#✩⋆⁺₊ warnings — mentions of body weight

[ssa-dado]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he still hasn’t taken off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

Oh, you feel it.

The wet, sticky sound of your cunt swallowing him with every thrust. The soaked spot you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking of hitting you over and over again while you’re naked.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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[nadvs]

the power play (part seven)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

“When’s that part supposed to be done again?” the voice buzzes from your laptop.

You glance up at Rafe when he steps into the study room, locking eyes as he shuts the door behind him.

“By Wednesday night,” you answer, looking at your screen again. The other students in your group project stare back at you, three guys who haven’t even tried to pull their weight.

“And we have to do the peer evaluation, too,” you add. “She expects us to be transparent about how everyone contributed. And I’m planning to be totally honest.”

Rafe settles in his seat, diagonal to you at the corner of the desk like always. A smile pulls at his lips. He hates when that serious, disappointed tone of voice is directed at him, but watching you give that attitude to another guy is something else entirely.

He places his laptop on the desk and crosses his arms as he watches you in amusement.

“Is that review thing online?” one of the guys asks. You tap your foot against the floor in frustration. You’ve mentioned where to find it at least five times.

“I have an appointment now,” you say, “but everything you need to know is in the rubric. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

You exit the call, looking over at Rafe with wordless exhaustion. He doesn’t need you to tell him; that was about the group project you were venting to him about last week.

He digs his teeth into his bottom lip. It was hot to see you assert yourself like that. And he knows you’re just doing your job as his tutor, respecting the time you set aside for him, but it still makes his ego grow a little that you ended the call so quickly after he arrived.

And now he’s convinced you can’t do a single thing without it sending him into a mental spiral.

“Someone’s mad,” he murmurs.

“They’re killing me,” you say with a defeated chuckle. “I don’t know how many times I’ve had to repeat myself about things they can figure out on their own. Why do I have to hold grown men’s hands?”

“Damn,” he jokes, looking down and nodding, feigning offense.

“Well, I signed up to hold yours,” you laugh. “And you kind of hold mine with all the free therapy, so win-win.”

Rafe smirks. He’s not sure if he’s helped you nearly as much as you’ve helped him, if his version of therapy even comes close to how you’ve talked him down.

You need a physical reset after that frustrating call, a way to release the tension sitting in your body. You arch your back as you extend your arms above your head, stretching your muscles with a deep exhale.

Rafe’s mouth goes dry watching you dip your head back, your arms pulled high.

His thoughts are self-willed, running off with no warning, compelling him to imagine putting his lips along the column of your exposed neck, kissing you open-mouthed, cradling your head, hearing your sighs.

And because you have a special talent for driving him crazy, your shirt falls over your shoulder when you lower your arms. And you don’t fix it.

His eyebrows inch upward, left in stunned silence, fantasizing about planting his lips down your neck, over your collarbone, along your shoulder. Over and over again.

“Okay, I’m in tutor mode now,” you say, pulling his laptop towards you and opening it, oblivious to what you do to him. “Midterm on Monday. How are you feeling?”

How is he feeling? Like infatuation and lust are burning through him. Like he might lose whatever sanity he has left.

He clears his throat.

“Where is it again?”

“Should be in the same lecture hall the class is in,” you say, dragging your fingers over the trackpad. “But we can check the message board to be sure.”

You feel his stare on you, then look up to see humor twinkling in his eyes.

The realization hits you. He’s messing with you, acting like the guys you were just on a call with.

“Notice how I don’t get annoyed when you do it?” you chuckle. “I told you that you were my favorite student.”

Rafe’s smile slightly fades as you turn your attention back to his laptop.

He doesn’t like the reminder of the birthday party, of the bitterness that made itself a home in his chest that night when you made it clear what he is to you. Just the guy you tutor. Just a friend.

And he swallows his pain down, because he’s not going to unleash his silent grudges on you. Not anymore.

════════

There’s only four games left of the tournament. A loss means the season is over. And Rafe can’t lose.

He’s in the middle of a scoring drill, preparing for a nerve-wracking match against the visiting team. The rolling of skates cutting over ice, the smacks of sticks hitting pucks, the din from the filling stands, all fill his ears.

As always, not giving this his all is not an option. No matter how much the dread of his shoulder acting up again hangs over him.

Hockey gives him an outlet, a purpose. When he sets out to block a shot or hit the puck into the net, when he throws himself into a game with nothing but aggression guiding him, the fervor that courses through him is unlike anything else.

He can’t lose that.

You settle into your seat at the side of the rink, many rows up, chatting with Lyla. Your eyes have been almost exclusively on Rafe since you came in and you can’t believe you used to attend games without paying him any mind before.

Then again, you didn’t know who he really was. You didn’t know that under the hard exterior was such a complex man that would unexpectedly start turning anything and everything in your world inside out.

“There’s no way,” Lyla mumbles to you, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Look.”

She points forward and you lean closer to her to see a couple of girls a few rows ahead looking at a phone. They’re on the college’s athletic department’s website, on the men’s ice hockey team roster page.

Rafe’s headshot and name is at the center of the screen as they whisper and giggle.

“There are eyes on your man,” she laughs. “Watch out.”

The jealousy that swirls through you is hot and unwelcome. You don’t bother trying to hide it. It’s what his real girlfriend would do anyway.

You meet Lyla’s eyes, flashing her an exasperated frown.

“I guess it comes with the territory?” you say, tense.

“Oh, my God, they’re trying to find him on Instagram,” she chuckles, then looks at you again. “You obviously have nothing to worry about. He only has eyes for you. Everyone can see it.”

The same frustrating, overwhelming discomfort you felt the night of the last game fills your senses.

You meant it when you told Rafe that you need to take some time for yourself, to not date until Beck is no longer on your mind.

But you can’t deny that since then, it’s like Rafe is claiming the space in your heart that Beck once owned. Except Rafe is taking it over with a thousand times more force.

While you thought Beck was what you needed – friendly and level-headed and calm – you’ve seen him for who he really is after putting distance between you.

Whether he meant to do it or not, he strung you along. With a clearer head, you can see his flaws. And you’re pretty sure he’s a people pleaser.

And it kind of feels manipulative. You don’t doubt he’s a mostly genuine person; it’s just that he chooses the comfort of being liked over the discomfort of honesty. You used to love it about him, seeing it as kindness, letting it cloud your vision, letting it lull you into infatuation.

Rafe gives you an entirely new thrill. He’s not concerned with people liking him. He says what he thinks, and even though he can be harsh, you appreciate being around a man like that. He may be moody, with little control over his temper, but at least he’s direct.

And it’s because of that that you know you can’t take Lyla’s words that everyone can see it to heart. What everyone’s seeing is fake.

He’s playing it up, pretending to like you because that’s what you agreed to do. If someone like him felt something real, they’d cut the bullshit and tell you.

You think of the fleeting moments you’ve had with Rafe, the soft, gentle vulnerability and the heart-racing affection brimming with what you wish was chemistry.

Maybe he feels something, too. But probably not. Your mind is heavy with fog after years of pining for someone and being sure they felt the same, only for it to crash and burn in heartbreak.

This is why you’re trusting your instinct to stay away from romance for the time being.

The familiar pain of a confusing crush pinches in your heart. You can’t believe you’re back here, back to sitting in the stands, a spectator to your heart’s choices, dwelling over a man you can’t take your eyes off of.

You didn’t break the cycle.

You just started a new one.

════════

At the end of the second period, you head to the bathroom with Lyla. You’re washing your hands in the middle of the long row of sinks and instinctually glance up when someone appears next to you.

Tension crushes your chest when you realize it’s Emma. You make brief eye contact, then abruptly end it. You step away to dry your hands when, to your surprise, she speaks as she walks by.

“Do you not have any of your own shirts?” she murmurs.

You have to take a second to absorb her words as she storms out.

You look at your reflection, Rafe’s jersey draped over your body. You wish she wouldn’t have caught you off guard, so you could at least laugh off her dig.

Even though you’re annoyed, you’re not offended. Because if you lost Rafe after having him for real, you’d be bitter, too.

You leave the crowded bathroom and wait in the hall for Lyla, deep in thought.

You agreed to this whole thing to make two people jealous. Beck stares at you like you’ve broken his heart. Emma’s pissed that her ex has a new girlfriend. You’ve achieved your goal. You can end this now.

For your own good, you think it’s finally time to do just that.

════════

Rafe is coming down from a high. It was a tight game, but they took the win. Three games left and they could be the champions.

He’s down to his boxers in the locker room when he checks his phone before heading to the shower. A smile perks on his lips when he sees you texted him.

Congratulations! You were amazing. I won’t be able to come out to celebrate because I’m drowning in school work :( Try to have fun without me (even though you can’t)

You’re kidding, but you’re right. He can’t imagine having nearly as good of a time if you’re not there.

He slams his locker shut, donning a scowl.

════════

The next night, you step into the humid house, your arm linked with Lyla’s, the memories of the last time you were in a frat house fresh in your mind.

Rafe had you propped up on the counter, his steely blue eyes fixed on you, his large hands on your thighs. It was weeks ago at this point, but the thrill it gave you still lives in your mind. So does the sight of him shirtless the morning after.

Rafe’s eyes land on you as you pace into the living room through the pockets of crowds. He texted you about this party, offering to pick you up, and you told him you’d meet him here. He’s been practically staring at the front door since.

He’s never felt like this before. Like he’s constantly holding his breath and he can’t breathe easy until he sees the girl who possesses his every thought.

You’re saying something to Lyla, your smile bright and your eyes dazzling and God, of course you’re wearing a dress that shows more of your body than he’s ever seen before.

If he didn’t know how sweet you are, he’d think you were purposely torturing him. And he knows other guys are looking at you. It makes his blood boil.

“I just shouldn’t talk when she’s around,” Isaac murmurs.

“Huh?” Rafe looks to his friend, who’s standing beside him, taking another drag of his beer.

“Huh?” Isaac mocks with a grin. “I was in the middle of saying something.”

Rafe can’t even pretend to be annoyed. Not when you’re in the same room.

“My bad,” he says, looking forward again. When you find his eyes, you flash him that smile that both breaks and mends his heart, pressing through the crowds to close the distance.

Rafe’s palm is flat against your back when he hugs you, stroking his thumb between your shoulder blades, your skin warm and soft. His body buzzes from the relief of reuniting, even though it’s only been two days since he saw you at the library.

“I have to thank you,” Lyla says to Rafe, half-shouting over the noisy chatter and music. “She never came to this many parties before she dated you.”

“You’re welcome,” Rafe replies, his eyes on you even though his words are directed to your best friend.

“Funny,” Isaac says to you. “He used to go to everything, but he wouldn't come out last night because you weren’t there.”

Your brows knit, pleasantly surprised, hesitatingly touched as you look up at Rafe.

“Really?” you say.

Rafe needs to play it off. He’d thoughtlessly admitted it to Isaac yesterday after leaving the locker room, saying you weren’t coming out anyway, so why would he?

“Can’t have fun without you,” he replies, repeating your text back to you. You’re unsure if he’s just saying that as your fake boyfriend, or if he really feels that way.

“That’s cold,” Isaac mutters in his usual joking way. “I’m right here.”

Lyla laughs, then squeezes your forearm.

“I saw some girls from my film class,” she tells you. “Do you want to go say hi with me or stay here?”

“I’ll stay here,” you reply.

“Thought so,” she says with a knowing grin. “I’ll be right back.”

“What’s the deal with your friend?” Isaac asks the moment Lyla scurries away.

“The deal?” you say.

“What’s her type?” he asks. “If I ask her out, would I get laughed at?”

“Ohhh,” you say with a conspiratorial smile. “Are you trying to get a date?”

“I’ll owe you big, okay?” he replies, putting his hand to his heart. “For that and for my essay. What do you think of it, by the way?

“I’m halfway through,” you reply, having taken a look at it that morning between your classes. “I think you need more annotations, but I’ll get it back to you by tomorrow night with my notes.”

“Awesome, thanks,” Isaac says. “Be honest. Who’s the better writer? Me or Rafe?”

“Rafe,” you reply immediately, gazing up at him. He’s pretty sure that the sound of you saying his name is better than anything he’s ever heard.

“Well… obviously you’re going to pick your boyfriend,” Isaac mumbles, then gazes past your shoulder. “So? Do I stand a chance?”

You follow his eyeline to see he’s staring at Lyla. You can imagine her liking Isaac.

“You might,” you say, then turn back around. “She likes when guys are direct, but don’t be presumptuous.”

“Whatever that means,” Isaac says, then looks at Rafe. “Is she always using big words?”

You chuckle, “Be yourself. And don’t be too forward. Be a gentleman.”

Right now, Rafe would be wondering what your type is, what you like guys to do. But he knows. It’s Beck, who’s different from him in every way.

“So, don’t be yourself,” Rafe chides.

Isaac flashes him a humored, but sarcastic smile, flipping his friend off before downing his drink.

“See you guys,” he says, stepping past you.

You let out an amused exhale, resting into the first private moment you’re having with Rafe tonight.

“Hi,” you say, taking his strong features in as he towers over you.

“Hey.” His eyes drift over your face. The bass of the music filling the thick air is no match to how loud his heart is thumping in his ears. “I know you can hold your own, but you don’t have to help him.”

“Back up,” you say, your smile widening. “Hold my own? Did you just give me a compliment?”

“That call I walked in on was intense,” he says with a half-chuckle. “It’s obvious you don’t take any shit.”

It’s meaningful praise, not only because it’s coming from him, someone who’s usually so aloof, but also because of how many times people have mistakenly seen your kindness as a sign that you let others get away with mistreating you.

And it’s unexpected. You never imagined feeling like Rafe sees a part of you that so many don’t.

Your crush on him was supposed to stay noncommittal. Meaningless. Shallow.

The squeezing sensation in your heart is telling you that might not be a possibility, because seeing this kind, tender side of him is proof that maybe he could be the type of boyfriend you’d want.

“I would’ve told Isaac no if I couldn’t do it,” you reply, “but I’m happy to do a favor if I can manage it.”

He still looks worried. A warm, comforting sense of endearment zips through you. You weren’t lying to Lyla when you’d told her that you liked Rafe’s protectiveness.

“I appreciate you looking out for me,” you add, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest.

Silence sinks between you, your gazes locked, your smiles slowly fading as tension replaces every remaining sense of amusement.

Rafe breaks the stare. He looks down, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. He can’t have these types of moments with you. He’s fighting everything in him not to kiss you.

“You want a drink?” he asks, looking towards the dining room. “If you can pace yourself.”

You glance at the beer bottle he’s holding.

“Is that all they have?” you ask.

“I grabbed the first thing I saw,” he replies.

“I never tried that kind before.”

Rafe doesn’t think. He just holds it out, perching the neck of the bottle towards you.

Your fingers brush over his as you accept the offer, taking the cold bottle and lifting the smooth cusp against your mouth, your knees weak as you think about how he just had his lips right where yours are.

You take a small sip, promptly cringe at the sourness, and hand it back to him with a look of disgust. He laughs that sweet, innocent, boyish laugh you’ve only heard a few times before.

“No?” he murmurs, his smile bright.

“You really enjoy drinking that?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug.

“Awful,” you mumble.

You shuffle in place, remembering what you’ve been eager to tell him.

“Oh, I have two things to tell you,” you say. “First, these girls sitting in front of me yesterday were looking at you on the school website. You know how they say a determined girl investigates better than the FBI? Just a warning, they’ll find you. If they haven’t already.”

Rafe smirks, unable to believe he ever found your rambling anything but entertaining. And cute as hell.

He should probably be taking your words to heart and thinking about dating for real, going out with girls who actually like him, but it’s unimaginable when he’s certain that he couldn’t find the feeling he gets when he looks at you in anyone else’s eyes.

“And you got jealous and lost your shit?” he quips.

“Yeah, they had to kick me out,” you play along. “How has your shoulder been, by the way?”

The sudden question is an intrusion, an assault on the happiness he’s been feeling since you walked in. He’s still getting used to it, to how you prod, to how you try to saunter past the wall he has up as if you don’t even see it.

You gaze up at him as he looks away, raking back his hair and offering a tense, “Good. I’ve just… been in my head about it. It’s messing with my game.”

A crease forms between your brows as you gaze at him in confusion, hoping he’ll say more. But he doesn’t.

“Are you worried you’ll hurt it again?” you ask.

You step just an inch closer, craning your head to look up at him, wishing he’d just lean down instead of being so unnecessarily impenetrable. He’s quiet and cold, drawn into himself like he was the day you met him.

“Yeah,” he says. “One wrong move and…”

Rafe’s convinced you’re about to judge him, to look at him like he’s a wuss. But the confusion on your face fades and is replaced with sympathy.

“That makes sense,” you say. “You want to give it your all like you always do. I bet playing it safe just feels wrong.”

He’s in awe. How do you take the tiny pieces he gives you and still get him? You’ve teased him for being perceptive, for reading people so easily, but it’s nothing compared to you.

“Yeah, I – I don’t know how to just half-ass it,” he says with a sarcastic chuckle. “I’ve never done it that way.”

You study him, curiosity stirring in you, along with a certainty that there’s nothing but beauty behind the front he puts up.

“You said you were better after you started playing in high school, right?” you press. “It must mean a lot to you.”

He scratches the back of his neck. It’s a tell. You know he does it when he’s nervous.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Hockey did so much for me and it – it makes me me, you know? I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Bad word,” you remind him with a soft smile. “It’s not stupid. Tell me more.”

Rafe bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to go back there, to when he was a kid, needing a place to let everything festering in him out. Not here, with other people around. Not now, when he’s unsure if you feel something, too.

“What was the other thing?” he says.

“What?”

“You said you had two things to tell me.”

You flatten your lips. It hurts how he’ll begrudgingly give you some vulnerability when you’re insistent, but most of the time, remind you that he keeps you at a distance.

“The other thing,” you eventually say with a nod, willing yourself to go back to how you used to be when Rafe’s mood drops didn’t affect you as much. “Your ex made a little dig at me.”

His face hardens, wearing that look you know well by now. The one that silently, impatiently tells you to explain.

“Something about how I’m always wearing your jersey,” you say. “Like I don’t have any shirts of my own.”

“When?”

“Yesterday at the game,” you chuckle. “She left before I could even react. But she obviously noticed me wearing it before. That girl is jealous. And very, very mad.”

He wants to ask if you’re okay, but he can tell by the amused smile on your face that you are. It takes a lot to shake you. Still, he hates that his ex tried to embarrass you. That you were in that position because of him.

“Is this the point where we call it?” you ask.

“What?”

“Do you want to still keep this up?” you clarify, motioning between you.

This is how his last breakup happened. In the throws of a party. Unexpectedly. But even though this one isn’t real, it hurts a thousand times more than the last one.

“You’re… done?” Rafe asks, embarrassed at how thin his voice sounds.

“I don’t want to care about what Beck thinks anymore,” you say. You swallow down that Rafe’s the reason why. “And we got what we wanted, right?”

You both agreed to an easy-out clause. He owes you to follow through on that. If you want to cut and run, you should be able to.

The thought of not getting to touch you, to hold you, even though it is just to make another person in the room jealous, makes his blood run cold.

But you deserve to get what you want.

“Yeah, we did,” he says. “Good luck getting over me.”

“Thanks,” you laugh. “We don’t have to announce it or anything. We just have no reason to lay it on thick anymore. Friends?”

You hold out your hand, and he gently squeezes it, shaking on it just like you did when you started all this.

“Friends.”

════════

The next night, you and Lyla and a couple of your mutual friends go out to dinner to unwind from studying. The off-campus restaurant is elegant, the entrance decorated beautifully. Lyla asks the hostess to take a photo of you all before you sit.

When you settle at the table, you look at the photo and post it to your story. You put your phone down, just to pick it up again a minute later, the impulse to see who’s looked at it too strong to ignore.

You got so used to doing it with Beck, eager to pick up on the breadcrumbs he’d leave for you. Now, you’re doing it to see if Rafe looked at it.

You tap to see who’s viewed the story and see two familiar icons. Beck’s. And Rafe’s.

It’s almost taunting to stare at, one man who led you on and another who helped you get back at him for it.

You can hardly stomach how desperately you crave indifference. How badly you wish Beck had never taken so many years from you. And for the first time, how deeply you regret putting on this ploy with Rafe.

Because all it led to was allowing another man into your heart and having to tell yourself not to let him steal it.

You lock your screen and put away your phone, determined to be present with your friends.

════════

As you finish up dinner, Lyla suggests going to a bar.

“It is a school night,” she says, mainly looking at you, “but we don’t have to stay out late. We could invite some boys if anyone feels inclined.”

“Do you have a boy in mind?” one of your friends asks her.

“Isaac’s cute,” she says, pointing to you. “He told me he asked you about me.”

“He better be following my advice to be a gentleman,” you reply.

“Do you want to invite Rafe?” she asks. The mention of his name makes your heart drop.

“No,” you say, sure you didn’t do a good job masking your sadness. “He has a midterm tomorrow.”

“Are you guys doing okay?” Lyla mumbles, surprised by how quickly you declined. This isn’t the time to drop the bomb that you’re technically broken up.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Good,” she says, taking her last bite. “I really don’t want Beck to be right.”

You tense up.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“He told me not to say anything,” she explains, the way her face is twisted in confusion making it clear that she has no idea why her brother wanted to keep this from you. “He’s worried about you. He thinks Rafe isn’t the best guy and you jumped into this with him too fast and that you’ll get hurt. I told him you wouldn’t be with someone who treats you badly, but you know Beck.”

You’ve managed to stay composed up to this point. You’ve held yourself together, even in private.

But this might be the thing to finally break you. The cold, hard confirmation that Beck isn’t jealous, was never jealous. He was just concerned.

Because he’s a friend and nothing more. And you were delusional to think otherwise.

“He shouldn’t be worried,” you say, forcing a smile. “Anyways, you guys go without me. I’m pretty tired.”

════════

Rafe watches you walk to his car through the dark, rainy night air as he idles in front of the restaurant’s front doors. You’d texted him ten minutes ago, asking if he could give you a ride home.

You’d said goodbye to your friends and waited for Rafe behind the front doors, fighting the urge to cry.

You open the passenger door, the interior light fades on, and his stomach drops when he sees that the girl who’s always smiling has tears in her eyes.

You settle in the car, putting your seatbelt on, staring at the dashboard. Rafe stills.

He’s witnessed you disappointed, happy, sad, annoyed, but he’s never seen you like this. Like all the joy has been drained from you, not a single trace of optimism or humor or anything left.

“You okay?” he rasps. The car light fades off, blanketing both of you in darkness.

He stares at you, moonlight just barely pricking the edges of your profile, your eyes gleaming with tears.

“No,” you utter, your voice fragile over the sound of the rain pattering on the roof.

Rafe leans in just a little closer to get a better look at you, but you’re only gazing ahead, stuck in place. He wishes he didn’t have to ask. It’s like he’s losing you, like you don’t want to tell him what you’re thinking anymore.

“What happened?” he rasps.

You don’t know how to say it. He surely already knows that he has a bad reputation, but you care too much about him to repeat any gossip. There’s so much more to him that people don’t see and you don’t want him to not believe that.

“I need a moment,” you say. “Can we go?”

He grimaces, his brows furrowing, shaking his head slightly.

“We’re not rushing anywhere,” he says quietly. You haven’t heard his voice like this before. It’s soft. Soothing.

You can’t think of what to say.

This doesn’t feel fair to Rafe. You pick at him and expect him to open up to you, but now, you’re shutting him out.

He grew to love how you share what you’re thinking, rambling so he’s completely clear on what’s running through your mind. Now, he’s on the outside, behind a wall you never had up before.

It feels like rejection.

“Can we go?” you repeat. “Please?”

He scoffs in disbelief and hurt. And then, he switches gears and steps on the gas pedal.

════════

Rafe pulls up to your dorm. You haven’t said anything to each other the whole ride.

You’ve caught discreet glances at him. His jaw is tense, a grimace on his face. He’s mad. Of course he’s mad. He’s always mad.

You’ve been silent, sniffling and wiping away tears with your sleeve.

He’s losing his mind. You’re just sitting there, your breaths shaky, like you’re breaking right in front of him and he can’t do anything about it.

“I’ve never cried over him,” you finally snap the silence.

He’s caught off guard. The sympathy you’ve been needing is etched into his face, the scowl replaced with tenderness.

“Even when I felt the worst over it, I… managed to keep myself together. But tonight, Lyla told me that he doesn’t like me and it just made it all crash down on me. I wasted so much time.”

He puts the car in park. Kills the engine. Looks at you.

“What the hell did she say?” he says sharply, his anger directed at your best friend now.

You’ve been thinking about how to tell him without causing any collateral damage. You don’t want to hurt him or risk the dynamic between him and his teammate.

“You know that I never dated anyone before,” you tell him. “To jump into something so intense with you is unlike me. Beck thinks I’m being impulsive. He’s just worried I’ll get hurt. That’s all. It was never jealousy.”

Rafe scratches his jaw. He thinks back to how every time you’re in a room with Beck, his eyes are on you.

“I thought you said you saw it for yourself,” he says after a moment. “He’s into you.”

“He was just looking at me like a concerned friend,” you mumble, your throat feeling raw again. “You’ve fed my delusion enough.”

He sighs. It’s impossible. There’s no world where a guy gets to know you and doesn’t feel something.

There are too many possibilities. Beck could simply not be into you. Or he is and he hasn’t told his sister. Or he is and he has and she’s been sworn to secrecy. Or a thousand other things that you can’t know for sure.

It’s all a confusing disarray of what you know and what you don’t, so uncertain about where you stand with Beck that it’s forcing your heart into a knot.

“I need to talk to him and get everything out into the open,” you conclude. “I don’t care if it makes things weird. I can’t keep overthinking.”

When your eyes meet Rafe’s again, an uncontrollable shudder escapes your lips, a result of how hard you’ve been crying.

And he can’t stand it. He puts his palm on the back of your hand, the words sitting in his throat, awkward but necessary to say.

“He’s not good enough for you, you know that, right?” he murmurs.

“Rafe,” you laugh sadly, his words wringing your heart. “You’re just making me cry harder. Stop being nice. It’s unlike you.”

A smile pulls on the corner of his lips. There’s the glimpse of you that he’s been craving. It’s like the sun is finally rising after a long, cold night.

“What do you want, then?” he says.

“Tough love,” you joke. “Call me annoying or something.”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head.

He can’t even do it as a joke. He’s told himself he feels too much his whole life. He’s not going to do it to you, too.

You sigh, looking down at his hand on yours. There’s nobody around to fool. He’s doing this because he wants to.

“I’m… so mad I still care,” you say. “I don’t even like him anymore, but I need to tell him that he was cruel to string me along. And then I’ll finally be done with it.”

You look out the window, seeing your reflection in the side mirror.

“And I need to be on my own and live my life without worrying what a guy thinks,” you continue. “I don’t think you see how much you’ve helped me through all this.”

Rafe is sure that he hates Beck. He fucked with you for years, stringing you along, making you question everything. You shouldn’t have to cry all because that idiot refuses to be upfront with you.

He wouldn’t treat you like that. But he’ll never get the chance to prove it. You’re blind to how fast his thoughts are racing, how hard his heart is pounding. To what he’d give to you if you felt what he does.

“You helped me, too,” he says. He wishes he was better at this, that he could say more, but there’s no way he can utter what he’s really thinking without opening up a wound that you can’t patch up.

That’s the last thing you both need right now. Especially after you told him you’re not looking to tie yourself to a relationship anytime soon.

“I’m glad,” you say. You shift your hand to unbuckle your seatbelt, leaving him to pull away. “Thank you for the ride. You should get back to studying now.”

“Who said I was studying?”

“Pretending I didn’t hear that,” you quip with a small smile, meeting his eyes one last time before you push the door open and step out of the car.

════════

It’s Wednesday night and Rafe’s sitting in an unfamiliar locker room, two periods into a vicious game.

They’re down by two goals. He’s exhausted, his shoulder is aching, yet all he can think about is you, in your dorm room four hours away.

You’d texted him twice since the night he picked you up at the restaurant. The first was on Monday, a good luck message for his midterm. The next was last night, letting him know that you can’t make tonight’s away game due to the long distance and the fact that you have a huge paper due.

If they win this game, they’re in the semi-finals. The hunger he’s feeling for a victory is the one thing driving him right now.

He’d love it if you were in the stands, behind the penalty box again, holding your phone up against the screen, lightheartedly counting his indiscretions, giving him brightness in his otherwise bleak life.

Rafe stares down at the scuffed floor, chest rising and falling rapidly, the tension thick in the room as he holds his helmet in his hands. Coach enters the room, jumping right into his pep-talk.

“We’re missing scoring opportunities,” he eventually says, his voice booming through the room.

“That’s on me, Coach,” Beck pipes up from the other side of the room.

“Then step up,” Rafe mutters with vitriol, meeting his eyes. “Instead of being such a kiss-ass, try playing better.”

“Whoa,” Isaac mumbles beside him. “Chill, man.”

“I’ll do the coaching here, got it, Cameron?” Coach says sharply.

Rafe stares down at the floor again, rage flooding him. He’d swing at Beck right now if he could, if there was nothing on the line.

Not because of the game. Because of you.

════════

When the team is back in the locker room, all the stress that was previously cutting through the air has dissipated, replaced with pride. They managed to secure the win. They made it to the semi-finals.

Rafe gets to his locker and tries to take off his equipment. But the pain in his shoulder is so blinding, so hot, that he can’t ignore the agony.

It was a hard body check, minutes left in the game. The sharp stab he felt was undeniable.

He knows that this is it.

════════

“Thank you,” you say to the security guard who walked you over to the athlete’s dorm.

It’s nearing midnight and, as promised, Isaac texted you that they’re back on campus. He’d sent you a message that Rafe got injured near the end of the game.

You called him then, learning that Rafe could barely move his arm, that he was taken to urgent care, that he was muttering about being sure his season is over.

You texted Rafe right away, concern burning through you: Isaac told me what happened. Can I come by when you get home?

He replied: yes. And then hours later, the text came in a minute after Isaac’s.

Home. Don’t walk by yourself.

You’d planned to text Isaac to open the front door for you, but you’re lucky to sneak into the building as a resident leaves. You rush in, take the elevator, and scurry down the hallway.

Your heart is pounding when you knock on Rafe’s door.

“It’s open,” you hear grumbled from the other side.

Rafe is in the dark, a pinch of moonlight gleaming into the room through a crack in the blinds as the door shuts behind you.

He’s sitting up in his bed, resting against the headboard, and when you see the sling on the same arm that he’d injured before, your heart cracks down the middle.

You don’t bother turning on the light. You have a feeling he doesn’t want to be seen right now. You settle on the edge of his bed, the side of his thigh against your lower back.

Rafe stares at your profile in the dark, his breath evening out, the dread he’s been battling losing some of its power now that he’s with you.

When Isaac said he let you know what happened, Rafe was glad he hadn’t told him about your breakup. And he was relieved that Isaac shared the news, because Rafe’s not sure he would’ve been able to tell you himself.

“Hey,” you say. “How bad does it hurt?”

“You got security to walk you here, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply. The fact that he’s thinking about your safety right now is unbelievable. “What happened?”

“I tore my rotator cuff,” he says into the dark.

“Your season’s done?” you ask, although you know it is. That’s too serious of an injury to play with.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yeah.”

Your throat tightens. His fear came true and now he’s like this, in pain, miserable. And surely blaming himself.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice trembling.

His heart shifts when he catches the fragility in your tone.

“Don’t cry,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He can’t help but huff a quiet chuckle. Leave it to you to make him smile at a time like this.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask.

“No.”

“I’m going to hug you because I need to do something,” you decide, giving into the impulse to get closer to him.

He shifts lower, resting his head on his pillow, and you turn to your side, leaning on his good shoulder, making sure to stay as far away from his injury as possible.

Your arm is draped over his torso, your cheek at his upper chest, feeling the faint thumps of his heart. The soft, rhythmic beating is what beckons the tears threatening to fall finally come out.

“How bad does it hurt?” you ask again, your voice thick with sadness.

He doesn’t see a reason to lie.

“Like hell,” he admits, the painkillers barely numbing the pain.

Rafe shuts his eyes, grimacing, angry at his body for betraying him.

Your arm around him brings him a sense of peace. And the fullness warming his heart doesn’t come from simply liking someone.

This is love.

But you’ve told him so many times that you need to be on your own. He can’t mess that up for you just because he wants you for himself.

He’s never been this worried about his selfishness. He’s never really liked himself and he’s always wanted to be a better man and being with you is the first time it feels achievable.

“Why’d you come here?” he asks, desperate for you to tell him you feel it, too. That he’s worth breaking your rules.

“Because I care about you,” you say with an offended laugh. “Should I leave?”

“No,” he says quickly.

“Then try being a little more welcoming,” you joke.

If you want to feel welcome here, in his room, in his bed, in his heart, in his life, he’ll make it happen.

And he’s always been the type to show, rather than tell.

He still feels a pinch up his neck, but he fights through the ache to sit up half an inch. He brushes his lips against your forehead to leave a chaste, featherlight kiss on your skin.

“How’s that?” he rasps, settling back on his pillow.

Your body numbs, the air heavy with pressure. It’s an avalanche coming down on you, the excitement of his touch, the confusion of his intentions, the fear of giving another person all the power to break your heart.

And it’s like you’re buried under your overwhelming emotions, barely able to move.

You don’t know what to say.

So, you nuzzle closer, squeeze him tighter, and close your eyes, hoping that whatever happens next doesn’t hurt you anymore than you’ve already been hurt.

(to be continued)

author’s note um so i think we’re at 50k words and all we have is a forehead kiss... next part will be the last and the slowburn will be OVER. i promise. don’t hate me <3

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[trampleddoves]

For the blurb thingy: him fucking you into overstimulation and you weakly try to push him off but you can't so he just guides you to hold onto your plushie while he keeps fucking into you...<3

s. r. blurb 9

contents: afab!reader, dom!Spencer, penetrative sex, overstimulation, mentions of a safe word but not used, corruption of a plushie, MDNI

You aren't sure where Spencer gets his stamina in bed. 

You love him, really you do, in all his lanky, nerdy glory, but Spencer Reid can barely run up two flights of stairs without losing his breath. He cannot run like a normal person while holding his gun, often leaning on one side as if the gun weighs more than it actually does and is dragging him down. 

Yet somehow, without fail, he manages to last multiple rounds of sex 

At first, you assumed he's trying to compensate for something. He reaches his climax quite quickly—Being buried inside you seems to set every nerve in his body on gasoline, white hot flames licking just under his skin and erupting without warning. You both cry out, his in pleasure, and you out of surprise, your head thrown back as he spills deep inside your cunt. He pushes through the orgasm, taking advantage of the slick that’s gathered inside your walls to fuck you even harder. 

You thought he’s just being thorough. He wants you to climax as well, after all, he’s simply being a thoughtful lover. 

All delusions of that fly out the window by the time you come down from your high for the second time in a row, and he’s still going. Fingers at your clit, alternating between infinite circles and playful pinching, he fucks you hard and deep even as your vision swims and you’re barely coherent. 

The sheets are ruined beneath you, your slick dripping down your ass and thighs and soaking the bed. His cock is slick, a ring of creamy white gathered and coating the base, evidence of your release that’s mixed and dripped out from your swollen, sensitive folds. 

For someone who’s so adamant about exchanging germs and bacteria, Spencer Reid can be awfully filthy in bed. It’s overwhelming. Dizzyingly so. But something about your hazy, dreamy state only fuels him during nights like these, so he slows down, deliberately keeping himself on edge as he cups your breasts in his big hands, catching your nipples between his long fingers. 

Your hands lift up, sluggishly pushing his forearms away, and he pauses.

“Too much?” he rubs his palms over your chest, before they skate down your back, easing his rhythm to something more gentle and tender, “Need your safe word?”

You mumble something incoherent, eyes closing as his cock slides out. Your cunt tightens around him greedily, because despite everything, you relish this just as much as he does. The mind numbing sensitivity is simply too euphoric to ignore, the way you can feel your cunt ease up or squeeze around him is downright addictive, and even the loud, sinful sounds of wet skin slapping hard into each other is music to your ears. You love that his strength and stamina seems reserved specifically for you and your intimate nights, that he has something of a reservoir of physicality that he keeps hidden away from people. 

You whimper again, twisting to the side.

“Darling? Talk to me.” he croons, laying his body over yours. His weight presses you into the mattress, cock sitting heavily inside your walls. It helps ground you enough to extract an answer.

“I’m fine. I’m fine, keep going.”

“You sure?” he kisses your jaw, tongue licking up to your ear, hot and wet and filthy, “We can always stop.”

You clench around his cock in response. 

A breathless laugh. He lifts himself on one elbow, his other arm reaching for the closest fluffy thing he could find, which happens to be a large penguin plushie. “Here, hold onto Mr. Butters for me, love.”

You moan, one arm holding the toy to your chest, the other grasping his hand desperately, “We’re corrupting Mr. Butters.” you whimper as he begins to move again, pulling out of your delicious heat before snapping back inside.

“Not the first time we’ve done so, unfortunately.” he chuckles, finding a steady rhythm, “You still with me?”

“Mhm hmm,” you nod, gasping as he lifts your hips for a better angle. You swear you feel him in your stomach like this, reaching spaces so deep, spaces only he’s able to feel.

“That’s it,” he groans, roughly thrusting into you, “Good girl. Just hold onto Mr. Butters.”

So you do. Poor Mr. Butters, with you through thick and thin, bearing witness to your childhood fears and teenage folly, and now, your very adult activities.

[risingoftime]

SANCTIFIED LIES | REMMICK X F!READER | PART ONE

synopsis: they say the devil drinks blood and hides in the woods just past the burned-down church. But you know better, the devil wears charm like cologne. The devil has hands that once pulled you from a fire. The devil kisses like he remembers every version of you and mourns each one. You should run. When he looks at you like you’re the last beautiful thing left in this godforsaken town, the hate dissolves on your tongue, and all you can taste is the ghost of his mouth sweet with lies.

18+ mdni, mentions of the KKK & racism, remmick has a saviour complex, explicit sexual content, blood play, predator & prey, vampirism, biting, rough sex, southern gothic erotica, reader is a hoodoo practitioner, slow burn, fire, manipulation, swearing, spit kink, dirty talk (remmick knows how to talk a girl through it), oral, face fucking.

The fires started slowly: a tiny house, a sharecropping community, then the fields that once paid your granddaddy’s bills. Folks say it’s the heat, the drought, or maybe God has come down to smite what’s left of this cursed parish. But you know better. You’ve seen how the flames dance, too clean and precise. The way they lick up walls like they’re searching for something. You’ve felt him near before the smoke even rises. Remmick never leaves soot on his boots or ash on his collar. No, the devil here walks like a man, smells like cedarwood, and falls from grace. And whenever you hear the sirens wail, you wonder if it’s your turn to be saved or sacrificed.

You woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of thick smoke being carried in the humid southern air. The covers clung to the perspiration that coated your skin as you threw them off your body to the side. Looking out the window, the night sky pulsed orange and red. Down the road, you could see your neighbour’s house lit up like a lantern, flames dancing greedily along the porch beams. You could hear the screams, muffled at first, but their pleas grew louder to a high shrill, then nothing at all—just the crackle of fire swallowing wood, bone, and memories.

The Klan must have struck again. Nothing felt real, and everything looked straight out of a fever dream. You stumbled out barefoot with a heart thudding against your ribs like a warning, but you already knew you were too late. The land around you, once quiet, now reeked of smoke and heavy sorrow. Cotton fields looked like little ghosts in the distance, and the countryside plantations were still fresh, a cruel reminder that nothing ever really changes in the Mississippi Delta. 

There he was when you looked off to the yard's edge, past the gnarled oaks and overgrown cotton fields. Remmick was watching, shirtless and still as death, a hunter stalking his prey, awaiting the perfect time to strike. You squint your eyes to see if your sight has tricked you. Searching for any signs that may relieve the unease in your spirit. The longer you looked, the more wrong he felt. A single White man observing from a distance the Black community of sharecroppers. The breeze shifted around him, and the cicadas fell quiet in his presence. 

You'd heard all of the stories from your mama and other kinfolk. The tales that are whispered after baptisms and buried deep beneath the guise of our hymns that we hum. They were about things that wore the shape and skin of a man but walked in the shadows, older than time as we know it. Things that couldn't cross salt and garlic or enter uninvited. You don’t know how long you’ve been out there, but you can sense it. It’s been a while since the crowd started to disperse and return to their four-walled sanctuaries. You took note of the death looming around from the devastating fire and returned to your grandmother’s home. Someone will see to it shortly. 

You pressed your hand against the door frame, stilling your heart as you locked up again for the night. However, you could still feel him, similar to a weight in your chest. He wasn’t just watching; it was a silent warning, and you were sure of it. But fear didn’t come easily to you. Not since you were twelve when your grandmother taught you how to boil bones and speak to your ancestors for guidance. Before she passed, she handed you an old silver key that opened a crawlspace under the floorboards and taught you, “Whatever walks through that field, baby, don’t let it catch you unarmed.”

You lit the lamp and sat down at the table. Your bloodline blessed you with prayer and ash. Your hands moved gracefully, pulling all the things you would need close. Dirt from your mother's grave, a twist of black thread, and dried petals from your grandmother's rose water jar. The wind whistled low and strange, the tide of grief kissing the grounds of your yard. In the distance, you could hear the firefighters put out the resisting flames, but the souls of the house were long gone by the time they’d arrived. Outside, Remmick hadn’t moved from his hiding place. He was waiting for the night sky to be the darkest and the moon to rise at its highest. 

Suspicion is useful when you know how to wear it correctly. It was armour under a nightdress. You crushed the grabbed items, binding them together with a pinch of grave dirt and spit. The words came next and rolled off your tongue in your grandmother’s voice. Protection charms don't work if you whisper them scared. You could feel him coming closer now. The land between you was shrinking, inch by inch.

Remmick wasn’t just a man. You knew that long before tonight. A man didn’t pull flame from bone or walk through housefires without smoke in his hair. You were just a girl then, wide-eyed and disobedient, pretending to sleep but watching from behind the simple linen curtains. Your grandmother had told you to shut your eyes, say your prayers, and rest. But you didn’t listen. And now, all these years later, you’re sure he was the one who started it. A man didn’t make the living restless every time he passed by. After the fire, the whole street wore silence like mourning clothes. The house was gone, nothing left but blackened wood and the smell of something far worse than ash. Nobody talked about the screams. Nobody talked about how the fire danced, moving faster than any flame had a right to. They sure as hell didn’t talk about the figure that walked calmly into the flames, then vanished before the sirens arrived. It had seemed like you were the only one who had remembered what that White man looked like emerging from the flames with blood smeared across his mouth and dripping down to his chest. 

Uncertain about Remmick's intentions and unwilling to discover them, you secured the charm bag firmly around your wrist. Searching through the jars in the kitchen, you found garlic and ate two cloves. The unliving had begun to walk among us, and we could no longer hide. It was time to expel the evil, even if it was just you. You were tired of running, navigating through the world with a bent head and pleading hands to the White man who constantly undermined you and spat at your feet. That’s when the knocks came, and it wasn’t at your door. Remmick dragged his claws across the window pane, and the thin glass threatened to crack under the pressure of his touch. His shadow loomed from the moonlight, causing his figure to appear on the curtains. You didn’t even think to peek in the corner, in anticipation that he might try to break it open. 

Your breathing turns shallow as you try to think of a plan, but your mind remains blank. There was nowhere to run. Remmick was goading you, seeing what he could get away with before you met your endpoint. He was now on the roof, and the only hint of his footsteps echoing above your head was the ceiling, rickety and creaking under his weight. He was on your Mama’s roof. The haint blue paint covered the front porch, and Nana believed any protection against haints was reasonable. However, you weren’t sure Remmick was a haint, although he seemed restless towards achieving a goal. The problem is that you didn’t know what he wanted. Too afraid to think of what was worse, an aimless monster or a trained predator seeking his prey. 

A tiny rock shot through the wooden door like a bullet, grazing the side of your cheek and drawing a surprised yelp out of you. The hot, stinging sensation was immediate. An inch further to the right, and it would've been over for you. You felt the blood trickle down your face. 

As if it summoned Remmick to move closer to the edges of the house, he yelled out.  His voice is gravelly and urgent with an Irish rasp. “Didn’t mean no harm, just wanted a word, is all. Could we have a talk, yeah?” 

You paused before opening your mouth, “S’alright, it's a tad bit too late to be chattin' up strangers.” 

When he walked up on the sea blue porch, Remmick made it known that he ain't no regular haint. He was something far more sinister. “We both know i'm not no stranger, now do we?” His voice was almost amused, like he savoured the truth you’d tried hard to forget.

You couldn't answer. Your throat had run dry, and your joints signalled you to run, but your feet stayed rooted to the wooden floor. The porch screeched, and then you saw him peek his eye in the hole he had created in the door. 

“Ain’t no need to be afraid now,” he said softly, eyes flicking to the blood still drying on your cheek. “Let me in, sweetheart. Just for a minute.” Remmick’s smile wasn't welcoming, and it was calculated and waiting. “I got all night. But you and I both know… It’s easier when you open the door.” The porch boards groaned beneath his weight as he reached the last step.

“Say yes, and I swear I’ll be gentle.”

The mojo bag pulsed at your wrist like a second heartbeat. He couldn’t cross the threshold unless you let him. And he knew it. Still, he lingered with a purpose. Remmick let the silence stretch for a breath too long, then slipped a small silver flask from his pants pockets. Without breaking eye contact from the makeshift peephole, he popped the cap and poured the liquor steadily across the porch boards, spraying it across where your grandmother used to set out sweet tea and protection jars.

The sharp scent of whiskey hit the air like a warning, and he took a swig of the last drop before putting it back. 

“You know, back in the old days,” Remmick murmured, striking a match against the wooden panels,

“Folks didn’t wait for witches to come out polite.” The flame flared, gold and hungry. He held it close to the wood, just long enough before continuing. “They burned ’em. Said it cleansed the sin. Said it set the spirits free, same thing I overheard you, Mama, chat about.”

He leaned forward, flame dancing in his eyes. “But me? I wanna talk.” He flicked the match to the side onto the grass, not lighting the porch yet. 

But the threat still stood, “open the damn door, girl. Or I’ll let the fire do the askin’.”

You yanked the door open with rage fresh on your face and fury hot in your belly. “Yah, do you think fire scares me?” Your voice was sharp like a knife, waiting to gut whatever it came in contact with. This porch held sacred memories, your grandmother's humming and Sunday prayers. Stepping close to the doorway, close enough for your shadows to meet. 

The way Remmick looked at you like you were some missing piece he’d been hunting for across lifetimes made your skin prickle. It was in his eyes that had seen too many wars, too many deaths, too many rituals performed by candlelight and blood. 

“You think I’d come all this way just for talkin’?” he asked incredulously. “You got what I need, girl. Somethin’ old and powerful.”

He tilted his head, gaze dragging over the mojo bag tied to your wrist with a knowing curiosity, “Your blood carries a name older than yours. And I reckon your ancestors know mine.” A cold wind pushed through the trees, and somewhere, something howled.

You yanked your mojo bag tighter on your wrist, heart pounding but unwavering. “You ain’t the first devil to knock on this porch, Remmick. And you sure as hell won’t be the last.” If you didn't have your grandmother’s house, you had nothing. Your siblings didn’t stick around for long after her heart ran out. But you stayed, gave her the best burial that you could manage out back. You wrapped her in linen and laid her to rest beneath the willow tree out back, the one she always said hummed when spirits passed through.

The Mississippi Delta was your home. All that you've known. Remmick won’t be able to run you out that easily. You’d be damned if he lit your grandmother’s house to nothing but ash, the same way they burned every proof that a Black woman ever owned anything worth keeping.

Every board held a prayer. You could still hear your mama’s voice humming “Wade in the Water” when she hung herbs to dry.

“I was born on this land,” you said, voice low. “My mama picked cotton ‘til her fingers split. My grandmama kept a roster of every lie the white folks told. They worked this dirt, prayed over it, and died on it. And now you think you gon’ scare me off it?” 

“I ain’t here for no quarrel… unless you make me earn one.” Remmick took one step towards you, stopping short of the doorway, as if it pained him that he couldn’t maneuver his body through. You took a step back in return, more instinct than fear, but he noticed. 

“I remember this place,” he murmured, glancing toward the willow tree. “Your grandmother used to have a heap of rituals for protection, she said. Against things like me.” You felt the chill curl around your spine.

“She knew you?” 

Remmick smiled then, slow and humourless. “Knew of me. Your kin have been dancing with shadows longer than you think.”

“You got her eyes, y’know,” he said. ”That fire in your veins? Your foolish heart? It was hers before it was yours.” He crouched, letting his fingers play with the pool of liquor that he spilled. “Precious blood runs in you,” he said, voice dipping low like a secret. “Same as hers. Same as the ones before her.”

You tried to let the words digest, but your mind has yet to wrap its mind about how a man who doesn’t look a day over thirty knew your bloodline. “Blood that doesn’t just call spirits... it bends ‘em. Breaks ‘em. Feeds ‘em.”

“That’s what your grandmother never told you, right?” His voice softened, almost pitying. “She shielded you as best she could. Wrapped you in prayers and grave dirt. Hid you from the ones who’d drink you dry just to taste a little of that power.”

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe. “But me?” He tapped his chest with two fingers. “I don’t wanna bleed you, baby girl. I want to build with you. You and I could own every acre from here to the Gulf.” He grinned, wide and wolfish, like he could already taste it. "All you gotta do is let me in."

“I ain’t born yesterday, you ain’t welcome ‘round these parts.” You stated.

He got up to his full height, towering over you. His pupils flashed red for a split second. “You ready to burn with me, baby girl?” In a flash, before you could blink, he got out his pack of matches and lit one. Remmick struck the match against his boot. A hiss, a flare of orange, and then he pressed the little flame to the porch rail. The old wood caught instantly, hungry after so many dry seasons. Flames licked upward, low but fast. 

Your rage was insurmountable, but something profound inside you shivered awake. The air around you shifted, thickened, heavy with the copper scent of stirred magic. The flare that had just begun to spread stuttered. The wood blackened but refused to break. The fire coiled on itself, guttering, whining that it's been trapped. 

Remmick’s eyes narrowed, watching. “There it is,” he said, a rough purr. “Knew you had it in you.” As he stepped back from the smouldering porch, the matchbook dangled from his fingers.

“You ain't just your grandma’s girl,” he murmured. “You're a goddamn birthright walking.” You barely heard him. The power in your body pulsed once, twice, a rhythm as old as the Delta itself. And though the fire still flickered at your doorstep, it did not touch you. The fire roared where Remmick had pressed it to the porch rail, growing faster than it should have. The flame that stuttered moments ago now surged, as if your blood had called to it, but you hadn’t meant to, and you didn't know how.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. If you stayed at your grandmother’s house, the last piece of her you had would be transformed into nothing more than the dirt and ash that filled your mojo bags.

A harsh sob broke from your throat as you yanked your bag tighter and slammed the door shut before charging out the back door, sprinting off and taking that last leap into the heavy night. Behind you, the fire roared louder, and somewhere in the crackling din, you swore you heard Remmick laughing triumphantly.

The ground shivered under your feet as you ran, and the willow tree at the back of the yard, which was your grandmother’s grave, hummed as you sprinted past it. Before you felt him creep up behind you, you barely made it off the land and already stepped into a current too strong to fight. The fire behind you spat and snapped, the light throwing his silhouette in sharp, devilish relief.

"Thought you could outrun it?" he drawled, voice like velvet dragged over gravel. "Outrun me?" He pushed off the tree, slow and sure, that lazy grin stretching across his face, it was hard to ignore how tempting the Devil looked then. There was a hunger in his eyes that was dark and sharp; he was a man stepping up to claim something he’d already marked as his. Remmick moved with a raw, predatory grace, the kind of man who didn’t need to chase. 

Broad shoulders strained the worn fabric of his shirt, with sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms dusted with old scars and new sins. His jaw was sharp, stubbled, and dangerous, and that mouth was full, crooked, and parted just enough to flash the sharp gleam of his elongated canines. Lord, his eyes burned with something hungrier than lust, pupils blown wide, rimmed in a glow that no mortal could ever have.

"You can feel it, can’t you?" he said, closing the distance in unhurried strides. There was magic in your blood, old and defiant, and it screamed at you to ward him off, salt the earth he walked on, and spit in his wicked, beautiful face. But another part that knew loneliness, quivered toward him like a smoker starved for air. “Mmmm,” he said. “You’re overthinking, sugar.”

He stepped closer, the tip of one claw tracing lazy circles in the space between you. “Thinking gets you killed.” Before you could answer, he flicked the matchbook in his hand and tossed a lit match into the dry brush at the yard's edge.

Fire bloomed, crackling and eager, a rough circle hemming you both in. “Could you fucking stop lightin shit on fire?” He's destroying everything that he sees with his touch.��

“You wanna run so bad?” Remmick asked, fangs fully bared, cruel and gleaming. "Let’s make it interesting." He licked his thumb, snuffed out the match he'd struck, deliberately never taking his eyes off you. "You've got ’til the count of three." The thrill of the hunt made Remmick excited.

The heat behind you pulsed like a heartbeat. Flames curled at the yard's edges, circling in toward the house but not touching it. They were waiting for his command. And in the middle of it all, Remmick stood like the conductor of some unholy symphony.

“Before we play,” he said in a low and sweet tone, “I want you to know what you agree to.” He circled you as he spoke.

“You run,” he murmured, pausing just behind your ear. “And I chase.”

You swallowed hard, and it felt like something was lodged in your throat. “If I catch you before the sun touches your porch, you’re mine. Fully. Not just your blood. Not just your gift. You.”

He came back around to face you, his gaze pinning you like a hand to the neck, not violent, just sure of its power. “No more hiding behind salt lines. No more prayers whispered in your sleep. You gone let me into that little heart wrapped in bones and grief.” He leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours.

“And I’ll teach you what your grandmother never did. What your mama was too scared to face. I’ll open every locked door inside you and let the fire run wild.”

You shivered, despite the warmth licking at your ankles. “And if I don’t catch you…” He said, stepping back now, hands open like he was offering peace. “Then I walk away. No tricks. I won’t cross your land again, unless you ask for me.”

He gestured toward the tree line, just beyond the fence. The woods had never looked so dark.

“But,” He tipped his head,  “You’ll never make it ‘til dawn.” 

It took everything in you to turn your back on him and map out a plan, because your survival depended on it. Even if you didn’t make it past dawn you were going to try your damn hardest to put up a fight. Wasting your breath on conversation wasn’t going to make him spare you.

Behind you, Remmick’s voice followed, "One..."

part ii | taglist | @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax @klssngss @remmickcherie @sinnersappreciation

[muqingslover]

This question is related to the last ask you posted, but what do you think the lads men most unexpected/unconventional turn-on would be?

Your depiction of Zayne got me thinking, what is that shy man gonna do if mc finds his "weak" spot lol. Cuz yeah, obviously he'd be turned on about his beloved sending him risky pictures BUT the moment mc realises one of his unexpected turn ons that maybe he himself wasn't even aware of? Oh lawd.

[ this one had me thinking for days oh my goodness! Just a heads up, I got carried away with some of these...very carried away.....shhh. ]

Your lips.

Alright, alright, i know it sounds confusing but stick with me here.

I've thrown some of my takes on his kinks around but I didn't want to repeat myself so I spent some time stewing over this.

Eventually I landed on the idea that Zayne would be very particular about sharing anything that touched your lips, especially before an official relationship.

Drinking from the same straw, sharing the same spoon, tasting something you already bit into it— It's an instant way of getting his poor mind to go into overdrive.

He is a very proper and respectful man. He doesn't like to have indecent thoughts about you, but the idea that his lips touched something yours did as well make him all tingly and shy.

Massages.

He loooooves the feeling of your weight pressing down on his hips when you straddle him, though that's not even the tip of the iceberg as to why he is so into this.

Your hands are truly magical when it comes to getting rid of the few knots on his body and the further he relaxes, the further Xavier begins to grow more aware of you.

The comforting weight is slowly causing him to grind against the mattress under him each time you shifted on top of him and the way your hands make their way down his bare spine has him biting the pillow sheets.

Not to mention that the minute your fingernails scratch his scalp in an otherwise affectionate gesture he nearly cums in his pants.

His ears and neck feel so hot he decides to bury his face in the pillow to keep you from noticing.

He would either flip the tables on you at some point or (try to) go to sleep in hope everything would be fine once he wakes up again.

Gentleness.

That's right. You heard me. This man will crumble at your feet every time you care for him like he's a pretty princess.

I'm not necessarily talking about grand gestures. Simple and natural ones are the most effective. The type that you wouldn't even notice you are doing it.

Slow caresses on his shoulder or hands, checking to see if he's alright while cradling his face, patiently explaining something to him, wiping his face if there was something on it, running your fingers through his hair... ECT.

He has a distinct memory of you being so worried about him when he scrapped his hand during his daily troubles— It was no different than a paper cut to him, but the blood made it seem worse than it actually was and that caused you to immediately fuss.

He watched with such genuine adoration as you tended to his wounds; Your furrowed eyebrows as you focused, the soft concern in your voice when you asked if the disinfectant stung and how could Sylus not pretend that it hurt? Just a little bit. Just enough to hear more of your encouragement that it was almost done and he was doing well.

Trust me, it will lead to him kissing you without warning, seemingly out of nowhere, once it's done and prepare yourself for the best night ever.

(I cut this short like four times and still ended up being long....oh well.)

Helping him with his clothes.

Each time you fix his crooked, poorly tied necktie (which he absolutely hates to wear) or straighten up his collar for him Rafayel is fighting back demons.

This also applies to you helping him actually dress up (or undress) and picking out his outfits without him having to ask.

The sight of you standing in front of him, hands swiftly buttoning up his shirt, has him weak in the knees. It makes him feel as you're truly his partner. That this is the married life the two of you deserved to have eons ago.

Speaking of undressing, this naughty fish will absolutely tease you about unbuckling his belt.

He would take a seat on a nearby chair with a dramatic sigh before he asked for you to help him with his clothes because he was oh so very tired to do it himself.

He leans back against the chair as if it was his own personal throne, knees slack as he spread comfortably and tilts his head to the side to rest it on his hand.

"I have an early morning tomorrow, you know. Won't you finish helping me so we can head to bed?" It sounds innocent enough, rather playful even, but the expression on his face is anything but. Just look at the volume on his pants, he ain't fooling anybody.

Hearing his own name + Whispering.

Last but most definitely not least, everyone's favorite boy.

It doesn't matter what's happening the second you say his name his full attention is on you. It's like a very well trained dog.

He can tell what you're feeling, sometimes even thinking, based on the way you call him alone. It comes with the years of experience of being your best friend.

It however also comes with the perpetual problem that his body reacts so well to your voice that it ends up being a little *too* well.

You may be in the middle of an argument yet the moment you say his name Caleb would be fighting back a boner. upcoming fic sneakpeek—i mean what

Another odd turn on of his is when you whisper something in his ear.

It doesn't really matter what you're saying. The sound of your voice so close to him and the way he can feel your warm breath tickling his skin is enough to have this man crossing his legs and praying his bulge is subtle.

You can imagine the nightmare this was during teen years when the two of you would sneak around grandma's house.

[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. PLEASE READ AND LOOK UP DEFINITIONS OF WARNINGS FOR FURTHER CLARIFICATION. HUGE TW FOR THIS CHAPTER. CSA (only mentioned, not described), heavy angst.

A/N: This song was a huge inspo for me when planning this series. Although I love the true meaning relating to lovers, I think the lyrics can hold weight in other contexts too

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P26: Remember it...

“Chris?” 

God, I feel dizzy. My body is heavy with sleep, my eyes drooping as I slowly wander towards the kitchen, following the echo of a loud clunk of something falling. 

He probably dropped my water bottle. I hope it’s not dented, but I really hope he didn’t accidentally drop it on his fucking toe—that shit hurts. I’ve had a purple toe to prove just how much that stupid metal water bottle hurts being dropped on a foot. 

My brows furrow as I hear a slight shuffle of noise—too much noise for just one pair of footsteps. I walk a little faster, my heart hammering in my chest as I round the corner from the hallway into the kitchen.

It’s just…Chris? 

Damn. Am I really that delusional right now? 

Attempting to rub the sleep from my eyes, I yawn while hearing his footsteps come closer. The feeling of his arms swarming around me makes my body relax into his hold, the touch of the cold metal water bottle against my arm making me curl away from the object. 

As I go to pull away to escape the ice metal sensation, I feel Chris tug me under one of his arms, flipping me around so I’m nuzzled under his hold as he starts to walk back towards my room, guiding us as I follow his movements. 

“Sorry—just…just dropped your water.” he says, his voice rushed, like an anxious worry of adrenaline from making such a commotion in the middle of the night. “-let’s go back to sleep, c’mon.”

Ugh, sleep. That’s what I need—that’s what my body is desperate for right now. I can tell my balance gets sloppy. My weight leans against him as I hear him hiss out like he’s in pain. 

What the hell?

Before I can even stand up straight enough to get a good glance at him, Chris pulls me back into the bed, immediately holding me against his chest as we both lay on our sides. 

“Are—are you okay?” I mumble, my words sluggish and slow as he starts to soothe his fingers over the top of my back, lulling me back to sleep quickly. 

“Yeah, I–yeah, just…just dropped your water on my foot, but it didn’t do any real damage, just stings a bit. Just….go back to sleep, baby,” he says, holding me tighter. 

Sleep consumes my senses faster than usual. His soothing voice and delicate touch makes it impossible for my mind to rush to any thoughts except for how content everything feels. He clutches me closely, a bit tighter than he’d been holding me previously—and I swear I feel him shiver, some sort of vibration that makes me nuzzle even further into him subconsciously. 

This is so peaceful. It’s impossible to feel anything but pure calmness as I let myself sink into exhaustion. 

___

The morning breeze seeping through the window is peaceful, but cold—brutally cold. My eyes shoot open as I reach out, feeling nothing but empty sheets next to me.

“Chris?” I ask, my voice still scratchy from sleep. 

Oh.

He’s gone.

Reaching over, I grab my phone off my nightstand, trying to swallow the lump in my throat as my chest grows heavy. The screen reflects black for a second, my sullen expression making me more aware of reality as I tap the device, seeing the digital pixels light up as I read a text. 

From Chris: Hey, don’t freak out, I just headed home a bit early. I’ll explain later, I’m sorry. 

Why’s he sorry?

Oh god. 

No. 

We said I love you last night, did he not actually mean it? 

My chest heaves up and down as I try to suck in deep breaths, my eyes watering as I feel shallow sighs leave my quivering lip. He seemed so genuine with his words. How could that sort of emotion be just from the heat of the moment? 

That can’t be it, I refuse to even let my brain try to convince me. 

I saw his eyes—I heard his words. He meant it. I know in my soul that he meant it. 

Words don’t just feel like that. Confessions that are that deep and vulnerable can’t be faked. 

So what went wrong? 

Before I can think any further, I hear a knock on the door, my eyes widening before I relax, remembering Chris isn’t here and there’s no reason to freak out about getting caught. Although, I kinda wish he was. I want him here, even if it means getting in trouble. 

The door creaks open as Baylen peeks his head in. My eyes furrow as he gazes across my room, almost as if he’s searching for something. 

“Hey, uh–” he continues looking, scratching the back of his neck as he fully steps into my room, “-how’d you sleep?” he asks, his eyes darting to my bathroom and my open closet with curiosity. 

He knows—he has to know. There hasn’t been a single day in the past couple years where he’s ever waltzed into my room, asking how I slept. Especially not with such wandering eyes. 

“Baylen?” I ask, my body freezing as he looks towards me with an unreadable expression.

I can feel it. Deep in my gut, the look in his eyes makes everything pulse with adrenaline in my body, like an automatic response that makes everything seem like I’m looking through a camera lens to see. 

“I…” his eyes drop as he looks at my bed, analyzing the messed up sheets and comforter, “-where is he?”

My eyes widen with horror, my throat feeling incredibly dry as my lips smack open and shut. “I—what? What do–”

“No, where…where is he?” he interrupts. 

Baylen rubs a hand over his face, his face scrunching with distaste that has a hint of sadness lingering in the creases of his eyes. My heart pummels in my chest. I swallow the lump in my throat, my eyes feeling dry as the morning breeze stings against my waterline. 

“He left, I—I’m sorry, I won’t sneak him around again, just—please don’t tell mom, I—”

My words halt as I watch him stalk closer to me. He sits on the edge of my bed, his arms resting on his knees with his face buried in his hands. I freeze, noticing the subtle shake of his body, a loud sniff echoing through the room as the wind grows silent. 

“I–I’m—’m sorry,” he cries, a sob racking through his body as his entire body racks with a devastating vibration. 

My face tingles, every slight sensation echoing as I feel the air grow stiff. I sit up. My hand reaches out to his shoulder, lightly laying on him as I frown. 

“-’m so fuckin’ sorry, you—I—fuck,” his voice cracks, his sniffs growing louder as I hear him choke on a breath.

Pure instinct rushes over me. I lean forward, wrapping my arms around him as he shakes with loud cries. Baylen grows stiff. His body freezes under my embrace before he turns, pulling his arms around my waist as he places his chin on my shoulder.

Something is horribly wrong. The way he’s clutching onto me tells my body to activate every anxious sensation possible. 

“What’s going on? Is this about…what’s…just—talk to me,” I plea, my lip wobbling as another sob from him echoes through the room. 

He pulls me impossibly tighter, his tears hot and wet as they seep onto the fabric covering my shoulder. “He…he was filling up your water bottle, I…things just kept—he said you deserved better than me and—-and he’s right.” 

My face scrunches as I listen to his broken words. Chris and him had some sort of run-in last night, one that had somehow led to my brother who barely even acknowledges me to sob onto my shoulder. 

“Baylen….you’re still my brother, it’s okay, I know our dynamic hasn’t always been the best, but—” 

A sharp cry purses through his lips. I wince as he hugs me a bit too tight, the whimper sounding from his mouth making something in my chest sting. 

“He’s right. I…you don’t understand, I haven’t—you—he’s not what you think,” he says, his voice strained and getting quieter. 

“Chris?” I ask, met with an even louder sob.

“Dad.” 

My bones go rigid as I feel my heartbeat stop for a second. Baylen shakily lets go of me, his teary, red eyes staring into mine with a pout tugging on his face. 

“He’s…he wasn’t a good person—especially not to you.” 

“What?” I ask, the word coming out as more of a breath than an actual question. “Baylen, what’s going on? What…what happened last night? What’re you saying?”

His eyes. They say volumes before he even starts to speak. 

Each of his words echo with a piercing pain, a sharp sensation clawing at my chest as I feel my heart shatter. 

___

Silence drums through my room. Not a single ounce of sound, not even a noise from moving in my sheets—I hadn’t moved. 

If I moved, this might be real, and this can’t be real—it can’t be true.

A knock breaks through the silence. My eyes stay trained on my wall as I see movement and hear the sound of my door creaking open. 

“Hey, I—” 

Chris. 

His voice is impossibly soft. I hear the door close shut, his footsteps trailing until he’s directly in my view. 

“Hey.” he repeats, this time more delicately. 

Chris sinks onto his knees, kneeling on the floor as I lay on my side. I stare as his hand reaches out, caressing my hair behind my ear. The heat grows in my face. 

This is too real. 

“Baylen let you in?” I ask numbly. He nods, his thumb caressing over the rim of my ear as I find the lump of emotions building in my chest. 

“How are you—”

“No. I…don’t. Please, just–”

The question makes my chest burn, the response rushing off my tongue as I feel my face scrunch with displeasure. The wall in front of me is blocked by his body, my eyes drifting to above his shoulder where my dresser is—the dresser with a picture of the man that made my heart feel like it was being wrung out like a towel. 

“I don’t want it to be true. I—I don’t wanna think that he…I…Baylen—he’s not lying, he wouldn’t lie about this, but—I’m gonna be sick,” I mumble, squinting my eyes shut as hot tears begin to leak. The sight of that dumb picture is burning in my mind, the fear of opening my eyes to see his face making my stomach twist with nausea.

The comfort of Chris’ touch disappears. I hear him walk around my room, my eyes peeking open to see him setting the framed picture of my dad face down on my dresser. 

A sob rumbles through my chest. Chris rushes over, scooping me into his arms as he cradles me like a baby into his chest. 

“Hey, hey…I got you, just—just let it all out, okay? I’m here,” he whispers.  

My vision is blurred as I try to open my eyes. Every muscle in my body aches as I look over to my dresser, the once prized picture hidden, the frame barely visible. 

My dad’s been dead for a long time. He’s been a memory for years—but that’s dead too now. 

All the memories, all the things I thought I knew—they’re all gone. 

Everything about him is truly dead.

[livingund3ad]

[for the last time || в последний раз]

chapter warnings: disturbing/unsettling imagery at the end of the chapter.

01. | 02. | 03. | 04. | 05. | 06. | » you are here | ... |

———————

From the eyes of [ Batman ]

Roughly 19 hours before the events of 01.

The darkness of the room was thick and restless. Shadows crept along the high ceilings, their tangled shapes swaying as the curtains trembled under the weak hum of the air conditioning. Bruce Wayne lay tangled in his sheets, the pressure of sleep bearing down on him like stone.

He’d managed three hours. Three whole hours of dreamless, shallow rest. It was something. Not enough, but something. His body ached from last night’s patrol—knees stiff, ribs sore, bruises blooming where punches had landed harder than expected. The fatigue was constant. Heavy. A permanent companion now. His bed felt less like a place of rest and more like a place of recovery—a battlefield in itself.

He hadn’t planned to wake up yet.

The knock on his door came first. A slow, deliberate knock, followed by the sound of hinges creaking open. Too heavy and measured to be Damian, too impatient to be Tim.

Dick.

His protege’s voice broke the silence.

“Bruce.”

A pause. Then, louder.

“Bruce. You awake?”

Bruce opened his eyes, staring at the darkened expanse of his bedroom ceiling. The dull throb behind his eyes intensified. It was an effort just to turn his head toward the door, but he managed.

“What is it, Dick?” His voice came out rough, barely more than a rasp, worn down from disuse.

Dick stepped inside, boots soft against the carpet. His hair was damp, skin slick with sweat. He looked like he’d just come from a run, or maybe he’d been pacing the halls for who knew how long. His expression was tight, the familiar cheerfulness replaced by something raw and simmering.

“It’s [****]. We think she's gone, B.”

Bruce blinked slowly. His shoulders shifted, not quite rising from the mattress. The muscles in his back protested, a dull cramp gnawing at his spine.

“Have you searched the manor?” he asked, voice dragging like gravel. “Checked her room? The grounds?”

Dick’s jaw tightened. “Yes, Bruce. Everyone has. Alfred’s been up since breakfast, checking every corner of the manor. Tim’s working through train surveillance. And Jason—” His lips twitched in frustration. “Jason’s actually helping and trying to track her down.”

Bruce made a sound in the back of his throat, something halfway between a grunt and a sigh. His limbs were leaden, every joint straining just to shift his weight. He wasn’t ready to drag himself from the bed. Not yet. Not when everything was so heavy.

“She’s probably with her friends.” He stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. “Did you try reaching her phone?”

“Of course we did. Straight into voicemail.” Dick’s tone was clipped, brittle. “Bruce, she’s been missing since last night. No messages. No calls. And you’re just—”

Dick’s fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to hit something, anything. And then the dam broke.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, something might really happen to her. Maybe it already has—which, god I hope not.”

His words hit like punches. They didn’t just hurt. They tore. Because he wasn’t wrong.

There was a deep sigh before the door slammed behind him.

Bruce closed his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids somehow clearer than the dim room around him. Dick’s anger was justified. Even now, Bruce could feel the jagged edges of it cutting through his own haze of fatigue.

But the urgency didn’t reach him. Couldn’t reach him. It was like trying to swim against a tide of exhaustion, his mind numbed to everything that didn’t demand immediate attention. Pain was real. Sleep was real. The rest was static.

A memory surfaced, slow and reluctant.

Alfred.

Alfred had told him last night that [****] wasn’t home yet. It had been a brief mention after a late dinner, the old man’s voice tinged with unease. Something Bruce had acknowledged with a nod before letting it drift to the back of his mind.

He’d let it drift. Because that’s what he did with her.

Because it was easier. Both for him, and for her.

[****] was… different. Not in the ways the boys were. Not in the ways Bruce could measure and train and prepare. She didn’t come from trauma. Not the kind he understood, anyway. She wasn’t broken in the way he could mend. She didn’t need a cape, a cowl, or a mission. She needed something simple…. a father.

And Bruce had no idea how to be one.

He’d buried anything [****]-related in the recesses of his thoughts. Kept her in the light. Away from the pool of red that came with crime fighting. He trusted her that she's capable enough on her own. That was how he protected her. That was what he told himself.

But she hadn’t come home last night. [****] always comes home, because Alfred always tells him so.

And he’d done nothing.

No.

The weight in his chest tightened, twisting. His pulse thudded in his ears, the room’s chill seeping into his bones. [****] was missing. She could've been gone for hours. And he’d dismissed it like it was nothing.

No, no, no.

He reached for the phone. Not urgently. Automatically. Like muscle memory kicking in long after instinct had failed. The glow of the screen felt blinding, his own name too bright and sterile against the dim of the cold room.

He scrolled through his messages. Dick’s texts were frantic, piling up with half baked theories, updates and demands for information. Tim’s were more focused, detailing surveillance footage he was pulling from the train stations. Jason’s messages were terse and precise, relaying possible areas where she might've been.

Bruce glanced past them, his focus on another thread entirely. His e-mail. He fired off a message to his secretary, fingers tapping with mechanical precision.

Subject: Urgent

Body: Check all recent emails for anything related to ransom demands or potential kidnapping attempts. Also monitor [****] Wayne’s bank accounts for any activities. Notify me immediately if you find anything unusual and recent. Keep this under wraps. —BW

He didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t. This was a personal matter, but it was also something he needed to keep under wraps. The media would have a field day if they caught wind of this.

But deep down, he didn’t believe this was random.

He was aware that no one goes missing in Gotham without a reason.

Gotham is a city of intention. Every scream in the night has a motive. Every broken window, every body in an alleyway—it’s all part of something. Chaos, yes, but not without pattern. Not without teeth.

If [****] was missing, someone could've taken her.

Because of him.

Because she was a Wayne.

Bruce’s thoughts spiraled. If [****] had been taken, it was because of his name. Because she was the biological child of Bruce Wayne. One of his likely heirs to his corporate empire. He’d kept her far from Batman’s world, made sure of that. That she’ll never be a target from the enemies he fought under the cowl.

…what if she was?

But Bruce Wayne’s enemies were just as ruthless. Just as dangerous. He made the precautions that she won't be traced back to the man he was once the sun was down.

He dropped his phone onto the bed, staring blankly at the far wall. His breath came shallow and uneven, the air cold and brittle in his lungs. His hands trembled against the sheets.

[****] is missing because I didn’t act. Batman was too busy, and Bruce Wayne was around but never present.

He pushed himself upright, pain lancing through his shoulders and back. Everything felt heavy, every inch of his body protesting the movement. But he couldn’t stay in bed. Not now.

His feet hit the floor, and he forced himself to stand. The weight of the previous night’s injuries tugged at him, muscles strained and torn. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

He needed to help look for her. Actually look for her.

He reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head with jerky, desperate motions. His gaze caught on his reflection in the darkened mirror, eyes hollow and sleepless.

He tried to picture her. [****].

Seventeen, no—eighteen now. Her birthday had passed recently. He remembered that PR had him arrange a gala for the girl. He remembered the taste of champagne, vaguely. He remembered she wore an elegant white gown that night. The faint sound of instruments playing vivaldi in the background. He hadn’t been there for it. Mentally, at least. Physically he was there for 15 minutes. He’d given her a gift. Something practical.

But her smile… what was her smile like? What was her voice like?

His mind went blank.

Fuck.

W̶̩̑͑̀̉̃͛͛͑h̷̡̗̘̜̄̄̈̊̈́̈́̇̊̀͗y̴̛͚̽̇̃͊̈̈ ̸̛̰̝̟̂̆̿̌͝c̸̩͉̰̰͈̗̼͉̙̃̍̒͆͑̒̏̓͊͠ͅṏ̸̭͍͕͈̝̭́u̴̧̫͈̜̭̳̰̍̆͊̔̆͊̄̎͒̊͜l̶̡̧̛̙̘͇̳͖̪͖̗̐̑̑̿͐̒̀̈́̕d̸̠͖̟̭̮͇̮͇̆̊̈́̄n̶͕̲͌’̵̧̨͖͓͔̋͜t̴͉͙̰̲̜͚̻̮̣́̈́̃ ̷̧͈̲̯̃ḫ̸̡̢̳̖̖͇̤̮̮̂̊̈̊̅ȩ̷̖͉͚͓͖̗͙̲͆̅̑̏͒̇̕͜͝͝ ̸̡̹̳̥͂ͅr̶̛̯̅ȩ̷̥̙̩̬͂͝m̶̢̢͕̖̹̗̦̬͂͐̋̔̀̑̉̄͘e̵̙̿̆̽̋͠ḿ̴̞͛̅̇̊̅̚̚b̸͎̣̐ę̶̛̤̙͂̒̄̌̎̍͋̇͜͝ȓ̷̫̲͎̪͔̩͒͗͊̽̀̚͝ͅ ̸̢͎̜̲̪͕̄̓͗͛̄͂̂͂͝͝w̸̥̝̻͈̪̭͒̀̉̆̍́̕̚͠ḥ̸̭̳̬̼̇̔̓͆͒̋a̸̻̩̽͋̓̚͠ͅt̴̙̊̏̍́̎͊̕͠ ̷̡̖̬̰͓̰̰̯̞̙̀̅̌̌̋̆̌ş̶̰͚̙͙̪̦̅́̌̃̃̓̃̍̾h̴̞͓̠͑͂̀́̋͗ḛ̵͓͇̺̃̕ ̵͖̼̙͚̮̮͑̀̇̈́̀l̵̛̙͛̽͐͗̔͌̏͐o̸͕̦̩͈͛̓̏͛̀̈́͌͠o̵̧̘͆̔̄̒́̏̊͝k̵̡̺͓̠̖͔̺͔̲̘͆̄̂̄́̀͆e̴̢̨͕̯͐͛̀̂͊̈́̋͗͘͠ͅd̴͓̽̇̊́̓͘ ̶̛̦͔͇̦̱̟̲͍̏̅͊́ľ̶̢͈̺̼̀ͅi̶͋̋̋̽͂͒̇̀͝ͅk̷̨̧̛̙̲̪͙͈̗͆̐̊ê̵̲̠͔̪̙̗̪͈̥͖̎̈́͒͊̒̒̏̏̕?̶̛̱̪̌̍̀

The guilt curled like acid in his gut. The numbness wasn’t armor anymore—it was rot. He had no excuses. No enemy to punch. No villain to blame.

He could feel Gotham breathing beyond the windows, its pulse thrumming like the city knew. Like it was watching him.

People didn’t just disappear in Gotham.

They were taken.

They were lured.

Or they were broken.

And always, always—there is a reason.

This city doesn’t allow coincidence. Only consequence.

And perhaps the consequence of being Bruce Wayne’s daughter,

Had just come due.

Taglist: @kneelforloki @shycreatorreview @pearlyribbons @homeless-clown @daffy-the-duck @1abi @reeyy0-2 @ryuushou @nisarelle @cssammyyarts @bunniotomia @cxcillia @unrelatedlily @the-holy-pigeon @electricgg @fortunatelydifferentqueen

A/N: Omggg finally, part one of ftlt is finished, and three more left lmfao. I just wanna say thanks a lot for all the notes and reblogs, they mean a lot to me as an author. Really keeps me motivated to write. From one of my recent posts, I've mentioned that'll be on short hiatus, so sad to say, chapter 8 would only be released in the next few months or so. I'll try to keep active, maybe post other related content for ftlt every now and then. My ask box will also remain open, so feel free to ask anything, whenever, whatever(although I might not be able to respond to them asap, lol). Y'all can also privately message me, if you just want to rant or vent about something even if you're a total stranger. I'll be here to listen. :)

(Although bots will be instantly blocked—so lol fuck off :D )

[daxisyzz]

𝑶𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: In dreams, you danced with him beneath the glow of a 1940s jazz bar—Bucky Barnes, a stranger who felt like home. The world called it a vision; you knew it was a memory reborn. Drawn across lifetimes, you find him in Bucharest, where love awakens, and fate begins again.

Warnings and tags: post avengers-aou, no civil war in this universe, 40s!Bucky, Civil War!Bucky, the reader has powers like mind manipulation and dream walking, the reader has been reincarnated in the present, was alive in the 40s in her previous life, implied "death".

Lyrics for the song are in italics

Word count: 3.7k+

A/n: Happy birthday to me ✨️ it's my birthday today!! this is a special I've written for my birthday. Hope you all like it<3. divider creds: @strangergraphics

Your powers were slipping again.

You had always known how to tiptoe the line between dreams and waking, could soothe nightmares, slip into someone’s subconscious like dipping a hand into water. You had control. Precision. Boundaries.

But ever since Bucky Barnes had vanished gone off-grid without warning after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. something inside you had begun to fray. You didn’t even know him. Not really. Just a face you’d seen in passing in the Smithsonian. A few mentions of him from Steve. Still, his absence clawed at you like a wound you didn’t remember receiving.

The rest of the team noticed. Wanda placed a hand on your shoulder more often. Steve asked you if you were sleeping enough. Sam hovered like he was waiting for you to crumble. You hated it. Hated the way your grip on reality was starting to blur at the edges. Your dreams bled into waking life, and your waking life kept warping into something unreal.

And then, one evening, everything shattered.

You had been meditating in your room, trying to ground yourself, when your vision went black.

No warning. No sound.

Just the sudden sense of falling into something deep and endless, like a void.

When your eyes opened, you were no longer in the compound.

The air smelled like smoke and perfume. Jazz music hummed through the floorboards beneath your shoes. The room swayed with movement, laughter, and golden light. You blinked at the wood bar, the soft glow of the lamps, the sway of dresses and the crisp cut of coats.

It was the 1940s.

Your mind tried to escape the illusion, but everything was too real, the warmth of the room, the scratch of your dress’s lace, the way your heels pinched slightly, under your toes. Your breath hitched.

You were dreaming, and you weren’t.

“Miss?”

You turned. A man stood near the bar, handsome in a pressed suit, tie loosened just enough to look charming. His smile was a little cocky, a little too familiar. Your heart stopped.

“Dance with me?” he asked, voice smooth, warm.

Your fingers twitched.

You knew that face. Younger, softer. Before the Winter Soldier. Before the war carved grief into his bones.

Bucky Barnes.

But he didn’t know you.

And yet—he looked at you like he did.

You took his hand.

The crowd faded. The band played a soft melody. He pulled you close, one hand at your waist, the other cradling your hand like it was something normal.

You moved together like you had done this before. Like your bodies remembered even if your minds didn’t.

You laid your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as warmth washed over you.

Your thoughts whispered like wind through trees:

I know you. I walked with you once upon a dream.

I know you. The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.

A part of your soul clicked into place.

You swayed gently, chest to chest, the world shrinking down to just you, warm hands, and the kind of quiet that holds weight. Your cheek brushed against the lapel of his suit, the scent of him grounding you. You could feel his heartbeat through his shirt.

Then it all started dawning on you.

The music slowed, muffled, like it was coming from far away. The warm golden glow of the jazz bar dimmed. Your stomach turned. A faint pressure built behind your eyes. You blinked once, twice and the weight of everything crashed into you.

The dream faltered. No.

Not a dream.

A memory.

Your body stiffened in his arms.

Bucky felt it instantly. “Hey. What’s wrong, doll?”

You looked up at him with wide, wet eyes, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. “I remember you.”

His brow furrowed, in confusion. “What are you talking about, sweetheart? You feeling okay?”

You stared at him. Your fingers curled into his jacket, gripping tight. “This isn’t just a dream. You…”

You didn’t get to finish.

Your breath caught in your throat as the room began to wither around you. The warmth of Bucky’s embrace vanished, replaced by a suffocating emptiness. The music, the laughter, the lights—they all dimmed, dissolving into still hum.

You gasped, struggling to keep steady, but the world slipped through your fingers like sand. Your heartbeat sped up in your chest, faster and faster, and then, it was gone.

You blinked back into existence with a gasp not in the dim warmth of the bar, but into something colder, heavier.

An alley. Slick cobblestones beneath your shoes. The muted rumble of a city alive just beyond the shadows. Rain dripped from a fire escape. The scent of tobacco, engine smoke, and something faintly floral clung to the air.

You knew this place.

Your body remembered before your brain caught up.

You weren’t in the compound. You were in another dream.

You were back. In your body. In the 1940s.

And he was there.

“Hey,” came a low whisper from your back.

You turned just in time to see Bucky Barnes slip around the corner, hair slick, kakhi jacket hugging his shoulders like he’d walked out of an old movie. The way he looked at you half smile, half mischief, stole the air from your lungs.

“Thought I lost you in the crowd,” he said, voice barely above the rain.

You swallowed. “You didn’t.”

You meant it in more ways than one.

He stepped closer, close enough that his fingers brushed yours. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, brows drawing together.

“I’m fine,” you lied. You weren’t. Not even close.

Because you knew what was coming. You remembered this moment before it happened. You remembered how your heart had felt like it would shatter from how much you wanted him, how much you couldn’t tell him. And now you were living it again, with the weight of the future crushing your chest.

Bucky reached up, cupping your cheek like you were something fragile. “You sure?” he asked gently.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes. “No.”

“Talk to me.”

You looked up at him. Your Bucky. But not yet. Not quite. He didn’t know what would be stolen from him. He didn’t know he’d leave you.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“Of what?” he asked, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Of how much I already need you.”

That pulled something out of him. His breath hitched, and he tilted his head, eyes searching yours for any sign you didn’t mean it.

But you did.

You always had.

And then—it happened.

He leaned in.

So did you.

The kiss was soft. Hesitant, at first. Like the two of you were testing the shape of something you didn’t quite know how to hold.

Then it deepened.

Slowly, his hands found your waist, and yours tangled in the lapels of his jacket. He kissed you like you were a all thathe wished for, like he’d been dying to for weeks but had waited for this exact moment. The press of his lips was warm, sure, and achingly new.

And your heart broke a little.

Because this was the first time for him.

And you remembered the last.

But if I know you, I know what you'll do

You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream

When you finally pulled back, your breath caught. His forehead rested against yours.

“Wow,” Bucky murmured.

You laughed softly, dazed. “Yeah.”

“You okay?” he asked again, voice low.

You blinked, eyes glassy. “No. But this… this helps.”

He smiled, completely unaware of the storm behind your eyes. “I knew kissing you’d be good,” he teased.

You huffed a wet laugh and kissed him again before you could cry.

Because this was the beginning.

And you already knew the end.

You were still spinning, breathless, heart thudding with the ghost of his lips on yours. His hand had been warm on your waist, grounding you, and his eyes. God, those eyes—soft in a way that made you want to stay right there forever.

You barely had time to hold on to it. To even say a word.

And then the world snapped back.

The familiar tug pulled at you, stronger this time. The air thickened with the smell of smoke, the sharp scent of gunpowder in the air. Your shoes felt heavier, the weight of them an instant reminder of where you were, who you were.

The darkness around you closed in, and in an instant, the alley, the city, the moment you shared with Bucky all vanished, as if they were never real at all.

You blinked.

Screams echoed around you loud, painful, desperate. The air stung with the sharp smell of blood and antiseptic. People shouted over each other, voices rushed and panicked. You heard the hiss of bandages being pulled, the snap of needles, the clinking of metal tools. It was loud. It was messy. It was real. This was the battlefield. And you were right in the middle of it.

You were back in the war years. Or few months after the kiss had taken place.

Back where the world had crumbled. The weight of the memories hit you like a freight train.

You were in uniform, a nurse’s uniform, dust-streaked and bloodstained. The fabric was heavy against your chest, the worn apron crinkled at the edges. You had lived through this, survived it.

But this wasn’t your life anymore.

This life belonged to her—the woman who had tried to hold on to her humanity, who had tried to save as many as she could, even as she felt herself slowly breaking. She was the one who had run into the fire, who had patched up the wounded bodies, who had held their hands as they breathed their last breath.

You weren't her, and yet you were.

You were a nurse in the war, doing everything you could to hold it together in the middle of the chaos. But there was one thing—one person—that kept you tethered to this place.

Bucky.

He was there. His face still soft, but now tired, haunted. His eyes were harder now, his soul tarnished by the war, the loss. You could see it in the way he moved, the set of his jaw. The way he was trying so hard to keep it all together.

You remember seeing him more times than you could count back at camp, in the mess hall, during missions. And now, here he was again, coming through the swinging doors of the field hospital where you worked, his arms full of supplies.

You didn’t have time to process anything before chaos broke out.

A soldier had just come in, bleeding out, and you rushed to his side, pushing past Bucky, your hands already reaching for the tools you knew you’d need, as if it was second nature. You barely had a chance to look at him as you worked, stitching up the soldier’s wounds, trying to keep him alive.

It was only once you’d stabilized him that you met Bucky’s gaze across the room. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes a softness that betrayed the hardened soldier he had become.

It felt like everything stopped for just a second.

And then—An explosion.

The world around you shook violently, throwing you to the ground. The screams, the sounds of the explosion, the cries for help—they were all too much.

Before you could even move, Bucky was there. He grabbed you, pulling you to your feet, holding you close as the world spun around you. His arms were strong, steady, something to hold on to in the middle of all the noise and panic.

“We have to go!” he yelled, his voice barely cutting through the noise. “Now!”

You tried to focus, tried to keep your feet under you, but everything was loud and blurry. It was hard to breathe. Hard to think.

And then you saw her. A soldier who was caught in the crossfire. She was lying there, barely conscious, her leg shattered by the blast.

You ran toward her, but before you could reach her, a bullet tore into your side. The pain was instant—hot, sharp, and far too familiar. You gasped, your knees buckling, and everything around you tilted.

Bucky caught you before you hit the ground. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tight like he could keep you here just by not letting go.

“Stay with me,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please. Just stay with me.”

He pressed his hands to your side, trying to stop the bleeding, but you could feel it—you knew this was bad. Just like last time. Maybe worse.

Your vision started to fade. The sounds around you felt far away. You could still hear Bucky, but his voice was distant now, like he was underwater. And you couldn’t hold on much longer.

“Please, don’t go,” he whispered as you slipped, your body growing heavier in his arms.

“Bucky,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if he could hear you. You tried to smile, to tell him that it would be okay, but the pain was too much.

“I can’t lose you. You still haveto meet Steve. We have to get married, after the war, live together in our home,” Bucky cried, holding you tighter, his voice breaking, desperation in every syllable.

And then everything went silent.

The voices, the screams, the gunshots, the explosions, they all faded. There was only Bucky’s voice, lingering in the distance.

His final plea.

And then—nothing.

You woke up with a start, gasping for air, the harsh light of the compound blinding you. Sweat clung to your skin, your heart still pounding as though you had just run a long marathon.

But your mind wasn’t here. Your mind was back.

Back with him.

Back in that life.

The memories crashed into you like a storm, vivid and unrelenting: Another life. Another version of yourself. You saw it all—flashes, pieces falling into place like the final turn of a puzzle box. You had been lovers in another time. A hidden corner of Brooklyn. A shared laugh over coffee. The weight of his dog tags pressing into your chest when he held you. The sound of a gunshot. A goodbye that ripped something from your soul. It wasn’t just a dream. It was real.

Your body shook as you pressed your hands to your face, choking on a sob as the weight of it all crashed over you.

I remember you, you thought, tears flooding your eyes, the ache in your chest too sharp to ignore.

In that life, you had been together. In another time, another version of yourself had loved him completely—had been his, and he had been yours. But now… now, he was lost to you. The years, the distance, the life you had been reborn into, none of it mattered. You could still feel him. You could still feel it all.

A broken, choked cry slipped out of you before you could stop it. You folded in on yourself, arms wrapped tight around your body as the grief crashed over you, wave after wave. The dream had pulled you in so deep, it felt like a part of him was still inside you even now, awake, you couldn’t shake him. Couldn’t let him go.

“Why didn’t I remember?” you whispered into the quiet, your voice barely holding together. “Why didn’t I know sooner?”

Your hands curled into fists, nails biting into your skin, trying to ground yourself. But the ache in your chest only grew heavier, pressing down with the truth you could no longer ignore.

You had to find him.

You couldn’t just stay here, pretending nothing had changed. Because everything had. He was out there somewhere. Bucky Barnes, your Bucky, had disappeared, and you couldn’t let him go. Not when you had shared so much. Not when the threads of your past still bound you to him.

You wiped your eyes, the determination sparking to life behind your tears.

“I’ll find you,” you whispered, voice full of unshakable resolve. “I will find you, Bucky.”

And nothing—not the past, not the present—was going to keep you from bringing him back into your life.

The team had gathered, though they were all confused about why you called them. Steve, Natasha, Sam, Wanda… even Tony, arms crossed, looking skeptical.

Your heart was racing, like it wanted to jump out of your chest. The words stuck in your throat, but you made yourself speak anyway.

“I remembered him,” you said, voice shaking. “I remembered everything.”

Steve blinked. “Who?”

“Bucky,” you whispered. “I knew him. I loved him. Not here. Not in this life. In the one before.”

Silence.

Sam frowned, leaning forward. “You mean like… a past life?”

You nodded slowly, your hands trembling.

“There was a jazz bar. The 40s. I remembered the way he smiled at me like I was his whole damn world. We danced, and I—God, I felt it. Our shared times, the end of it all. It was real. All of it. I don’t know how or why I forgot, but when I woke up, it was like losing him all over again.”

Steve’s mouth parted, stunned. “He never… he never told me he was seeing anyone back then.”

"He wouldn’t have. She... I died young. Before hydra took him. But it was real. We were real." you said.

Wanda stepped closer, gently. “And you think we can find him out there?”

You nodded, suddenly fierce. “I don’t think. I know. And I’m going to find him.”

There was a pause. Then Tony let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s one hell of a love story.”

Steve’s expression had shifted—no longer confused, but grave. “Let's bring him home.”

Five Months Later – Bucharest

You’d gone through every old file, every false lead, every sleepless night with his voice in your head, his warmth on your skin like a ghost. But now, standing outside the apartment building, your hands balled into fists in your coat pockets, it was real. He was real.

Steve looked at you once, like he was checking in, and you nodded. The hallway was narrow and dim, peeling wallpaper, faded lightbulbs. You could hear the soft hum of life behind closed doors—someone cooking, a baby crying, a radio playing softly.

But you only heard your heartbeat.

The door creaked open under Steve’s hand. The apartment was dark, sparse. The door shut behind you. You stepped inside slowly, looking around at the almost empty unit. It had an old mattress on the ground, a small kitchen and some random trinkets here and there.

And then, footsteps on the stairs. The creak of the floorboards. Keys in the lock.

You froze.

The door opened.

Bucky walked in.

He was older now, harder, with shaggy hair and a scruff-lined jaw, but his eyes—those same eyes you saw in that dream—landed on you and stopped.

He dropped the grocery bag in his hand.

You didn’t move.

And then it happened—his body swayed, just a little, his eyes wide and distant, like something inside him snapped. You saw it, all of it the memories coming back, sharp and clear, like shattered glass reforming. Your laughter, your hand in his at the bar, the soft way you whispered his name as his lips met yours, the way he held you like he didn’t know how to let you go.

He remembered.

He remembered everything.

“No…” he breathed, stumbling back, shaking his head. “No, this isn’t real.”

“Bucky,” you whispered, your own tears rising fast. “It is.”

He turned like he was going to bolt.

“Don’t,” Steve said, stepping between him and the door. “Don’t run.”

“I can’t—I can’t—” Bucky’s voice cracked. “This isn’t supposed to happen. You were—you were gone.”

“I came back,” you said, stepping forward slowly, hands raised like you were approaching a wounded animal.

His breath hitched. His fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking all over.

“Do you remember?” you asked hesitantly. He looked at you, and in the dim light, you saw the truth break through. He had. And it hurt. It hurt.

His voice was raw. “You died in my arms. I held you while you—while you bled out.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks. “And now I’m here.”

“I can’t do that again,” he whispered.

“I’m not asking you to,” you said gently, voice cracking. “I’m asking you to come home. With me. Let’s remember it together.”

Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, quiet and steady. “You don’t have to run anymore, Buck. We found you.”

And that’s when Bucky broke.

He dropped to his knees.

You caught him.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it stole the air from your lungs. His face buried in your neck as he trembled, sobbing—not like a soldier, but like a man who had carried a century of grief with no place to put it.

“I missed you,” he choked. “I saw you. Every time they wiped me. Every time they dragged me back. I saw your face." He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his eyes swimming with tears.

"I forgot who I was—but I never forgot you."

You clung to him like you’d never let go again.

"I thought… maybe I imagined you so I’d have a reason not to die," he whispered. "But you were real. You’re real."

“I’m here now,” you whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

They held each other, the world outside fading into silence. There were no words between them—just the sound of their breathing. His was shaky, uneven, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Hers was steady, but you could feel the weight of everything they’d been through in each inhale, each exhale.

She wasn’t here by accident, not by fate, but by something deeper. Something that had always been there, hidden in the fabric of who they were. She hadn’t come back just to live again, she’d come back to find him, to remember everything they had, and to give it another shot.

And as they held each other, their hearts beating together in a way time couldn’t touch, they both knew something for sure: some loves are too strong to be torn apart by anything life, death, time itself. Their love had survived it all, and no matter what came next, it would always find its way back to them.

Together, they had become something that couldn’t be undone.

And this, this was their second chance. Their rebirth.

This was their beginning

[clarenmac]

Did you say 👀 👀 landoscar body worship??? Cause if so I am SAT

well! ask and you shall receive...

decided to not keep it locked up in the gdoc.

for context: i took a nap after miami gp, saw these photos of lando, and wrote this. it's not necessarily set around miami, but make of it what you will.

✨find under the cut✨

landoscar body worship

2.1k words

mature(?)

an exercise and exploration into love, devotion, and surrender (whilst in the face of messy, fraught and ambiguous feelings).

(a warning/heads up... brief mentions of touching and (almost) kissing feet. but it's more about the emotional and physical surrender of touching someone—allowing someone to touch—a place of complete vulnerability. as opposed to just like... a foot thing. lmao)

***

It’s the strip of exposed skin between the band of his joggers and his shirt. Right where the fabric has ridden up, soft and slack from the stretch of his arms above his head. It slips across him easily. Leaves him bare, like an invitation.

It’s there, that strip, where Oscar can’t stop looking. 

Lando makes a sound. Not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. Just something small. Hurt.

Something sensitive. 

It’s his back, Oscar thinks. Tight and sore. Muscles bunched at the base of his spine, knots braided high across his shoulders.

He watches Lando’s fingers curl into the pillow above his head, white-knuckled. Watches the stretch go deeper, the arch in his back pull sharper, exposing more skin—dark, warm, soft. A line that Oscar could trace with one finger.

Lando’s face is twisted to the side, trying to bury himself in the sheets. Almost mouthing at them. He’s drawn tight there too—his face—pain etched into all his fine lines. 

Nothing to do with his back at all. 

Oscar stands at the foot of the bed, useless. He listens to Lando’s neck crack, the sharp crunch of it loud in the still of the room, and flinches.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful. 

Lando doesn’t react. Like Oscar’s not there at all. But he is—Lando invited him in. Asked for it, and said nothing. Just reached out in the hallway—closed the gap with a hooked finger in the sleeve of Oscar’s shirt. Just enough to pull. Just enough to close the metre between their rooms, that impossible distance, lined in ugly carpet and harsh fluorescent light.

A distance Oscar couldn’t cross without that tug.

But he followed. Crossed it. 

Of course he did.

Oscar’s the one that reaches for him now; reaches for the only part of Lando he can touch without disrupting the fragile shape of him: his ankle. He closes his fingers gently around the bone, his thumb brushing across the skin there. 

Lando doesn’t react. Not really. But there’s a flicker—his eyelids twitch, a subtle shift beneath them. Then the faint crease between his brows. Small, but sharp. A line that wasn’t there before—one Oscar wants to touch. To smooth.

Wonders how he can, when he’s the reason for it. For all of them. 

Maybe. 

He isn’t sure if that’s right. Because he can’t read Lando when he’s like this—withdrawn, wound tight. Like he wants to push Oscar away. Can’t stand him. But—

He reached for him. Pulled him in close. 

The way he keeps reaching for him, over and over, like Oscar’s the only thing that’s helping.

Oscar can’t make sense of it. But he wants it. Realises he’s sort of desperate for it—to not be pushed away. To be allowed in.

He puts a knee on the end of the bed, leans forward, but doesn’t climb on. He balances his weight on Lando—on that gentle-gentle hand still resting at his ankle. Squeezes tighter, just for a second, before brushing it up along his calf. He pushes Lando’s joggers with it, inching them higher and exposing more of that skin. 

Soft. Hair coarse. Something dangerous.

Lando says nothing.

Says everything, when he parts his legs.

Only slightly—barely—but Oscar feels the space he creates. The space he makes. Just for him.

Only for him.

Oscar breathes. Watches his face. He wants to crawl over him, press him down into the bed—cover him so completely, so tightly, that he can’t drift away inside his own head.

He doesn’t. 

He will, but not yet.

Instead, he lifts Lando’s leg to his chest. Pulls gently at his shin until it folds him in, like he’s trying to hug him there.

Lando lets it happen. Eyes closed and loose for it.

When Oscar closes his hand around Lando’s socked foot, Lando twitches. Surprised. Sensitive. 

Oscar presses his thumb into the arch—right where he knows Lando will be tight.

He gets the reaction he was hoping for. And shit. He just wanted a reaction—fucking anything—‘cause when Lando grunts, when his eyelids flutter, Oscar feels something start to untangle in the space between his ribs. Something tight finally letting go.

He wants to do the same for Lando.

So he does it again. Pushes. Digs in. Thinks he could stay just like this—get up on the bed and put Lando’s feet in his lap. Just to keep him grunting. Keep him breathing. Keep him here.

He pulls off Lando’s sock, then the other, smiling when he sees the curl of Lando’s toes. Has to shake his head at that—something embarrassing licking hot and high near his neck. Probably something dangerously wrong with him, but maybe there always has been.

And when Lando sighs—when he presses his feet into Oscar’s hands, something loosening in his face—Oscar thinks maybe there’s something dangerously wrong with both of them.

Hopes.

(Knows.)

Oscar closes his eyes, bringing Lando’s leg up near his shoulder, right by his face. He breathes. Tries not to shudder as he presses his nose to Lando’s calf, his ankle. Inhales deep. His mouth grazes over skin—barely, lightly—and he can’t see it, but he hears it: that sound at the back of Lando’s throat.

Oscar holds his leg like it’s delicate. Like if he’s not gentle enough, the moment will crack and disappear.

But Lando’s not delicate. Not gentle. He doesn’t need Oscar to treat him like this. He doesn’t need to be coddled, cradled like glass.

But Oscar wants to.

He wants to take Lando in his hands and shatter him—carefully, deliberately. Just so he can help put him back together.

If that’s what Lando needs.

When Oscar closes his mouth over the side of Lando’s ankle, it’s dangerously close to his heel. Almost at the sole of his foot.

He hears the way Lando breathes for it—feels the tremor that follows.

Oscar knows what it means, touching him here. Like this. Knows it isn’t about the obvious strangeness, isn’t about the easy joke—feet, mate? seriously?—isn’t about being a fucking freak, or whatever the fuck Lando’s going to say later.

It’s about touching him where he’s vulnerable.

It’s about being allowed to.

Oscar lets himself move further up the bed, kneeling now in the space between Lando’s parted thighs. He runs his lips along the skin of his leg—up the shin, the calf—until he meets the bunched material of his joggers near his knee.

He kisses him there. Right in that soft, dangerous spot below the kneecap. And when a hand curls around his wrist, Oscar flinches—so hard that his grip on Lando’s leg turns impossibly tight.

Lando doesn’t flinch in return. Doesn’t even move. Just holds Oscar steady.

Oscar blinks, lands on the shape of Lando’s hand around his wrist, and swallows. It always stills him—how Lando’s fingers overlap when they curl around him like that.

He glances up, still half-hiding in the space behind Lando’s knee, and the breath that leaves him is sharp when he realises—sees—

Lando’s eyes are open. Hazy. Half-lidded.

But open.

And looking directly at him.

Oscar doesn’t say anything. Lando doesn’t either. But Oscar feels the weight of it—what he’s doing—shouting between them, loud and heavy.

Lando’s thumb presses firmly to his pulse, and Oscar wonders if he can feel it. Feel how it’s steady. Calm. Certain.

Hopes he can.

Hopes Lando knows what this means to him—that he’s not afraid to be here. That he wants to be.

Oscar kisses him again, squeezes his calf, and Lando sighs.

“Oscar.”

Oscar blinks. He hadn’t expected to hear his own name. To hear anything at all. Didn’t expect to hear it… like that.

“Yeah?” he says. Asks. He doesn’t know what he’s asking, only that now Lando’s speaking, he doesn’t want it to stop.

Even if all Lando says is his name (over and over and—) that would be enough.

Lando doesn’t respond. Just blinks at him, slow and drowsy, like he’s working something out. He tugs at Oscar’s wrist, the way he tugged at his sleeve in the hallway, and Oscar hears it again for what it is.

An invitation.

He runs a hand down Lando’s thigh, gentle, until he can hold him to his hip. Keeps him close. Doesn’t want to let this part of him go. 

He plants his other hand beside Lando’s head, and leans in. Slowly. Finds that holy, granted space between Lando’s legs, and lets himself sink into it. 

Like kneeling.

Like absolution. 

It’s the way Lando touches his waist. His neck. The way he reaches for him, sighing when Oscar’s weight settles on his chest and pushes him into the bed. The way Oscar can see his lashes, the red-rimmed edges of his eyes—vaguely devastating from this close.

Oscar revels in the heat of him.

He doesn’t react when he feels the heavy, half-hard press of Lando’s cock, almost against his own. He’s hard too, or nearly—just a dull, low thrum. Easy to ignore.

Because this isn’t about sex. Not in the way Oscar’s known it.

It’s something else. Something just as exposing. Maybe more.

Still—

It never won’t get to him. The knowledge—the reality—that Lando wants him too. Keeps wanting him. Despite everything.

Lando’s eyes track across Oscar’s face, that little frown still tucked between his brows. He settles on Oscar’s mouth, where Oscar knows his lips are cracked. Dry. He licks at them—an unconscious habit, usually reserved for Lando.

He can feel Lando’s hand at his throat. Not squeezing—just holding. A thumb brushing the tense line of a tendon too tight.

Lando sighs and Oscar kisses his jaw. Closes his mouth over Lando’s throat, just to feel him swallow—mirroring the way Lando holds him. Like they’re keeping each other there. Anchored. Alive. 

I’ve got you. 

There’s so much Oscar wants to say. All the fucking time, really. Not just here. But he just—can’t. Can’t because he’s never going to get it right. Never going to look at Lando’s face and find a perfect, tidy way to explain it all. Wouldn’t be enough. And—shit. It’s not even that. Lando doesn’t need a speech, Oscar’s pretty sure he wouldn’t want one, but it doesn’t change the way Oscar feels. 

What he wants Lando to understand.

He licks at Lando’s pulse. Bites him there. Hides in that space. Pushes at his shirt, where it’s ridden high up his middle. Keeps pushing until it’s bunched under his arms, tight across his chest.

Oscar drags himself down—graceless, probably. Awkward. But finesse isn’t the point. He just has to touch. To hold. To breathe Lando in, so that maybe Lando will understand.

Lando lets him. Easy. Fingers tangled in Oscar’s hair and pulls.

It’s not sex—but still, Oscar moans. Can’t help it. A thank you.

“Oscar,” Lando says again. 

Oscar hears what’s beneath it. 

You don’t have to. 

“Let me,” Oscar says out loud. 

Lando’s grip in his hair tightens.

Oscar settles, lowers himself to Lando’s chest. Doesn’t hesitate, just breathes. Presses his mouth to Lando’s sternum and feels the bone there. Kisses him there—again and again—until salt tastes like spit, until spit tastes like nothing at all. Just Lando.

He feels the rise and fall of Lando’s chest against his face. Breathing deep. Heavy. Letting himself feel it. Take it.

“You’re good,” Oscar hears himself say. Doesn't really know why he says it.

Repeats it. “You’re good.”

Something moves through Lando’s chest—wracks through it—and Oscar feels it.

He doesn’t want to undo Lando. Doesn’t want to hurt him. That’s the whole point.

He doesn’t want this to bruise.

Oscar lifts his head, rests his chin on Lando’s torso. Lando’s head had been thrown back, eyes shut—but he blinks up fast when he feels Oscar pause.

They look at each other. Again. Just like before. And Oscar sees the way Lando’s cracking. Spilling out all over the edges.

“Lando…” he says softly. Tries not to frown. Starts to say more, but—

“Don’t stop,” Lando cuts in. Firm. Clear.

Oscar drops his forehead to Lando’s skin. Wet and hot. Clutches a fistful of his shirt, closes his eyes, and sighs. 

And kisses him again.

His collarbone. His shoulder. His chest. His ribs. Almost at his armpit. The shape of him.

He could live here, Oscar realises. Make a home in this space Lando’s offered him. In the space Lando wants—needs—him to be.

A space that feels like surrender.

Like devotion.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it.

Being with Lando Norris—loving him—is devotion. Surrender, in its highest, most brutal form.

And when Lando’s legs part wider, thumbs brushing reverently at Oscar’s temples, Oscar thinks—

Surrender comes in many forms. Starting with a mirror. 

[ldydeath]

I Need Somebody 2 | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: Everything has changed now that you’ve appeared in Jiyong’s song. Do you have what it takes to make it out of the industry? Word count: 1.8k Warnings: slight angst (?), mentions of body weight and body image issues. Author’s Note: decided to then one of my April fics into a series. You can check out the master list here! 

You hadn’t known when you’d slipped into Jiyong’s car that night how much your life was going to change. You’d thought you’d just be a simple cameo on a song, maybe dip your toes into a new relationship. You never imagined you’d be standing around a group of people who were picking apart every last thing about you. 

Like everything Jiyong touched, the song had been a hit. You’d gotten more traction that you’d expected. Though, you figured that had to do with your last minute addition to the song being so heavily highlighted in Good Day more so than your actual vocals. Either way, you’d somehow managed to get signed to Jiyong’s label. 

He was helping produce your solo single, something you’d been very vocal about. You had never wanted fame, singing karaoke as a release had been enough for you. So if you were going to do this you were going to do it with someone you trusted. 

The two of you had been inseparable since the night you met. If you weren’t at his place he was at yours. You’d stood by his side for his first solo concert, gone with him to support Daesung's solo journey as well. You’d found a home with Jiyong in the few short months you’d known him.  That home was something you desperately wanted to get to right now. You didn’t know if you could handle one more person critiquing your body today.

Your phone buzzed, cutting through the noise and you let out a sigh as you excused yourself to see who it was. You weren’t at all surprised to see Jiyong’s name flash across the screen. You were supposed to have been done with this outfit fitting hours ago. He had a show at a golf event that you were supposed to be at. He’d be taking the stage any minute. 

Did you forget about me?

You snorted at the text, as if you could forget him even if you tried. 

Not even a little bit. Fitting went over. Should be out of here soon.

I’ll make sure to send you a video. I’m wearing the suit you picked out. Miss you.

Don’t change, I’ll be over after. 

You smiled at your phone, before you heard it. The soft murmurs of the team. Someone was asking what Jiyong possibly saw in you, another commenting on your body weight….again. You tried to silence the noise, because that’s all it was. You were a pretty girl, someone Jiyong had been attracted to and it didn’t matter what they thought. At least that’s what you told yourself. 

The fitting went on for a few more hours and you finally made your way to your house, defeated. You were supposed to be celebrating at Jiyong’s. A successful show for him, a successful fitting for you. Future power couple in the making and all that. But after this day, you just needed to curl up in a ball and shut the rest of the world out. 

You’d sent Jiyong a text telling him you weren’t feeling up to going to his place and headed straight home. You’d been too far in your own head, you'd missed Jiyong’s car parked out front. Didn’t even realize the door was unlocked when you stuck your key in. You slid out of your shoes and dropped your bag down, a sniffle following suit as you leaned against the door. Your eyes cloudy with tears.

“What happened?” Jiyong’s voice had an edge to it you hadn’t heard before and you turned to face him. 

“I didn’t know you were here, I’m sorry.” You wiped the tears away quickly as more seeped out. You hadn’t meant to let them get to you like this. 

Jiyong had known something was up when you didn’t make it to the show. His suspicions had been right when you’d canceled on him all together. If anyone knew how cruel the industry could be, it was him. He’d watched it destroy his best friend, almost destroyed him too. He wasn’t going to let that happen to you. 

He moved quickly, his hands finding their way to your face as his thumb wiped away the tears spilling down your cheeks. It broke his heart seeing you this way and he pulled you to him. Your face buried into his chest as you took a minute to collect yourself. He rested his chin on your head, holding you close as his hands ran soothing circles on your back. He didn’t know what they’d done to you, but he’d make sure they wouldn’t do it again. 

“What did they do?” His voice was more calm, but there was still an edge to it. 

“ApparentlyI’m hideous and extremely wrong for you.” You sighed, moving out from the safety of his arms. 

“That’s completely inaccurate.” He crossed the room, keeping in pace with you. “You’re gorgeous for starters. And you could do a lot better than me.” You snorted. 

You moved to sit on the couch, pulling a blanket up over you and wrapped your arms around your legs, attempting to make yourself as small as possible. You took a second to take in Jiyong, his messy hair, the suit, under different circumstances you’d be ripping those clothes off him. You wanted the confidence you’d had that morning back. 

“You look nice, by the way.” Jiyong smirked at your words before moving to sit next to you. 

He pulled you into his arms and you practically melted into his touch. This was what you’d wanted all day - to be with him. You just hated that you felt so broken in his arms. As if reading your thoughts, Jiyong placed a kiss to the top of your head, your cheek, and then finally your lips. 

There it was, that magnetic pull you’d felt in the club again. It was always there, pulling you to him. The struggles of the day disappearing for a minute while you’re tongues danced for dominance. If you could spend the rest of time kissing this man you’d be happy forever. Unfortunately, you couldn’t. 

“I ordered us food. Figured you hadn’t eaten today.” His forehead resting against yours as he spoke. 

“I haven’t. I should eat salads until I fit into this ridiculous outfit.” You pulled away, as if repulsed with yourself. 

“Hey. No. You’re perfect. Everyone in that club the night we met thought so, I still think so. We’ll get you a new stylist if this continues. They need to alter the clothes to fit you, not the other way around.” He pulled you back to him. “You’re going to eat and we’re going to forget this day ever happened.” 

Your head found its way to his shoulder, and you curled into him. His arm stayed planted around you, as if he was solely responsible for keeping you upright. You don’t know how long you sat there in the silence but it was nice to have him to come back to after a day like this. 

The two of you are in silence, Jiyong watching to make sure you actually ate. He knew how easy it was to get lost in the noise of the negative comments, but he would reassure you every day that they were wrong if they had to. 

“Come on, up.” Jiyong was on his feet his hand reaching out for you. 

“What, why?”

“Just trust me.” You sighed, taking his hand.

He pulled you to your feet before taking out his phone and flipping through his Spotify before landing on the perfect song. Hitting play, his hand rested on your hip, his other gripping your hand. You let out a small laugh as you swayed to the music. 

“This is cheesy.” You teased, your eyes glancing up to look at him. 

“It’s romantic.” He corrected, a lopsided grin crossing his face as his eyes locked with yours. 

You let him twirl you around your living room, his voice humming along to the lyrics of the song. It wasn’t one you recognized but he had a way of making everything so beautiful. This song was sure to be your new favorite. 

You could feel yourself relaxing, the weight of the day finally fading away as you melted into Jiyong. A real smile on your face as you leaned up to kiss him. He held you close, his lips moving with yours as he tried his best to kiss all your pain away. 

“You should be my Too Bad dancer on tour.” He said it so casually, like he had the power to just change everything that easily. 

“What? Why?” You shook your head. “I couldn’t.”

“You should see yourself when you get lost in the music like that. You’re breathtaking.” He moved your head so that you were looking at him. “And you can. Unless you’re scared.” 

“I’m not.” You glared at him, knowing exactly what he was doing. He’d figured you out so quickly in the short time you’d been together. “Are you sure?”

“About you? Always.” He smirked and you grinned. 

“Alright. I’ll do it.” 

Jiyong’s gummy grin matched the one on your face and he leaned down to kiss you again. This was the only way he could think to keep you safe. You’d be on the road with him, you could work together on songs while you traveled around Asia. He could fire your stylist and you could use his. You’d be surrounded by support and if it ever got too heavy he’d be right there fo carry the weight of the world for you. Or with you. Whatever you wanted. 

He’d known it the second he’d laid eyes on you that he’d do anything for you. Now he just needed to show you how serious he was about it. This journey wasn’t going to be easy, but it would lead you to some beautiful places and a chance at a different life than the one you’d grown accustomed to. You were a star in his eyes and soon enough the rest of the world would see that too. 

“Come on, let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day.” His hand slid down your body effortlessly as he reached for yours.

Lacing your fingers together, he led you to your room. It amazed you how comfortable he was walking through your house like he owned the place. You hadn’t been together that long but you couldn’t imagine a time before him now. 

He helped you undress, leaving tinder kisses across your skin as he slid your robe on your body. You helped him out of his suit jacket, undid his tie carefully before flinging it across the room. You’d imagined this going so differently when you’d seen this suit earlier. He stripped down to his boxers before climbing into bed and pulling you to him. 

He covered you both up, his arms wrapping around you as you drifted off to sleep. He watched you for a while before reaching for his phone. He fired off a few text messages to make sure you wouldn’t have to worry about ever seeing that team of people ever again. When you woke up in the morning you’d have a whole new team, he’d make sure of that. 

tag list: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @aizshallnotbefound @loveesiren @gdinthehouseee @tulentiy @petersasteria @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @flymetothexmoon @sherrayyyyy

[nashusglasses]

💪🏻&🥶 + zayne pls and thank u queen

Hi Sam ily!!!!!!! thank you for giving me a reason to revive wife guy Zayne who gets turned on when you mention the fact that you have a mortgage together LOL

send me an emoji + a lads man for a drabble! 🌞

For the seventh time tonight, Zayne declines the groom's offer of a sip of his whiskey neat. Never mind the shit taste; he promised himself he'd be completely sober the rest of the night, and the pineapple juice the bartender offered him was as satisfied as he was going to get.

He watches the bride take her nth shot. Then he sees you chasing her around the dance floor with a water bottle but failing miserably to get her to drink it down. Even worse is the DJ queueing up Bottoms Up by Trey Songz, and suddenly you're lost to the throng of drunk dancing and the bride violently shaking ass.

Zayne laughs quietly to himself, comparing the image of her now to three hours earlier: she was such a pearl, exchanging vows with tear-kissed eyes in front of the calm sea. He's glad to see her having the night of her life after witnessing—once again—the horrors of wedding planning. (His two responsibilities were keeping the rings safe and saying his best man speech. He guesses such important tasks warrant a congratulations shot from the bar, but whiskey neat? He inwardly cowers at the thought of the taste.)

You, however, aren't faring quite so well.

You catch him outside the reception hall a while later, sending his mom a text telling her his speech went well. "Zayne? Are you busy?"

The first thing he notices: the extra weight you're putting on your right leg, and Tara carefully balancing your arm around her shoulder.

He instantly puts his phone in his pocket. "Are you alright?"

You give him a sheepish smile, like you're afraid of a scolding. "I may or may not have twisted my ankle trying to have a dance-off with a baby."

"A baby," he repeats in disbelief.

"It was my niece," Tara snorts. "You think you got her? I need to call Andrea a ride, she's passed out at the sweetheart table."

Zayne briefly recalls a bridesmaid lain akimbo on the chairs. "Of course."

As soon as Tara's passed you over to Zayne's side, she's scurrying back into the hall with a quick feel better! He has to lean down as you hook your elbow onto his shoulder, suddenly very aware of your proximity and scent. Sea salt. Bergamot and jasmine. Something unattainable at the moment. "Do you think you can help me walk back to the bridal suite?" You ask. "I left my sandals there. I'm done with these heels."

You point to the small lakeside house just past the outdoor bar and the ceremony grounds. It's a one-minute walk at most, but Zayne doesn't want to risk your ankle swelling up into a balloon. He knows you'll refuse him, so he's quick with it.

"Wha—Zayne!"

He adjusts his hand under your knees, cradling the other under your shoulders. Your arms wrap around his neck with a nervous grip. He thinks he feels you shiver. "Are you cold?"

"Maybe." You don't make eye contact with him as he starts walking. "Oh my god this is so embarrassing."

"Now why would you say that?"

He's almost miffed that you're questioning his intentions. He hasn't had a chance to have a conversation with you that wasn't about being on schedule for wedding performances. (Weddings have a funny way of revealing all the mushy parts stuck inside you, and you of all people would know this. You nearly cried your foundation off during the father of the bride speech.) "Zayne," you say in warning, watching the bartenders you pass by snickering to themselves, probably thinking you're too drunk to walk.

He sighs. He's gonna need to bring out the big guns to get your guard down.

"I know," he concedes. "I just missed my wife so much."

You barely suppress your body vibrating with another shiver. "You piss me off so bad."

"And I have every reason to drop you. Here. Right now." The cement pathway to the suite is a very dangerous threat to your very vulnerable butt. "Say that again."

You huff, curling your hands into his neck in veiled threat. You don't say anything. The rest of your ten-second walk to the suite doors is cloaked in your silent defeat. You only talk once he's got you inside and seated on the lounge chairs, the place still messy with makeup palettes, matching bridesmaid pajamas you'd all left haphazard to get into procession. There's a random hair extension lying limp on the floor.

"This is gonna be a bitch to clean up later." You loll your head back, closing your eyes as Zayne props your bad ankle up onto a couch cushion he grabbed. "I take it back. You don't piss me off that bad anymore."

Zayne smiles, sits down in the lounge chair next to yours. He's also tempted to sink into the softness like you do. "We should think of our vow renewals soon," he says.

"We've been married for three months."

"I like to think of our prospects."

"We should probably pay off our mortgage first."

Zayne feels a zap rip down his spine. He'll be the last to admit it, but witnessing your life become intertwined at the barest bones of incoming mortgage payments and hydro bills has transformed him into something new. Something changed. A husband who takes care of his wife.

"You look very beautiful tonight." He watches you peek an eye open at him. The air conditioner of the suite whirrs to life. You smile tiredly.

"And you're very handsome," you answer back. "I kinda like being married to you."

"Good."

He leans over, kissing your lipstick off.

"I kind of like being married to you, too."

[hearts4hughes]

LOOSE END | ANAKIN SKYWALKER X READER

warnings: mentions of killing ; angst angst angst ; read at your own risk

anakin skywalker is the love of your life. you don’t remember when it started, only that it grew, slowly at first, like the glow of a distance star. late-night missions where he’d pull you from the wreckage, breathless and grinning. the way he’d linger just a second too long when he caught your arm, eyes flicking to your lips like a promise. the stolen moments in the temple gardens, fingers brushing, whispers in the dark, his breath warm against your ear as he vowed to protect you.

he loved you recklessly, with the fire of a thousand suns. you loved him back just as fiercely, always meeting him halfway. you were his rock, his will to live, his weakness.

and he’s about to kill you.

his shift to the dark side was just as you fell in love—swift, reckless, and all consuming. he came over less and less, his words got shorter, colder. it all led up to now.

he stood in front of you, his body tensed like a bowstring pulled taunt, moments from snapping. his mind swirled like a vicious storm. in the storm he could barely think, he could barely breathe. all he saw was you, and he couldn’t reach you in time.

“anakin, put your saber down,” your voice shakes. your hands are held in front of you like a shield. “you’re just stressed-”

“don’t tell me what i am!” he growls, eyes absent of its usual sparkle. he doesn’t sound like himself. he’s merely a puppet, and senator palpatine has no problem pulling his strings.

you shook your head. tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision. “this isn’t you, anakin. what happened to the boy who saved me on malachor?” he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut to keep up his walls. he steps closer, his heavy footstep making you subconsciously move back. “what happened to the boy who promised he’d always protect me?”

“i’ve changed!” he snarls, raw and dripping, like a predators roar. “that anakin was weak. he was foolish. he thought love could save him.”

you cry, body shaking with utter heartbreak. your throat constricts around your words, and when you finally whisper them, you sound like prey. “love did save you.”

“love distracted me. it held me back.” he bellows, stepping closer with each word. the wall is cold against your bare back. you had worn this dress to surprise him, to reintroduce the spark into your relationship, but whatever was left of the spark died out along with your anakin.

with your shoulders against the cold stone, a chill seeps into your skin. you turn your head, mouth dry, keeping your gaze fixed anywhere but on him, as if distance can be forced by sheer will alone. his presence, burning and unrelenting, presses closer, filling the space you tried to claim for yourself.

his breath fans against your skin, but you don’t get goosebumps, you don’t get butterflies. instead, your stomach drops like a weight. your heart squeezes, shattering with each heavy breath of his.

“i love you, anakin skywalker.” you breathe out. your voice is weak, ridden with a terrified whine.

“you are my greatest weakness.” he says, his lightsaber hissing as he ignites it. blue fills your senses, contrasting with the fire in his eyes. “and darth vader doesn’t have any weaknesses.”

with the thrust of his hand, your body goes numb. you don’t even feel the burn in your stomach, only the breaking of your heart. the fire in anakin’s eyes flickers, shadows pooling in their depths, like he can’t stand the weight of what he’s done.

as your body falls, he falls with you. fear is etched into his face like a scar. fear of what he’s done; fear of who he’s become; fear that he has killed the person he loved most in the entire galaxy.

his hands cling to you, trembling as he cries out. the same hands that wrote your ruin, that shattered the very thing they swore to protect.

[7ndipity]

Them With A Plus-Size Partner

Ot7 x Plus Size Reader

Summary: What the members would be like with a plus-sized partner

Warnings: mentions of body image issues and fatphobia (I tried to keep it light tho), slightly suggestive, swearing, not proofread

A/N: Thanks to my darling @bethanysnow for this request. This is something I’ve actually wanted to write for a while but for some reason hadn’t gotten around to. It’s essentially just more dating headcanons but with a focus on plus sized partners bc we need more representation in the fandom dammit!

Masterlist

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Jin:

He’s said in the past that his ideal s/o was someone on the chubbier side, but I honestly think he might struggle a bit with what all that actually entails? Not that he’s shallow or anything, but with the Korean beauty standard as harsh as it is, I think he would be confronted with a fair bit of internal stuff he needs to address.

He would absolutely adore you, though. I see him becoming friends first, just based on his personality, instantly becoming each other's comfort person, but I also think it takes him a while to fully trust and let himself be open with someone. He tends to internalize a lot in favor of keeping things light and unserious, so if he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, you’re a member of one of the most elite clubs ever.

I know a lot people think he would maybe have quite a bit of ‘culture shock’, for lack of a better term, when it comes to things like the treatment of plus sized people, but as we’ve seen on his more recent solo content, he’s a lot more observant than we realize. Not to say there won’t be moments where he’s caught off guard or misses something passive aggressive, but I think he’s a lot better at navigating those situations than we’d expect.

Like, we’ve seen how he handles a lot social conventions and pressures, he very polite but genually dosen’t give a fuck. He’s really good at casually reassuring and defending you(like when he shut down the guy on run!Seokjin who was teasing his co-host). He knows what it's like to be judged only by how you look, and so I could see him being pretty defensive/protective over you at times because of that.

Would be the type to discreetly have clothes at his place that would fit you and waits to bring them out when the opportunity presents, like “oh you’re cold? Here, have this sweater!”

If topics like diets and weight loss make you uncomfortable, he would be very diligent about changing the topic, regardless of who was around. Your comfort is always his top priority no matter what.

He would love date nights in together where you can cook together. Even if you’re not into cooking necessarily, he’ll happily turn it into your own personal cooking show,(he would totally have one of those ‘kiss the chef’ aprons)

He’s surprisingly touchy-feely with you. Like it’s not even in a sexual sense, he just takes a great deal of comfort in feeling you in his hands. Love love loves laying on you, you’re his new favorite pillow, and he loves having you lay on him as well. He won’t hear of you trying to argue and say you’re too heavy, he thinks you’re perfect and he wants you on him at every possible opportunity.

Yoongi:

It’s well known that Yoongi’s very introspective and understanding. He’s the type of person where body size either doesn’t even cross his mind or he’s very conscious of it.

Not in a bad way, though. It’s moreso in the sense of yeah, he’s aware you’re bigger, but it’s usually just a simple detail about you like your hair or eye color. But if you’re having a bad body image day or someone’s trying to give you shit, he’s all over it before you can even blink, hyping you up and shutting down any negative comments.

On a more intimate one-on-one level, this mf doesn't give a single fuck about how you look. You could be dressed to the nines or vegged out in sweats on the couch and he would still be swooning over you

He loves how soft and squishy you are? Like we’re talking peak cat behavior with him laying on you, doing the squishy paw move as he buries his face in your chest. You’re basically his favorite napping spot and stim toy  

Always encourages you to eat well and not waste a thought on diets. You’ll come home after a shitty day and your favorite food/dessert will just be waiting in the fridge for you. He’ll play it off though if you ask him. 

“What’s this?”

“It was on sale at the store,” He replies, barely looking up from his phone. “Why? Do you not like that one anymore?” 

“No, I do-” 

“Good.” 

And that’s it, no questions, no admitting he went to three different stores to find it, just his secret little grin when he sees how happy it made you.

If you’re feeling bad about yourself, he always addresses it very quickly and simply, not wanting to dignify them much by giving them more of your time than absolutely necessary. Just "That's bullshit. I think the real issue we need to worry about is your eyesight, because if you think you’re anything other gorgeous, we need to get you some fucking glasses.” And that would be it, he’d give you a kiss on the head and walk away.

If it was really serious tho, he would listen and try to help and comfort you. He knows he's not gonna change how you feel with some grand gesture, it takes slow, consistent work, and he's committed to being there with you every step of the way reminding you how much he loves you.

He would 100% make sure that there are clothes you can wear in his closet but will never say anything about it. 

I imagine him being very clingy in the mornings, arm looped around your waist keeping you close. If you try to get up, he’ll yank you back into the bed, half-laying on top of you now like a stubborn cat, face buried in your chest as he grumbles about it being too early and you ‘can’t leave him here like this’(this being alone in bed).

Hobi:

As soon as he laid eyes on you, he was smitten. Everything about you just drew him in. Your eyes, your smile, your curves. God he bet you look beautiful when you danced…

Cut to Jimin smacking his arm to snap him back to reality and him immediately coming over to introduce himself.

There would be no friends first phase this time with Hobi, or if there is, it’s extremely brief because he genuinely can’t keep a secret worth shit, especially not when it involves how head over heels he is for you. Like, even he doesn’t fully understand it, you’re like his muse or something(Mona Lisa starts playing lol)

All that aside tho, I think he would have the most like random(?) hurdles to get over in regard to dating someone bigger? Not that he’s oblivious or anything, but I think growing up with the Korean beauty standard being drilled into their heads so much, he’s gonna have some slightly skewed perceptions and ideas about bigger bodies that he’d have to unlearn in order for the relationship to grow properly.

Like, there are just so many little things that affect bigger bodies that some people don’t seem to realize, like even something as simple as whether or not the chairs at a restaurant have arms, or if a shop has really narrow pathways can affect whether we can navigate those places or feel comfortable? Once he becomes aware of those things tho, he’s watching for them everywhere.

Is appalled at how restricted and isolated plus size fashion is. Like excuse the fuck outta you, his baby will be wearing whatever designer brand they want, even if he has to threaten a few of his brand deals to get his way(lowkey mafia au Hoseok right here, just saying)

I think the main place he might struggle would be if you had trouble with keeping up with his lifestyle. Like he’s constantly on the move, going to events, working on new projects, touring. It’s hard for even the fittest person to keep up with, let alone if you have mobility issues or get tired more easily. It might take some work to figure out the balance between the two of you, but it honestly helps him remember to breathe? Like it’s okay to not go at breakneck speed through everything,

Is your biggest hype man ever tho, always gushing over how gorgeous you look and how lucky he feels to have you in his life.

Gives you soo many happy squishy hugs. He’s such cuddly softie and you’re literally the perfect hug shape in his opinion, so you’re getting cuddled, snuggled, and squeezed at every opportunity

Namjoon:

Man has written too many lines about bigger/thicker partners in his songs for him not to be into plus sized partners, alright? Like the proof is literally there in black and white.

He’s definitely the type to be friends first, not for lack of interest in you, but because of his own hesitancies and trust issues. He’s had his trust betrayed enough in the past that he tends to keep people at arms length at first till he knows that he’s safe with them.

Once you’re together though, the man is obsessed with you. Like his hands are constantly resting or holding onto your hips and thighs or caressing the sides of your waist. Like for someone who’s claimed to not be very into skinship, he’s very into it with you.

It’s no secret that this dude is BUILT, okay? Like those arms are made for lifting and manhandling you about. And he loves that with a bigger partner he doesn’t have to be worried about breaking you. Goodness knows one good spank from him would probably send a person flying across the room if they don't have some sort of padding.

On a more innocent level though, he’s also very soft with you. You regularly end up staying up half the night talking about thoughts and feelings that you don’t usually feel safe or comfortable sharing with anyone else. He values intellectual intimacy even more than physical intimacy. 

I really see him dating someone in the arts, but maybe not necessarily in the music industry. He would enjoy a slight level of separation between your two worlds. Like if you’re an artist, one of the things he loves about going to events to support you is how in your spaces he’s “Y/n’s boyfriend”. Not RM, not BTS, just Namjoon. Your Namjoon.

I also think despite how observant and in tune he thinks he is, he would still catch himself falling for and having to unlearn certain fat stereotypes. Just like “My being fat does not inherently mean that I can cook.” “Right, sorry…”

Honestly I think he’s the most casual with his partner? Like he will accidentally call your bro or dude(or not accidentally, if you’re cool with it). There will be moments where he needs to talk about something and he'll just be like “Can I have a bro moment?” “Sure, *makes show of dabbing him up* whatcha need?”

He’s also soo fucking protective of you though, like he will not tolerate anyone even looking at you the wrong way. If you’re having a tough day or not feeling your best, he will do everything in his power to make you feel better, or at least make sure you know that he’s there for you.

Jimin:

Tbh, I think out of everyone, Chim would struggle the most with dating a bigger person. And most of it is because of his own internal complexes. 

Like he grew up doing a lot of martial arts and dance where there is such a focus on what your body can do and how it looks. That combined with how he’s been critiqued in the past for looking ‘chubby’(which is such bullshit, but anyone who has rounder features is labeled that way regardless of their actual weight bc people are dumb) it’s made him think far more critically and not constructively about body.

Despite his own issues, he has a very soft image about what he sees as beauty. One of my favorite clips is him telling Joon about how he saw this elderly couple and how their soft, caring manner for each other really resonated with something in his heart, and I think he really wants that for him and his partner as well. He wants a love that is gentle like that, where you are each other’s safe landing point.

Which is why I think that he would date a teddy bear. Like I’m picturing soft, kinda nerdy science teacher/librarian vibes(totally not leaning into his kindergarten teacher vibes lol). He’s drawn to your cozy aura, and loves how comfortable and safe you make him feel. Lowkey think it plays a little bit into a noona thing? But that’s a topic for another day lol.

Y’all definitely have the whiny boyfriend - calming partner vibe(I just picture that meme of Grizzy from we bear bears crushing NomNoms to his chest lol)

He’s lowkey soo protective of you tho? Like he knows that you can technically take care of yourself, but if you’re ever feeling uncomfortable, or if someone is treating you poorly, he’s stepping in and quietly, but effectively, shutting it down.

He borders on overprotecting you sometimes, though. Like how he doesn’t like anyone talking about dieting of things like that around you, because he’s aware of how toxic these cultures can be and how easily they can get under your skin, so he doesn’t want to even give them the chance. Doesn’t matter how many times you tell him you’re okay, he still worries and watches out for you everywhere you go.

He loves how casually intimate the two of you are. He’s always touching and caressing your hips or waist or arms, and is soo happy if you’re the same with him. Similar to Jin, there’s nothing even sexual about his touches(most of the time) he just loves feeling you close, each little touch is like a silent message between the two of you like “I see you, I love you”

Taehyung:

I totally see Tae dating a muscle mommy, bc he is baby. Like if you can carry him? Ooooh he’s gonna koala you soo fucking hard, lol. Loves being wrapped up in your arms more than almost anything else in the world.

He doesn’t really pay too much mind to your size honestly? At least on a surface level. He falls in love with your energy and personality first and then your body. Which yeah sounds cliche and a little frustrating honestly, but that’s just how he works. It might take him a while to realize that comparing you to statues and paintings from the renaissance doesn’t quite answer your question of if he finds you hot, but he catches on eventually.

He’s kinda obsessed with you tho honestly, he’s always touching and cuddling you, nuzzling into your chest or tummy, and leaving little kisses on any bare skin he happens across.

Gives extra love to the places he notices you’re more self-conscious about, tracing over your stretch marks or caressing your rolls with an almost reverent tenderness. 

Being with him is just so domestic tho? Like he is just this big ol' teddy bear(especially now that he’s bulked up from the military). He brings you flowers all the time, takes you out for brunch dates every weekend, buys y’all matching pajamas, etc

Loves how you take care of him, whether it’s making him dinner or just holding him when he’s feeling down. He feels soo safe and protected in your arms.

He really loves it though when you’re open and vulnerable with him. Being plus size, you tend to develop a thick skin to protect yourself because people, and society at large, can be ridiculously cruel. And so it’s a little harder to let people in sometimes. But with Tae, he wants nothing more than to be your soft safe place where you don’t have to pretend. It doesn’t matter what’s bothering you, he’s always ready and waiting with a hug no matter what, and it makes his heart swell with so much pride and love when you let be there for you. 

So soft and encouraging. He’s always doing cute little gestures to cheer you up, like the ‘when life gives tangerines’ pose thing. Anything he can do to get a smile out of you is worth it.

Jungkook:

I honestly think he would be in denial that he likes you at first? Not because of your size, he’s like this with everyone he likes. Like he flirts with you constantly, teases you, even engages a lot of casual skinship, but he always holds off on calling it anything more than friendship. He’s just afraid of commiting and then fucking things up, so he thinks it’s better to stay as just friends, until you finally corner him and get him to fess up.

I feel like he thinks he’s above having any sort of toxic perceptions of bigger bodies, until you call him out one day for some offhand joke or comment that he made. He may not have meant anything by it, just trying to tease you like he does his other friends, but once you explain how those comments come across and how they’ve been weaponized, he’s horrified and begging forgiveness. 

But once you get through those early rough patches, you have the biggest dork and hype man on your hands.

Quietly squeals and does lil happy hands every now and then because he randomly remembers like “omg, I'm dating this person!!”

Quietly supports everything you do. Like, he’ll hide outside the door when he hears you singing, having his own mini hype party for you, bc he knows if he comes in, you’ll get shy and stop.

He dotes on you all the time and is soo fucking touchy. He loves just laying on you, squishing your face in his hands and kissing you whenever you start to complain. He can’t help it, you’re just so soft and warm, he’s practically addicted to touching you.

He would work really hard to better educate himself about that actual science and facts about plus size bodies, and to try and be more in tune with your needs and any subjects that are particularly sensitive for you. 

But also, everybody know that boy is soo fucking strong. Like he we’ve seen how much time he spends training and building up his body, he would love being able to show off to you by picking you up and manhandling you just a little bit(or a lotta bit, hehe)

Taglist: @sopebubbles-replies @btsw1fe @this-must-be-my-tardis @whitefoxgirl @bethanysnow @coffeedepressionsoup @feminympho @classicalelephant @dfqcsqueen @mother2monsters @comingupwithacoolnameishard @bo0ghol @seleneacyoflove @k4ngelz @universal-travel-er

[writingsforfandoms-multi]

post night shift | michael robinavitch x nurse! reader

summary: robby comforts his gf after her first and last night shift

warnings: mention of patient deaths

a.n: this is the first thing i’ve written in over 4 years thank you dr robby for the inspiration

“She lost three patients today” abbot gives robby the heads up over the phone after he walks you out of the hospital.

Robby’s heart drops, he knows you take losing a patient very hard, he can’t imagine how you’ll be after losing three. He wasn’t expecting you to walk into your shared apartment pissed.

“What the fuck is night shift?!” you exclaimed as you walked in the door and took off your shoes by the entryway, setting your bag on the hook. Michael came to meet you near the entryway, “I knew I wasn’t made for night shift and this just confirmed it,” you rambled. “The staff was great and I love working with abbot but my god I’m never covering one of those shifts again, that was horr-horrible” your voice shakes as tears well up in your eyes and then the next thing you know you’re crying in robby’s arms.

You weren’t even supposed to be there. You were doing a favor for the night shift charge nurse when she called to see if you were willing to come in since they were so short staffed. You remembered abbot mentioning how much smoother night shift would run with more nurses since they were usually always short staffed anyway, so you figured you would help out by coming in.

You loved being a nurse, you truly did, but it was shifts like these that made it so hard. Yes, you helped many patients today, but it was hard not to focus on the ones who died.

Robby doesn't ask you any questions, he knows you’ll talk to him when you're ready, and he also knows that right now you just need to cry it all out, allow the grief to leave your body. It still breaks his heart listening to your sobs, but all he can do is rub your back to try to comfort you.

“I lost three patients today” you hiccuped out through your crying as you lifted your head to look up at robby.

He takes your face in his palms as his eyes soften, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know it’s hard”

“One was just a kid, 8 years old” you cry a little harder and his thumbs lightly brush your cheeks. He brings your head back against his chest, and after a few moments your cries quiet down, and you finally look back up at him, “today was so fucking hard michael” you whisper

“I know baby, I know” he says as he leads you to the couch and you immediately crawl into his lap and take your place against him.

You paused for a moment, “did abbot call you?” you asked

He nods, “yeah, he was worried about you”

“I need to apologize to him,” you sighed, “I may or may not have snapped at him after losing my second patient” you grimaced, remembering how harsh you were with him

“You know he didn't take it personally” he says, softly rubbing your back and you just nod in response.

After a few moments of just enjoying his company you say, “I’m gonna head to bed, I need to get my sleep schedule back on track to flip back to days for the next shift” you kiss his cheek, feeling like the heavy weight of grief on your chest lessened when you cried it out. This was a rule you and robby made for yourselves when you first started dating: you would cry out all the emotions you needed to, take as much time as you needed to go through the motions of the day, and then let it go.

“Then let’s go to bed” he says, and you look at him confused, didn’t he just wake up? “I took a very short nap after my shift and woke up around 3 so I could wait up and take a nap with you when you got back” he explains, a bit sheepishly even

You let out a small smile, “you’re so cute” and give him a kiss, “how did I get so lucky?” you lean back in his lap to look at him. He can feel a soft blush taking over his face when he notices how you’re looking at him, all these months together and you still make him blush.

“I’m the lucky one, sweetheart, I can’t believe you still put up with me” he says softly, thinking of how you put up with him and all the emotional baggage he was dealing with in the beginning of your relationship, and how incredibly thankful he was that you stayed.

“Always” you said

[r-memberme]

elle-mae | k.m

⎯⎯Instead, it lingers at the threshold of your grief like a candle that refuses to go out. It waits. It softens. It learns your silences like verses, and he reads them like scripture.

warnings: mention of miscarriage, heavy angst, this is a comfort fic (I need to be comforted), grief, Mother's Day

The lilacs come early this year.

They bloom in soft mauve clusters along the crooked fence, heavy with scent and memory. Their perfume drifts in the air like something ancient and mourning, and you pause beside them on your walk, your palm brushing the petals—fragile things that break even under gentleness. It almost feels like a mercy, how easily they surrender.

A year ago, you were bleeding in a bathroom that didn’t feel like home. The tile was too white. The air too still. The silence too loud. There was no one there to hear you whisper please into your own cupped hands.

You’d held the sink like a lifeline, forehead pressed to the mirror, praying to something that had stopped listening. Your breath fogged the glass. You watched yourself come undone in real-time—eyes red-rimmed, mouth trembling with prayers that tasted like blood. The kind of prayers that echo through your ribs long after you’ve stopped speaking them aloud.

The world outside had kept spinning, oblivious. Cars moved down the street. The sky stayed blue. The birds went on singing. The sun had dared to rise the next morning like nothing had happened. No one knew—not even the stars. Not even him.

Klaus hadn’t come into your life yet. He was still just a shadow waiting at the edge of your future. A silhouette in the mist of everything you thought you’d never deserve. He hadn’t yet kissed your trembling hands. He hadn’t yet whispered mine against the shell of your ear in the dark. He hadn’t yet learned to touch you gently, like the whole world might fracture if he held on too tightly.

You hadn’t told anyone. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you didn’t know how. How do you mourn something the world won’t name? How do you say I was a mother, even for a moment—when there is no cradle, no photograph, no name?

But the lilacs knew.

They’d been blooming then, too—outside that cold apartment window. Their scent had drifted in while you cried on the floor. You remember it clearly. The sharp sweetness of it. The reminder that beauty could still erupt, uninvited, while your body waged a quiet war on itself.

Even now, the smell takes you back. It splinters your breath. It gentles your rage. It carries the weight of what never was.

And yet—today, your hand brushes the petals, and you do not pull away. You let the scent wrap around you like an old lullaby. You let it sting. You let it stay.

༊*·˚

Klaus never asks for the story. Not all of it. Not in words.

He’s not the kind of man who demands confessions. He listens with his eyes, his hands, the way he watches you when you’re staring out the window too long, the way his thumb finds your wrist when your breathing falters, quiet and stuttering, when memories claw their way back uninvited.

His kind of love is not loud. It is not impatient. It does not beg you to move on.

Instead, it lingers at the threshold of your grief like a candle that refuses to go out. It waits. It softens. It learns your silences like verses, and he reads them like scripture.

Sometimes, you wonder how he knows. How someone like him—sharp-edged and storm-born—can love so gently.

But then you remember that he, too, has known loss in a thousand forms. Children buried. Trust broken. A heart stitched together with blood and betrayal. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t flinch from your brokenness. He sees it, recognizes it, and stays anyway.

There are nights when you wake up gasping. And he’s already there.

Sitting beside you, holding a glass of water, his hand on the curve of your back. He doesn’t ask what you dreamed. He just breathes with you until the storm passes.

There are mornings when he leaves a sprig of lilac on your pillow—tucked beside your cheek like a secret vow. I see you. I haven’t forgotten.

His love isn’t in the grand gestures. It’s in the quiet ones. The way he watches your hands when you touch the soil. The way he draws you into his chest when you can’t speak. The way he never tries to fix the grief—only hold it with you, until it hurts a little less.

And when you look at him sometimes—when the light is soft and his eyes are softer still—you realize: He loves all the versions of you. The one who still mourns. The one who sometimes can’t breathe. The one who keeps loving anyway.

His kind of love doesn’t rush healing. It builds a sanctuary around your ache. And stays.

༊*·˚

The body remembers before the mind does.

Sometimes, it begins with nothing— just a hush in the air, a shift in the light, a tremble in your fingertips you cannot explain.

May tastes like metal on your tongue. The scent of lilacs makes your stomach twist before your mind catches up. Your shoulders tense like they’re bracing for impact. Your chest forgets how to rise.

You go about your day as if the world isn't peeling away at the seams. You smile when you’re supposed to, nod when spoken to, fold laundry like a woman who isn’t unraveling.

But the ache roots itself deep. It curls beneath your ribs. It whispers beneath your skin.

Grief has no calendar. It creeps.

And when it comes this time, it doesn’t ask permission. It drags you back to the cold floor of that silent bathroom. The silence. The porcelain. The blood. The sound of nothing at all.

You don’t cry. You freeze.

Your hands are shaking when Klaus finds you standing barefoot in the hallway, staring at nothing, your tea grown cold on the counter.

He says nothing.

Just comes to you slowly, like one might approach a frightened animal— his hands lifted, his voice a murmur in the hush.

You try to speak but the words fail. You can’t explain this kind of pain. You’re not even sure you understand it yourself.

“I’m here,” he says, as if that is enough.

And maybe it is.

Because when he pulls you into his arms, your body remembers something else— safety. Warmth. The sound of a heart still beating beside your own.

Your face finds the hollow of his throat. Your breath breaks against his collarbone. And you shatter, quietly.

No wailing. No sobbing. Just that soft, aching kind of grief that seeps into everything.

He doesn’t try to hush you. Doesn’t tell you you’re okay. He just holds, like he’s trying to absorb some of the weight.

And maybe he is.

You feel it then—how he bows his head to press his lips to your temple, as if in prayer. As if kissing the place where the sorrow lives might soften it.

He whispers something low and ancient in your hair, words in a language you don’t know, but your body seems to understand.

The pain doesn’t vanish. It never does.

But it changes.

Wrapped in his arms, you remember that you are not alone anymore. That someone now carries your memory in his hands like a sacred thing. That your body, while marked by absence, is also cradled in presence.

And in that, there is comfort. Not in forgetting—but in being remembered.

༊*·˚

It’s a strange kind of ache—loving someone you never got to meet.

There’s no name. No photo. No voice you remember. Just a faint image that never formed, a space in your heart that opened without warning and never fully closed.

You sit on the edge of the bed with a blanket pulled over your knees, staring out the window. The lilacs are still blooming, soft and quiet against the fading light.

Klaus moves through the apartment behind you. He doesn’t ask questions. He just keeps you company, always nearby, always watching without pressure. You know he’d do anything if he could. Fix it, change it, take it away. But he knows better than to try. He just… stays.

You didn’t think it would still hurt like this. You didn’t think you’d still feel it—this invisible bond, this gentle, persistent grief.

But love doesn’t need time to take root. It doesn’t need a heartbeat or a name or a face. Sometimes, it just is.

You still love her.

You always will.

And it doesn’t feel like a betrayal to say that out loud—not with Klaus. Not with him sitting beside you in the quiet, your hand in his, warm and steady.

“I think about her,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not all the time. But… some days more than others.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “I know.”

You look at him then. And for the first time today, you see something in his expression that grounds you—something fierce and tender. He never met her either. But you can tell he would have loved her. Fiercely. Easily. As if she’d been his all along.

“I don’t know what kind of mother I would’ve been,” you murmur.

Klaus turns to face you fully, eyes steady. “A good one.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “I was so scared.”

“You still are,” he says gently. “And you still showed up. Even when it broke you. That’s the kind of mother you would’ve been.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he rests his chin lightly on top of it. There’s a pause, full of the kind of silence that feels sacred.

“I still light a candle for her,” you whisper. “Even when I told myself not to. Even when I thought I should move on.”

His hand tightens slightly around yours.

You smile, a small, sad smile that trembles at the edges. “I don’t think I want to forget her. Even if I never really knew her.”

“You don’t have to,” Klaus says. “Some people are real even if they were only with us for a moment.”

And somehow, that’s enough.

Enough to soften the sharpness in your chest. Enough to remind you that this kind of love—the quiet, invisible kind—isn’t something shameful or weak.

It’s yours. It’s real.

And even in the midst of the grief, there’s comfort in remembering.

You still love her. And that love still has a place to live.

༊*·˚

He takes your hand and leads you to the balcony just as the sun begins to lower—soft gold spilling over the railing, painting the world in that in-between glow. The sky is hushed, blushing at the edges. A day nearly done, but not yet gone.

You dont know what to expect. Only that he asked you to trust him.

There, on the little table by the wall, sits a small ceramic pot. Cracked in one corner, carefully repaired with golden lacquer. Kintsugi. Like the Japanese philosophy Klaus once told her about—of beauty in broken things.

Inside the pot, blooming in quiet defiance, are clusters of tiny blue flowers. Forget-me-nots. So small. So impossibly vivid.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“I thought they’d be lilacs,” you murmured.

He shakes his head gently. “Those were for the world to see. These... are just for you.”

You step closer, fingertips trembling as they touch the petals. They’re soft like silk. Cool like the morning. And somehow, they feel like a memory you never got to make.

“I didn’t know what to do last year,” you say quietly. “I didn’t know how to grieve someone who was never here. I still don’t.”

“You don’t have to know,” Klaus replies. “You just have to remember. And live. And let that be enough.”

You don’t know how long you stands there, watching the light slide over the flowers like a blessing. It’s not grand. It’s not loud. But it’s something. A small, living thing that doesn’t demand anything from you—only offers itself, blooming anyway.

Klaus places something else on the table beside the pot. A small card, hand-written in careful script.

You lean down to read it. Just two words.

Still yours.

Your knees nearly give out. You sit before you collapse, and he sits with you.

You leans into him, your face pressed into his chest. He holds you like the world might try to take you too.

And for the first time on this day—the hardest of days—your grief feels a little less lonely.

Because they are not forgotten. Because you are not alone. Because something still blooms.

Forget-me-nots.

And you won’t.

༊*·˚

You wake before the sun. The room is quiet, dim. Klaus’s arm is heavy around her waist, and for a while you just lays there, watching the early blue seep into the curtains.

Today isn’t loud. It doesn’t ache the same way last year did.

The grief is still there—woven into the corners of her mind, stitched into her body like thread—but it’s softer now. Not gone. But no longer screaming.

You slip out of bed, careful not to wake him, and pads into the kitchen barefoot. The floor is cold. The mug warms her hands. You stare out the window at the garden, at the faint glow beginning to rise over the lilacs.

They're blooming again, just like last year. Just like always.

But it’s a different kind of day.

You waters the forget-me-nots he gave you. They’ve taken well to the balcony. Small, bright, stubborn. Just like the memory they were planted for.

By the time Klaus wanders in—hair rumpled, shirt half-buttoned—your standing at the counter in the soft robe you insists on stealing.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, burying his face in your neck like he always does when he’s still half-dreaming.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he says quietly.

You laughs a little, the sound cracked but full. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I mean it anyway.”

You lean into him. Closes your eyes.

It’s not the kind of day where you pretends nothing happened. It’s not the kind of day where you try to replace what was lost, or drown in what might’ve been.

It’s the kind of day where you let yourself be held.

Where you make pancakes with tears in your eyes, but a smile on your lips. Where you light a single candle beside the forget-me-nots and say nothing, because nothing needs to be said.

Where you let Klaus braid flowers into your hair like you’re something sacred.

It’s the kind of day where you lets joy exist next to sorrow without shame.

And maybe that’s all healing ever is—letting both things live inside you without tearing each other apart.

It’s a different kind of day.

And for the first time, that feels like enough.

Happy Mother's Day my loves🤍

Happy Mother’s Day to the ones who carry love that never had a name. You are seen. You are remembered. And you are still a mother.🤍(and so am i)

This one hit close to home but I felt that I needed to get it out there. hope it brings comfort to those who need it🤍

i will love you forever it seems, Elle-Mae.

taglist:

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

@lilith-rhiannon

[gudfornuthin]

The Baker and the Ballerina

Chapter eight

Pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader (au)

Summary: it’s time for Frank and Y/N’s first official “non-date”.

Word count: 2.2k

Series warnings: slow burn, cliché tropes, mentions of PTSD, mentions of abusive relationships, (eventual) smut, violence

A/N: I watched Thunderbolts* the other day and I haven't felt this way about a Marvel project in a long time. It truly was incredible. And now I feel like writing for Bob, alongside still writing this story too. If you're maybe interested in that, please let me know. Thank you for reading and feedback is appreciated :)

"It's nice that you're putting yourself out there and getting back on the dating scene."

"It's not a date."

"So you keep saying."

Y/N and Farah are in the former woman's bedroom, going through the countless outfits in her closet. She's stressing about the plans she made with Frank, even though the man has told her time and time again that it's just a casual thing and they don't need to put too much pressure on it. And yet here she is feeling crushed by the weight of it all.

Farah lounges on the bed, watching her friend panicking. "I thought you said you didn't care about him in that way."

"I don't," Y/N replies, not certain by her own words.

"Oh okay," Farah waves her hand in the air. "So the way you're acting right now is totally normal for someone who has no feelings for the guy they're not going on a date with."

Y/N turns around to face her friend, holding a long skirt and oddly shaped sweater in front of her body.

Farah grimaces. "No."

The items of clothing are thrown on the bed as she turns back around and continues looking. Farah rolls her eyes and gets up, moving around Y/N to find an outfit for her.

"Where are you guys going anyways?" she asks, as Y/N sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Nowhere, he's just coming by the studio and then we'll probably order some takeout."

Farah's eyes widen. "Wow, surrounded by all that mould and greasy food, I don't know how you'll keep your hands off each other."

"We agreed on keeping it casual," Y/N argues. "And if he's gonna start doing work on the studio then we may as well start as soon as possible."

"Fine. Kill two birds with one stone or whatever," Farah mumbles.

The two fall into a comfortable silence, the only sound coming from the rattling of hangers as clothes are moved from one side of the closet to the other.

"So, I bumped into a couple of our old college friends," Farah says, still sifting through outfits. "They told me Jonah's moved into a new place. Not too far away from here."

Y/N picks at a loose string on the bedding. "So?"

Farah huffs, glancing back at her. "So? You feel comfortable knowing your ex is that close by? After everything he did?"

Y/N stands up and moves over to the closet, grabbing a simple button up shirt and flare jeans. No point overthinking it. She walks into the bathroom and starts getting changed.

"I honestly couldn't care less. There's no point worrying about where he is or what he's doing. I've moved on," she comes out of the bathroom, now in her new outfit, "So should he."

Farah nods in approval, at her words and clothing. "Let's hope he has."

- - -

It's evening, and Frank is making his way over to the studio with Chinese food. He'd messaged Y/N beforehand asking what she'd like, and after several minutes of back and forth arguing over who was going to pay for it, he won. Now standing by the front door, hands full, he knocks with his elbow as best as he can.

Shuffling can be heard inside and what seems to be the woman muttering along to herself. Frank can't help but smile, already excited to spend some time with her in a much more personal setting.

The door opens and he's met by a slightly flustered looking Y/N.

"Hi, sorry about that," she says, moving out the way so Frank can enter the hallway. "wanted the place to look somewhat presentable for you."

"I'm sure it looks fine," he replies. "And I promise it'll look amazing once I'm finished with it."

She smiles at him, and he does so back. Standing toe to toe, their eyes are locked as if impossible to look away. Y/N isn't sure if it's okay to go in for a hug. Maybe a handshake? But that's so formal, and they're not quite there yet on such close proximity with a hug. She's already overthinking something that isn't supposed to be a big deal. It was different when she had brief conversations with Frank or going over to his place of work. Now it's spending time with him. In the evening time. Just the two of them.

The silence carries on for slightly too long, so she finally decides to break it, pointing to the takeout bags. "Uh, you bought-"

Frank looks down at them, nodding. "Yeah, just what you asked for. Where do you want to-"

"We can just have it in the studio," she says. "And then you can look at the work that needs doing. Hope you don't mind eating on the floor."

Frank shrugs, following her up the stairs. "S'how I spent most of my twenties."

- - -

After a less than formal banquet of Chinese takeout boxes spread across the floor shared between the pair, Frank spends a good half an hour scouring the studio area, making sure the work that had been done was up to standard and anything else that needed finishing he could accomplish himself.

"They may be a bunch of assholes, but they know how to do a good job," Frank says, checking the floorboards and skirting.

Y/N nods throwing all the empty containers in the bin. "You think you'll be able to finish the rest?"

"Easy as pie," Frank replies. He looks over at her. "Though it's gonna cost you at least ten to twelve 'non-dates'."

She smiles. "I think I can handle that."

Y/N can feel the evening coming to an end, as the food has been well eaten and they can't do any work until they've bought the right stuff for it. Yet she doesn't want it to. She wants that excuse to spend more time with Frank. Maybe get to know him as more than just the attractive baker across the street, who moonlights as a handyman.

"Champagne!" she yells out, startling Frank.

He looks at her confused. "Champagne?"

Y/N quickly rushes downstairs, leaving Frank dumbfounded in the middle of the room. Only a few seconds later she rushes back in, a bottle in hand and some plastic cups.

"My aunt got me this as a studio warming gift," she says, handing the bottle to Frank. "Haven't had the chance to open it, but maybe now's the perfect time."

They settle back down on the floor across from each other. Frank pops the cork with ease, pouring the liquid into the cups and taking one from Y/N. They clink them together and take a sip.

"So," she says. "I don't wanna sound like I'm stereotyping, but you don't look like the type to own a bakery."

Frank huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, you're not the first to say that."

"You always wanted to be a baker?"

"Not exactly," there's a brief pause. "I was in the marines for a while."

Frank is unsure if he wants to get into this part of his past. Reliving it through dreams is one thing, but voluntarily opening up about it all with someone is completely different. He's not used to being so vulnerable, but with her, as she stares into his eyes without judgement and only pure wonder. It feels almost impossible not to be.

"I didn't hate it," Frank continues. "kept me in shape, taught how to defend myself, met some amazing people along the way."

Y/N stays silent, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought. She scoots closer to him on the floor, knees almost touching.

"But you can't make friends in a place like that without the possibility of losing some of them," he looks down at his cup, swirling the bubbling liquid inside. "Sleeping is damn near impossible when all you can think about is how you're alive. And they're not."

He feels a soft touch rest atop his hand, as he looks up at her. She's smiling at him, but not in a patronising, 'I feel sorry for you', kind of way. She's smiling in a way that lets him know that this isn't something to hide from her in shame. She wants to listen, as long as he's willing to share.

Her fingers curl around his hand as she squeezes. "And baking?"

Frank shrugs. "I went to therapy. They told me to pick up a hobby to distract my mind from all those years fighting. I remember making pizza with my Ma growing up," he smiles thinking about those memories. "She'd always let me mix the dough. I'd make a mess every time."

Frank squeezes her hand back, the heaviness in his chest feeling lighter. "She was never mad about it though. She said the more mess you make, the more effort you've put into making it perfect. That was my happy place." He finishes off the rest of his drink. "Having my own bakery means I can relive those moments over and over again."

Their hands are fully intertwined now, knees touching and faces far too close for two people who are currently not on a date. Yet neither of them seem to notice, or mind.

"I bet she's real proud of Bakehouse 31 then?" Y/N asks.

Frank clears his throat. "I'd like to think so. But she, uh, passed away before I opened it."

Y/N moves her hand to rest on his arm. "Shit, l'm so sorry-"

He waves her words off before she can say anything else. "S'fine. It doesn't bother me too much now. Her memory lives on through the bakery."

Y/N wants to ask more about the topic but knows not to press him about it. "And your dad?"

Frank scoffs. "Yeah, my old man isn't afraid to tell me what he thinks of the job."

"How so?" her hand runs up and down his arm, hoping to provide some comfort.

"Ashamed, angry, confused. Just some of the feelings he isn't shy of sharing with me," Frank says in his usual gruff tone. "You go from being a soldier covered in dirt and blood, to a baker covered in flour. Any dad would be ashamed of that happening to their son."

Y/N frowns, saddened at how Frank puts himself down. "He thinks it makes you less of a man?"

"He knows it does."

"Bullshit," she says, eyes wide and furious. "being a marine, going through all that hell, to leave it behind and build a new life for yourself? After years of pain and trauma, you were able to make something that you take pride in, and others love it. That makes you more of a man than most guys out there. Especially your dad."

Frank is stunned, the fire in her eyes burning through his skull. He can tell she means every word. And he couldn't ask for more. He also finally notices how close they sit from each other, feeling her deep breaths on his lips. She notices as well, clearing her throat and moving back slightly.

"That, uh, means a lot. Thank you," he says, trying to ignore the fast beating in his chest. "But what about you? Ballet always been in the cards?"

"Well, I wanted to be a pet psychologist," Frank can't help but laugh in confusion at her words. "But once I realised that doesn't mean you can telepathically talk to animals, I picked up ballet."

"And you wanna share that gift with others?"

She shrugs, crossing her legs and hugging them to her chest. "Like you said, you find that happy place, sometimes you don't want to leave it."

- - -

After a couple more hours and the champagne bottle nearly empty, the pair decide to call it a night. While Y/N is sad their time together is up for now, she's glad to have agreed to it. Now knowing more about the mysterious baker, and happy that he's opened up to her.

They make their way down the stairs and towards the front door. She goes to open it but Frank stops her, hand resting on the door, slightly above her head.

"I'm serious about those ten to twelve 'non-dates'," he says in jest.

Y/N smiles up at him. "I don't doubt that."

They stand in front of each other for a beat, unsure of how to end the interaction. A sudden burst of boldness overtakes Y/N, as she moves forward and wraps her arms around Frank's shoulders. He's shocked for a moment, but quickly recovers, hugging her back and holding her tight around her waist.

"See you tomorrow?"

"I'm counting on it, sweetheart."

They bid a final goodnight and Frank leaves. Y/N watches him leave, the grin never leaving her face. She closes the door and leans against it. She is truly, fucked.

- - -

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