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it-was-summer · 19 days ago

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... And Fall In Love Whenever You Can.

A/N: This fic genuinely had me tearing up as I wrote it. Therefore, it shall hold a sweet place in my heart. As a kid, I used to say, "If something makes you feel, then it is good." I still believe that today. If it makes you happy, sad, flustered, ANYTHING! To feel something while reading is such a beautiful reaction to media. I often cry at movies, I cry when I read romance novels, I cry when I read poetry, and I laugh when I do, too. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you feel something, Em <3 (I also apologize for vanishing; I got sick, and it made me feel brain fog)

Link to the Ao3: ... And Fall In Love Whenever You Can Link to the: Yee olde masterlist Tags: Grief support group, mention of death(s), loss of romantic partners, struggling with mental health, tears, the rise and fall that is nonlinear healing, fear of forgetting a loved one, falling in love after tragedy, Spencer sounds like he had therapy, Maeve mentioned, guns mentioned, she/her pronouns for reader used at like one point, Reader's POV for the most part, Reader is in extreme denial and feels guilty, a secret other thing??, lightly proofread tehe!

Genre: Light Angst, Some? Hurt/Comfort, Fluff! Pairing: Season10! Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Plot: Meeting Spencer at a grief support meeting might be the best and the worst thing to ever happen to you- but it's all relative in the eyes of love.

Word Count: 9,791

You were pacing a dimly lit parking lot outside of the funeral home. It had been eleven months, two weeks, and three days since Alexander’s death. The grief meetings occurred every third Wednesday, and everyone was lovely enough. You just couldn’t find it in yourself to go inside this particular Wednesday. Because it was on this date, two years ago, Alexander had gotten on one knee at the aquarium and asked you to marry him. It was two years ago that you had said yes, not knowing that a little over a year from then, he’d be dead.

Your feet kept making strides to the double door entryway, only to slow to a stop when your hands reached the door’s push handle. Then, you’d shake your head and turn around to circle the parking lot once more. With your luck, the meeting would be over before you even got the courage to go inside.

A groan escapes your throat as you firmly put your hands on your hips, tilting your head to the Summer sky. “I’m sorry,” Your voice is raw, barely a whisper as you struggle to keep yourself from crying. You knew everyone said not to keep it in, to express your grief freely. It minimized stress. At least, that’s what the grief counselors say.

The worst part was no longer knowing who you were apologizing to— yourself or Alexander.

You were walking around one of the parking lot’s street lamps when you saw someone standing at the doors, frozen in place. It was like watching a mirror of yourself—rigid shoulders, twitching hands, shaking head.

You approach the man slowly, your image warped in the reflection of the glass doors. He turns to face you before you can speak, and he looks like you did eleven months ago. His eyes have dark circles around them, tinted with a red water-line and dull cheeks. That doesn’t stop you from gracing him with a gentle smile, “Are you going inside?”

His eyes meet yours for a second, looking away to glance back at the doors. “I’m not sure.” His voice is quiet, scared. He sounds like he is still on the fence. You nod, drawing your lips into a tiny line as you drop your hands to your sides. “Are you?” He asks, stepping out of the way for you.

You feel your mouth open to say you are going inside, but the words never come. Instead, you shake your head side-to-side timidly. “I’m not sure either,” You laugh out feebly. He nods, a dull smile gracing his delicate features for a millisecond before looking off with a forlorn expression.

“I was thinking about walking around the parking lot again… to try to gain the confidence to go inside. You’re,” you pause, wondering if it's a good idea to offer the man an invitation, “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

The man looks at you again, his eyes widening for a second. You’re sure he’s about to decline, return to his car, and drive away, but he nods. You feel yourself smiling. It’s a little subdued, but it’s real. You mouth a silent ‘okay’ as you move your hands to your pant pockets, stepping away from the doors with this mourning stranger. You figured you didn’t have to talk if he didn’t want to, so everything was quiet as the two of you slowly walked around the large parking lot.

Eventually, your quiet stranger speaks, “Thank you,”

You shrug a little, sniffling, “It’s daunting, especially the first meeting.”

He frowns a little, watching your eyes flit over to him and then back to the night sky. “That obvious?”

“Only a little, but that’s not a bad thing.” Your voice is gentle as your feet slow to a stop, a light smile appearing on your face as you stare into the night. Spencer tilts his head to look at the stars, silently hoping that what makes you smile will make him smile, too. “Do you see her yet?” You ask, voice like honey.

He feels like crying as he says, “No,” He doesn’t even know who you’re looking at.

Your right hand is coming out of your coat pocket as you point to Cassiopeia slowly, tracing the stars with your index finger. “Cassiopeia, she’s a little low right now, but in a few months, she’ll get higher. You see her?”

And Spencer does. He feels his body relax, just for a moment. “I do.” He feels himself smiling a little at the sky, and the feeling feels almost foreign. His gaze falls back to you as you stuff your right-hand pack into your pocket, “I’m– I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Spencer.”

“That’s alright; I didn’t introduce myself either,” you sigh before you tell him your name. He nods at your response and follows you once your feet start moving again.

“Have you—” He motions to the funeral home in the distance, “ever been inside?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m a funeral home grief support group regular.” You joke lightly, though the soft chuckle you let out sounds like a sad one.

He nods, nervously adjusting the beige cardigan on his chest. “Is everyone—I mean—” He draws his lips closed as he tries to gather his thoughts. “Do you like it?”

Your feet slow for a second as you think about it. Sure, everyone was friendly, and the support was more helpful than harmful. But did you like it? You give him a little nod when you answer, “Yeah, it’s been nice. Less,” You tilt your head slowly like you’re choosing your words carefully. “Less Lonely.”

Spencer lets out a relieved-sounding sigh as he mutters a gentle “Right.”

“I just,” You swallow carefully, “I’m having a hard time going in today. My fiancé proposed two years ago today. I just— I mean everyone inside knows, I just,” You trail off for a second, sniffling lightly as a cool breeze brushes against your watering eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

Spencer didn’t know what to say to that. With Maeve, he had barely met her in person before she was murdered in front of him— the future pulled out from under him. Nowadays, he spends his time rereading books, remembering conversations on the phone, and mourning her silently in his apartment. Sometimes, he didn’t know which would be worse: losing her when he did or ten years down the line. Nonetheless, there is no Maeve to help him answer that question.

He struggles to find the words for a second before he nods, slow and unsure of himself, “It matters.”

You grin at how scared he sounds, the sound of a man holding on to the memory of a face that keeps fading away in his mind. “I know,” you can feel the ghost of the engagement ring on your left hand, a ring that now lies in a coffin.

As the two of you get close to the building once more, you ask, “Are you going to go in?”

Spencer swallows hard, the knot in his throat making it difficult for him to breathe. “Maybe next meeting,”

You nod, “Me too.” You stare at your car in the distance before you feel yourself standing in the parking lot with Spencer— unmoving. “I know it’s not a lot, and I know that I can’t help that much, but,” You pull your phone out of your pocket, opening the keypad cautiously before holding it out to him. “If you ever want to talk about it, or anything really, I’d be happy to talk with you.”

Normally, Spencer would decline such a kind gesture. He would thank you, drive home, and find solace in something familiar. His fingers twitch lightly as he reaches out for your phone, staring down at the keypad for a second before he puts in his number. He doesn’t know why he wants to talk with you. He thinks it’s because talking with a stranger about Maeve seemed less daunting than talking about it with his coworkers— his friends. You barely know him, and that makes your offer seem safe. No preconceived notions, pity, or gentle promises of being there for him, just a stranger talking to another stranger.

Two weeks go by like usual— no text from your stranger named Spencer, coffee for one at the café that was Alexander’s favorite, taking his mom to dinner on Thursdays, and so on. Sometimes, the days blur into a muddled painting filled with muted tones, and you try your hardest to remember when everything had a vibrant hue.

Most days are easy, easier than most, at least. It’s not that you forget about him. You remember him when you see a couple holding hands or golden retrievers going for walks, you think about him with everything you see, and it feels good to remember him. You’re happy to have known him so well, loved him so deeply. But all the love inside you has nowhere to go, so you go to his grave on Saturdays, hoping you can pour all the love in your heart onto a tombstone with his name on it. It never works, of course, but it helps.

You're running late this particular Saturday morning. You have two coffees in hand—one of which always goes untouched—and you’re stuck on the metro. That’s when you see him again, your stranger sitting in the fluorescents of the railcar.

Pushing through a small crowd, you approach him, slowly taking the empty seat next to him. Spencer doesn’t look up at first, his eyes glued to the book in his hands. That is until you’re leaning over to him to say a small “Hello,”

He jumps at the sound, head snapping to look at you with wide eyes. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised you remember him, but he is. “Hello,”

Your eyes meet his, “Do you remember me? I-I’m sorry I shouldn’t have invaded–”

“No! I mean, yes, I remember you. You’re not invading my space. You’re fine.”

You let out a relieved sigh, looking away from him for a second to look down at the cups in your hands. His eyes follow your gaze, and he offers you a shy smile, “Are you meeting someone?” Small talk was never his strong suit.

You look at him, eyes lingering on his polite smile. “Oh,” you laugh like it's funny. “No, it's just me.” Spencer gives you a confused look, and you quickly answer his silent question. “I visit Alex’s grave. He loved black coffee. It was the most unsettling thing about him.”

Spencer doesn’t know how you’re smiling so wide as you say it. How could you talk about someone you lost and smile so wide talking about them? Would he smile like that one day? Would he even have things to smile about, or would what-ifs haunt him until the day he dies?

You find that you hate the silence that follows, the lack of sound creeping over your skin, making you itch to say something more. “I’ve always liked cemeteries too, so bonus, I guess.”

That gets you a sharp laugh, “You’ve always liked cemeteries?” Spencer’s eyes seem slightly brighter now, less red than two weeks ago, and they’re laser-focused on you.

You happily nod, “Always thought they were beautiful. It’s a creation of love, a way for your love for someone to live on.”

“Not sure everyone thinks about them that way,”

“Well, I guess they wouldn’t, and that’s alright with me.” You hum softly as the intercom announces in a static-filled voice that the railcar will be moving soon. “It’s quieter that way.”

Spencer glances towards the intercom for a second before turning back to you, “I suppose you’re right— about the quiet thing, not sure I agree with always liking them.” And he’s smiling at you, a real smile.

You feel yourself smiling back, wide as ever, “What’s your opinion on cemeteries then?”

“I’d like to say I don’t have an opinion on them, but if I had to form one, I would say they’re…” He trails off for a second, thinking about it more now. He laughs for a second, “Well, I suppose I find them rather serene.”

Your eyebrows raise for a second as you study him. How he seems to be relaxing in the conversation, and you can’t help but consider extending him an invitation to your weekly visit with Alexander. The longer you stare at him, the more you think the worst he can say is no, so you ask. “Would you like to join me?”

Spencer reels back slightly at the invitation; it feels intimate, yet he doesn’t want to say no. He wants to see what you see, to understand your mind, “I–” He looks away for a second, staring at the still-opened book in his lap. “If you’ll have me.”

Once you are on the street, you hum lightly while walking beside him. Spencer doesn’t seem to mind very much, his fingers fiddling with the edges of his book that now resides closed in his hand at his side. He’s nervous for some reason. He doesn’t understand why you invited him, nor why he said yes. He thinks maybe he should announce that he has other plans, turn on his heel, and book it in the other direction.

But when the two of you tread closer to the cemetery gates, you start talking again. “I hope you don’t find it strange that I invited you. It’s been a little under a year– well, a year next week– and I know it might seem weird, but I’d like to think he’s happy about me having a new friend.”

He knows it is a coping mechanism, and he knows Alexander cannot feel anything anymore. Spencer’s a man of science, but hearing you say that makes him feel at ease. His shoulders unwind slowly, “He sounded like a nice person,”

You let out a playful hum, “Sometimes. If he didn’t like you, he made it pretty obvious.” You pause for a second, glancing over at Spencer. “He was tall, kind of like you, and nerdy. But he was so funny; no one knew how funny he could be. They never listened hard enough, you know? I hated that people would talk over him in a crowd. To me, he was the only person worth listening to.”

Spencer finds him smiling at that, following you as you take a left. He sees that you're smiling, too, and when the two of you get to his grave, you’re still smiling. You let out a happy sigh as you talk, introducing Spencer as “Your new friend.”

For a while, you tell him stories—memories from when Alexander was still alive—and he finds he doesn’t mind listening to them. He sees them as a great distraction from his lack of happy stories with Maeve. You’re laughing a little as you tell him of the time that Alexander’s mother wouldn’t stop sending him a massive, bulk-sized trail mix every time she sent him a care package in college. He had so many bags that they lived under his bed for the better part of four years.

“Did he even like trail mix?”

“Honestly? Yes, but he only liked the chocolate and peanuts. It would just be massive bags with an abundance of raisins inside.” You shake your head a little as you stand next to Spencer.

Spencer lets out a slightly amused hum. His mind keeps going over how good you are with everything. You talk about Alexander openly. You don’t hold your feelings back. You smile so wide, even when you look at his headstone. He wants to know your secret— some secret to grief that he has yet to uncover.

His mouth opens briefly, closing quickly as he shifts his weight awkwardly beside you. He sucks in a nervous breath as he tries to muster up the courage to speak. “How do–” He sighs heavily, “I mean, I’m sure you struggle–” He licks his lips nervously, your eyes meeting his slowly. “When does it stop hurting?”

You’re silent for a second, your soft smile fading as you stare at him. He’s scared that maybe that’s the wrong question to ask as he watches you turn your head to look down at Alexander’s grave. He is about to apologize when you whisper, “It feels different now.”

Spencer’s mouth snaps shut as he waits for more, his eyes scanning your side profile slowly for some sort of sign that you’re uncomfortable. “Last year, it just felt like–” A pause, your free hand rising to your chest slowly. “It felt like someone had plunged a dull knife into my chest and left me for dead.”

Spencer’s chest tightened for a second, his own heart feeling painfully dull as he listened to you.

“But, I’m not the one who died. Alex did. I was so angry— disappointed that he had the nerve to leave me when we were about to start the next chapter of our lives together. I had–have– all this love inside my heart for him, and he’s gone. It took me a long time to understand that, to be okay with it.”

Your words catch in your throat, and you clear your throat quickly. The familiar burn of tears threatens to build in your eyes as you force yourself to look at Alexander’s grave. “He was so kind, and once I got past that feeling,” your voice sounded thick. “Life kept going, and so did I. He wouldn’t have wanted me to stop living my life. When you love someone, you only want them to be happy– with or without you.”

You sniffle lightly, relaxing your shoulders slightly, “It never stops hurting, I guess, but days get better. I’m happy that I got to be a part of his life. I find some comfort in that. Somewhere, in the story of him, I’m there.” Eventually, you find the courage to look over at Spencer. When your eyes meet his, you find that he’s staring at you with a compassionate expression. You can see the understanding in his eyes. You swallow hard, pushing the emotional lump down your throat.

“It does get better.” You whisper, your voice warm.

Spencer nods quickly, mouthing a little ‘I know’ before his eyes trail away from you for a second. A cool breeze passes between the two of you when he says, “Just needed the reminder,”

The next time you see him, it’s the third Wednesday of the month, and he sits right next to you. You find yourself smiling a little when he does, nudging his shoulder playfully as more people fill the space. He scoffs playfully, the silent gesture letting you know he’s happy you’re here.

The meeting passes like usual: New members share their stories, grief counselors hand out business cards with their phone numbers, recurring members offer kind sentiments, and then, just near the end, your seat partner stands up.

Your eyes widen for a second as you watch Spencer stand, his eyes laser-focused ahead as people turn to look at him. You watch how his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. A shaky breath leaves him as he tries his hardest to start talking. His hands flex for a second, pressing against his pants to wipe off what you can only assume is sweat.

He stutters for a second, his confidence creeping away from him. You’re surprised when he turns his head to look at you. His breathing steadies as he watches you. “I’ve been having difficulties sleeping again. After,” His hands move a little as he speaks, his eyes periodically looking towards the rest of the group before trailing back over to you, “I just– I used to have a hard time sleeping, and lately, it’s been happening again. Every time I sleep, I see her, and I feel so–” He used to dream of her after her death, dreamt of touching her, but these were different. Dreams that constantly left him waking up feeling devastatingly alone.

He shakes his head a little, “It’s been seven months, and I keep dreaming of everything that could have been.”

The confession is met with comfortable silence and sympathetic looks, but not from you. You’re nodding, an encouraging smile spreading across your face. For some reason, he likes that better. “I don’t like leaving her when I wake up.” The admission feels like a weight lifting off his chest when he says it.

There’s a pause of silence before he sits down, unsure of what else to say besides his admission. As one of the counselors begins to talk to Spencer, he finds himself listening intensely. Seven months, and he’s finally willing to take some much-needed advice.

After that month’s meeting, Spencer has back-to-back cases. He’s keen on keeping in contact with you, which you’ve said he doesn’t have to do if he doesn’t want to, but he insists. He likes having someone to update, a friend waiting to see him when he’s free.

The next time he’s free, it’s a rare Saturday. He’s been awake since five and can’t seem to go back to sleep. He does keep dreaming of Maeve, but they’re a little different now. This time, he was in a cemetery with you. It was freezing, the kind of cold where you could see your breath, and you were laughing about something when the two of you bumped into her. Maeve’s not angry. She just laughs and glances at Spencer before hugging you. You hug her right back and say something– and that’s when he wakes up.

Spencer doesn’t like the feelings that stir inside him with that dream: confusion, curiosity, sadness, something else. The feeling is warm, tinged with an overcoat of sorrow, and he finds himself needing a good distraction.

However, reading isn’t helping, nor is the crossword. So eventually, he finds himself getting ready to go out for the day in the search of a good distraction that will get his mind off his dream.

He doesn’t know why he thinks about the cemetery where Alex’s grave is on his way to get coffee that day, but he does. A part of him feels that a nice walk will do him good, so, coffee in hand, he finds himself walking… then taking the subway… then ending up in front of Alex’s grave… alone.

Spencer’s lips slightly pout when he sees no coffee cup on the headstone. He knows that you have yet to visit your late fiancé today. He doesn’t exactly know why he’s visiting your late fiancé today; without you, it feels… strange.

The longer Spencer stares at the letters etched in stone, the more he feels a realization dawn on him. He feels guilty… guilty for dreaming of you, guilty for craving your warmth right now, and guilty for a million different little reasons.

Spencer feels his lips part for a second, a sigh escaping his lungs, before he whispers, “I’m a mess. " He knows he’s talking to thin air, but he feels lighter, admitting it to himself.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling. All I know is that I shouldn’t be, and it won’t do anyone any good, and secretly I think–” He sucks in a cold breath of air, “Secretly, I think I don’t deserve it.” The grave is silent, of course, but Spencer smiles anyway.

For a while, he thought his future had passed him by. A brief image graced his vision before leaving him blind. He can see now. He sees that he still has things to do, goals to accomplish, people to meet. Then he’s walking away.

Two meetings and four coffee ‘dates’ later, you’re rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet as you watch Spencer laugh over something with one of the grief counselors. It’s a strange feeling to see him laugh so openly. It's heartwarming if you’re being honest. It’s hard to explain it, and the feeling is too intense– too raw. It’s a feeling you dimly remember, and suddenly, you’re nauseous.

You have a crush, which is incredibly laughable because you’re an adult. The last time you had a crush on someone was three years ago, Alexander. This almost feels cruel. The longer you stare at him, the more real it becomes.

Spencer catches your eye for a second and excuses himself from the conversation in his polite Spencer way. When he reaches you, he smiles warmly: “Somebody’s all smiles.” You hum with a playful roll of your eyes.

Spencer pouts for a second, good-natured and playful, as he mutters a little, “When did smiling become a crime?”

“It isn’t. I’m just being observant, and you have a nice smile.” You try to keep your voice calm and level, but he seems to catch on anyway. Spencer’s eyes seem laser-focused on you, studying you carefully. Internally, you’re beginning to pray that his profiling skills fail to notice the classic signs: your sweaty palms, wandering gaze, and too-tense shoulders.

And if he does notice… you hope he doesn’t say anything. That’s not Spencer’s way, and you know it. “Everything okay?”

You nod quickly, “I’m good, sorry, I was just thinking about… bills.” You know he catches the lie the second you say it; you can see it in his amused smile.

“Bills?”

“Bills.”

“I’m not sure I like this story you’re going with, but if you’re sticking to it, I won’t pry.”

You nod, letting your shoulders relax as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you,”

“I was thinking,” Spencer starts as he grabs his messenger bag, following you out. “We could get dinner together Friday night.”

“Why?” Your tone is a little flatter than you’d like it to be as Spencer walks you to your car. You'll admit the idea of being alone with him is nice, but the admission feels strange— still too raw, surreal.

“Because…” He trails off slowly, hoping to find a better reason than it being because he wants to have dinner with you, but the longer he sits with the ideas, the more he feels like you’ll turn down his idea. He feels self-preservation take over, and for the first time (and what he hopes is the only time), he lies to you. “My teammates are having a get-together.”

“Oh!” You say as the two of you reach your car. “And you want me to meet them or?” The idea seems less daunting. Yes, Spencer and you had been to get coffee together, but that was just coffee. Dinner seemed too intimate, but dinner with friends? Now, that was less scary.

“Yeah! Yes, I think it’d be nice!’ Spencer’s voice cracks slightly before nervously clearing his throat in a weak attempt to control the anxiety that creeps into his tone. “Would you… like to meet them?”

You’re leaning against your car door, and the air smells sharp with the promise of snow, and Spencer’s sure you’ll decline. You grin, nodding slightly, “Sure, I mean, it’s just dinner with friends. What time Friday?” Your arms fold over your chest, pulling your coat closer to your body.

“Six.” He doesn’t know how his fake dinner has a time, but he’s surprised at how easy it is to come up with one. “Nothing fancy. I’ll, um, text you the address.”

You watch him for a second, trying to read him the way he reads you. His voice seems higher in pitch, and his eyes keep glancing at yours. You chalk it up to him being nervous. The combination of two groups already frying his nerves before it even happens. “Can’t wait. See you Friday.”

Spencer stuffs his freezing hands in his pockets as he watches you enter your car and drive off. Then, the panic sets in.

He’s tailing Derek desperately, “Listen, I know it’s rushed, but–”

“I don’t see why you can’t just text her the address and ask her out. Straightforward.” Derek says as he takes the left towards Penelope’s office. “Or you could say we canceled and make it just the two of you.”

“Considering I already lied to her once, I’d rather not lie twice. And–” He fumbles with his words for a short second. “It’s not a date. I just thought she thought it was one, and I panicked.”

“What’s wrong with it being a date?” Derek asks, knocking on the door gently before entering Penelope’s office.

“Date?” Penelope echoes back as she turns in her chair.

Spencer holds out a hand defensively, “It wouldn’t— it’s complicated! Please say yes. You’re the first person I’ve asked.”

“Asked what? Am I going to be asked?” Penelope chirps as Derek hands her a coffee.

“Pretty boy here,” Derek motioned to Spencer with a light wave, “Lied to one of his ladies. Invited her to a team dinner that doesn’t exist.”

“A team dinner would be fun! With a new addition, too!” Penelope said with a sip of her coffee. “When?”

“Friday,” Spencer mumbles, avoiding her gaze.

“Friday, as in, tomorrow Friday?” She sucks in a breath of air, “Spencer…”

He frowns and mouths a little, ‘I know’. He looks at them, pleading, “Please, even if it’s just the two of you…” He trails off slowly, watching Penelope and Derek share a look.

“I’ll text the rest of the group.”

“Not the whole story,” Spencer adds as Penelope pulls out her phone. “Please.”

“I’m already doing you one favor, boy genius.”

Spencer is surprised at how many of his team members agree to dinner. JJ, Penelope, and Derek all promise to bring their respective partners. Rossi and Hotch politely decline, but given his sudden plans, he doesn’t blame them.

However, by the time five-thirty rolls around, he can see that he’s been played. The first text comes from JJ, claiming that Henry is sick and that she can’t make it. Derek follows, saying that he accidentally double-booked and cannot cancel his reservation with Savannah. He can feel himself sending a silent prayer to Penelope before she, too, is texting him to cancel.

So now, he stands outside the restaurant in a long brown trench coat and purple scarf tied tight around his neck. When you arrive, adorned with a cream sweater and rosy cheeks, you ask him the inevitable: “Where’s the team?”

Spencer's throat tightens as he answers, “They’ve canceled, so it’ll be just us if that’s alright with you?”

He can see your smile falter momentarily before you nod, “That’s fine, another time.” You shiver a little, glancing towards the restaurant. “Should we…?” Spencer, silently elated that you aren’t leaving, nods and hurriedly rushes over to open the door for you.

Once seated, you are greeted by a slightly uncomfortable awkward silence. You’re sure that it will soon resolve itself, but Spencer seems too lost in his thoughts, and it becomes clear that if you want this long silence to end, you’ll have to speak first.

“I’m sorry every–”

“Do you–”

The two of you stare at each other briefly before laughing softly. Spencer’s eyes crinkle a little when he’s laughing, a feature you seem to be adoring silently before he says, “I’m sorry that everyone canceled.”

You push out a little breath, your gaze falling to the menu on the table. “That’s okay, I’m sure everyone has busy lives.” You shrug a bit before glancing up at him, “I do have a question for you, though,” You watch as Spencer’s back straightens, and he gives you a small smile as the ‘go ahead.’

You flatten out the front of your sweater nervously, “Do you think it’s weird that I was supposed to meet your friends— the team?”

Spencer gives you a slightly confused look before you quickly add, “I don’t think it is, but I was talking to my coworker about tonight, and she said it seemed like an excuse for a date. Then I explained it, and she called it weird, and I don’t know—Do you think it’s weird?”

Spencer can feel his cheeks heating up against his will, and his head shakes from side to side, “No! No, it’s not weird.” he pauses, thinking about it for a second. “Well, maybe a little. But not for you, for me. You’ve never expressed an intense interest in meeting them, but they mentioned bringing someone, and I thought—” He motions to you with a shaky hand, “Thought you’d be a good person to bring to dinner. You’re lovely, and my friend, and I—” he feels the rest of his words die in his throat. He wants to tell you that he wants the team to meet you. He wants everyone to see how wonderful and kind you are.

He feels his mouth dry, realizing he wants you to meet the team now. He wants a third party to witness your calming effect on him, and, most importantly, he wants them to like you because he likes you.

A slow ringing grows in his ears at the full realization of his feelings for you. Your smile, usually calming, has his heart leaping in his chest. He finds himself leaning closer when you say, “I didn’t think it was weird either,”

Spencer lets out a little huff of relief, “Good, that’s good.” His heart was beating fast in his chest. He knew he had feelings for you but was unaware of how deep they ran.

“Though I will say, it is strange that they all canceled.”

He feels awful lying to you. He can count two lies now and doesn’t want to tell a third. “Yeah, I can’t explain that one. They all did it at the last minute. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind, though I was scared this was all a set-up for a date.” You laugh as if it’s the silliest idea you’ve heard.

Spencer can feel his heart in his throat, his breathing quickening slightly. “Would it be bad if it was?” he can’t stop the words from spilling out, his eyes widening at his sentence.

Your surprised face stares back at his, breathless as you look at him. You’re about to say something when the waitress comes by to take your order. You manage a slight, polite smile as you order before you’re staring off at Spencer. His nervous eyes flicker between the waitress and you as he orders quickly.

When she’s gone, you stare at each other with bated breath. You draw in a slow, calming breath when you say, “I don’t know,”

“You don’t… know?”

“I just, I haven’t thought about—” You pause, knowing it’s a lie. “I have—” You correct gently before you let out a frustrated sigh. “I thought we were friends.” Your voice cracks slightly.

Spencer draws his head back at that, “We are friends. We are. I didn't know if you ever thought about—” He doesn’t know what he’s saying. What is he aiming for here?

“Anyone dating you would be lucky, Spencer.” You say, sweet and gentle. You don’t know how to save this situation. Your love for Alexander will always be in your heart, strong and genuine, but… looking at the man across from you.

You watch his fingers nervously trace patterns on the glass of water in front of him, how he’s looking at you with such a sweet expression. You just didn’t think this would happen to you. You were sure that Alex was it. He was all you would ever know— you had resigned yourself to it.

Would you be a bad person if you fell in love again? After everything, it feels… selfish, dirty, wrong, terrifying. “I’m not sure I’m your best option.” Is what you settle on.

Your heart silently breaks as you watch Spencer’s face fall. His nervous fingers slow their movements until he whispers a sad, “Right.” There’s a pause, like he’s deciding what to do next. He then nods, like he’s coming to terms with something.

“Right, I’m not saying I’m looking–” His brown eyes scan your face, “I’m not even sure I want something like that. I don’t know why it sounded like I was. I just want you to know that I—” He swallows thickly, “I like being your friend.”

“Me too! I like being your friend, too.”

“Good!”

“Great!”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “So we’re on the same page?”

“Same chapter and everything.”

Spencer lets out a huff of a laugh at that, nodding slowly.

The rest of the dinner seems normal; the interaction from earlier seems to be brushed under the rug, and you’re grateful it is. However, the topic kept worming its way into your train of thought. The nagging thought of ‘What if…’.

It's not a terribly horrible idea to date Spencer. If you were honest with yourself, you had thought about it before—not obsessively, just in passing. A little whisper of an idea, lovely and new. It was nice to fantasize about love, but it was just a fantasy. You had a great love, and you were grateful.

Wanting more than that was greedy.

After dinner, Spencer insisted on walking you home. He wouldn’t listen to a single one of your protests and simply convinced you with a firm, “I’ve seen what happens to people when they go off alone late at night,”

The reminder made you readily accept his company on the cold December night. Walking by his side, watching how your feet started to sync in step, your mind began to wander. What did a date even feel like? It had been so long since you’ve had a date… you weren’t even sure you would know if you were on one unless it was explicitly said.

The thought makes you chuckle, earning the interest of one Doctor Spencer Reid. “What’s on your giggling mind?”

“Nothing,” You sigh, glancing over at him. “I was just thinking about how long it's been since I’ve been on a date. I don’t even think I would know if I was on a date if I was on one. Someone would have to sit me down and explain it to me,”

Spencer’s lips quirk upwards at the idea, listening to you. The sweet look he’s giving you is not lost on you as you continue to ramble, “I mean, I’m not even sure I remember the last time I tried to look for a date.”

“Care to take a guess?”

“Uhm,” You draw out the sound as you think, your tongue wetting your lips. “Six months ago, maybe, kind of, sort of?”

Spencer’s clever mind quickly realizes that this failed dating experience happened a month before he met you, and then he notes that it also happened ten months after Alexander’s death. “And.. What do you mean by that? How does someone, kind of, sort of, maybe look for a date?”

You roll your eyes, “It wasn’t really my idea. My friends convinced me to go on some dating apps, and I tried!” You laugh lightly, “Well. I pretended to try. I just didn’t like it. It wasn’t what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

Your feet falter momentarily before finding their pace next to Spencer again, “Something from a Nora Ephron movie, maybe? Something like You’ve got Mail.” As you say it, you see the strange look on Spencer’s face, and it makes you grin. “It’s a romantic comedy.”

He mouths a soft ‘oh’ and feels awkward because he still doesn’t know what you mean. You’re quick to explain, “It just means I had high expectations. Alexander and I were friends for a while before we,” You trail off before you wave the sentence off with your hand. “I just didn’t like it. Felt too forced.”

Spencer understands that part, slowly taking a left with you. “Haven’t tried that yet.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

He grins and nods, “What do you recommend?” His curious mind was getting the better of him. His left hand slipped out of his coat as he waited for your answer, his knuckles dangerously close to yours.

“In a world seemingly becoming increasingly dependent on technology for everything? I’d recommend shooting your shot with every pretty stranger you see.” It's a joke, but the idea of Spencer asking for the numbers of every pretty person in DC made your chest feel strangely tight— a light reminder that your crush was still going strong. And you’ve already turned him down.

“I’m not sure you’ve been paying close attention to me these past four months,” He jokes lightly.

“Oh, trust me, I have been.” The words tumble out before you can stop yourself, and you can feel your cheeks growing impossibly hot.

Spencer’s quick to tease, “You have been?”

You nod, trying to act like it's nothing but friendly, but your nervous breathing might give you away. You take a steady breath, happy to think that if he sees red on your cheeks, you can blame it on the cold weather.

Instead, he slows to a stop just steps away from your apartment complex. You stop, turning to look at him, and when you see him, all composure leaves you with one little glance. Spencer’s ears are red, his hazel eyes glued to yours, and his hands nervously fidget with his long purple scarf.

He draws in his lower lip nervously, his brow furrowing in the way that lets you know he’s meditating on something in that beautiful brain of his. His hands move as he begins to talk, “I have been too,”

With that, you feel all the air knocked out of you, and your trembling fingers hide in your pockets. You’re not sure what he wants you to say or do. It feels like a confession, making your heart pound in your chest. His sweet eyes study you, “I’m not sure what I—” He steps closer.

“Not sure what I want. All I know is that I feel something—” He makes a weird motion with his hands like he’s trying to shape his feelings with his hands. “Hopeful? I don’t know! I just,”

“I know.” You rasp out, nodding quickly. “I know.” You repeat it because you do know. You know what he’s feeling, that dangerous feeling of tentative hope, the sense that something is beginning again. The world shifting into focus and becoming colorful again.

Spencer’s gaze softens as that, and then the two of you just stare at each other for a moment. Guilt seemed to creep into your chest, invading your heart the longer you stared into those pleading brown eyes. Some part of you wanted to give it a shot, take him in your arms, and just let go. The stubborn part of you couldn’t let go of what you once knew.

What would you say to your friends— or worse, Alexander’s family? Thinking about being happy with someone else again felt like a betrayal.

Spencer could see the shift in your demeanor, the way your eyes glossed over with emotion, your back rigid, and he knew you weren’t ready. The feelings you were feeling were ones he wrestled with weeks ago after visiting Alexander’s grave. “I visited his grave without you a few times.”

Your brows knit together at that, stuttering gently as you manage a soft “Why?”

“I felt guilty about how I feel about you. I thought visiting his grave would make me back down, but it didn’t. I visited Maeve’s grave and thought about my feelings there too. She would have liked you.”

“Spencer, don’t–”

“You told me once that he would’ve wanted you to be happy with or without him. Why can’t you let yourself be happy? I know it’s uncharted territory; it is for me, too, and he knows you don’t love him any less–”

“You didn’t even know him!”

Spencer's lips draw into a tight line at that. You can’t stop yourself before saying, “You don’t understand the love I had for him. It was different from how you felt about Maeve. It was special.”

Your breathing is heavy, and you're trying to stop yourself from crying. The second you say it, you regret it. Your rigid posture slacks, and you step towards him quickly, but he steps back once you get closer.

“You don’t get to say that,” his voice is colder, his eyes cast down to his hands. Then he takes a sharp breath and looks up at you; his warm hazel gaze turns cold. “My love for her was just as special as yours was for Alexander. I can see that, even if you can’t. But at least I can see when something exceptional is right in front of me. Unlike you, I didn’t want it to slip through my fingers again.”

Your mouth feels dry as you try to respond, anger and guilt fighting an internal war inside you before Spencer turns on his heel and says, “Goodnight,”

The snow starts again as you watch him walk away, blinking flakes out of your lashes, cheeks red from the tears falling as you watch him disappear around the corner.

The conversation is still fresh in your mind at dinner with Alexander’s mom Tuesday night. She lives just outside the city in Maryland, so whenever she made her way into the city, you made it a point to meet up.

She watches the way you’re staring at your sandwich. The intense look you’re giving the meal almost makes her laugh. “Don’t be upset with the club. We can always get you another sandwich, dear.”

You raise your head slightly at that and let out a nervous laugh, “No, the sandwich is fine. I’m just thinking. I’m sorry, Shannon.”

Shannon lets out an understanding hum, waving you off with a simple flick of her wrist as you apologize. “Is it work?”

You give her an easy smile, “Ah, no. It’s… confusing and probably boring; don’t worry about it.” She gives you a little look that says, ‘Come on, really?’ and it makes your smile widen.

“When you retire, everything is confusing and boring, so lay it on me.”

“Shannon, please, I promise you don—”

“I will make you pay for this meal; do not force my hand.”

“I am paying?”

“Exactly. Now tell me what’s on your mind.”

You slump in your seat and nod in defeat. “Alright, well,” you wet your lips nervously, trying to figure out the best way to tell her. “You remember last time I mentioned that I had that friend from the group? The genius—Spencer.”

Shannon nods, motioning for you to keep going slowly, “Well, lately, he and I have become aware of some feelings for each other, and I–” You can feel your legs trembling, “He just doesn’t get it. I can’t do that to Alex or you. He just doesn’t understand—”

“Sweetheart, slow down.” She held up a hand, an amused look on her face as you rambled at the speed of light. “Start over.”

You let out a little huff, trying to calm your growing nerves. You roll your shoulders back, gaining some composure, “I have feelings for him, and I thought it was just a passing crush, but now it’s getting so messy. And he told me that he has feelings for me too, but I told him off, and we haven’t talked in four days– which would be fine if we didn’t fight, but we did— and I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“He’s really sweet and great, but I just… I keep thinking about my love for Alex and don’t want to let go of him.” Your voice gets quiet with the admission. “I’m happy loving just him, only him.” Your voice shakes lightly, forcing your gaze down, your eyes filling with tears.

You hated telling her this— hated telling her that your stupid heart found itself attached to someone other than her son. You mentally prepare yourself for something, anything, yet you still cringe when you feel her hand rest on yours.

“He’s dead–”

“I know–”

“No, listen,” Shannon says sternly, watching as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “He’s dead. Every day, I have to remind myself he’s dead. I know you do, too.” She frowns for a second before she gives you a weak smile. “But, you? You’re alive. You’ve experienced a loss no one should have to experience at your age, and yet here you are. Would he be ecstatic over you falling in love with someone else? Not quite, but I know my son. He wouldn’t want you to be alone. Or worse, unhappy.”

You blink away tears, your bottom lip trembling, “I don’t want to forget him,”

“Who said you’re going to?” Shannon jokes lightly, giving your hand a light squeeze. After a moment, she whispers, “Knowing Alex, he probably sent Spencer your way.”

You laugh at the idea, but the sound dissolves into a little sob, “He would.”

Shannon brightens momentarily, “He was always jealous of how good you were at trivia night. Maybe he wanted someone to beat you for once?”

“Spencer can!” You laugh harder than you should, but you can’t help it. You picture Alex’s face, joking about how you have too much useless knowledge in your brain.

As your laughter dies away, a wave of anxiety rolls over you. “I was awful to him last Friday.”

“Then make it up to him,”

After much deliberation, you knew you would, or at least, you would die trying. The next meeting was in two weeks, which seemed too far out. After three texts, two calls, and one voicemail, you decided to go to him.

You had been to Spencer’s apartment once before and were sure it was on this block… maybe. It was early Saturday morning, and you could only hope he would look out his window and see you pacing the sidewalk.

But an hour passed, and the cold wind forced you into a coffee shop down the block. Shivering as you waited for your coffee, you glanced at the unread texts you sent him one last time before stuffing your phone back into your pocket.

Clearly, he didn’t want to see you, much less talk to you. You chewed on your bottom lip, lost in thought until you resolved that seeing him at the next meeting would have to do if he didn’t text you back before then.

And so, two weeks and no texts back later, you sat in your usual foldable seat and waited. But he never showed. Your eyes watched the doors patiently, and you counted every last participant, thinking that the next one had to be Spencer.

But they weren’t. He was nowhere to be found. You had sat on your feelings for him for weeks, sat on with nasty comments and behavior for two weeks, and found yourself still waiting. He didn’t have to attend every meeting, but you felt even more desperate than before. Hating the feeling, you left halfway through.

It wasn’t like you could force him to talk to or forgive you. But it hurt knowing just how much you had hurt him. Were you being selfish for wanting a chance to confess to him again? Was it selfish how you looked for him in every crowd?

The unfortunate reality of your pain was that you were so scared of falling in love again that you pushed love away before it could even touch you. You found yourself driving to Alex’s grave that night. It was out of your way, but you didn’t want to go home just to wait by the phone again.

After parking in a nearby parking lot, you found yourself standing in the middle of a very dark, isolated cemetery. If Spencer were here, he would say how dangerous this was, maybe even throw in a statistic just to solidify his point.

You smile, eyes adjusting in the moonlight as you look down at your dead lover’s grave. You crouch, touching a bouquet of almost-dead flowers at the foot of his grave. “Was I bad at this with you, too?” Your fingers trace the brittle petals of a dying rose.

You can hear the crunching of gravel and slush approaching you, and a part of you freezes. As the sound gets closer, you can hear panting, your head turning cautiously to look for your rapidly approaching company.

When you see the silhouette of a man not too far down the trail, you tense. How stupid were you to be in a secluded area in the middle of the night? You curse under your breath and stay crouched, hoping it’s just a late-night jogger passing through and that he won’t see you if you stay low.

Your eyes stay on the figure, and you mentally go over possible escape plans when you see it— a messenger bag. What kind of serial killer or jogger wears a messenger bag? Your tense shoulders briefly relax for a second at the thought.

Then, a hint of moonlight illuminates your huffing stranger— messy brown hair and a crooked tie. You stand, “Spencer?” You say his name when he approaches you, the moonlight letting you get a glimpse of his soft eyes for a moment. “What are you… How’d you know I’d be here? What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t at the meeting,” He huffs, leaning over to rest his palms on his knees.

“I–” You scoff, slightly amused. “I left early. Did you show up?”

“No,” he admits, his tone becoming sharper as he catches his breath. “No, I–” he hesitates for a moment, “I saw your car on my way home, and I got worried, and I–” He roughly drags a hand through his curls, “You shouldn’t be in isolated places like this late at night.”

Your shocked expression melts, and your lips quirk into a slight smile. Spencer sees this and responds sharply, “I’m being serious!”

You hold up both hands, “I know, I—” You sigh, a slight chuckle following the sound before you say, “I knew you were going to say that. I could hear your voice when I parked across the street.”

“Maybe you should listen to it sometime,”

You nod, and then a moment of cold silence follows. The two of you stare at each other for a long moment before you feel your lips moving against your will, “You never called,”

Spencer can feel his heartbeat quicken, “Wasn’t aware I had to.”

“You didn’t have to. I just would have–” You cut yourself off, nervously licking your lips. “I wanted you to.”

Spencer stays quiet before he replies with a soft “I’m sorry,”

You find your smile returning as you shake your head, “That’s my line,”

He lets a little chuckle at that, ready to tell you it’s okay, when you quickly add, “I’m sorry for how I acted three weeks ago. I shouldn’t have been so cruel or close-minded, and I should have been honest with you about my feelings. I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’m sorry for implying your love for Maeve wasn’t special. Oh, Spencer,” You let out a heartbroken sigh, “I feel terrible. I was such a bad friend, and these past few weeks, all I’ve wanted to do is make it up to you.”

You can feel the tears threatening to fill your vision, your cheeks burning in the cold as you let out a meek, “Tell me there’s something I can do to make it up to you,”

Spencer can see your pleading eyes in the moonlight, and his chest tightens at the sight. Ignoring your calls and texts wasn’t easy, but he was convinced that it was the right thing to do. You weren’t ready to move on, and neither was he— not completely, but he didn’t want to try with anyone else. He only wanted to try with you.

He swallows thickly when he says a sweet “You’ve already done it,” Then you’re beaming at him, and he’s right back where he was three weeks ago. As you dry your misting eyes, he softly confesses, “I watched You’ve Got Mail.” He pauses, smiling lightly when you give him a surprised look through your tears. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, so I–” He nervously moved his hands as he talked, “I watched any Romcom that I could get my hands on because I—”

You smile as he trails off, his hands twisting together in that nervous way that tells you he’s scared to say the rest of his sentence— he’s too afraid to say he missed you. “Me too,” You confess, “I missed you, too.”

He nods, a grin on his face as he looks at you. He can feel his confession rising in his throat, his lips moving awkwardly as he tries to gain the confidence to confess to you again.

But, before he can say anything, you’re speaking, “I don’t know if you still feel the same as you did three weeks ago, but I–” You swallow hard, clearing your throat softly. Your hands move with you as you speak, the cold making them feel slightly stiff. “For the longest time, I couldn’t imagine myself happy with anyone other than Alex.” You blow out a sigh, glancing back at his tombstone. “I thought one great love was enough— I only deserved one. I was happy with that, and I felt lucky for it.”

You can feel yourself trembling, and you don’t know if it’s the cold or your nerves getting the better of you; nonetheless, you keep going, “But lately, I’ve been thinking— hoping really— that you’re the expectation.” You squeeze your eyes tight at that last bit, trying to calm your breathing as you wait for his response.

“If anyone deserves more than one great love, it’s you.” Spencer’s voice sounds closer, soft.

When you open your eyes, you realize he is closer, inches from you. You gaze up at him, giving him a light smile when he whispers, “We can take it slower,”

“I like slower.”

He laughs and nods, “Me too,” he holds out a cold hand for you to take, “Let me walk you to your car?”

You stare at his palm, watching your cold fingers intertwine with his. The sensation makes the tips of your fingers buzz with anticipation. You feel his hand gives yours a slight squeeze before guiding you to the parking lot across the street.

It’s not the last time you walk side-by-side, holding hands in the middle of the cold East Coast winter, and he’s determined to make sure it’s not your last.

And whenever anyone asks how the two of you met, Spencer lets you tell the story, his hand slipping into yours as you say, “Well, it’s a bit of a long story.”

#fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #dr spencer reid #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #spencer x you #spencer reid fanfiction #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid criminal minds #dr reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort #...and fall in love whenever you can #it-was-summer

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lightseoul · 2 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 3 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 4.0k (i know)

tags. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), much cussing, some adult themes (again, no smut y'all), bkg and reader go through one stage of grief: bargaining, the plot thickens!

a/n. wrote all this in one day—i couldn't put the doc down until i finished it. this chapter is jam-packed and has lots going on, but we're only at the beginning. i hope you have as much fun reading it as i did writing it!

links. masterlist, ao3 (coming soon)

“…Though I trust you’ll understand if we set some—” he pauses, and you’re 99% sure it’s for dramatic effect, “—precautionary measures in place?”

“Waddya have in mind?” asks Bakugou, his rough tone laced with unmistakable skepticism.

“Well, for starters…”

Their leader glances back at the bionic woman. “Sayaka, are they ready?”

Sayaka nods. “Ready for installation, Masaki-san.”

You scramble to take a mental note of their names—as well as try to ignore the fact that the robotic girl sounds like a robot, too—as you watch Masaki gesture to the escort from earlier who’s standing at the sides and in the shadows.

He emerges into the dim lights with a wide stride, but to your surprise, another leg steps forward right beside him. Your eyes trail up until they land on the other person, widening in confusion because they look just like a carbon copy of the intimidating escort—tall, ginger head, pale skin—only it’s a girl.

There’s no mistaking it.

They’re twins.

Twin bodyguards. In a quirk supremacist group.

You fight the urge to let out a dry laugh.

But apparently, neither of the two finds the situation funny, because they’re nothing but serious as they approach Masaki and bow politely, before heading to Sayaka and taking what looks like tiny…metal pieces?

You don’t get the opportunity to wonder about what those were, though, because, in the blink of an eye, the twins are already stalking straight toward you and Bakugou, glaring daggers.

“Those are bugs,” Masaki explains just as the twins arrive right in front of you, with the guy from earlier towering over Bakugou and the female staring you down a few inches away from your face, decidedly a little too close for comfort. You barely manage to stop yourself from gulping and looking away.

“They’ll be tracking your speech and movements 24/7. And don’t worry, they’re waterproof.”

You sense Bakugou’s about to spit some smart-ass comment, judging by the way he puffs up like he tends to do when he’s about to drop a curse-riddled quip, but he doesn’t get the chance to deliver the blow because the twins are on you in an instant.

You accidentally let out a yelp as the woman grabs the hem of your tank top so roughly you think it’s gonna tear, before she stuffs her right hand up. Mortified, you struggle against her hold, but her left has a death grip on you.

“Relax,” she seethes, obviously very much already done with you. “I’m just installing it.”

At her words, you manually will yourself to calm down, and it quickly dawns on you that she’s not touching you violently or inappropriately. You tamp down a shiver as her cold fingers come into contact with the center of your chest, right at the dip of your bra and between your breasts, feeling the surface before sticking something that you promptly identify as the tracker.

And as she retracts her hand and steps away from you, right at the same time as her twin like they’re wired for synchrony, you reflect on how it’s so light that you barely feel an added weight to your body. It’s circular, too, and you debate for a second whether or not to peer down at your chest to see what it really looks like, before ultimately deciding against it.

You can do that later, in the privacy of the (hopefully not downstairs) bathroom.

If such a concept even exists.

“Thanks, you two,” comes Masaki’s gentle voice, before shifting to regard you and Bakugou. “You can get to know your designated guards later on, but for now, let’s continue.”

As if on cue, the twins take a further step back before eventually returning to their dark corner.

“What we just affixed on your chests are special devices, again, designed to monitor any sound you make as well as your specific locations. They’re not your ordinarily engineered trackers—they’re Sayaka’s thanks to her quirk—which also allows her to directly receive the feedback and project it for others to see and hear.”

Ah.

You don’t know how that works exactly, but you bet the expensive ass perfume that you got for your birthday last year—the very one you wear for special occasions like now—that it’s got something to do with her robotic parts.

“Does everyone in your group get one, too?” questions Bakugou, who’s now looking a bit miffed. You’re sure he didn’t enjoy getting felt up by a stranger who he just called someone’s little lackey.

“Only the new members,” Sayaka answers succinctly, her voice sounding like it’s filtered with autotune.

But especially you two, you finish for her in your head. And really, you can’t blame them. Taking in a pro-hero, let alone Japan’s #2, is a huge gamble, and Bakugou quite literally can make or break their whole plan to attack. This level of precaution is not at all uncalled for. You’d even go so far as to say it’s not enough.

Bakugou must be thinking the same thing, too, because he doesn’t offer a follow-up question.

Masaki takes your silence as a sign for him to go on.

“Of course, that’s only the first layer of protection.”

Shit.

You hope you didn’t just think that into existence.

The plain-looking leader puts on that prudent smile of his, before turning to look at the old man. “Kouki-san here has a very handy quirk. Teleportation,” he glances at Bakugou, “A sought-after power in the hero world, isn’t it?”

Bakugou shrugs, although you’re guessing the answer is yes and that he’s just too stubborn to admit it.

Figures.

“Well, he’s gone and mastered his quirk, and has since been indispensable to our organization. Essentially—” Masaki huffs, like he’s preparing for the bomb he’s about to drop, “—the very moment you even hint at betraying us, we’re gone,” he snaps his fingers, “Just like that. And you won’t be able to trace us.”

“Really?” drawls Bakugou. “You’ll abandon this cushy, not at all seedy ass headquarters of yours?”

“This is only one of many, Dynamight,” Masaki responds, seemingly unbothered by Bakugou’s taunt. “And this is actually not our headquarters.”

He picks up his glass of alcohol and lightly twirls it around in his hand. “I also trust that you’re aware of what a distinguished group such as ours entails? Naturally, we need to have somewhere safe where we can conduct all our activities under the radar.”

“As you can imagine, it’s not just us five. We have many, many members who share the same principles, and this club can’t possibly be large enough to host all of us.”

“Where are you going with this?” Bakugou demands.

“What I’m saying is that we have a separate place as our headquarters, a place much bigger than this. And—” he cocks his head toward Kouki, “—we get there via teleportation.”

“Obviously,” sneers Bakugou, “Otherwise that’d be a huge waste of the old man’s quirk, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but that’s only one of the reasons. You see, it’s also so that you won’t know where it is located,” Masaki pauses once again, which you decide in a split second is warranted because of what he’s going to say next.

“And for that to work, we’re also going to have to lock you inside.”

Your breath hitches. Bakugou bristles.

“The fu—”

“We’re going to have to make you stay with us—” the plain-looking man interjects with a slightly louder voice, “—at least until the day of the attack, as we cannot risk you two being seen constantly going in and out of this club every night.”

You’re about to contribute to the conversation for the very first time but Bakugou beats you to it. “Fucking stay in? Isn’t that gonna cause even more suspicion?”

“It wouldn’t if you both come up with a good excuse to disappear,” Kouki retorts with a smidge of attitude. He eyes Bakugou with a raised brow, “Wouldn’t now be a great time to have a top-secret ‘mission’ overseas? And I’m sure your friend here can whip something up.”

You brush off the annoyance that shoots through you at the dismissive mention. Instead, you finally bring yourself to speak up. “I thought you just said we’ll be stuffed in a secret hideout?”

“Ah,” Masaki sounds out, “You are, but this is our gateway, so to speak. You go here to get teleported to the headquarters, and from there, get teleported back here to return to the outside world. We won’t hesitate to teleport away from both places the second we have to, but that doesn’t mean our HQ is easily disposable to us, hence all these measures.”

“All this to say,” he furthers, his timid tone juxtaposing the threatening words you’re sure he’s about to utter, “You two better think twice about betraying us.”

There it is.

He smiles again. “Do either of you have any questions?”

Beside you, Bakugou mutters to himself for a second, before clearing his throat. “You’re yapping on and on about what you’ll do if we betray you and shit. Ain’t that such a warm welcome for your new members?”

—A rhetorical question, because he doesn’t let anyone get a word in. Instead, he presses on.

“But what if we don’t? What’s in it for us?”

“You get to live out your ideals, boy,” comes the old geezer’s snappy reply.

Bakugou snorts, and you’re sure it’s not because he found the guy hilarious.

“That’s a shitty deal on our end, don’t ya think so?” the pro-hero shifts his weight on his other foot. “How ‘bout this, you guarantee protection for my…friend here, and we’re even.”

You hold your breath.

Looking past the way he just so awkwardly referred to you as his friend, that segue just now wasn’t exactly the smoothest.

Still, you have no choice but to roll with it. So, with much conviction, you morph your face into that of shyness—one that you hope is charming enough to win their graces.

“Just her?” asks Masaki, placid as ever.

“I can get by,” comes Bakugou’s confident response.

Once again ignoring the mildly degrading remark, you ready yourself to use your quirk. You closely examine the leader’s features as they transform into an expression of contemplation, even as he turns to the other two and engages them in quiet conversation.

You and Bakugou stand there for a few moments, waiting, before Masaki finally turns again.

And all that preparing to utilize your quirk goes out of the dilapidated windows once you catch a glimpse of his face.

“I guess that’s settled, then.”

Called it.

Masaki then raises an eyebrow at the two of you. “Any more concerns?” he smiles to himself, “Heartwarming requests?”

Neither of you says anything.

“None?” he asks again, before patting his thighs in a gesture of finality. “Well, then, I believe it’s time for you to see your new home! Kouki-san?”

At the mention, the old man slowly gets up from where he made himself very comfortable on the couch, and walks leisurely towards you, planting himself in front of and between you and Bakugou.

“Hang tight,” Kouki smirks, reaching out for both of your hands, and you’re just about registering how eerily cool his are when the ground that was perfectly carpeted and steady just a second ago suddenly collapses from beneath you.

A violent wave of nausea instantly hits you as the room completely vanishes before you, replaced by pitch-black darkness in a second. You scramble for purchase—tightening your grip on the person responsible for whatever the fuck this is—as the noise instantaneously gets sucked in a vacuum, leaving you in full silence. Your legs are jelly as you stumble on your feet, and you’re convinced you’re going to fall to your death down to the abyss below you when—just as fast as the lounge disappeared—a warmly lit hallway materializes in front of you.

But it’s too late, you’re already out of balance and lurching forward—inch by excruciating inch—right until you feel a hand grab your forearm and you’re unceremoniously yanked back into an upright position.

You whip to look at Bakugou as you wobble on your feet, and he’s staring at you with such alarm that makes you feel so…vulnerable. He retracts his left hand a beat later when you eventually steady yourself, his serious and unrelenting gaze fixated on you before shifting to study the place you just got teleported to.

You follow suit, eyeing the hallway as you place the hand Kouki was holding into your pocket to warm it up.

Similar to the club and the room you were just in, the area is barely illuminated, but it’s bright enough for you to make out the dark wooden doors that line both sides. You’re right in the middle of the hallway, and at one of the ends you think are staircases leading both to a lower and an upper level, while at the other end is another door.

If these lead to what you think they lead…

Then, damn.

They weren’t kidding about lodging.

From the corner of your eye, you see the old man look at you and follow your line of vision, shifting to study the aforementioned door at the end of this hallway.

“That’s your room,” he offers curtly, like this job of chaperoning you to your place of residence for who knows how many days is beneath him.

Room, you parrot in your head.

Room singular.

“Well?” he asks, not even bothering to hide his impatience when neither you nor Bakugou makes a move. “Aren’t you going to check it out?”

You hesitate, glancing at Bakugou to find him frowning at Kouki, before turning to look at you.

“We don’t have all day, you two,” Kouki adds on with a sigh at the same time you raise your eyebrows ever so minutely at the pro-hero, as if asking for confirmation. “Go on, I’ll wait here.”

It only takes a small nod from Bakugou to pull you out of the paralysis, and the minute that he does, you’re already moving to the spot beside him, matching his pace as you trudge towards the door.

As inconspicuously as you can, you check the corners of the room along the wall facing you for cameras, only to find none.

And so you do it.

With your backs turned against the Teleportation master, you finally let your emotions show on your face.

You also chance a peek at Bakugou, only to find him already eyeing you with the very same expression you’re sure is written all over your features.

The one that says you’re fucked.

You don’t get to dwell or comment on the shared sentiment, though, mainly because they’ll hear every word you say, but also because you arrive in front of the door. Bakugou looks at the knob and then at you warily, and you can only nod in encouragement.

That seems to be enough of a push for him, because he reaches for and turns the handle, pushing past the entryway so you can walk in from behind him.

Now, the first thing that registers after you startle at the door closing is the fact that the room is small. Tiny, even. There’s another door at the back, which you think leads to the comfort room.

But that’s pretty much it.

That, and there’s only one bed.

To your credit, though, you’re able to refrain from gasping in horror at the sight of it, which you can chalk up to the next thing that you see—a couch.

It doesn’t seem like it’s foldable or can be converted into a larger bunk, but it’ll have to do. It’s brown and hopefully real leather this time, and is crammed right next to the bed. You remind yourself that they were only expecting Bakugou, and so you can’t really complain and that you’ll have to make do with sleeping on the couch for the next n days.

Aside from all those, though, the room is relatively bare.

Well, apart from the cameras with the blinking red light at the upper, four corners of it.

But you don’t get to wordlessly warn him about it, let alone come to terms with the fact that they’re deadass going to be watching your every single move, because something seizes your wrist, spinning you around, leaving you face to face with Bakugou.

You’re too preoccupied with the sudden motion and the fact that you’re just a breadth’s width away from each other to notice the darkened look in his eyes.

Which, in hindsight, you should’ve noticed.

If you wanted any chance at bracing yourself for what he’s going to do next.

“Wha—”

You yelp—cutting yourself off—when Bakugou, the Bakugou Katsuki—Japan’s #2 Pro-hero, Vogue Japan’s Hottest Bachelor of the Year, and the dickhead who used to be your biggest, fattest crush—grabs at your neck and smashes his lips against yours.

You involuntarily jerk away from him, but his free hand shoots up to roughly clutch your hip just as his grip on your neck tightens, pinning you in place and right against him.

And you don’t know how the fuck it happens, but he does something with his tongue, or his mouth? His teeth? You don’t know at this point, and frankly, you don’t want to know, because coupled with his scalding hold on your body, it causes you to do the unthinkable.

You moan.

And again, you don’t even get the opportunity to feel the utter humiliation, because just as quickly as he pounced on you, Bakugou pulls away, but not before scowling at the cameras as if he just noticed them—which you doubt—then taking your hand, dragging you out of the door and into the hallway.

The old man glances at you. “Are you don—”

“Take us the fuck back now,” Bakugou spits as he pulls you right beside him.

At that, Kouki’s eyebrows furrow. “You ought to know better than to speak to an elderly like that.”

But the man who just fucking kissed you apparently can’t give a single flying fuck, because he retorts without missing a beat. “Take us back now.”

That must’ve been the final straw, because Kouki’s face finally morphs into the scowl that you think he’s been trying to suppress this entire time, but to your surprise, he moves closer to the two of you and once again, reaches for your hands.

You don’t know what the fuck is going on, but what you do know is that Bakugou’s onto something here, because he wouldn’t have pulled that stunt just now without any reason, which means the last thing you should do is resist.

And so you take Kouki’s hand, just as Bakugou snags the other, and when you do, the floor gives out from underneath you.

You’re still overcome with a sense of dizziness as your surroundings shift and the noise dissipates around you, but as you find the lounge slowly appearing before your eyes, you find that it’s not as bad the second time.

Bakugou’s still holding your hand when you arrive at the second floor of the club, right back where you stood from a while ago.

Sayaka is the first one to notice you, most likely thanks to her quirk and the goddamn device stuck to your chest, but it’s Masaki who speaks up when he catches wind of your arrival.

He puts down the deck of cards you think he’s just been shuffling before shifting to look at you. “Back so soon?”

Kouki turns around to face him, “Bakugou demanded to—”

“Why the fuck are there cameras in our room?”

Offended, the old man whips around again to glower at Bakugou, seemingly ready to unleash the sermon of the century. “Young man—”

“Turn them the fuck off,” the pro-hero interjects, “And the mics, too.”

Bakugou hesitates, as if unsure of how to properly say the next few words. He glances at you, expression inexplicable, before turning back to face them. “…At least at night.”

Silence.

“Oooh, I see where this is going,” comes Masaki’s reaction a moment later, a knowing smile creeping on his face. You feel yourself flame. “You weren’t being clear with us earlier, Bakugou. You didn’t say you brought your girlfriend.”

“Didn’t think it was necessary to point out,” comes Bakugou’s terse reply.

“Yeah, well, I’m afraid it doesn’t matter either way. The surveillance is for our safety, which comes above everything else, even the privacy of our esteemed members.”

“You promised you’d protect her at all costs,” Bakugou counters. “Protecting her modesty from the perverts you call your surveillance people is part of that.”

Now, you’re not a hundred percent certain, but you’re pretty sure he just shot the cyborg a look at the latter half of the sentence, which you think would’ve been a noble gesture—if it weren’t for the fact that it’s not just her, judging by the sheer number of cameras in this room alone.

Your attention drifts back to Masaki, however, when he heaves a sigh, leaning against the couch with a tired expression on his face. “Tell me, then, Dynamight. How do you propose we make sure you don’t brew something behind our backs off surveillance?”

“I can turn off the bugs,” Sayaka pipes up before Bakugou can answer, her mechanical voice drifting across the room. “They emit a blue light at their circumference that shuts down when I turn the device off.”

“As for the cameras…” she drones on, “The blinking red light should be gone when they’re offline.”

“That shit won’t do,” Bakugou declares decisively, not even letting the suggestion simmer. “There’s no knowing for sure that they’re actually off and aren’t just hacked to seem like they are.”

“The cameras should also face down. And—” he huffs, “—We get to remove the tracker.”

A chorus of protests erupts from the group—particularly from Sayaka and Kouki—but even the twins who are still stationed at the sides. Masaki, in contrast, only sits in silence as he studies the pro-hero, but there’s no missing the uneasiness decorating his features.

“It’s only at night,” Bakugou reasons, voice now a bit louder to be heard amidst the sea of complaints. “You can set up guards around the perimeters of our room. We’ll surrender them at the door before entering, and we can’t go out beyond the doorway until they’re attached again.”

And when no one says anything, Bakugou pushes. “How does that sound?”

You chance a glance at Masaki, who does not seem to be getting anywhere near convinced.

Bakugou must be noticing it, too, because he squeezes your hand so imperceptibly that you almost miss it.

But you don’t, and quite honestly, you could have and be okay with having done so, because you were on it, anyway.

You quickly scan the room.

One, two, three, four, five.

Five.

You can do five.

And so with the most innocent tone you can muster, you speak up.

“That sounds reasonable to me.”

All five whip to look at you, and the second that they do, you pull—swiftly and in succession—eyes jumping from Sayaka to Kouki to Masaki to the male twin and then to the girl.

Your gaze darts back to the leader right after to make sure you got him, but his remarkably serene countenance is enough to tell you that you’ve successfully done it.

You did it.

You just won Bakugou and you the window of time to discuss the mission in the privacy of your own room.

And Bakugou must be seeing the palpable shift in their demeanors because he squeezes your hand once more, only this time you think it’s in gratitude.

You feel a surge of pride swell in your chest.

Let the games begin.

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @sugurusmoon @napbatata @k0z3me @h0ngh0ngh0ng @honeyoru @yoongiwithglasses @hellokitty-doll | @junehasnotbeenfound @sugalarity @haechansbbg @sikuthealien @reiniella3 @ita606 @xoxoblueyy @mutsu422 @eyesforbkg @kalulakunundrum @venus-xxoo @lemuhr @pinkpantheris @ashers-playpen @bakugouswh0r3 @certaindreampost @3ve88 @tsumuus @4acoffee @anonymity-222 @lousypotatoes @homeless-clown @sk8wh33l | @matchat3a @harryzcherry @h0nestly-though @cc1306 @gold24fish @bakukags @zennypiee @wannabewolf @kameko-ko @lovra974 @arc6021 @kooromin @surprisemodafakas @ilovedenk-i @st4ntwic3 @j1tterbugaboo @call-memissbrightside @arael-asuka @bakugosgothhoe | @js-favnanadoongi @stxrrielle @panikk-attackkk @lotusstarr @ordola @simpforeveryone @typsichryle @arsonfrogger

#buzzing with excitement!!!#bkg didn't just do THAT #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou imagines #mha imagines #bnha imagines #mha scenarios #bnha scenarios #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou imagine #bakugou fluff #bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n

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halohalona · 5 months ago

Text

Fair

"It's what my heart just yearns to say In ways that can't be said"

Logan reflects on his life, sense of self, and his relationship with you

Logan Howlett x Reader

this was inspired by the song "Fair" by The Amazing Devil. You can listen to the song while reading but it isn't necessary. i wanted to capture the song's emotion in this fic, and hopefully, I did.

ok this is take 2 of posting this 'cause the first time had a shit ton of typos and could not live with myself letting ya'll read a fic with typos (especially when i wanted this to be very emotional), partially beta-read, hopefully, it's not as typo-filled as before

masterlist

warnings/tags: emotional hurt/comfort, takes place after the events of DP&W, logan cries, reference to "Beanie" (drabble i wrote), a glimpse of domesticity, and i honestly don't know what else to tag.

Sunlight pours into the room through the gaps of the curtain as Logan stirs awake on your chest. You’ve been awake for a while now, just playing with his hair and humming the first song that came to mind.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” you softly greet him with a warm smile. He looks up at you, his own tender smile gracing his lips. A smile reserved only for you. He doesn’t say anything, too busy admiring your bedhead, appreciating how beautiful you looked in the morning.

He buries his head into the crook of your neck as his smile widens. “Where have you been all my life?” he murmurs softly against your skin.

“In another universe?” you reply playfully.

His smile slowly fades at the thought. His face is still in the crook of your neck as he mumbles “It’s not fair,” hoping you wouldn’t hear, but you do anyway.

“What’s not fair love?” you ask.

“It’s not fair how the universe hid you away from me,” he joked. You gently hug his head and chuckle. He said it jokingly but you know that’s not what he really wanted to say.

It was Wade who introduced you to each other during one of his many parties. You were his neighbor across the hall. After some mildly uncomfortable introductions and comments from Wade, Logan irritably told him to shut the fuck up which led to him eventually leaving you two alone.

You never met the Logan of your world, and Logan never met the you in his world. Sometimes you wonder if you ever did meet the Logan of your word, would he be the same as the man you’re lying with right now? Probably not, and you think it’s for the best.

He stays quiet for a while before releasing you from his embrace and sitting up.

He stares at the wall, pondering about you, your relationship, this world he’s in, everything.

His mind wanders back to the time when you made that odd-looking hat because you said it reminded you of his hair—he couldn’t help but smile, realizing in that moment that he would cherish everything about you, no matter how unusual it was. He remembered the night you two were watching a horror movie on the couch and you were so scared that you somehow found a way to burrow yourself between his back and the couch to get away from the horrifying scenes unfolding on the TV. In that moment he felt a deep and instinctive need to protect you from anything that would frighten or harm you, real or not. And then there was the time you went out of your way to get him the watch he had been staring at in the mall; it made him realize just how much you cared.

Maybe fate brought you to each other, though he’s not entirely sure. But he was sure about one thing: he wants you. He wants this life he’s created with you. He has never felt so content, calm, and happy. Yet, he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t deserve any of this—especially not you.

“Love? Is everything alright?” your voice laced with worry brings him out of his contemplation and back to the present.

God knows he wasn’t a good man, and he’s told you so many times but you stand by him. If he hadn’t already lost everything, he would be willing to do so, if you asked. And that’s what he tells you.

You move to straddle on his lap and cradle his face in your hands.

“Hey, it’s me,” you say softly. “You may not be a good man, and as you said, you’ve done bad things. But what’s happened has happened, and you can’t change that. Even if you could and you did, we wouldn’t be here right now. You may think you don’t deserve me but isn’t that also up to me? I want you, and you want me. Let’s keep it that way, alright?”

He wraps his arm around your waist, holding you close. Afraid that if he moved even the slightest bit you would disappear along with his reason for everything. You don't say anything. You let him hold you until his heart and mind stop racing.

Running your hands through his hair and hugging him against your chest you whisper, “It’s not fair,” echoing his words from earlier. “It’s not fair how much I love you even when you piss me off and act like you don’t need me.”

You settle onto his lap, and softly press your forehead against his. A tender smile graces his lips as he gazes into your eyes. “Well, if that’s the case,” he murmurs, his voice soft and sincere, “you have no idea how unreasonably in love I am with you. With everything you do, with just… you.” he pulls away, holding your wrist and laying his head in your palm, more tears threatening to fall, "You make me feel normal when I'm with you.”

Fighting back your own tears, you whisper, “I love you, and I want you to remember that. I love you so much it hurts. And it hurts me as much knowing you don’t believe that you deserve it, because you do. I love you, so please don’t push me away” you bring your lips to his in a soft and tender kiss.

"I love you more than words can say, and I promise I'll never push you away again.”

“And I’ll stay by your side, no matter what happens,” you added, holding him close.

#logan howlett x reader #hugh jackman #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool & wolverine #logan x reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan howlett #xmen #marvel #mari cliffgate's writing

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itsmiyamore · 6 months ago

Text

— thief

"You're just a thief, who stole all my moves and used them on me." — inspired by Thief by Maisie Peters

a/n: it's my darling boy's birthday!!! I think I wrote this fic before even starting this blog, so this is a super duper secret from-the-vault work that I've been gatekeeping for years hehe, but I figured what better way to celebrate Oikawa's birthday than by finally sharing it with you all?! Most of it is still from the original version I wrote years ago, just with some slight revamping and editing (ty @dear-koi for beta reading!); I really mean it when I say this is my baby and I'm proud, I hope you all love her as much as I do! :)

Warning: reader is gender neutral, but Oikawa's other love interest is fem

-> this is not part of the @/ficsforgaza initiative, but please consider sponsoring another wip!

"Hey, pretty." Oikawa Tooru slides into the seat of the desk in front of you, facing you. He smiles softly, resting his chin on his hand. Your heart flutters at the nickname, forever unused to the delicate attention Oikawa so graciously bestows upon you.

"Hey, yourself," you say softly, admiring the way Oikawa's eyes perfectly catch the sunlight. The flecks in his eyes take the shape of a flower around his irises, and you think it's the prettiest bloom you've ever seen.

Oikawa shifts and you watch, entranced, as he caresses the side of your face. His hand grazes yours, softly tracing the back of it—like silk fluttering in the wind. He turns it, intertwining his fingers with yours.

The morning sun comes through the classroom window and warms your skin, but your entire body soars with his touch. There’s a hush in the world as Oikawa hums, playing with your hand, admiring the way your fingers interlock. He looks fascinated, and maybe even a bit surprised you're letting him fiddle with them, and your heart thumps with the way he looks at you with the utmost adoration.

Oikawa handles you like you're made of fragile porcelain, wrapping your heart in thick blankets. He has always been careful with everything he does, but the way he treats your heart is so delicate, so pure.

Oikawa is your first love, and so, your only love. He never says it, and you never force the topic, but he cares so deeply for you it shakes you to your core. Everyone can tell; they'd be stupid not to. "Love," is the word they whisper as you walk down the halls with him trailing after you. “Love," is what his friends tease when they think you're out of earshot. And Oikawa just smiles that smile he knows you love because you turn back to wave, thinking yes, Oikawa loves you.

There's a special spot on the beach you both like to go to.

The glassy waves reflect the golden sky and the rolling clouds—the gentle sounds filling your ears, mouth going numb from ice cream on teeth. The waves lap up the pier and you glance at Oikawa sitting next to you, whose eyes are locked onto the boats disappearing in the distance.

As the stars begin to twinkle, you shiver, and he gives you his jacket, muttering something under his breath as he zips it up. His eyebrows are furrowed and his nose scrunches up, and something about the gesture is so endearing that you can't help but laugh.

He glances up, startled at first, then a faint smile of amusement appears as he watches you giggle. Your breath hitches as he leans in, something else blooming in your chest as the tips of your noses meet and his forehead rests against yours, your senses overflowing with him.

He stays for a moment, and you wonder what would happen if you leaned in.

But he pulls away and you can't help but wrap your arms around yourself and shiver, feeling colder than ever.

You're naive, you think, as you watch your castle crumble like sand under the ocean's unforgiving waves. Your world is slipping through your fingers and you're grasping, but he's gone.

And you realize that you'd become spoiled on a love that was never really yours to begin with.

Oikawa met her where he met you: by the shore of the ocean (your spot that you shared with him), skipping stones—a prom queen and heartbreaker jeans, a romance just waiting to happen, adorned with something precious and real.

You hate it. You hate the way he writes over the memories of you—replaces them with a shinier, prettier version—with the girl he says he's in love with.

The girl he is in love with.

You're angry at Oikawa for giving you the illusion of being royalty, and you're bitter, resentful, and angry at yourself for building up your hopes. Sometimes you can't help but wish you had it in you to tear them apart—to fight for Oikawa and maybe get to keep him—but when it comes down to it, you just can’t. You're not mean.

You're just unfortunately, irrevocably, hopelessly in love.

He's happy; you can see it in the way he hums as he walks to class or smiles out of nowhere. He's happy, and it kills you because it's no longer because of you—was it ever because of you?—but you would rather have the crumbs of his affection than nothing at all. It works—at least a little bit—you whisper to yourself, tearing your gaze away. But you can't help but pity yourself and your lonely little heart that was too drunk on fantasies to realize they were never meant to be.

Sometimes, you wish you had told him as you watch him go, hand in hand with her—smiling at her like he did with you, caressing her face like he did with you. He never knew, or maybe he always did.

He leaves anyway, and it hurts all the same.

I miss you like mental, you think as you look out to where memory has taken you. The sunset is beautiful, glittering on the ocean's surface, blissfully unaware that something sacred has been brutally taken from you. It's a curse that your heart does not know how to let go.

You loathe it.

You walk onto the pier, shivering as you wrap your arms around yourself. You try to remember the weight of Oikawa's jacket around your shoulders, the warmth of his body as he pulled you close, his fingers intertwined with yours. There's so much you would give—you sigh as you pick up a stone, turning it over in your palm before tossing it, watching as it skips over the water. There's so much you would give to feel his love again; and you cross your heart, hope to die, that you won't go insane with the way you miss him.

But maybe you already have.

There must be a cure, you think, for all the lonely, pathetic people who spilled their hearts out to pretty thieves who changed their minds.

Oikawa loved you, and you have no one else to blame but yourself for thinking that meant he was in love with you.

No one to blame but yourself for believing his beautiful, silver-lined words and bewitching gestures—like a sailor, doomed from the start to follow the siren to your death. There’s nothing but leftover hopes and wishes piled up like meaningless dunes of sand inside you, and as they begin to spill out of your eyes, you decide you won't keep them for him anymore.

"Goodbye," you whisper to the gentle waves, small ripples fading as the only remaining evidence of your heartbreak. A simple promise you make as you turn your back, swearing off all the places and things he made you love.

Maybe you'll be back one day. Maybe one day after you've stitched yourself up in a slow, clumsy way because you don’t have his delicate fingers to guide your own.

Maybe one day, when you're finally alright.

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readychilledwine · 1 year ago

Note

Hello. Hope u r feeling good. I was wondering if u could write something again. This one is particularly personal to me. Picture it. Reader is daughter of any one of the bat boys. If cass Or az then single dad. She has been bullied since the day she started school as a child because she has a problem when it comes to studying. As she grows it's her looks. The ic, notices her behavior is starnge. Like, snapping at small things, crying when they correct her or raise their voice. She has never told anyone because she doesn't want them to stress out and the bullies said that she was so worthless because she keeps running to her father for everything. Her dad finds out soon. U can decide the ending.

Oh my love 💜 all three of our boys got you.

Head Held High

Summary - After being born with Feyre's looks, but illyrian wings, Rhysand and Feyre's daughter faces challenges wherever she goes.

Warnings - bullying, signs of low self-worth, anger, inferred adhd or other learning issues, older brother coming in to do the older brother thing while protective dad does the dad thing

You had him wrapped around your finger the second you came into the world.

His beautiful baby girl, wide eyed and filled with curiosity and happiness.

You truly were a stunning little thing, but how couldn't you have been with parents like Rhysand and Feyre? He loved you even more for being the small version of your stunning mother. Her nose, her lips, her hair. The only piece of you that screamed you were his were those star flecked eyes.

Your childhood was filled with love and joy. With you constantly praised for your looks, for your smarts, or your imagination. Rhys and Feyre never thought anything of your wild mind. They loved it. They loved how sporadic you were, how one thing was never enough for you to stay focused on. They loved your random outlook on the world.

To Rhys, Feyre, and your significantly older brother Nyx, you were the world. They sheltered and loved you, thick and thin, protecting you from darkness and meaness at every turn.

It wasn't until you began lessons that you truly saw how unkind fae, especially those your own age could be.

You hated school and struggled to focus during lessons. You were busy, you told yourself in your little mind. Busy day dreaming of far away places, daring sword fights, a knight just like daddy or Uncle Az and Cass, mainly Uncle Az if you were honest with yourself, rescuing you from enemies.

Your grades reflected that. As did how your peers treated you.

"Silly y/n," one girl giggled when she thought you couldn't hear. "It's a good thing she's pretty, 'cause she's dumb."

"Her mommy couldn't read either. Maybe that's why."

In class the jabs were subtle enough that your teacher didn't notice, and when they did, nothing was done.

No one at home noticed either. No one noticed when you began to hide away more, when you stopped playing with your big brother after school. No one noticed when you weren't dreaming about being rescued anymore, but instead dreamed of running away.

Things did not get better when you were sent to Illyria, Uncle Cass and Aunt Nesta in tow, to begin training. You knew comments about your intelligence would be coming. You'd never expected comments about your looks, though.

"Imagine looking like your mom and trying to pass as an Illyrian."

"Her mom isn't even that pretty."

"Never said she was either."

You'd hide behind your wings constantly in public. You'd started eating alone. Stopped talking at home.

Cassian had tried asking what was wrong one night. His large hand running up and down your back as he spoke gently enough to you to shatter your aching heart a little more. "Just leave me alone!" You finally screamed at him. "I just want to be alone."

He wrote it off as homesickness, calling for Rhys and asking the High Lord to come visit you.

Rhys noticed it then.

He noticed the way you tucked behind your wings in shame. He noticed you eating alone. He noticed you never had a training partner.

He noticed your loveliness.

"Darling," a soft knock came at your door. "We need to talk." You curled further into your bed, your father refusing to enter or leave without your permission.

"Little love, please," his voice was pleading with you. "Let me in. Let me help you." You felt the gentle claws on your mind and blocked him out harder.

"Y/n, please. Don't shut me out." You'd never heard his voice break like this. The Crack that indicated he was about to cry. "I know what it's like to feel like you're the outsider here. I know what being this lonely feels like and how it eats away at you."

You heard something soft hit the door. "Babygirl, please. Let me come talk to you. Let me settle any feelings you're having. Let me help you. Please don't make me force myself in."

Shadows appeared in the corner, blue reflecting in them every so often. "I have her, Rhys. I'll come get you in a second." Your father yielded then. Yielded you to the arms of the Shadowsinger. "I've been watching for a little while." He admitted, "we've been worried for a few weeks."

He sat down on the bed next to you. "You stopped writing all of us. I know I violated your privacy and independence, but we all know how being out here can be. We all knew there was a risk of you being targeted the way we all were and the way Nyx was."

Azriel placed a hand on your back, rubbing small circles. "Your dad is the most worried. He did not want to send you here. He wants to bring you home."

You sniffled hard, finally lifting your body and shifting to sit next to him. "It's not any better there. I'm stupid in Velaris. I'm ugly here."

Azriel's jaw tightened. "Let me go get Rhys." Your uncle stood, walking to the doorway and leaving it open as he spoke softly down the hall.

Your dad was a mess when he entered. His hair was sticking different directions from how frequently he was running his hands through it. His face was tear stained. His shoulder slumped in defeat as he practically dragged his feet.

Azriel motioned for him to sit next to you, shutting the door so the three of you were alone and pulling a chair from across the room to sit in front of you. "Tell him what you just told me, little bat."

Your breath hitched as your hands began to shake. You could feel your eyes watering as you looked down to your unkept nails. "Taking me home won't make a difference."

Your dad pulled you close to him. "It would make all the difference, darling. We'd just send you back to regular-" Azriel shook his head at his brother, silencing him.

"Tell him the rest of what you said, y/n."

"I get made fun of in Velaris for being stupid, I get made fun of here for being ugly. It wouldn't make a difference."

Your father's world shattered then and there. Azriel stood, leaving the room to allow you to time alone now that the truth was out. Silence hung in the room. Interrupted every so often by your soft sniffles.

"How long," your father's voice broke again. "How long have you been getting picked on?"

You shrugged. "Since you started sending me to lessons."

He nodded, looking up. "I'm sorry I didn't notice, darling."

You didn't respond, only holding yourself tighter. He started. "I learned around your age, that holding my head high and not letting others see how much their cruelty hurt me tended to lead to it ending, but There is no merit in either of those statements"

He pulled you close to him, resting your head on his shoulder. "Are you easily distracted in school? Yes. Uncle Lucien always pushed us to teach you outdoors in a less formal environment with private help. You would have thrived in that setting. That is on me, y/n. I picked a public lesson setting so you could socialize." He paused. His jaw twitching. "You are not stupid in any sense, though, y/n." He motioned to the countless books stacked on your dresser. "Those are all educational texts or intense world building fantasies that you have taken the time to notate in a color system with separate journals filled with notes. That is not the action of someone who is stupid."

He tilted your face to him. "And you are not ugly. There is not a single court or location in this world where you do not meet or exceed their beauty standards. Anyone who says otherwise is either in denial of their attraction to you or blind. I never want to hear you say you are ugly ever again, darling."

A loud slam interrupted the heartfelt talk as your other brother entered the room followed by your cousins. "This is nice and all pops, really it is. Touching." Nyx walked to you, getting on his knees in front of you. "Their names, sis."

Rhys hid his smirk. "I never said your uncles and I weren't also going to do this, Nyx."

The heir rolled his eyes. "You can have their piece of shit fathers. I get the ones my age." Nyx grabbed your chin forcing you to look into his eyes. "Their names, y/n."

You gave them to him without hesitation. "Be nice," you said softly.

Nyx froze in the doorway. "You have mom's heart, y/n. I have dad's. You handle it with kindness and grace, I'm going to handle it with my fists and intimidation."

Your father pulled you close to him again. "Never change anything about you, little love." He stood moving in front of you and tilting your head up by your chin. "Just hold your head high, y/n. Hold your head high, walk away, and let dad and Nyx take care of the rest." He placed a kiss on your forehead. "Now, if you excuse me, I have a camp leader to beat the shit out of."

He paused at the doorway, turning to you. "I'll be right back. I promise. Maybe you could make us some hot chocolate and we can have a cuddle date like we used to?"

Your eyes lit up for the first time in years, making him smile and laugh. "There you are, darling. My beautiful girl."

#acotar #acotar x reader #dad!rhysand #dad!rhysandxdaughter!reader #rhys fic #rhysand acotar #rhysand fic

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sgiandubh · 3 months ago

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Dear (returning) Considering Anon,

You wrote this and you have been blocked. Again. Fair enough, make as many clones as you wish: I shall not answer anymore.

You took a hefty chunk of your time only to write this and be read on a very early morning start between urinating and brushing my teeth. I should applaud your dedication, but I won't.

If you wish to insinuate I hacked into their account, you are, once more, laughably wrong:

As I said, someone from your own camp inadvertently pointed the way:

Not an approximate payroll - a budget estimate. Two different things, as Claire was not cast at the time. Simple basis for further negotiations and in no way the final figures. Series' renewal was announced on August 15, 2014, 1 (one!) day after the broadcast of the first episode. Any negotiated raise was, therefore, involving both of them and their agents - we also know they 'had each other's back' since very early on - no need for me to further develop, you know exactly what I mean:

That email was either hacked, or 'erroneous': the twain shall never meet, like Kipling's East and West. Too subtle for you? The appropriate term is 'vague': a vague enough 'we', for me not to base my reasoning on it alone.

Diana Gabaldon 'Erself confirmed the fact that there was not much to do, other than going on with the shooting of Season 1 and certainly no time for any exterior relationships. But hey, why bother, the Screeching Banshees know best, right, since they are happily 'adulting' in their corner (the nerve!).

You guys are always grasping at that paper the way people usually grasp at straws, with zero critical approach towards the many legitimate questions that 'marriage' leaves perfectly unanswered. If all marriage papers in the universe reflected deep love and commitment, we'd probably be living in a perfect, ideal and (between you and me) very boring world. In this case, the mismatch is obvious, a shitload of details do not click, the Happy Couple systematically looks as if pushed to the gallows with bayonets, rather than being a part of glam events, that house still looks, as we speak, emptier than Mrs. Havisham's living room and the commonly 'owned' businesses are, likewise, empty shells (spare one of them and for a very precise reason). And that is just scratching the surface of the itch, darling. Your inability to question whatever you are so opportunistically fed tells me more than you'd certainly want about yourself, that being said.

You are correct, shooting ended yesterday. Perhaps it's time for you to move on and find another obsessive fandom to pounce upon: after all, there are so many interesting series out there! After almost one year and a half in here, I am still amazed at your intolerance and your very credulous conviction that you are somehow doing God's work, every single day, harassing people who dare to think differently, simply because they know differently. And no, unlike you, I am not basing my very firm stance just on the interactions I see between them during promo, two historical trolls ridiculous lies or the social media findings of another obsessed troll.

The comparison between SC pics and Sam/Greedy Driver ones is simply grotesque. Dropping names as Lily (who?) won't make me believe you are one of the insiders, either.

On top of it all, thank you for the wonderful final idiocy:

Romanian for bustard is 'dropie'. I remember watching them roam near my grandparents' home, many moons ago and can absolutely confirm they do run fast.

You should take heed, Anon. My question for you will always be why. Why are you doing this and exactly what do you hope to achieve?

#anon #fandom #shitshow

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zenkindoflove · 3 months ago

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Tomorrow is my one-year anniversary returning to writing fanfic. This is going to be a bit of a sappy post reflecting on the last year and celebrating some of my wins/new things I've challenged myself to do.

October 17, 2023 is when I started to write the very first chapter of Burn Forever with Me. I had finished the ACOTAR series about two weeks before and had spent those two weeks reading all the Elucien fic I could. I could feel I had a story in me, so I set out to write it in a month thinking that would be it and I would get it out of my system.

It had been a while since I had written. From 2006-2012 I wrote fanfic very regularly across a few different fandoms. Most of those stories can't be found online anymore. I took a three year hiatus from my Big Bang Theory multichapter fic at the end of 2012, and didn't finish it until 2015 when I had a burst of motivation. I didn't write again until another burst of motivation hit me (Game of Thrones ending) and wrote another one-shot in 2019.

By this point in 2023, I kind of thought my fanfic writing days were behind me. I didn't expect this new resurgence in my life that came about because of this series/this ship. I've tried so many new things writing for this fandom and pushed my writing in directions I never anticipated.

Since last year I have... -published 441,592 words. -published 20 fics (a mix of multichapter and one-shots) -completed four multichapter long fics (huge for me because I used to abandon multichapter fics all the time in my first era) -Written for several ships, including rare pairs, not just my OTP which is all I did in the past -Created many OCs, including my focal OC Alexius. Up until now I thought I was kind of hopeless when it came to writing original characters. -Wrote fanfic for three appreciation weeks -Wrote MM smut for the first time, and lots of it. I have been reading MM smut for two decades, but did not have a calling to write for a specific ship until Eris x Alexius -Co-written two fics with @crazy-ache -pushed myself in what styles of writing I tackle, including writing epistolary for the first time as well as challenging myself to write action/fight scenes which always scared me in the past -world building in general also used to scare me and now I think it feels so much more approachable as I've been filling in SJM's holes. -I think my smut writing has evolved a lot too. While I wrote smut in the past and I think I established what my writing voice/style was for smut, I have really had the opportunity to solidify it and try it in different scenes and contexts. I feel a lot more confident than I did back then.

I wanted to highlight these because I think as writers, we are often too hard on ourselves, and it helps to put into context all of the ways we've improved if we are mindful of our progress. I definitely encourage you to sit down one day and remind yourself of all the new things you've done from your starting place. Making this list really put into context all the ways I've changed as a writer in just a year.

I still have a lot more I want to do and new challenges to face in the next year. I hope if you read this, it does help to show you that you can take long breaks and even if you take a step back from writing, you will always be a writer and it'll always be a hobby you can return to and improve your skills, no matter how long its been.

#fanfic writing #personal achievements #I told myself I would make a new masterlist after a year cause my current one is a hot mess #but eeesh #tackling it sounds daunting now

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babecoups · 2 years ago

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rodeo || johnny suh

⇝ title: Rodeo ⇝ pairing: rapper!johnny x manager!reader ⇝ genre: coworkers with benefits sort of | secret relationship | smut ⇝ summary: After Johnny sees you showing off on one of the set’s mechanical bulls, he can’t help but pull you into his trailer and put your riding skills to the test. ⇝ rating: 18+ ⇝ word count: 2.1k ⇝ warnings: unedited (i’m so sorry) | strong language | johnny wears a grill… warning you now | cowgirl duh | reverse cowgirl because we lit | rope play (not really sexual) | spanking/ass grabbing | them chains are staying on girlfriend | dom but bottom!johnny (like she’s fucking him) | spitting/spit play (sorry not sorry) | pet names | scratching | protected sex | gagging/choking on fingers | controlled orgasm | light obedience play | cum shots | the cheesy ending we all deserve | i think that’s all... enjoy!! ⇝ author’s note: Happy Birthday to my sis Beezy @hobeemin !! I love you and I wanted to write you something for your birthday. I did not expect it to get this filthy because I just cannot write Johnny in this way but the minute I thought about this look… I knew it was the one. Anyway, I hope you like it! I wrote it with love.

⇝ playlist: Rodeo by Juvenile | Handstand by French Montana, Doja Cat, & Saweetie | Distraction by Kehlani

masterlist | join my permanent tag list? | mail box | read on ao3 | banner credits

“She is so going to fall. How many seconds are you giving her?”

Johnny leans against the railing, glancing at your assistant as he ponders in his thoughts.

“I give her about two seconds.”

“Bullshit. Both of you are going to be buying me lunch when this is over,” you chime in.

The two men share a laugh, and the rest of the staff join in as they prepare to watch you fail. Your eyes shift to Johnny when the lights reflect off the diamond-encrusted plate temporarily attached to his front bottom row of teeth. His tongue rolls over his top lip before he bites his lip absentmindedly, watching you as attentively as you are him. It’s a distraction you cannot indulge in due to the multiple people around you and the sudden jerk your body feels when the bull begins to move.

“Thirty seconds, motherfuckers! Pay attention.”

Your thighs clench, and you put on your game face, letting the snickers and side comments travel through your ears and disappear into the air. Your dominant hand holds on with all its strength while your other hand extends outward. You’re devoted to staying balanced because that’s going to be the key to lasting the entire time.

“Look at her only using one hand,” your assistant comments.

“That’s all I need.”

You hear Johnny fake a cough after your reply, and you squint your eyes at him just before the bull begins to spin. The ride starts to get rough quickly but you hang in there. Thirty seconds feel like hours when you’re being tossed around. Once you have a strong grip and a feel of what the bull can do, you’re about fifteen seconds in and ready to knock them out.

For show, you arch your back and smile at the people filming on their phones. The teasing is replaced with praises as everyone starts cheering you on. Everyone except one, who’s looking on with an unreadable expression.

Suddenly, the ride switches gears, and you almost slip off. You struggle as you’re leaning toward one side, and you almost allow yourself to fall, forfeiting the last few seconds before a voice sways your decision.

“Keep going, baby girl.”

You don’t even need to look to know who it belongs to. A switch flips on, and you regain control. The countdown begins, and your burning muscles work overtime to keep you on the bull. When time’s up, you make a victorious but not-so-graceful landing.

You lie there relishing in the cheers, but when your eyes open, you only want to see one person’s smile. However, he’s nowhere in sight. You get and dust yourself off before climbing out of the ring, receiving nothing but high-fives as you descend the stairs.

“Let’s go celebrate girl! You did that shit,” someone calls out.

You agree, but only to get them off your back while you seek out the man you’ve been waiting to talk to all day. “Yeah, I’m just going to go grab my stuff, and I’ll be back.”

It’s partly the truth.

You will be back, but your purse is in the sprinter, on the other side of the set.

Still, you make your way past several trailers, looking for the one belonging to the star of the music video. Unfortunately, every trailer looks the same, and you can only pinpoint a general area of where he is.

As you peek into one trailer’s window, the door to the one behind you opens. When you turn around, you see Johnny standing on the threshold, wearing one of his signature smirks.

“Looking for someone?” he questions.

“Maybe.”

Johnny nods, his cowboy hat still covering his dark eyes. He’s probably waiting for the stylists to undress him since there’s one more shoot tomorrow, but since you’re here, you might be able to help with that.

“I see you don’t have time for me today. But it’s cool.”

You roll your eyes. He knows he can’t let himself get jealous; it’s too risky.

The first time was supposed to be the last time, but a year later you still can’t keep your hands off each other. The industry isn’t kind to artists who sleep with their managers. No one wants to work with them out of fear of messy situations. The things you do to each other must remain a secret if you want it all to last. However, some days are more difficult than others.

“Whatever. I’m going to lunch,” you sigh. “Do you want anything?”

You start walking away before he responds, and once you’re about three feet away, something flies over your head and you feel it tighten around your midsection.

“What the–”

You look down and notice that you’re caught up in a rope. Before you can ask any questions, you’re pulled back until you run into something, or someone.

“You aren’t the only one who’s learned some tricks.”

Johnny spins you around, making you face him.

“Don’t be like that. You know I like teasing you,” he reasons, but you don’t want to hear it.

He knows you’re sensitive about this stuff, seeing many of your colleagues' reputations ruined for the same thing you’re doing with him.

“It’s not funny, though.”

Noticing the small pout on your lips, Johnny gives the rope enough slack for it to fall and he pulls you in for a hug. His chin rests on your forehead, keeping an eye out for anyone and listening carefully for footsteps.

“You’re so worrisome,” he sighs, caressing your back. “I was just trying to have a little fun with you.”

“Fuck off,” you murmur into his jacket.

Your cheek presses against his bare pecs, and you find comfort in the warmth of his sun-kissed skin.

“Woah. You’re so mean. I just figured since you liked riding that bull so much, maybe you’d want to go for a real ride.”

Your head lifts and moves away from his chest so you can look at him. “What?”

“Oh, now I have your attention, hm?”

His smirk grows into a smile and reveals his mouthpiece. It shines even brighter when he takes off his hat and places it on your head. Johnny gestures towards his trailer and winks at you.

“Let’s get it, cowgirl.”

Seated on Johnny’s lap, your hand grasps the gold links around his neck while you grind against him. Both of you panting and sweating, the world doesn’t even exist at this moment.

“So good for me,” he growls. “How am I supposed to leave you alone?”

His nails dig into your flesh as he holds your globes within his grasp, wanting to be as close to you as he physically can.

“You don’t. Problem solved.”

You start to move more swiftly, feeling a familiar sensation creeping inside your gut. Johnny’s dick enters your womb each time you land on his hips, leaving you gasping and moaning louder than you should be.

“Yeah? So that means you’re mine, right?”

“Fuck. Johnny.”

The way his lips curl into a grin when you cry his name leaves you shivering and begging him.

For what, is unclear to you, but all you know is that you want him badly.

“Yeah, you’re mine,” he states confidently. “Open your mouth.”

He’s right about that. You are.

Whatever he wants, he gets it—because he never holds back when pleasing you.

Your lips part enough for you to stick out your tongue. He wastes no time shoving his fingers deep inside and spitting into your crevice. Two of his digits push his saliva deep into your throat, making you gag around them. You stare at him through your watery eyes, your damp lashes, and fresh tears blurring your vision. However, you can still make out the pleased expression on his face.

You purposely clench around him, and his hips buck off the couch. Johnny then grabs your waist, halting your movements while he speaks.

“I see how you wanna play. Turn around.” You lift yourself slightly, keeping him inside while you turn in the opposite direction. As you find the right position, Johnny slaps your ass, making you squeak in surprise. He kneads the flesh tenderly, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze of appreciation. “Let’s see how long you can stay on this ride.”

As soon as you start to ride his cock, Johnny begins to thrust into you, nearly bouncing you off of his lap. His toned thighs make it difficult for you to control the pace, but with a hand holding onto his leg, you’re saved from falling on the floor.

Once you’ve gotten accustomed to the way he’s slamming into you, you’re able to regain control. You arch your back and place your free hand on top of his hat sitting on your head. The sounds that begin to leave your lips become feral, and you can hear Johnny’s grunts turn into moans and gasps. He’s close, and so are you. You decide to make the last seconds count.

“You feel so good,” you purr. “Do I feel good, Johnny?”

He throws back his head and whispers a few expletives.

“You feel like heaven, baby. You already know.”

You whimper in response, his deep voice soothing to your ears.

“So wet, so tight. You know how much I love this pussy.”

“Fuck!”

“What’s wrong? Need to come?” he quizzes.

“Can I? Please.”

Your raspy cries fill the room just like the lewd noises produced by your arousal squelching between your thighs. Johnny ceases his movements and allows you to chase your own release while he watches in awe. He holds your waist to support you and guide you because your body is moving faster than your mind can keep up with.

“Get you one, cowgirl. You deserve it.”

When those words leave his lips, your sense of reality disappears. Everything grows white, and you have no control over your body. Your orgasm takes your breath away, leaving you struggling to catch your breath. A shockwave ripples through you, and the sensation is intoxicating.

You can hear Johnny’s groans as he tries to hold on, but the warm feeling of your walls pulsing around his cock is almost unbearable. His cock twitches inside of you as you ride out your high, but he hangs on until you’re flopping forward on your face.

Johnny quickly gets up, and removes the condom, so he can shoot his load all over your ass. Hot ropes of his cum paint your skin, but you’re too out of it to complain about being sticky.

“Are you okay, baby?”

You sigh. “I am.”

“Alright, well you should probably–”

Johnny's phone rings, and he walks across the room to check it. He answers it and puts it on speaker, so you assume it’s important.

“Yeah?”

Fuck. It’s your assistant looking for you.

“She’s in my trailer,” Johnny explains.

You immediately sit up and look at him with wide eyes. Why would he say that?

“She’s embarrassed because she got sick from that bull ride. You’ll have to take lunch without her.”

You exhale and relax your body, sinking into the couch.

“That was too close,” you whisper.

Johnny throws you a wink, and you respond with a small smile. They’d probably have a million questions had he not thought of that response so quickly.

“Yeah, she’s going to get back to the hotel in the sprinter with me, but I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

When the call ends, Johnny joins you on the couch. He wipes the cum off of your skin and tosses the shirt on the floor before he speaks.

“So,” he begins. You turn so you can see his face. “We have the rest of the day together. What are we doing?”

You shrug.

“I don’t know. Maybe we can…”

You grab his arm and pull him on top of you. Your lips graze his ear, and he shudders.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

Smirking, your fingers dance up his biceps.

“Maybe we can take a nap?”

“Now, that’s hot.”

“I know, right?” you giggle.

When silence takes over, you play in Johnny’s hair as he hums.

“You think they’ll notice if that hat goes missing?”

His question makes you roll your eyes.

“I fucking hate you sometimes,” you respond. “But, no. They have several because they know how you are.”

You return to twirling his strands between your fingers, enjoying the post-orgasm quality time until he ruins it once again.

“Good. I wonder if it’ll stay on while I’m fucking you from the back.”

Honestly, as long as he shows you what other trick he’s learned with that rope, he can do anything he wants with you.

#johnny smut #johnny x reader #nct smut #nct x reader #nct 127 smut #nct fanfics #johnny fanfics #thekpopuniverse #kvanity #nct 127 x reader #johnny suh smut #fic: rodeo #fromthebabe

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rustboxstarr · 1 year ago

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Hey! I was reading one of your stories and it was so good I immediately started following you <3

Anyways could you write a story about reader being flat (like no ass and skinny legs) and shes being insecure about it. So while Eddie and reader are undressing for sex she looks in the mirror to her body and Eddie asks what’s wrong and she tells? I kinda can relate to this so I would love a story like this 🫶🏻

You can change it a little bit ofcourse! Already thank you very much!!

❤️You're perfect.❤️

Summary: Alcohol is always set to cloud your mind, but some things will sober your right up. Especially when you suddenly realize you're actually going to have to show your biggest insecurity to your boyfriend.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Flat!Reader

Warnings: Smut, P in V, fingering (f receiving), cream pie (Eddie cums a lot) - hints at Eddie being insecure about his, squirting, insecurity, slight angst, fluff. Drunk sex! If that makes you uncomfortable DO NOT READ, consent is neither mentioned or implied in the writing but it IS consensual because I say so and I wrote it so *sticks out tongue* also I have never understood why people think its ok to write about high sex but not drunk sex? Like can someone please explain?

Wordcount: 4.1 k

A/N: Thank you for the request babes, I hope you like it ❤️

Also I highly reccomend listening to Destroy Boys while reading this, becuase I was and it was the closest vibe to drunk sex I could find, like why is there no good drunk sex music? Does anyone have any recommendations? because I'm sick of seeing Chase Atlantic everywhere.

Feel free to request, I love writing requests! ❤️

Love yas!

Check out my other works!

Your whole head vibrates with an alcohol induced haze, spinning you around and losing your touch with reality and all things surrounding you, except for one thing. Broad palms are on you the second you burst through the door of the Harrington basement, plush lips forcing against your own in passionate kisses. The door slams shut behind you as Eddie’s hands push your hoodie off your shoulders, he revels in the sound of your sugary sweet giggle as he stumbles over his own feet, desperately trying to kick his sneakers off without ever letting his hands leave your body.

A gasp whisps its way into the air as Eddie forces you against the door, the smirk painted across his face grazes your lips and it sends bolts of lightning down your spine, the soft sparkle in his eye that reflects the dim lighting of the small space as he gazes softly in your eyes prompting goosebumps to freckle your skin before his lips are on yours again. Your hands force his jacket down his arms and he chuckles as he tries to wriggle himself free of the leather.

His hand finds your cheek to pull you towards him again while the other plants a firm grasp on your hip, chipped nail polish scratches down his back as your arms circle him.

It’s all a mix of hot breaths and gasps as hands roam skin and tongues dance around each other, a mix of beer and vodka muddles on your tastebuds to accompany the fresh cigarette smoke that fills your senses when you breathe him in. All you can focus on is the way his body feels against yours, how his hands grip at your hips while yours rake through his curls.

But you quickly pull one away when you feel his grip snake around your waist, before he has a chance to plant a firm grip on your ass your fingers lace with his, guiding him up to palm at your chest in a frenzy.

You manage a second of relief at his compliance before both of his hands travel down your body, you're just about to slap them away before they have a chance to travel further south when you feel yourself being lifted into the air. You're too distracted by his lips finding yours again to dwell on the situation or even realise what you're about to get yourself into as your back smacks against the bathroom door before it swings open.

You land on the bathroom counter with a heavy thud, heavy breath escaping both of your mouths as they circle around your heads, drifting above you like the smoke in cartoons. His lips are on yours again, kissing with a furious and drunk passion as you feel callused fingers search for the hem of your t-shirt. There is not a single warning bell that goes off in your head, the bellkeep has gone to sleep with the amount of vodka mixers, shitty beers and tequila shots you downed just a mere minute ago upstairs with the rest of the shitfaced partygoers. Your own fingers find the hem of your shirt and you pull it up over your head, throwing it behind him to be found later. Those same callused fingers smooth over your cheeks as he cups your face and brings you in close, attaching his lips to yours after gazing at you with an expression that can only be described as love.

Your own hands wander to his shirt and he rips away instantly, letting you pull the black fabric off of him and discarding Ozzy’s face on the floor with your own t-shirt. Your hands explore his body, dragging your fingers up the expanse of his torso, from the soft patch of curls that form his happy trail, past the soft pudge of his stomach, to his shapely pecs and finally gliding over his shoulders, grasping onto them and pulling him back in. You only manage to revel in the sensation of his lips hard against yours for a second before they’re pulling away, the thick pad of his thumb forces your chin up as he starts trailing kisses down your neck, soft breaths echo around the practically dark room, save for the sliver of light the frosted glass window lets through.

His hands find your hips, gripping onto them as if to ground himself before they travel to the cups of your bra, palming desperately at your tits while a soft groans slips past his lips. “You don’t know how many times I’ve pictured these beauties, please babe, you- you gotta let me see them” there's a soft slur to his words but you're too distracted by the feeling of his hands against your body to care that neither of you are truly in a fit state to be doing any of this.

“Well how can I resist when you're asking so nicely” you chuckle, watching the dark pool of desperation that swims about in his irises. Within seconds his hands are at your back, undoing the clasp to the black fabric that hugs your frame and you're too caught up in this moment, being here with Eddie, to even let a shred of insecurity bubble up at the fact that he’s about to see your boobs, who are nowhere near up to the standard of small perky boobs. The thought of him being grossed out by how they sag from the weight doesn't even have a chance to cross your mind before a loud groan rumbles from the depth of his chest and his hands are back, gripping, palming and squeezing at anything he can get his hands on. “Fuck, ‘s- fuckin’ perfect” his words only bounce around in your head in one big jumble as you feel the warmth of his tongue swipe over one of your nipples. You feel as the skin tightens around the nub and that ticklish sensation of your nipples being erect as his lips wrap around it, skilled fingers swiping delicately over your other nipple, teasing you with the faintness of his touch. A strangled moan bounces around the room as his lips suction around you, tickling you in the strangest, weirdest, best way. No one had ever done this, and it was safe to say it felt super weird… but also earth shatteringly good and especially when the tingling feeling between your thighs -that had sat comfortable since you and Eddie has started whispering slurred words by each others ears upstairs- only grew in strength.

Your fingers tread through his curls as he moves on to your other side, treating your other nipple with the same insane pleasure as he had done before. Soon enough his kisses start trailing down, kissing between your tits, slowly and steadily moving down down down, and over your stomach (that tickles too, but not in the same way). He only grins up at you at the sound of your giggle. There are so many insecurities on display that, in the right headspace, would have you heaving with anxiety, but none of them manage to surface to the front of your mind as your drunk haze can only fixate on Eddie, Eddie Eddie Eddie. As he kisses down your head falls back against the wall, lolling on your shoulders to find the other end of the L shaped counter, you see yourself in the mirror and smile drunkenly at the picture it presents. Eddie kissing down your stomach, hands trailing up and down your torso as lust filled eyes watch your face.

Insecurity gnaws at you however, as your eyes drift to his torsos slotted between your thighs.

The alcohol induced illusion shatters, however, the second his nimble fingers find your belt buckle, suddenly you pull yourself up straight, pulling your waist away from him. The fog has cleared and you have sobered up within the matter of a millisecond and you stare with wide, fearful eyes at the mop of brown hair that suddenly moves. He stands up again from his sinking position to the floor and finds your eyes with his own worried ones. “What’s- what’s wrong?” It seems his own fog has lifted as he stares down at you, one hand coming to caress your cheek while the other smooths up and down your arm.

Your mouth opens, and then it closes. You find yourself at a loss for words as you stare up at him, dim moonlight shining around him, blurring everything else in the room, dark, misty eyes, glazed over with pure, unfiltered concern, soft pink lips tugged into a small pout, milky white skin glowing below clusters of freckles that travel from his face and down the lengths of his arms, each one further from the other. God he’s perfect. Why would you ever want to ruin this moment?

“Nothing” you breathe a strained chuckle, “Just uh, backs, hurting” you slink your hand between yourself and the wall and make a show of stretching out your back. “Oh” he chuckles, the soft breath plays like music in your ears, as he scans the room, “Here” he stretches over you and reveals two folded up towels, his smile is happy and hopeful as he waits for you to lean forward so he can place them behind your back. “Thanks” you whisper as he slides back into place between your thighs, “Better?” his eyes, god those eyes, wide, baby cow eyes, glinting under the moonlight above the sweet smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah, yeah” you breathe, you can’t take those eyes, they confront you, they force you to curl under the depth of them, waiting for you to tell the truth because they know you’re lying. You can’t take it, so, you quickly pull him in by his neck, sinking your lips into his, kissing him desperately, willing the sight of his eyes out of your mind.

Your thighs glide against the counter, sliding down onto the floor and forcing Eddie against the other end of the counter, he yelps in surprise at the quick action but within no time matches your energy, hands grasping on to your hips again. Your whole body cringes as his hands slide down your back to grab a handful of your ass, but you power through, and feel shocked as you focus on those delicious groans escaping his throat, groans that were prompted by his hands on your ass. His hands squeeze firmly and he pulls you towards him, pressing below your stomach is what really sets off the fire between your legs. His hard cock forces against your mound and you feel your thighs squeeze together unprompted at the action, squeezing tight at the obnoxious groan that vibrates in your ears.

Your lips move at a furious pace together as both of your hips begin dancing in sync, grinding against each other with no shame. Your hands grip and scratch at any skin you can find, his biceps, his shoulder, his chest, back, shoulder blades, face, anything. You can feel the drunken haze begin to fog your mind again as you lose yourself with him, his own must be too as he sways slightly while he broadens his stance, allowing you to press yourself closer to him.

His hands find your hips again and he twirls you around, quick to pull you back in again to force your ass against his throbbing cock, his lips kiss down your neck, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he feels your hands pull at his curls. He breathes a ragged “Fuck” as his hips begin to roll against your own, holding on tighter as he hears your breaths grow louder. “Shit, need to be inside you so bad, you don't even wanna’ know” he whispers against your shoulder, you chuckle breathily while your own lips find his neck, kissing at anything you can reach. Squeezing your eyes shut tight as you feel his hands find your belt buckle again, but this time you don’t stop him, there's an indescribable urge to fight back, to prove yourself. To whom? You have no idea, but you know you're not stopping now, not when his body feels so warm and inviting behind yours, not when his hands have gripped onto your body the way they have, not when his kisses have felt so intoxicating.

He undoes the buckle, and then the belt, and then finally the zipper.

You brace yourself for the impact.

But nothing comes, his fingers snake their way past the open zipper of your baggy jeans and slip under the hem of your panties. You release a sigh of relief thats replaced by a soft moan when you feel warm fingers make their way between your folds, his own breath is heavy and hot against your skin as his eyes once again roll to the back of your head “Fuck, you’re so wet” his teeth graze the soft skin of your shoulder as you look down to find his hand moving beneath the denim. His fingers glide down to your hole, collecting your slick before he begins an agonisingly slow tackle of your clit. He grins wildly at the whimper that rings in his ears while you twitch slightly in front of him.

The feeling of his soft lips trailing kisses up and down your neck and shoulder accompanied by the exciting press of his throbbing cock against you and the wickedly cruel slow circles on your clit have your breath speeding up, loud pants slowly transitioning into breathy moans that has Eddie grinding against you in a furious pace. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and it lolls on your neck, splaying your hair over Eddie's shoulder as his movements speed up. While your hands grip desperately at the counter, Eddie's free one finds your tit, palming at it in tune with every deep groan that vibrates through his chest. His hips move with yours as you grind down on his fingers and an obnoxiously loud moan echoes throughout the small bathroom -sure to travel up to unsuspecting ears upstairs- at the harsh press and increased pace of his digits against you.

A string of curses bounce around the walls as you feel the tingling between your thighs begin to tighten into a coil, everything is simply euphoric. The dull drum of the music upstairs, travelling through the floor to the almost completely dark bathroom, the delicious sound of Eddie's groans and pants mixing with your own, his warm body against yours, encircling you, the sensation of his fingertip against your clit, his lips grazing your skin, his fingers now tweaking your nipple has you writhing against him. “Fuck, m’gonna- ‘bout to- shit- mother fucker” a deafening moan rings in his ears as your whole body stiffens with the snap of the coil.

His kisses never cease as he waits out your orgasm and when you eventually come down from your high his lips find your cheek. “Good?” you can hear he’s out of breath as whispers against your cheek. He only chuckles at your tired nod and slowly slips his hand out of your pants, after wiping it off awkwardly on his own jeans it joins across from his other hand. Broad palms rest on your hips as he kneads the skin softly but when his lips manage to find yours you feel yourself snapping out of your tired post orgasmic state. You quickly turn in his grasp, lips forcing against his furiously, desperate to feel more of him. God if that's what he could do with his fingers you were dying to see what else he could do.

Within seconds he matches your energy, groaning as your tongues dance furiously. He manages to find your hips again and unsteadily walks you to the other side of the counter with your back to it. Your mind is too far gone to set off any warning bells as his hands rip the denim down your hips, past your thighs and letting them fall to the floor along with the delicate black fabric that previously would have protected your last bit of modesty. His hands grip your hips and he forces you up on the counter completely bare. The only thing you can feel at the moment is complete, utter desperation. Your fingers fiddle with his belt as his lips find yours again, when a bratty whine leaves your throat his own hands replace yours, hastily undoing his jeans and pulling them down his legs.

You manage to get a whole second to awe at the sheer size of him while he steps out of the fabric before a hand is wrapping around your ankle, forcing you to place your foot on the counter. The only break your lips get from each other is when a loud gasp breaks the seal at the sensation of his fat mushroom tip forcing past your entrance. A wide grin paints his features as he sheathes inside your cunt. Eddie knew this wasn't your first time but he still wanted to give you a second to adjust before he began pounding into you. His hands grasp onto your thighs and manoeuvre your legs to wrap around him. With each thrust your moans grew louder but neither of you had a care in the world that there were other people around.

His hands never left your thighs, as he began setting a steady pace of harsh thrusts his hands smoothed up and down your thighs, gripping occasionally as a raspy voice whispered “Fuck I love your thighs” suddenly your moans died down and all that could be heard was heavy breathing as your mind managed to focus on something other than the drag of his cock against your walls. “What?” your hoarse voice whispered “I fuckin’ love your thighs” his eyes didn’t meet yours, instead they were trained on the back of his head, half hidden behind his eyelids. “Love your ass, your tits, hips, face, stomach, arms, hands fuckin’ all of it, you’re so fuckin’ perfect” every word was a mix of pants between each harsh thrust into you. “You do?”

He managed to find your gaze as his hips slowed down “‘Course I do, I’d be a fuckin’ idiot not to” a concered expression found its way onto his features as he stared down at you. Your hands slid from his shoulder blades to his hips as they began to slow further until he was simply deeply seated inside you. “I- I was kind of nervous, cuz ya’ know…” you broke off shyly with a shrug. “Cuz what?” he frowned softly, “You know” you nodded towards your lower body, “No I don’t know” his frown etched deeper as his hands began soothing up and down your thighs again, the drunken haze seemed to have evaporated for the both of you, leaving behind a trace of distortion. “Jesus you really gonna’ make me say it?” you groaned, “Eh yes, I have no idea what you’re talking about”

“Because I’m flat and shit, like I’ve seen your ex dude, she has a literal hourglass shape, thick thighs, fat ass all that stuff guys like” you couldn’t hold his gaze any longer, instead your eyes found interest in the movement of his hand. “So? Everyones different, I’m not dating you for your body, that’s just a major plus, like have you seen you? You’re fucking perfect” his hand moved to softly manoeuver your face to look you in the eye. “You really think so?” you whispered, the moonlight shone in your eyes as you looked up at him, “Are you crazy? You’re perfect.”

Words were lost on you, all you could do was stretch up to place a soft kiss to his lips. One kiss turned to two and two turned to three, before you knew it your hands were gripping at his shoulder blades and your ankles were locking behind his back, pulling him closer as his tongue began to swipe against yours. Loud moans and groans muddled with offensive curses as his hips began thrusting at an incomprehensible speed. Hoarse fucks and shits echoed in your head as you felt the head of his cock nudge your cervix repeatedly and your nails clawed at his back.

This time when your head lolled on your shoulders to find the mirror all the picture looking back at you did was set hot flames inside the pit of your stomach.

Nothing could pull you out of this moment, not even the sound of bottles and soap dishes clashing into the floor as you sought out something to grip onto. “Fuck, yeah lean back” Eddie muttered as your hands found their place at the edge of the counter. The view of your tits bouncing up and down only had his hips gaining speed as he began pistoning in and out of you. “Fuck, fuck. Fucking perfect”

“Shit, don’t stop, feels so fucking good, don’t stop” your voice was high and squeaky as you moaned your words. “Not fuckin’ stopping for anything baby holy shit” While one hand gripped your hip the other grasped desperately onto your tit, “Mother fucker, just watching you would make me fucking cum” he groaned as your mouth dropped and your eyes rolled as far back as they physically could. “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum!” your shriek was like music to his ears, “Fuck me too, shit gonna’ cum so hard” the awkward humiliation hidden beneath his whispered words were lost on you as you felt that same coil explode.

High pitched moans and deep groans didn’t even register in your head as the view of the bathroom was replaced with a blinding white and a deaf ringing accompanied it.

After what felt like forever you managed to open your eyes to find a mop of brown hair splayed across your chest as its accompanying body heaved up and down. Your fingers laced through his curls prompting him to stand up, his chest expanded with every deep breath he tried to take to find himself again and you only watched in amusement. “Funny, sex sobers you up” you chuckled breathlessly, earning a snort from the man across from you. “Hah, uuhh yeah you’re gonna need like a towel or something” he cringed as he looked down at your joined bodies, his thick creamy substance already beginning to drip down between your asscheeks. Your hand searched blindly for the towel next to you and you held it up to him with a goofy grin.

“Huh, fuck ok” he took a deep breath before his digits wrapped around the base of his cock. Moving ever so slowly he began pulling out of you. It seemed however that the coil hadn’t exactly exploded, part of it was still lying deep within you and you could feel it start to stretch with each millimetre that moved inside you. A loud whine sang from your chest as you felt him slowly pull out and suddenly the milky liquid buried deep inside you followed, you don’t know what prompted you to do it but suddenly the pad of your finger was circling your clit harshly as the hefty amount of cum Eddie had left behind began to trickle out of you.

He watched with wide eyes as you rubbed hard circles against the small nub, “Shit shit shit!” you shrieked as you felt that coil finally detonate. Hot clear liquid began to flood, drenching Eddie who stood mesmerised in front of you and it didn't stop until every last drop of Eddie's cum had pooled onto the floor. “Shit” you breathed heavily as you leaned forward, your head thudding against Eddie's chest. “Holy shit” he scoffed in amazement, you straightened up to see his face “That was like the hottest thing I’ve ever seen” his eyes were bulging out of his skull “We’re definitely getting you to do that again” all you could do was snort at his excited face before you slid off the counter onto your wobbly legs. Bending down to retrieve your underwear from the floor you feel a harsh smack to your ass and you stand up promptly to face him but before you can even get a word out his lips are on yours and his hands are gripping at the globes of your ass as he’s backing you against the counter again. “You can forget going upstairs, we’re staying down here all night.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson has adhd #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson smut #Eddie Munson headcons #Eddie Munson plus size reader #Eddie Munson x plus size reader #Eddie Munson x reader #headcanon #headcon #StarrWrites #StarrThinks #eddie munson fluff #Eddie x flat!reader

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spencer-is-alive · 13 days ago

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my top five FAVORITE fics I wrote this year

it’s almost new year, and I got a lot…

A lot done this year

so, let’s go over my top five favorite fics I wrote (and finished) this year, not in any order

thanks to @unhappy-sometimes for the idea!!

Tapes and Face me

This one is a twofer, mostly because they’re connected. I’m very proud of tapes because I really wanted to capture that analog horror feel, mostly because my irl friend was really obsessed with the Mandela catalogue at the time. Face me was like my first huge foray into whump. My favorite part of this fic was Sylvia and Anya’s relationship, and the letters Anya wrote to her as “mission reports”.

Open eyes

I wish this one got more love and attention. It was a very weird character study I wrote where Twilight meets Loid Forger and Redacted, who are separate but also the same as him. It bounced off from @buf309’s doppelgänger comic, but sort of became its own thing, it even had some fanart that I’m too eepy to find rn, I’ll have to reblog it later.

Tastes like blood

an idea that was over a year in the making, where Yor gets to enact revenge on someone for (almost) killing her husband on their wedding night. This fic is so important to me because Maya Rowan, the would-be killer, was such a fun character to write. I love her so much. This fic did have a sequel that I have yet to finish unfortunately, but IT WILL BE DONE (at some point)

Clementine

your stock standard “Anya gets kidnapped by those gosh darn scientists” plot, based on my initial interpretation of the song “my darling Clementine”, where, in my mind, it was about a father who lost his daughter in the river, and he couldn’t swim, so he “lost his Clementine”. The “swim” here was meant to represent how twilight couldn’t deal with his own feelings for his daughter, so he lost her, but then he gets her back again, fighting tooth and nail to keep her safe. For those who don’t know, I am especially weak for father-daughter stories (my relationship with my dad is great dw) so this one his very close to my heart. The scene where Loid finally says “I love you” to Anya was inspired by Ai Hoshino’s death scene from Oshi no ko (which unfortunately ended very badly this year, spare yourself the trouble and just look up Ai’s death scene, that’s as peak as the story gets) and I was listening to the ost of her death scene while writing it. And my god does it just tear you up inside.

also his mom’s ghost saying “you’ve been holding her like that all along” still rips me to shreds okay?

and last but not least

A way out

“Yay Norman mention”

“Update wtf?”

— @unhappy-sometimes, 2024

what CANT I say about this fic? It’s, imo, my magnum opus. It was so goddamn cathartic to write it. If you’re going to read it, please, please mind the trigger warnings.

getting on with that, this fic is so important to me. It started out as a very angsty whump fic that somehow became a very personal look into a narrative about self harm and coming to terms with one’s existence. Really, if you’re in the right headspace, I would suggest you read it. BUT ONLY IF YOU’RE IN THE RIGHT HEADSPACE. it genuinely reflects a lot of the dark thoughts I’ve struggled with since my hospitalization when I was thirteen. I hope that, if I can find some catharsis in it, maybe you can too.

well, that’s a wrap. I’ll still be writing, but I just wanted to get this post out there. Love yall, and happy new year!

#Fic wrapped #My writing #who tf let the duck talk

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wachtelspinat · 7 months ago

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hi! i found your blog like an hour ago (though i've been familiar with your art for a /long/ time; when i read that ask you got earlier about you being THE tf2 artist, i thought to myself, "wow, really? the only tf2 art i can think of that's deserving of that description is [vividly pictures YOUR fanart]" -- so when i checked your art tag it was genuinely like encountering a celebrity, heh. all this to say, you really ARE The TF2 Artist. it's an honor to finally properly follow your blog :]). i've been reading your posts about your personal journeys (both physical and emotional/self-conceptual) and i've just been... really really moved by it all? your openness with feeling disconnected with your art, and then how you've slowly come to reconnect with it in a new way and restructure it back into your life... it just fills me with so much catharsis and hope. because life is hectic and things change so much and the way that one creates art as an adult is going to be different than how one created art as a teenager... so to see you acknowledge that fact and then share your own journey? ahh god like i said... it's really profound. i'm a lot younger than you (i turn 20 next month, actually!), so you've experienced so much more to life than me, and hearing how you've struggled with and then gotten out of so many of the fears that i have is just... deeply, deeply inspiring to me. especially your latest posts about your time in australia, and how it's always been something you've wanted to do but spent so many years stuck/anxious/stagnant... and how now you've finally actually *done it* and it's *real* and that you had the most amazing incredible time that exceeded all your expectations?!?! and not only that, but how finally achieving this thing you've always wanted changes the narrative of how you previously defined yourself... that now maybe you ARE the sort of person who can do the things you love and have the things that make you happy... maybe i'm projecting too much here heh god but my point is. it just made me very emotional and so VERY very utterly elated for you :'] and just augh. i am so glad you've had this incredible experience. and like i've said half a dozen times by now (because it's just so true) it is just. so inspiring to me. everything you've shared with such honesty and humanity has been just so profoundly moving to see and it fills me with so much hope. thank you for sharing your journey with us, and thank you as always, past and present and future, for your art. i hope this message isn't too terribly parasocial, and if it is, i apologize ;_; and i hope you're having a lovely day!!!

hey there !

this kind of hit me like a truck but in the most positive way, and i am not exaggerating when i say what you wrote also brought me to tears.

first of all thanks for your generous words regarding my art and sdkjfhkjas i still cannot wrap my head around the idea that you (and at least one other person) thinks about me as THE tf2 artist because... i like my art just fine, it's just there are other folks out there, with their almost god-like tf2 art, meanwhile i just spammed y'all with my sniperxspy art and some random silly stuff over the years... but i love it, so thank you so so much, the thought that you guys dig my art this much will always knock me right off my feet in the most positive way 🧡🧡🧡

ok so, the next part took me a while to formulate because how do i respond to such a heartfelt message in a way that shows my gratitude just right? like i want to thank you again for reaching out and writing all this, but also for taking your time and reading through my blog. i know that everything i post here is open to the internet and a lot of ppl, so sharing personal information (in form of updates in life) is not always the best idea. but i always admired ppl on here that were able to reflect on their lives and share what they've learned. even if it's just somethig as simple as "and after each day comes another and it will be different, for the worse or the better, but different at least", which, falling on the right ears at a specific time, can change perspective (it did for me on multiple occasions, this and other takes, because hearing from ppl who go through similar things is a sad reality, but also such a connecting experience). so in a way, sharing is caring, and so talking about life experiences, especially when they are kind of abstract, like art blocks, depressions, can really open some unexpected doors.

so what also happened after being open about vulnerable situations in life was ppl reaching out. and this was really something that left me so speechless. i had several ppl who took their time and wrote to me about their experiences and ways of coping strategies and other helpful actions. and sometimes they just acknowledged what i wrote which was such a warm gesture that made me feel seen. and i cannot put into words how much that meant to me when i felt at my lowest a few years back. let's be honest for a second, on here we hardly know each other, even if we are mutuals, but that doesn't stop us from reaching out to one another because that is such a big part of the human experience.

sorry for rambling but it is hard, at least for me, just trying to fully grasp it all. it makes me so happy to read that catching up on the things i wrote about my life resonated with you on a deeper level and that it gave you something back in exchange - catharsis and hope. i am deeply touched by your words and your ability to grasp the essence of what i tried to convey, it feels almost surreal to have it summarized and reflected so clearly when my original thoughts were scattered all over my blog over a span of multiple months, years even. like, really, thank you so much for all of this, the time and thoughts you put into your message, your genuine expression of your feelings and joy on my behalf, it means a lot and i fail to put my thanks into words, idk... i feel seen again. and no worries, i don't think this is too parasocial, after all i put my thoughts out there, and you just happened to read them 🧡

so again and again, thank you so much, and i also hope you have a lovely day <3

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thoughtsickles · 10 days ago

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2024 Year in Fic

I read so much great stuff this year. Found several new fandoms I'm insane for, wrote a ton (I will publish.... at some point!) and went through pages and pages of A03 search results looking for those few gems... and I found some. Here are some faves:

you're in love (true love) and all's well that ends well to end up with you and i wanna be your endgame by orphan_account Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk US)

oh the pain of finding a new favorite author who's orphaned all their fics... luckily they titled all of them with taylor swift lyrics so you can pick them out from doing a ship search on A03 with orphan_account as author. they are all fabulous but these are my particular favorites. hijinks/misunderstandings, hot sexy scenes, beautiful character moments... they've got it all! I come back to these over and over again because they're just that good.

Of Cowardice and Frog-shaped soap by sakesushimaki Randy Harrison/Gale Harold (actor RPF)

finally some good fucking RPF!!! the yearning, the drama, the románce

every single one-shot by sakesushimaki Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk US)

the YEARNING... the sex-as-religion... the beautiful characterizations.... date last posted 2012. I reach through time to praise this author and politely ask if they are writing anything else lately. just wondering.

Taking Care by MB (Sidney_Allison) Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk US)

killer concept--what if Brian and Justin met during the cancer arc when Justin is hired as Brian's caregiver?--and killer execution. A beauty of a fic.

Lola by misomadness Tim Bradford/Lucy Chen (The Rookie) WIP

you know how sometimes the entire fandom of a ship seems overtaken by people who want to put them into an ooc suave dom/giggling schoolgirl kind of AU and you're out here like where are the Lucy/Tim understanders... where are the actual good reflections of their dynamic... well misomadness gets it! it's a WIP but c'mon, we aren't weak here on thoughtsickles.tumblr.com. we are willing to play the long game. we are willing to read WIPs with the proper matching of each other's freak in hopes it will be continued. and how can you resist an undercover op story?

(you are) my very best thing by portraitofemmy, stormcoming Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh (The Magicians)

beautiful fwb to lovers romance about growing up, finding your family, letting your dreams evolve, letting yourself grow and become changed.

A More Perfect Fall by cinnaluminum Carlos Reyes/TK Strand (9-1-1: Lone Star)

missing moments? tender!dom Carlos trying-to-play-it-cool pov? sign me up!

#fic recs #britin #qaf #year in review #possibly more coming as i review my bookmarks

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itwasntimethatdidit40 · 2 months ago

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I don’t shiver, it’s just a little piece of me going away.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: +18, MDNI. Please, this shit is triggering, be very aware of this.

Tags: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. SA, drinking, zero self esteem, a lot of triggering reader’s thoughts, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), groping, biting, unprotected p in v, reader feels ugly and worthless, mention of bullying, mention of harassment, mention of toxic friends. Reader has hair, breasts and vagina, wears a shirt, skirt and tights, no other description of her is given.

I wrote this for myself, it is something that happened to me and it briefly describes other episodes that I suffered when I was younger. I do not think it is an experience that is worth telling more than that of others, however I wanted to do it to free myself of this weight, because yesterday was the international day for the elimination of violence against women (I wanted to post it yesterday but I didn't have time to finish writing it), we are in 2024 and all this happened about 20 years ago, I do not feel like great progress has been made since then and I know for sure that I am not the only one and I will not be the last to have suffered this and much worse. I felt like shit when I was 20, this should not have happened anyway. Putting Joel in there is perhaps a paradox but he has always given me security, so he helped me process. Maybe I haven't been able to describe exactly what I felt but it's something. It’s still something.

It is a reflection on my mistakes, on the wrong ways of thinking that were instilled in me from my environment and now thanks to myself alone no longer belong to me. I'm very sorry for the person that I was and I'm very sorry for anyone who experienced SA.

If you have the strength to read, if you find yourself at least in part in what I say, then I hug you tightly.

Title comes from an Italian song that I love very much, the phrase in Italian is "Io non tremo. È solo un po' di me che se ne va".

I'm not tagging anyone because I don't think it's appropriate. Any type of insult will be immediately deleted.

The club is packed, you just got out of the bathroom and are trying to get back to your friend. The lights of the club are shooting in your eyes, the crowd is pushing you, you feel a hand grab your shoulder, you turn and see him. A gorgeous guy. He asks you if you want a drink.

You're already drunk but at this point what does it matter, if someone like him offers you something you accept.

You reach the counter, he orders a drink, turns to you, and you instantly hang on every word he says as you chat briefly.

“you look pretty” he says and you giggle, gulping down the drink to give yourself courage. “Shall we go out?” he asks and after 6 drinks plus the one he just offered you you say yes. Again.

"I'm going with him," you giggle, approaching your friend.

"God, he's so hot! Okay, I'll see you outside, take care," she replies, slurring her words.

You shouldn't, you really shouldn't go with this guy. Your head is fuzzy, clouded by alcohol, your legs are soft and your mouth is mushy. You feel like you are speaking softly, but in fact your voice is high, out of control. It always happens when you're too drunk, you should recognize it as a warning sign to do absolutely nothing but stop, drink some water and wait on one of the club's small sofas for the evening to end.

You can't think rationally and neither can your friend, as drunk as you are, who is talking to a guy at the bar.

Everyone's hope is to be noticed, right? To be seen, appreciated.

You were never anyone's first choice, and this disappointment, this feeling of always being neglected, makes you hate yourself. Why was I born this way, you always tell yourself, why do I have this face, this body, these limbs. Why can't I be graceful and lovely like every other girl. And this guy who had just asked you to go outside was the hottest guy who had ever spoken to you.

Tall, dark hair, eyes as black as night, a slight beard on his perfectly chiseled face, prominent nose, a dimple that opens on his cheek when he smiles. He checks all the boxes on your list.

His deep, mellifluous voice convinces your altered mind that there is nothing wrong with secluding yourself with him-when does it happen again that someone so perfect talks to you?

The awkward, insecure, never enough you. The girl who was bullied all her teenage years, called ugly and fat, the girl who was told no one would ever fuck her.

Not true, you want to scream.

It's not true, I can be seen too.

Me too, even if you see your ungainly and unattractive body.

Me too, even if you are convinced that there is something deeply wrong with the way you look. Me too, even if I don't believe it either.

So you go out with this guy, who takes you to an alley near the club.

He chose you. And he is beautiful in an impossible way. And you feel like the universe has finally provided something for you, something enticing, something that makes you feel alive.

Sure, this alley is dark and dirty and inhospitable, but so what.

It’s not like you expected something pretty overall. You deserve nothing. You know.

A quick shag, an ounce of attention, a musty filthy wall he slams you against, the smell of piss from the street, that’s what you get.

As he puts his hands on you, you think it's unreal, that maybe you're hallucinating drunk.

You don't even know who he is, you only know that his feverish touch explores you, his impassive gaze scrutinizes you as he smiles at you. You are too drunk to notice how meanly his mouth is bent, how laid his smile is, the spark of evil in his eyes.

He's touching you, and that's enough.

Joel. He’s Joel. Assuming that’s his real name.

The prince who has come to rescue you from your inexperience.

The one who took you out of the shadows.

If you were clear-headed you would see that it threw you into an even worse swamp.

You say nothing when he lifts your shirt and pulls down your bra, exposing your nipples to the cold. You don't react when he takes off your skirt and pulls down your tights and ravages your panties, not a word when he enters you furiously with his fingers calling you a slut, it almost feels right to you that he takes what he wants from you without even asking if he can do it. The pain, the distasteful stretching of his big calloused fingers, it’s what you deserve. You’re standing there barely holding on with him and that's enough. He doesn't care if you’re well, doesn’t care to remember your name, your body is his for tonight and his hands are demanding, rough, unkind and you think it's okay, after all you said yes before.

His fingers suddenly come out of you, you'd almost be relieved if you didn't know it wasn't over.

Kneel down he says, and shoves his cock down your throat like it's his right to do so. You breathe hard through your nose as he fucks your mouth, taking a fistful of your hair, while his huge shaft hurts your jaw, your eyes water and mascara runs down your cheeks.

He's not what you imagined. He's not a prince. He's just another man.

Like everyone you've met so far, not at all interested in respecting something about you, but rather in making you think that accepting what they do to you is okay.

He lifts you up and slams you against the wall again, you’re half naked with your clothes crumpled around your body, your face wet, your throat dry. He drags his index and middle fingers against your folds, his other hand grips your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. He holds you in place while you just want to collapse on the floor like a puppet and be done with it. Instead he invades you in an instant, pushing his shaft inside you, brutally stretching the walls of your cunt, whispering loathly how wet you are, a total slut, a nice toy for him.

But yet again, If you're pretty enough to get a guy like him hard then it's okay, right?

You just have to wait and this will become good for you too at some point, right?

It’s only a matter of time. But it doesn't change when he bites your skin, down your neck and all the way down to your cleavage, it doesn't change when his rough, calloused hands grasp your tits as if they were his property, twisting and pulling your nipples to get them pebbles, it doesn't change when he makes you lie on the cold, dirty pavement and towers over you with his weight repeatedly sinking into you cruelly, his balls slamming against you, his mouth latched on your hardened bud sucking and biting ruthlessly on it.

It’s you that's wrong, it's your cunt that's done bad, maybe you never knew but you're actually frigid and you don't know how to welcome a prize like his big cock inside you.

It burns in your core, it’s unpleasant, terrifying, it feels like a blade cutting you in half.

You should feel grateful as his hands claw and touch you all over and his tongue slides lasciviously over your neck, leaving a trail of drool on your skin.

You should be okay with being naked in the dark in a dirty, public place, so wrong, so forbidden because the most handsome guy you've ever seen decided you must be.

It doesn't seem fair to you but that's only because you were under the illusion that you could receive something other than humiliation.

He was all smiles and compliments before, well dressed, perfumed, polite, as soon as you were alone he became a walking nightmare.

Everything about him disgusts you, you disgust yourself, the taste of him at the back of your throat makes you gag, your eyes sting like a million needles, his voice paralyzes you, the smell of whiskey on his breath makes your head spin.

The alcohol fog makes you helpless, unable to say anything.

You feel him rattling on you, inside you, his heavy breathing creeping on your skin but his harsh, thick voice seems to come from afar, muffled, as if it doesn't concern you while he continues to mutter lewd words into your ear.

Tears stream on your cheeks, sobs remain choked in your throat.

Your bruised skin, your sore body, the sense of emptiness that grips you, everything you thought you wanted disintegrates in front of your disbelieving eyes, his heinous cock so painful inside your violated cunt, everything reminds you that you are not entitled to anything, that after all it's your fault.

Eventually your mind totally disconnects from what is going on.

He groans draining his orgasm inside you, his hands clamped on your tits as he released his spending in the most hidden and private part of you.

You’re clenching on his cock and that’s the most horrible thing you’ve ever felt, your body reacting, probably more out of self-preservation instinct, to get everything over in order to run away from this man.

Like a glass smashing on the ground, you shatter under it, the wholeness of you squandered.

It’s the worst thing that ever happened in your life.

Much more than when your supposed friends recorded a song together to insult you, much more than when the same people threw a pie in your face while everyone pointed and laughed, much more than when your middle school classmates groped you thinking they had the right to do so just because they had suddenly grown bigger.

There’s nothing worse than feeling like a plastic doll, a disposable body, a human waste only good for cum dump.

He gets up muttering some obscenity that your brain doesn't even register.

You look around and realize you are standing near the front door of a building. You wonder if anyone saw and did nothing. You wipe away your tears, you feel a trickle of his cum slide down your thigh and a terrible nausea grips your stomach.

Your tights are runny, your makeup is smudged, your clothes are wrinkled.

Your soul is empty.

You clean yourself as best you can, dress in silence, you don't even look him in the eye, you've never felt so sullied as you do now.

You walk towards the entrance of the club and see your friend, she comes towards you “what happened?” She asks.

“Nothing” you answer her “everything is okay” It's a talk you can't even begin to have.

You don't shiver, it's just a little piece of you going away.

#dead dove fic #dead dove do not eat #joel miller fanfiction #personal #thoughts #sa mention #sa tw #sa survivor

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