#I may or may not be addicted to brow creases

[eccedente]

Kiely, Ty, Ramona, Lorne (I had to), Fiona & Samuel

[revelboo]

Maybe some optimus, metroplex, or tfp ratchet pretty please🙏 I have no special reason bc you always make sure we're fed regularly I'm just addicted to them💅 *looping around your legs like a cat and you're holding the treat bag*

Also I am floored over some(all tbh) of the other characters recent chapters and just how many different paths all these stories are on and how well they all flow like do you somehow have extra storage space in your brain??? Where can I get the update installed for myself😂how the hell are you sorting all these bc you may pump them out fast but thats still like a lot of things to track😅 plz tell me you have a comically large brick of sticky notes you're slowly going through bc otherwise real talk if youre just rawdogging this all by memory plz ignore the request and give your brain a rest🙏we ly but plz make sure to take breaks with lots of snacks and sleep💗

Nah, I just keep track of them in my head. I’m weird like that 😅 I’m doing better now. First day I’ve woken up without a headache in two weeks

I Can Feel You Pt 11

Metroplex x Reader

• Rasping softly, brows creasing in frustration that he can’t speak. Still. Keeps his head turned toward where you’re sitting on a table with Ratchet’s tools as the medic works to repair the drone’s damaged systems. To give him a voice again. Something pulls, hurts and there’s a burst of staticky noise. “Little one,” he says, not his voice, but his words. And you stand, little fingers fisted in the blanket Ratchet has given you. “I think everything should be back online now, but take it easy. This drone’s been inactive for centuries,” Ratchet says. But he’s not listening, focused on you as he mass shifts the drone to your size, the energy strain slamming through him in drowning pain. Crippling him and severing the connection to the drone. Hearing Ratchet’s frustrated, “What did I just say?”

• Visor dimming, the drone sags. “Metroplex?” Looking from him to Ratchet when the medic vents tiredly. “Is he gone again?” Nodding, the medic slams down a tool a bit rougher than necessary. “Can I sit with him until he comes back? Please,” you add as he frowns at you.

• “Probably not a good idea. Any involuntary movement could hurt you even at that size,” he mutters so you content yourself with sitting on the edge of the table, legs dangling. “We should at least get some answers,” he grumbles. “No matter how much damage we repair, he’s rerouting energy somewhere and staying critically low.” Hesitating as he begins cleaning his tools, he looks at you, expression critical. “Hound told me you’d said the Titan was speaking to you.”

• Face heating at the memory that speaking isn’t all you’d done, you shrug weakly. “He was lonely. I started talking to him first.” Because you’d been lonely, too. Overlooked a lot of the time by the Autobots just because you’re so small, an after thought most of the time. Easily forgotten. But Metroplex had heard you, seen you. Reached out in return. Echoing your loneliness and halving it.

• Again. Frustrated as he retreats deeper into himself, knows he needs to build energy again. Be patient. But the drone is there with you. It’s mass displaced. These are steps forward, not stumbles. He just has to remain on course. You’re waiting for him. You’ll be right there. He needs to believe it, desperate to hold you in his arms even if they’re borrowed. To recharge with your heartbeat against him, to hear your soft voice and to be able to answer. Wants to hear about your day, your dreams, everything. And he’s getting closer to that goal. Closer to you.

Previous

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Amusing myself all the way to Pier Park leaving notes

[obeymeluv]

Quick! Kiss Me! [Part 4: Leviathan]

I'm back. Let me know if the story is cohesive. It tried to copy itself more than once. I just killed the post and redid it. It was weird.

Note: I’ve taken some liberties with whether or not the boys have a “true” demon form. I personally believe that the in-game form we see is the one that’s easiest for humans to see/reason with/tolerate. I don’t think that’s their real demon form. I believe their true forms would be more monstrous and maybe have more traits in common with their symbolic animal. Another personal headcanon: Levi’s giant-ass aquarium isn’t confined to the back wall of his room. I think it can actually span at least two sides of the house and they just panel over it because he doesn’t want to be seen when he swims. So between layers of dry wall and such, there’s his aquarium. It’s like his secret little tunnel around the house that has several exits but he prefers the one in his room (which is why he made that room HIS room when they first moved into the House of Lamentation).

Side note: for my personal use, I headcanon the library as Lucifer’s study. He just kind of has this…pocket dimension made for himself in there. The brothers can find it if he allows it. Sometimes he’ll throw magic around it to disguise it. You have to go through the library to get to it. Anyways, onto the story. This one may not be as long as the others. We’ll see where it goes

Leviathan:

You’d made several laps around the House of Lamentation. The dizzying, bubbly feeling had yet to return. It was like a tease, lasting for a pulse or two in certain rooms and then fleeing as quick as it came. Everything else was a dull buzz, cold bubbles in your chest. After your last lap you stopped in the kitchen for a drink of water—soon after remembering you couldn’t currently open your mouth—and locked eyes with Beel. A displeased fizzle shot through you; your mouth suddenly dry for another reason.

That was an unexpected sign but it was a reaction. Maybe you just needed to go look at the other brothers to figure out who DIDN’T give you that feeling?! Beel’s purple eyes flicked over your locked lips; he smothered a hum with a bite of pastry. He seemed to sense he wasn’t the one for you. “Lucifer’s in his study if you want to try him next.”

The tip was appreciated but the walk was not. Each step towards the eldest’s study sent a wave of stomach-churning nausea through you. It was like the ultimate gut feeling of ‘turn back!’, your stomach so sour it felt like it was curling in on itself. Unable to stand the tartness prickling on your tongue or the sweat beading on your brow, you bolted away from the shimmering door and past rows of books to find reprieve down the hall. Not Lucifer, you thought to yourself, doubled over with your hands on your knees as if that would help all the acid yuck drain away from your chest and mouth, not Lucifer.

Something cold touched the back of your neck and you snapped up, wincing at a pinch going through your lower back. The yelp failed to break past your lips, your brain switched gears to help you exhale the nervous energy through your nose as Satan registered in your periphery. His brow creased apologetically, squishing a damp cloth against the back of your neck gingerly. “You seemed ill. I was trying to help.” he dabbed at your neck and traced the curve of your cheek with the cloth, green eyes watching the flush fade from your neck.

You must’ve run right by him in the library and not even realized it.

The cloth was a simple, well-meaning gesture between friends, you both knew that. You got the feeling he’d been reading his romance books again, maybe questioning how a small moment like this could be what lovers immortalized and built a life on. How did clichés like this become addictive classics? You felt pondered and marveled but not revered, a bit like how Jane first looks at the sketch of Tarzan at the camp. “Your love lies elsewhere, I think.” Satan murmured, perhaps to both you and himself, as he deemed you healthy enough to go to the second floor and find whoever was meant to undo the cosmetic chaos.

The squeak of the last step died in your ear as a white-hot knowing consumed you. It silenced everything else around you, throwing you into a tunnel that ended at Leviathan’s door. You’d almost felt like you’d teleported, not totally sure how you knew to go to his door instead of the others. No bubbles, no acid—his doorknob felt strangely cool and comforting in your hand.

Your nerves settled.

The door opened into a room washed in blues; the air was a little cooler here but not damp. If not for the bioluminescent life in his large aquarium, the room would be pitch black. There was no Levi, no anime running, no controllers clicking….nothing. Large swaths of kelp danced at the edges of the tank, framing the open water quite beautifully. A tiny bottom-feeder fish sucked at the base of seaweed clusters, scaring a Cerith snail back into their shell when it nudged a rock in its direction.

You forgot how much of a labor of love this aquarium was. Levi put a lot of time into it between the physical cleaning and the species research. Placing your palms on the glass wasn’t enough to sate the desire to just…sink through it and bob in the water. Maybe it could wash off the makeup? A trio of Devildom teacup jellies twinkled as if to invite you in.

A longing drummed painfully in your chest, just shy of feeling like an open wound. It was like a tender crack in your very being. Levi’s mark glowed on your body, casting a dim yellow light against the glass. Something large and dark cut through the expanse, stirring up a layer of dirt and whipping the smaller creatures around in their own little maelstrom. Pebbles clinked against the glass as the creature folded itself around to press against the glass.

Levi?! You’d be lying if you said your legs didn’t turn to jelly as the sediment haze cleared to reveal a towering serpentine creature with Levi’s face. His tail was long and smooth, glistening onyx scales tapering into a barbed point hemmed by fluttering webbing on either side. The scales at his hips were drop-like and had more color variation; shades of gray decorated him and crept up to his navel. Something quill-like jutted out from his hips; they flexed in the water and you wondered if they acted like sensors. They looked awfully sharp

His chest was largely unchanged, still pale and lean. It was both a small comfort and a large contrast to how mottled and dark his arms were. The diamond pattern on the left side of his neck wound down his arm, obscuring where hand met claw. Those were most definitely claws now; they couldn’t even pass for fingers. Leviathan’s right arm wasn’t as dominated by the diamond pattern but the hands matched.

Levi’s shoulders were capped in scales almost like a defense mechanism. His face was the same, save for his eyes and little markings under them that reminded you of his branching coral horns. Diamond pupils dilated as he sank down to see you face-to-face, pushing the haunting gold of his iris to near nothingness. Can you see me? You’re not saying anything back.

I see you, Levi finally answered, his voice surprisingly measured and serene despite his…feral-looking appearance. His lips puckered almost bashfully as he turned his face away slightly, pupil shrinking back to a normal slit as he bobbed in front of you. He eyed you intently, like a predator does its prey. A large fang slipped past the pucker of his lips, but just for a second. You almost thought you’d dreamt it.

Why do you need me? his tail flailed almost impatiently, maybe angrily. You lookin’ for one of those normies? He buried his claws in the bottom of the aquarium, scratching through the rocks and fighting off envious urges to strangle that he’d never really go through with. The quills at his hips flared and went rigid. Levi swung his torso back carefully, withdrawing spines from the nearby kelp and assessing the plant delicately.

Acid began to build up in your chest and you wondered if this is what his envy felt like manifested.

No, you answered quietly, I’m looking for you.

Your lips are still sealed shut?! Levi could’ve knot his tail in disbelief, appendage coiling and uncoiling wildly at the prospect of you still being unclaimed. He hated this form of his—his true form—it left him with enough consciousness to know he was more devil than human, more instinct than logic.

More selfish than he cared to admit, too.

You kissed the tank to prove your point, feeling like your words would be lost on him. When Levi was in one of his moods—which he was—words did little to sway him. He needed actions when he was that far gone. Leviathan surged forward with great interest, gills at his neck fluttering and quills quivering as he looked at the glossy print. Will you kiss me, Leviathan?

Kiss you? Leviathan pursed his lips to suffocate his eager words, I would do more than kiss you. I would give you the sunrise, all of the sea’s riches, and my soul, itself, if you let me. The gross normie within him was simply bursting at the seams to give you the most epic romantic monologue guaranteed to boost your companion level at least ten points. Yeah, maybe some of that was ripped off from different animes but you would never know. Only his most favorite parts for you.

He pushed himself towards the top of the tank, tail boosting him up with little effort. A clawed hand breached the water, sending some kind of plug-like panel tumbling off to the side to land somewhere in his room. “You’ll need the chair,” Levi’s voice was whispery and melodious; you felt drawn in and almost mindless as you jammed the chair against the tank and stood up carefully. One arm on the rim of the tank, Levi held his breath and resisted the urge to snatch you up before his gills protested the lack of water.

His claws cut through the material of your shirt whether he wanted them to or not, Levi cringing at the sound of threads snapping. Your skin felt warm against the scales on his hands; his tongue flicked out from between his fangs. You were none the wiser, of course, facing away from him and now hanging obediently on the edge of the tank as he left to grab an herb that could help you breathe underwater. You went to bite the herb as he presented it to you but Levi hissed reflexively, a sound of warning as his fork tongue seemed to point at you in admonishment.

The herb was wrapped around your neck like a scarf. You winced and yelped as something jabbed into your neck. Satisfied, Levi took your hand as gently as possible and began to swim down. Your struggle was mindless and instinctual; Levi would be lying if he said it didn’t rouse something primal in him. Undeterred, he swam down into a patch of kelp, tail coiling around you and drawing you further into his chest.

You panicked and pushed against his chest and…breathed? The pressure of the water didn’t exist; your chest wasn’t burning for air. Those plant spines help you breathe under water. They’re like shunts for airflow. If you take them out, you won’t be able to breathe. Levi’s hands ghosted down your arms, claws hooking in a piece of your hair. He flinched, too scared to untangle himself.

I’d rather you help me breathe, you smiled brightly at him. Playfully.

He gurgled embarrassingly, his gills tensing open before resuming their fluttering. His cheeks tinged with color. You thought he’d throw you away in his embarrassment but his tail operated on truer feelings because he drew you closer. Leviathan’s kiss was shy but unmoving. You felt your mouth open up and it was the best breath you’d ever taken (even if you were under water).

A small current stirred the water around you, barely masking the sound of bones crackling. You watched the scales disappear under Leviathan’s skin, his normal tone returning as his tail shortened and split back into two human legs. Fins fell off, webbing retreating back into normal skin as the claws splintered away into human-ish nails. Veins tensed in his neck as his teeth resumed their normal form and his gills flattened back into regular skin. “There,” Leviathan hmph’ed, “Happy now?”

He tried to make it seem like a big chore but his cheeks were pinker than yours and his tail was wagging excitedly.

“Very.” You grinned. Now that you could breathe normally you felt a bit cold. The plant scarf may help you breathe in water but it didn’t make the saltwater sting any less or keep you warm. “Want to get out and dry off?”

You wouldn’t mind getting something to eat, either. It was a reflex to grab the lip of the aquarium and try to climb out Outside was waiting and you’d be warm, dry, and get food!

“Wait!” Leviathan fumbled as he wrapped his arms around you and yanked you back in. “You’ll suffocate!” he protested. If the weight of the scarf didn’t make things difficult, the lack of air would. He pressed you against a corner of the aquarium, nudging your arm over the lip as he kept the two of you afloat with his tail. You bobbed against each other, his hair dripping water into your eyes as he worked carefully to unwind the scarf.

The kelp scarf acted as a filter and was separate from the spines, you found out. Leviathan murmured the number of spines, turning your chin this way and that to look at them, careful not to bump them with his knuckles. He pinched your cheeks gently, anything he could think of to distract you from the bite of plucked spines. The two of you laughed between pinches of pain. It was cute in its own way.

“Hey! It’s just supposed to be a kiss! And none of those look like they’re on the lip! Look at you, dirty, dirty Levi!” Asmo laughed brightly from the doorway.

“It’s not--! They’re not--! Some normie like you isn’t gonna make fun of me like that!” Leviathan’s face grew redder and redder as he realized the spines left little red blossoms across your neck. Someone like Asmo WOULD mistake them for hickies! He hissed, launching himself out of the water with his tail. Asmo yelped as Leviathan snaked across his bedroom, slippery and ferocious. It reminded you that you were living in a house of people pretending to be human.

The pair collided and all you heard was:

“Don’t you spit poison at me! You didn’t know you had it until I showed you!”

“Keep talking and I’ll squeeze you.”

“You think that’ll do anything? I get choked on a regular—“

“UGH! STOP! WHY DO PEOPLE THINK OTAKUS ARE GROSS AND DIRTY? YOU’RE WORSE!”

“Yeah, but I’m cute—AHH! RUDE!”

“Did you just throw Asmo out of your room?” You leaned out of the tank, trying to plan your fall into the chair. Leviathan’s tail was still thrashing wildly, coiling and uncoiling.

“He deserved it!” Leviathan hissed, words cut by large, glinting fangs. He threw his back into the door, flicking the lock in place as Asmo kicked and yelled on the other side. Leviathan willed himself to ignore the noise in the hall and beyond, heart slamming in his chest and his ears as he looked at how small, pitiful, and wet you looked.

Humans need to stay warm, the thought kicked him into motion. He scrounged up dry clothes and tucked himself bashfully in the corner as you changed. “You want to watch some anime? Or a movie?” Leviathan thumbed the sticks on his controller as he slid into his bathtub bed. Only his hair was wet; you figured his serpentine skin just soaked up the excess water.

“Sure,” you’d just figured out how to get into the tub without pulling a muscle or falling in when Lucifer blew through the door like Leviathan never locked it. It startled you into the tub and you collapsed on top of him with a little apology.

“You know what you did,” Lucifer looked very menacing, staring down at the two of you. His feathers were bristled. He balanced a plastic cup on the rim of the tub. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

Leviathan started to protest out of reflex and Lucifer took the opportunity to grab the third-eldest by his purple hair and make him bite down on the cup. You watched in confused awe as Leviathan’s fangs hooked the cup and began to drip a strange liquid. He tried to wrestle his mouth off the cup but Lucifer kept his grip and pushed the cup into some sort of gland. “Demons with serpentine lineage must submit poison samples when an incident occurs to keep their strain on file. You know this, Levi.”       

Seems Leviathan had a history of spitting poison at people? Interesting.

Lucifer released him with a click of the tongue, satisfied. He pulled a wrapped popsicle out of his pocket and held it out to his younger brother like an olive branch. Leviathan took it with a scowl, squeezing it from the bottom so it popped out into his mouth. “No kissing for at least an hour,” Lucifer looked at the two of you sternly, “he needs time to neutralize his own poison.”

Was that what the popsicle was for, to dilute his own poison? Or maybe getting poison fangs hurt demons since they retract? Hell, Lucifer probably hurt his mouth with the cup. You both stayed quiet as he left, glad he shut the door behind him. Leviathan used the popsicle as a reason to stay quiet, turning on a random anime instead.

You leaned against his chest as the exhaustion of walking and swimming took over you. Your consciousness started to fade against the sound of a purr rumbling in Leviathan’s chest, just vaguely aware of his tail weaving itself around your leg. “Best ending unlocked,” Leviathan whispered excitedly to himself, panicking soon after as he tried to make sure the popsicle didn’t get in your hair.

[callingsergeantbarnes]

Forever

Pairing:- Bucky Barnes x Female Reader 

Vampire AU

Summary:- Bucky has spent a century without you, now that he has finally found you he is afraid to lose you. Will you be willing to spend forever with him, to become a creature of the night?

Word Count:- 1211 (I really tried to make this shorter but it ran away from me)

Warnings:- Explicit Sexual content.  Vampire AU. Vampire Bucky. Unprotected Sex (Practice safe sex) blood drinking - (vampires), hints of self-doubt. There are some feels in this one possibly. 

A/N:- 18+ For the @the-slumberparty​ Warm Up Drabble. I got the word Vampire. I hope you enjoy it, I did try and keep it short and sweet but it ended up going over a thousand words. No beta so some mistakes may have slipped through. Title banner is by me. Other banners is by  @maysdigitalarts  Divider is by @firefly-graphics​ 

He should have known one sip would never have been enough the first time he met you.

Not when the sweet wine of your blood tasted as divine on his tongue as it did. A golden nectar of captured sunlight, summer fruits, and the things he had longed for in the long, dark night.

One taste and you intoxicated him. One taste and you became his addiction. His craving, until all he could think about, was devouring you in all ways.

In the century he had lived, he had tasted no one quite like you, never been captivated by such a creature. It went beyond the mere taste of your blood, of how the scent of a summer’s day clung to your skin. Making him dream of days he had long since forgotten about. Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he had pictured a summer’s day, dreamed of the sun. Except when lying next to you, your blood on his tongue, your scent surrounding him and the soothing rhythm of your heartbeat as you slept, he dreamed. He remembered. And he missed.

It wasn’t often he allowed himself to dwell on such memories, on forgotten things. Not when the night had brought him to you.

It wasn’t just your blood, though, that had him so captivated. You were beautiful. Your smile could light up a room, and your eyes glistened when the light caught them. You kept him on your toes, with your charm and quick wit, and your mind was always moving, learning, willing to explore.

And fuck did you want to explore.

You yearned for adventure; your soul burned for it as hot as the sun burned in the sky.

Your fearlessness had you going toe to toe with him at his worst, until he fucked you senseless, and you clawed at his back, urging him on, feeding him your blood and taking his own as you mewled with pleasure.

Bucky feared the day he would lose you. Feared the day that would fast approach. Time for a mortal was over in a blink of an eye, and he couldn’t imagine living the centuries without you now that he had met you. The endless cycle without you by his side, not now that he had found you, but was it his right to ask you to give up the world of the sun? The summer days. Possible children.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re brooding so much?” You asked, standing in the doorway of the beach house. The sound of the waves crashing along the shore carried through the night sky as the stars glistened above them.

It wasn’t often that he spent time at this property. A vampire having a home on the beach was asking for trouble, but it was winter, and you loved the beach even in the cold, so the two of you would make do for another week before you moved to a more secure house that offered more shelter for him.

Bucky turned towards you, noting the white lace teddy you were wearing. It shaped your body perfectly, and his gaze followed the shape of your body, the curve of your breasts. He could see the peak of your nipples.

“I’m thinking of the future.” He answered honestly because you knew him well enough to catch him out in a lie.

“You know you could always just ask me, rather than brooding about the future.” You breathed.

“What right do I have to ask?” he asked, brow creasing together.

You moved towards him, stepping outside onto the decking until you were standing right in front of him, before straddling him in his seat.

“Ask me the question, Bucky.” You whispered. He could hear the steady beat of your heart. The confidence you projected filled him with hope. But he had long since given up on hope. Hope wasn’t for a creature such as him.

“Will you stay with me? As a Vampire?”

One beat. Two beats. Three beats.

“I’m yours. Now and forever, Bucky. In whatever form that takes, in this life or the next. Always.”

Bucky stilled. Uncertain, he had heard you right.

You smiled at him. “Yes Bucky. As a Vampire.”

The weight of your gaze pressed along his skin, leaving scorch marks in their wake. Emotions swelled inside of him, and he couldn’t hold himself back from taking you there and then. Not to turn you, but to show you just how fucking happy you had made him.

It was easy enough to part your legs further, slip his robe aside. His cock already hard, the scent of your arousal already filling his nose.

You moved to lower yourself onto his cock, knowing what you both needed, taking him inch by fucking inch. Your walls stretched around his girth before you clenched tightly, and he groaned at the sensation.

Bucky swallowed slowly, one hand brushing the strap of your teddy down your shoulder. Neither of you moved as your gazes met. Your heartbeat loudly, awaking the beast inside of him.

Heat enveloped him, and he strained against the urge to thrust hard and fast in and out of you.

“Bucky, fuck me hard and fast. Take me. Make me yours.”

Whispered words that snapped his control just enough to allow his vampiric nature to surge into the front seat.

His hips moved, his cock sliding out almost to the tip before he thrust hard and fast back into you. Your movements matching his as you rocked against him, hips swivelling ever so slightly, that he almost came right there and then.

A merciless, relentless rhythm of bodies moved against each other. A hum vibrated through his body. Fangs descended, and he bit down into your shoulder. The moan that escaped your lips vibrated through him, as he drank your blood, and took the substance he craved so much.

Fuck, did he love you.

Your own teeth scraped his bare shoulder, not sharp enough to pierce his own flesh, but sharp enough to give him a jolt of pleasure.

He held you tight as he drank and thrust hard and fast. Your wetness coated your thighs, and the hot walls engulfed him, clenched and pulsed with every stroke of his cock.

Flushed together, your arms wrapped around him tightly, nails digging into his flesh hard enough to make him shiver at the sharp pain that sent a current of electric shocks through his body.

Muscles at the base of his cock tightened, and the peak of both of your releases rushed through them with one last thrust.

His climax ripped through him. Muscles trembled as he held you, his pulse quickening. You shuddered, mouth open and a low moan came from your lips, making his cock pulse even more as the sound tickled his senses.

The noises you made were fucking delightful to hear. 

Satisfied and full, his fangs retracted, and he gave a slow lick of the wound, allowing his saliva to heal the wound quicker than it would have on its own,, as you snuggled into the side of neck.

“When?” You asked.

“Soon. You’ll enjoy the things you won’t be able to do again.”

“As long as I’m with you, Bucky. Nothing else will matter.”

[lambsouvlaki]

For the Hell of It - Smoke

Character: Jason Todd x civilian! Fem!oc

Rating and Warnings: SFW, cigarettes, discussion of addictions, discussion of bad parenting. Jason's perception of Bruce is questionable.

Word Count: 1,492

Summary: Jason and Andy drink too much and share a cigarette, then talk about their parents.

Masterlist

--------

The city was turning warm again. The balcony smelled of cigarette smoke and the potted rosemary plant that refused to die. Their empty beer bottles, more than Jason would normally indulge in, were lined up on the railing. The setting sun shone through the glass, throwing refracted green light over the two of them on their brittle old rattan chairs.  

“My dad thinks I’m his worst failure,” Jason said.

His mouth was set in a jagged scowl and his stomach churned with the anger that he had stewed in all day. The specific words Bruce had thrown at him on last night’s disaster of a patrol didn’t even matter anymore, what was a handful more thrown onto the towering pile? It was all the same. “Every time he looks at me, it’s all he sees.” 

Andy made an indignant noise in her throat. 

“Even my worst decisions, things that weren’t even directed at him, only count as his failures to self-flagellate over. And the good I’ve done doesn’t get tallied fucking anywhere at all.” He scoffed. He leaned his folded arms forward on the tiny outdoor table and his chin on his forearms, careful to avoid the burning cherry of his cigarette. “I may as well not be here. Could save us all the hassle and just write postcards of made up atrocities for him to agonise over.”

“Too easy,” Andy said, gazing with uncharacteristic coldness at the empty street her balcony faced. “If you can’t escape his disappointment, why should he get to escape yours?”

“I doubt he even cares if I’m disappointed. No, actually, I bet he prefers it that way. One more failure to nurse like a fine old whisky.”

Andy hummed. 

It was the first time he’d made any mention of his family without obfuscating. It felt good to let it out to someone who didn’t hold up the other parties in the farce of his life as unquestionable pillars of righteousness. To her Bruce was just another screw-up of a Dad. 

She hadn’t offered saccharine comforts or pity at his moping. Even the worst things he’d implied didn’t put dread in her eyes. 

“What about your mom?” she asked. 

“Dead. Both of them. I’ve got two of each.” 

“Huh.” 

He turned his thoughts forcibly towards Sheila. He wasn’t going to sully Catherine’s name by invoking her right now, stewing in misery and beer like he was.

“It’s funny. My birth mom hurt me more than Bruce ever did if you get technical about it, but somehow her apathy didn’t hurt near as much as his oh-so-dreadful regret.” He passed Andy the cigarette. “Still can’t fucking stand cigarette smoke though.”

“Me neither.” She took a long drag. 

He turned his head enough to look at her. 

“My mom said she didn’t smoke,” Andy said, smoke curling lazily out of her mouth. “Would swear her life on it. I’d have sworn it too, if anyone had asked, same for all her other lies. I worked so hard to make her love me.” She laughed: a hard, self-deprecating noise that was as foreign in her mouth as the smoke. “The perfect little girl for her to project onto. No wonder my brother thought I was insufferable.”

Jason snorted. He could see it, the leftover residue of that kind of relationship, the people-pleaser she must have been as a kid. Desperate to fit into whatever shape was asked of her. She was nothing like that now, and she never talked about family either. 

“The day I got arrested, I called her,” Andy said. “I didn’t have any friends left and I figured she’d know a lawyer, or just what to do in general.” A bitter smile cracked and twisted on her face. “She hung up on me. Last time we ever spoke.”

“What?” His brow creased.

“I looked her up on online the other month – my curiosity got the better of me,” she said in an embarrassed aside, not noticing his confusion, “And you do know what she’s done? She’s running a fake page for me. Apparently I’ve moved to silicon valley and achieved what was definitely my dream of becoming some kind of… of tech-genius business-woman. Her friends seem stupid enough to buy it.” 

He barked a horrified laugh, understanding at last. “I wondered what that was about.”

“You saw it?” she demanded, her eyes wide. “You didn’t say anything!”

He took a drag on the cigarette. He wasn’t about to let her know he monitored all online mentions of her name to make sure nobody tried to use their friendship against either of them. “I thought maybe it was a joke between you.”

“I suppose the photo edits are quite funny, in a desperately sad kind of way,” she conceded, grimly. “I hope her and imaginary Andy will be very happy together.”

“Do you?”

“Not really. Where does she get the gall?”

“Come on, nobody wants their failures looking back at them. Easier, nicer, to lie to yourself.”

“I kind of want to make a real account and go comment on her made up conversations. ‘That fuck is this, mom?’”

He hummed his approval. “Burn down the illusion, make her confront the truth, head on.”

“If I have to live this reality, so does she.”

The warm tide of alcohol in his veins kept the thoughts of vindication afloat longer than he would be proud of afterwards. He ducked his head as painful reality and old regrets of his own returned. He stubbed the cigarette out.

“Doesn’t feel as good as you think it will,” he said. “I suspected Bruce wished I’d just stayed dead. Can’t say I enjoy having it confirmed.”

Andy’s eyebrows rose, seconds before her face screwed up in anger. “Well fuck him.” 

His lips twitched. “Easy to say, right?”

Her head tipped back in her chair, looking very forlorn in the dying light. “Don’t go carving yourself open for narcissists. All they’ll see is the stain on the carpet. I should know this by now.” 

They fell quiet. Gotham was slowly swallowed by the oncoming night, shredded clouds rolling in from the sea hid the few stars stubborn enough to pierce the city smog. The cold was settling in too. It would be nicer indoors. 

The pack of smokes sat on the table between them, its lid closed. Andy’s fingers tapped the glass near it.

They had agreed they were only going to have the one. But technically they’d shared it, which meant they had only had half a smoke.

“You pick up smoking from her?” Jason asked. 

She shook her head. “St Marge’s.” St Margaret’s Penitentiary, Gotham’s low security women’s prison. “You?”

“Blackgate.”

Decidedly not low security. He wondered if she’d ask. She usually didn’t.

“Hn,” she said. 

She reached for the pack. A slender finger flipped the lid open. There were three left.

She scowled. Her fingers tapped the glass again in an idle staccato. 

“On the one hand, lighting up another would make my mom so, so angry, which is its own reward. But on the other…”

“Not her lungs,” he finished. “Do what you want. Fuck her.”

She sighed. “It is easy to say.”

They both eyed the packet. 

His throat was still tight and the frustration simmered in his chest. He swore he could remember every single time Bruce told him smoking reduced lung capacity and compromised stamina like he didn’t already know all that. As though Jason was delighted to have an addiction and had fallen back into it over and over again just for fun. 

He closed his fists and pulled his arms off the table. 

“Does my smoking remind you of your birth mom?” Andy asked suddenly. 

He blinked. “...Sometimes. You?”

“Yeah.” 

He winced. 

“So really…” she spoke slowly, as though she was testing the words for poison on their way out. “I’d be doing you a favour.” She tentatively flipped the lid shut again. 

He sat up straight. Well, if that was how it was. 

“No,” he decided. 

“No?”

“I’m doing you a favour.” He grabbed the pack and threw it off the balcony. He wasn’t going to be the reason Andy couldn’t quit. And like hell was he following in her useless mother’s footsteps and telling her to make a stand he couldn’t. 

She scoffed a laugh. “No, I think I get credit for that one. You’re welcome.”

He crossed his arms stubbornly. His throat still itched, and simmering frustration nagged at him. He dragged both hands through his hair. Next to him Andy took a fortifying breath. 

“Alright,” he said quietly.

“Alright.”

They got up, and went back inside. 

Next>>

[averilian]

Tried something new that I may get addicted to, istg writing's inseparable with me jbgkdjdushjzzzz

_____________________

Blankets n Sniffles

Short A x B fic, (inspired by @a-and-b-snz )

_______________________________________________

Introduction: B falls horribly ill and keep consistently saying it's just their allergies to A. Since A is caught up with work, they're a little agitated and snap at B. Later on, they regret it. ;)

_______________________________________________

"Shut the fuck up!" A scolded B once more. "This bullshit has been going on for 10 minutes."

A loud "snnnfk!" came from B.

"I'm sorry, A, I don't know what's wrong with me right now.." B concernedly replied, stuffing their face with a handful of tissues.

"I'm trying to work, and I need full silence in order to focus. So please get some allergy meds." A explained, turning their attention back to their computer.

"Okay, sorry.." B sighed, wondering if A still actually cared about him.

_______________________________________________

A couple hours pass

_______________________________________________

A cracked their knuckles and closes their computer. "Finally done." A sighed to themself, sitting up from their desk.

A walked toward their room to check up on B, since they had been so quiet.

A opened the door to find B, curled up in multiple blankets- surrounded by used tissues.

"Holy crap.." A said to themself, already getting a crease between their brows.

A walked over to B's side of the bed to find that they had cried themselves to sleep, their nose still draining consistently. B slowly fluttered their eyes open moments later..

"What happened?" A softly spoke, trying their best to stay calm.

B curled the blankets tigher on themselves. Just as they were about to speak, their breathing hitched softly, a few times until a-

"Hihh-KGtchuu!!"

-rough sounding sneeze flies out of them, muffled by their massive amount of fluffy blankets.

"Oh, bless you amor." A blessed, placing their palm on B's forehead.

"I'm sorry.." B murmured, muffled by their blankets.

"It's okay, sweetheart." A said climbing underneath the covers with them, wrapping their arms around B. "What was your temperature last?"

"101.."

"Awh, my poor sick baby." A cooed, planting a kiss on B's forehead once more.

B smiled, curling closer into A's arms.

The two laid there for a few moments until A heard the same soft hitching from before. "H-hhhiihh.." "Hhhhheh.." "haahh.." A's crease returned between their eyebrows. B's hitching continued until it was cut of by a fit of-

"Hhiih-KGtchuu!" "KGtchuu!" "tchu!" "G-tchu!!" "HEH-TCHU!!"

sneezes fly out of them. "I'm so sorry, A.." B apologized but was cut off. "I already told you it's fine." A replied, holding the tissue Infront of their face.

"C'mon, sneezy, blow."

"ughhhh..."

_______________________________________________

end of text

[bunji-enthusiast]

Hello! I want to request a Bunji x gender neutral reader, where reader is patching up his wounds and scolding him for being reckless. The reader knows that it would take a lot to actually kill Bunji but it doesn't stop them from worrying about him. Established or pre-established relationship, either of them is fine with me ^-^ Thank you in advance! I love your writing <33

A/N: thank you so much for being my first request, he might be ooc but we ball <3

[contains: toned down scolding, description of wounds, a very broken down Bunji, mild angst and stuff. Sorta established and pre-established? Uh be surprised.]

“You idiot.”

That was the first thing he heard coming from your lips, he gritted his teeth to suppress the onslaught of pain that he was feeling.

You weren’t the usual and gentle person as he had come to know, not having the light touch.

You were angry, and Bunji knew you had every right to be. “Sorry for worryin ya doll.” Bunji let out a sharp inhale as you pressed down on a bullet wound, the aftermath of the hot shelling inflicting hot-flashes of pain into the side of his abdomen.

Simply…

old habits die hard.

Knowing that had made you a little more familiar with the uncomfortable givings of a reality that was far more true then you wished it was.

“You may be the goddamned Wolf,” you hissed through gritted teeth, trying to calm yourself down at the same time as you were patching his wounds with a few dabs of alcohol, the blood seeping into the cotton-ball. “But your still just a man.”

Jabbing a finger at the lapels of his pre-burned jacket, he immediately understood what you wanted him to do.

“Man I may be,” He chuckled warmly, cut off by a scratchy cough from the nicotine of cigarettes he was so hopelessly addicted too. “Uncertainty is still a given.”

Bunji tugged at the ends of his jacket and shrugged it off, causing the jacket to fall right behind his backside. You looked up at him, brows creased with a worry you haven’t felt in a long time for anyone.

“I-..” You paused, not knowing what to say. Usually words came so easily to the wolfish man as it came to you. Partners-in-crime was a lightly worded way in accordance to knowing one another.

Knowing him.

Suddenly you felt a warm hand patting the crown of your head, looking up, it was Bunji giving you the most reassuring smile he had ever done. Least of all toward you in particular.

Yet it was caught off by a hiss leaving his throat, Bunji heaved a heavy sigh and leaned back against the wall. “S’was never your fault.”

“But still.”

His eyes flickered over to you, tired and worn out—killing was something he didn’t mind doing. Yet it was all he had even done since the dawn of the goddamned day he became a part of the Big Four.

The Wolf was always, always alone. You were disproving of this, walking through the darkness and clutching onto the maw of a diseased ridden corpse, a walking dead man. Cracks and stone crumbling away to reveal the man you had fallen in love with.

In the lowest whisper possible, something you never would’ve imagined to be heard; it simply felt like thorns and crawled in and twisted your heart.

“I’m.. not a guy that likes being alone.” You frowned at this for a moment, allowing your hand to crawl over to his you started rubbing soothing circles into his weathered flesh.

“Despite being told as this tall-tale killer where whoever works with you ends up all being dead but you?” You joked, only meaning to lighten up the mood. Bunji scoffed at your words, cracking a grin.

“I’m not a fan of people, but you..” He leaned toward, stopping for a moment to see if he had your permission to be in your space. You nodded, to which he had leaned closer now.

Letting his large hands wrap around your waist, Bunji pulled you in.

“Kuga…shira?” You squeaked out, a little surprised but was more then happy to reciprocate the hug.

“Bunji,” He spoke out in a warm gruff tone, sighing for a moment as he revealed in your touch.

“People I care about the most call me Bunji.”

[cantfightmoonlight]

"Call the health department for an apron at a barbecue at someone's house in the middle of the woods?" She cocked a brow up at him. Her lips pulling up into a smile despite herself. "You do realize aprons are intended to get dirty, right? I mean that's kind of the whole point of them," She teased, scooting even closer towards him as he settled in beside her. Her eyes visibly softened as she moved to rest her head against his shoulder. Her arms laced around his waist and her eyes fluttered momentarily shut as his pressed a kiss against the top of her head. A couple months ago, if anyone would have told her she'd find herself completely letting her guard down like this, at a werewolf bbq no less, she would have laughed in their faces. Even more so, if they mentioned that the person she'd feel so at ease around would be JC of all people. And yet, the crushing weight against her chest that seemed like it would swallow her whole only a moments ago subsided the moment she curled into his side. As if maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to always cope with everything all on her own?

"Wow. You guarantee it, hm? That's a high bar you're setting there," A genuine giggle broke her lips as she heaved a sigh as if to act like it was some big imposition, before she leaned forwards and took a small bite from one of the ribs. She took her time to soak in the proper blend of spices and flavors as he so put it, cupping her hand over her mouth as she chewed, before she self consciously wiped at her lips to make sure she hadn't just gotten any barbecue sauce anywhere. "Mhm," She pretended as if to be comparing the taste to every other rib she had tried before. Though, he wasn't wrong. They were damn good. "Not bad," She offered up with an innocent smile though they both knew she was downplaying it. Especially seeing how she went back for another bite. She could tell he was an incredible cook and the ribs may just, annoyingly, be some of the best she ever had. If only she could fully taste it. Even with all of the spices, she knew the taste was dulled across her tongue. One of the many downsides of being a vampire. As great as it tasted, she knew she'd never crave it the way she did blood and that she was missing out on how good it truly was. "That big of a secret, hm? You can't tell me? Not even a little bit? Not even I say please?"

"I mean I still haven't seen you out on the ice, so whose to say, really?" She joked back. Her thumb brushing lightly across his cheek as she guided his gaze back to hers if only so that she could lean forwards and cut him off with a sweet peck on his lips. "I never said you were blaming me. I just happen to enjoy knowing that I'm right is all," She poked him lightly in the chest as another laugh graced her lips. "A little bit, yeah. Though, Júlio César Carvalho, did you-" She couldn't hide the happy little glint her eyes, even if she wanted to, which she surprisingly didn't as he told her that Ralph maybe should be allowed coffee. He wasn't wrong... again. But, Ralph's potential caffeine addiction aside, she raised a brow up at him once more as she asked, "Did you give one my vampires a dad talk?"

"Oh that would definitely be way less fun for him though," taking the plate from JC's hand she set it down right beside them. Moving the towering stack of food out of the way, she draped a leg across him as she moved to slide herself into his lap, so that she now sat facing him, arms laced loosely around his neck. "I happen to find this whole camp counselor thing you have going on right now to be incredible attractive. Though a pitcher leg thing?" She creased her brows in confusion only for realization to hit her what exactly he was referring to. "I think you're already well aware how flexible I can be, though if you want a demonstration that badly, all you have to do is ask?"

"Mhm," She pressed her lips together. Giving him a small nod as she stared up at him with a soften gaze that seemed reserved for him these days. "And miss having you bring me the best ribs guaranteed? But, noted," She whispered. Her fingers mindlessly tracing along his collarbone as she offered, "Next time? Or maybe next time we could hang out with everyone, together?" Meena wasn't the type for PDA nor did she see the point of having anyone else butting into her own personal affairs. She wasn't the type to hide anything either, but knowing how small towns operated and knowing the council was, it seemed inevitable that someone would make some sort of ordeal about it. Even when she had casual affairs, the second anyone knew about it, it always seemed to become some big headache. And yet, here she was actually offering to maybe be a bit more public about whatever this was that was developing between them then they have.

"Mm. Just be here? Distract me?" She asked, almost pleadingly. "It's..." She let out a small sigh, moving to rest her forehead briefly against his shoulder, before she lifted her gaze once more. "It's gone better than I expected too. It's just hard sometimes. Knowing anything you do will inevitably letting someone down. Even if majority of people are content with you," She admitted. "I know," Her gaze fell as she gave him a small nod. "But I don't know if he wants to and... so I'm not really sure it matter what I want?"

JC gave a shrug of his shoulders, flashing her a weak smile. "Oh, you know. Put it away. Sanitary thing. Wolves are used to a little dirt here and there, but some more precious types might get weird about it. Call the health department on me," he joked lightly. As he settled down beside her, Júlio César leaned over to plant a kiss into her hair. "Doesn't count as robbing if I cooked it all. That's just me deciding what to do with my food." He laughed, shaking his head. "Here. Try some of the ribs. Best you've ever had; I guarantee it. Propriety blend of spices. Can't tell you the secret," he teased lightly, holding out the plate to offer it up.

A low sigh echoed in his throat, and he made a point of rolling his eyes. "I am. Literally. There was a period where that's what I did for a living. You say it like it's a hypothetical," he joked, bumping her shoulder lightly with his. "I know you told me. I didn't say anything. I'm not blaming you. I just think he's very patriotic, s'all. Maybe he shouldn't be allowed to have caffeine, though, but what do I know? It doesn't matter. I think someone brought brownies with...well. It might calm him down a bit." He wrinkled up his nose. "We had a little talk about fire safety, me and him. I told him he could use the sparklers, but only if he has a buddy nearby with a jug of water. Just in case. That seemed less fun for him."

He put a hand up in mock arrest, grinning as he jostled her. "Hey, news spreads fast. And you're the one who bought me those DVDs. But I heard there was, like, a pitcher leg thing? Someone said '6:50 on a clock.' What's that about?" Wiggling his brow, he kept his tone light, but as Meena continued, his features softened. "Well, I'm just trying to keep the thing running. Keep everyone fed. Be a good host. That's all," he offered. "But if you wanted to, like, step away together, that would have been cool too. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

JC nodded. "I'm sorry to hear that. I don't know the guy well. But I'm sorry you fought." He shook his head. "I think that's just something people say, though. For what it's worth. We live in a magic town in Rhode Island of all places. Insanity's out the window, Mimi." Júlio César smiled. "Is there anything I can do to help?" He bit his lip. "You're not ruining the mood. People are having a good time. Most of this has gone better than I would have expected. And if it means anything, people...people do come back from fights. If that's what you want."

[mkakki]

Gross gross mind rotting sweetness. I know Bakugo is a sucker for the love of his life mkay.

Just a sweet little Drabble I used to scratch an itch

Katsuki could recall the exact moment he decided he would spend the rest of his life with you, in perfect detail. It was late, just before he had drifted off to sleep, fingers hot as they traced the careful curve of your spine. It was a surprisingly tender moment considering your skin was still tacky from the exertion of having your way with him. Smile satiated as you pressed gentle, open mouthed kisses to the available skin of his chest. He was known to be loud, abrasive, but in the calm of your shared space, he didn’t feel the need for it.

There was something soft, soothing even, when it came to the way you would carefully arrange yourself around him. Nails dragging lightly over his forearm, your smile coy when he turned with a glare. Always an air of mischief as you sidled up to him, but nothing that he didn’t welcome.

Yet there he lay, senses bathed in you. The taste of you lingering on his tongue, something cloying and addicting. The plush of your skin as it gave way under his grasp. Your soft exhale as he turned to kiss you outright.

It was your soft smile, eyes dripping with nothing but love and affection. Something so sweet it left an ache in his chest that he decided to smother with careful ministrations to your receptive body. When you exhaled his name against his temple, fingers ghosting across the broad expanse of his shoulders, he felt something pull taut inside of himself.

“Shit. I think I might really love you.” It was hushed, barely there against your collarbone, punctuated with a soft bite. He tried to ignore the lopsided beat of his heart as you stilled. Gone was the squirming you had begun as he allowed his fingers to wander. Absent was the restless way you began to get greedy for more of him, despite how apparent it was that you always had all of him. Tucked carefully into your coat pocket to take with you no matter how far you may go.

“You aren’t just saying that because of the very fantastic sex, are you?” You tried to sound breezy, unbothered as you tugged carefully on his blond locks. He pulled back, trying to ignore the way you immediately tried to pull him back down. He wanted to be able to study your face carefully, the way your lips were still kiss swollen and eager for him. He watched your expression fall, which always left him aching. He had to stop himself from leaning down to taste you again.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you.” He watched your throat move, transfixed with the slight action of you swallowing thickly. Always enraptured by you, and all of your glory. He pressed his mouth to the crease between your brows to drive his point home.

“Katsuki-“ He dipped back down, teeth nipping at your jawline. The arch of your back made the corner of his mouth quirk.

It didn’t matter that outside the sky had opened up, pouring itself upon the earth below. He was too immersed in drinking down the sweet sounds spilling from your mouth as he punctuated his statement. Though he may have been moments from sleep not a few moments prior, he was suddenly consumed by the need to be closer to you. To devour every inch available to him and still dare ask for more. To let you dive beneath his own skin and make your home there in his chest.

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2022: October 8th

Day 8: Masochism/Sadism // Fisting // Begging

Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: Begging, hand jobs, nipple play, mentions of oral, mentions of pegging, vaginal sex, premature ejaculation

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“Baaaaaabyyyyyyyy” You love the way that Dieter’s eyes are blown wide, almost innocent if it weren’t for the fact that you have your hand wrapped around his cock. Holding it and not squeezing, not stroking it, just letting it pulse in your hand. Your other hand pressed against his hip to keep from letting him rock his hips forward into your grip. “Please.” 

“Not good enough, Bravo.” You smirk as you let go of his cock, his plantitive whimper adding to the fierce pout that is making his brow crease and look like a spoiled brat. He is a spoiled brat after all and you love correcting him. “You need to beg me.” 

You would think that he hates this. His derisive huff blows out loudly and he scowls at you like you’ve just taken away his favorite toy, which - to be fair - you have. Denied him sex, denied him use of your cunt to make himself feel good. He loves fucking, often needing it to feel loved. It was something he was working on in therapy, but he still has plenty of cravings and addictions, sex is one of them. 

“Ah ah ah.” You wag your finger at him and give him a very disappointed look. Not missing how his cock twitches because he secretly loves this. Loves when you make him beg and work for the right to touch you. His pleasure is so much more acute when he is challenged. Even if you both know he’s going to end up inside you. “Pouting isn’t going to get your way.” 

Dieter bites his lip and blinks several times, obviously getting into the mood his role would require. It was a method you see him use before he shoots a scene and you smother your grin as you recognize it. “I love you.” He tries, his voice soft and low, caressing you like a lover’s touch. 

“I know you do.” You smirk down at him, reaching out and scraping your nail over his nipple lightly, making him sudder and gasp, the already hard peak tightening even more. 

The thing that makes you hum and do it again is that Dieter isn’t even tied up. He’s laying there like a good, needy boy all on his own, looking up at you with those puppy dog eyes. 

“I want to cum.” He huffs, making you giggle quietly and you pinch his nipple this time. His hiss follows his hips bucking up, his hard cock slapping against his stomach as he movies. 

“I know you do, baby, but you have to beg me.” You give him a pout of your own, leaning down and pressing your lips against his, satisfied when he lifts his head to chase you as you pull back. 

“Please baby, I want to be in that perfect, tight cunt.” Dieter begs, voice raspy and filled with need. “Need to balls deep.” 

“Hmmmm, you like being balls deep, don’t you.” You coo, fluttering your lashes at him playfully. 

“Love it.” Dieter pants. “Fucking love it. Tight, hot, wet, so fucking good. It’s so good, baby. I need it.” 

“You don’t want to jerk off?” You ask, raising a brow and biting your lip when his lips stick out in a pout as he looks positively insulted at the prospect of jerking off rather than being inside you. 

“Fuck no,” he groans, shaking his head rapidly and his fingers flex and curl into a fist. As if he is showing you that he doesn’t want to take his cock in his own hand. “Want your pussy, only your pussy.” 

“Only my pussy?” You ask, impressed with his resolve. “You don’t want my mouth? You don’t want me to suck your cock and drink your cum?”

He whimpers, his eyes fluttering shut and there is a debate raging inside him. He loves your mouth, adores when you wrap your lips around him and suck his cock. But then there is your pussy, the hot glove around him that feels like velvet. No, no, he wants to be inside you. You can see the words running across his face as he thinks. 

“Baby, please. I’ll let you do anything.” Dieter whines as he comes to his decision. “I’ll let you fuck my ass.” 

“You would cum quicker.” You counter. “And that’s more for you than me, I think.”

“I’ll let you ride my face first.” He comes back with a second option. That one makes you think about it for a second before you shake your head. He’s got fucking fantastic head game, so it's tempting. 

“You came without me touching you last time.” This is fun, rejecting the offers he is giving you so you will let him get his way. 

“I couldn’t help it.” Dieter moans, his cock twitching violently and spurting another drop of pre-cum. “You fucking soaked me. You know I love that.”

“Pooooor baby.” You murmur, loving how turned on he is. Knowing that he will cum nearly as soon as he gets inside you is honestly a thrill. Even if you give him shit about it. Especially because he will lick every drop of his cum out of your pussy with zero shame for hours when he doesn’t make cum on his cock. 

“What do I have to promise?” He wails. “Money? Fuck, I’ll - I’ll take you shopping, buy you whatever you want. I’ll take you to Tahiti or Paris, wherever you want to go. My treat.” 

You should be insulted that he wants to pay you for sex, but you know it’s not exactly like he wants you to be a prostitute. He wants you so badly that he is trying to think of anything that would make you fuck him. 

“Come on, Diet….” You tisk and shake your head. “I know you can do better than that. Beg me. Trying to buy my pussy? Amature shit.” 

“FUCK!” Tears spring up in his eyes in frustration and he’s grabbing your arm. “Please fuck me, please baby. I need you- just you. I need your pussy around my cock, I need it more than I need air.” He begs. “I - I fucking need it more than I need coke. It’s better than coke. So much better.” 

You know he’s reached his limit and you reach up to caress his cheek. “It’s okay baby, I’m going to fuck you.” You promise, pushing his hair back and letting him pull you closer. “You’re gonna cum.” 

“Oh fuck, thank you baby, thank you.” Dieter moans happily, needy and desperate to feel you around him. “Please, just - just ride me, baby. Sink that perfect little pussy down on my cock.” 

Dieter moans your name when you take his cock in your hand again, straddling his hips and lining up. “Are you sure you want it?” You tease, smirking down at him. 

“Babyyyyyy.” Dieter whines, the sound breaking off with a choked ‘fuck’ when you start to sink down on him. 

“I’m gonna cum, oh fuck, I’m gonna cummmmmmmm.” Dieter rucks his hips up and grabs onto yours to pull you down on him. 

You smirk as he falls apart under you, rolling your hips and circling them slowly to make him whimper and whine. You had been surprised when you learned begging gets Dieter going as much as it does, but you don’t mind it at all. It’s hot. 

[ronearoundblindly]

Pretty Desperate Thing

Ransom Drysdale x f!Reader

Holy BEJEEZUS, MINORS DNI

Warnings for SMUT. (I have never written anything like this before, but sometimes the brain just writes what it writes. If this is not your cup of tea, please DO NOT READ. Everything I've written so far is much softer. This is not that.) Kinda degradation, name-calling, objectification where did this come from, spanking, unprotected sex, faintly dub-con and why did I enjoy this so much, like omg dirty-talk, pretty sure that's it I'm going to hell for sure.

Send snacks. Ransom counts as a snack.

Something about the way Hugh calls you his 'pretty, pretty, little whore' sounds so caring you melt. The words make you melt to your knees, melt to bend over, melt into the mattress, and Hugh follows.

You've earned extra money for a while cleaning houses, but you actually stopped working for the business months ago. Now it's just him. Now he has your number and texts you directly.

"I'll need you here to clean up after."

That's the day it started, him talking to your back while you scrubbed the toilet. He threw a party that night. Rich friends, richer idiots, hot girls, hotter women. Hugh texted you too early, and you had to stand there at the door waiting for the guests to file out slowly, laughing at your clothes as they drunkenly stumble by.

He doesn't even say your name or invite you in. He just stands there holding the door open a little longer.

Hugh looks around while he pushes the door shut, grumbling, "messy fuckers."

There's something about the way that Hugh is instantly alone after everyone's left--no lingering amusement, no waves goodbye, no plans for next time--that hollows out of piece of your gut to see. Truth be told, you've wanted to jump this prick's bones for...well, forever, but it's the sad puppy dog hiding behind gold-plated steel that just breaks you.

Actually, it bends you. It bends your knees right to the floor at his feet while you grab at the fastening of his jeans and paw at his crotch.

Hugh groans out a 'fuck' with no mention of you stopping, no shock other than that his blue eyes weren't on you at the moment you broke. He's mostly still soft by the time your lips hit him, but that's changing rapidly.

"Shit, honey." The words hit you like a sugar rush. "Such a fucking whore for it, aren't you?"

You become instantly addicted to the way he grows in your mouth as his groans get louder. It's sloppy and needy because if you hesitate for an instant, embarrassment might take over and ruin your chance to see him finish. You've imagined his face when he cums frequently and you want to know whether he unravels with a relaxed and open mouth or a clenched jaw and creased brow.

From the effort he exerts to thrust to the back of your throat, your guess is the latter.

The thumb of the hand he's sunk into your hair pets back and forth as he mutters sick praises--"such a pretty whore," "that tight, wet mouth, baby," and "stop before I say, and I won't fuck you."

Hugh may as well be serenading you by the way your panties cling tighter with every word. He edges himself with your mouth. You're surprised how little he makes you gag for it. He prefers movement, it seems, your soft lips moving slickly over the smooth shaft of him. He pulls you off and strokes himself while demanding you give due attention to his balls. You have to push his clothes farther down for that.

You love how noisy he is; this memory alone will carry you for years, you're sure of it. Every foul pant of 'slut' and 'dirty girl' strains your flustered heat when he simply adds 'my' before them.

"Fuck, yes, my pretty little whore. So desperate for me."

And then finally, "get up."

Your thighs can't stop clenching as you rise, relishing his darkened sea gaze that travels the length of you, uncaring how vulnerable he should be with his dick in hand and his hurried breaths.

"Get in there." He ticks his head towards the guest room closest to the foyer (because you hadn't made it past the welcome mat until this moment).

He grabs your ass harshly on the way, making you scuttle faster. You've barely made it to the bed before he pushes between your shoulder blades.

"Hands."

His voice has dropped significantly, much like your leggings as he rips them down, biting at the back of your thigh while he tugs the springy fabric off of just one foot. He just needs them to spread. You don't need to be free.

The tremble that wracks you is half-excitement, half-fear, and you are all for it.

He slides the head of his cock through your folds. No pressure to it, just a pull across your lips and clit like he's got all day to torturously pet you, to watch while you can't see, to stake ownership on your time as well as your body. Then he slowly works two fingers inside you, leaning across your back so his breath cascades across your flushed neck.

"Is this how you do it, huh? Work yourself open for me every night?" He feels how little resistance your sweet sex offers and adds a finger. "Toy or fingers, baby?"

Your brain is liquified goo electrified by his curling fingers.

"Not a talker," he tsks sadly, "but hopefully a screamer."

Hugh rolls his thumb in circles around your clit while his fingers pump. You can feel your walls tighten in anticipation, a tension wrapping around your insides powerfully fast.

"You don't mind taking me raw, do you, pretty thing?" His free hand comes up to stroke your cheek. "You want this slut cunt filled, don't you, baby."

Fuck his words send you right over the edge, and while you spasm in bliss, Hugh switches his fingers with his cock and thrusts deep inside you, growling at the feel of you sucking him in with different lips. Filth spews from his mouth, though you can't discern the words spoken into the shirt still on your back. He takes the chance to compose himself while you come down.

He leans back to stare at himself buried inside you, and without pulling back, his fingers trace where you're stretched around him.

"My sweet, little slut," he groans low, "sweet as I ever imagined."

The thought of him having wanted you, too, for any length of time before this moment, has you arching back against him. It makes his fingers dig against your ass, and Hugh is all too keen on continuing to soften his pretty whore in any way possible.

His palm comes down hard against the swell of your ass, sending you forward and back onto him. He doesn't even have to thrust. You do all the work, crack after crack against your jiggling flesh. He lets you know how much he likes that, you doing all the work, you breaking a sweat while he stands and watches you fuck yourself on him.

"That's it, baby. There're my screams."

As the drag of him edges you closer and closer to another orgasm, Hugh either takes pity on you or just gets impatient. Your rhythm falters.

"Such a hard worker," he chides. "Lay down for me, pretty whore, and I'll help you finish the job."

You whine when he pulls out cruelly slow. Your legs are so shaky, unsteady as set jello, that he has to help turn you, stripping off the rest of your clothes and his.

"Shh, baby, just a little more work and you can lay there like the dirty thing you are." He's kneeling and bent over you in one smooth motion, stiff cock pressed against your dripping slick, teasing a nipple in his mouth. "That's what you want, right? To be my pretty little cum dumpster."

You cry out as he ruts against you, so willing to do anything for this man to fuck you senseless. You're ninety percent there already.

"That's it--" he aligns himself and sinks back into your heat until fully sheathed "--desperate little whore wants to come, too, huh?" His excitement is fed by your endless whimpers and moans. Somehow the intense pumps into you and lewd slap of skin against skin feel nicer than you imagined. His attention is fixed on you, judging and full of awe all at once.

"Fuck me," you finally yell out, because if you don't put as much power behind the words as possible, you may die without the friction of his punishment. "Fuck me harder, please."

And your words fuel him just right. Hugh bites at your collarbone while his hips snap with bruising devastation and the head of him pounds at just the right spot within you. It's the perfect pain. It's the slap of climax that launches you into a song of scream, and that drags him over the edge with you.

His profanities don't slow with his thrusts though. Even as his body settles, his mouth moves faster.

"My fucking perfect, pretty little whore--ahh--tighter than a vice for me," he mumbles against your neck.

Then the unexpected happens.

Hugh's head lifts to yours, and he kisses you hungrily. After you've sucked his dick. After he's come inside you. After all the filthy things he's called you. Hugh tongue-fucks you like a needy teen. If you weren't delirious before, you are now.

While you two make out, he still rocks his hips against you, even as his erection fades and cum squelched out of you. It's filthily intimate, and you honestly don't know how to interpret it.

There's a want beyond sex that travels across your body with his hands until he grips your ass again, planting one last solid smack on you before breaking away with a gasp.

"Looks like you've got a lot to clean, baby. Better get to work."

So I've never really written anything kink before. No clue if this is good or bad, and I weirdly don't care (?) because at least the earworm is out now. Hopefully, someone else can enjoy this for what it is: completely unplanned, basically unedited filth. Sorry, not sorry. This counts as writing practice. I'm sure someone told me that once.

[marvel-snape-writes]

I watched Patrick Melrose for the first time a couple of weeks back and haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since, so I thought I’d do what I always do and jot down some drabble… enjoy 😶

Caution: 18+ smut & drug use

A Professional Addict.

The heroin had barely even made its way from the veins in his arm when his hands found her waist again, desperately pressing their lips together. The rush of their hips meeting hoped to disguise where he had been just moments before; locked in his bathroom with one of his syringes held between his teeth while he tied the makeshift tourniquet around his arm, desperately tapping the same vein with his fingers until he was happy enough that it would take the hit from the needle. He hoped that the skilful way he seduced her into his bed covered up the cravings slowly dispersing about his body like bursts of lightning. His vision was blurry as he remained on top of her, trying to focus on one spot so he wouldn’t lose his rhythm but refusing to make eye contact. The noises and words that left her lips beneath him all muffled into one. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. He repeated her words in his head as she desperately clutched onto his body. He was grateful for the way she was holding him; aware that his body was about to give way at any moment as the high from the drug threatened to consume him. He squeezed his eyes shut in fear of her noticing at a glance from how large his pupils were, driving his hips forward at her command. His face fell against her shoulder as he came hard — the woman’s hand raising to support his head as he grunted with each twitch. The following orgasm from her only extended his moans as she tightened her grip on his hair, arching her back a little as he clumsily nibbled at her neck — still out of breath.

He rolled onto his back with his body still dithery, hoping that she would just presume that the sweat still collecting on his forehead was only from just what had taken place. His heart was beating wildly, pulsating rushes continuing to take over him as he laid flat against the mattress. Even the light began to cause painful flashes from his eyes to his forehead, sending his senses into a bit of a stir as he laid there in silence. It suddenly occurred to him that he had done nothing to cover up the fact that his pupils may be his biggest giveaway. He attempted to lift his arm to reach for his sunglasses but it was no use; the vein within the crease of his elbow still throbbing from the desperate penetration of the needle earlier.

“Could you pass me my sunglasses, please?” He swallowed hard, hoping his words wouldn’t slur, “The light is giving me a headache.”

The woman arched a questionable brow. He seemed to have forgotten how well she knew him. Shit. Fuck. Mistake. Big fucking mistake.

“Patrick, are you…” She began before he cut her off;

“I’m not having this conversation now.” He sighed, snatching the sunglasses himself and wincing as he put them on.

She squinted her eyes and watched him closely, her lips parting in shock with a face full of disappointment as her eyes fell to the inflamed vein in the crease of his elbow again with a blown up bruise around it.

“Patrick—“

“I said I am not having this conversation right now.” He huffed, weakly reaching for his packet of cigarettes on his bedside table and narrowing his eyebrows as the pain tracked up his arm.

“Are you using again, Patrick?” She asked in a more firm tone this time, snatching the cigarettes from his pathetic grip.

“I want a cigarette!” He exclaimed, his clammy face growing red in anger as he reached his arm out.

“Tell me!” She shouted back, tightening her grip on the packet as he quickly tried to hide his arm under the covers.

“Oh, just give me a fucking cigarette!” He yelled, flaring his nostrils.

“I didn’t come here for this…” She shook her head and swung her legs out from the bed, dropping the cigarettes onto the mattress.

“N—No, no!” Patrick quickly turned to her, the high from the drug making all of his words come out at once in one jumbled flow, “No, please don’t go… don’t leave…” He swallowed hard, feeling his face burning up as he reached out a frail arm and weakly grasped onto her wrist as she attempted to stand up, shakily rubbing his fingertips down her forearm while it slipped from his loose grip as she stood, “Everyone always leaves.”

“Patrick…” She sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him and exhaled heavily, “When did you… I mean, I can’t believe I didn’t know you were…”

“In the bathroom just before we fucked.” Patrick shrugged making difficult work of lighting the cigarette now hanging between between his lips. He grumbled to himself as he tried several times to spark the lighter with his madly trembling hands, growing increasingly frustrated each time the spark went out before taking a long drag when it finally lit and holding his breath for a few long moments, tilting his head back and closing his eyes while exhaling the smoke.

“I can’t believe how well you hid it.” She sighed heavily, silently cursing herself for not knowing.

“I’m a professional addict.” Patrick responded against the cigarette while it hung between his lips.

“What was it, hm?” She looked over her shoulder, “Cocaine, too?”

“Are you fucking joking?” Patrick half laughed, “Cocaine was breakfast.”

“Of course it was…” She mumbled to herself, turning around and sitting up against the headboard next to Patrick again.

“You used to tell me I fucked you like an animal when I was high.” Patrick shrugged, sitting up a little further against the headboard.

“No, Patrick, you are not pinning this on a wild one night stand with me.” She shook her head, turning to him with a serious expression.

“Mhm, ‘wild’, you say?” He sniggered, speaking against the cigarette, “See, like I said. An animal.”

“You know what I mean, Patrick.” She spoke in a flat tone.

“Oh, absolutely,” Patrick nodded, “My cock really put the ‘blast’ in ‘blast from the past’ tonight, didn’t it?”

“Is it so outrageous for you to actually take something seriously?!” She snapped, turning to him, “Why are you doing this again?”

“Why not?” Patrick raised his eyebrows, coughing into his fist before taking another drag from the cigarette, “We used to fuck while we were higher than bloody kites.”

“And we promised each other that we would never do that again.” She gazed up at him.

“No,” Patrick shook his head, licking his dry lips and taking his sunglasses off. He stayed silent for a little while as the smoke passed through his lips, staring up at the ceiling for a few long moments as his arm throbbed; the once familiar pulsating comedown now spreading throughout his body as he spoke, “We used to pretend we’d never do it again.”

[morganaspendragonss]

with every heartbeat i have left

thanks to @aliceschuyler and @typicaltk for the beta!

title from light by sleeping at last

five times gwyn was there for tk when he was hurting, and one time she couldn't be

ao3 | 3.3k | hurt/comfort, references to addiction, references to parental death

i.

Her son is born in the middle of a snowy December afternoon a month before his due date. She was supposed to have an important meeting that day, but all her plans went out the window as her son made it clear that he wanted out, and he wanted out now.

Owen was in the middle of a double shift and not picking up his phone, and Gwyn had begun to do the one thing her meticulous birth plan was supposed to prevent—she panicked.

But life, as they say, finds a way, and soon enough Gwyn is holding a tiny, pink-skinned bundle in her arms, his lips parted adorably as he sleeps. Owen has gone out for some food, having not had a chance to eat at the firehouse, and she’s alone with Tyler. It’s the first truly quiet moment she feels like they’ve had since her water broke a few hours ago, and she just wants to savour it.

Then Tyler starts to cry.

His wails break Gwyn’s heart and she would do anything for them to stop. She would do anything for him, because he may only be a few hours old, but he’s already stamped himself firmly onto her heart.

She acts on instinct as she cradles him and rocks him, not even thinking about it as the words of the Elohai Neshama flow from her lips. Soon, Tyler’s cries die down into whimpers, which then die down into nothing as he blinks up at her, and suddenly it’s her own tears that Gwyn is fighting to stop.

“My sweet boy,” she whispers, ghosting her thumb over his soft cheek. “It’s okay. I’ll always be here for you.”

ii.

Owen’s gone again, as he has been every night this week, and Gwyn wants to scream as she has to cancel a business meeting for the second time. It’s not— She knows how badly Owen’s had it ever since the Towers and she’s done her best to support him, but he just keeps running, hiding himself in other people’s problems and other people’s families.

Maybe it makes her a bad person to resent him for it.

But Owen’s not the one trying to balance a law firm breathing down his neck, a grieving husband, a traumatised seven year old, and keeping his own grief and fear hidden so that said husband and child don’t notice.

Sometimes it feels like Owen’s not even trying.

Gwyn grits her teeth and balls her hands into fists on the counter. She can’t do this.

“Mom?”

She has to do this.

“Hi, honey,” she says, plastering on a smile as she turns to face her son. One of TK’s action figures is dangling from his hand and his brow is creased in a frown as he notices Owen’s absence, and all Gwyn wants to do is to smooth it away.

“Is Dad coming back for dinner?”

No seven year old should have to look so sad; she resents Owen for this, too. “No, it’s just going to be you and me tonight.”

“It’s like that every night.”

“He’ll—” Gwyn cuts herself off, the promise dying on her lips. She wants to tell TK that Owen will be here tomorrow, she wants to say that he’ll walk through the door any minute, that things will go back to the way they were before. But she can’t lie to her son.

Instead, she drops her mouth open in mock offence and puts her hands on her lips. “Is my company suddenly not good enough for you?”

TK giggles and shakes his head. There’s still a sadness in his gaze though, so Gwyn walks over and crouches to his level, stroking his cheek. There’s one thing that’s a guarantee to cheer her son up, and she’s pretty sure that she could do with it, too.

“How about Chinese?”

iii.

“Tyler Kennedy, you get back here right now!”

Her only answer is the slamming of TK’s bedroom door, hard enough to rattle the dishes in the kitchen. She has half a mind to go right in after him and continue the argument, but Gwyn is one of the best lawyers in New York for a reason; she knows doing that will come to nothing.

Besides, TK is her and Owen’s son. Backing down from a fight isn’t in their blood, and you don’t hope to put out a fire with more fire.

Instead, she makes a call to Spring Street, then settles in to finish the work she was doing before TK blew into the apartment like a storm. Not that she actually gets much done; she just ends up staring in the direction of TK’s room, chin in hand. This is the first time she’s seen him all week and Owen had warned her that he’d been moody, though he’d written it off as teenage angst.

Gwyn isn’t so sure.

She’s seen TK’s teenage angst—remembers it vividly, in fact—and this is different. This isn’t the TK who gets annoyed when he’s asked to tidy his room or the TK who swears he hates them for the divorce. It’s something else, but Gwyn can’t put her finger on what.

TK’s been different for a while now. Maybe it’s something she should have been expecting; he’s no longer the sweet boy she used to push on the swings and sing to sleep. He’s seventeen, growing up far too fast for Gwyn’s liking, and snapping at the heels of independence.

But Gwyn has to wonder what else he’s chasing down like his life depends on it.

The ringing of the doorbell startles her out of her thoughts. Food in hand, she approaches TK’s door and knocks gently.

“I come in peace,” she calls, though she receives no response. Figuring the absence of an outright rejection is enough, she pushes the door open and peeks inside. It’s dark, but she can just about make out TK’s figure curled up on the bed, back to the door, unmoving, but clearly not sleeping.

She takes a step further into the room and TK shifts.

“Are those spring rolls?”

Gwyn laughs and takes that as her invitation to move to the bed. She sits down and pats TK’s leg, setting the bag of takeout by her feet.

“They might be,” she says. “But if you want them, you’re going to have to talk to me first.”

TK snorts and rolls back away from her. “That doesn’t work on me anymore, Mom.”

“Mmm, sure. How about you get to pick the movie tomorrow?”

“Seriously?” The eye roll is audible, but there’s laughter in his tone, and Gwyn knows she’s winning him over. Eventually, TK sighs and pushes himself up so that he’s sitting cross-legged next to her, looking down at his lap. “Conor broke up with me.”

“Oh, honey.” Gwyn reaches up and runs her fingers through TK’s hair, and for once he doesn’t bat her away. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “You and Dad hated him; you’re probably jumping for joy right now.”

Gwyn arches a brow at him. “Do you see me jumping?”

And, okay, TK’s not entirely wrong. Gwyn doesn’t like Conor. He’s a couple years older than TK and she knows they’ve been out drinking together multiple times before. And that’s not… Gwyn knows that kids go out and get drunk. She did it when she was seventeen. It’s just, TK seems to worship the ground Conor walks on and she was worried about the path he was leading him down.

But he was also TK’s first serious relationship, and Gwyn’s son loves with all his heart.

“This isn’t about how I feel,” she says. “It’s about you, and how you don’t deserve to have your heart broken like that.”

TK sends her a wan smile and leans briefly into her touch. “Does this mean I can have the spring rolls now?”

Gwyn laughs and makes a show of handing the bag to him, shaking her head as he digs into the food with an almost inhuman eagerness.

She wishes all problems could be solved this easily.

iv.

Thirty days after leaving California, Gwyn steps off the plane again.

She’s not sure if she’s more or less nervous than the last time she was here; thirty days ago, she had still been reeling from finding TK in that place, and she’d only gotten through it by having a single-minded focus on getting him here. Now, she has to face up to the reality of her son, who has just been through withdrawal and rehab alone for an entire month.

For a moment, she feels like a bad mother for it, for leaving him in another state, surrounded by strangers. But the memory of kneeling on a dirty floor, trying desperately to rouse him, to keep him with her, is still too raw, and Gwyn knows she made the only choice she could.

No; she’s not a bad mother for bringing TK to California.

But maybe she is for the rest of it.

Because addiction doesn’t start with the hard stuff, does it? Or, at least, that’s what she’s read. She’s been reading a lot lately, about…well, about everything she can think of, really, anything that she thinks might help her understand her son and how they managed to get to this point.

It’s helped, and it hasn’t.

Mostly, it just makes her sad.

When she sees TK for the first time in thirty days, Gwyn has to hold back her tears just like she did in the airport before he left. He looks… He’s still thin, still pale, still obviously not 100%, but he’s better.

He looks, almost, like her son again. There’s a light in his eyes that she’s been missing for so long and the smile that appears when he spots her is blinding compared to the attempts from the past few months.

Gwyn’s no fool; she knows there’s still a very long road ahead of them. She knows this addiction is something TK will be dealing with for the rest of his life, and she knows there will probably be setbacks and speed bumps along the way.

But she finally feels like she’s getting her boy back, or at least starting to.

TK seems happy all the way up to check-in at the airport, when he suddenly freezes up and starts chewing on his lip, an anxious habit he’s had ever since he was a toddler.

“TK?” she asks, placing a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” TK blinks rapidly, then meets her gaze, and Gwyn is shocked to see the panic in his eyes. “Mom, I can’t go back.”

She frowns at him, wondering if this is some kind of messed up joke, but the look on TK’s face is very, very real. And that… Well, Gwyn had expected the fight to get TK here, but she hadn’t expected one coming back.

“What do you mean?”

TK shifts on his feet, tugging at his shirt sleeves. “I can’t go back,” he repeats. “The guys…everyone at work… They all know now, right? They all know that I’m…that I… I can’t go back.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Gwyn doesn’t have the heart to tell him that they already knew. TK may not have missed any shifts or turned up late, but the evidence of his addiction had been painted all over his body; she knows this because she’d talked to them before she went out to find TK in Queens.

Knowing this will only make TK feel worse though, which is something Gwyn has to avoid at all costs.

“They do,” she says, because that, at least, can’t be hidden. “But it’s going to be okay. You know them; you know they’ll support you.”

TK shakes his head violently. “They’ll never trust me again.”

“Of course they will.”

“No! Some of them already think I only have my job because of Dad, what do you think will happen now that I’m an addict too? They won’t trust me or him. Mom, I—I have to be a firefighter, it’s all I have.” TK’s voice cracks, and even though he’s long since beaten her in height, all Gwyn wants to do is hold him like she used to when he was little.

She sees so much of Owen in this boy, and it frightens her.

“TK, listen to me,” she says firmly, putting a hand on his cheek. “You are so much more than that. You are more than an addict, and you are more than a firefighter, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Besides, all you need to worry about is healing. I spoke to your dad, he says that the department has suspended you for right now anyway.”

“Suspended?” TK’s eyes widen in anguish and he looks at her pleadingly. “For how long?”

Gwyn shakes her head. “I don’t know. Honey, I know you didn’t mean it—everyone knows you didn’t mean it—but doing what you did put people in danger. They had to suspend you. Listen, going to rehab voluntarily will have helped your case, and this time, so will going along with what they want and not fighting it. You’ll get your job back, but you have to show them you’re better first. Okay?”

TK looks down at the ground and his throat bobs as they stand in silence for a moment. But, eventually, he nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She smiles at him. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

She can tell by the look on TK’s face that he doesn’t believe her.

But that’s alright, because Gwyn believes enough for the both of them.

v.

“How are you really doing, TK?”

TK has always been Gwyn’s miracle. No matter what life has thrown at him, he’s always managed to get back on his feet, and the fact that she’s even looking at him right now is proof of that.

It’s a surreal feeling, to know that her son was on the brink of death while she was just living her life.

She’d seen the ice storm on the news and she’d managed a conversation with TK before all the cell towers went down. He’d sounded okay then, happy, even, though Gwyn had been able to detect the sadness underneath it all.

Not that it had been difficult; a broken heart is the one hurt TK has never been able to hide.

So she hadn’t found out about TK’s accident until afterwards: after the snow had melted and service came back; after he’d had one foot in the grave and yet still managed to haul himself out.

Looking at him now, Gwyn finds it hard to believe that, not too long ago, everyone in this room had believed he was going to die.

But there are traces.

It’s in the way TK’s hands sometimes shake, the way he’s a little bit winded when he hands Jonah back to her.

It’s in the way Carlos has practically been glued to his side all day and how he’d fussed more than usual to make sure TK was okay.

It’s in the words Tommy had said when Gwyn had asked her to tell her everything Owen hadn’t.

Above all, though, it’s in the way Gwyn looks at TK, and sees a different person.

“I’m okay,” he says softly, smiling gently at her. “I’m…better.”

“Considering you were in a hospital bed a few weeks ago, you’ll forgive me if I ask for more details.” Her tone is dry, but the sentiment is very real; she can’t quite get past the fact that she was on the verge of losing her son.

TK chuckles, but he sobers quickly, glancing around the firehouse like he can’t believe he’s here either. “I am okay, Mom,” he promises, then hesitates and sighs. When he speaks again, he’s much quieter, much more subdued. “But this time really scared me.”

The fact that there’s other times to compare it to is heart-breaking in itself, but Gwyn keeps smiling, waiting for TK to continue.

“It wasn’t… I wasn’t scared at the time. I don’t really remember much about the accident, and then when I was in the coma… The truth is, I was ready. I didn’t want to die, but I kind of felt like I didn’t have a whole lot to come back to either, not with Carlos and the 126 and Dad all gone. And, you know, I was in this dream, and for a while it was so good—it was perfect—and I didn’t really want to leave.”

Gwyn swallows down the tears building in her throat and asks, “What changed your mind?”

TK’s eyes seek Carlos out in the crowd and he smiles softly, as he always does when he looks at him. “Some of it was Carlos. I could hear him talking to me, and knowing that he was there even though I broke his heart gave me hope, I guess. And, if nothing else, I knew I needed to apologise so we could both have a shot at closure.”

Then TK turns and his eyes meet Gwyn’s with a shocking intensity. “But a lot of it was you.”

She blinks. “What?”

“You were with me in the dream,” he clarifies, smiling almost wistfully. “We were making cookies.”

Gwyn smiles back. “We should do that for real sometime.”

“Yeah,” TK agrees. “Anyway, you kept telling me to fight and to stop dying, and you were the one who pushed me to wake up. I… I don’t know if I would have if you hadn’t been there. You saved me, Mom.”

TK’s eyes are tearing up, Gwyn’s too, and she immediately lunges forward to pull him into a hug. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispers, holding on tight. “I always will. I’ll always be here for you.”

+1.

There are flowers on the sidewalk where it happened. They’re old, the petals starting to fall off, and pretty soon they’ll be cleaned away.

And that’ll be it.

There’ll be nothing more to say that a woman died on this corner, that this is where two boys lost their mother and two men lost their love. The blood has been cleaned up, the flowers are starting to turn grey, and even as TK stands here, cyclists are zipping past him, none of them any the wiser.

He doesn’t know why he’s here. He guesses… He just needed to see it. The place where Gwyneth Morgan lost her life.

“Do you think she could have saved herself?”

Carlos, who has been holding TK’s hand tight as silent support, turns to look at him, his brow raised in questioning.

TK shrugs and sighs. “She was able to push Jonah out the way. Maybe she could have saved herself. And I don’t—” He stops and takes a breath, blinking against the sudden tears. “I don’t blame her for doing what she did. I’m really glad Jonah is okay. I just can’t stop wondering.”

Carlos squeezes his hand and tugs him closer. “I guess she had to make a choice.”

“But what if she didn’t?” TK persists, turning his body towards his boyfriend. “What if she only thought she did? What if—”

“Babe.” Carlos cups TK’s face with his free hand, meeting his gaze. “You and I both know that you’ll drive yourself crazy thinking about the what ifs. Your mom did the only thing she could think to do, and we just need to accept that what happened, happened. I know it’s hard.” He pulls TK into his chest and TK buries his nose in the lapel of Carlos’s coat as the tears start to flow. “I know it’s hard. But you’ll be okay, I promise.”

TK sobs. “I just want to talk to her.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.”

“I know. But, hey”—Carlos pulls away and swipes his thumbs under TK’s eyes—“I’m going to be right here with you every step of the way. I promise.”

In the wake of everything, it’s a promise Carlos probably shouldn’t make. It’s certainly a promise TK shouldn’t believe in.

But if there’s been one solid thing in TK’s life lately, it’s Carlos.

So TK takes that promise, and he holds onto it with all he has.

[saladbroth]

ok for the one sentence story starter thingymathing

"shopping is what I call my number one hobby"

ceejie!! thank you so much for this, this whole thing got away from me, like, massively askdshfg i honestly have no idea what happened but i hope you like it!!

(send me a first sentence and i'll write a short fic for it :)) )

“Shopping is what I call my number one hobby,” Reggie says and smiles proudly. Alex sighs behind him. “It’s really not.”

Willie looks between the both of them with an amused smile and Reggie’s standing close enough to hear Alex’s breath hitch just the tiniest bit. He’s pathetic, really and Reggie would make fun of him if the two of them weren’t in basically the exact same situation.

“You don’t know that,” Reggie protests, turning around to Alex who shoots him an incredulous look. Reggie knows what he just said is a bit dumb, but in all fairness he can’t really think all that reasonably anyways, and especially not when it’s nearing one in the morning and they’ve both had a fair amount to drink.

“Yes I do,” Alex protests. “We’re literally best friends, you idiot. We’re in a band. You hate shopping.”

“Yeah but he doesn’t know that,” Reggie hisses back, then turns to Willie who looks like he’s holding back laughter. “Well now he does.”

Willie does. “Now he does indeed, but I already knew that before you guys said anything. Hobby shoppers are usually coupon addicts as well, and I’ve never seen either of you with one.”

Reggie regards him for a moment, then nods. “I didn’t even know there was something like a coupon addict.”

“They’re awful,” a voice behind them says and Reggie whirls around fast enough to lose his balance. Alex, the asshole, doesn’t make any move to catch him but Bobby does, steadying him with a hand on his arm. Reggie doesn’t even have it in him to glare at Alex, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Thing is, both him and Alex may have tiny crushes on the employees of their local non-chain grocery store. Maybe not so tiny crushes considering they come here basically every day and they decided to come here after getting drunk with Luke. And considering they know both their names and they both know their names back.

But it really isn’t Reggie’s fault that Bobby is tall and broad and has super pretty hair and eyes and a nice smile and a deep voice and good humour and that they talk to Reggie because this store is somehow always empty when Reggie comes in.

Plus, it’s totally understandable that Alex can’t take his eyes off Willie because Willie is pretty with the long hair and bright smile, and also they ran Alex over with a shopping cart train in the parking lot once, which basically made Alex fall in love, heaven knows why.

So yeah. Really it’s the store’s fault for hiring insanely attractive people who are down to talk to customers on late night shifts.

Reggie clears his throat. “They are?”

Bobby nods, keeping his hand on Reggie’s arm. “They buy a fuckton of product which normally would be good because we’d make big profit but then they pull out their coupons and it always takes ages to process them and they have so much stuff that usually it’s at least one hour until we’re done.”

“And they’re all incredibly entitled,” Willie adds. “Last week one of our regular couponers had some that were expired and we’re not allowed to apply these codes and she threw a fit because she had to pay thirty dollars instead of fifteen.”

“Ew.” Alex pulls a face, and Reggie nods in agreement. Willie laughs and Reggie would make fun of Alex for his face going red immediately if Bobby didn’t chuckle next to him. Because damn, he knows he’s not sober and that magnifies the effect but Bobby’s laugh really is something else.

“God, I hate customers,” Bobby mumbles and Willie agrees. “They’re awful.”

The two of them must notice the deer in the headlights look Alex and Reggie share because Willie immediately rushes to add on. “Not you guys though, you’re pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” Bobby agrees. “You don’t complain and you look at signs yourself instead of asking where the cereal is when it literally says that on the fucking aisle.”

Reggie grins. They come here a lot, they do, but Alex and him have never attempted to talk to Willie or Bobby via feigning to neep help because Alex’s anxiety is too bad for that and Reggie feels bad for it. They just sort of looked at other stuff to start conversations over.

He’s trying to forget the one time he asked Bobby if they come here often, but to be fair Bobby’d worn a tight long sleeved shirt and Reggie’s had a crush on Luke and his arms a few years ago for a reason.

Alex cards a hand through his hair then looks around and sighs. “I forgot what we were here for.”

“Water!” Reggie exclaims. “We wanted water and then you wanted to get ice cream or something for dinner.”

“Ice cream is not dinner,” Bobby says. “And it’s almost two in the morning.”

“Dinner is a state of mind,” Reggie says and Alex nods wisely. “We regularly have ice cream dinners. Or microwave popcorn. It’s hard to have real food when your idiot bandmate makes you practice until the middle of the night and then immediately passes out so you can’t cook.”

Reggie nods and turns to look at Bobby’s who’s got a worried crease between his brows now. “You should come to our next gig, I promise we’re really good.”

“You too,” Alex follows up, leaning closer to Willie. “If you want to, of course. Only then. Sorry, this is probably really unprofessional and you shouldn’t date- I mean go on a date with customers. Not that it’s a date if you don’t want it to be, but if you do but-”

“I’d love to,” Willie interrupts with one of their bright smiles which shuts Alex up immediately.

“This isn’t some agency, we can date customers all we like,” Bobby says at the same time and Reggie nearly chokes on his own spit. “What?”

Bobby looks sheepish all of a sudden and Reggie’s not sure if he’s imagining it or if they’re actually blushing a little. “I mean, if you’d like that to be a date I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Holy shit.” Reggie says. “Yeah, of course.”

Bobby smiles and squeezes Reggie’s arm a bit. He shares a wide eyed look with Alex, because really, neither of them expected at all that the night would go like this. Willie pushes a bit of hair out of their face.

“Just remind us to take you guys out for proper dinner at some point.”

[iscribble]

pairing | lee donghyuck x reader genre(s) | fluff, suggestive, established relationship, a little friends to lovers (because that’s how it all started) word count | 4.2k summary | though subtle and often overlooked, lee donghyuck implicitly promises you that the little things he says (and the little things he does) are never void of love. 

or,

you are his addiction and loving you might be, scratch that, is his newest. author’s note | i really wanted to work on this more but i have one final exam left and so i had no choice but to rush this. (also, im starting to think that i made this fic as an excuse to write all kinds of scenarios for haechan. like literally, it’s just so many things in one really short fic. i apologise.)

a reward for the victorious.

“You’re going down Mark Lee!”

Lee Donghyuck is ecstatic.

A knowing smile eases into your lips, the reason being the very boy who sits slanted in his desk chair, eyes trained on the same video game he’s been playing for days. You can hear the cavils that spew out of his red headset, but you can only see the rumpled strands of his ash brown hair (your boyfriend musses them too much when he gets frustrated). You hear the generous smile in his voice slowly turning into a deep, hearty cackle as he nears his victory. Lee Donghyuck can sit there laughing his head off at the most trivial things but he’ll still make you the happiest person on earth. You sigh at the thought.

Donghyuck abruptly stands the same time you hear Mark’s defeated screech. His hands are in the air, balled into fists as he stares at his screen for a little more to drink in the big letters that indicate his win. You can’t see it but you know there’s a magnified grin on his face. A silent chuckle falls from your lips as he disregards his headset on his shoulders. He turns around to meet your form, blanket pulled up to your waist and a pillow cushioning your back. He brings the microphone to his lips, letting Mark know he’s done for the day. 

It’s only 10 p.m., he never finishes this early.

“Are you that sleepy?” You ask as he pulls you closer to him, legs tangled in yours and his arms around your waist. You stay upright against the headboard but you let him snuggle you, his brown locks tickling the exposed skin of your stomach.

“No,” he replies, looking up at you. “I just miss you a lot.”

“We’ve been together the whole day, Hyuck.”

“I know,” he tugs himself up and shifts behind you so you’d lay on his chest. “You’re just rarely awake whenever I win and this time you are, figured I would reward myself.” 

“That’s because you take so long to win against Chenle,” you huff, pretending to be upset about it. “You’re lucky it’s Mark you’re against today.”

Donghyuck’s cheeks flush at your remark but his hold on you only fastens. “That’s not true!” He whines into your shoulder.

You turn around to face him, fingers immediately reaching around his nape to play with his hair. “Well then,” you tilt your head. “Here’s your reward.” You kiss him sleepily, but enough to make his heart race. Donghyuck leans forward and deepens the kiss until you’re laying on the soft covers and he’s hovering over you.

“You make me so happy,” he smiles, inches away from you.

“More than winning against the boys?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” he playfully slaps your side. You poke your tongue out and he melts at the sight. “But yeah, more than winning against the boys.”

troubling nights.

“What’s wrong?” Your touch flutters above his wrist, careful not to startle him. The room is unlit, but you can make out the apprehensive look on his face and the vulnerability in his gaze. He zeroes in on the shadows that hang above your figures, eyes remain restless as they wander around the colourless expanse.

Donghyuck doesn’t reply much, breathing out a subdued whisper of your name. Your ears perk up at the fragility in his voice and you prop yourself up on one elbow beside him. He still doesn’t look at you but you let him be.

“I’m right here,” you like to pinch the glowing apples of his cheeks whenever he smiles, but this time they’re unfortunately level as he knits his brows. Though, when his eyes find yours, the creases across his forehead slacken. 

“I don’t wanna lose you.” It seems as though it’s obvious with the way he treats you whenever you’re around, but Donghyuck never thinks it is. There are times when you notice he’s deep in thought, and you wonder if this is what’s on his mind every time you catch him absentmindedly biting his nails or when he looks like he’s ambling through his thoughts even when he’s just lolling on the sofa. 

“What makes you think you’re gonna lose me?”

“I just,” he heaves a breathy sigh. Your eyes never leave his. “What if one day I wake up and you’re not next to me? What if.. what if you leave me for someone else? Someone way better than me?”

“I’ve never heard such nonsense from you.” You lay beside him with a dramatic plop. A smile graces your features like you haven’t just talked about the thought that’s been bothering him all night.

“Why are you smiling?” He notes your expression, yet a smile is slowly creeping across his face too.

“I just know that’s never gonna happen,” you tell him as your fingers tighten around his slender ones. “So I’m able to smile like this.”

Donghyuck traces the curve of your lips with his free hand. You turn to face him at the gesture, the solemn lineaments you hate to see now erased, like it’s never been there in the first place. 

“You’re pretty when you smile.” Your boyfriend mutters, returning his gaze to your eyes. 

“When I don’t?”

He pretends to think, head propped on his hand. “You still do, but you look like you’re gonna punch me or something.”

Before you can react to his words, he slips the hand that you’re holding out of your snug fingers and crosses both of his arms in front of him as though he’s shielding himself from you. You recognise the defensive pose—you’re so used to throwing pillows at him.

“Lee Donghyuck!” Incredulity crosses your face. “Honestly though, that’s what Renjun said to me the other day.” You would’ve gone with the habitual way of “taming” him if it wasn’t for Donghyuck’s quick reflex as he yanks the pillow in your deathly grip out of your hands.

“Only I’m allowed to say that about you!”

Donghyuck forgets about the particular reason he can’t sleep when you magically replace his thoughts with a charm of your own, a magnetism only you have that brings him falling harder for you. He figures he doesn’t have to worry when all he sees is reassurance in your smile that always seems to grow for him.

fogged minds and hooded eyes.

“Baby,” the lazy ring to his voice has you looking up from your phone, your eyes connected to Donghyuck’s sensual attention. 

You return to the small screen in front of you, trying to dismiss whatever conjecture you have from the sight of his darkened eyes, even when his cold feet manage to rub lightly against your toes from the opposite side of the couch. “What’s up, baby,” you croon, ignoring Donghyuck’s restive eyes.

“Come here,” he sings, his desire for you growing but even then he remains in his position. When you only smile in return, he whines. “Baby come here.”

You observe him out of the corner of your eye. You don’t see him in this state often, slouched without his phone or anything that links him to his friends or the video game he prizes so dearly. Donghyuck’s only ever been this touchy after winning a game against one of the boys, or, when he’s horny.

You click your tongue, throwing your head back as your try to laugh the situation off.

“Do you know what you do to me?” The tone of his voice lowers.

“No, I don’t,” you hold back a giggle. “What do I do to you baby?” You toss your phone on the coffee table—teasing Donghyuck seems more amusing right now.

Your boyfriend thrusts his tongue into his cheek. He doesn’t believe you’re teasing him with the biggest half-moon on your face.

He gets up to walk towards where you’re sitting, his eyes tainted with lust. A mischievous grin replaces your previously huge smile as you look up at him from the couch, not wanting to break eye contact. When he lowers himself, knees on either side of you, you can smell the shampoo he’s been using—a fusion of citrus and apples which makes you succumb to his touch almost immediately, if not for the sudden realisation that you’re giving in too quickly.

Strands of his hair hang loose and cover his vision, but he is able to make out small details of your face just fine. You suppress an excited smirk the more he lowers himself towards you. “This,” Donghyuck says, as his body slowly steadies on top of yours, the feeling of his erection now prominent. “Is what you do to me baby.” Before you can say anything he aims for the delicate expanse of your neck, greedy and impatient. You angle your head in a way that grants him easier access to your skin, now littered with unchaste bruises. A fluid sigh escapes your lips as he kisses your jaw, not a single dry spot along the intricate curve. As soon as he’s quenched his thirst for your bare skin, he tugs you up so that you’re now sitting on his lap, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. You push away the strands that cover his eyes, and though it might seem like he’s given up treating his hair from how long it’s become, you don’t plan to cut it any time soon.

You only stare at each other for a few seconds, a mysterious twinkle in his irises and your teasing smile no longer apparent.

“Kiss me baby,” Donghyuck breathes out, the raspiness of his voice and the feeling of his hands moving up and down your sides give you barely any time to think. The space between your lips dwindles to nothing as you comply and kiss him with fervour.

Lee Donghyuck is eager—he does not let you breathe even when he takes your breath away. He holds you like he’s on the verge of losing you, but also as if you’re brittle and may break into pieces. Donghyuck kisses you with hunger, devours you with greed, revels in the taste of you. Your kiss is messy and sinful, but when it’s Donghyuck, there is always an inkling of sweetness.

“You,” he utters as he pulls away, but takes no time in closing the gap once more. “Are,” another amorous kiss. “So,” and another. “Fucking,” and another. “Beautiful.”

Now he is kind enough to let you breathe, because had it been any other night when you’re not idly passing time on the couch, Donghyuck would’ve had absolutely no second thoughts in sparing you any mercy.  

“What should we do about this?” You follow his line of vision as it slowly approaches the tenting in his pants. You roll your eyes but a pang of realisation hits you as his grip on your hand tightens with every step he takes toward your shared bedroom. 

You could say you spoke too soon. It was brave of you to assume that this night isn’t going to be that kind of night.

lee donghyuck is quite literally drunk in love.

This is the fourth time you’ve seen Donghyuck haul himself up the kitchen island, knocking down several red solo cups and staring at the ooze of pink liquid—one you can only assume as fruit punch—down the chamfered edge of the marble worktop. 

You painfully watch the people in his vicinity encourage his pretend concert and join in on his off-key singing. You feel a nudge on your arm, and you turn around to see Jisung with a perky grin plastered on his face.

“So that’s your boyfriend huh?” He retorts jokingly while juggling two cups of fruit punch. He takes a seat beside you.

A chuckle collapses from your lips. You take one cup from his hand. “Think it’s time he tones it down?”

Jisung only shrugs, a look of admiration on his face as he looks at your boyfriend. “He’s living in the moment,” he says after chugging down his drink and sighing in content. “But he probably won’t remember tonight.” 

You take that as a reminder of how drunk he is and waste no time in approaching the herd of dancing bodies.

“Hey, hey, you, on the table,”  you snap your fingers at him, “come, you’re done.” 

“Baby!” He slurs, evidently drunk. “The fun’s only just begun!” Donghyuck bends down to pull you up with him but you are able to reach his arm faster and tug him down. Donghyuck reluctantly groans but does not resist.

The absence of warmth as you step out the house almost compares to the feeling of sticking your whole body inside a freezer. The numbing effect threatens to conquer your senses but the change of scenery makes up for it. Relieved of all the bodies mingling together like you’re inside a pack of gummy bears, you help your boyfriend into the passenger seat of his car because there’s no way he would be driving like this. 

You decide that the ride home shouldn’t be this quiet, with only the drone of the engine fending off the chance of a silent ride back. You turn the radio on, switching through channels until you settle on one that currently blasts Amy Winehouse’s Valerie. Adjusting the cold button, you turn the volume up until the reminiscent song counterbalances the sound of his car.

Though, almost immediately, Donghyuck brings his hand up to cover yours as he slowly turns the control to the left until the rough hums of the engine enter your ears again.

You raise an eyebrow, letting him lace your fingers together. “Sure don’t want any music after the quote unquote concert you threw?”

Donghyuck only sighs. A smile blooms on the attractive canvas before you. “You’re pretty.” He looks at you dreamily. 

You’re still not used to the little compliments he’d throw no matter how much he says it, no matter how much it sounds like that’s the easiest thing to say. 

“You’re drunk.” You roll your eyes and bring a hand up to turn the volume on. “Plus, you say that all the time Hyuck.” 

“And I mean it every single time.”

Donghyuck’s eyelids grow heavy and his words become more garbled the more he tries to talk with you. His left hand takes comfort in your right as you drive him back, and once in a while you feel him squeeze, a faint smile apparent on his lips. 

Even when he’s drunk, he’s still so in love with you. 

jealousy almost gets the better of him.

The air is stiff as the pendant lights in your kitchen go on with a click but you abstain from soothing the swelling tension, instead opting for little refreshment in the fridge. You are, to say the least, drained of all vitality—a wedding reception that goes on for six hours is sure to bereft you of all energy, especially when you spend most of the night dancing, and to Donghyuck’s dismay, rather closely to an old friend, Jeno. 

It is not to your surprise that he broaches the subject once it is only the two of you, though you really are scarce of any strength to argue. 

“He looked more like your boyfriend than me.” Donghyuck advances, tone a little harsh.

You push your hair back and keep your hand on your brow as it creases, partly from enervation but mostly from annoyance.

“Hyuck,” you set the small carton of banana milk on the countertop. When your eyes trail to Donghyuck, he’s already looking at you from across the table, his usual sunny profile out of sight. His blazer is set aside on the couch, donning only a tight button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. “You know he’s a childhood friend and we haven’t seen each other for ages, can you blame me for wanting to spend some time with him?”

Donghyuck closes his eyes, patently from ire, but deep down he knows it’s irrational. Still, his ego is a big part of him and he doesn’t want to acquiesce. “Then why didn’t you ask him to be your date for the wedding instead?” 

“Because I actually have a boyfriend.” You state the obvious, walking towards your room, the sound of your footsteps growing faint. Donghyuck follows behind you. “You’re being unreasonable, let’s not argue over something this childish. It’s not like I completely deserted you back there.” 

“But you’re practically all over him!”

“He has a girlfriend, Hyuck,” you strip off your obsidian-coloured velvet silk dress, your bare back exposed to Donghyuck’s sight. “But that’s not even the point. Girlfriend or not, you really shouldn’t be jealous.” 

After putting on one of his big t-shirts, you scramble to bed, not bothering to wipe off your makeup. Although Donghyuck is still a little furious, he softens at his favourite sight —you in one of his things. 

“What are you doing?” You are about to pull the blankets up to your chin but stop halfway when the question arises. 

“Sleeping?” You answer, muddled at his attitude. “Are we gonna argue about this too?”

Donghyuck does not reply, instead he leaves for the bathroom. You are visibly confused but are too tired to even think of a reason for his behaviour. 

Out of the blue, you feel a gentle, wet stroke on your cheek. Not too harsh but enough to bring you to your senses.

“What are you doing?”

Donghyuck sits on the edge of your bed, a pack of cotton pads on his lap and a hand outstretched to remove traces of makeup on your face. 

“You say the universe hates you because you always wake up to a new set of acnes, yet here you are sleeping with your makeup on,” he says rather sullenly, though you find it cute.

You unwittingly release a snort and Donghyuck glares at you. He forces your eyes shut as he erases blue powder off the stretch of your heavy lids. You hum quite drowsily, fingers immediately reaching for Donghyuck’s free hand.

“I need this for the thing,” he mumbles as he nods toward the bottle of acetone. You arch an eyebrow. Donghyuck thinks he’s being discreet about it, but you do notice that he’s still jealous and is letting you know in the subtlest ways. 

You retract your hand, figuring that he does need his other hand to clean your makeup anyway. Donghyuck feels your tentative motion and silently draws your hand back to his. His eyes don’t leave your cheek although you know it's because he’s too afraid to look into your eyes. A timid smile plays on your lips while Donghyuck’s thins, concealing every inch of guilt he has. 

You suppose you’re alright like this—he’s cute when he’s jealous.

Everything has a start.

Before the matching carmine crochet socks, diamond kites that rove about the clouds on a breezy afternoon, blueberry pomegranate popsicles that paint your lips an old mauve, the littered kisses on your neck, the soft snores that meld in the air, before all the lazy, lingering mornings safe in each other's arms—Donghyuck confesses that he likes you.

Maybe not intentionally, but his friends tell him it’s overdue anyway. 

He plays an upbeat song on his guitar as if it’s heartbreaking and dramatic, a summery ditty like it’s a sad ballad. The lyrics that leave him are unhurried, falling into the cadence he purposely alters with the slightest, devilish smile playing about his lips and theatrical expressions that are impossible to ignore. His playful eyes only leave the strings to look at you—to laugh at you.

“What’s so funny!” You cry out rather than ask. An exaggerated frown lingers on your face, unimpressed by the absolute foolery across you. Donghyuck can be a little annoying, especially when he’s turning your favourite song into a funny-sounding (but not actually funny) ballad. 

“What’s with your face?” He pauses to wipe a minute tear, attestation to how all out he’s been laughing. 

You throw your head back with a pronounced groan, though a sheepish smile quickly replaces your sullen countenance. “Stop,” you throw a pillow at him, running out of options to silence the boy whose guitar now lies on the cotton rug. “It’s not funny.” Donghyuck’s hearty laughs slowly recede but he’s being painfully obvious on stifling a giggle.  

“God, I love you.”

You don’t remember hearing “God, I love you.” in your favourite song.

Donghyuck realises what he’s done. The words sound artless, and he knows this: there is no room for denying when he doesn’t even have to think—when all of it happens like a subconscious addiction. Because it really is. He would repeat the words like he’s memorising, but he doesn’t need to when he knows it. They recur in his head so many times until they’re spilling out of his lips. 

You are his addiction and loving you might be his newest.

But you are immaculately dense, another foible Donghyuck once teased you for when everyone’s patently orchestrating a surprise birthday party for you and you still fail to notice. You are especially gullible this time for two reasons: one, you’re trying to ignore the fact that you do like him, because two, he can never feel the same way about you. 

In all honesty, having Donghyuck as your boyfriend sure does sound tempting.

“You messed up the lyrics,” you say, bewildered (but more bewildered at yourself for saying this). “There’s no ‘God, I love you’ in there.” 

The boy across you only blinks. He’s become uncharacteristically quiet.

“I know,” Donghyuck clears his throat. “It’s not part of the song.”

“So as a friend then?” You now sit upright with your arm thrown across the back pillows.

“Huh?”

“You said you love me?”

Despite his trembling hands, Donghyuck nods casually.

“As a friend though, right?”

The sound of his heel accidentally thumping his guitar jolts you out of your perplexity. Your friend curses under his breath, clearly uneasy.

“Fuck, no,” he avoids eye contact, choosing to sneak a look at the broken filament light bulb on the ceiling. “I actually, actually love you. More than a friend.”

You shift in your place, now facing the lurid letters on the spine of your book that read How to Find Love 101—considering the situation you probably won’t need it anymore. You almost snicker at yourself.

In the short-lived seconds you are bold enough to look at him, Donghyuck seems like a burden’s been lifted off his shoulders.

“I think,” you start, playing with the hem of your sleeves. “I think I might be in love with you too.” You try to smother the smile that’s begging to manifest but give in when you turn to your right and see Donghyuck riveting his eyes on you with the biggest grin.

“Are you serious?” He asks, picking up a throw pillow in his way and slowly scooting closer to you.

You’re not sure how to react to the sudden proximity but Donghyuck assumes you are serious about your feelings for him as evinced in the shy curvature of your lips. So he really doesn’t wait for an answer before he starts taking your hands in his, prompting you to face him and leave the poor hardback you’ve been staring daggers at alone. 

“So this is what it’s like to have you accepting my confession,” He whispers somewhat to himself. “I’ve planned out scenarios in my head of how I was going to confess to you, I never thought it’d turn out this way.” 

“After you practically ruined my favourite song.”

“After I practically ruined your favourite song.” He laughs freely, still finding the situation quite funny. Even so you couldn’t be happier, being with him now that you know he’s your lover feels like you’ve finally found your safe haven. 

You look down at your hands that are intertwined on his lap, the sweet significance that you belong to each other. He lets go of your hand to tilt your chin up with his forefinger and lace them back together. “I promise to make you the happiest person in the world.” 

And Lee Donghyuck is a man of his word.

Donghyuck would tell you that you make him the happiest even when all you do is sing out of tune. He would steal kisses when you’re not looking and slip in compliments between them because he loves catching you off guard. He would give up any day (even spending time with the guys) just to be in your arms, his favourite place. Even when he’s upset, you could see that he tries to not let it overpower him. When he’s utterly jealous and almost loses it, he still treats you like a princess and sometimes you think you don’t deserve him. On the nights he’s terrified that you might leave him, you make him forget why he ever was in the first place and he loves you for that. At the end of the day, when your bodies are connected, moving as one through the whispers of wind, he knows he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—dare imagine a world without you. 

So the little things he says to you and the little things he does, Donghyuck promises that they’re never empty of love. 

You (and loving you) are his addiction and it will stay that way, perhaps, forever.

[spencers-renaissance]

storm-darkened or starry bright

Summary: Spencer contracts HIV. It all falls apart after that.

Tags: angst, illness, hurt!spencer, hurt/comfort, worried derek, depression, mutual pining, getting together, angst w a happy ending

TW: vomit, implied/referenced sex and addiction, disordered thinking, depression as a result of medical diagnosis

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 6.5k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

(I've tagged my usual moreid taglist in this fic, but I won't be offended at all if this is too heavy for you!)

Title from "Where All My Books Go" - W.B. Yeats.

Originally inspired by J_Ballinger's Swift, Fierce & Obscene which is just a brilliant piece of art.

you said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud — richard siken, litany in which certain things are crossed out

It starts with the flu.

He calls into work sick and he makes himself comfortable in bed, preparing to ride it out. It is the middle of January after all, and their last case saw them in Ann Arbor, shivering their way through each crime scene and a police station with abysmal heating.

His lymph nodes are swollen, and he’s running a moderate fever — 102 the last time he checked — and the cough he’s had for a couple of days is definitely getting nastier, but he uses the time to catch up on the documentaries he’s had stored on his DVR for the past couple of months. He tries to see it as a positive: he never gets time to rest like this. Warm soup, chamomile tea, and some Nyquil should be the end of it.

He makes the most of it. He gets better. He goes back to work, and life goes on.

“It’s not like you to get sick, Reid.”

Emily doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s about as innocuous as a comment can possibly be, but something about it makes his heart stop for a second. Because the thing is, she’s right. The last time he was actually sick was the anthrax poisoning three years ago, which can hardly be blamed on his body itself. He hasn’t been sick with a virus since he was a child — certainly not anything more than a mild winter cold.

His world turns upside down in the middle of a Tuesday, a couple of them gathered around Derek’s desk laughing about nothing in particular, the easy camaraderie of a close-knit team without a time-sensitive case on their minds.

Three and a half weeks ago: a night heady with alcohol in a gay bar in downtown DC, a charged encounter with a man just Spencer’s type, a whispered invitation back to his place, not making it past the bathroom…

He pales, suddenly feeling violently ill at the prospect of what’s happened, how badly he’s fucked up this time.

“Spencer, are you okay?” Emily asks, suddenly noticing his appearance. “You look really pale… maybe you’re not ready to be back at work yet.”

Forcing himself out of his stupor, he manages to open his mouth without vomiting. “I don’t feel so good,” he says, and even to him his voice sounds weak and distant. Blood roars in his ears, and all he can think is what that blood could very well be tainted with.

Far away voices discuss something he doesn’t pay attention to before Derek’s placing his hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into the discussion. “I’m gonna drive you home, okay?” Emily isn’t standing at the desk anymore, but he doesn’t think to look around for her, just locks eyes with Derek: noticing his brows knit deeply in concern, worry clouding his dark, striking eyes.

He lets himself be led down to the garage. Later, he won’t remember any of the winding car journey home, Derek’s worried sideways glances, his attempts at making conversation, tucking him into bed, his hesitancy to leave and go back to work. He’ll just remember the weight of his realisation, the sinking acknowledgement of what this means.

What it makes him.

⭐️

The next day, he wakes up ravenously hungry. He doesn’t remember anything after the dreaded realisation, but he remembers that he came to it only minutes after eating lunch: meaning he’s gone over eighteen hours without food. Somehow, he manages to pick himself out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He finishes it all and doesn’t taste a single bite.

He texts the group chat Penelope had made for the whole team last year, ignoring the dozens of anxious messages from his team already filling his phone. Won’t be in.

Almost on auto-pilot, he gets dressed, picks up his phone, wallet, and keys, and walks to his nearest metro station. He counts four stops, gets out of the carriage and walks up the stairs onto the street, weaving through exactly three streets until he finds himself staring at the sign for his Urgent Care clinic.

Words — not ashes, as some small part of him anticipates — manage to spill from his lips as he tells the doctor everything from the unprotected sex he vaguely recalls having on the night of Saturday the 12th of March to his brief flu-like symptoms to his sickly realisation yesterday. Vaguely, he thinks there’s some sort of sick humour in being able to recall exactly what day he had sex, but not the details of the sex itself. Alcohol and dilaudid are the only things that have ever been able to interfere with his memory.

He obediently opens his mouth for a saliva swab, lets the nurse prick his finger and collect a drop of his blood. He wonders if she knows what they’re testing him for. He wonders if she thinks he’s as dirty as he feels, if she’ll violently scrub her hands after smiling politely at him, if she’ll roll her eyes when she talks to the other nurses, lamenting his stupidity.

The sounds of the waiting room melt into the background as he waits for the test to be conducted, and judging by the tone of the nurse who gets his attention when it’s time to return to the doctor’s office, it’s not her first attempt.

He mutters a distracted apology as he gets up from his seat, but she just smiles sympathetically. It shouldn’t get his back up in the way it does.

“I’m afraid you have tested positive for the Human Immunodeficiency Virus, Dr Reid,” she tells him, her voice gentle but straight-forward. He’s at least glad she doesn’t try and soften the blow. It’s not a blow that deserves to be softened. “I know this is a shock, but—”

“It’s not a shock.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s not a shock,” he repeats insistently; impatiently. “I knew it was coming. It’s my own fault.”

“Playing blame games isn’t going to help anybody here, Dr Reid,” she says firmly, meeting his eye. “Whether you were expecting it or not, this would knock anyone off-kilter, and I’d be remiss not to acknowledge that.”

She waits for his reluctant nod before continuing. “The good news is that we’ve caught it early enough to contain the infection. Your CD4 levels are very good, and you do not meet AIDS criteria. I’ve referred you to Dr Frederiks at George Washington University Hospital. He’s an expert in Infectious Disease and specialises in HIV/AIDS treatment. He can see you tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

He arrives back at his apartment almost $300 out of pocket, having gained nothing but a positive HIV diagnosis. The FBI has brilliant healthcare insurance but Spencer ticked the ‘no’ box on the insurance form. He can’t risk anybody knowing about this.

He texts Hotch and tells him he has a doctor’s appointment in the morning and will let him know whether he’ll make it in for the afternoon. Then he lays on the sofa, and cries.

⭐️

“HIV is a chronic illness,” the doctor explains at four minutes past ten the next morning, “a latent infection. Not a death sentence. Medications have come leaps and bounds in the last ten years, and the regimes aren’t anywhere near as rigorous as they used to be. With your CD4 levels this good, your life really won’t be much different than it was a few weeks ago.”

Spencer’s never had much interest in medicine — after all, there’s a reason he’s not that kind of doctor — but he knows this much. He doesn’t tell the doctor that he’s wasting his time explaining the basics of the disease, just stares blankly at the point in between his eyes, staring at the small crease in his skin, the way it moves as he speaks.

“It’s likely that you’ll die of something else, Dr Reid, decades in the future. When managed correctly, HIV is rarely deadly.”

This seems irrelevant: it doesn’t matter to Spencer what he dies of. Whether his immune system gives in or he’s shot in the line of duty or drops dead in the street from an aneurysm he doesn’t see coming, he’ll be dead.

He still doesn’t say anything.

“For the first six months of infection, the risk of transmission to sexual partners is high,” he continues, unfazed by Spencer’s lack of response. “Are you in a relationship?”

“No.” It’s the first word he’s spoken since he entered this office. His voice breaks. He can’t have the person he wants: this feels like the nail in the coffin of a relationship dead on arrival.

A look of sympathy crosses Dr Frederik’s face. “In any casual encounters you may engage in, you’ll need to be extra careful. Do you have the contact details of the person you contracted this from?”

His voice is steadier this time. “No.”

“Do you have any suspicion that you were deliberately infected by them?”

“No,” he answers, because he doesn’t, but it occurs to him that he’ll never actually know. He doesn’t remember if they used a condom; if he even wanted to use one. (All he remembers is his muscles and the way he pretended he was Derek, the amused look on the other man’s face when he whispered his name like a prayer.)

“That’s fine,” the doctor smiles encouragingly. It feels patronising. “We’re going to start with a triple combination of medications: tenofovir and emtricitabine combined with dolutegravir. HIV is an adaptable virus and easily becomes resistant, so it’s best to attack it hard and fast as early as possible to give you your best chances at an undetectable viral load in the next year. Which, I might add, Dr Reid, is a completely reasonable goal. At that stage, you will not be all that infectious. You’ll have bloods drawn before you leave to estimate your baseline kidney and liver function as well as overall health. In three months, you’ll have another test, and in six months, we’ll assess how well the drugs are working for you.”

Spencer nods, his eyes not leaving the crease between Dr Frederik’s eyebrows.

“Make those appointments with my secretary on your way out, and contact me if you have any concerns.” He pushes a brown paper envelope across the desk. “Inside you’ll find a copy of your positive test result, your prescriptions, and a number of leaflets on the condition as a whole.”

He squashes the urge to push the envelope back across the desk and nods again.

“Pick up the medication before the end of today and start them either tonight or in the morning,” he advises, before standing up from behind the desk and walking towards the door.

Spencer follows obediently, nodding once more and forcing a grimace onto his face, before walking down the hallway towards the secretary, another stranger he has to share his secret with. Swallowing down the urge to either scream or vomit, he fiddles with the envelope in his hands and bites the bullet.

⭐️

He tells Hotch that he won’t be in that day, and he goes home and forces himself to get it together. He showers first, the hot water washing the grime of the last few days down the drain, but he can’t do anything about the lingering layer of shame clinging to his skin. For the first time since the realisation, he forces himself to look in the mirror. A thin, pallid man with bags under his eyes and the look of someone harbouring a secret looks back at him.

His hair has grown out a little in the last few months, actual curls visible around his face (memories flash across his mind of breathy gasps; a hand buried in his hair, pulling ever-so-gently but they’re gone before they’re even remotely tangible), and he lost a little bit of weight he couldn’t afford to lose during his symptomatic period.

But, as frustrating as it is, it’s not what he sees. Not really. He sees Spencer Reid, possessor of five degrees, soon to become six, expert analyst in the FBI, the man who listens to jazz when he studies and watches documentaries for fun and solves crossword puzzles on the metro.

Something inside him shifts as he’s reminded of his humanity in that moment. It’s the most okay he’s felt in the last forty-eight hours.

He’ll take it.

He goes back to work the next day with little fanfare, getting warm smiles and ‘glad you’re feeling better’s from the team before they’re plunged headfirst into a new case, as it so often goes. They fly to Vermont, and part of him is glad for the distraction: no more talking about his illness, no more self-pity — he’s forced to try and bridge the gap between Dr Spencer Reid, Before and Dr Spencer Reid, HIV Positive as quickly and seamlessly as possible.

He does what he’s good at: offers relevant, detailed facts, profiles the victims and the unsub, cites studies that help them get to the bottom of the case, and for a moment he allows himself to forget about the virus coursing through his blood and the feeling of shame he can’t quite shake no matter how clean he scrubs his skin.

They get to the hotel late that evening and Spencer takes his second dose of medication, individually popping each tablet from it’s sheet into his hand. The pharmacist he spoke to yesterday told him that from his next medication order they can put all three tablets into a blister packet for him, but for now he’s stuck punching through three different plastic packets every night. Derek asks him to join them at the bar for a drink, but Spencer turns him down. He’s barely been able to look him in the eye.

If, in some rare and far flung universe, Derek did want to date Spencer, he wouldn’t want to date HIV positive, ex-addict, reckless and unsafe Spencer.

He wouldn’t want to date a man so heartbroken and lovesick that he got black-out drunk and slept with someone — most likely without a condom — just because he bared a passing resemblance to Derek. Contracting the Human Immunodeficiency Virus in the process.

No.

Spencer spends the evening staring into the mirror instead, desperately trying to find the man he was four days ago under the burden of broken suffering he seems to have picked up along with the diagnosis, the positive test, the sympathetic doctors.

When he hears the others come up past midnight and pile into their hotel rooms, laughing and chattering among themselves, Spencer still hasn’t looked away.

The use of the case as a distraction only works until 11am the next day. He’d had trouble falling asleep, and he’s powering through the day fuelled by black coffee and raw determination alone, but those motivators — as effective as they can be — can’t stop his legs from shaking as he stares at the geo-profile, searching for what they’re missing.

It sucks, but he’s glad for the warning the shaking gives him. He finds a chair and sits down, which is likely the only thing that stops him from collapsing when black dots swim in his vision and he’s suddenly vomiting down his front.

“Reid!” Hotch cries, running from the other end of the police station to where he’s sitting, panic clear on his face. They’re the only two from their unit currently in the station, but Hotch quickly locates an officer and turns to him. “Call an ambulance.”

“No,” Spencer manages to protest, although it only makes him want to be sick again, “‘m fine, promise.”

“What’s going on? I thought the flu had passed? Healthy people don’t spontaneously vomit and almost pass out, Reid.”

Somehow, his addled brain manages to concoct a decent enough lie. “Keep thinking I’m better,” he mumbles, leaning forward to put his head between his legs as Hotch places a hand on his back, “and then I’m not.”

“You’re sure this is just the flu?” Hotch asks, concerned but at least appearing to believe him.

“Certain,” Spencer lies.

Hotch nods once before shaking his head at the officer on standby with a phone to call an ambulance. “Well, you can’t work the case like this,” he sighs. “We need to get you back to the hotel, okay? You can rest there. God, Reid, what did the doctor say?”

“Bad case of the flu. Gave me some strong Tamiflu and told me I’d be fine in a couple days.” He gasps the words out in between intense waves of nausea, clasping his hands together in an iron grip.

He absolutely can’t let Hotch catch on. In the nine years he’s worked at the FBI, he’s managed to conceal his sexuality below layers upon layers of closeting, and he’s not about to be forced out now. It started as a purely protectionist strategy — law enforcement in the early 2000s didn’t exactly have a stellar reputation when it came to tolerance — but then he just felt forced too deep, felt the web of lies spun too tightly around him to even begin to unpick them.

Terror seizes his heart at the idea of his team knowing who he really is: not because he expects homophobia or backlash, but because he’s not sure he’s ready to live that openly yet. He’s never been good with change, and this is no exception.

It doesn’t help that the whole team is all too aware of his past addiction. He dreads the thought of them thinking he’s using again and, worse, so irresponsibly that he managed to contract HIV.

Hotch gets a rookie officer to drive him back to the hotel, and she keeps sending him nervous glances, most likely worried he’ll stink up her immaculately kept squad car with his spontaneous vomiting. Both he and the car make the journey unscathed, although he knows he probably looks as green as he feels as he drags himself up the stairs — could there possibly be a worse time for an out of order elevator? — and somehow manages to make it to the bed before he collapses.

Unfortunately, his restful slumber doesn’t last long. He’s woken up not half an hour later with the intense need to be sick again, and he races to the toilet, where he spends the next two hours: intermittently slumped over it, being sick into it, and lying on the cold tiles next to it.

It feels like a punishment. If Spencer was a religious man he’d be certain God was smiting him for his sins, but instead he’s left instead pondering karma or fate or some other theory he doesn’t really buy into either. Logically, he knows it’s just a combination of guilt and regret — he made a mistake, he’s suffering the consequences; there’s no fate or religion or karma involved — but his delirious, out of sorts mind struggles to hold on to that.

Reason doesn’t make the nausea any less crippling, after all.

Eventually, he must manage to pass out on the bathroom floor, because he’s being shaken awake by a pair of gentle hands, and when he finally opens his eyes, it’s dark outside.

“Spence?”

Shit. Derek.

His eyes fly open and he fights to sit up, to make himself more presentable. The smell of vomit lingers in the air and he remembers that he didn’t even put the toilet seat down, let alone flush it. (At least he thought to change out of his vomit-covered shirt. Thank God for small mercies.) He blushes, and thinks he must look a pretty picture of red and green as he finally meets Derek’s eyes.

“God, Spence, how bad is this flu?” he asks worriedly, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand. Despite himself, Spencer finds himself pressing back into the touch, relishing any contact he can get.

Then it hits him: he’s dirty. He can’t contaminate Derek like this.

“You should leave,” he asserts hurriedly as he pulls away, hating that desperation is so obvious in his voice. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve cleaned everything up, and I used gloves. I’ve been in contact with you the last couple of days, so if you were going to get me sick you would’ve already. I just want to be here for you.”

Spencer squeezes his eyes closed so tightly they hurt. He wants nothing more than to fold himself into Derek’s arms, let himself be comforted by the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with. But he can’t. There are so many reasons that he can’t.

“No,” he says, not opening his eyes, resenting the tear that slips out and spills down his cheek. “You can’t. I’m… I’m not safe to be around.”

He doesn’t really mean to say it, but it escapes anyway, and he opens his eyes just in time to see the confusion cross Derek’s face. “Not safe to…? Spencer, what—”

“I just… I need to be alone.”

“No, you don’t,” Derek says softly, bringing a hand to his hair again, and he knows that HIV isn’t transmitted through sweat or vomit but he’s dirty, and Derek is so so good, he can’t be responsible for tainting him. Derek doesn’t relent, though, not even when Spencer pulls away from his touch and shrinks in on himself, leaning against the toilet. “You need to allow yourself to be comforted. You need to let me help, Spencer.”

Suddenly, he feels incredibly tired: the energy seeping out of his body, and he’s boneless against the toilet, absent even of the effort to hold himself upright.

“Come on, let’s get you into bed.” He puts his arms around Spencer’s rolled up body and lifts him, holding him close to his chest as he carries him from the bathroom to the bed.

Spencer doesn’t just let him, he curls into his embrace, clinging to the material of his t-shirt like it’s his only grip on reality.

(Later, he’ll blame the fever, but deep down he knows that just once, he wanted to play pretend, and just once, he didn’t have the energy to stop himself.)

⭐️

The side effects take weeks to finally leave, his body having a hard time adjusting to not only a deadly virus in his bloodstream, but some of the strongest drugs on the market inhibiting his natural enzyme production. Eventually, though, he’s back at work properly, selling a story about a simultaneous gastro-intestinal virus making the flu exponentially worse.

He’s not really sure everyone believes him, but nobody questions it out loud, so he avoids everyone’s eyes and takes it as a win.

Nobody gets close enough to try, anyway. He pushes everyone away, holds them at arm's length no matter how much they kick and scream and claw their way closer to him. It surprises him how persistent Derek is, and for a moment he feels a sad flutter of hope in his stomach and he’s forced to stamp it down: Derek sees him as a brother, a friend, a colleague, not a potential romantic partner.

And it would be irrelevant, even if he did. Derek wouldn’t want him as any of those things if he knew what he was hiding. Ever since his lapse in judgement on the case in Vermont, he’s refused to spend any time alone with Derek, and he hates the hurt he sees in his eyes, hates that he can’t scream at him that this is for his own good. But he can’t know. Because Spencer is still ruled by his relentless selfish desires, and he can’t let Derek go, no matter how hard he tries to.

Kept at arm’s length at least means he’s still touching his shoulders.

He muddles through the next few months on his own, returning to his quiet apartment every night and eating a sad, lonely dinner on his sad, lonely sofa before punching his way through a blister pack, taking his tablets, and going to sleep. He turns down drinks invitations, declines phone calls, ignores text messages. He pretends he isn’t home when there are knocks at his door.

He takes showers that are too hot and cries on the metro, scrubs his fingernails and his face, and when he got a shallow knife wound on a case last month, wouldn’t let a single member of the team near him. Whispering his status, shame-faced, to the attending EMT.

This is it, he thinks one night, as he opens the microwave and takes out the mac-and-cheese ready meal he’d bought on the way home that night. He doesn’t even like mac-and-cheese. It was just the only thing left in the store at 8.30pm. This is my life now. Standing in my kitchen at 9.15pm, not being able to remember the last time I was actually happy.

(He does remember, really. It was Sunday the 13th of March, 9.37am: Derek had ruffled his hair and joked with him as they waited alone in the conference room to find out what was so urgent they were being called into work on the weekend for. Spencer could still feel the aftermath of his Saturday night tryst, and pretended for a brief few minutes that that encounter was with Derek, and those jokes were actually flirting. But then the case took over, then the flu symptoms, and then. Well.)

Before he can carry the mac-and-cheese into the living room, though, there’s a knock at the door. Everyone had mostly given up on turning up unannounced, so it catches him off-guard, and something in him, some vain flicker of hope, or maybe a masochistic desire to hurt even more, propels him forward until he’s opening it and coming face to face with Derek Morgan.

“Spencer,” he says urgently, and panic immediately grips Spencer as he wonders what could be so wrong that he’d need to show up out of the blue, but Derek must see it on his face. “Nothing’s happened, don’t worry, I just… I need to speak to you.”

A knot of something that Spencer can’t quite place tightens in his stomach as he stares at the myriad of emotions playing across Derek’s face, but he steps aside to let him in anyway. He closes the door behind them and feels a flash of embarrassment at the state of his apartment. It’s completely clean — his already rigorous attitude towards germ and cleanliness have only intensified in the last few months as paranoia plagued his mind relentlessly — but it’s barren of any joy, and it couldn’t be more obvious.

The furniture is drab and Spencer’s packed away all the photos and trinkets that used to litter the entire place because they just made him too sad to look at. The only life that remains is his books, and the sheet he’d hung to cover them up in a fit of rage a couple of weeks ago still hangs there limply. He hadn’t wanted to see his books: didn’t want the temptation of touching them and tainting them. What if he got a papercut on one of the pages and his virus-ridden blood spilled across the words he treasures so dearly?

He watches as Derek surveys the place with a sad expression on his face, before recollecting himself and turning back to Spencer.

“I know you’ve been pulling away from us, Spence,” he says, almost breathless as he takes a seat on the sofa. Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his body, so he settles on remaining where he is: stock still facing the couch, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. “We’ve watched you become a shell of who you used to be, and we’re all worried about you—”

“I don’t—”

“No, just let me speak. Everyone is worried, and I am too, but… I’m also… I’m hurt, Spencer. You’re pushing me away, turning me down every time I try to get close to you, and it’s painful because you’re my friend. You’re my best friend, and you mean the world to me.”

I wouldn’t if you knew my secret, he thinks miserably, but he doesn’t say anything.

“More than anything, though, it hurts… because I’m in love with you.”

Spencer stares. He’s hallucinating, he has to be.

“And I know — well, I don’t know because we’ve never talked about it — but I know you’re probably straight and even if you were interested in guys, too, who’s to say you’d be in love with me back? But I had to tell you because our relationship is heading south anyway, plummeting straight for the ground, and I figured it couldn’t hurt, I just… say something? Please?”

He doesn’t mean to say it.

“I’m HIV positive.”

It’s Derek’s turn to stare. Spencer can’t meet his eyes, and suddenly feeling like he needs to Get Out, he rushes to the kitchen and picks up his rapidly cooling mac-and-cheese. He gets a fork out and faces the countertop, away from Derek, as he starts to shovel unsatisfying bites into his not-hungry stomach.

It can’t even be a full minute later that he hears footsteps behind him. “You have AIDS?”

He sets the mac-and-cheese back on the counter. “No,” he answers, not turning around. “I tested positive for HIV; I don’t meet AIDS criteria. My CD4 levels are apparently very good, and the medication I’m taking is proving effective in controlling and managing the virus. I don’t have side effects anymore, and I don’t feel any different than I did before I contracted it.”

There’s a beat of silence. “And this is why you’ve been pulling away from us?”

Spencer hesitates before nodding shamefully, his eyes burning a hole in his dinner. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone, and I—” He’s cut off by a heaving sob. It catches him by surprise, but suddenly he’s choking on emotion: everything he’s been through, everything he’s been dealing with alone for so long a burden he no longer knows how to carry.

“Oh, baby,” Derek breathes, rushing forward and turning Spencer until his face is pressed into his neck and their arms are wrapped around one another. The nickname only furthers his emotion, falling apart completely in such a way that makes him unsure he’ll ever be put back together again. “I’m so sorry.”

He lets Spencer cry it out until his sobs recede and his tears slow, and he feels confident enough to pull away and meet Derek’s eye properly again. It feels like a reconnection; a reconciliation of sorts, and his breath catches at the emotion on his face. He’d expected a meddle of sympathy and disgust, but all he finds is compassion and love, tinged by a sadness Spencer supposes probably comes from watching the man you’ve just professed to love fall apart like that.

Oh wait. Derek just told him—

“You love me?” His voice comes out quieter and shyer than he’d hoped, and not nearly as incredulous as he’d intended, but Derek softens anyway.

“Yes,” he says emphatically. “So much. And if you think you telling me this is going to change how I feel even a bit, then you’re dead wrong, Spencer.”

It’s suddenly too much to think that everything he’d feared happening for the last few months was wrong, and he’s gasping for breath again, sinking to the ground to bury his face in his hands.

“Spence?” Derek asks worriedly, following him to the floor. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No… please, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He takes a deep breath, trying to recenter himself, ground himself in the reality that’s unfolding before him, no matter how different it might look than that of his anticipation. “You know, the man. Um, the man I… contracted this from. I slept with him because he looked like you.”

He looks up and meets Derek’s eyes again, searching for anything in them to confirm that he was thinking all the thoughts Spencer feared and coming up empty. “I was so heartsick that I got blind-drunk and slept with a complete stranger because it was the closest to you I ever thought I’d get and then I was just so scared of what everyone would say when I found out. I know logically that HIV doesn’t make someone dangerous or unclean, but I just couldn’t shake this feeling of shame, you know? I was constantly panicked that I’d pass it to one of you. Besides, I’m not even out to the team, and I know the implications of a disease like this: gay or an IV drugs user — I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that I was both. I’m clean, and I’ve stayed clean, I just…”

“Hey, I get it,” Derek says gently, reaching out a hand and cupping Spencer’s cheek gently. “I think if I was in the same boat I probably would’ve reacted in exactly the same way. You can’t be blamed for bowing to a social stigma this heavy, Spence. I’m just sorry I didn’t realise what was going on sooner. And even sorrier, for that matter, that I didn’t tell you I was in love with you before this even had a chance to happen.”

Spencer smiles a little at that. “Hey, I didn’t tell you either. I don’t blame you at all. Neither of us were out and confessing something like that is no small feat.”

“I suppose so.”

Spencer shifts a little in his position on the floor, the raging storm of emotion that he’s been drowning under for the past four and a half months quieting for the very first time. He breathes deeply for a few seconds before working up the courage to ask the question he really wants the answer to. “I know you said that this doesn’t change the way you feel—”

“And it doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods, because suddenly he gets that. He isn’t sure what took so long. “But does it make you not want to be in a relationship with me?”

“Spencer, no.” Derek’s voice is urgent as he makes intense eye contact with him, raising a gentle finger to his chin. “It doesn’t change a single. thing. I don’t know much about HIV, I’ll admit, but I do know that these days you can get to a point where it doesn’t transmit to partners. And we can be really safe about it. I’ll do all the research to make you comfortable, but Spencer, even if it did mean that we could never have sex, I’d still want you. I want you so badly, pretty boy.”

He can hardly believe his ears. “Really?”

“Really.” He swipes his thumb across his cheek, catching a falling tear. “I’m hopelessly, desperately in love with you, Spencer. I have been for years. You can ask, Penelope: she’s been putting up with my pining like a saint, but I’m not sure she could’ve taken it much longer.”

“I’ve been in love with you for years, too.” Another tear falls as the prospect of what’s about to happen really sinks in.

“Can I?” Derek murmurs, as he inches closer ever so slowly.

“Please,” Spencer whispers, barely finishing the word before their lips are colliding and a flurry of butterflies break out in his stomach as his chest glows with the warmth of a kiss he’s long been aching for. Derek’s hands find his waist, his jaw, his cheek, his hair, exploring his body ever so softly as he kisses him with the same inquisitive gentleness, managing to take him apart with just his lips and his hands.

“God,” he whispers as he finally pulls away, pressing his forehead to Spencer’s as he struggles to hide his wide grin. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamed of that. I’m gonna be like a teenage girl tonight, running my fingers across my lips as I remember every minute of it.”

Spencer giggles at that. “Well you can rest easy in the knowledge that I’ll be doing the same.” He pulls away slightly and looks down for a second before looking back up into Derek’s earnest gaze. “I’ve never been kissed like that before.”

“I’ll kiss you like that every day for as long as you’ll have me.” He doesn’t hesitate to lean back in, connecting their lips again as they melt into one another’s touches, and it makes Spencer laugh later that the most intimate and passionate encounter of his life so far happened on the kitchen floor.

They pull apart as soon as it heats up a little bit, and pain flashes across both of their expressions at the thought of why.

“There’s this thing called PrEP,” Spencer says, still a little ashamed of his situation, that Derek has to be protected against him before they can take this any further. “It’s medication that you take before and after sex with a HIV positive person that blocks the virus from entering your bloodstream if you were to somehow contract it. And we can wear condoms. And once I reach an undetectable viral load, it means the virus is untransmittable, and you won’t contract it even if we’re unprotected.”

Derek blinks. “Wow, that’s… that’s better than I thought.”

“Really? You’re still okay with all this?”

He softens. “Pretty boy, I am so okay with all this, and I’m sorry that you spent so long thinking otherwise. We have time to figure all this out, but what matters is that right now, I have you next to me, and we love each other. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” He smiles, and leans forward to kiss Derek chastely. “I do.”

“Now, how about we bin that disgusting mac-and-cheese and order some Chinese?” he suggests, matching Spencer’s smile. “We could eat it in bed and watch one of those documentaries you’re always talking about.”

Spencer laughs fondly. “You want our first date to be eating takeaway and watching a science documentary in bed?”

“Well it sounds perfect to me.”

“Yeah, it sounds pretty perfect to me, too,” Spencer whispers, the happiness in his chest feeling warm and inviting, begging him to bask in the moment for as long as he can.

They’ll work out the specifics later — they’ll get Derek started on PrEP and attend Spencer’s appointments to measure his viral load, they’ll have important and serious conversations about the risks to both of them, they’ll work out what their relationship means for work, how they’ll begin to repair the damage the last few months have done to Spencer’s mental health — but right now, none of that matters.

All that does is: the buffet of Chinese food Derek lays out on a blanket on Spencer’s bed, the documentary about bees playing on the TV, and the thrilled little glances thrown each other’s way, the stolen kisses and casual touches, the love palpable in the air around them. And later, when the food is eaten, and the documentary is playing the credits: Spencer’s tired head resting on Derek’s loving chest, and the syncing of their heartbeats as they fall asleep to the sound of each other.

This shouldn't have to be said but please do not use fanfiction as sex education and PLEASE practice safe sex. As far as I know, all the information included in this fic is correct, but I have no personal experience with HIV/AIDS, and this is very much written from an outsider's perspective - albeit a thoroughly researched one.

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