#“what do you expect me to do about it figure it out”

[gotham-mockingbird]

It started as a simple little promise I made to myself after watching some silly time travel movie where the main character had to sneakily get information on the time he was in and it always took him so long to actually get to his mission.

I promised to myself and my empty Toyota Corolla that if I met a suspected time traveler I’d be really polite and quick to help them.

Of course I never expected to actually meet a time traveler but I believe in ghosts and aliens and different dimensions and kangaroos so is time travel really out of the question?

I just went about my day as usual and didn’t really think of it much afterwards. That is until I met Xrey (pronounced Zer-ee).

He was dressed in something that looked like it was straight out of 90s television and looking around confused before we bumped into each other. He laughed kind of nervously before apologizing in an accent I didn’t recognize.

Then he asked the question that I was not prepared for one bit, “Kind of an odd question, sweetheart, but uhm what year is it?”

He looked sheepish as if this is the first time he’s actually had to ask, and I was shocked, but I shook it off and smiled, “It’s 2019, and you seem to be a bit lost. There’s an old phone booth that no one really walks past down that way if you need to take a moment to figure yourself out.”

His eyes light up and he smiles, “Oh that’s perfect thank you. I haven’t come this far back before and I got a bit turned around. Thank you!”

Then he was off.

I smiled as he paced off into n search of the phone booth I told him of before turning around myself to head to work.

My head was racing all day, did I really just meet a time traveler? Maybe he was an alien? Time traveling alien? Perry the time traveling alien?

That last one was just my ADHD.

Anyways when I got home there was a post it note on my fridge. The handwriting was messy but i could read it.

‘Thank you, we consider you safe now. Made it home safe. -Xrey’

I smiled, a little bit freaked out, but happy that I could help. And a little happy that I got a more personalized thank you.

I was expecting to meet a couple more time travelers, probably have been put on a list of safe people, but the amount I wasn’t expecting.

I honestly didn’t even think of meeting another until maybe a couple months after the incident, but about a week and a half later I’m at work sweeping the outdoor area when a jogger comes up to me.

“Hey uh, weird question, but can you tell me a little bit about this time?”

He lowers his voice and leans in a bit when asking the actual question so I do the same when I respond.

I tell him the exact date and time, the latest iPhone, what changes to do to his outfit, and the president of the US.

He thanks me before jogging off again.

I smile and resume sweeping wondering when my next encounter will be.

I wasn’t expecting anything when I got home, but there was a single flower on the table, laying right to my cat who likes to lay on the table for pets. This time I wasn’t creeped out, realizing it’s just their silent way of saying thank you without fucking things up too bad.

From then on I met dozens of other time travelers, one shapeshifter, and I believe three aliens, although that’s still a speculation. I did have to have a chat with a Man in Black once though, but it was really chill.

Also its pronouns were it/its, I asked.

From what I can gather from what I’ve seen the future is amazing.

The distant future.

The far distant future.

The very far dista- y’know what that’s getting annoying.

Point is, I’ve been helping lost time travelers for a while now, I’ve made friends who visit every once in a while or drop gifts off, but this is my first time making an enemy.

You once made a promise to yourself: if you ever met a time traveler, it wouldn't be a big deal. You’d tell them the date, the most important political conflict, a recent technology, and send them on their way. You now encounter a time traveler nearly every week.

[subliminalghoest]

NSFW

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!reader (18+, smut)

So I keep seeing the idea of Simon using his balaclava to basically gag himself when he’s having fun alone time and thought it would be hilarious for reader to accidentally interrupt him.

~Enjoy.

You aren’t supposed to be walking down the corridor towards Simon’s room, but after nearly snapping at a rookie in the range, you figured it was either vent or commit murder. You opted for venting.

You knock once—sharp, impatient.

No answer.

You knock again, this time louder, “Riley, you alive in there?”

There’s a thud, a very faint shit, and a few shuffled footsteps before the door swings open. Simon appears in the doorway, breathless, eyes slightly wide. And — your brain stutters — his face is bare. No balaclava.

You blink. “Wow. A rare sighting of the man himself. Can I get my camera?”

He gives you a flat look, like he’s weighing up closing the door on you and pretending this never happened. “What do you want?”

“Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic.” You shoulder past him and step into the room. “I needed to talk—well, vent.”

He closes the door with a sigh and mutters something about boundaries, but doesn’t stop you.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” you begin, pacing as you talk. “You know that new rookie? The one with the smug face and the haircut that screams ‘I’m an asshole’? He tried to explain recoil management to me. Me. As if I wasn’t there to teach him.”

Simon leans against the wall, arms crossed, breathing slowly evening out. He’s listening, but he also seems… distracted. And warm. His cheeks still hold a pink tinge that’s not from embarrassment. You glance at him, narrowing your eyes.

“You alright? You look… flushed.”

“Just warm in here,” he says quickly.

You look around the room. It’s not warm. It’s military-issue cold and sterile.

You plop down on his bed with a huff and grab the first thing your hand lands on, his balaclava. You start fiddling with it absentmindedly as you continue ranting. Running your fingers around its edges, smoothing out the ruffled fabric.

“So then he says, ‘You’re just overreacting because you’re a girl and I gave you a correction.’ And I swear to god, I nearly choked him with my shoelaces.”

Simon lets out a low sound, something like a half-snort, half-growl. “He still in one piece or do I need to head down there and stage a little accident?”

“I’ve got it covered. But thanks for the offer.”

As you speak, your fingers twist through the fabric. But something catches your attention. Your brow furrows. “Why’s this… damp?”

You lift the balaclava higher, peering at the wet patches. “Are these teeth marks?”

Simon stiffens.

You look at him. He looks at you.

His mouth opens. Closes.

And then—blush creeps up like a slow burn from his neck to his ears.

“Oh my god,” you say, blinking. “Simon.”

He clears his throat.

“It’s not—”He rubs a hand over his face, which only makes his ears redder. “It’s not what you think.”

You stare at the balaclava in your hands, then at him, then back again.

“Oh no. It’s exactly what I think,” you say, holding the evidence like it might start screaming confessions. “You used this to shut yourself up while you were—God, Simon!”

“I wasn’t expecting company!”

You both fall into stunned silence. You glance down again at the balaclava. Then back up at him. Your grin stretches slow and wicked.

"I'll leave," you stood slowly backing up to the door, voice all mock-sweet. “Let you... finish.”

You’re laughing as he snatches the balaclava out of your hand, his ears flaming.

As you got to the door, you paused. A thought strikes and before you linger on it too long—“Who were you thinking about?”

He goes very still.

Then you turn, voice teasing, eyes fixed on him. “Anybody special?”

His jaw ticks once. Then again. You swear you can see him calculating the odds—whether honesty is worth the gamble.

But you don’t give him the chance.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, a dramatic grin tugging at your lips. You step back into the room, arms folding. “It was me, wasn’t it?”

He says nothing, glare intensifying.

“Which fantasy is your favourite?” You don’t wait for his response, “Is it me all sweaty and stinking from the gym?”

He steps closer to you. You step back.

“Or was it that time I came back from that recon op, covered head to toe in mud and God knows what else? Because that,” you gesture up and down your body, “was peak seduction, obviously.”

Simon exhales a short breath like he’s trying not to laugh—or trying to not strangle you. You don’t stop.

He steps forward again. You step back, softly hitting the door behind you.

“Or—wait—was it when I had the flu and couldn’t stop sneezing and had tissues stuffed up my nose? Yeah. Super sexy. Real fantasy material.”

You go to make another jab, but he finally speaks—and the calm, gravelly tone of it slams into you like a punch.

“Yeah,” Simon says. “So what if it was you?”

Your mouth opens—and then you freeze. That’s not the answer you were ready for.

“It’s always you,” he adds, stepping forward, hands bracing against the door on either side of your head, “Doesn’t matter if you’re sweaty, or dirty, or pissed off enough to break someone’s jaw.”

You blink, reboot your brain. You shove him lightly in the chest, half-laughing. “Shut up. I’m the funny one, remember?”

He doesn’t budge.

A smirk tugs at his lips—not cocky, not cruel. Confident.

“You gonna keep teasing me now?” he murmurs, voice like gravel and sin. Head tilting to the side, mockingly.

Your throat is dry. “I mean… probably not.”

His eyes flicker around your face, you can hear your heartbeat in your head.

You drag in a breath, “You want me?”

“That depends,” he says. “You gonna keep running that mouth, or you want me to put it to better use?”

That definitely short-circuits your brain.

“Jesus Christ.” you whisper, voice a little too breathless, a little too eager.

“Only name you’ll be praising tonight is mine, sweetheart.”

Later, when you’re stripped bare on his bed, legs trembling, his mouth on your pussy like he’s starving, you try to muffle the moans clawing their way out of your throat.

Simon lifts his head, lips glistening. “Mmm—what’s wrong? You struggling to keep quiet?”

You let out a broken noise—and he grabs the balaclava, the same one from earlier, and presses it into your hand.

You don’t hesitate.

You shove it between your teeth, biting down, back arching as he flattens his tongue and devours you.

“Much as I’d like to hear all those pretty little noises,”Simon smirks against you, clearly satisfied, and licks another stripe up your clit—slow, deliberate—before sucking it into his mouth. “I’m not willing to share. Especially not the sounds of me making you come.”

And the way you whimper around that fabric?

It’s better than anything he’d imagined.

Your back arches. He groans softly at the way your hips buck, hands gripping your thighs tighter to pin you in place.

“Yeah,” he breathes, lips brushing your slick skin. “Just like that.”

Your hands fly to his hair—short and messy from your earlier interruption—but you don’t pull him away. You anchor yourself, like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You’ve no idea,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down to join his mouth, “how long I’ve wanted to do this. You, like this—open and so needy and all mine.”

A low, desperate sound catches in your throat, muffled by fabric.

His fingers slide inside you—two at once—and your eyes roll back. He curls them just right, searching for that spongy area to make you shake. His tongue keeps working in tandem, relentless and steady, mouth slick and warm.

You’re close. It’s spiraling fast, too fast.

Simon knows it, too.

“C’mon, love,” he mutters, the words pressing against your skin. “Be good for me. Come on my tongue.”

That’s all it takes. You break apart with a cry smothered by his balaclava, thighs clamping around his head, body shaking with release.

He doesn’t stop.

Keeps going through it, coaxing every last aftershock out of you, until you’re squirming, twitching—pushing at his shoulder with your feet.

Finally, finally, he pulls back—licks his lips slowly like he’s savouring every second of you on his tongue. He leans up over you, arms caging you in, watching with dark, hungry eyes as you pant, flushed and wrecked beneath him.

Your hand shakily lowers the balaclava from your mouth, and your voice comes out hoarse. “You’re a menace.”

He smirks, dragging the fabric from your hand and tossing it aside. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You scowl at him half-heartedly. “I didn’t.”

He leans down, nose brushing yours. “Good.”

Then he kisses you—deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue—and you moan, arms looping around his neck before you can think better of it.

When he finally pulls away, breathless, he smiles. A rare one. Soft, but no less intense.

“You’re not getting the last word tonight,” he says, voice thick with promise.

You lift your brows. “No?”

He shakes his head, trailing kisses along your jaw, your throat, the curve of your shoulder.

“I’m just getting started.”

Your breath hitches at the low, dangerous way he says it. I’m just getting started.

“Yeah?” you manage, voice barely above a whisper. “Planning to ruin me, Lieutenant?”

That smirk comes back—sharper now. Almost wicked.

“Oh, I’m not planning,” he murmurs, fingers trailing down your side, dragging goosebumps in their wake. “I’m going to.”

He slides lower, mouth returning to your skin—not frantic, not rushed, but with purpose. Reverent. His stubble grazes your sensitive flesh, and you flinch, still overstimulated and burning for more.

You can’t believe he’s going down again.

Your hands find his shoulders, nails pressing into muscle as he hooks your knees over his broad shoulders again, spreading you wide beneath him. You’re already slick, flushed, raw—too sensitive to take much more. You feel like the only thing that exists in the world when Simon Riley is between your legs.

“Need to get you prepped for me, doll. Gotta get this pretty little cunt,” he says softly, breath hot as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, “soaking wet for me.”

You moan, head tipping back against the pillows. You never thought his mouth would be this dirty—half expected the stoic, silent Lieutenant he is in public.

“And the way you fucking taste…” He groans, low and wrecked, like he’s the one falling apart.

You feel the press of his tongue again—slower this time, but no less consuming. He laps at you with long, deliberate strokes, occasionally dragging his teeth just barely where you’re most sensitive, making you gasp.

One of his hands slides up your belly, splaying against your chest. His thumb brushes over your nipple and you arch into him with a broken whimper.

“Sensitive,” he hums against your folds. “You gonna come again for me?”

You nod helplessly, words gone—wrecked by the overwhelming heat and sensation. He chuckles darkly and closes his mouth around your clit again, sucking gently.

You don’t stand a chance.

Your second orgasm crashes into you, your back bowing, thighs shaking around his head. It’s slower than the first, but deeper—like it’s being pulled from the base of your spine, curling through your entire body. You sob his name into your palm, clinging to his shoulders like you might fly apart without him.

And still, he doesn’t let up. He works you through it, tongue and fingers moving in tandem, until your legs twitch and you let out a half-laugh, half-whimper.

“Simon, fuck, I—please—”

You push his body away with your foot, he sits back on his knees, gliding his hand up and down your calf, lips slick with your release, eyes dark and feral as he takes you in. Perfectly dishevelled.

“Too much?” he teases, his voice rougher now, tinged with something almost smug. “Or just enough?”

You glare at him through your lashes. “I hate you.”

His grin widens as he pushes your leg out of the way and crawls back over you, nudges your jaw with his nose. “That’s not what your cunt says.”

He’s filthy. You groan, dragging him down by the back of his neck into a kiss—deep, messy, a little desperate.

“You gonna fuck me or just keep teasing me to death?” you breathe against his lips.

He laughs—low, throaty.

“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you,” he promises. “Nice and slow.”

He reaches down between you, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, just enough to make your breath catch again.

“But not until you beg for it.”

Your body jerks at the glide of his cock against your aching core—warm, heavy, teasing. A fresh wave of heat pools low in your stomach, and you tighten your grip on his shoulders, nails digging in with a whimper you barely catch behind clenched teeth.

“Beg?” you echo, breathless.

Simon hums, nose brushing your cheek, voice like gravel and smoke.

“You heard me.”

He presses the tip just barely into you—then he pulls back, slow and deliberate.

Your eyes flutter shut. He does it again.

“C’mon, love,” he says, mouth grazing your ear now. “You were so full of clever little comments before. Where’d all that mouth go?”

You glare up at him, flustered and trembling, every nerve ending alight. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins, unfazed. “And you’re soaked. Dripping, even.”

Another teasing thrust—shallow, maddening. Your body aches, clenches around nothing, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.

You huff out a frustrated sound, forehead resting against his chest. “Simon—”

“Ah-ah.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “You want my cock, you ask for it.”

You decide to give in.

You lift your chin, lips brushing his as you whisper, “Please, Simon.”

He doesn’t move.

You swallow, cheeks burning. “Please fuck me. I need it.”

That dark heat in his eyes flares. “Say it again.”

You moan in frustration, squirming beneath him. “Simon, please. I need your cock. I need you to fuck me—now.”

That does it.

His control snaps like a wire under tension, and he surges forward, burying himself inside you in one long, delicious thrust. You cry out—the stretch making your back arch as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he grits through clenched teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “Christ—you’re so tight. Fuck, I know I’m big, baby. You can take it. I know you can. Show me how good you can be f’me.”

Your hands claw at his back as he starts to move, slow at first, then harder, deeper. Each thrust steals breath from your lungs, pushes moans past your lips without thought.

He groans into your neck, biting down gently before pulling back to look at you—flushed, panting, completely undone.

“You like this?” he growls, fucking into you harder. “Me inside you, filling you up?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, eyes rolling back as he angles his hips just right and hits that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision go white.

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit. “One more,” he says roughly. “Give me one more. I want to feel you come on my cock.”

You’re close—so close—and his words tip you right over the edge.

You fall apart with a sob of his name, walls clenching around him as your climax hits like a tidal wave. He groans deep in his chest, slamming into you once, twice more before he spills inside you with a shuddering gasp.

The room goes quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing and his heartbeat pounding against your chest.

After a moment, he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. His voice, when it comes, is quieter. Rough in a different way.

“You alright?”

You nod, a little dazed. “More than alright.”

He kisses you then—slow and soft, a stark contrast to everything that came before it.

You whisper into his lips, “Am I better than your imagination?”

[burymagdalene]

Heat Lightning: Part II – Kismet - S. Reid x Reader

Making it back to your shared motel room, Spencer and reader get a lot off their chests; figuratively and literally. With a new dynamic emerging, they fight to survive the heat of Texas, the case—and each other.

Part I (Could read this alone if you wish) pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Smut, angst, & fluff (18+ pls pls) tags: Spencer Reid x bau!female reader, bloodsplatteranalyst!reader, virgin!spencer, subby (?) service-y Spencer, masturbation (spencer), tit sucking, thigh riding, real riding, finger sucking, fingering, multiple orgasms, squirting, creampie, first time, munch!spence, murder, kidnappings wc: 8.5k a/n: Part 2/2 of my bau!reader duology! I've had so much fun writing this I hope Spencer and reader have lots of fun... this might be my dirtiest yet lol S1 Spencer is a young freak aficionado I swear.

Kismet

Destiny; fate.

“What chance did I stand against kismet?”

The tips of Spencer’s fingers have molded to take the shape of the dial on your AC as you drive back to the nearby motel. His face is turned to stare out the window on your side, wanting to catch the view he hasn’t fully appreciated while not having to turn away from you.

What he would have missed. Chewing on the inside of his lip Spencer ponders, what I would’ve missed if it was another unit, if they took on a different case.

“Whatcha looking at?”

“I just- it’s very beautiful out here at night.” Spencer replies, eyes flickering over to you in order to analyze if you think his lame answer is indeed lame. The way his voice dips at the end gives him away. That’s not really what Spencer meant.

You hum, it’s barely above a whisper, something ambient and low, but enough to fill the car. “Yeah? You thinking of moving to small-town nowhere with me?”

He smiles faintly, laughs at his hands in his lap. “No. Well, sort of. I’m thinking about how if we hadn’t took this case… I wouldn’t be sitting here. With you.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you say anything. Just the sound of tires on gravel as you approach the motel and the air conditioner still stubbornly set two degrees too cold.

Your tongue pokes out slightly over your chapped lips. “You’re very kind.”

Spencer leans back in the seat. “But I mean it.”

Taking the keys out, you’re finally parked in front of the kitschy motel. You don’t answer right away. There’s a comfort in letting silence carry things when words feel too sharp. But when you do speak, it’s quiet.

“Yeah. Me too.”

And for once, Spencer doesn’t overthink what that means.

𓆱

Out of the most incredible shower of his life, Spencer wipes away the fog on the small bathroom mirror to look over his face. Eye bags worse than they’ve been in a while, but the sun almost gave him a pink flush and bright hue that makes up for it. 

He had gathered up his pajamas from his go bag to carry into the bathroom with him after you were finished showering. Wanting to change in the bathroom, suddenly embarrassed. He was not expecting this situation while packing– how could he have?

Hair brushed and fully situated to reintegrate back into the room with the dim flickering light and the most intimidatingly perfect person he’s met. Great.

Opening the door, he’s immediately stumbling into you. Right in front of the bathroom door is the entrance to the room where you were standing by picking up a small hooked sign from the door handle. 

With a keen eye, Spencer watches as your fingers flip over the “Do Not Disturb” sign in front of the door. Very much aware that this is standard practice– he can’t help but feel personally affected by the underlying sentiment. Do not disturb us. We don’t want anybody else in here with us.

He feels drunk. Standing in the doorway silent and gobsmacked by the simplest gesture– you turn over to gaze at him, poking your tongue out playfully before moving back to the bed.

The slight sway in your hips as you walk to the room makes him clear his throat.

“Which side do you want?” You ask, already jumping theatrically on the right side.

“Um… right?” Spencer laughs, teasing you.

“Already takennn!” You sing your reply.

Sitting up, feet off of the right side, you pat the space next to you.

“C’mere. We can share.”

Padding over, a small drop from Spencer’s hair tickles the back of his neck as he sits beside you on the bed.

“I never got good at sharing, I don't think.” He is flirting, he assumes. But it’s also semi-true. An only child who is also a mama's boy, he never had to share growing up– but it comes pretty naturally to him anyway. He’s not explaining that though so his line is more effective. 

“You don’t wanna share with me?” You smile back at him in such a mind numbing way that he feels silly for flirting with you when you obviously have the upper hand. 

Spencer bites his bottom lip softly and shakes his head, eyes wide looking at you. He's pulling out the doe eyes, all his cards are on the table. 

A thick and nearly tangible silence falls over the two of you. Hips almost pressing with your close proximity, Spencer gains the last bit of strength he has from the long day to meet your gaze. Taking in your features for the first time undisturbed by chaos is making his heart flutter. The bruises have let up a bit– changed slightly in color and severity. Your bottom lip still has a cut on it, albeit, not sensitive to the touch anymore.

Without thinking, his thumb slowly comes up and brushes the bruise left on your cheek.

“These are getting better.” He mumbles, thumb on your cheek but eyes roaming toward your lips.

“Yeah, I’m glad.” You toss a shy smile back at him.

“Oh yeah? I thought you said it made you look tough?”

“Hm. I think I was just saying that. I don’t want to be so tough all the time.”

Spencer pulls his thumb a few inches down, nearing the corner of your mouth. In an act of bravery (mixed with sleep deprivation, heat exhaustion, and lust. Simply.) runs it slowly over the jagged edge of your bottom lip. Wishing to soothe it with his touch almost, wanting to take away all the bruises littered on you.

A small shiver runs down your spine and you do an unconscious jolt that makes Spencer’s thumb stop.

“Yeah. You’re not so tough.” Pulling his thumb down, your eyes reconnect.

Spencer watches the smallest twitch in your eyebrows, a microexpression that flashes behind your eyes, a slight tremble in your lip. Taking one last deep breath he sacrifices himself to the fire he’s kept at bay this whole case.

Lips instinctually meeting the corner of your mouth, a soft kiss placed on the damaged skin of your marked lip. A shuddering sound from your throat pulls him towards the noise. Then, a proper kiss is being placed. 

A minute pull away tilts the world off its axis before you two are grabbing each other, lips melding together at a near brutal pace. The stiff motel mattress lets out a pitiful squeak, seeking a cessation of movement that would not be rewarded tonight. 

Your hands are cupping his jaw, his own hands remain politely in his lap and twitch as he feels your hip finally press up against his. Letting go of his cheek, one of your hands snakes down to take Spencer’s, placing it on the inside of your thigh. 

Spencer grips it too hard at first, causing you to gasp against his mouth. Dial it back, he thinks and makes up for it by rubbing away the pain with his palm up and down.

The first to pull away you whine out, “You’re such a good kisser,” before connecting lips again, pulling him flush against you almost onto his lap.

“I haven’t really… ever-” He gulps, he guesses it’s polite to tell you.

“Oh yeah?” He watches the corners of your mouth falter, a slight twitch upward in a smile that has his brain screaming witch!

“Yeah.”

You chuckle kindly while ghosting your lips over his once more, “That doesn’t matter.”

“It might…” Spencer looks down from your eyes in his confession.

“It won’t.” You finalize like you’re a professional in these matters. Virgins. He blushes and begins kissing you again.

With an act as simple as a swing of a leg, Spencer’s mind muffles. Propped in his lap he wraps his arms around your waist, tight grips indent your skin. Another simple act– a kiss to the jaw. Adolescent, amateur even. Spencer closes his eyes as his head falls back, a quiet hum from you against his jaw and he smiles despite the hurricane in his stomach. 

Bracing his hands firmly on your hips, your lips trail over his pulsepoint, a soothing and sickening kiss is being placed over the sensitive skin (he didn’t know was so sensitive on himself– why does this feel so good?) and Spencer nearly flinches away.

“Does that feel okay?” You pick up on his slight movement.

“It feels really nice, actually.”

A laugh rumbles against that same spot and he could keel over, beg you to do this all night. 

“I can feel your heart beating there.”

Two of your fingers replace where your lips just were, a rapid thud beating against them through his flesh.

“My- my heart is racing, yeah.” 

Your warm palm pressed firmly against Spencer's chest, you usher him flat against the old mattress. Back pressed there, he looks up where you’re still sitting on his lap before bending slowly over him again.

One finger tugs the bottom of his t-shirt up to his chin, messy kisses peppered over top the fragile skin on the left of his chest.

Voice rising an embarrassing octave Spencer talks through an inhale, “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Mm. Kissing your heart.”

All the air has seemingly been knocked out of his lungs. Still, through ringing in his ears he whispers, “Why?”

“Well,” kiss, “because I think it’s sweet,” kiss, “and because I think it's kind.” your lips trail up slightly, a small string of saliva follows where you speak against his skin. “Because I like the person it keeps alive.”

Spencer could cry. His dick is hard, and he could cry. A blanketed wave of piety clouds his brain. He feels fucking obsessed, how do all people not succumb to madness when they feel this? If Spencer felt like this for more than 30 minutes he’d stop breathing. Or he’d completely submit to his life calling of reverency.

Propping himself onto his elbows he puts his face into your hair, resting his forehead against you firmly. Taking a deep inhalation of your scent, he commits it to memory before taking a hand to tilt your head up to stare into your eyes. 

“You’re so beautiful.”

A gentle and self-conscious finger routinely checks where your lip is bruised. A signal of your hidden insecurity toward the compliment. Spencer sees the hesitation in your irises as he moves his hand up to the curve of your waist, gesturing you to lay on your back now where he crawls over you.

Still intimidated by your bruising he tries to ease some of his body weight to his forearms and not your torso. He also doesn’t want his hard-on to dig into you right now.

“I think you’re astoundingly beautiful,” Spencer kisses your chin briefly, “you can ignore anything else I say, just believe me there.” 

May be a bit too serious, sappy and vulnerable for knowing you for a week, but Spencer has never felt so on-time and right than he does now.

You exhale sharply through your nose, push your mouths together again with a lazy grin. 

“You’re so warm, it feels surprisingly nice.” You giggle in response, your nails trailing lightly up his arms.

Spencer thinks back to your comment on hot coffee tasting better when it’s hot out, this is definitely the same strange phenomenon you were mentioning. Maybe it’s the counterintuitive notion where a hot beverage can increase sweating, which may help cool you down more efficiently. Maybe it’s the volatile aromatic compounds, which hit your nose and taste buds harder. He feels better to you when it’s hot out because he’s hitting your system harder. As long as he’s hitting your system-

Spencer’s spiralling thoughts get cut off by his own voice punching out a loud moan when you cup him over his pajama pants. The first time he’s feeling someone else's hand on him is so revolutionary that he has no control over his voice or facial expressions.

“Does that feel good?” Your tentative voice breaks him out of his daze. Like it could possibly feel bad with you.

Spencer has to search for the word yes within the vast confines of his brain– that’s how good it feels. Taking a moment he finds it, “Y-esss.”

“When's the last time you did this?” You’re whispering into his neck with a graze of your teeth he’s replying like you have him at gunpoint.

“Ah- y- yesterday-” Spencer manages to gasp out.

“Oh,” you giggle a bit which makes him peel his eyes open to look at you, “I don’t know why- I thought it’d be longer.” your sentence trails off with a string of soft laughs.

“Ah- well. I’m a virgin, n-not…”

“I know! I know… Yesterday, huh?”

Spencer feels his jaw instinctively squeeze shut. Yes, yesterday. He had barely made it to the very corner of his hotel bed back in Houston before shoving a hand under his pants to unsatisfyingly jerk off. A futile attempt to ease the molten hot swoops of horniness he gets while spending time with you.

“Wh- ugh.” Is all he can say.

“How about you show me how you did it yesterday, then?”

He teeters on the idea of white hot humiliation but in the end his hormones win, ultimately calcifying his boyish temperament with blatant animalism as he tugs his pajama pants down. Spencer is aware that you don’t mean exactly how he did it yesterday. All whines while biting down on his fist while the wrist of his other hand gets rubbed raw by the band of his pants that were barely open enough for boner access. 

Spencer scoots himself up so his back is resting against the rickety wooden bedframe, legs spread slightly as he flings his pants to the floor, underwear still on. Through cloudy eyes he watches you crawl over toward him, legs coming to cage in one of his thighs, sitting your weight on it. 

“Should I…” He traces a thumb over the waistband of his underwear.

“Please, yeah.”

Your eyes are attached to his lower stomach, eyes flickering up to his when he speaks to check for any hesitation.

Spencer is nervous, sure, but the sight of the basically egregious tent in his boxers is almost more embarrassing than it would be to just pull himself out of them. With a hook of his thumb, he pulls the band down slowly. First, the head appears, opaque drips of precum coating it lightly. Then the rest is pulled out, smacking his tummy with a sticky thud.

The first thing he hears is a small squeak coming from your throat. A laugh through your nose follows as you grin out, “Jesus.”

Beginning with a severe ego boost, Spencer can jump through the emotional hoops of the humiliation around jerking off in front of you. Jerking off to you, in front of you. He swallows an excess of saliva. 

Before anything else, Spencer has the urge to reach out and touch you, make sure you’re real– solid under his touch. Again he feels your soft cheek under his palm as he swipes a thumb shortly over your cut lip.

Then he grips the base and pulls up to his leaky tip with a tiny moan.

A dazed expression paints over your features, like you’re the one receiving any pleasure as he starts to really put his wrist into the movement. A tingle in his spine forms at the thought of doing this for anyone else. He would genuinely never imagine himself doing this, but the way he’s watching your lips tuck in to conceal a moan is truly a sight for sore eyes.

Spencer could most definitely cum. He probably should not if he doesn’t want to spoil the rest of the night just because for a fleeting moment he couldn’t control himself. Though. God, it would feel really good to just-

A roll of your hips against his thigh makes you and Spencer moan aloud in eerily similar octaves. 

“Can I touch myself?”

Your voice snaps him out of his inner monologue, fingers going lax around himself because if he’s touching his cock and hearing your voice simultaneously it’s going to end way too quick. 

“N-no-”

“Mmf- wh, huh?”

Consciously or not, your hips continue to roll circles onto his exposed thigh, the friction of your shorts with the pressure of his thigh makes you dig your nails harshly into his side.

“I just- no! I mean, let me do it for you. I’ll finish like this anyway.”

Without a reply, you let out a gentle gasp, dropping your head to your chest while you start dragging up and down against his thigh.

Spencer kind of just feels like watching, seeing your shoulders relax after everything this week has brought you is erotic in itself. 

Another squeak from your throat, “fuck, stop me please.”

Moaning the loudest all night at your response Spencer feels lightheaded. You can’t fucking help yourself.

Chest rising and falling rapidly now, Spencer’s hands find your hips, slowing your movements to a halt. You huff out a sigh and bend all the way down to reconnect your lips. In the momentum of slumping down you hit your lip a bit too hard against Spencer’s. A moan erupts out of you from the delicious sting while you integrate your tongue.

The filthy tongue kissing is distracting, but not enough to let slip the plan of Spencer helping you get off. Mind reeling, all the possibilities are tripping over each other in his head. Feeling your walls around his fingers, his lips around your clit. What do you taste like, feel like?

“Okay, okay,” Spencer whispers breathlessly, hoping that this plea reminds you of his aforementioned service towards you.

Dramatically, you roll off Spencer and lay on your back against the pillow next to where you two just were, nails trailing across his chest as you do so. A lazy spread of your thighs is the closest Spencer has felt to falling off a cliff, a silent beckoning that has him laying on his stomach between your legs in an instant.

He’s been in this position before, in fact. Not nearly in the way he is now though. Only previously has he situated himself like this when he was in FBI training. Sniper position. 

Hopefully Spencer will be better at this than the latter.

Soon you’re sitting up and grabbing at his shirt to fling it off onto the floor with his pants. He tries not to think about the grime from the floor all over his pajamas as he looks to you for consent on pulling off these shorts of yours.

“Can I take your shorts off. Um, and panties?”

You send him a sweet smile accompanied by a nod. Soon enough you’re taking off your tanktop too. Like it’s nothing. Like Spencer didn’t need time to prepare himself. Just as his fingers grasp the band of your shorts they’re stopping. Eyes glued and mouth hanging slightly open, Spencer gapes at your exposed breasts.

A dilemma. Should he continue with where he left off? Should he scoot up slowly and take one of your nipples into his mouth-

Before his brain can even finish painting the image he’s moving back up towards your face, giggling happily with you.

“Would you like to touch them?” Your grin is full of content admiration, not one of the smiles you’ve given him before, sly and seductive. This is you playing like real 20-something year olds do. The world outside of this room, the people you are– non-existent. 

What he would have missed.

“Uh-huh.” Spencer grins back, teeth on display. 

It’s almost hard to kiss and lave over your chest with the permanent smile keeping his mouth open. He can’t help it. The giddiness he’s experiencing is as strong as the loneliness he’s felt. Ever-consuming and solidifying, he is feeling himself heal from the inside out in your embrace. 

Like he’s booked a room on fucking prom night he feels so euphorically cliché.

You guide his hand to one nipple, he rolls it between the pads of his fingertips and you gasp, hips jumping up against his. Palming it once before rolling it again Spencer sucks a mark near your collarbone. He wants his lips on something.

 Wants a bruise to form on your skin that makes you feel beautiful– one that has a memory attached you’re not frightened of. 

Once “More…” slips past your lips he’s removing himself from your neck and placing his open and ready mouth on your other nipple, sucking lightly. Spencer fucking loves this. He licks with his tongue broadened before putting the nipple into his lips. Spittle drips between the cleavage of your chest all the while his hand is massaging your other breast.

Pulling away to see his damage, he smiles. Dazedly moves his mouth to your other breast like it’s second nature to him. The spit left on your breast works as a quick lubricant for his fingers to pull and rub at your nipple again. So focused on suckling your tits, Spencer is not aware of your humping against his hip bone. Moans spilling into the empty humid air alongside Spencer’s gentle hums of mania.

“Mmm, Spencer. I- fuck. Never took you for such a fucking tease. Did not expect to be on the brink of begging to cum tonight.”

Gasping for breath, Spencer detaches himself from you. He could have been doing that for five minutes or five hours, he has no clue. Regardless, he was not trying to wring you out– though the thought of you begging him to cum makes his figurative tail wag. Next time!

“Uhh. Sorry. Ha, do you still want me to-”

“Yes.”

“So I’m forgiven-” His smile grows as he positions himself between your legs again.

“Spencer-” A little whine, a furrow of your brow mixed with the small desperate shift of your hips sends him into a frenzy. Typically so tough and stoic around your team, begging him to touch you now.

Taking too long to pull your shorts and underwear down together, your hands push the fabric along with Spencers, the anticipation in your fingertips shocking him. 

Now with your clothes discarded, you and Spencer are both fully naked together. He rubs at the skin of your outer thighs to soothe any nerves you (or him) have, still getting acquainted with the way you like to be touched. He wants to do it so right you can’t think– wants to make you feel so good you can’t even fathom being stressed.

He kisses your inner thigh, stalling or just proving that he can kiss wherever he wants boldly. 

“Do you need- should I help?” You gasp out, remembering the inexperience he has, not wanting to intimidate him in a situation where it’s supposed to be life-altering.

“Mm. What do you like?” He speaks against the skin of your thigh, not wanting to pull away from its warmth yet.

“I just- God. Messy? Suction in your cheeks.. ah, should probably hold my legs down.”

Spencer can’t help the smile at your instructions, he can definitely do that. Moving away from the home he was making on your thigh he positions himself in front of your center. Slightly puffy and wet from the friction of grinding against him, he takes in the need painted all over you.

A small gust of air blows out of his lips onto your clit, your hips wiggle. He kisses it, the first taste of yourself against his lips and he aches for more. Licking up whatever you have dripped out during your rutting and whining, he tastes you fully for the first time moaning against your nerves. 

Messy, he remembers. Pulling away just slightly, he spits out a trail of saliva against your pussy, taking one hand off a leg he rubs it around in sloppy experimental circles. A loud moan from your lips as encouragement. Those same fingers pry your lips open wider so your clit is more exposed to him.

More spit and he’s sucking your bud into his mouth, hallowing his cheeks and running his tongue against you through suctions. His wet strands of hair are being yanked, a dull sting that has him rubbing his hips against the mattress.

“Yeah- good, good. You’re good-” you mumble out quickly. You must’ve remembered you’re his coach of sorts, not expecting the act to be so good you can’t explain it to him anymore.

A pitiful “ughn!” gets punched out of your chest as Spencer slurps up incoming wetness from your core up to his saliva pooling around your clit and swallows like it’s nothing. Spencer finds his favorite is sucking your clit between his lips and pulling away before letting it go back to place. It leaves your taste lingering in his mouth and has your legs spasming around him.

Replacing his tongue with two of his fingers rubbing back and forth against your clit, he wants to talk over the noises of wet friction coming from your bodies,

“You know– even though you’re laying there so pretty for me, your legs shake similarly to how your muscles would when working out. Your heart rate is increasing, adrenaline is spiking which is why you feel tingly. Am I right?”

“Spencer-”

Fingers slipping easily against you, he picks up his pace, “Your muscles are actually contracting in that same way as you would if you were working out. Tensing and releasing in the same manner- I mean. Your brain can’t differentiate the adrenaline either, which is why your body is reacting in this way. Lights up your nervous system like crazy too,”

“S-spencer-”

“Your sympathetic nervous system manages your fight or flight,” he pauses his sentence to switch fingers against your clit, a thumb coming to massage circles now, “triggering those moments of shaking, rapid breathing- crying-”

“Spencer- this. This is going to make me cum.”

You squeeze your eyes shut– shutting down your mind and body after your warning– letting him do whatever he wants with that information.

He decides to pull his fingers away to suction your clit again, wanting to taste you as you cum. 

Moans dissolving, your face twists up before finishing on his face with a long whimper. The aftershocks are so strong you’re rubbing yourself against his flat out tongue as you hiccup through the overstimulation.

It was shocking, to Spencer. Feeling so confident and in his element during this. Quite literally born to stick his tongue out for you to wiggle and hump against till your voice goes quiet. 

Quickly, Spencer moves up to kiss you again, making sure you know how badly he still wants to. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever cum that hard-” you laugh breathlessly, grabbing one of his wrists to bring his fingers that were against you to your mouth.

Leaving Spencer’s brain fuzzy, you place your tongue out before wrapping your lips around the digits, sucking yourself off of his skin. In his excitement he might’ve pushed his fingers down a bit too far, spit collecting at the corner of your mouth as you gag lightly.

Gently but swiftly pulling them out, he looks at you with concern filling his eyes. You just smile a pretty, lazy smile back at him laughing out a, “Fucker-”

‘I-I’m sorry.” He feels his forehead begin to sweat and an embarrassed flush melt his skin.

“Mm. Don’t be, baby.”

Baby. The old walls of the motel room are closing in on him. This is what he has been waiting to hear his whole life. A fucking pet name. Spencer can only give you a light awkward laugh in return.

Just like earlier this evening, you’re pushing one of his sides, silenting guiding him to go wherever it would please you. Spencer could die being your willing follower. This lands him on his back again. 

Looking down at his cock leaking by his belly button and his red skin on his sides from your scratching, he hums happily. You’ve sat yourself on his upper thighs, breasts above where he lays shining with his matted spit and he’s reminded how badly he wants them in his mouth again.

“Spencer, dear, how do you feel about me on top?”

“Uhhuh.”

“Yeah, uhhuh? Or “I don’t care” uhhuh?”

“Yes, please. Uhhuh.”

“So polite,” you coo, bending down to kiss his lips, hand gripping his jaw, “I can’t wait to feel you, fuck.”

Spencer is just trying to analyze the person who he was before this is over. How many times has he cum into his hand or against the mattress and deeply sighed after because it’ll never be a real person? Hyperbolic melodramatics aside, a lot. 

He feels you lift your hips up from his legs to position yourself over top of him, grabbing his base for it to stand upright for you. He groans, wants to continue to manhandle and correct him forever so he can be useful to you in this way. As long as he gets to see your wetness stick and collect against your skin as you open your legs wider.

Placing a palm against his chest you nuzzle his head in between you. Completely silent and focused, the room is merely filled with Spencer's borderline agonizing whines. While trying to fit him inside you, you're lubing him with yourself, slipping the head in for a moment, pulling out to rub against you, putting him back in, one delicious grind against his head– so on and so forth.

He briefly considers how this could get anybody to talk. We should use this in interrogations. Spencer would literally spill any secret for this to continue. 

A final pop signifies his head has fully entered you and the simultaneous gasp you both let out splashes heat into his face, his back arches. 

You make eye contact and give him a shy, reserved smile as you work your hips up and down, trying to take in as much as you can.

Huh? How can you feel shy– Spencer is elated right now.

“S-sorry. Ha, been a while..” You cut yourself off with a high pitched moan as another inch slides into you.

Huh?! You could literally just massage his dick against your clit like you were doing before and Spencer wouldn’t complain about anything for another month. How are you apologizing now?

“I can’t,” he laughs, “I can’t even talk. Right now, I can’t. Don’t say sorry.” Spencer tries his best at reassuring you.

“F-feeling good? I just want your first time to be, ah!-”

His eyes roll back as you take him fully, sat completely on his lap now, two hands gripping into his chest. He can feel the blood rushing in his veins and can count every atom in his body with how they’re vibrating. Yes, he feels good.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…” becomes his mantra. Truly, really, he wants to talk to you. He needs you to know that this trumps all other first times ever in the history of the world. Spencer genuinely can’t get it out. So he nods and nods and nods while his heart thumps and saliva collects messily at the corner of his lips.

Grabbing a bit too much, honestly, he pulls you down to kiss him more. Making sure to kiss the cut on your lip before going in fully. Feeling you squeeze around him while pulling yourself up to begin bouncing, he gently licks your slightly parted lips, trying to taste your sweet sighs toppling out of them.

A small suckle against the tip of his tongue tenses his thighs and you pull away to where you were, using his chest as an anchor so you can bounce against him frantically. One of his hands is glued to your waist while the other is pulling at your nipple till you’re letting out uninterrupted groans. 

You throb around him and pause when his hand on your reaches to your other breast, kneading and pulling to match the other. He pushes the cups up with his palm while rubbing your pebbled buds between the side of his thumb and forefinger. The stimulation is delicious, unrelenting, and rough.

“Spencer- h-hold on, please. Gentle.” You gasp with a sigh as you slow down, not being able to focus on the right angle with his hands teasing you so much. He closes his eyes and smiles, hands trail slowly to your stomach, rubbing there.

Teasingly, you bring your fingers to Spencer’s own hardened nipples, rolling them between fingers briefly. Letting out an embarrassingly similar noise to “guh!” Spencer's eyes shoot open and your hands retreat.

Through a fit of giggles, you muster out a “sorry baby, had to!”

He sighs, settles back against the pillow more, “that felt good.”

“Mmhmmmm.” You smile and begin moving again. With Spencer���s hands needing a new place to go he eyes your clit peeking out between your sweaty bodies. Three of his fingers come together to rub circles against you that match your bounces.

“Shittt. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

How could he ever?

Sucking in a breath you slow your movements again, replacing them with a slow and deep grind against him as you take in both sensations simultaneously. Spencer watches your face, completely involved in consuming pleasure, almost a disbelieving shock written in your expression.

More of your slick pools around him, Spencer is acutely aware of it dripping down his very inner thigh to the mattress. You continue moaning softly in staccato, grinding your hips in circles as he plays with your clit. 

And just like that it’s gone. Your eyes open with a gasp as you stutter out, “s-sorry!” and go back to bouncing up and down on his length.

Again he’s confused. Spencer has never seen such a face full of pleasure, why would you stop?

“Wh? What's wrong?” He manages out with a scratchy throat.

“Hn? Ah, nothing. I just know that doesn’t feel that good for you guys-”

Spencer squints his eyes. What douches have you had sex with that have told you that grinding against them is less suitable than the bouncing? Is not watching you use them to get off not the sexiest thing ever? Literally. Ever.

Your back was arching and you could barely talk while your toes curl and you’re worried about him? 

“Noo, no. Angel- do it. Please, you can. Get off, just, yeah, use me to get off.”

Hands gripping your hips to stall them, your head falls back with a whimper. Panting breaths into the ceiling Spencer continues to guide your hips. Dragging them back and forth like how you were earlier.

“Fuck. Feels s’good. You’re like- I can feel you everywhere-” Your voice breaks on the last word, high pitched and frail as the grinding continues.

Allowing yourself to give into pleasure now, you’re moving your hips against him without the aid, leaving Spencer to circle your clit and moan at the sight of you.

Back bending prettily and mewling increasingly with the shaking of your thighs, Spencer senses your second orgasm is approaching.

“Shit. I- I think I’m gonna cum again, baby.” 

Your hand slaps against your mouth as you cum against Spencer, his fingers remain their circles on your clit, hips isolating to grind against you while you cum too hard to do it for yourself.

You gasp and slump your weight against Spencer’s chest, his dick falling out of you while you do so. His hands rub up and down the expanse of your back as you place kiss after kiss against his neck.

“Kay,” you begin rolling to your back, “your turn.”

Spencer looks over at you, grinning ear to ear. He was not expecting to be fashioning himself between your thighs tonight, he can barely contain his excitement as he rolls on top of you. Before he’s inside of you again and completely rendered speechless, he decides to get out all the words he couldn’t tell you before.

“You’re treating me so well,” he rests his head against your fluttering entrance, “I never imagined feeling so good,” he kisses your jaw, “such a good girl.” he finishes whispering against your ear as he slides inside of you.

This angle is different, for sure. Your legs are locked together against his back and having the free reign to control the thrusts and movements is making Spencer feel delightfully overwhelmed with desire.

He finds it’s easier to talk to you this way. So he’s running his mouth in pants beside your ear as you moan gently through overstimulation.

“You feel so wet. I could do this forever. I want to be around you forever. I’m so glad I’m here. You feel so good. I- I’m gonna cum.”

Pausing his rambling, Spencer stills his hips. Totally not wanting this to end and brutally aware that if he finishes right now he’s going to be completely knocked out after. His mind wanders to your cunt. You’ve orgasmed twice, you’re so wet around him that it’s been dripping everywhere for who knows how long. He has to taste you again.

Before he knows it, “Sorry-” is falling from his bitten lips and he’s pulling out of you. Your gasp makes him place a wet kiss against your stomach as he moves down between your parted legs.

This sight before him. Jaw dropping. All over your thighs and cunt is your and Spencer’s mix of fluids. You’re more swollen and open than before– he could still cum like this.

More gently than before he’s licking up everything that's smeared across your sensitive flesh in a dirty display of your feelings for one another. He’s moving his head around rather than his tongue, just maneuvering himself to savor everything you’ve expelled.

Muffled whines and pleads meet his ears doing so. Apparently, it’s “so much” and you “can’t cum again” but gripping his hair against you anyway. He’s never heard you so broken down and vulnerable as you beg him “please, please, please…” for maybe relief or for more. 

Bringing his hand down he slides in two of his fingers to rub at your walls. Certainly not as full as you were being fucked by Spencer, but still enough for you to leak the sticky white fluid you emit when being destroyed particularly well.

“Uh. Uh. Shit. Spencer. Mm. I feel like- I have to-” You babble pitifully as he sucks at your clit gently.

Whatever it is, he’ll take it. Lap it up and swallow it happily like a spoonful of sugar after cough medicine. 

Thighs closing in on his head, you cum again. Small bursts of fluid dribble out of you and pool around his fingers. So that’s what you were trying to say. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re so beautiful. That was so beautiful. Oh my god.”

Spencer is pulling his (very) wet fingers out of you to kiss all over your embarrassed face. 

“Please- Spencer. Cum in me.” 

Right. His dick is red and begging and drooling and twitching uncomfortably. 

Caging in your head with his forearms, he drops his forehead against yours and fucks himself back into you. Being wrapped around your warm, wet, tight pussy again makes him keen, shaking his head against yours like he can’t take all of it.

Your hands are combing reassuringly through his hair as you praise him, “you’re making me feel so good, nobody has ever made me feel so good. Baby, cum for me please, I need to feel you.”

With a bite of your lip between his teeth after a particularly toothy kiss, Spencer comes inside of you. Shaking like a leaf and whining through gasps he slides in and out, milking his cock for every last second it can survive inside of your heat.

Holding onto each other with a fervor not equipped for the unbearable heat wave outside you drag your lips, give small passing kisses while shuddering together. Hidden in the crook of your neck Spencer whimpers out, “I want to stay here forever.”

“Yeah? I do too.”

“I really don’t want to leave.”

You sigh but are smiling against his hair anyway, confidently hopeful without reason for the first time in your life. 

“We don’t have to.”

𓆱

6am the next morning a thunderous rain patters against the police stations windows, a deep abyss of dark sky wrongly indicating that the comforting blanket of night is still in place instead of the crack of dawn.

Spencer finds you separated from him again, the brutal reminder of you indeed not working on the same team churns his stomach. At the station Spencer builds a geographical profile to find the whereabouts of a certain fired theology professor, Dr. Lucien Harrow. 

Out in the whirling storms of Jefferson, you, Derek, Hotchner, and your unit chief who was particularly nasty to you are driving out to find where he resides, then, you can see if there may be any clues to where the cult is meeting. 

Spencer aches with the idea of you out in the flooded narrow backroads. Tree branches thrashing in the wind, skeletal fingers clawing at the sky in electric stripes. He should be there with you. Making sure nothing happens to you again.

Two sharp rings and Spencer is picking up his phone rapidly to your unsaved number. 

“Dr. Reid?”

“Y-yeah? Yes.”

“What can you tell us about that latin phrase from yesterday?”

“Daemonium Imperium, Fides Aeterna. It has ties to a rare Latin manuscript once banned by the Vatican, moreso a doctrine used by fringe sects of religious extremists, really.”

“So, this cult believes in sacrificial ascension? That death at the hands of a “faithful” leads to eternal peace and communion with the divine?”

“It could be–”

“He- he’s not here. At his house. There’s so much writing. The girls who died were not attacked by the cult or even failed escapees– they were offerings. The five who vanished had never tried to escape. They were elevated within the cult, chosen to carry out the "sacrifice" of their own sisters, believing this would grant them purity. It’s all in… he’s got this diary.”

Spencer's eyebrows shoot up, casting Elle a disturbed glance before he replies.

“Forward anything you found to our technical analyst, see if she can find any private property owned by Harrow. Or just–”

“What?”

“Just please be careful.”

A sigh from your side cuts through his ears, “I’ll try.”

Checking back to the fingerprints found in Harrow’s house, you consult your forensic notes from before in the car. The use of a mess to disguise markings, the complete lack of the unsub’s DNA, and the ritualistic carvings all point to someone not just avoiding detection, but trained to leave no trace.

Your brows furrow, “SSA Hotchner?”

He turns around to you with expectant eyes.

“If he’s so meticulous about cleaning up, most likely the cult grounds are going to be something he knows he has complete control over. Private property of some kind– where he knows he’s not going to be bothered. It���s not going to be open to the public.”

Hotchner nods, already moving toward the car door of the SUV, pulling out the radio from the passenger seat. Rain lashes sideways, but neither of you care.

“We need to cross-reference Harrow’s known associates and past property records, and contact your technical analyst. Anything purchased under shell corporations or family trusts,” you say, flipping through your notes as the others huddle under umbrellas. “Somewhere rural. Isolated. But not abandoned. They’re using this place regularly.”

Derek glances over your shoulder. “You think he’s the owner, or just the shepherd?”

You pause at that. “No. He’s the theologian. The teacher. This isn’t just about murder, this is doctrine. Someone else is in charge of logistics. He just gives the sermons.”

Derek finishes his urgent message to Penelope and within five minutes she’s calling back,

“I just pulled a deed registration from three years ago. Lucien Harrow’s mother passed away, and her will left him a parcel of land in Jefferson County. Sixty acres. No structures reported, but satellite shows some kind of development deep in the forest. Last updated… six months ago.”

The slamming of car doors shock your system as you snap back to reality, rain still coming down like judgment. 

Gravel being assaulted under hard screeching tires overpowers the hard rain as the SUV arrives. A long, low building, windowless, constructed of stone and wood, almost like a monastery. It hums. Not with electricity, with voices.

Whatever's waiting beyond that aged porch, it's not just a killer. It’s a belief system sharpened into a weapon.

Air is sweet and thick with incense and decay. The walls are covered in scripture, various Latin phrases written in blood and soot. Symbols carved into the stone, some fresh, some ancient. A narrow corridor leads deeper underground, illuminated only by flame sconces that flicker like they're breathing.

The infiltration of the compound was surgical and swift. Once the combined teams breached through the basement of the property, they were able to trap the cult members in the underground chamber with nowhere to run.

Those too stunned or resistant were restrained with minimal force, while others dropped to the ground, disoriented and exhausted. Mobile medical units waiting above immediately began triage, administering IV fluids and beginning the long process of deconditioning their minds from Harrow’s indoctrination. 

Once Spencer and Elle arrived on scene they quickly seized the grounds, uncovering journals, recordings, and ritual paraphernalia that provided indisputable evidence of psychological manipulation, religious abuse, and coercive control.

𓆱

“How many times do I have to tell you not to rush in like that, you were almost killed once. We don’t need somebody so liable on this team. We need to be able to count on one another.”

Back at the station, your unit chief growls lowly at you in disbelief, like you didn’t push along the whole case while he sputtered in confusion.

Spencer’s hands tremble slightly underneath the table, eyes locked in on your soaked frame. Prolonged exposure to cold rain increases the likelihood of developing pneumonia by almost 42%, especially when paired with elevated stress levels and lack of rest. 

Before he knows what he’s saying, “You don't get to berate someone for doing the job you failed to do.”

The room goes silent.

Hotch, watching the exchange from across the bullpen, steps in just as you start to gather your breath, taps your shoulder.

“Come with me,” he says, quiet but firm.

At the other side of the room Hotch walks you to a more secluded corner.

“He was out of line,” Hotch says finally. “But so were you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he continues before you can. Who is this guy to offer you any advice?

“However, you think like we do. You’re quick to act and you’re thoughtful. The relentlessness in your pursuit of the truth is not something we see often.” 

“Thanks?”

“We would benefit greatly from a forensic science perspective. The kind of work you’re doing, the casework...but you have to trust the team. You have to trust yourself.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears. Your wet clothes from earlier clinging to you uncomfortably as you feel eyes on you from across the room. 

“Wh-what?”

“You can’t keep pushing yourself to the edge, not without someone to have your back. Your team does not have your back. If you accept, I could request your transfer of units into the BAU in Quantico.”

You can feel the weight of his words settle in the air between you. Eyes comically wide you watch the way this past week has unfolded like a flip book. Never have you felt good enough, the constant ridicule of your all-male team and consistent chiding remarks have ground you down into a fine paste of the person you were on your first day.

You can’t tell if it’s the offer of a lifetime, or the fact that someone finally sees you, sees worth in you, beyond forensic input on a grisly crime scene or the hollow praise in the field after everyone’s gone home. 

You blink. Once. Twice. The room feels suddenly too small, your soaked shirt too tight, your voice caught somewhere between fear and desperate relief. Spencer. A laugh bubbles out of you, watery and raw. You swipe a hand over your face, unsure if it’s to wipe away tears or the sweat beading on your brow. 

“Yes. I accept. Thank you. Yes.”

A fatherly clap on your shoulder, Hotchner turns away winking over at Spencer where he’s still sitting, eyes dry from staring at your conversation so long across the room.

𓆱

Wet trousers stick to the flat area of the sink in the station's bathroom as Spencer opens your mouth against his, hands feeling all over your damp skin. The kisses are never ending. Brutally pushed against your lips or dusted around any skin he can find.

“I can’t. I can’t believe this. I mean, you’re beyond qualified and capable but- I never thought good things like this could happen to me.”

You place your head down and bite his blazer-clad shoulder.

“You’re not getting rid of me. This is insane. You’re going to be so sick of me.”

Two warm palms encircle your cheeks, “That’s not even funny,” Spencer kisses your mouth once, licks a stripe up your neck making you giggle. “You’re… you’re going to see my apartment, the plane… we won’t be doing filing work together you’ll probably be on the side with Garcia, but, but you’re going to help us so much. I can’t believe this. I’m going to be with you every day.”

A strike of uncontrollable happy tears prick your eyes. Looking at Spencer, you wrap your arms around him tightly– enough to break his back even, the total definition of a bear hug. Another kiss is being placed on your chilled skin.

“You worried me earlier. You can really get sick being all wet for this long. Let’s go back and change.”

For a moment it's as if the motel room is your and Spencer’s shared home of domestic bliss. The leaky ring around the ceiling of the bathroom and the draft from the old window harbors the most intricate portrayal of the life you’ve built in a week; obsessive, tender, but strangely whole. 

The scratchy carpet remembers the quiet shuffle of Spencer’s socks, and the chipped headboard knows the heat of his hands. There’s a toothbrush next to yours, the rest of his toiletries not even unpacked yet. It has held the illusion of permanence through your time spent there anticipating when it’ll all end.

But now, it doesn’t have to end. Not really. Not with the move, not with the way everything’s about to shift, closer, steadier. You’ll be in his world now, not just in passing, not just in moans swallowed by motel rooms dressed up as borrowed homes. 

The illusion starts to feel like something more: a prelude.

𓆱𓆱𓆱𓆱𓆱 tags: @luvsvite @rainydayathogwarts @liuralibrar @cel070321

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. Slight angst, fluff, kissing, PDA, cuddling, mentions of family issues, hints towards darker themes.

A/N: A bit shorter (not by much) but I thot of the you're welcome song from the Moana soundtrack tbh.

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P23: Me Too

The smile on my face refuses to falter for even a second. Chris and I have been talking for hours at this point, exchanging memories while sitting in my bay window, my legs resting across his lap as his hands massage up and down my calves. 

“-and then Nick would always get me and Matt to do some dumb shit for him. One time, oh my,” he laughs dryly, his eyes twinkling with fond emotions, “-one time he convinced us to film a YouTube video.” His shoulders seem to slug, his voice becoming more strained, “It’s just us, in our car, talking about god knows what, but…when I really miss him…I go back and I, um—I watch it.” 

My heart squeezes in my chest. The raw feelings are noticeable in his voice, his eyes glazed over with a glowing joy dimmed by a subtle sadness. 

Reaching out, I place my hand on top of his. Chris immediately maneuvers his hand, cupping his palm to mine as he spares me a half smile. 

“It’s still up?” I ask, referring to the video. 

“I, uh—yeah,” he says, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his eyes fall down to our intertwined hands. “-I didn’t…I couldn’t take it down, you know? I just—I…can’t.” 

The longer he rambles, the quieter his words get. I find myself clutching his hand a little tighter, breathing shallow as I hear him clear his throat. 

“You should tell me, um….tell me about you and Baylen,” he suggests, shifting the attention towards me, “-gotta be some fun stories there, right?” he questions, playfully nudging my shoulder 

Ugh. Baylen. 

Listening to all of Chris’ stories made the relationship with my brother look like ashes and dust. 

It hurts to think about the good times—it hurts to remember how few fond memories we actually have together. 

“Oh, um…” I hum, trailing off as I try to think. 

Shuffling through various thoughts and instances, my mind runs completely blank. 

The sensation of sunlight beaming through my window and onto my back becomes evidently apparent. Warmth crawls over my shoulders, the tops of my ears burning as I feel a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. 

I can’t even think of one singular time. 

My face burns with an uncomfortable heat. I feel my throat get tighter as I try to open my mouth to speak, some sort of stutter mixed with a heavy breath falling from my lips. 

“Hey,” Chris soothes, his thumb massaging circles on the back of my palm as he stares at me with soft eyes, “-you don’t have to. Tell me anything you want, alright?” 

I nod at his statement, immediately able to take a deep breath from the relief of pressure. 

What could I tell him?

“Well,” I start, my lips rolling together as my brows scrunch together, “-I used to always sleep in his bed. I, uh—just kept having accidents and wouldn’t wanna wake up my parents. So, I’d change and go to his room. We used to make his entire room a fort, it…it was nice.”

God. 

I miss that. 

Baylen’s room was my sanctuary at some point. We would hide toys under his bed, extra pillows and blankets to build our fort to cover his entire room. 

“You guys used to be close?” Chris questions. 

“Yeah,” I puff, “-very close.” 

Something inside of my chest burns as I mutter the words. It used to be so fun, so perfect. He was the best brother someone could ask for, but that changed—and I still can’t figure out why. 

“Did things change when your dad passed?” he mumbles, soothingly rubbing his hand over the back of my palm with reassurance. 

“Um…no—not really.” I answer. My brain fogs as I try to retrace the moment everything seemed to change between us, but it always felt so abrupt—so unprompted. 

One night, I was following my typical routine, wandering into his room in the middle of the night. I had another accident, waking up in a puddle of pee and crying with shame. 

My parents room was no longer the place I went to, not after the time my mom screamed at me, shoving me out and yelling with tears. She used to help me wash off and get new pajamas, she used to tell me it was okay—she used to care when I cried. 

Baylen tugged me into his room after that. I’d woken him up with my crying and he creeped into my room, helping me wash off and dressing me in his pajamas. The lego pj set of his was my favorite and even though he loved them, he never wore them after that—he always offered them to me. 

Night after night, it became routine. I didn’t even bother considering my parents room. I’d walk over to Baylen’s door, waiting patiently for him to let me in. 

And he always did. No matter how tired or how long his day was, he always got up while half-asleep, letting me in his room and helping me clean up. 

Eventually, he just left his door unlocked. It was odd at first since Baylen was always incessant on locking his door, scared of possible intruders because of the paranoia due to how much graphic media he’d consume. 

But he always left it unlocked for me.

Until one night, he didn’t. 

At first I thought he’d just forgotten—but then I knocked. A lot. He wouldn’t answer. 

Little me wanted to think it was just a one time thing, but it kept happening. 

And at one point, it hurt too much to even try to get him to open the door. 

“Hey.” Chris’ voice tugs me back to reality. 

My glossy eyes burn as I blink furiously, the sensation of his hand soothing over mine more intently making my chest rise and fall with an automatic deep breath. 

“I…sorry,” I mumble. 

Chris shakes his head, giving me a sympathetic smile before clearing his throat. “Don’t gotta say sorry. I just…you looked a little too deep in thought. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” he says. 

My lips roll together as I swallow the lump in my throat. The way his eyes are piercing into me makes everything feel so real—so alive. 

It’s good and bad. 

I hate how naked my skin seems, I hate how rough the air is sliding into my lungs. 

But I love how my heart seems to patter in my chest, I love how vibrant everything seems to be. 

Especially his eyes. 

God, they’re perfect. 

Chris keeps rambling more about his family. My heart feels lighter in my chest as I listen to him talk so lovingly about fond memories, my head starting to lean on his shoulder as I sink fully into the moment. 

___

“Yep, just—there you go,” Chris praises, the word forcing a blush to crawl over my cheeks. 

Somehow, we ended up talking more about Baylen. I mentioned how he loves playing video games, but I was never good enough to play with him. He’d always get frustrated. 

I couldn’t blame him, I never knew what I was doing. 

But Chris offered to help. He brought me over to his house, having me sit in his lap on his gaming chair. His PC was confusing, but it’s a lot less confusing with each question he answered.

“Just keep—see!” he exclaims, squeezing my hips as he turns his face to nuzzle his nose into the side of my neck. “-you got it.” 

God.

His husky voice makes my stomach swarm in knots. I gently rest the controller down on his desk, pausing the game before relaxing into him.

“Hmmmm,” Chris hums, hugging me a bit tighter. His hand hesitantly slides under my shirt. He rests a flat palm on my stomach, his thumb swiveling as he places a soft kiss on the side of my neck.

The heat of his touch contrasts from the cool breeze drifting through his semi cracked window. A fog of air clouds the sun, a distant glow hidden through the cloudy scenery outside. 

“I really like you, you know that?” Chris mentions, soothing his entire palm in circles on my lower stomach. 

My breath halts in my chest from his statement before I let out a deep sigh. I nuzzle the back of my head further against his shoulder, biting my lower lip as I feel his hair tickle at my jawline. 

“I like you too, pretty boy.” 

The remark falling from my mouth makes him pull me impossibly closer. Chris smiles against me, his lips pecking on my collarbone with swift kisses.

“Can’t do that to me, c’mon,” he puffs, teasingly nibbling on the edge of my ear, “-can’t say shit like that and expect me not to—”

“Alright, break it up, lovebirds.”

Peeking my eyes open and over Chris’ shoulder, I see Matt standing with his arms crossed and an awkwards expression on his face. 

“Go away, Matt.” Chris huffs, hugging me firmly. 

“Mia wants help choosing what to post on her instagram from—”

“You help her then, I’m not sharing,” Chris interrupts, cutting Matt off. 

My eyes roll as I try to stand up. Chris pulls me even tighter against him, his heart rapidly beating against my back as I try to bite back a smile. 

“Chris, I wanna help Mia,” I huff, a dry laugh falling from my lips as he reluctantly shakes his head against me. 

It’s a little frustrating, but not annoying. 

I want to help Mia, I want to be a part of anything she wants to include me in. 

But I also love how he’s holding me. The way he’s trying to hug me as if our skin will somehow glue together. 

“Chri—”

Before I can call out his name again, he stands up, holding me bridal style as I clutch my fist into his shirt out of shock. 

“Fine. We’re both going.” he states. 

Carrying me down the hall, he walks into Matt’s room, shifting me in his hold as he sits down with me still on his lap. Mia is sitting on the edge of the bed next to us, a look of shock and excitement plastered on her face as she wiggles her brows towards me.

“Do you want help or not?” Chris asks, sighing as his hands start to rub up and down the tops of my thighs. 

My face goes red as Matt stalks into the room, his eyes wide as he pushes his attention towards the ground, shaking his head. Mia pushes her phone in front of me, swiping through an array of pictures that makes my smile curl wider on my cheeks.

“Awwwww!” I exclaim, looking up at her with a pout of adoration. 

Each picture is adorable. Her and Matt were at a park, coordinating outfits as they posed in front of the camera effortlessly. I can see the glow of pure devotion in the way they’re looking at each other, I can feel the love through the screen.

“I don’t know which one to post,” Mia whispers sheepishly under her breath. 

“You smiled the most when you showed me the first one.” I point. 

She rolls her lips together, nodding briefly. “Yeah, I just…I feel like my hair looks the worst in that one,” she huffs. 

I laugh seeing Matt make an offended facial expression out of the corner of my eye. 

Before anyone can say another word, Chris picks me back up as he stands walking out of the bedroom and shouting as he starts to take steps back towards his own room, “Bye! You’re welcome!” 

His voice drops in volume as we stumble back into his room. He drops me on his bed carefully, immediately flopping onto me and nuzzling his face on my stomach. 

Chris sighs in frustration, hesitantly pushing his hand beneath my shirt before looking up at me with wide eyes. “Can I?” he asks. 

I nod while tangling my hands into his hair. Chris shoves the fabric upwards, bunching it beneath my breasts before laying down and pressing his cheek against my skin. 

“Thank you,” he breathes, tilting his face enough to be able to plant a delicate kiss right above my belly button. 

I hum while combing through his hair, “Thank you. Hopefully Baylen will give me a chance to play those video games with him now.” 

Chris lets out a deep sigh while moving his fingers and tracing along over my rib cage. “Of course. Let me know how it goes with him. I got you, just…just play those with me too, okay? I like having you in my arms like that.” he admits.

I lick over my lips while humming in agreement, “I do too.”

[snourch]

As a quick rundown:

you cant block people on the site yet

there is no self-censorship option. You cannot add a clickable filter over your own works

they say that the no-nipple rule is because they use Stripe, and Stripe's terms of service are strict about not allowing any sort of nsfw content. They took down the onsite marketplace, which is what Stripe was being used for, and still said they wouldnt remove the no-nipple rule because they "may use Stripe in the future."

They sell merchandise with the logo on it (which includes baby onesies)

you can literally get blocked from the discord server if you hurt a staff member's feelings (good luck figuring it out, though! my friend who got blocked in February still hasn't received an email back explaining why they got banned!)

They didn't disclose their developments for almost a goddamn year, and it's because it took me and multiple users consistently bugging the staff about transparency

They have deleted art of post-op shirtless transmascs before but then immediately backed down when myself and a few others pressed them on this issue, and said it was okay to post nipples ONLY if it was a post-op transmasc

people will post gooner bait all the time but bc no genitals or nipples are showing, it's perfectly fine and acceptable.

they only have 2-4 people moderating ALL of the content on the website.

Upper management consistently ignored feedback from the accessibility committee THEY ORGANIZED. When someone from the accessibility committee pushed back and asked about this, they were figuratively demoted in the server

They only recently hired another backend developer. Only one person had been working on the site the entire time, and said person had to develop a website with over 100,000+ users

they have four discord mods for a 6,000+ server, and they only get paid $125 a month

One person handles compiling like 75% of the community feedback, and has had to work way more than any one employee should. If this person quit, I genuinely think the community would collapse, and that's a problem

You will get in trouble if you yourself use too many swear words on the server

There are not a lot of boundaries in place for adult artists and minor artists. This has led to some super fucking messy interactions my god.

They will give a special spotlight to certain contributors on Unvale, which means they get a little shoutout on their official blog, and a special chat in the discord with the mods/staff. This means their feedback is more immediately seen. However, these "Superstars" are also expected to do moderation for the server, as theyre supposed to be "role models" for the community

You cannot delete your account UNLESS YOU JOIN THE DISCORD, AND SUBMIT A SPECIAL REQUEST FOR THEM TO DELETE YOUR ACCOUNT.

For months, they constantly complained they could not implement many of the moderation features and what have you that people were requesting, because they did not have enough staff. They kept advertising on youtube, instagram, and other socmed platforms however. They only recently hired new moderators and developers.

Nobody knows where their money is coming from. There are no advertisements on the site, they refuse donations, and they refuse volunteer work. There's no premium membership, either. Genuinely, the only sources of money I've found were from a wefundr campaign, and from Casey's venture capital companies. I must once again repeat that Stripe is no longer used on the website. They took down their artist marketplace.

I'm not going to disclose all of my sources for this information, because the sources are from good people on the Unvale staff who genuinely have their hearts in the right place. Some of this, too, is purely anecdotal evidence from my own experiences. There are a lot of good artists in the discord server and I've made so many wonderful friends. But that's...kind of the problem. I used the discord more than the website.

I wanted Unvale to be good. I wanted it to improve. But after months of giving the same feedback over and over, and with users who had been using it for even longer giving the same feedback I did...It started feeling less like the founders actually cared about artists and the community, and more about growth.

The site was founded in 2021, before the huge AI boom to be fair. However, based on Toyhouse forums I've looked at and talking to more seasoned users, it sounds like the site was very different back in 2021. I don't think Unvale is exploitative, so much as mismanaged.

TLDR; Unvale needs a lot more time to bake before anyone should consider using it. In the meantime, use Cara, Characterhub or Toyhouse. Watermark and Glaze/Nightshade your art.

A fight we can win together

Hello, Tumblr. It’s Casey and Bri, founders of Unvale. We’re reaching out to those who are as frustrated about generative AI as we are. Right now, it feels like we’re in a battle of technology against creatives. A battle of greed against humanity.

As the founders of Unvale, a creative platform that’s 100% AI-free, it has been disheartening to see the rise of AI online. Our team stands opposed to every AI tech company that is trying to remove creatives from the creative process. Big social platforms are already ingesting your content, your voice, and your likeness, building a model that will take opportunities away from real people. It’s disgusting, and it should be illegal. We have to push back. The platform we are building is already home to over 200,000 aspiring artists, writers, and creatives looking to develop their stories and share their work. We believe that the future of creativity should remain human-made, and we want to give anyone passionate about an idea a shot at creating something spectacular. AI is the cheap, quick win. We know that building something meaningful takes time and effort, but it’s also immensely rewarding. Like creatives, we believe in the power of human creativity.

Right now, Unvale could use your help. If you believe in our anti-AI message, please consider:

Spreading our message. If you already love Unvale or just resonate with what we’re saying, please share our platform with others. We are a platform for humans, and we need humans to advocate for us, not bots.

Joining our platform. It’s free to sign-up, and it’s a great site to slowly build your characters, your worlds, and your amazing stories in an AI-free space with big potential.

Never stop creating. We need flawed, genuine, thoughtfully-crafted art in our world. It’s the only way we make new things. We need it to let the next generation know that creatives aren’t going anywhere.

We grew up spending most of our time in human-made, fantastical worlds, from Star Wars to D&D campaigns. We know how escaping into these worlds can literally save you. And we’re not going to let AI win without a fight.

This is a fight we can win together. 

Written, not generated, by,

Casey and Bri https://unvale.io

[daegall]

☆ when the candles burn out.

➷ Jeno Lee has everything he's wished for, except for you.

pairing: best friend!jeno x (implied fem!) reader

genre: bff2l!AU (WE R SOOO BACK), birthday!AU, university!AU, fluff, slight angst

warnings: none, but feel free to lmk if you find any

word count: 2.6k words

a/n: happies birthday to the (officially titled!) birthday boyyy!!! wishing him the very very best and hope that he knows we're so proud of him and love him sooo much!!!! I've missed writing sm so this was soo fun to make!! sorry if i've been super inactive, i've still got a lot to do before graduation ♡ i hope you all enjoy!!!

If he was asked, Jeno would say his life is very fulfilling, and that he's completely satisfied with it. How could he say any differently? He's doing really well in University, he's got amazing friends and a steady side job to support himself. He shouldn't be complaining.

But he's lying to himself. He knows he feels empty inside. And he knows what could fill that void.

It's you.

Jeno always felt he was missing something—he figured he would fix it later in life. He never knew it would hurt this much, he never knew it would be this hard to fix it. Frankly, he wishes it was something else that would be the glue to fix everything in his life.

It's not that Jeno hated you, no, he loved you. So dearly—he's never ever felt anything so intense in his life. Every time he looked at you, it was like he was reading his favorite book, unable to peel his eyes off the pages. Every time he heard your voice, it was like listening to the soft chirping of birds in the morning—the breeze in the afternoon—the comforting sounds of the bustling city in the evening. And when you touched him, a hug, or even something as simple as a high-five, it's as if you're a fireplace in winter, keeping him warm, inside and out.

God, he wanted you. Bad. Jeno never know one could yearn so deeply. He was never one good with words, but you make him want to write thousands of poems and sing melodies dedicated just to you.

The echoing questions that all his friends constantly ask him haunt him.

'Why don't you tell her?'

'She doesn't know yet?'

'What's the worst that could happen?'

'Why are you so scared?'

That's what Donghyuck always asks him. Jeno can't begin to tell him, he doesn't know where to start, Donghyuck wouldn't understand the turmoil he feels.

Jeno's scared that he's not what you expect. That you have a completely different vision of him than who he actually is. Jeno thinks you need someone who is able to love you loudly, who isn't afraid to give you everything that you not only need, but want, too. Jeno is sure that he's not your ideal man.

Today's his birthday. 25th. He knows because Jaemin greets him the very first this morning, calling him 'halfway-50 year old'. Jeno only rolls his eyes at his usual strange antics, pushing him out of the way of the fridge to grab his yogurt from the fridge.

When Jeno checks his phone, he realizes that Jaemin isn't the first one to say happy birthday. He finds out with a mouthful of yogurt, and a heart full of love, that it was you. On April 23, military time 00:12, you left a long paragraph wishing him a happy birthday, thanking him for everything and for being a great friend, and wishes of love and luck.

"Friends don't send birthday messages that long."

Jeno barely catches on that Jaemin is shamelessly peeking at his phone, throwing him a pointed look. "Maybe she does."

Jaemin's eyebrows raise—a deadpanned look. "She sent me a sentence on my birthday. At 5pm."

"That's cause you gifted her a giftcard for her birthday."

"That's what friends do!" Jaemin retorts. "You gifted her animal crossing—that shit's expensive!"

Jeno has to admit, he's right. About one thing. Friends don't send an essay's worth of a birthday message.

Okay, yeah, saving up for animal crossing for you took some time, but Jeno would do anything for you. And he means everything.

Like meeting up at your place for a birthday celebration with others. He would much rather spend it with only you, but that doesn't seem to be an option, considering how you love to make a huge deal about his birthday every year.

Now here he stands, at your door, knowing full well that you've planned some 'surprise' party. Despite that, he'll still pretend to be shocked—just to make you happy.

Jeno only needs to wait about 3 seconds right after he knocks, before the door swings open, the music inside finally distinguishable and—oh, it's... you. Just you.

Nobody else is seen behind you in your apartment, the familiar living area he recognizes so easily dimmed with a low, warm light, the walls filled with handing streamers of red and green—his favorite colors.

Jeno's heart has never swelled this much with love, his head has never been so clear and unbelievably messy at the same time, his practiced surprised smile completely fading in an expression of shock, his jaw hanging lightly.

"Hello, birthday boy," You grin. God, Jeno might kiss you.

The way you can't seem to stay still in excitement, the anticipation on your face and the way you wear his sweater, something he's definitely left accidentally somewhere inside there—he adores it all.

He never thought his feelings could get even more eager and heartfelt, and yet here he is, feeling it tenfold right in his heart.

"Come in," You smile, grabbing and tugging at his sleeve gently.

You want to laugh at his surprised expression, your excited smile falling shy. "Surprise! I bet you thought it was like all the surprise parties I hosted, huh?"

Jeno should have seen it coming. The fact that you saw through him almost immediately. A soft huff of a laugh leaves his lips as he nods, growing more comfortable as he ventures deeper into the surprise. His eyes trail over the streamers reflecting the warm light from your lamp, his gratitude growing almost unbearable.

Finally, his eyes land on the cake. Unlike the usual ordered or store-bought cake you make Mark Lee get every year for the party, it's sloppy, and it's clear that you made it yourself. The icing barely covers the full surface of the cake, leaving blank, splotchy spots along the cake.

"I tried my best," You comment, noticing his gaze on your cake. You really did, practicing some nights and watching multiple videos to find the best recipe to use.

Jeno grins even more his gaze shifting to you. If you weren't mistaken... he looks at you differently. Well, he looks at you as he always does, with a twinkle in his eyes and with utmost attentiveness, but tonight... it's different.

You think—and this is a big assumption—that he's looking at you with love. You could only dream that he would admit it.

"I love it," He reassures, slowly approaching you. "thank you, Y/N, I love everything about this."

Your cheeks feel sore from all the smiling, but you can't seem to stop smiling, pulling him into a hug, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. "I'm glad. You deserve the best, Jeno."

Jeno holds you tight, his nose burying into the depths of your hair, eyes shutting to savor the moment as long as possible. His hands are warm, you can feel it through his sweater that you wear, one hand on your lower back, the other between your shoulder blades.

It's as if his hands have burnt through the fabric, because you feel every single movement his hands make. The way his thumbs rub gently up and down—the way his palms tensing up as he holds you closer—this feels better than it should.

When you pull away, the warmth finds it's way to your heart, beating faster suddenly and soaring, as if it was searching for his own to entangle in.

When you lead him to the couch to finally blow out the candles (with he candles now about a third of it's original height), Jeno has never felt happier, leaning in close to the cake.

He laughs when you suddenly panic, halting him to search for your camera.

"Why do you even need to film this?" He chuckles softly, it's a rich sound you find yourself enjoying more than you should.

You roll your eyes, finding the camera on your messy study desk, hidden behind a stack of books you never seem to finish reading. "To remember this! I want to look back on this when I'm eighty and reminisce like a stubborn old lady."

When Jeno blows out his candles after an awkward minute of you singing him 'happy birthday' by yourself, he finds himself wishing that you'd be a stubborn old lady with him. He wishes with his whole heart that he'd be there, reminiscing with you, that'd your grandchildren would be gagging at your love story, he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

Jeno gives you the first slice of the cake, despite your protests, handing it to you with a stern look. His heart melts when you take it from his hands, a small playful scowl on your lips. "I wanted you to taste it first..."

"Fine," He sighs, picking up the two forks you prepared. "we'll eat it together, yeah?"

Jeno dismisses your objections, already stabbing the forks into the cake and scooping it up. He laughs heartily when your words die in your throat, offering the fork to you.

You stare at the piece of cake on your fork with intent. "If it tastes like shit, I'm sorry,"

Even if it did, he'd pretend it was the most delectable delicacy he'd ever eaten. He would believe so, with his whole being. Even if it was bad, your stunning smile would be sweet enough for it to substitute the taste.

You're surprised when Jeno brings his own fork up to your lips, blinking in shock. When you look up at him, he gives you an encouraging look. "I'll feed you, you'll feed me."

You don't think he's aware of how intimate this is. Not when he's looking at you with such innocence and care. But with the dim, warm lighting from the distant lamp, and the music that still plays softly in the background, this feels too romantic—too real.

You go along with it anyway, knowing that you'd do anything and everything for him.

As your lips come in contact with the cake, and your teeth clash just slightly with the metal of the fork, you realize the strawberry jam you used for each layer—it's sour.

Instantly, you gaze up at Jeno, to gauge his reaction and his opinion of your cake, only to see that his mouth is closed, lips stretched into a soft, loving smile as his face his dodged from your fork.

"Jeno, you—how could you!"

In a moment, both forks are on the ground as you lunge forward to grab at his shirt. On your lips is an embarrassed smile, your eyes shut as you shake him back and forth. "You ass! I made this for you..."

"Sorry, sorry!" Jeno laughs, his hands enveloping yours, holding on top of them as you continue to shake him. "You just looked so cute—all anticipated and excited,"

"Yeah! For you to taste it!"

"Fine, fine! I'll taste it! Just stop shaking me!"

When you scowl and release his collar, his hands don't leave yours, instead, he takes your hands in his, his fingers slotting almost perfectly between yours with ease. You don't shy away from this, it's normal for him to do this. It's a typical tactic he uses so you don't start fooling around once more—but this time... it feels different. His touch seems gentler, his thumbs rubbing softly up and down the sides of your palm. You have to admit, it has your heart in a twist.

"How are you going to try it if you keep holding my hands?" You smart him, sticking your tongue out at him.

Jeno's eyes search yours, his gaze deep. It's almost as if he's trying to look into your soul—trying to find the place you keep the thought of him. He should look into your heart, then.

His right hand suddenly leaves yours, and just as you think he's about to grab the fork once more, his hand inches towards your face. You don't dodge it, despite your shock, your lips parting in surprise, and Jeno knows that he's interrupted one of your sassy, smart retorts that he loves so much.

It's like instinct when his palm envelops your cheek, that you lean into his touch, your head tilting into his hold. As his thumbs rub at your cheek, his eyes search your entire face, searching for any signs of discomfort or rejection. He searches, and keeps searching, only to find nothing. You want this. As much as he does.

"...so are you going to try the cake?"

"Give me a minute, you dork,"

You laugh, and he laughs when you laugh. Your laughter entangle in the air and echo, like a resonating song on repeat—the kind that no matter how many times you play over and over, you never get sick of it.

Suddenly, Jeno's nose is brushing against yours. His thumb gently caressing at your bottom lip. He searches your eyes once more, and at this proximity, he can finally tell what you feel. In your eyes, it's him. In his eyes, it's you. In your heart, is his. In his soul, is yours.

The tender exchange of affectionate looks screams only one thing.

I love you.

When Jeno's lips press to yours, you're not surprised. Instead, you welcome it warmly, reciprocating and leaning into it.

His hands travel, one to your neck, the other your waist to tug you closer. Your own find comfort in the hairs of the bottom of his neck, tousling the strands there. You feel his lips curl into a smile, as his neck cranes to find an angle to grow closer to you, if it were possible.

Jeno slowly and gently lowers you to your back, his hand protecting the back of your head as he settles you down on your carpet, hovering over your body. As your arms wrap around his neck, his tongue finds yours, tangling tenderly and lovingly, declaring his care and affection, all his feelings for you.

You smile against his lips as Jeno's laugh vibrates against your own, content and devoted, finding the whole situation unbelievable. Luck truly is in his favor, and he thinks he's one step closer to his birthday wish coming true.

When Jeno pulls away, his breath is warm against your lips, the tip of his nose grazing against yours.

"...tastes sweet," He finally elates, smiling. His eyes find yours, pupils dilated with love.

You laugh out, eyes squeezed shut, and head throwing back against his hand that still holds you protectively. You snort when he gives you a confused, almost lost puppy-like look. "The cake jam was sour, Jeno,"

"Oh," he hums. "must've just been you I was tasting, then..."

You push playfully at his shoulder. "Oh my god, you sappy idiot!"

"No, no," He retorts with a grin. "you taste sweet. I didn't get a single taste of sour,"

"Taste the cake, then!"

"Don't wanna, just want you,"

Despite his words, you make him taste the cake, laughing as his nose scrunches up. "It's—oh god—it's sweet! I swear!" He insists.

Finally, Jeno feels complete. He no longer feels an empty void inside of him, he no longer feels lonely or hurt when he looks at you—though he does feel his heart hurt, swelling with the amount of love he has for you. He can finally say wholeheartedly that he's satisfied with his life, that he feels fulfilled.

He's doing really well in University, he's got amazing friends, the best girlfriend he could ask for, and a steady side job to support himself and his girl, you.

Jeno is dead set on making his birthday wish come true.

[littlcdarlin]

Who Will Love A Little Sparrow?

summary: Joel turns sixty.

warnings: girthy age gap (60 & mid 20s), Joel feels guilty about age gap, I cried while writing this, emotional fluff

note: it took one ask to convince me to actually write this lol hope you like it, anon! Title is from the Simon & Garfunkel song

Joel hasn't quite realized he's turning sixty – sure, he knows he looks it, feels it in his cracking joints, aching back and wheezing lungs, sees it in the stares the two of you get walking through Jackson hand in hand, but your company keeps him young. Three and a half decades between you will do that to a man.

He's never liked a big fuss on his birthday; even when he was half his age all the singing and balloons embarrassed him more than anything, so he didn't mention it was coming up during the weeks beforehand. You knew, of course, and so did Tommy, but he figured patrols would keep the two of you busy enough to prevent anything more than an extra kiss from you and a teasing comment from his brother – maybe birthday sex when you were done with your work for the day.

When he wakes up, it's his first thought, though not in excitement, but resignation. Sixty. The number feels like a chasm between the two of you. It makes him feel dirty for having touched you the night before, and he wishes humanity hadn't decided on the decimal numeral system.

You're scheduled for the morning patrol, so he doesn't expect you home before noon, which for the first time in his life feels like a relief. It gives him a couple of hours to bury the guilt about your age somewhere deep and secure, under vague childhood memories and the first thirteen decimals of Pi, where it won't come bubbling up while you're laughing your sunshine-laugh. He doesn't want to dim your spark, not when you seem to just have found it again.

He scuffles downstairs, dragging his feet as if he's turning ninety instead of sixty, just to wallow in his self-pity while nobody is around to see it. If he's lucky, he'll have two more decades, maybe even three, though that kind of hope is practically brazen.

He sighs, making his way over to the kitchen, thinking that if he makes his coffee strong enough, it might make him feel fifty again.

"Happy Birthday."

His head snaps up, and he's staring at you instead of his toes, your youthful face a little blotchy from the excitement.

"Here," you say, and thrust a cupcake in his direction. There is a single purple candle on it, and the frosting isn't draped across the dough in artful swirls the way they did it before the outbreak – still, it's the best cupcake he has ever seen.

"I couldn't fit sixty candles on this thing, so you get one."

Your smile is a little lopsided, a little too understanding, and Joel swallows.

"Thanks," he mutters quietly, staring at the blue part of the flame. "Geez."

"Blow it out," you say, "and make a wish."

He doesn't believe in that, but he obliges because you somehow found him a cupcake in the middle of the apocalypse at the crack of dawn.

"Now," you say, almost business-like, as if the first bullet point of one of your little lists has been crossed off, "I got Tommy and Maria to cover us on patrols today. What do you wanna do first, drink outrageously bitter coffee, or carve a wooden sparrow?"

He stares at you. You must have found the little bird he made during his many sleepless hours – he put it on the very top shelf in the living room where it wouldn't attract attention. It's not that he's embarrassed about it, he's just not sure it's a part of himself he wants to share with the world.

You put the cupcake on the kitchen counter and turn back around, that same knowing smile on your lips.

"I got you something," you say, and Joel frowns.

"You shouldn't trade for–"

"I didn't."

You hand him a small package, wrapped in some old newspaper you decorated with tiny, drawn-on hearts.

"Tommy said you used to wrap presents in colorful paper just to throw it away," you explain, that sense of wonder in your voice, as always when you talk about the before, "I didn't have paint, but I found a pen that works."

Joel stares at the package. He remembers the last birthday present he unwrapped perfectly, can see it catch the morning sunlight on his wrist.

"I–Geez," he just says, again, and starts to carefully peel away the newspaper without creasing your little artwork too much. His thumb traces one of the hearts. There is a hint of red inside the paper, and then he's holding something small.

"Where did you get this?", he asks, voice quiet with awe and something else that seems to thicken his throat.

"I found it in an abandoned raider's lair," you say softly, "I know I should have handed it to Maria, but I thought you could use it for your sparrow. Give him a face, you know, some feathers."

Joel traces the little cross on the Swiss army knife, and feels his chest tighten.

"Don't tell on me," you say teasingly, but with a hint of self-consciousness at his lack of a response. Joel swallows, and drags his eyes away from his present and to your face.

"Thank you," he says quietly, unsure of how to voice the thoughts rushing through his head, "I– thank you.

"Yeah," you say gently, "'course."

You accept his gratitude, understand what he means by it. You don't make a fuss with your un-swirly cupcake and single candle and no singing. All of a sudden, Joel feels his eyes prick and burn, and he rubs them quickly, wipes away the wetness. You touch his shoulder, make him look at you, and he clenches his jaw in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mutters, "you just...know me so well."

There it is, your sunshine-smile, and you press a kiss to his naked chest, as high as you can reach.

"Sixty isn't that old, Joel. Don't even think about using it as an excuse to stop chopping firewood."

He chuckles and cups your face in one of his massive palms.

"No ma'am."

[no1blacksapphirefan]

Hi 👁👅👁! So other than crk I also play other games like hsr and stuff like that so can I please get self aware hcs where the cookies hear us gushing on and on about characters from other games?

Fellow HSR player? Me too haha, fun fact actually. My main blog/account is actually a HSR based one, themed after my fav character from the game as well. A sundae for anyone who can figure it out/j

Shadow Milk Huh!? His ears perk up and he's quick to try and listen in, it's not that he's jealous, he already knows he's your favourite in this game but you play other games? Who is it, he's curious. Is it someone like him? Or a character with a different personality.

Hmm, Gallagher? After hearing you talk about him more, he's become more interested. Tarot card symbolism, he's a fictional character...within a game? And he's invited other characters to all tie in together to save a place? Now he wants to meet this Gallagher, he doubts they'd really see eye to eye but meeting someone who played a part in a bigger plan? That'll be interesting.

Though with how much you talk about him, he doubts a meeting will matter, he's getting all the information he needs from your voice. A much better way to learn about someone in his opinion (he's bias)

Pure Vanilla He's interested to hear about this other game you play, listening intently as you rant about it, well more specifically a character. He'd love to meet this character that has also peaked your interest.

What's his name? Luocha? Oh he seems like a nice ma-...what do you mean he has a God in his coffin? Well...he isn't gonna judge you at all for characters you like but he did not expect that bit of information to be true. He's a bit more intrigued by the game though, he wants to know of the other characters you seem to favour.

Hearing you talk on and on about your favourite characters makes him want to listen, he already knows most in his "game" and if he doesn't. He can easily meet them. But hearing about other games and their characters? How interesting...

Black Sapphire It takes him a moment before realising you're talking about a different game rather than theirs. He doesn't exactly mind though, now he can take what you say and talk about said character too as if they're a cookie as well. He's not technically lying, the character is real...just...not in their world.

Besides, who wouldn't want to know about a "cookie" trying to recreate a, what was it? Emanator? Ruan Mei is her name right? Her story seems fascinating and perfect to tell all cookie kind, he's sure it'll get some cookies scared and others excited and he's gonna love to see the two of them argue.

He'd listen to you talk about whichever character peaks your interest any day, he won't get jealous that quickly. Besides, he's probably heard you rant about him to your friends before anyways. As long as he still knows he's one of your favourites. It's all good.

Fire Spirit What's that? Gotta speak up, oh a new game? He wants to know all about. If it's peaked his beloved "God" interest to the point of you gushing about it. It must be amazing. And he's interested in hearing about the characters as well.

Oh that Kafka girl seems quite interesting. A woman who can't feel fear? He'd love to test how far that lack of fear goes, you said she wanted to experience it right? He'd love to show of his flames and see how much of it she can handle. Besides, he's sure you'd love to have 2 of your favourites on the same screen. You probably talk about him when you're playing that other game anyways.

He'll love to hear you talk about more characters, especially ones that seem like they'd enjoy the heat! Haha, he may not be able to meet them. Perhaps they're not self-aware like himself but oh does he want too.

Frost Queen she doesn't care at first. Not that she doesn't enjoy hearing your rambles but she doesn't exactly have any feelings towards who you talk about and the game you're now talking about. What matters to her is that you still play "her" game and favour her.

She can't help but listen to you speak of various characters backstory though, especially when it seems like the characters past has put you in distraught. Jingliu being one of them. She'll admit, her backstory is quite interesting, and she's strong. While she hasn't seen how she fights, your description shall be enough for now. She's especially interested in the Mara struck bit of her.

While, unlike most of the others, she wouldn't be actively listening to your rants, certain characters can and will make her ears perk up as she'll quickly come and see what the news is about.

[tanghuyuj]

LEFT LOVESTRUCK!

pairing: non-idol or idol!riwoo x short-haired-fem!reader

genre: fluff, fluff, and fluff !!

synopsis: after chopping your hair off to be short, you’re unsure of how your boyfriend will react. though, there’s nothing to worry about; i mean—he is lovestruck for you.

warnings: kissing, not proofread, and i think that’s all.

wc: ~0.6k

maia’s note: 1st riwoo work what am i doing ?? for all my short hair girlies out there (me) bc i just know riwoo would be obsessed with a short haired gf >< enjoy reading! reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!! 💘

you raise your hand and run it through your hair. your newly, freshly chopped off hair.

it’s now short, and not medium length short, but short short. so short, it barely reaches to the edge of your chin.

you stand in front of you and your boyfriend’s shared apartment, needing to take a moment before you walk in and see his raw reaction. riwoo knows you were going to get your hair done, he just doesn’t know that you got it cut to a certainly short length.

read under the cut! ⬇️

you aren’t scared for how he will react, just nervous! it’s natural to be nervous in a time like this, is what you manage to convince yourself.

you inhale a deep breath before slowly moving towards the door knob.

but in a snap of a second, you watch the door open.

you freeze in place, scanning the figure that is now right in front of you. a figure that you could recognize in a crowd of thousands of people, a figure that your heart beats rapidly for—in this moment especially.

your boyfriend, lee riwoo, wears soft, light pink pajama pants with white stripes going down them and a baggy, plain white shirt with a image of his dog, daebak, on it (he got it custom made). his short and orangish brown hair sticks up messily and one of his hands holds a trash bag with several recyclable plastics inside. his eyes widen and his mouth opens wide in an ‘o’ shape.

“yn..” he starts slowly.

you mirror him, eyes widening. “riwoo! i.. i can expla—“

he cuts you off, “you look adorable.”

he drops the bag dramatically to the ground as he steps closer to you and cups your face with his hands, your hair slipping into his hold as well.

your cheeks squish together in his hands. “riwoo, what are yo—“ you say, muffled.

he states the obvious, “your hair. it’s short.” he turns your head, tilting it from left to right.

your heart starts to pound against your chest faster.

“yes..” you mutter.

a loving, happy smile grows on his face which eventually turns into a wide grin.

he exclaims, “it’s so cute! why didn’t you tell me earlier you were getting it this short?” he continues blabbering, “actually no. i’m glad it was a surprise. it looks so pretty, you look so pretty.”

your face heats up immediately. for some odd reason, this whole time you’ve been expecting the worse. that he would hate it, find it ugly maybe. you realize that you never once should have doubted your boyfriend. hearing this, seeing him respond heavily positive, is a huge relief and makes your heart grow even fonder for him (if that’s possible).

“thank you, baby,” you smile. you try to remove his hands from your face but ultimately fail. “riwoo, let’s go inside.”

his pink lips form into a pout. “no, let’s stay like this for a little.”

“riwoo—“

he interrupts you with a quick peck on the lips. the touch of his soft, balmy lips withdraw a little too fast, leaving you wanting more.

but lucky for you, you don’t have to ask.

riwoo leans in to place more sweet, fluttering kisses to your face. he tries to not miss a single spot; your forehead, temples, and the last one on the tip of your nose. all while doing so, his hands move to run his fingers through your hair. he twirls some locks, loving the feel of your hair—the feel of you.

he pulls away in a lovestruck daze, leaving you the same.

“now can we go inside?” you tease.

he giggles, “only if that means i get to make little braids in your hair.”

you roll your eyes in annoyance, but truly, you love it.

“sure baby.”

perm taglist: @bambisnc @mungbeancoups @starriniqhts @stantxtforabetterlife @chrrific bnd taglist: @uncasings @oowir net: @kstrucknet

please do not copy, repost, or translate.

check out my other works!

[jealousmartini]

twin you haven't posted in twelve hours are you good

Hey girl! So I shifted.

Accidentally. But fully this time. Well, Fully-ish because I pussied out of fear. No, fully, actually. Wait wait let me explain.

So get this. I woke up.

But not with my eyes. Just mind, body, and soul slowly becoming aware of her surroundings through the heaviness of sleep if you get what i mean. And it was just too warm and familiar and soft. The bed I mean. Way too comfortable for me to want to open my eyes yet, so they stayed shut, blissfully unaware of the fact this bed is not mine. My senses were slowly yet surely locking in. But my brain was not even fully awake. So I was feeling and being without fully realising what was happening

And then I heard the faint click of what i figured was the front door unlocking. Then opening. Then shutting. Then, locking with a key. I assumed that must've been my brother because he usually escapes into the dead of night to go whatever 23 year old guys do at night. And I heard some thick chunky ass boots stumble to the floor and i wondered when he ever wore boots never mind this dense, his heavy padded footsteps gradually got closer slightly muted by the door being closed.. which was then opened (?). It was a small thing, but it didn't make sense why my brother would need to be in my room at all, nvm at this time of night. But anyway, some shuffling was done. I cocked my brow in suspension, eyes still shut btw, cus what did he just go through my stuff for. And as quickly as he was in, he was out of the room. I made a mental note to confront him in the morning about it.

And then I heard the shower start. From the wrong side of my house... Now I know the anatomy of my house pretty well, so I was confused why I could hear the shower from the west instead of the northeast of my room.

After the shower stopped, i heard the bathroom door open, close, and the same as mine. He took like 3 steps in, and this was when i heard him call my name. He whispered it like a question, i dont think he was sure if i was asleep or not. But it was weird because that's not my name. Well it is, but it's not my name from here. And it's definitely not a name my brother from here knew. And then I realised I knew that voice too, but it was different from what i was expecting. Pretty deeper and rougher than what im used to remembering, and it was definitely NOT my brother's.

And so now I'm frustrated. And kinda nervous. Im laid on my side, the same one as i was on when i first began to wake, but now im slightly tense with frowed brows and all. I'm dealing with so many questions at once like why is the house formatted weirdly? and who the fuck is in my room?? and why the fuck did the bed just dip from behind me???

I literally had a question mark in my head when the voice spoke again. But this time, he was closer. Much closer. I FELT his arm, his muscular arm at that, wrap around my waist and pull my back flush against his BARE NAKED CHEST, and I gasped. I fucking gasped. I swear my heart was about to beat out of my chest. My body jolted forward almost involuntarily at the sudden contact of skin, the feeling on his freshly shower-hot muscular bare chest was making me SWEAT and I heard him mumbled against the back of my neck "Shh don't wake up," and I was thinking "Oh i definitely know who this is" And girl I wasn't fucking planning on it anyway. But I ended up shifting back with my eyes squeezed SHUT like the pussy I am

Because I didn't even expect myself to shift that night. The night after my first day back at college from the Easter break. And now I'm supposed to come in like I wasn't just in another man's bed.

Now i dont have the guts to actually say who this was. Im practically shaking right now for fucks sake. But im sure everyone and their mother on this app who sees my blogs can make an educated guess and get it right first time. And after 8 years of knowing about mha and 6 years of trying to shift there, ladies and gentlemen I think I can officially say I have shifted to mha. It definitely wasn't my main mha dr, some would probably argue it was even better lmfao. I guess the secret to shifting really is just letting go.

[the-stellaron-hunters]

things you said prompt list

Aventurine

things you said over the phone

Aventurine figured you would call.

It’s definitely because of the gift that he sent your way. He is fully expecting you to ask him what’s with the sudden goodwill coming from him, and he has a response prepared in case that happens — something casual enough that you might believe that everything is still alright between the both of you, convenient enough that you may not ask him any other questions. But that doesn’t mean he has full control of how he truly feels, and that certainly doesn’t mean he has a handle of how the rest of the conversation goes, at least not when the both of you haven’t talked properly in months.

This would be far easier to deal with if you were both at fault. The problem with Aventurine is that he gets attached to someone, and he has a habit of showering them with all the attention he could give, and suddenly he feels too vulnerable and he needs to put his guard up and he’s gone and it’s as if he is out of their life, and just when there’s this reasonable assumption that he has completely cut ties, he is back again like nothing happened, and he does it again and again and again.

And this is not the first time he’s done this to you. It’s probably not the last time, either. Meanwhile you update him every now and then about what’s going on in your life, mostly in the form of texts, sometimes in handwritten letters when you feel like it. And there are a lot of times when he would just never answer, and you never seem to point it out even when your message logs become one-sided.

Aventurine answers your call and you both exchange pleasantries. He talks about anything and you talk about everything — how are you doing, I’ve missed you, I hope you are well. And for a while it feels like all is right in the world and everything is back to what you both used to be. But it doesn’t last long because after a while you fall quiet, and then he inevitably goes silent, and then he is dreading what comes next because he has an inkling of what you’re about to bring up, and for all the time he has contemplated what he did, he’s still not sure how to handle it.

You break the silence.

“…So.”

“So.”

“We haven’t talked in a while.”

Regret stabs in his chest and his breath splits into two. He feels his mouth twist as he tries to come up with something to say, but you don’t even give him enough time to think of a response.

“Hey, I’m not angry. You do know that I never hold it against you, right? I mean, you always do this with everyone. Not just me. I’m used to it.”

And you say that like you’re worried that he is going to hate you if you accidentally push one of his buttons, too cautious of what lines to cross even though you’ve both never really talked about boundaries. You say he does this to everyone and you’re not wrong. Everyone has grown used to it so he thought the more he did the same thing to you, the easier it would get.

The problem is you’re not everyone else. 

That’s the worst part. He knows you meant every word you just said. The bigger, more realistic part of him thinks that he should be grateful you’ve grown used to his habits, but the small, battered, vulnerable part of him thinks that you deserve better than this. He thinks you should be angrier, that you should hold it against him. Maybe he might keep doing the same thing to other people because he needs to protect himself, but that shouldn’t apply to you.

He is not about to tell you all that, though. Not when he’s not completely certain of how you feel about him anymore, and especially not when he has never given you a good reason to expect more than what he has shown you. So he gathers all those thoughts together and he ties them into a neat bow, hoping he doesn’t have to unpack it anytime soon. “Of course I know that. I appreciate it as always.”

“And I haven’t opened your gift yet,” you say. He couldn’t tell if you’re changing the topic on purpose, but the excited lilt in your voice says otherwise. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but it’s not my birthday. What’s the occasion? What made you want to give this to me?”

I just didn’t know how to approach you again after ignoring you for so long, Aventurine thinks to himself. He expected you to ask that, but it doesn’t make the conversation any easier. He hasn’t forgotten all the excuses he has come up with, but they no longer feel right. Because I wasn’t sure how I’d handle it if I tried to call you and you never picked up. It’s far easier to give you things that you might like than to start a conversation just to see how you’re doing. “I saw it and I thought you would like it,” he settles on saying instead, “so I thought to myself, why not send you a gift? I’ve been busy, after all. It’s the least I could do.”

You hum. “Huh. I thought this was a peace offering after ignoring me all this time. You know. Like usual.”

Your tone is light and your words are teasing. You want him to not take your words seriously, but the truth in your words is too heavy to ignore. “It could be,” he tries to say it like he’s fooling around as much as you are, ignoring the way the words burn in his throat. “Why, did you want it to be one?”

You fall very, very, quiet. There’s something contemplative, something pained in your silence that he can’t quite pin down.

“Maybe I do.”

Your voice is tinged with an emotion that’s difficult to judge. And he would’ve dwelled on that if he could, but maybe you didn’t want him to have the upper hand in the conversation because you immediately change topics; you open the gift and you tell him you like it, he says he’s glad, and you both continue talking like nothing happened.

As soon as the phone call ends, Aventurine receives a text from you, a simple thank you with an image of the scenery in your place attached to the message. As he snaps a picture of the sundusk through his window, he thinks about the hope and uncertainty and the faintest spark of expectation in your voice. He doesn’t know how he is going to do it — he is going to worry about the consequences later — but he needs to find a way to free up his schedule in a short notice.

[starl1ght444]

jason todd x reader

── .✦ angst

[ jason bought you, your favorite flowers for the first time ]

long story — [8.2k words count]

second person writing

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

phase one ; blooming [dating]

you loved carnations.

jason learned that on your third date. It was a small, throwaway moment—something you said while sipping a lukewarm latte in a dingy coffee shop tucked away from gotham’s chaos. you’d been talking about nothing in particular, just bantering like usual, your legs tucked under you in the booth as the sky darkened outside.

“they’re not fancy,” you said, absently stirring cream into your coffee, “but they’re strong. they last longer than most flowers, you know? and they come in so many colors.”

jason raised an eyebrow. “you really into flowers?”

You shrugged. “they’re just… comforting. It’s like a reminder that something can be soft and still survive.”

he didn’t answer. just stared at you for a moment like you were something he hadn’t figured out yet—like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

you weren’t like the people in his world. you didn’t carry trauma like a weapon. you didn’t flinch at loud sounds or look over your shoulder in paranoia. you had a softness to you that he hadn’t expected in gotham. and he didn’t know what to do with it.

when he walked you home that night, you paused at a flower stall outside your building. rain was drizzling, the kind that clung to your lashes and curled your hair, and you stopped to look at a small bouquet of pale pink carnations.

“they’re my favorite,” you said, smiling. “someday I’m gonna fill my whole apartment with them.”

jason rolled his eyes. “flowers are a waste of money. they die in a week.”

you blinked. just a second. just enough for him to notice. “well,” you said, voice light, “some things are worth it, even if they don’t last.” he didn’t understand what you meant. not then. not yet.

you started seeing each other more often—slow at first. you were cautious with your heart, and jason was dangerous with his. but he started staying the night. started showing up at your place with bruises and bullet grazes and that haunted look in his eyes. you never asked where he’d been. you only asked if he was hungry. If he was okay. If he wanted to talk.

he never did. not about the big stuff. but you’d find him in your kitchen at 2 a.m., heating up leftover pasta, or sitting on your couch with your cat in his lap like he belonged there. and he did.

he didn’t say “I love you,” not for months. but he watched over you like he did. he’d show up outside your job with a scowl and coffee if you had a rough day. he knew the fastest route from your place to every hospital in the city. he installed cameras at your front door and never told you. — you noticed. you just didn’t say anything.

carnations bloomed on your windowsill. a new one every week. you bought them yourself—white-blush and lavender. you kept waiting, hoping maybe jason would walk in one day with a bunch in his hands. not because you needed them, but because you wanted to know he’d remembered.

he didn’t.

one night, curled up with him under a ratty old blanket, you brought it up gently. “I used to get flowers when I was little,” you said. “my dad would bring me carnations on my birthday. I think that’s why I still love them so much.”

jason looked at you from where he lay on your chest, his brow furrowed. “didn’t know your dad was around.”

“he’s not.. not anymore.” silence settled between you.

“I used to think… if someone brought me carnations, it meant they really saw me,” you admitted. “not the ‘I’m fine’ version. the real me.”

jason didn’t say anything. — you didn’t push.

the first time you told him you loved him, he froze.

It had been a good day. one of the rare ones—no crime scenes, no emergency calls, no red hood business dragging him into gotham’s underbelly. you’d spent the afternoon in the park, lying in the grass, his head on your stomach as you read a book aloud.

that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his back, you whispered, “I love you.” — jason’s whole body tensed.

you felt it. every muscle. then he pulled back. looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. “you don’t have to say it back,” you murmured.

he didn’t. but he kissed you like he meant it. held you all night like he was terrified you’d disappear. you told yourself it was enough.

phase two ; budding [fiancé]

It wasn’t a proposal. not really.

It was three in the morning, and jason was sitting on the edge of the bathtub while you brushed your teeth, eyes half-lidded with sleep, his hair a mess from the pillow. you wore one of his old shirts, threadbare from a hundred washes. he wore the quiet panic of someone who had never believed they’d live long enough to consider a future.

“hey,” he said, voice low. you glanced at him in the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste. “If I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

you froze mid-brush. he didn’t flinch or try to recover it with a joke. he just watched you—blue eyes soft and serious, hands clasped between his knees. you spit into the sink and turned to face him.

“Is this the part where you propose with a ring made out of dental floss?” a breath of laughter left his nose, and the tension eased from his shoulders.

“I’m serious,” he said. you stepped closer, cupped his jaw with a wet hand. “then ask me like you mean it.”

jason paused. his eyes searched yours, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “(y/n) (m/n) (l/n), will you marry me.”

and you—heart pounding, love swelling in your chest like it would break your ribs—smiled. “yes,” you said. “of course I will.”

he pulled you into his arms, buried his face in your stomach, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe like it was safe.

the ring came later.

It wasn’t new—wasn’t even something he’d gone out to buy. one night, you found him sitting in the closet, the small wooden box in his hand. It had belonged to catherine todd—passed down, like love that tries to survive the storm.

“she kept it hidden,” jason said quietly, running a thumb over the aged velvet. “I think she always meant to give it to me… if I ever found someone.”

you sank down beside him on the floor, resting your head on his shoulder. “she’d be glad you did.”

he gave it to you that night, no speeches or ceremony. just slid it onto your finger while you sat together on the floor of the hallway, bathed in moonlight from the window. as jason kissed the ring on your finger.

It fit perfectly.

planning the wedding wasn’t easy. you didn’t want much. jason didn’t want attention. but it was yours—intimate, quiet, full of stolen glances and laughter that didn’t belong in a city like gotham.

dick cried during the vows — roy forgot the rings.

alfred gave you a smile that nearly brought you to tears.

jason kept his hand in yours like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. you didn’t walk down the aisle with roses or lilies or orchids.

you held a bouquet of white carnations, tied with a silver ribbon. jason saw them, saw the way your fingers curled around the stems, and something flickered in his expression. he didn’t say anything. but you caught the way he looked at them—like they were a language he hadn’t learned yet.

life settled into something that almost resembled normal. at least, your version of it.

your mornings were soft. you’d wake first, kiss the scar on jason’s temple, whisper something into his sleep-dazed hair. he never told you what it meant to wake up to that. but he held you tighter every day.

sometimes he cooked breakfast—burned eggs and all. sometimes you did. the coffee was always too strong, but neither of you minded. the routine mattered more than the taste. — your nights were more complicated. jason still went out. still fought gotham’s darkness with red and black. but he came home now. always came home.

and he talked more.

he told you about things he’d buried—things no one else knew. his mother. the pit. the dreams he still had where the coffin never opened. the pain of coming back to a world that had moved on without him.

you never asked for those stories. you only listened, threading your fingers through his, anchoring him with silence and steady breaths. — one night, after a particularly rough patrol, he came home soaked in rain and blood. you helped him out of the kevlar, your hands gentle, your voice quiet.

he sat at the kitchen table while you cleaned a deep gash along his ribs. “I thought I was gonna die tonight,” he muttered.

you paused, heart in your throat. jason looked up at you. “and the weirdest part? I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared you’d be alone.” you pressed gauze to the wound, leaned in, and kissed his forehead. “you’re not dying, jason.”

“someday I will,” he said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. “and you’ll have to go on without me.”

“then you better keep surviving,” you said, voice firm. “because I’m not planning on loving anyone else.”

he pulled you into his lap, held you there like he was trying to fuse your heartbeat with his.

you kept carnations in the apartment. a vase in the kitchen. one on the nightstand. always fresh. always soft. jason never brought them home. but he started noticing them—more than before.

he’d run his fingers along the petals absently while sipping his coffee. tuck a fallen one behind your ear with a fond little smile. you caught him once, standing in front of a grocery store flower display, just staring at them. — but he walked past.

you didn’t mention it.

you never asked for them anymore. not because you didn’t want them. but because you wanted him to want to bring them. — some small part of you still hoped.

one afternoon, you were lying together on the couch, your legs draped across his lap. he was reading something—an old paperback with cracked pages—and you were watching the sunlight paint gold across the hardwood floor.

“do you think we’ll ever leave gotham?” you asked suddenly.

jason looked up. “you want to?”

“I don’t know. sometimes.” you shrugged. “sometimes I imagine a house with a garden. somewhere quiet. I’d grow carnations.”

he smiled, brushing your ankle with his thumb. “you and your damn flowers.”

you chuckled. “they’d be all over the place. kitchen, bedroom, porch. even in the bathroom.”

jason leaned down, kissed the inside of your knee. “If you want a garden, I’ll build you one.”

you reached for his hand. “I don’t need a garden. just you.”

but still, in the back of your mind, you pictured it—soft soil and early mornings, dew on petals, and jason beside you, older, whole. — you didn’t know it would stay a dream.

phase three ; blooming [marriage]

married life with jason was unexpectedly sweet.

you never imagined the red hood would be the type to make tea in the mornings or memorize your grocery list, but he did. he kept your mugs on the lowest shelf so you didn’t have to stretch. he learned how to braid your hair, poorly but determinedly, just so you’d smile.

your new apartment was bigger, higher up—safer. there was a little balcony with just enough space for a few flower boxes, and you filled them with carnations in every shade. jason helped you plant them, dirt under his fingernails and a look on his face like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand why you loved them so much.

“you said they’re strong, right?” he asked one evening, watering them carefully.

you looked up from your book. “yeah.”

he watched a pale yellow bloom tremble in the breeze. “they remind me of you.”

you didn’t cry. but your throat ached as you crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him, resting your cheek against his shoulder. you were happy. really, genuinely happy.

jason had been changing—slowly but surely, like stone shaped by water.

he didn’t punch walls anymore. he let himself laugh more, sleep more. he still fought, still bled for gotham, but he came home more often than not. he started going to therapy, though he never told anyone but you. he even made peace with bruce—if only in small pieces, quiet dinners, and fewer arguments.

“I think I’m finally starting to feel human again,” he told you once, curled in bed with you at dawn. “you made me human.”

you kissed his chest, hand over his heart. “you were always human, jason. you just forgot for a while.”

you talked about kids more openly now.

“we could adopt,” you said once, the thought half-formed in your mind as you watched him fix the hinge on a closet door. “someday. maybe.”

jason looked up, surprised—but not alarmed. “yeah. maybe. I’d want them to be safe first. you to be safe.”

“we’re close,” you said. “gotham won’t be forever.”

he stood, brushed the dust off his hands. “no. just a little longer. then we’ll go.”

you imagined a place with less noise. a porch. a yard. real mornings without sirens. carnations blooming around the edges of a little house.

jason kissed you that night like he could already see it too.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

the last morning was warm.

you watered the flowers on the balcony while jason made eggs and toast, humming some rock song under his breath. the windows were open. the world felt light for once.

you had plans to meet barbara for lunch, to run errands, maybe grab groceries. jason had patrol later that evening but promised to be back before midnight. you kissed him at the door like it was any other day. — he kissed you twice.

“text me when you get there,” he said. — “I always do.”

you smiled, leaned back against the doorframe, watching him disappear down the hallway with a peace in your chest you hadn’t felt in years. you didn’t know it was the last time.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Ivy’s old sector.

the lab had been quiet for months—dormant, some said, shut down after the last run-in with her plant toxins. but something pinged on the surveillance net—unusual bio-activity—and you, being who you were, decided to check it out.

It was just a recon mission. you were careful. you always were.

you never saw the vines until it was too late.

jason got the call from babs, her voice tight and scared.

“something’s happened,” she said. “(y/n)… we lost her signal near Ivy’s old territory.” he didn’t hear the rest.

he was on his bike in seconds, tearing through Gotham like the city itself had betrayed him. he didn’t stop at lights. didn’t slow for anything.

he found the lab half-collapsed, tendrils of greenery coiling through the wreckage like veins.

he screamed your name.

he dug through debris with bare hands, shoving aside branches that moved like they were alive. the air was thick with the scent of earth and blood.

then he saw you. — your body was tangled in vines, arms limp, head turned slightly to the side. you looked peaceful.

but you were too still.

and around you—blooming like a cruel, beautiful grave—were carnations. each one having a meaning.

white — purity, innocence, remembrance

pink — gratitude, admiration, undying love

purple — unpredictably, capriciousness, free spirit

all curling around the vines like some terrible mockery of love.

jason dropped to his knees. — “no,” he whispered. “no, no, no—please..please.. (y/n).. no no.. please…”

he tore at the vines with shaking hands, not caring that they cut into his skin. he gathered you into his arms, blood staining your shirt where the toxins had entered.

you weren’t breathing.

“come on,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re strong. you’re stronger than this. you said—you said they were strong.”

he rocked with you in his arms, howling into the air like something feral. screaming like his heart had been physically ripped out of him. sobbing into your shirt, the same one he had watched you put on this morning asking if you looked good. and of course you did, jason was always mesmerizing by you. and right now he was spiraling into a new unknown feeling.

bruce was the first to arrive. then dick. then tim.

they found jason cradling you, his jacket wrapped around your body even though you were already cold.

he didn’t look up when bruce knelt beside him. “she’s cold.. i put my jacket...and she’s still cold.. i couldn’t save her,” jason whispered. “I wasn’t there. I promised I’d be there.”

“I know,” bruce said softly, eyes glassy. his daughter-in-law peacefully covered in blood and carnations. he never truly got to tell you how much he appreciated the way you helped jason grow into the man he had become— you taught jason everything he couldn’t. jason slowly became emotionally mature, your marriage teaching him how to love and be  patient everyday.

dick stood nearby, hands over his mouth, unable to speak— the way he watched his younger brother holding his lifeless wife in his arms. tim just stared, stunned— not being able to believe the scene in front of him, as the wind tugged at the scattered petals around you.

“look at them,” jason murmured, brushing a blood-streaked carnation with his thumb. “she loved these. I never… I never brought her any. n..not once.”

jason looked up at bruce with hollow eyes. “I was going to. this week. I swear. I saw some at the store. I almost bought them.” — looking back down at you, squeezing you hard. trying to look for any sign of life left in you.

bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. “she knew.”

jason shook his head. “I should’ve told her more. I should’ve done everything more.”

Dick finally stepped forward, kneeling across from his brother. “you did love her, jay. you loved her more than anyone. she knew. she felt it.”

jason’s face crumpled. “she died alone, dick. In pain. In fear.”

“no,” bruce said gently. “she died trying to help people. that’s who she was. that’s why you loved her.”

jason buried his face in your hair, silent now, his grief no longer words—just broken, shaking breath. staying like that, planting himself on the ground sobbing into you. tracing your body trying to remember every detail about you, like you always did for him. “i love you (y/n).. i love you.. please.. god we were going to leave.. we should’ve... i can’t.. (y/n) please baby, wake up… what am i supposed to do.. sweetheart please.. pleaseplease.. you’re so strong.. my beautiful wife.. we were gonna adopt.. you would’ve been a p..phenomenal mother..my sunshine.. please babygirl.. i can’t do this without you.. im so sorry.. im sorry..god please” jason holding your hand, rubbing his moms ring — the ring he vowed to love and protect you forever.

they had to pull him away eventually. jason fighting each one of them, not ready to let go of his wife. “please.. stop.. please.. a few more minutes.. please.. i can’t..please..i need her” he sounded defeated. bruce helping him up while he still clung to you. carrying both of you out of the building. struggling, not because of holding you two — but struggling not to sob along with his sons.

phase four ; wilting [death]

the funeral was three days after they pulled your body from the vines.

gotham had turned grey that week. the sky hung heavy, like even the clouds mourned you. the streets were quieter. the city somehow knew it had lost something bright.

they dressed you in soft fabric. nothing flashy. just something gentle and familiar. jason picked the dress. he remembered how it looked on you the first time you danced in the living room, barefoot and laughing.

you had flowers around you. carnations. barbara brought them. white, pink, red—your favorites. jason couldn’t stop staring at them.

he hadn’t cried since that night. now, at the funeral, he was quiet, but this time it was different. empty.

a shell wearing his face — everyone was there.

dick stood beside him, barely breathing. tim sat stiffly, not blinking. bruce kept a hand on jason’s back, grounding him, like he was afraid he’d float away.

barbara gave a speech. so did roy. even alfred, voice trembling, spoke a few words about love and grace and the way your laughter changed the manor the few times you visited.

jason didn’t hear any of it — he just looked at you.

laid out in the casket like sleep had taken you mid-sentence. lips soft. lashes resting against your cheeks. skin too pale, but peaceful. like you were waiting for him to say something.

the carnations framed your face like a crown.

and jason— he hated them.

not because they were ugly. not because they were yours. but because they were there, blooming, when you weren’t breathing. —because you always asked for them, and he never brought them.

and now they were here. too late.

someone touched his shoulder after the service. maybe dick. maybe bruce. maybe god himself—jason didn’t look.

“she loved you,” the voice said. “she never doubted you.”

but jason didn’t believe it.

not when he’d failed you in the most final way possible.

the grave was at the edge of the cemetery, under a weeping willow. the headstone was simple. your name. your birth and death dates. and a small engraving at the bottom:

“still the light in the dark.” he visited the next day. and the day after that. and the next. — he came without flowers. he didn’t know how to carry them.

weeks passed.

the apartment stayed quiet. your shoes still by the door. your toothbrush still in the cup. your pillow still untouched. the only thing touched were parts of your clothing. lingering perfume you’d sprayed on your shirts — jason needed the items to help him sleep. craving any ounce of you he could find. clinging onto the fabric imagining it was you. your body laying on top of his, cupping his face and kissing him endlessly. whispering about the good life they had. it broke jason. everything reminded him of you. it was killing him in a way he couldn’t grieve properly.

he didn’t move anything.

he didn’t patrol much anymore. bruce didn’t force it. dick stopped asking. jason barely responded to texts. calls went unanswered. roy left voicemails. barbara stopped by once and found him curled on the living room floor, clutching one of your sweaters, rocking slowly.

“it still smells like her,” he whispered. barbara didn’t say anything. just sat beside him and cried quietly.

he didn’t dream of you. not really.

just flashes. the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. the sound of your laugh in the kitchen. the scent of carnations on your skin. the feel of your hand in his—soft and warm and alive. soft words leaving your lips — “i love you jay, i love you, i love you” you said like a prayer to him. your sweet voice haunting him in a way he hoped he’d never forget. wanted these cruel dreams, just to listen to you until his brain slowly fades it away.

then he’d wake up. and the cold would remind him. you weren’t coming back.

one night, he sat in front of the flower shop you used to visit. they had carnations in the window. he stared at them for an hour. then he walked inside. — the woman behind the counter gave him a curious look. “need help?”

he cleared his throat. “just… just the carnations.”

“any color?”

he looked down. his hands were shaking.

“all of them.”

he brought them to your grave the next morning. the sun hadn’t risen yet. the cemetery was still wrapped in mist, cold and soft. the carnations trembled in his grip. red, white, pink, purple, yellow, orange, lavender— tied with a pale ribbon. the kind you would’ve picked.

he knelt beside your headstone, laid the flowers gently across the grass. “you deserved these,” he whispered. his voice cracked. “i should’ve brought them sooner.”

he brushed his fingers across your name, eyes stinging.

“i thought they were pointless. i thought flowers died too easily.” his breath hitched. “but they were never about that, were they? they were about love. about life. about choosing something beautiful even when everything else was dark.”

he laughed, bitter and broken. “you knew that. you were that.”

the wind shifted, gentle and cold, like a simple answer.

“i miss you,” he said. “god, i miss you so much it fucking hurts.” he pressed his forehead against the stone. “i don’t know who i am without you.”

days blurred. he kept bringing flowers.

sometimes he talked to you. sometimes he just sat. sometimes he cried. he never stayed dry-eyed for long.

he stopped going to the apartment eventually. moved back into one of the safehouses. colder. emptier. more fitting.

he stopped shaving. stopped eating well. he looked thinner, paler, his eyes sunken like the weight of grief was dragging his soul down with it. — no one could reach him.

not dick, not bruce, not even alfred.

roy visited once. found jason standing in the rain at your grave, drenched and shaking. “you need to come inside,” roy said.

“she’s alone,” jason whispered. tears and rain mixing together, not knowing which was which.

“she’s not,” roy said. “you carry her everywhere.”

jason shook his head. “it’s not enough.”

roy didn’t know what to say. because maybe jason was right. and roy didn’t leave his side. they both sat in the rain. his best friend holding him and rubbing his shoulder in a ‘i’ve got you’ way. sitting in silence while jason continued to cry.

jason would be walking down the street, trying his best to clear his mind when he would see a little girl walking with her dad holding hands while the girl had a carnation, a small reminder. the ghost of you she saw in that little girl. — crushing him. these flowers were now everywhere he went. he couldn’t get away from them. it was a sign just like roy said — that you were everywhere.

jason never moved on. he didn’t date. didn’t laugh like he used to. he existed. he survived. that was it.

every year on your anniversary, he brought nine carnations. three white, three red, three pink. one for every phase of your life together—dating, engaged, married.

every year, he whispered the same thing. “you were the best thing that ever happened to me, i love you eternally sweetheart. i miss you.. every.. every fucking day.. it’s so difficult.. you were my favorite person…god i hate this city.. i gutturally hate ivy for taking you away from me…i miss you..so much.. please know that… i love you (y/n) todd”

and one night, sitting by your grave, his back against the cold stone, he looked at the flowers and finally said it aloud: “i think… i think i was a carnation too.”

his voice was hoarse. the wind tugged at his coat. “strong. stubborn. quiet. always trying to survive. but…” he blinked slowly. “i needed care. i needed you. you were the one who watered me. gave me sunlight. made sure i didn’t wither.”

he closed his eyes. “you kept me alive.. and now—” he didn’t finish. he didn’t need to. because the silence answered for him.

the carnations on your grave never wilted for long. he always replaced them — always brought fresh ones — always sat with you. — in every lifetime, you had been his light. his warmth. his reason.

he was just a flower with cracked petals. and you— you were the hands that kept him blooming. and without you, he wilted. and never truly grew again. stuck in the endless cycle of grief. still having dreams of you, bright and beautiful. a cruel reminder of what he can’t have anymore. “i use to be scared that if i went you’d be alone.. now.. i..”

jason was alone. he shut everyone out. he knew it wouldn’t be what you wanted. jason was afraid of actually accepting your death, grieving properly and moving on. you were the most impactful person in his life, and couldn’t imagine moving on from you. he was only alive for you, knowing you had dreams and passion about life, it was taken from so you abruptly that jason wanted to find comfort in your activities. his routine meshing with your old one. “i built a flower bed.. right outside that coffee shop where we had our first couple date.. i know you’d love it. a couple kids painted it for me.. it’s stunning, just like you baby…” jason said kissing the headstone, placing a bouquet of carnations down.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

i love jason 🫂 i should write something sweet next time, or would ya’ll like more angst? — have a good day / night xx !!!

i hope this was an okay read!! i could’ve gone more in depth at some parts, but i kept training off :p !!!! mwaahh byyee <3

[totallynottinsel]

You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream

Sleeping Beauty AU

He was gone.

Bilbo had thought he'd accepted that long after he'd returned to Bag End, but more often than not tears fell that drained him, forcing him to sleep.

He saw the light flicker from his eyes and how the color left his skin. His chest stopped heaving, he was at peace.

Bilbo was tired, but he did not want to rest. He did not want to have those dreams again, see the blood on his hands, the sting in his chest.

Thorin Oakenshield was dead. That was that.

There was a gentle knock that jumped Bilbo out from his quiet thinking, sitting in his armchair with a hot mug of tea that warmed his belly. He deeply sighed, figuring it was Lobelia come to heckle at him for the 3rd time that week about those bloody spoons. "Nobody's home!" He shouted, but more knocks came. "Oh, you've got to be joking." He stood and tied the string around his robe forward, stomping to the door to swing it open wearing nothing but a frown. "I've had just about enough of---oh."

"Always quite the welcome when I come to your doorstep, Bilbo Baggins." Gandalf smiled fondly, still clad in his pointy grey hat and holding his crooked staff.

"Gandalf! I wasn't expecting... visitors. I thought you were long gone from the Shire?"

"I do apologize, but I am not here for idle chat," Suddenly the wizard's face sunk. "I fear I carry some unexpected news."

Bilbo felt his chest tighten; he was certain he was finished with all things unexpected and unplanned for the rest of his days. "Well, let's have it then." His hand fell inside his pocket to fondle the Ring. Gandalf eyed the movement, but carried on.

"Thorin Oakenshield is alive."

This had to be a cruel joke. An unfair punishment by whatever entity watched over hobbit life, thinking he deserved such for some reason. For all he knew he could be dreaming all this up! He didn't exactly remember going to bed or waking up, everything just felt blurred together. He started to feel dizzy.

"Bilbo?"

No, of course this wasn't real. Just a figment of his sad imagination trying to make things seem better than they were. He started laughing because he didn't know what else to do. Thorin wasn't alive, he saw him---he watched him die. Over and over again he watched and he couldn't do a single damn thing. He twisted the Ring faster.

"I really do think it would be best if you sit---"

He blinked roughly, his eyes becoming heavy and harder to keep open. His hand felt for the wall to keep him steady, he could hear his heart in his ears. He wanted to sleep, he wanted all of it to just go away so he could be content again.

"Are you listening to me? For goodness sake!"

Gandalf's displeased voice was the last thing he heard before he fell backwards onto the floor out cold.

"I don't... this can't be possible," Bilbo shook his head, now awake back in his armchair and his mug, though he wasn't all that thirsty anymore. "Gandalf, I saw him..." His stomach turned, unable to finish. The wizard gestured that there was no need for him to continue.

"I know this seems unthinkable, believe me I did not know what to make of it at first. Even for a wizard of my caliber, this... this is work I am not familiar with."

"What do you mean?"

"Thorin Oakenshield has been placed under a dark force, an eternal sleep, so I've come to learn. He still breathes and blood runs through his veins as if it is nothing but mere rest, but he cannot be woken. The company has tried to no success." Said Gandalf. "Be it what may have transpired during his battle with the Defiler, it seems a formidable curse is inside him---by whom is still a mystery."

A curse? Bilbo placed his mug down with shaky hands; whether it was orc done or not, it sounded like just the sort of sickly twisted outcome Azog would have wanted. What was better than death? One every soul you ever loved could watch for the rest of their days, as you slowly deteriorated by the years. "I---I don't understand. You really can't help him? You're the greatest wizard I've known!"

Gandalf's eyes drooped downward. "I am truly sorry, my dear friend. Some things are beyond my reach."

"Yes, of course." Bilbo's heart sank even further. "Well, thank you for telling me." Somehow it was far worse than Thorin being simply gone, as now part of him was reachable again---and how Bilbo wished to grasp his hand or be huddled in his embrace. But Thorin was still missing, he couldn't hear his voice or see his eyes or tell him how he felt. It wasn't the same. He wondered if the dwarf still dreamed.

Pure torture his life was becoming. At this rate he might as well give Lobelia those spoons just to really make things chipper!

"That is not all I've come to tell," Gandalf cleared his pipes, sitting straight and grabbing the hobbit's attention immediately. "The company and I believe that you, Bilbo Baggins, are our key to waking him."

"Excuse me?" His brows furrowed, confused. He was beginning to think the wizard was pulling his leg. "How am----am I supposed to wake him? Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the... spell casting type. I'm failing to see how this is a good idea." What was he supposed to do? Scare the curse away? Lobelia would be quite good at that, now that he thought of it. Absolutely terrifying.

"Hm, yes, you are not. But you have one thing the rest of us do not. I do think it would be best if... er, the company explain this to you, though." And Gandalf may have told him himself if he knew how the company would pitch their idea to their favorite burglar come returned to the mountain.

"You want me to what?!"

"Just what I said, kiss him! Is not that difficult, is it?" Said Kili, eyes wide and spirit bright as when he'd left.

"Call me blind but I don't see how that is supposed to rid him of a bloody curse!"

"Listen, we were reading up on some books once all of us realized it was a curse," Fili interjected. "And Ori came across this old tale on something---what was it again?"

"Oh, yes!" Ori came skipping over with all sorts of papers in hand. "It was a story about a maiden who fell ill from an evil creature who cursed her life with a sleep she could never wake up from. Eventually her husband killed the creature, right? And he thought she was dead, but he kissed her goodbye and she was back! According to the book, very few dwarves have seen a curse like this across thousands of years."

"Leave it to orcs to weave in the threads of cruel old world magic to get what they desire." Said Gandalf.

"But you see now? Only someone's true One can wake them. And you..." Kili wriggled his eyebrows at the hobbit.

"I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because I---I..." Bilbo waved his hands around trying to find the words hopelessly. "Look, I'm not what you think I am. Really. I doubt that..." I'm Thorin's One. Even if he wished to be, his chances seemed rather slim to him.

"Lad, I know it's not right for us to spring this on you so sudden, after so long---but you mean somethin' special to Thorin. We all see it." Balin came to his side, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "We wouldn't have called you here if we didn't believe this would save him."

"Aye," Dwalin nodded. "You've got fierce loyalty in ye', even if this... magical-hoo-ha sounds like a pile of horse shite,"

"Dwalin---" Balin raised a hand at his brother, unaware of where his point was heading.

"Let me finish, will ye'? Even if I don't believe innit all, I know... Thorin's got a good place in'es heart for you, I see it. If anyone was gonna bring him back it'd be you."

"S'all true!" Said Glóin. "I know love when it's got me square in the face."

"Right that, the tension between the two is so strong it's like tryin' to cut through a frozen bucket of milk from a mountain ram." Bofur's blunt and frankly quite specific comparison had everyone staring at him blankly. "Was it something I said?"

"It's your decision, there's no need to pressure yourself into it." Balin said.

Bilbo glanced around at all of his friends, waiting for his answer; no matter what there was pressure on his shoulders, a fairly large one. Save the King and your friend and or possibly more from an eternal sleep---of course. "Can I see him?"

They had moved him from the cold depths of Erebor to an elegant chamber, cleaned and fined to look as it was before the mountain came under fire. The bed was downed in wooden poles that held lengthy canopies draped around. Thorin lay motionless other than the rise and fall of his chest, undisturbed as if he had not faced a brutal foe, still like a great piece carved from stone. Bilbo's hands shook and his knees wanted to buckle the moment he entered the room alone, as he was stood facing what he thought he'd lost for good.

He sucked in a breath and approached the bed, sitting down on the edge just by the dwarf's corner, though still offering him space. His heart pounded as he reached a tentative hand to Thorin's, touching his calloused, warm skin. Far from the cold and unsettling pang he'd felt last. He retracted his hand quickly, holding it over his lips when a cry came to lurch out from his throat. Tears swelled in his eyes and tickled down his cheeks, unable to keep them at bay, like those difficult first nights in Bag End. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." The words started to spill from him between heavy breaths.

"I should've---" He lowered till his upper half fell to embrace Thorin, resting his head on his chest when slow sobs picked away at him. "I should... I should've been there. For you." He listened to the dwarf's heart beat steadily in response, holding to his limp arm. "Just don't go. Don't go."

He didn't eat much that night, even against Bombur's cheesy filled bread---which was very un-hobbit like of him. If he was in the Shire he'd be kicked right out of the dinner table. He curled up in his guest bed, fiddling with the blankets, the Ring, unable to keep still. He couldn't have come all this way just to give up because of the hope that it might work. It was just a kiss, he was overthinking it! Just a kiss... with Thorin. He smashed his face into the nearest pillow, groaning. What in the world was he supposed to do if it actually worked? What if the company greatly misjudged Thorin's affections and it was nothing but a very strong... friendship? Emotionally and physically close male bond--? Bilbo didn't even think that was the right label for them, it was utterly, annoyingly complicated.

In the wake of the midnight was when he decided he was going to do it. What did he have to lose, anyways? Well... quite a lot, actually. But that was a problem for the later future.

"Remember, even if this... doesn't go through, at the very least you tried lad." Said Balin.

"Thanks." Bilbo nodded. He was at the edge of the bed, inches from Thorin who was the same as before. He looked back to the whole company of dwarves who stood, watching, waiting... hang on, did they really want to see him do it? They weren't the clearest bunch on when privacy was needed, at least aside from Balin, who tried shuffling awwy. "Er, do you mind?"

"Oh, no, not at all. Go right ahead!" Bofur called from the back.

"Make it a good one!" Kili hollered from afar.

"I mean get out!" Bilbo huffed and waved his hands at them to go, which thankfully they did, shutting the door behind them and leaving the room quiet. His eyes fell to the floor as the tense silence grew around them, pawing at the fabric of his trousers, stalling as long as he possibly could. Just get it over with already! He told himself. After about a minute or two of delay, he finally looked to Thorin again, and felt another chip at his heart.

"This isn't exactly how I pictured it happening, but... here's to trying, I suppose." If Thorin was fully himself he imagined he'd make some stupid, smart comment to that. He missed those. As he snuck closer he slipped his hand into the dwarfs once more, giving it a firm squeeze. His other gently ran over his cheek, brushing against the subtle spikes of his beard.

Taking in a breath leaned forward, closing his eyes and ever so carefully he pressed his lips to Thorin's. It only lasted a few seconds before he pulled back, feeling a welcome thrill run through him before his cheeks ran red with incredible embarrassment. Not like anyone was there to see it, but still. He watched, waiting for a response---any kind. The dwarf's eyes only subtly twitched, his body still unmoving. Bilbo blew out a slow sigh, hanging his head low. "I knew it," He quietly laughed, if he didn't he'd just start crying all over again; why did he think he'd be able to swoop in and be the hero?

"Bilbo?"

His heart fully stopped. His eyes shot upward, falling on Thorin, who squinted against the light and instinctively felt for his wound---or at least where he last remembered it being, as it was now patched and nearly healed. Other than seeming rather confused, he was alive. Thorin was alive.

"Oh, oh! It worked!" Bilbo jumped to his feet, clasping a hand over his mouth. He did it---he actually did it! "I can't believe it..."

"What worked? And why..." Thorin barely got the chance to contemplate their circumstances before Bilbo was on him, arms tight over his shoulders, leaning into the crook of his neck. Thorin held him firmly in return.

"Don't you ever do that to me again! Do you hear me? I've gone absolutely mad because of you. I considered giving away my spoons!"

"Spoons?" Thorin didn't exactly know their significance.

"Spoons!" Bilbo frowned, and Thorin tenderly brushed a thumb over the tears that soaked over his skin. His hand cupped the hobbit's cheek. "Thorin,"

"Yes?"

Oh, screw it all. You only live once, or twice---in Thorin's case. Or was it three? Bilbo thought, and as they sat embraced he crashed his lips to the dwarf's, to which was returned avidly without a beat of hesitation. Thorin's hand wrung through his light curls, inching him closer in; for a man who might as well have died and fell into a strange sleep, he wasn't holding anything back. Bilbo felt tipsy just by his touch, and bless the hills he'd never been more thankful in all his days---that was, until the company came charging in.

There was a mix of whistles and yells and cheerfully surprised hoots. Fili and Kili just about body slammed them both on the bed, successfully crushing Bilbo to get to their dear uncle. "We knew it would work!" matched with: "Ha! That's our hobbit!"

"Don't squash the poor lad, boys!" Balin said.

Dwalin didn't have much of a problem pulling Bilbo out from the pile. "We told ye'te kiss him, not shag 'em on the---"

"I wasn't doing anything!" Bilbo raised his hands in defense. "At least not that much..."

"You told him to do what?" Thorin raised his head up from his nephews weight, still waiting for a solid explanation as to why one moment he was being stabbed, the next he was stuck in the worst dreamscape he's ever witnessed, and was woken by none other than Bilbo Baggins and a very lovely kiss. "Would someone like to catch me up on what is going on?"

"Ohh, yes," Kili nodded. "Should you start or should I?"

"Let's both." Fili said.

"Right, so it all started when Ori found this book..."

[aventurineswife]

Patience and Strategy

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Dan Heng IL x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Teamwork, Aventurine Boss Fight, SAHSRAU, Action, Character Development, Humor, Tension.

Warnings: Minor violence (combat).

A/N: I'm not proud of this one and I hate it... 🧍‍♀️ (Plus idk how the in-game battles work or how to describe it...)

Requested by: @neuvillette-x-water

The battle was set.

Aventurine, Dan Heng, Sunday, and Ratio stood in formation, each of them ready to face the final challenge. Their target? An imposing figure—Aventurine's counterpart or his final form, an enigmatic and unpredictable powerhouse who had taken on a form much more powerful than any of them had expected.

The screen flickered, the usual ominous energy swirling in the air as the enemy loomed before them.

"Alright, team," Aventurine said, flashing a grin that was only half a facade of confidence. "It's game time. Let’s see how luck and strategy fare today."

You couldn’t help but groan from behind the screen, frustration bubbling up inside you. "Why'd you roll a 1?!" You shouted, the words sharp and full of disbelief.

Aventurine blinked, his grin faltering for a brief moment. His gaze flickered upward, as though trying to spot you somewhere in the unknown expanse of the fight. But of course, he couldn’t see you. He didn’t know where the voice was coming from, but he could hear it. Loud and clear. He straightened himself up quickly.

"Nothing like a little motivation," he muttered under his breath, though his eyes narrowed at the boss. "Alright, time to show you what a ‘1’ really means."

Dan Heng, ever the professional, ignored the distraction. His eyes studied the battlefield, calculating each possible outcome. The battle was no longer just about defeating an enemy. It was about survival, precision, and strategy.

You couldn’t hold back your frustration. "Dan Heng, stop being so serious! Just land a hit already!" Your voice carried a hint of exasperation.

Dan Heng’s lip curled slightly, though the rest of his face remained as serene as ever. "I am calculating the best approach."

"Don’t overthink it!" You snapped, pacing behind the screen. "Just—Ugh, you’re making me nervous!"

Despite your irritation, Dan Heng didn’t rush. He moved fluidly into position, his body tense and poised. "Patience is key."

Sunday, ever the introspective one, spread his wings slightly as if to channel the celestial energy within him. "I have seen many battles in my time... but this one is different." His eyes glinted as he muttered to himself, the halo behind his head giving off a faint, ethereal glow. "The conflict between the dream and the waking world... which shall prevail?"

Your eyes narrowed in frustration. "Just get on with it, Sunday! What do you mean, 'which shall prevail?' You’ve been in a million battles, it’s just a boss fight!"

Sunday let out a soft chuckle, his calm demeanor barely broken. "Perhaps. But you see, sometimes, the world’s true enemy is not the one we face, but the one we carry within."

He raised his hand, a flash of light swirling around his fingertips. As the battle raged on, Sunday’s voice echoed in the midst of the chaos, soft but resolute. "I will not let this darkness cloud my vision." His magic surged, and an ethereal barrier formed to shield the team.

Ratio, standing to the side with a confident, almost smug look on his face, adjusted the straps on his armor, eyes glinting with intellectual curiosity. He smirked at the enemy. "I assume the strategy here involves a bit more than brute force?" His eyes scanned the boss with disdain, but that only made him more eager to dissect the fight. "Let’s see what this thing can withstand."

You gritted your teeth, feeling the tension rise. "Ratio, can you stop showing off for two seconds? Focus on the fight!"

"Ah, but it’s all about understanding the pattern, yes?" Ratio replied, as if the battle was a mere intellectual puzzle. "By the time this beast even attempts an attack, I’ll have already deduced its weaknesses."

And with that, he flicked his wrist, sending a surge of energy toward the boss.

Aventurine, however, had heard enough. "Enough talk! It's time to win this!" He shouted, his voice rising with an intensity that sent a thrill through you.

You quickly gritted your teeth, watching intently. "Aventurine, beat his ass! Wait... hold on, don’t get too cocky!" You warned, anxiety rising in your chest as the gamble felt all too risky.

Aventurine ignored the warning, the thrill of the gamble coursing through him. "This is what I do best!" He launched himself at the boss, his movements fluid, almost elegant, as he played the ultimate hand. But as he struck, the enemy retaliated, the shockwave of power slamming him back.

Your stomach dropped as you watched him stumble. "Aventurine!! What was that?!" You yelled, disbelief and concern flooding your voice.

Aventurine grinned, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "A setback! You’ll see. I’ll turn this around." He winked, determination flickering in his eyes, and you could feel the resolve in his voice despite the blow.

Despite the tension, you found something strangely comforting about hearing his voice—a reassurance that they weren’t about to back down. But with each blow and each retreat, the team began to notice that the enemy was growing stronger, adapting to their moves.

Dan Heng, ever the pragmatist, quickly adjusted his approach, leaping into the fray with careful precision. He struck from above, his sword flashing as he aimed for the weak points the team had uncovered.

Finally. "Finally!" You exclaimed, a rush of relief flooding over you. "Took you long enough to get in a good hit!"

Dan Heng’s lips twitched into a barely-there smile, but his movements were sharp and decisive. "As I said, patience."

Sunday’s wings fluttered in time with his next spell. He called upon celestial energies to lock the enemy in place, creating a soft glow around his body. His voice, though gentle, carried across the battlefield. "In the end, it’s not about winning or losing… but the balance we must strike."

You rolled your eyes, frustration boiling over again. "Balance? What are you, a philosopher or a fighter?"

Sunday shot a quick glance toward the screen, his golden eyes amused. "Perhaps a bit of both."

As Ratio unleashed another wave of energy, the battle seemed to intensify. But the mysterious boss was relentless, responding with overwhelming force. The team began to feel the strain, but they weren't about to back down.

"Come on, guys, don’t let up! You’re so close!" You urged, a sense of desperation creeping into your voice. The enemy was weakening, but the team was running out of time.

Aventurine’s eyes gleamed as he saw the opening. "This is it!" With a flourish, he rolled the dice of fate one more time, pulling off a calculated strike. The boss’s defenses cracked, and with a final, well-placed blow, they brought the enemy to its knees.

The screen lit up with victory.

"Yes! Finally! That’s what I’m talking about!" You cheered, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Aventurine, breathing heavily but smiling, turned toward his team. "I knew it was in the cards. That’s how we do it."

Dan Heng, his posture still relaxed despite the battle, nodded once. "We’ve won, but I’ll be ready for the next challenge."

Sunday let out a quiet sigh, wings fluttering once. "A victory, but a fleeting one. There are always more battles ahead."

Ratio adjusted his robes, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Not bad. I suppose there’s merit to a victory like this after all."

And with that, the battle was over. Your team, victorious once again. And while you could never physically see them, you knew they could hear you. After all, you were their guide, their unseen strategist.

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, wiping your brow in relief. "But seriously—next time, let’s not roll a 1."

[croucify]

✶ after hours — 2hollis x reader

read part one here!

SUMMARY: you, hollis and his friends goes to an after party after his 2nd night performing at coachella

WARNINGS: making out, dry-humping, alcohol

A/N: part 2 of the coachella fic! also not proofread again

after his performance, you unlinked your arm from his mom's, instantly rushing backstage to see him.

even though he already had multiple gigs and his second day performing in coachella, but it still made you endlessly proud of how far he's come as an artist.

seeing everyone in the audience appreciate and love his music the same way you do, would bring tears to your eyes every time.

he was getting down back stage, wearing his jacket and holding his tank top from earlier with the biggest smile on his face.

and just when he thought, his smile couldn't get any bigger, you came into his view; the smile on your face big and the air blowing your hair as you ran to him.

he quickly went down the stairs, opening his arms for you to crash into.

you jump as you wrap your arms around him, ignoring everyone else surrounding you two, may it be nate and his friends or the crowd waiting for the next performer.

he spins you two around, your legs swinging as he does the action.

when he sets you down, you instantly smother him in kisses.

"i'm so proud of you," you said between kisses.

the smile on his face gets bigger by the second. "did you like what i added to the setlist?"

"yes, i didn't expect it at all!" you told him and you hug him again.

you heard chatter coming closer to you guys and you pull away from him, keeping one of your arms around him.

"hey, that set was so good!" charli was with her bodyguard and his mom as they approached you two.

hollis pulls away from you for a second as he greeted the woman.

"thank you so much, i got to see yours too earlier,"

as your boyfriend spoke to the british singer, you went and spoke to the boys, congratulating nate on his part in the set. in the middle of their conversation, he introduces you to charli, whom you guys immediately complied with.

"are you guys coming to the party later? we have enough room for all you guys," charli was sweet enough to extend the invite to let hollis be comfortable since he expressed to her how awkward he felt to know only two people at the party he attended the other week.

you, hollis, and the group went back to the festival grounds and to the party after that.

the boys were talking about anything they could think of.

"who do you think's gonna be there at the party?" roman asked, turning his head to you guys.

hollis was quick to answer, "kylie jenner then i'll ask her what's up with her sister," he jokes and the boys laugh but you narrow your eyes at him teasingly.

when you got to the party venue, it was crowded and music was blaring through the speakers.

hollis holds your hand as you guys walk through the crowd, looking for the bar.

"hey there you guys are!" you heard a british accent from behind you guys, making you and hollis turn.

charli gives you two a hug and smiles. "wait, let me introduce you guys to george!" she says excitedly before calling out for him.

she holds out her hand for him and he holds it.

"george, this is 2hollis and his girlfriend, y/n and this is george, my fiancé." the two of you say hello in unison and shook his hand.

"okay anyways, we'll be over there at the dj and the bar is. just by the left side and the bathrooms are at the back of this, have fun alright?"

and with that, she leaves the two of you. hollis figured the group was already at the bar when you guys got separated from them.

he held your hand until you reached the bar.

"where did you guys go?" nate asked, sipping from his drink.

"we bumped into charli and she introduced us to her fiancé," you told them while hollis got you a drink.

after a minute, a hand slides from your lower back to your waist, "i got you an amaretto sour." the blonde boy hands you the glass and pulls you close to him.

for the first 30 minutes the group went separate ways, talking to anyone they bumped into in the crowd. but after that, kathryn bid goodnight to you guys and went back to the loft.

4 amaretto sours and 3 shots later, partying with the crowd got to you. you met a ton of people, exchanging socials and sharing stories of your experience in coachella.

when you got back to the group, all giddy and smiley, you immediately hug your boyfriend.

“hiii baby,” you tell him and nuzzle your head on his neck before placing pecks on it.

he feels you up and down, a small smile on his face. “you tired now?” his voice was low as he asks you.

you pull away from his neck and smile at him. your vision was a bit hazy now but you could still see the smile on his face and the strands of his hair being blown by the wind.

“you look pretty,” you say to him and he chuckles, pulling you closer to his body.

“you too y/n, very pretty.”

he turns to his friends, nodding his head to the exit as a way to say he was going to leave.

“but-but,”

“come on baby, let’s go back.”

the two of you walked through the crowd, one of his hands keeping you steady and he kept one of his arms up to keep you from bumping into people.

the venue was closer to the loft than hollis expected.

when you two reach the loft, he quickly brings you into your guys' shared room, sitting you down on the bed, and without question, he gets on his knees to take your shoes off.

"holli, i know i'm kinda drunk right now but, i love you and i'm so proud of you,"

he responds with multiple 'i know baby, i know's but he just seemed to brush it off so you lift his head up with your pointer finger before placing both of your hands on each side of his face.

"i'm being serious, i'm so proud of you, seeing you onstage and seeing people appreciate your music," he takes off your other shoe, then takes one of your hands to hold.

"i don't know it's just so... what's the word? uhh, refreshing to see how far you've come and the amount of love you've been receiving recently," you continued to say and he gets up from the floor and lays on the bed in an inclined way.

you climb into bed with him and prop yourself up on your side for some leverage.

as you were about to speak again, he talks. "y'know roman told me you and mom were crying together earlier,"

he instantly chuckles at the way your eyebrows and side eye you gave him.

"no i was not crying, it was just a few tears and it was kathryn crying," he hums in response to tease you more, and you groan then dramatically fall to the area near his stomach.

you two laugh after that and he pats the empty space beside him. you crawl and cuddle with him, your head on his shoulder while he plays with your hair.

"speaking of kathryn. when she came in here when i woke up, she told me i was like a daughter to her,” you look up at him with the biggest smile and hollis blushes at you. “my cheeks were hurting when she said that god,”

you chuckle, feeling silly with what you just told him.

he looks at you now then places a hand on your cheek, caressing it as he looked into your eyes.

the two of you smile at each other and he pulls you in for a kiss.

when he pulls away, he leans his forehead to yours and smiles. “i love you so much,”

you lean in to kiss him again and this time it was more aggressive than the last one.

the smacking of your lips against his were the only things heard around the room besides the hums you would let out from time to time.

he pulls your body ontop of his, his hands slowly going down to the curve of your ass while you two continued making out.

at times, you would pull away to keep your hair from getting into your guys’ lips and you giggle everytime it gets in the way.

as it progressed, he put holds your hips to press down on his crotch and you immediately grind on him, moaning into the kiss.

he slides his tongue in as you continued to move yourself on him, feeling his bulge get bigger by the minute.

you pull away and turn your head back when the front door of the loft opens and you hear the group of boys’ voices fill the empty room.

hollis grabs your chin and turns it for you to face him and this time, he places a gentle kiss to your lips, the opposite of what you guys have been doing.

“i love you, you’re the best babe,” he nuzzles his nose with yours. and in just a mere second, he tickles your sides which makes you burst into laughter.

“hollis nooo.” you say as you try and get the tickles to stop.

✶ taglist — @ga33y3 @live-laugh-lizzy-grant @hollissrightbuttcheek @amourdemalvie @2plaster @ddsfgessd

lmk if u wanna be added to the taglist!

[sturnsblogs]

some idea for frat boy Chris au

•either reader or chris getting a partner as a "rebound" and end up cheating w each other.

•they went to a party got drunk maybe one of them got in a fight or walked in on with someone else and ended up leaving tg? (not sure that makes sense)

•maybe adding more tension with Nathan? Or even readers best friend..

BABY PLEASE

Fratboy!Chris X Toxic!Fwb!Reader

—

Nathan has ALWAYS had a thing for you.

Even when you treated him like a backup plan, he couldn’t help but want you.

So as soon as he found out you and Chris weren’t doing your thing anymore, he immediately slid up on your story.

Nathan:

you look really pretty.

Nathan:

i mean you always do, but that pic?

you looked…different. good different. soft.

Nathan:

sorry if that’s too much, i just had to say something

You:

no it’s not too much

it’s sweet

thank you

Nathan:

i’ve kinda been waiting to say something

just didn’t feel like my place before, you know?

You:

and now it is?

Nathan:

only if you want it to be

i’m not trying to push anything

but yeah…

i’ve always seen you. like really seen you.

You:

why didn’t you ever say anything before?

Nathan:

because he got to you first.

and you always looked at him like there was nobody else in the room

even when he didn’t deserve it.

Nathan:

i didn’t wanna be the guy waiting around

but i kinda was anyway

so here i am.

Nathan:

i don’t expect anything

just figured it was my turn to be honest.

You:

you’re kinda smooth, nate

has anyone ever told you that?

You:

because if they haven’t… they should

You:

also

i don’t think you’ve ever made me smile this hard through a screen before

You:

i always knew you were sweet

but this?

you’re being dangerous

Nathan:

dangerous huh?

should i stop?

You:

mm…

no

i kinda like it

You:

but just so you know

you’re not allowed to make me fall for you on a tuesday night over texts

that’s not fair

Nathan:

no promises

i’ve been waiting too long not to try

Nathan:

sooo…

how would you feel about hanging out sometime?

like a real hangout. just us.

could be a date. could be whatever you want it to be

Nathan:

i just wanna see you

no pressure, just… you and me

You:

hmm

depends…

Nathan:

on?

You:

are you planning on making me smile in person too?

because if so…

i might say yes

Nathan:

only if you promise to smile for me

deal?

You:

deal.

i’m free friday. pick me up at 7?

Nathan:

say less

friday at 7

and don’t think i won’t show up looking fine just to impress you

You:

i’d be disappointed if you didn’t

It was late—around midnight—when your phone started buzzing non-stop. One message. Then two. Then three. By the time you checked, you had over ten new messages. All from Chris.

Chris:

wow

u really said yes to him?

that’s funny as fuck

Chris:

you couldn’t wait like two seconds before throwing yourself at someone else?

Chris:

you’re such a fucking slut it’s crazy

Chris:

he told me

you couldn’t even pretend to give a fuck huh?

Chris:

hope he fucks you better than i did

Chris:

actually nah

you probably don’t even care

you’d take anything that gives you attention

Chris:

you’re really out here embarrassing yourself

congrats

Your fingers hovered over your screen for a minute. Your heart was pounding. That familiar sting in your chest hit hard. But you weren’t about to let him get away with this.

You:

are you serious right now?

You:

you told me to be your friend, chris.

this is what friends do now? blow up my phone & slut shame me for moving on?

You:

nathan showed me respect. something you couldn’t even spell.

You:

you don’t get to do this.

not anymore.

Chris:

i was just mad

fuck

i didn’t mean all that

You:

no. you did.

and it’s fine. now i know where we stand.

You:

don’t text me again.

Chris:

please baby i’m sorry

i didn’t mean it i swear

Chris:

i was drunk

i was pissed

i just—i freaked out

Chris:

the thought of you with him made me lose it

Chris:

you know how i get

you know me

Chris:

please don’t shut me out

i can’t take it

Chris:

i fucked up, i know i did

but i didn’t mean that shit

not really

Chris:

you know you’re not like that

i was just hurting

Chris:

i’m hurting now

please talk to me

Chris:

i miss you so much

i don’t even sleep anymore

it’s just you in my head

Chris:

just tell me you hate me or something

anything

just don’t leave it like this

—

A/N- THANK YOU FOR THE IDEAS ANGEL. ALSO do you guys prefer mean chris or nicer chris

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy yi @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @sturnl0ve @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill @fadedstvrn @ikyoudreamofme @mattsdemi @kitkatbar1275 @skelet0nsinmyycloset @lezleeferguson-120 @bells-sturn @sturniolosymphony @kenziesturniolo54 @kikirasweatsweathoho @emely9274 @cherryystemm @realuvrrr @zenithsturniolo @kier-with-a-k @eeyoresturnz @elizasturn @ribread03 @sturnslux3 @costalgirlyr @pizzapocketpocketpizza @arianna1342 @mattsplaything @ed1tssturnn @ivysturnss @ilovemenwithlonghairr @whore4-chrissturniolo