compare it to any other kind of high.

He felt a pang of electricity running through every spot touched by her, when she ran her way his hair, his neck, his shoulders, his arm… Leaving a painfully wonderful sensation along her trail, as if he was constantly being stung by Black Widow Bites.

Her nails dig into the flesh of his upper arm like a knife and, God, he hoped she stabbed at him deeper. His muscles longed for her in ways he couldn’t particularly understand. He wanted her to cut him open and consume him in like she were a feast.

Man, there was no way it was all his actual life.

(Actually, being completely honest here, he wasn’t entirely too convinced this wasn’t all just pure psychosis, his brain playing tricks on him once more.)

If there was such a thing as true happiness, this was it. Her mouth, her tongue against his teeth, on the insides of his cheek. Icarus melting over and over and over again- and falling with a smile on his face.

No high, no neuron-frying manic episode ever brought him this, Bob gathered. This was tangible. This was his entire world, on his fingertips, feeling heat and sweat and everything in between.

This was Yelena Belova. And she was the woman of his dreams.

And, for now, he would allow himself this happiness as it was.

——————————————————————————————————

"If I should fall on that day, I only pray, don't fall away from me"

[glitter-stained]

I do think it bears repeating, fanfic writers can write whatever the fuck they want. It's not their responsibility to introduce readers to the canon because they are not writing canon they are writing fanwork!

If someone reads a fic about a coffeeshop and they assume the characters are coffeeshop part-timers, and it causes them issues in fan spaces because the characters in the source material are assassins, that is 100% on the reader for assuming that the hurt/comfort coffee-shop no cape AU was a fair representation of the source material. It's not supposed to be. Fanfic writers have no obligation to be canon-compliant.

If someone reads a fic that is not canon compliant, that is not the writer trying to convince you of their interpretation of canon. You should not assume that every fic is a character study with the same identical relationship dynamics as in canon because most fanworks are not an extension of canon nor are they obligated to be. And yes, even if the trope in question is popular fanon, even if other people will see it as gospel and not engage with source material and yk what, even if the trope itself, in the context of the actual source material, does a disservice to the character's arc. Because fanfics are not just fandom work, though it's very important that they are, they are also stories in and of themselves, works that have value proper to itself and writers do not owe you canon compliancy.

I've written a fic with many fanon elements, including pit rage, and you know what, I like this fic. I wrote it because I wanted to write about a depressive episode with psychotic characteristics and I thought Jason -and elements from fanon Jason- would be interesting to explore that idea with, and I wrote about pit rage because I wanted to write about catharsis, and the pessimism that comes with growing up in fear of the idea of the cycle of violence and how internalized psychophobia (and classism but that wasn't explicit) feeds into that fear, and how the addition of an element like the Pit, which literally makes feeling emotions dangerous, in the context of a severe depressive episode, would fuck into that interplay, and screw Jason's priorities enough to trigger the switch from passive to active suicidality. There are other examples of fanon tropes I found interesting to explore in that fic, but I'm focusing on the pit rage thing in this example because it shows up a lot in this discourse.

I have read the damn comics. I mostly see late-onset Pit Madness as patchwork to salvage late post-crisis Jason, which I'm not often interested in as I don't often acknowledge those stories (especially with all the retcons and maybe retcons established since then), and I think using it in the context of Under the Hood is a disservice to his character. But just because that trope can be a disservice to an analysis of his character in canon, doesn't mean it can't be good for in the story I am telling right now, which holds value in and of itself, because it has helped me process feelings and others have told me it has helped them and I do not owe anybody canon compliancy.

So when some little fucker commented a long ass paragraph on my fic about how it was one of the worst fics he'd ever read because everyone was OOC and condescendingly explained to me that my fic was way too nice to the batfam and none of them would do that- yk, I was angry. Because that fic was 5 chapters long and they commented on chapter 5. They had all the opportunity to stop, or at least not comment on their hate-read (which is a practice I've never understood). And most importantly, they assumed shit about my knowledge of canon based on their inability to view my work as anything but an extension of the canon they consume. They very clearly wanted something out of my jason-centric jason & batfam members fic that the tags should have told them they would not find there and instead of, I don't know, reading fucking Task Force Z, they decided that it was on me. But their inability to view my writing in its context, recognize my work for its own worth and stop assuming things about people they don't know for five fucking minutes was actually the problem. And it's, frankly, insulting as fuck.

I very rarely get hate comments, and that one was a long time ago -actually now that I think about it, it was almost an entire year ago. Readers are usually very nice to me and honestly, after how stressed I was of getting hate for the horse movie fic, I can't emphasize enough how much I love you guys and how lovely you've been.

However, I see takes on this website that shove the responsibility of "fanon" and people not engaging with the source material onto fanfic writers all the time and that annoys me so much. Canon is plural, self-contradictory, often OOC, has a multitude of problematic takes and honestly in the context of the batfam specifically, it's very depressing: I struggle to imagine them ever actually getting to the happy ending as a family together. So if Dick and Jason's relationship wrt Bruce makes me sad and I want to write or read fics in which Dick stands up to Bruce and protects his little brother, or I need the catharsis of a story about pit rage, or I'm mad at dc for glazing tim at the expense of other robins or at tim for being rude to a character i like, and i retaliate by putting tim into jason fanboy jail, that's just fine actually. That's a non-issue.

This essay has become way longer than I thought considering how simple the idea is, so here's the TLDR:

#1: Don't like, don't read.

#2: Fic writers do not owe you canon compliancy.

#3: Fic writers are not responsible for whatever fanon belief you're mad at.

#4: Stop assuming shit about fic writers based on what they write, you do not actually know these people.

#5: Fanfic is not just an extension of canon those are stories of their own merit.

#6: You have to respect fic writers even when you don't like their fic.

Or, to be even more concise:

Just don't be a dick.

[nescaveckwriter]

Someone I Used To Know ❣️

A/N: Awww my loves❤️ just a quick little 'one shot' I love this song but I did not know, I'd cry so much - cuz jinkies 🥹 it's a letter to Dean, so buckle up babes and grab a tissue - ❤️

Words: 898

Warnings: Besides a few tears, maybe a bit of swearing and dealing with grief, mention of death. 😱

Also: this is my work, please don't steal it, just like and comment and reblog...❣️❤️🐞

Tags: @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @k-slla @cutedisneygirl @angelbabyyy99 if anyone wants to be tagged in the future lemme know...❤️💕

The ink on this letter is spilling all over the page, just like my heart—again and again.

I’m in the middle of moving, and one of my friends found that old photo of you and me. You should see it by now—a few years will do that. It’s crumpled at the edges, and the color isn’t that good anymore, but oh, the memories it holds. They never leave.

My therapist said writing to you when I feel overwhelmed with missing you is good for my mental health. I don’t know—the verdict’s still out on that. But it helps. Sometimes, it even feels like you’re getting this. Like you’re reading it... watching over me.

Anyway, I couldn’t talk about it when Julie asked who you were to me. The words just tumbled out: “Just someone I used to know.”

And it crushed me.

Because I couldn’t tell them. Couldn’t say it was the man I was supposed to spend forever with.

The love of my life.

The Dean Winchester.

A man who loves pie, old motel rooms, and classic rock bands. Who prefers a greasy burger over a salad any day.

The man who wore his dad’s leather jacket like some kind of keepsake—some reminder of what not to be.

But for me? It was just another thing that made you you.

Damn, babe, I miss you a little more every day.

Oh—by the way, Sammy’s doing good. I still check in on him… them. Baby number two is on the way, and he’s over the moon about it.

But I can tell—he misses you.

When that Led Zeppelin track comes on the radio, or when he grabs two beers instead of one without thinking. I just take the extra one like it was meant for me. Like you’d want that.

Now, wait—before you cuss me out for drinking beer all of a sudden instead of my favorite red wine, let me explain.

I’ve gotten used to the bitter taste.

Like the bitterness buried deep in my damn bones.

Don’t worry—by now, I’ve gotten used to it.

But I’m still your sunshine baby.

Sorry about the teardrop smudging the ink… I still cry a little when I think back to the first time you called me that.

It was early morning.

I looked a little rough—hair all disheveled from the night before.

Our first time together… and damn, babe, it’s etched into my memory like it happened just now.

The sun was streaming through those cheap motel curtains, casting this soft glow over our tangled limbs.

Your calloused fingers brushed the hair from my face.

And then your voice—deep, rugged, like whiskey over gravel—murmured,

"Sweetheart… you’re my light in this dark world. My sunshine baby."

My heart melted. My stomach fluttered.

And even though I always loved your voice—Darnit, that morning?

It swept my feet out from under me.

It’s like I can hear your laughter right now—that famous Dean chuckle, cocky grin and all.

"I knew you’d miss me, sweetheart."

And right now, babe? I’m trying my damn best to smile…

But the tears won’t stop. They never do.

Hell, the other day, Julie set me up on a blind date.

And I went.

(I’m truly sorry. But don’t worry—I felt guilty for days.)

Anyway… I pulled out that dark blue top you liked so much. The one you said made me look like a lady, instead of the oversized shirts I always stole from you.

Damn it—teardrops on the ink again. Sorry.

Let’s go back. The date.

I threw on my jeans and favorite pair of boots, met the guy at a coffee shop.

(Couldn’t do a bar—they all remind me of you.)

The guy was nice. A gentleman.

But after coffee, when he walked me home… he tried to kiss me.

And it was reflex, okay?

I slapped him across the damn face.

He left with a bloody nose.

And me? I haven’t gone on another date since.

I’m fine growing old alone.

…Okay, that’s a lie.

I don’t want to grow old—not if it’s not with you.

Dean, I’m gonna shoot it to you straight.

I’m feeling that anger again. That deep, bitter, soul-splitting anger.

You left.

You died.

Why the hell didn’t you fight harder to stay?

For Sammy.

For me.

Dammit, I’m so mad at you. And I love you so much, it’s unbearable.

I can’t even look at a damn pie without crying.

I kind of hate you.

And don’t you dare look at me with those emerald eyes and say:

“No you don’t, sweetheart. You just miss me.”

This pen won’t stop trembling in my hand.

This heart won’t stop shaking in my chest.

I miss you, babe.

And it’s not getting better.

Anyway… I should try to sleep.

It’s 3 a.m. by the way.

Yeah, I’m sleeping on the couch again.

The bed’s too big… too cold… too cruel.

'Til next time, babe.

Love—forever yours,

Dean Winchester’s girl.