#I was a hater at first but maybe i am coming around | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckysm · 4 months ago

Text

2:15 am (and i miss you)

ᯓ★part one, part two,

ᯓ★ Bucky Barnes x fem ex hydra AVENGER reader

ᯓ★ part one word count 6k+

ᯓ★a/n: junie’s first post— so please show some love— i hope you like!! my inbox is always open to chat! (minor edits on jan 27) (more edits on mar 11)

ᯓ★ summary: In the quiet hours of the night, you and Bucky find solace in an unexpected friendship built on sleepless conversations and cigarettes. Slowly, walls come down, and a bond forms, kept hidden from the team. But when crisis strikes, the Avengers are shocked to discover just how deep that connection runs—and just how far you’d go for each other. (i wrote this bc of a little fantasy of being in a secret situationship with bucky and the team finding out when bucky goes feral after reader goes missing during a mission)

ᯓ★ warnings/ tags/ tropes for the whole series: canon? what canon?, haters to lovers -- except you never hated him and he just resented you-- midnight rendezvous, friends to lovers, Anxiety, angst and fluff and smut, Bucky Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes Bucky Barnes issues related to past trauma, not so platonic cuddling, slow burn, jealous Bucky Barnes Miscommunication, Mentions of torture off screen (to be added and expanded as i post part two) NOT BETA READ

These are the hands of fate/ You're my Achilles heel/ This is the golden age of something good and right and real

It started with a cigarette.

It started when he had lent you a lighter. He did not smoke, and you didn’t ask why he had one.

For him, it started months before then.

Bucky was barely coping when you joined the team. His days were muddled by an eternal haze of anger and frustration…His life had been stolen from him, along with his memories from before. He did not feel like he deserved redemption. He had done terrible things, had had horrible things done to him.

He found himself disassociating whenever he wasn’t on a mission. He did not feel real; he couldn’t joke around and feel good without betraying his past. Yet, his past was real; it happened. But Bucky couldn’t just move on, couldn’t just exist without the churning in his gut telling him he was dirty, he was dripping in sin, tarnished by the red in his ledger, filthy to the point of no return.

When he was told about you, his body turned taut with trepidation. Two sides of the same coin. You were injected with serum just like him. Made to do things and had things done to you just like him. And he had heard of you. They had called you serpiente, the serpent, the snake. You were deadly and never made a mistake. No one knew any identifying details about you, not even your gender.

And it was his mistake, thinking you were a man. He yearned to be understood; maybe he would find companionship in you.

But then, you were not a man. The first time he beheld you, he had just finished a mission for Fury. Secret and dirty, he felt right at home doing SHIELD’s grunt work.

You were walking down the compound, side to side with Black Widow. He had assumed you were one of her brethren; maybe you had trained with her, a black widow yourself. Tony Stark pranced a few paces before you.

“Soldier, good you’re here! Come meet our newest recruit!”

Your smile was disarmingly bright. Pretty. Bucky felt himself grow cold with fury. It was a smile that came easily to you. And your eyes, frustratingly soft. You seemed at peace with yourself, and he hated that.

He just stared at you in response. Eyes hard. Waiting for you to react to his lack of reciprocity. You didn’t bite his hook. You just slightly pursed your lips and took his glare in stride.

“Nice to meet you. Stark was telling me about you. All good things, so don’t worry. But I had heard about you from before—you know—we do have in common h-”

“We have nothing in common.” He snarled before walking away, fuming. How dare you? How dare you make chit-chat about the thing that haunted his life. Every waking hour, every nightmare, he was haunted by his past. And you wanted to…what? Talk about it over jokes? No. He decided you had nothing in common.

Maybe your body count was higher than his, and he chose to ignore the elephant in the room. The fact that you were a beautiful woman could be a weapon as much as it could be a vulnerability.

He hated you a bit more each time he saw you get along with the rest of the team. How dare you?

He had thought, had been so sure, that the reason he was disliked was because of his past. But that wasn’t it, was it? Because you and the black widow seemed to do just fine. Maybe he was just broken, and perhaps you had been too, but you had fixed yourself just fine. Parallel wounds, yours had healed, while he had festered like a virus. How dare you?

His despise grew with each smile, each laugh, each time you were slapped on the back.

Everything came to a head when he found you on the balcony. He had thought it was his balcony. His.

It wasn’t a balcony, more of a ledge. A floor that had been destroyed during a hulk mishap had not been fixed and did not look like it would be anytime soon.

The wind was strong. You stood at the edge, facing the precipice. You seemed so peaceful.

He stared at your profile, illuminated by the city lights. Your expression was sad. He had never seen it like that. Your lips were tight, eyes fluttered shut. Were you about to jump?

He walked toward you, deliberately moving his limbs so that you heard his footsteps.

You turned unhurriedly, your eyes opening slowly. There was a small moment where Bucky saw you, your unguarded face. He was too involved in his stupor and had not considered the possibility of it all being a facade. But months had passed, and your mask hadn’t slipped until now.

It was only a fraction of a vulnerable moment before you schooled your features. And it angered him for some reason. Seeing you so easily slip into the practiced mask. It made him like the rest, taking you at face value, not digging deeper past your pretty face, sparkling eyes, and gleaming smile. But then he was angry at himself for not looking past and you for pretending.

Before he could stop himself, before he could think, words were coming out of his mouth faster than he processed them.

“Do not do that, don’t do that.”

You sighed, your mask falling to one of disdain. You looked disappointed in Bucky, exasperated. It was a look of derision; he felt scorned, yet it was better than the fake platitudes.

“Do what? Now, what am I doing that deserves your anger?”

“Pretending,” Bucky grunted.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “So what am I supposed to do according to you, huh?” You walked away from the ledge toward him. He towered over you, head lowered to meet your defiant gaze. “Am I supposed to growl, frown, and hate myself for things I can’t control? Well, guess what? I've been there and done that! And, hey—guess again what happened. I hated it. So what if I am faking it? Maybe if I fake it hard enough, it’ll come true.”

“What’ll come true?” Bucky asked beside himself, snarling.

“Wanting to live, not letting them win. Because if I hate myself, then they win.” Your angry gaze wavered, turning sad. You looked away from him towards the city skyline. “I’ll go now, leave you alone to your self-hatred and whatever….” You started making your way to the battered elevator doors.

Bucky sighed, exasperated. “No, stay. I’m sorry.”

You had stopped walking away, your footsteps silent, but some sixth sense told him you had, in fact, paused.

He turned toward you. “I’m sorry.” He echoed.

You nodded, moving towards the ledge and sitting on it.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Careful there, doll face.” His voice was gruff. “Don’t want you to fall off.”

You stiffened slightly, taken off guard, not for the first time tonight. The sweet nickname, coupled with his harsh voice, made heat rise to your cheeks. You decided to appear as if you took it in stride. Not wanting him to know just how much his words meant to you. Wanting to hear him call you that forever.

Because as much as you told yourself otherwise, it hurt when he brushed you off. You had looked up to him.

You didn’t have any memories of your past before the experiments or the training, so maybe it was different for him. He had a life that was taken away from him — and you were just now learning to have one.

You heard about him, heard him even. Heard his screams sometimes. Your handlers wanted to teach you what would happen when you didn’t behave.

It was clear he did not remember you. Why would he? He didn't know who you were when you passed each other in the hydra bases; that was part of your deal. No one expected a pretty girl to have a body count as high as yours.

Bucky had killed about 20-something people, important ones. You knew that Natasha had a count of about six hundred and had shared the fact with you. Bucky had been Hydra’s tool and was used only in important missions. While you…were a gun for hire, basically. A knife for hire. You used your charms on men and women alike to disarm them enough. Your kills were always up close and personal. Sometimes, you have to put yourself in compromising positions to do so. Bucky never had to.

You knew that he had to be put under a lot, had to have his brainwashed again and again, and conditioned an inhumane amount of times. His brain rebelled, and he had a life. Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he had memories or faint encodings of a life outside.

But you were awake all of the time. You did things because there was no other option. You had to survive. You didn’t know otherwise.

You pondered in silence. And when it became too much for you, you fumbled into one of the multiple pockets on your jacket for your cigarettes. You stiffened when you remembered you had left the lighter on your bedside counter. “Damn it.”

“What’s wrong, doll.” His voice was curious, less rough. He was standing somewhere behind you. You could feel the weight of his stare.

You wanted to comment on the pet names but didn’t want him to stop, so you swallowed a snarky remark. “I forgot my lighter.”

He made his way toward you, movements swift as he sat next to you, feet dangling on the edge. You understood him now. You didn’t want him to fall.

He slid his hand onto the pockets of his cargo pants and came out with a lighter.

You smiled at him. His eyes never strayed from yours as he placed the lighter in your hand.

His eyes were beautiful, darker than usual under the low light.

You tore away from his gaze. Placing a cigarette between your lips, you cupped the lighter and flicked it on.

You took a drag of the cigarette, enjoying the burn. Enjoying the strong scent, stronger than other cigarettes. It made your head light.

Banner had made them for you after you expressed sadness about not being able to enjoy any substances.

You heard a sniff. He had noticed it, too.

You waited a second, leaving the smoke in your lungs, before exhaling. “It’s enhanced with something, Banner made it for me.”

He hummed.

“You want one?” You looked at him from the corner of your eyes, not wanting to turn your face entirely.

“Thanks for offering, doll, but I don’t smoke.”

You hummed, taking another drag. “Not even before?” your question was tentative. You wanted to see if he would open up to you.

He hummed softly. “I did, yes, once or twice. But Steve couldn’t handle the secondhand smoke, so I stopped. Little asthmatic punk…”

Silence stretched out as you enjoyed the lightheaded sensation. Your limbs loosened, and you felt free.

“D’ya miss him?” You turned fully toward him.

His eyes never strayed from the skyline as he answered, “I do. It’s different. We’ve both changed a lot. You know how it is, losing the past.”

“I don’t know, not really…” your voice was soft and resigned.

His eyes flashed to yours. You didn’t know what to do with the full weight of his stare. “What do you mean by that doll?” His brows were furrowed.

You sighed, not wanting to get into it. “It’s late…” You took out your AVENGER-sanctioned phone to check the time, 2:15 A.M.

“I’m going to sleep.” You lied. And you couldn’t stop more words from tumbling out of your mouth. Clumsy and rushed. “Same time tomorrow?”

A ghost of a smile pulled slightly at the corner of his lips. “See you doll face. Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, Jamie.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Jamie….

He had been too quick to judge, and now he couldn’t get you out of his thoughts. His sleep was fitful, but he was granted a reprieve from his nightmares. Dreaming instead of the multitudes in your eyes.

It was a slow day in the compound. He had a routine during slow days; he would go to his favorite training room and lose himself. The training room itself didn’t lack anything, but he had marked his territory with his glares at anyone who entered. He had achieved an unspoken ownership of that particular room.

After having you torment his dreams, however, he had to see you in person. He tried to contain himself and started his routine in the training room.

It lasted 42 minutes.

No amount of dagger throws could get him to calm down.

He found you on the tower’s common floor.

You hunched over a table, Banner at your side. Coming down was worth it.

“Well, good morning there, Sarge. It's nice of you to come out of your room and join the land of the living.”

And he immediately regretted it.

“Stark!” Two voices proclaimed in tandem. You and Steve jumped to defend him, Steve’s voice was sharp, and yours was a playful whine.

“What? I’m just saying, he’s acting like a teenager!” Stark’s voice was a defensive grumble. He tinkered with the toaster in the kitchen area.

“Oh, as opposed to you, who behaves so maturely?” The tone of your voice was playful but had a hidden bite to it. Bucky couldn’t help but appreciate it.

You turned to smile at him, and Steve turned to bicker with Tony. Bucky rolled his lips and moved to grab a mug. He poured himself a cup before walking away.

He barely heard Stark’s remark on his parting, mentally berating himself for caring about the hurt look that soured your face when he did not return your smile. He shouldn’t care; caring was dangerous. It made him vulnerable and put him in a position where he could be easily hurt again.

He had to be careful; he did not want to break down the walls he had put up protecting himself and others from himself.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You almost didn’t show up. Hurt but not surprised by his attitude.

You paced the room you had on Natasha’s floor. She was not home, leaving you to pace away your conflicting thoughts.

Your heart had skipped a beat when he showed up. He never showed up; he was a ghostly presence in the compound. Part of the team, but never there for ‘team building exercises’…

It was 2:14 when you rushed to the elevator, a pounding of indecision in your chest. You told yourself it was curiosity. You needed to know more about him, needed to figure him out - maybe then you would be able to understand why he made you want…-

The silent elevator ride left you time to think.

He is hurt, just projecting/ This could end badly/ This could end with a friendship/ He was an asshole/ He just needs a friend/ At the cost of your sanity?/

Two inner voices argued with each other in the back of your mind. You let them.

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and there he was. The voices went quiet as soon as your eyes fell on him.

He leaned against a thick construction support post, overlooking the city skyline, his back to you.

“Nice of you to join me, doll.”

DOLL?! Asshole, he dared to call you doll- yet acted coldly toward you in public?! You grunted angrily, mimicking his usual blasé attitude and walking to stand beside him, not looking at him.

As you stared at the beautiful Manhattan skyline, a storm of anger raged inside you.

“Is everything alright, doll?” His voice was softer, and you weren’t as angry anymore.

Yes, he hadn’t smiled at you, but what exactly made you expect that from him? Yes, he called you doll, but he was from the forties. Plus, he hadn’t smiled at you before. And-what? You had one conversation, and suddenly, you expected him to smile at you? You were delusional! This man was set in his ways and maybe bored, but it meant nothing. He was bored and lonely, and you were overthinking everything. You were new at this, at socialization. Genuine socializing. You socialized a lot for your HYDRA days, but this was new. You were used to having the upper hand and being in control.

You sighed out your exasperation, letting your tense shoulders loosen.

“Mhm…” your eyes never strayed from the city.

You stood in comfortable silence. You were an expert at working yourself into a stupor. But honestly, you were about… twenty twenty-one (you lost time during HYDRA). Yet you felt emotionally stunted- of course, you did. You never had the chance to actually develop skills people your age did.

“This feels like a dream. Like I am hallucinating being free, and I will wake up from passing out due to torture and be back in my cell…” Words tumbled out of your mouth. You were also bored and lonely. Faking your way with the others made you exhausted.

He made no response, but you could tell he understood. And that was enough. You fumbled for your cigarettes. He slid a lighter from his pocket, handing it to you wordlessly.

You took it from his hand, inhaling to light your smoke.

“You know? It’s dumb… but I sometimes feel like screaming at them… like something deep inside me yearns to scream, kick, and throw whatever is around- to get out all my pent-up energy; maybe then I can pass out from exhaustion and sleep. And yea- the novelty of being free, and being in the fucking Avengers is slowly wearing off, and I just-” you sighed, you were talking, and maybe he wasn’t even interested in hearing you whine. “And whatever, I should be grateful… it’s dumb…” You stopped yourself. Letting the chilly New York air into your lungs.

“No, doll, it’s not dumb.” He turned to look at you, forcing you to face the full weight of his gaze. He was devastatingly beautiful. Your inhale was sharp. “Don’t feel bad about being angry. It’s valid to feel this way.”

You smiled then, “Look at you, giving emotional advice. Who knew you were a big softy underneath that grouchy, grumbling exterior.”

He scoffed, but you could tell there was no real meaning behind it. Your smile grew.

His eyes lowered to your lips for a charged moment before looking back to the city. “Those who can’t do, teach-” His lips tugged slightly upwards, a glimpse of a smile.

You took a drag of your cigarette, staring unashamedly at his profile. “What do you do when you are not brooding? Like, what does one do for fun around here?”

“At two am in the morning, doll, those who aren’t sleeping…” he trailed off, a soft pink brightening his cheeks.

“Are what?” your grin was teasing.

“Are you on a mission or something?” His voice came out slightly strangled.

“Or something…” you murmured, a yawn escaping you.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“So, you really liked big band music? Kind of… classy for a guy who threw himself off buildings.”

“Hey, a man can appreciate good music and bad decisions.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Stark’s fine, sometimes… but his ego’s bigger than his bank account.”

“If I had his money, I’d buy a planet and avoid people altogether.” You sighed,

“Doll, you’d get bored in two days.”

“True. I’d need at least one grump to frown at me.”

He couldn’t hide his soft grin.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Paris. You think it’s as romantic as everyone says?”

“Probably less if I was there...”

“You’re right. You’d make it a lot more broody.”

“And you’d make it a lot more… sneaky. You’d blend into the shadows and pickpocket tourists.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I could live off this forever.” You spoke around a mouthful of pizza

Bucky grimaced. “Takeout pizza? You call that food?”

“Says the man who probably ate spam for dinner in the ’40s.”

“Now, doll, it was a delicacy back then.”

“Spam’s not a delicacy in any era, Barnes.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever thought about getting a pet? Like a dog or something?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Me, with a dog? Not sure I’d be a good influence.”

“Nah, they’d see through you.”

“I’m more of a cat person.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I like the quiet moments just before dawn. No one’s around to bother you.”

“Night’s better. Everyone’s already asleep. Feels like you’re the only one left.”

“Until you realize someone like me is lurking in the dark.”

“Yeah, lucky me.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“So, any weird phobias? Mine’s spiders. Too many legs.”

Bucky shrugged. “Needles. After Hydra? No thanks.”

You nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. But hey, at least you could crush a spider for me. And I can catch all your bulk when you pass out at the sight of a needle.”

“Ha, ha.”

Someday, you’d get a real laugh out of him.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“If you weren’t a super soldier, what would you do?”

“Maybe a mechanic. Fixing cars, quiet life. You?”

“Bartender. People tell you their secrets. It’s like espionage, but with cocktails.”

“Sounds dangerous, doll. What’s in the drink?”

You grinned. “Depends on who’s asking.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I keep getting these flashes… Steve dragged me to Coney Island, insisting I’d love it. Turns out, I hate roller coasters.”

You rolled your lips, deciding on what to say. “I don’t have any memories of before Hydra, but I dream about falling. Maybe I would love roller coasters.”

“I’ll take your word for it, doll. I prefer solid ground now.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever feel like the idea of ‘freedom’ is just another way to trap us? Like, what do we even do with it?”

“I dunno. Still figuring that out. But it beats following orders like a puppet.”

“Yeah. I just wish freedom came with an instruction manual.”

“If it did, doll, I’d probably ignore it. I don’t need another piece of paper dictating my life..”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You were late, and Bucky was ready to leave when he heard the elevator doors open. You held a full white plastic bag.

“Honey, I’m home, and I brought dinner!” you had a slight spring in your step; he turned toward you, and a smile of pleasure and relief made its way into his expression without his consent. Your steps faltered slightly, your brows furrowing for a moment before a beaming smile took over, your eyes twinkling. It was real, not a sarcastic grin, a smile! Your response only made his smile more pronounced -slightly, but still-.

“It’s good that you don’t smile; if you did, people would pass out on the spot.”

He couldn’t stop the small laugh coming out of his mouth. “Not you?”

“Not me, I’m made of stronger stuff.” You sat beside him, a bit farther from the ledge than usual.

He followed suit, crouching in front of you. He noted the way you eyed his legs, your inhale, and the way you had to force yourself to look away.

“I wonder what would make you pass out.” His mouth ran away from his brain.

“Maybe take me to a fancy restaurant, and then you can try to find out.”

The thought made his heart race, and he stopped thinking about it. You were joking, it was friendly— you weren’t serious.

“I could, we could go on a few dates, and you would end it when you realize I’m too old and bitter for you, doll. Maybe it’s best we stay here at 2:15 A.M., where I can lend you a light.”

Your face soured to a pout. “Well I like my men a little bit older. But if you are telling me I’m not your type, and you like old ladies, well then I can handle rejection, not the worst thing I’ve lived through.” Your smile was sarcastic, yet he could tell there was hurt behind your eyes.

“No, doll, I don’t think anyone could reject you even if they tried.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Your heart raced at his words, caught off guard by their raw sincerity. You weren’t used to hearing compliments, not ones that felt real. A flippant remark was on the tip of your tongue, ready to deflect the tension, but it got stuck.

“You ever think about it? You know… dating?”

He snorted softly, “Who would date me? I’ve got more shit to deal with than anyone would want to deal with.”

You grinned. “Hey, at least you’re mysterious. I’m more… ‘potential assassin.’”

“Ah, the classic ‘will she kill me on the first date’ dilemma. I can hide the metal arm, but you can’t hide the serial killer smile.”

You laughed loudly, shoving him playfully.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

It was a few weeks after the initial meeting, and meeting had become a habit, a tradition of sorts.

You gave him a shy smile when others were present, and he reciprocated with a soft look in his eyes.

He knew he was being obvious with his staring, but he couldn’t help himself from looking at you.

He leaned on the counter, eyes flicking to and from you. He beheld as you smiled and laughed with the rest. He was jealous that you weren’t bestowing a smile upon him, but he held none of the contempt from before.

He sensed an annoying presence beside him.

“Hey, creep, why don’t you join us for drinks tonight? As luck would have it, even your star-spangled ass is joining us.”

Said star-spangled ass turned to glare at Tony, his expression turning into a smile as his eyes shifted toward Bucky.

“Yeah, come with us, you’ll have fun, we promise.”

A myriad of yeahs chorused from the rest of the team, including you. Heat rushed to his cheeks as he looked at the ceiling. “Whatever.” He muttered.

“Well, that wasn’t a no!” you grinned, acknowledging him.” Your smile was so bright he couldn’t take it.

He sighed and grumbled incoherently before turning to hide his blush and walking away.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You smiled to yourself as he retreaded.

Natasha bumped your shoulders together. “He stares at you so much, I have no clue if he hates you or wants you. Maybe both!”

“Nat, don’t be rude; it’s probably because I’m new.”

She smirked, “Sure.” You hadn’t been new for a while.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

He was anxious. It took him forty minutes to place where the tight feeling in his chest was coming from. But it came down to you. It always came down to you as of late.

Steve had an arm around his shoulders and was babbling on about how much fun these rare night outs were, where everyone was present.

He didn’t know what he expected, but you weren’t talking to some guy. Enthusiastic hand gestures and a dazzling smile on your face as some random guy looked at you with an entranced smile.

He felt bile rising in his throat.

He wanted to turn around and walk away, but that would have been too obvious. So he walked in with his stomach dropping with anguish.

He was out of it, sipping a drink that Steve had handed him. His taste buds not even processing the taste of his drink.

“Yo! Joe Goldberg, knock it out with the serial killer stare.”

He felt a smack on his shoulder. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from you.

“What are you talking about?” he grumbled. Smooth. Real smooth.

Even though she was shorter than him, Natasha towered over Bucky. “I don’t know your problem, but you have to check it. It’s getting really weird.”

He felt a hand fist in his heart, tight. He downed the drink and sighed. Think Bucky. Think. “It’s not like that.” He was quiet for a few moments, formulating a response.

“Well, then explain why you keep staring at her like you want to strangle her.”

“I don’t want to— fuck.” He placed the empty glass on the table. “She’s also from Hydra.” He stated.

“Yeah, duh.” Natasha looked at him with contempt.

He needed to fix the fact that she thought he was some sort of obsessed weirdo…. He wasn’t!

“She’s so normal, happy. And she…” he trailed off.

Natasha’s expression shifted to one of understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He looked to Steve, who tried to make it seem like he wasn’t listening to the conversation.

“Bucky, you’re-” Natasha placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to get another drink.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You could tell something was wrong when you stepped out of the elevator. He was quiet, not the usual kind, brooding. You acted like you always did, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“Bucky, is everything alright?” your voice was soft.

His reply was an irritated huff. You waited for a few moments, letting him have his space.

The night was cold, and you had worn thick cotton clothing. He wore a hoodie and pants; they looked comfortable, but the man in them did not.

You hummed and moved closer toward him. He leaned on a pillar,

“Big mission tomorrow, huh?” You shifted tactics. It wasn’t odd for him to have a quiet night, where you just sat in companionable silence. This was different, though… he was angry about something. Some insecure part of you told you he was mad at you. But there wasn’t any foundation to that, was there?

He grunted in response. He was making you anxious. You sighed loudly, deciding to smoke or go to bed. The stilted silence made you anxious, a pressure hard on your chest. You tried to exhale it out, but it wouldn’t budge.

You let him wallow next to you for a few minutes before giving up and turning to face him. You placed a soft hand on his forearm, about to say goodnight. He flinched harshly, and your heart twisted. He grimaced, eyes shifting to you before flitting away.

“Bucky, if you need, I-” Your voice had a nervous tinge, and you hated it. You were glad when he interrupted you.

“Go to sleep, doll.” His voice was sad, his face resigned.

You furrowed your brows, studying his expression. You had the urge to kiss him on the cheek for good luck but knew that you would break if he flinched away.

“Goodnight Jamie…”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You walked away, turning your head twice to smile at him sadly. He held your gaze as the elevator doors closed, removing you from his field of vision. Taking you away from him.

“Fuck.” His voice was soft and defeated. He looked at the city skyline. His eyes glossed over. He wanted to get the self-hatred out, to hit the wall, break his knuckles, and kick at the litter on the floor. But he let it sit, let it fester in his chest. A leech that grew bigger as it fed on the churning, loathsome thoughts overwhelming his brain.

He crumpled with the ease of a paper, falling to the ground.

His limbs splayed as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t take it. Any of it. He always told himself he was strong. He was The Winter Soldier, for fuck’s sake! And here he was, crying over a girl. But that wasn’t it. Or it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that he was too soft for all of it. And he was still somewhat human at the end of the day. He still had emotions, and he was starved for comfort. He lacked connection. And he was okay without it. Having gone so long without it, he had grown used to the lack. But then you had come into his sanctuary and ruined everything, and he let you. He felt a kinship with you. You had gone through hell and back, had walked the same road as him, and you smiled so big, your eyes twinkled so bright. He couldn’t help but fall into your orbit. Admiring you from afar.

Maybe it was better when he hated you; it was something he was used to and comfortable. He did not know what to do with all these feelings; he hadn’t felt them before, not even in the 40s. He was happy then; it was normal for him to smile. He didn’t know how to appreciate it. Yes, there was war, but there was hope, and Captain America was there to save him, but then Steve wasn’t there anymore. And any sliver of hope was quickly crushed under gleaming leather Hydra boots. He would die someday on a Hydra mission; he had made peace with that. But Steve did save him, a little too late. He wasn’t Bucky anymore and did not feel like he had any right to the mantle of Captain America’s best friend. Some parts of him still wanted that, but all of him yearned to be your Jamie.

And now bitter and traumatized, he held a flower in his calloused hands, and he didn’t know if he was worthy of it. He couldn’t breathe.

He was going to die here, and he couldn’t go in peace because he wanted to see you one more time. He couldn’t stand up, he couldn’t move; he keened in pain like a puppy.

Pathetic, get up. Voices from Hydra spewed venom, wracking through his psyche. He clenched his jaw and groaned from deep in his throat.

Broken…unworthy…killer…tainted…

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The mission was successful. The team had divided in two, his group had finished earlier.

He felt better, exhausted. It had been a long mission. He was covered in grime and blood.

It was rare for him to get to the point of exhaustion, but he had dived head-first into hand-to-hand combat, not letting up, ignoring the black widow’s knowing looks.

Freshly showered and changed into sweats, Bucky let himself fall face-first into his too-soft bed. Days of restless sleep and today’s exertion weighed his body down and pulled his mind into sweet oblivion.

He awoke with a start, looked at the clock, and sat up. 3:22 A.M.

He had stood you up. He rushed to the elevator and up to the floor. His thoughts raced with self-criticism and hatred. He breathed out a frustrated sigh, you weren’t there.

Of course, you weren’t there – he had been over an hour late.

He grumbled to himself all the way down to the common floor. His footsteps skidded to a stop when he found all the lights on and a flurry of activity.

Hawkeye typed furiously into a computer; Black Widow paced the floor, her hands fiddling with tech stuff. Steve was curled over a tablet, his hands clenched around the edge of a countertop.

Bucky stopped. The other team hadn’t come back.

“What’s wrong… where is she?” His chest felt tight.

Steve motioned at him to come near while the other two ignored him.

“Look, Bucky, I know you have some fondness for her, but I need you to calm down. She’s — uh— she’s missing…”

His ears started ringing; he didn’t hear anything after that. He took deep breaths, running his hands through his hair. It was longer, and he needed a haircut. Maybe you could cut his hair. Yeah, that sounded nice.

He stilled. Breathing in deep, “Give me the details. I’ll have her back with me within the hour.”

He didn’t recognize his voice. Black Widow and Hawkeye had turned to stare at him with wide eyes.

“Bucky, calm down, she’s alive from what we can tell, we can’t deal with y- we have to focus on finding her right now.”

“I am focused. I will find her.” His voice was gruff, and the language wasn’t English. He was reverting back…

Iron Man decided it was the best moment to walk in.

Bucky, The Winter Soldier, turned around with intent. He had some inkling of what he must have looked like, a menace— because Iron Man was opening his mouth to make some snarky remark, his jaw clenching shut, hands rising in surrender.

“Где она, где моя кукла?” Where is she? Where is my doll?.

His voice had a deadly cadence. He spoke and meant death.

“She’s okay, Wanda has her.” Black Widow had placed the radio on a table. She walked toward The Soldier slowly.

Wanda, the deadly witch, saved from Sokovia. He remembered her. She was strong. Not strong enough.

He leveled his eyes on her. “скажи мне где, или ты умрешь.” Tell me where, or die.

Her eyes grew hard. “Calm down, soldier. There is no need to threaten anyone.”

The tension was palpable then, rising… rising-

The Doors opened to you limping… being supported by the witch and the doctor.

His shoulders slumped. He shifted toward you, but something blocked his path. He looked down to see Steve’s arm pushing against his chest. The enemy’s stance was on the offense, about to attack, to keep her from him. He was about to threaten his best friend, The Captain, to move when-

“Jamie…”

His gaze flashed toward you. You pushed away from them, limping— stumbling toward him.

He met no resistance this time as he rushed softly toward you.

Your knees buckled as he wrapped his arms around you. You collapsed against him.

You sobbed softly- and he broke. His arms were strong and soft as he held you close.

He didn’t care about anything. He didn’t care how the scene looked. He didn’t care that they all knew for certain now. He loved you.

He just needed to know you were okay.

He held you as you shook, “I thought, I was back there Jamie, I- thought I wasn’t going to to see you again. I thought he would get lonely, and- and- I was going to miss you- they- they- I didn’t care about any of it. I just thought about you….” You sobbed, trying to get words out. “I got out. I killed them all, I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face not- I killed…” For you.

“Kukla…” Doll. “you’re here, you’re okay, let’s get you to the infirmary. You are hurt and bleeding…”

His voice was so, so soft —dense with remnants of Russian. His arms holding you together.

He ignored it all, ignored the dropped jaws and furrowed brows. You came first. He had shown you his vulnerability, but he first had to be sure his Achilles heel would be okay.

Please remember to leave your kind thoughts in the comments, and if you enjoyed support with reblogs, ok thanks for reading be back with part two soon!!!!

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rxmye · 1 year ago

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" 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 "

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — For so long, he found art in his surroundings, nature was his muse . . who would've thought that he'd be able to find another muse, within you.

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / obsessive / unhealthy themes / I guess the reader is his 'hater' / perfectionist yandere / kind of egotistic yandere / he has a praise kink frfr / maybe a bit self centered . . / kind of unedited / also might appeal to ppl with a savior complex

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: I feel like Lore takes up a good chunk of this fic, but enjoy . . also might be one of my longest fics . .

He was a calming presence, and a thoughtful friend to all he called his own. Elegance took a human form, in Xavier Wilson—A beautiful work of art indeed . . Born presenting a talent that could rival many others in the industry.

From a young age, Xavier presented himself as a man of the arts, often drawing out vivid tapestries of his dreams or memories. He would often lose himself in the pages of his notebook, scribbling away with intricate drawings and stories, his mind was his own magnum opus.

However—people was never his strong suit. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, surely if he was as magnificent as those around him expressed, he'd most certainly be able to recreate the portraits of those around him?—But no, none of his portraits could compare to his various other works.

As he got a bit older, his mother decided to enroll him in classes that could help expand his talents, which ranged from various music lessons, theater (didn't end well), art history—etc . . .

Xavier let out a breathy sigh, staring at the keys of the grand piano absentmindedly—his gloved fingers gently glide over the keys, tired would be the best way to describe him as of right now—his professor had left an hour ago, yet Xavier couldn't find it in himself to move.

Truth be told, Xavier wasn't a fan of music, he preferred quiet solitude—and though he had long since gotten used to the sound of the piano, violin, and any of the other ridiculous instruments his mother was so keen on getting him to play—he still preferred the silence over all.

Over the course of time, Xavier disinterest towards music dimmed—Alongside his distaste towards instruments . . He figured the reason he disliked it so much was due to his inability to play as perfectly as his professor . . Xavier was a perfectionist, and anything he couldn't perfect was simply 'wrong' in his eyes, and as he reached his teen years, he accepted that fact wholeheartedly.

Xavier stood still, as his mother fixed his tie for him—he could do it himself but he let her enjoy this moment, she always disliked watching her son 'grow up so fast'—"are you nervous?", she asked softly, gently holding his hands, smiling so brightly.

'Am I nervous?—' he thought, clearly not. He felt calm, neutral even. It was his first big show, yet internally he knew that things would end well for him, he could feel it. He's always been lucky, in fact his father's nickname for him as a child was quite literally 'Puer aureus' which translated to 'the golden boy' from Latin.

He clicked his tongue, a common habit of his—especially when he wasn't being exactly truthful—he paused for a moment as if to think, then he smiled at his mother, "Just a bit, but I'll be fine" he spoke calmly, gently squeezing her hand to reassure her. "Don't worry, I've prepared well for this . . Haven't I?"

Praise, he adored praise, and that day he received quite a lot of it—not just from his parents, or acquaintances . . .—but crowds of people. Honestly, it stroked his ego, quite a bit . .

By seventeen years of age, Xavier's talent was known worldwide, his rise to fame quite massive and fast . . He had to attend class, while also hosting live performances and art galleries. (such a struggle, really . . .)

University admissions were coming around, and most of his friends had chosen what schools they plan on applying to—what path they plan on going into—what school they hope to go to the most, the conversation was an eye opener and yet it all felt so bitter.

Xavier tapped his pen on the table, zoning out from the conversation his friends were having . . only to zone back in when Neva spoke, "—so Xavier, have you decided where you'll be applying too . . ? I'm sure you'll get in."

He clicked his tongue in response, closing his eyes absentmindedly as he spoke, "To be honest, not really . . probably something arts related?", Xavier was about to speak up again but stopped himself, starring down at the table, a sigh escaping his lips.

"That seems like a waste of money", he looked up, starring at Oliver with questioning eyes, and Oliver quickly explained himself, "Art school is great and all—But it won't really make much of a difference for you, in fact the rules could restrict your talent . . It could be better for you to just try something new? You're good in school a degree outside of your comfort zone may be something good for you!"

He hated that his friend was right, he hated being wrong. He prided himself for always knowing what was best for himself and his abilities, and in a spur of pettiness he found himself taking art anyway, trying to prove his friend wrong . . even though he was well aware his intentions were pure in all ways.

Xavier had done well in his courses so far, and with his fame, he was breezing through classes—and yet, when the topics of portraits came up . . he found all that floating out the window.

None of the models they had for class, felt right—none of the art he did, felt authentic . . felt like himself, when it came to art, Xavier took everyone to paradise, his art felt like peace . . his art was calm . . his music was soft, lulling almost . .

Yet now, as he stared at his canvas, covered in mixed harsh colours, a vibrant mess of paint, his brushes wrecked, paint dripping from the easel . . It felt like anything but calm.

And that's when he dropped out, a question to his perfection would wreck the fragile image of himself he had created in his mind, a man so perfect and lucky in his own right a humbling experience like that was to never see the light of day.

Xavier found himself turning to something different, just like Oliver suggested, his alternatives were selective, yet he kept many paths open, Photography, fashion, and business were his top picks and things he found himself surprisingly enjoying . . Surely if he could paint and create melodies of such wonders, then he can stitch some fabric together, solve a few equations, and take a few photo's here and there just fine . . right?

A few years had past, and Xavier was now running his very own Luxury fashion line, he still hosted art galleries here and there, and composed music on the side, but his business took up most of his time.

But on his free days he'd turn to photography, taking pictures of things he sought comfort in . . and people, he'd often take pictures of unsuspecting people, pretty ones . . people not so pretty as well, just to try and recreate the life they had on a canvas . . yet somehow always failing to do so.

The moment Xavier found himself close, he'd reach a dead end . . and that destroyed him, internally.

Over the years, he accepted the small flaws in his behavior, and tried his best to reform them, presenting himself as the perfect public figure. He did go to therapy in the past, but when things started rising up, he quit entirely.

Xavier laid back on his office chair, and scrolled through his recent posts comment section, and as expected almost all of it was praise . . some of envy, but that only fueled his ego more . . Until he found a comment that set him off, "His art is so melancholy, it feels a bit sad . . His previous works were brighter, like more happy but now it kind of feels sad . . Like the life in his work isn't there anymore."

Xavier stared at the comment dumbfounded, never had he received that kind of feedback . . portraits he drew were indeed lifeless, but his other art was always regarded as lively, and that was what he always strived for . . Curious, and in a fit of rage . . he clicked on the commenters profile, and saw you.

You, you . . You were what he was looking for, his muse. So, full of life . . He scrolled through your page, and couldn't help but feel the urge to draw you, and paint you . . and paint you he did. . Because soon his entire studio was filled with pieces inspired by you . . so full of 'life' . . .

Yet at some point, he had reached the end of your posts, and it just wasn't enough . . he needed you . . He wanted your feedback, he craved your praise . . like no other, he wanted input . . he wanted to know if his work was truly still lifeless . . he wanted you.

After all, a artist isn't complete without his muse.

want more, buy my limited time only advent calendar?

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

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whowrotethenote · 4 months ago

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𝐁𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐧

Rating: 18+ minors DNI

Summary: What starts off as a regular Spring Break attending Wrestlemania for Alana, takes an unexpected turn, landing her in a fantasy come to life. The Tribal Chief is in need of unwinding after his victory and he chose her.

Pairing: Roman Reigns x Black Fem OC

Warnings: NSFW // Smut // Age gap // Profanity // Adultery

Word count: 8.9k (sorry lol)

Inspo: Biggest Fan by Chris Brown

A/N: This took way longer than it should've, but I'm actually proud of myself for finishing. Y'all don't know how many times I've started writing something in the past and never finish. There's drafts of unfinished everything on my laptop.

This is my first time posting my writing on any platform. I hope y'all like it. I tried to proofread as much as I can, but I'm honestly tired of reading it lol. I feel like I'm going to realize its shit and delete it all.

Disclaimer // Part Two // Biggest Fan Masterlist // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist

“I wonder if the Usos will come out.”

“Yeah, probably,” I respond to my roommate Demi, only half as concerned as she is. The Usos are the last thing on my mind. They’re her choice of poison. I’m here for one man and one man only.

I survey the crowd of strangers surrounding us. All in Bloodline gear waiting for the same thing. The Main Event. They all probably spent a fortune months ago just to be in the very same spot she and I stole tickets for.

It wasn’t on purpose. We originally had nosebleeds. We were lucky to even have those, seeing as we snagged them just days ago. The frail older man outside the doors waving a chunk of tickets in his hand, was an angel in disguise. He waved and waved until two tickets went flying into the thick crowd of people all pushing to just get into the main doors of the building.

Demi and I searched on hands and feet for those tickets that no one else seemed to be looking for. Imagine our disbelief seeing them all dirtied and stepped on by the door and they read floor seats. Not just any floor seats. The ones located directly next to the entrance ramp with a clear shot of the ring. Fucking jackpot.

don’t be acting all fanned out when he walks by either

I smirk reading the text my brother sent. Yeah, right. Maybe three years ago, a young Alana would’ve woke up tomorrow morning with no voice from losing my shit, watching the Roman Reigns walk by me. But it's not five years ago. I’m not a teenager in my room waiting at the TV with my golden glove on, throwing my one’s up and giving an acknowledgment he couldn’t even see.

Who am I fooling? That teenage girl, although buried deep, still lives within me. Otherwise I wouldn’t even be here. I wouldn’t have spent the two thousand my dad gave me to enjoy my spring break on a plane ticket to LA, a hotel and tickets to Wrestle-mania 39. I’d be like the rest of the Juniors at my university. Bar hopping in Mexico or in Miami half naked strutting down Collins Ave.

I go back and forth between scrolling on my phone, daydreaming, and loosely watching the matches that come. Before I know it, the moment I’ve been waiting for all night and damn near all my life rises to the forefront.

The lights dim and the first beats of the drums ring loud throughout the stadium, matching the acceleration of my heartbeat. This is really happening. He’s about to come out and walk right past me. Everyone around me pulls their phones out on the ready, accompanied by a roar of screams just as loud as the orchestra performing his music.

Too concentred on the entry way anticipating his figure, I forget I even have a phone. No, I need to feel this thoroughly. No middle man between me and this unforgettable experience.

We all wait in collaborative angst until his tall figure emerges and my breath gets caught in my throat. The aura and the energy he carries is all consuming, demanding the attention of every person present, even his haters. Solo and Paul flank behind him following his slow and steady pace until he comes to a hard stop.

The cameraman is dangerously close as he kneels to catch him from an angle down below. This is so surreal. On cue his pyro lights fire, upping the excitement from the crowd if even possible. Everyone is already losing their minds. Even Demi’s screams threatened to take out my right eardrum despite her main infatuation resting with the Usos.

His mesmerizing eyes scan the crowd with a slight nod of approval and then they land on…me? Time stills and I can’t hear the noise around me. Was he staring at me?

As much as I want to look around for confirmation that his eyes are indeed locked on me, I’m hypnotized. The slight scrunch of his brows and his dark pupils paralyze me in place. Jesus, Lana. Move. Smile. Wave. Shit, do something.

He’s fucking beautiful. Carved from stone. Kissed by the sun. Hair wet and hanging. Ula Fala draping perfectly around his neck. Full beard with a hint of greying. And his chest. God, his chest. His abs rippled perfectly. I’m scared to even blink, at the risk that I’ll miss something.

A thick pink tongue slithers out over his lips and I heat up from the inside out. My god.

In a flash he looks onward to the ring on the move again and the world returns to its original state.

I turn to face Demi whose eyes are wide like a saucer. “Biiiitch,” she drags out and we break into a fit of laughter.

“Okay, so I’m not bugging?” My brows dent.

“No. No, I saw it too,” she assures me. “That man was definitely eye fucking you.” My face heats replaying the scene back in my head. “That was so surreal. He’s so much bigger in person…” Her voice trails off once I get lost in my thoughts watching him hold his titles up in the center of the ring. He moves like a king. Like everywhere he goes he expects everyone to bow gracefully and fall at his feet. It makes him even more attractive than just what the eyes can reach. Fuck me. This is going to be a long night.

Demi got her wish. The Usos came out but their stunt didn’t last too long due to an appearance from Sami and Kevin. Somehow, Roman still took home the win. Still the champion. Still on top. Still the man.

The whole match, I could only half way focus on him and his god-like figure moving about in the ring. The other half of me was still stuck in the moment we shared during his entrance. Was he really staring at me?

Call me delusional, but I swear he looked at me two more times. Once during the match, when he kicked out at the last second of Cody’s pin. He struggled to his knees and rested back on his heels to scan the crowd. He stumbled to his feet, but not before those eyes bore a hole into mine for a quick second. Then again, when he won. He held up his titles, chest heaving up and down, then he looked my way with a squint.

“I can’t believe he still won,” Demi practically has to yell as we ease our way through the crowd to leave. “I was sure it was game over when Sami gave him the boot.”

Simultaneously we push through the back entrance doors and let them slam behind us. The slightly chilly night air of April hitting. No more screams. No more crowds. But the rush and aura of the night still lingers on us.

“My man doesn’t take L’s,” I tell her matter-of-factly with my chin up.

“I see,” she laughs.

We were smart. We took an Uber and told him to let us out from almost three blocks away. We follow that same pattern now to avoid the rush and traffic of everybody trying to leave at once. Towards the opposite way of the parking lot, away from the crowds, we start our journey to a quiet block to call the Uber.

“Wanna hit it?” Demi extends her hand that holds a lit blunt in between her fingers. I shake my head.

“How the hell did you even get that thing in?”

“Tampon,” she informs before pulling from it. Of course. She’s been sneaking weed into parties that way since we were freshmen.

“Excuse me! Ladies!” An authoritative calls from behind causing us both to stop in our tracks. I know that voice. “Excuse me!”

Demi and I lock eyes and at once we do a complete one-eighty to find him practically chasing us down.

“What the fuck?” I hear Demi murmur before he stops in front of us winded.

“Ladies,” he offers one firm nod. “My name is—’’

“Paul Heyman,” we finish for him in unison.

A smug smile adorns his chubby face. “That’s right.” He holds a hand out and we both just stare at it for a while. After several seconds of an awkward and shocking silence, Demi abruptly shakes his hand and I follow her lead, still trying to make sense of this moment.

“I’ve been sent to relay a message. The Tribal Chief has requested your services for tonight.”

“Services?” The line between Demi’s thoughts and what comes out of her mouth has always been very blurred.

“Yes,” he confirms. In unison we turn just our heads to each other with equal expressions of confusion and disbelief. “You see, The Tribal Chief likes the comfort of company while he’s on the road from time to time.”

“Company, huh?” I catch Demi’s smirk.

“Especially on nights like tonight. You know?” I raise a brow. “All the adrenaline, excitement, and energy from tonight’s match. It's good for him to uh… blow off some steam and unwind.”

I lose count of how many times Demi and I have to exchange looks tonight. Since I’ve met her we’ve always spoke a nonverbal language only we understand. A subtle head nod in the direction of a cute boy in the room, an eye roll when somebody says something problematic, or wide eyes when someone spills tea that we know we’ll have to debrief about later. Tonight, our eyes dance in a mutual agreement that can’t be any clearer. “Hell yeah,” I speak for the first time.

Demi tosses the lit blunt and we both advance to follow him. “Oh no, I’m sorry. Just you.”

“Me?” I ask with a finger to my chest. He grins slyly nodding.

“I— I don't know.”

“You don’t know?” Demi slaps my arm.

“I’ll need an answer now. Gotta get you to his bus before the real crowd emerges. There’s a few things you need to sign.” Sign? Oh god. This is getting serious.

“M—maybe this is a mix up. Are you sure he asked for me—”

“Bitch.” I’m interrupted by a firm push from Demi toward Paul. My eyes meet her wide ones that scream, “go.”

I look between the both of them. “You’ll be fine getting to the hotel?” I’m not all the way certain how tonight will go, but I have a feeling I won’t be seeing her until tomorrow.

“Girl, don’t worry about me. I’ll always get where I’m going. I should be the last thing on your mind.”

“We can wait until her Uber comes?” I eye Paul who eyes his watch briefly.

“Sure.”

So we wait in silence. The whole time, I bounce the idea of just saying never mind and pussying out, back and forth like tennis. Reading my mind, Demi would eye me and mouth “don’t you dare.” So many things can go wrong. I’m not even entirely sure I know what the hell Paul is talking about. Company? Services? It could mean so many things. Does he want to talk? A massage? Am I going to just sit there on his lap while he watches TV? What if he’s one of those foot guys? Is he going to touch himself while I sit there barefoot? Oh god, please don’t have a foot fetish.

With the exception of tonight, I’ve only ever seen him through a screen. Playing a character. I don’t know him. That’s the reality of it. Am I really about to follow a stranger, Paul Heyman, to accompany another strange man?

After checking that she has the right Uber and sensing she will be safe alone with him, I let her hand go. She gives me one final look before I let her shut the car door. “Make him remember you, bitch.”

Like a farmer leading its cattle to slaughter, I follow him as he leads me up the steep steps of the bus. A pit of something stirs in my stomach the deeper we walk. Equal parts angst and doom. Like the end of something and the beginning at the same time. We pass the driver’s seat. The floors are a shiny mahogany wood, matching the cabinets of the kitchen area we end up in. Although small, it feels grand. Definitely doesn’t seem like a space this chic belongs in a bus trailer. I guess only the best for the best.

In the midst of admiring the space, I look over to see Paul shuffling some papers around.

“Alright! So I’ll need you to sign this.” He separates one stack from the main one and slides a pen out for me. “Just something that says we’re not responsible for any items lost, damaged, or anything like that.” Everything in me screams to read the thick stack thoroughly before I dare sign my name on the dotted line. I do it anyway, because who even has time for that? Paul is already moving about like he has somewhere to be.

“And this here,” he pushes the signed paper out the way and slides another stack in its place. This one much thicker than the former. I raise a brow. “Don’t worry. It's just a non-disclosure. Nothing discussed, seen, or heard after you sign can be shared with any other persons.”

I look for the expiration date of the legal document and don’t find one. I search and my eyes land on the word indefinitely.

“Indefinitely, huh?” I think deeply about what I am about to agree to. I would only even want to tell Demi and a few other girls from our bookclub maybe that watch WWE. My eyes land on the seven figure lawsuit terms if the NDA is breached. I weigh my options. Spill tea and get fined or secretly get intimate with the man of my dreams…

The pen is smooth as it glides along the dotted line and I cap it before handing it back over to Paul. “Perfect.” He takes it and reorganizes the papers. I blow out a breath looking around again. There’s a grey curtain blocking off the rest of the bus, which I assume holds a bedroom of some sort and a bathroom.

“Is he already here?” I lean to try and get a peak of whats beyond the curtain.

“Nope. He’s doing a bit of press and wrapping some things up backstage. You’ll wait for him here. The driver is inside the building. Probably won’t be back until late tonight. Roman should be back soon.”

“I’m expected to stay here overnight?”

“Totally up to you. I’m sure you and him will figure it out. It’s not like him to spend the night alone though.”

In that moment it becomes clear what I am here to do. My heart lurches at the thought of just sharing a bed and possibly cuddling with him. His big muscular arms wrapped around me. The heat of his breath on the back of my neck and the hardness of his di—

“This wasn’t on the NDA you just signed, but,” he held his hand out between us. “I’m gonna need that phone before I leave.” Of course. I almost change my mind. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it back as soon as it's all over. Definitely before you leave.”

Fuck it. I retrieve my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and he gladly takes it. I don’t need it anyhow. I can’t imagine being in the presence of him anyway and my phone stealing the show. I would forget I even had one.

It's not long before he’s packing everything up, preparing to leave me. A small part doesn’t want him to go. He served as sort of a comfort. Truth be told, my heart is in my ass.

He pulls the curtain back to reveal a chic bedroom set up. If I didn't know any better, I would think we are in a five star hotel and not a bus trailer.

Everything is a sleek grey with undertones of black. Glossy black wood dresser chest and a matching nightstand. Black wood bed frame and headboard. I run my hand along the dark grey duvet thats just as soft as it looks.

“I’ll be on my way. You’ll probably see me tomorrow or later tonight. If not someone else will give the phone back.” He waves my phone and turns, but not before pulling the curtain back to close.

I’m all alone now. Theres a flat screen mounted opposite the bed, but the noise won’t do anything but make me more anxious. I want to be able to hear everything going on.

I have the weird urge to go through his suitcase I see sitting upright by the wall. I shake the thought away knowing it's an invasion of privacy. I opt to go through the dresser chest instead. Its empty. I guess he didn’t get a chance to unpack.

I turn and rest my butt on it, crossing my arms. Minutes go by, and what seems like an hour passes before I hear movement outside the bus. Deep voices talking and then I hear heavy steps heading my way. I straighten up. No, too formal. I sit on the bed legs crossed. No, what am I? An escort?

I stand again and take my original place leaning on the edge of the dresser, just in time for the curtain to pull back. The sight of his large stature so much closer to me than he was in the arena takes my breath away.

He doesn’t say a word. Just looks at me and walks right by me to his suitcase. Then he’s in the bathroom. The sound of him peeing is loud followed by water running.

Big, tan and burly, he emerges again. He moves with power just oozing off of him, with an authority that just screamed, “I’m in charge.” It's not just a ring persona. Thats just him.

My eyes never leave his tall frame maneuvering around the small space as if I’m not even standing here. He kicks the Jordans off his feet to slip into his slides. His Nike hoodie comes off next and he tosses it on the small loveseat in the corner. His big and cut arms now in full view.

He relieves himself of the contents in his pants pockets. Wallet, keys, some loose change, and a small folded paper all fall on the dresser. He stops for a moment holding out his left hand. He twists the black band off his ring finger and places it in the drawer instead of on top of the dresser with the rest of his things.

Our eyes snag and I immediately shift my attention to my fingers. Twisting and untwisting. Picking at the acrylic on my nails. Anything but looking him in the eye after witnessing that. It's not too late to change my mind. I can stop this. I should, but do I really want to?

The sound of his slides lets me know he’s on the move again. I find him by a minibar area I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Is it cold in here?” His deep voice cuts through the silence. It's then I notice I was holding and rubbing my arms as if I was cold. So, he is paying me some kind of attention. Truth is, I’m just trying to keep the goosebumps from a slight panic attack at bay.

“No, it's fine.”

“You feeling alright?” He twists slightly with a raised brow. Probably trying to figure out why I haven’t moved an inch since he walked in here. He’s so calm and cool. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the calmer he is, the more anxious I grow.

“Yeah. Y—yeah, no I’m fine.”

“You spoke to Paul already?”

“Yeah—yes,” I correct myself and clear my throat. I don’t know when it became so damn dry.

I was speaking to his back. The muscles still making themselves known even through the fabric of his black tee. Hair sleeked back into his signature bun. My eyes trail down to his ass. For a man, he has a nice one. I image how he’d look with nothing. The intimacy of him walking around with absolutely nothing on. The afterglow of sex on him. Rock hard abs and tribal tattoo as his only decoration. His manhood swinging freely, semi-hard even after just laying serious wood—

“Then I assume you know why you’re here,” his deep voice cuts my nasty daydream short.

I can hear him maneuvering glass, but I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing over his big frame. I was too shell shocked to move too much, afraid I might wake up from this fever dream.

“I do,” I answer him.

If my father knew when he gave his only daughter, his princess, money to enjoy her spring break, that she’d end up alone in the bus of a man who was over ten years her senior, the money would’ve never made it into my hand in the first place. I’m sure this isn’t what he had in mind, but truly this was the best way a young girl could enjoy spring break. An unexpected encounter with an older and wealthier man. My idol. I watched him on TV for years. Gawked at the screen. Liked thousands of edits on Tiktok and Instagram. Dreams of this very moment knowing it couldn’t possibly ever come true. And now here he was. Big in stature and energy right here in front of me. Talking to me.

Hell yeah, I know what I’m here to do. Even if he didn’t utter a single word and just stripped and nodded to the bed, I’d still get the job done with no shame. What girl in her right mind wouldn’t?

I can hear them now. But he’s married. He has a family. He’s old enough to be your father. They just won’t understand. Demi would. Demi would get it. She always gets it and she always gets me. Having lost her father and sister in a car crash just weeks before moving into the dorms for college, taught her that life was indeed too short. Live freely and take risk, because you don’t know when you won’t be able to. Shit, we’re all gonna die anyway. That’s the mantra she lives by. She’s different and that’s why I attached myself to her. She’s not like everybody else who lives like they’ve already walked the steps to heaven.

This was a more than seldom, once in a lifetime opportunity. I’d think about this night when I’m grey and depleting on my deathbed. I won’t let my head play tricks on me with the opinions of anyone who would do the same thing put in my position.

It's silent again. I hear liquid being poured for a second. I wonder if Demi made it back to the hotel okay. She’s probably blowing up my phone with a thousand texts trying to figure out whats going on.

So deep in my thoughts I don’t realize he’s making his way to me until he’s right here already. I have to look up to meet his gaze as he stares down at me over the bridge of his nose. He’s so big. He smells divine. It's a masculine type of musk with a cleanliness to it. My breath gets caught in my throat, realizing exactly how close we are. Our shoes were just shy of an inch from touching. My chest rises and falls in anticipation of his next move.

Without any words, he holds a glass filled with brown liquid out closer to me. I look down at it with just my eyes. I’ve only been twenty-one for two weeks. Didn’t even get the opportunity to sit at a bar so a man could offer me a drink before trying to sleep with me. Who would’ve thought the first offering would come from him. Roman Reigns. Just at that thought, something in me ignited.

I took it, with the intention meaning more than just accepting the drink. I’m accepting the situation. Drawing a line in the sand and disposing of any doubt if there even was any left. I’m doing this. All complications pushed to the back. Tonight he’s not Joe Anoa’i, the married man with five kids. He’s Roman Reigns, undisputed WWE Universal Champion, The Tribal Chief, Main Eventer, Head of the Table…And I’m his biggest fan.

I throw the contents of the glass back, trying my hardest not to make a face from the burning sensation. He gets it down in one big gulp, putting me to shame, as I can’t help watching his Adam’s apple bob up and then down. He’s still just inches from me. I can see every hair on his beard. The slight greying ones are my favorite.

It's so weird seeing him in this state. So lax in his own space. No ring gear. No mean scowl. No Ula Fala around his neck. No championship belt around his waist. Just him. Black tee and sweats to match.

He takes the glass back and places them both behind me on the dresser top. Without warning, he’s on me. His tongue shoves past my lips saying to hell with formalities. No warm up. Straight to business.

“Mm,” I groan from shock. My natural instinct from being so caught off guard is to create some space, but a firm hand gripping the base of my neck keeps me in place.

He immediately asserts dominance, caressing every part of my body his hands can reach like he owns it. My neck, my shoulders, my back, and all the way down to my ass with a firm squeeze that separates my pussy lips. All the while still assaulting my mouth with his warm tongue. The tang of the alcohol still lingering. I fight for some control in the kiss but it's no use. He’s too much for me.

Everywhere his strong hands make contact, it leaves a spark until my whole body feels like it's on fire. Damn, that drink was strong. He pulls away from the kiss completely after one last soft, open mouthed peck. Like a magnet, my eyes find the thick bulge in his black sweats and I grow even more excited.

He drops to his knees in front of me and my breath hitches when his cold fingertips find their way up my shirt. A trail of kisses with a slight tickle from his beard follow up and up until I raise my arms for him to take the shirt off completely.

He’s back on his feet, turning me so my back is facing him. My breathing grows erratic. This is really happening.

“Lights,” his voice rumbles behind me. The bright lights turn off but there's little lamps set up in the small space allowing a cast bright enough to see still.

The black lace bra I wear is unhooked in a matter of seconds. Who knew when I put it on this morning, that Roman Reigns himself would be taking it off come night. With a firm grip on my hips he turns me back to face him.

Being well endowed up top from such a young age, my natural instinct is to cover myself. I always thought they were a bit big for my body. Standing at five foot seven, I was only one hundred and fifty pounds. A lot of my weight being carried up top from these double D’s. When all the girls in middle school were just filling in, I was a full D cup. I noticed how boys would stare. Older men too. It would make me uncomfortable. Always thinking of ways to cover them or make them appear smaller.

Avoiding eye contact is useless. His eyes are like magnets. Like the sun. Just beaming down on me, making them impossible to evade. So I stare back at him. We stay like this for a while. Just watching one another in silence. The air is smoky with lust and pure ecstasy.

His hands cover mine and slowly drag them down to reveal my breast. Round, surprisingly perky, with fully erect chocolate nipples, creating a contrast to my caramel complexion. They steal the show as his eyes shoot to them immediately while he breathes deep from his nose.

I can feel his energy shift from passionate to pure animalistic. When his entire mouth covers one nipple, I lose all my sense. My head rolls back and instinctively I bring a hand to the back of his head. A rough hand cups and caresses my breast while he’s still latched on. I watch in awe as his thick tongue sticks out to flick and play with it before sucking again.

He’s expertly unbuttoning my jeans with his other hand as I feel the snag of him trying to pull them down. I step out of my shoes to help him and reveal the black thong I am not even accustomed to wearing. I’m more of a a boy shorts or Walmart pack panties kind of girl. I just so happen to have forgotten to pack them and had to borrow a pair from Demi.

Bending down must be uncomfortable, since he grips the back of my knees to hike me up like I weigh absolutely nothing. He gives more attention to my chest, sucking until my nipples are sore, before his tongue is in my mouth exploring again. We’re moving now, I assume towards the bed. With every step, his erection rubs against me leaving me clenching and needy.

My back meets the unbelievably soft bed. I practically sink into it, watching him rear back to remove his shirt and show off that god-like body. Mountains and valleys of muscle in his abdomen placed perfectly like someone sculpted him with their bare hands. His bun hangs a little looser now.

His long fingers loop the waistband of my panties and we lock eyes. His stare is intense saying what his lips didn’t. I nod once. I’m doing this.

Almost in slow motion he pulls them down my legs, his eyes not leaving mine until the very last second. His attention is stolen by the sight of me down there.

“You’re soaking.” He uses the butt of his thumb to circle my clit. I jump slightly at the sudden contact. “That’s all for me?” He locks eyes with me again, expecting an answer and all I can do is nod frantically while biting down hard on my bottom lip. I can’t keep still. My body is on fire under his touch and his gaze. Eyes dark with passion, he squints watching me squirm every time he speeds the rhythm of his thumb up or down.

“Fuck,” I move my hips to the rhythm of his hand and grab one of my breast.

His thick tongue snakes out to lick his pink lips like he did earlier in the arena and I almost cum on sight. I look on in shock watching how he licks his thumb clean like he just ate Doritos and he’s discarding the remnants of them. A small groan of pleasure leaves his throat. I must be dreaming.

Climbing off the bed hastily, he tugs his pants and red briefs down at once and his dick pops up on recoil. My pussy clenches around nothing in anticipation for her next guest. Long, thick and tanned just like the rest of him. Mouthwatering. I never had the urge to taste something so bad in my life.

I can tell there’s no time for that though. He’s anxious now. I can feel the heat and need radiating off his body as if his stiff, vein-filled dick didn’t already tell on him.

With a tight grip on my ankle, he flips me over abruptly. Of course. Missionary would’ve been way too intimate for the circumstances.

On instinct I get up on all fours, deepening the arch to an almost painful degree so the view is nice for him. A smack so hard I jerk forward a bit, lets me know he’s satisfied with what he sees.

“All this ass,” he mumbles rubbing my behind in circles and even giving it a little shake.

He runs his long fingers up and down the slickness with ease. A groan leaves my throat as I grow impatient. I know I should want this to last as long as humanly possible, but I can’t fight this storm inside of me. I’ve wondered too long about it, daydreamed about it, and even touched myself in imagination before at the thought of this man I only knew through a TV screen.

I sway back and forth slightly waiting and listening to the sound of a wrapper and a slight pop. I have no time to prepare. The bed dips with the weight of him back on it. His thick head is at my opening, rubbing from my clit to almost my asshole. He only does this three good times before I’m practically ripped apart.

“Ouu!” A mix of a moan and something I’ve never heard from myself fills the room. He roughly takes the hand I thought I would use to push him and pins it behind me.

My throat goes dry. God damn. He’s fucking huge and unforgiving. Even with the slow pace he’s pushing into me combined with my wetness, it still feels like he’s breaking me apart from the inside out.

“Breathe,” he coaches. If possible a gush of wetness rushes out from the sound of his voice, bringing me back to the situation at hand. I have to make it work for him.

I bite down on the expensive grey covers as he pulls completely out and then back in. “Mm!”

He finds his rhythm, as he’s able to glide in and out. I try to match him once the pain subsides. I glance back to catch his full bottom lip caught between his teeth. The muscles in his chest working as a sheen of sweat starts to form.

I work harder now. The sight of him turning me on more than ever, opening me up like a wildflower.

“Let me hear you. I wanna hear you,” he grunts out almost desperately. The vulnerability in his rough voice drawing more heat and wetness from my core. I moan louder than I intended and shock myself. I’m not usually verbal in bed. Maybe a little cry or whimper here and there. This shit feels too good to be demure and delicate about.

I obey his order and release the moan that I didn’t even know I’m suppressing. It's not forced or fabricated. I genuinely feel so good in this moment I can only moan in response.

His strokes are primal. Animalistic like a lion in the wild taking whats his. And he’s so fucking big. In aura and size. The ways his body envelopes mine makes me feel smaller than I really am. His thickness stretching me in a way I didn’t think was possible.

“Oh, fuck!” I yell out. His hand tangles in my hair and stretches my gaze up, giving him full view of my desperate face.

“Tell me how good it feels,” he demands.

“Oh my god,” I pant. “It's so fucking good,” I struggle to get out. Every thrust steals my breath. He aims for the perfect spot every time and doesn’t miss. The smack of our bodies colliding ring loud in the silent space.

“Louder, baby,” he grunts diving deeper.

“I can feel you everywhere. You feel so good! Unh!”

“Atta girl.” The rumble of his voice sends a vibration straight to my core. My pussy clenches down from his words. To add insult to injury, a large and slightly calloused hand finds its way up my stomach to cup my breast. He pinches, twists and rolls my nipple around like he’s playing with a toy. As if my pussy isn’t becoming dangerously wetter already.

He removes the hold in my hair, trailing to my hip. His thumb presses down hard while guiding me back and forth on him. He gives me his all and I return the favor, using the unstable grip I have on the duvet to leverage me as I throw my ass back on him to catch.

The friction of his balls slapping sloppily against my clit built up enough pressure for a pending orgasm. With one strong hand still on my hip, he uses his free one to shove my face down to the bed making me lose any power I had in this fight.

His front collides with my ass, causing a consistent slapping. Anyone walking on the bus could easily tell whats going on now. His grunts, my pants, the consistent slapping. These were sounds of fucking.

“Fuck me! Yesss!” I don’t recognize myself. He’s awakening something in me. A familiar tinging stirs in the pit of my stomach. If he keeps on, it won’t be long until I explode all over his thick dick.

“Yeah?” He whispers.

“Yeah,” I whimper in response.

He goes harder than ever before, his strokes less uniform and more wild. My mouth falls wide open at the intensity and perfect mix of pain and pleasure.

His hips continue to snap against me and if possible I feel him grow harder inside me. His fingertips dig into me so hard I know there’ll be bruises tomorrow.

“Urghh!” A guttural moan erupts from him, urging me to fuck him through his release even as his movements slow. I study his facial expressions and record them in my brain to take home with me as a souvenir. He stretches his neck with eyes shut tightly. That fucking tongue. Whisking out to flatten over his top lip before he bites down on his bottom one. Chest heaving up and down with the muscles in his abdomen flexing with every breath.

“So fucking good,” he says more to himself. He delivers another hard spank to my ass before I feel him ease out of me, hissing slightly at the sudden disconnect and absence of him. The pit of my stomach heavy still with the lingering orgasm that was cut short.

I’ve had sex with guys before and never got to finish. I’d leave unsatisfied and almost regretting the encounter completely. This is different. I’m here for him. I’d fulfill his needs and drain him even if it meant I left with nothing but a wet ass.

The bed creaks a little, letting me know he got up completely. Just when I think the night is over, my mouth falls open at the sensation of his hot mouth covering my entire pussy. His tongue slithers out to graze my distended clit.

“Mm, shit,” I cry out, shaking. I’m so sensitive. Any little sensation sends my body into overdrive. Every lick draws a mini release. When I finally get to the edge I know I’ll fall completely apart. The hair from his beard tickles me, only heightening the sensations. I feel nothing but pure pleasure.

A strong hand comes down on my left ass cheek and I whimper on impact. He squeezes it in a firm gip to move me up and down in a steady rhythm on his flattened tongue.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” I cry. I let my head hang down unable to keep it up any longer. All I can do, feel, and think about in this moments is how good he feels to me. Guys my age always need a crash course on how to eat pussy. Always too much spit, they couldn’t find my clit, or the torturous shaking of the head like a rabid dog.

Roman is eating me like I’m his last meal. Touching spots I didn’t even know a tongue could reach. With the way he’s grabbing me and rocking me on his stiff tongue, he’s damn near fucking me with it. We’re two complete strangers. The power dynamic is completely off. He’s the billionaire WWE superstar and I’m the underpaid and overworked fan in college. Somehow he’s still taking the time to worship my body and give me his all as if he’s the one who has something to prove.

The dick was mind-blowing. Oh, but the head will be the death of me. That same tongue he wags and flicks on live television, exploring me. Tonight is an absolute fairytale. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he could read my mind. He knows exactly what I want and how I want it.

In only a matter of seconds a tornado of heat swirls in my core. I rock back and forth on his mouth before he sucks relentlessly on my sensitive bud nonstop.

“Unnhh!” An uncontrollable shake erupts from me as I see stars. The world goes completely blank for a while as I relish in the ecstasy of my orgasm granted by the Tribal Chief himself. Tonight, I acknowledge him and his mouth.

“Oh my god,” I whisper in between pants coming to my senses. A small laugh leaves my throat at the way I just lost myself in front of him.

I turn to find him in the middle of snatching the cream covered condom off. His big dick bobs up and down from the snatch, fully erect again.

We got one night only.

Like a lioness on the prowl in the jungle, I eye him, crawling to the edge of the king bed where he stands. I stop just in front where my mouth aligns to his thickness, still eyeing him, making sure it's okay. He nods giving me the green light and even holds the base in his strong hand to bring it closer to my lips.

I let a glob of spit form and fall freely on his thick mushroom tip. Before it can drip, I catch it on the underside and lick from tip to base, to the tip again. His hips push forward impatiently.

“Open.” It's not a question so I don’t test him. His face is hard, but his eyes are desperate. As soon as my lips part he shoves himself all the way in like he owns my entire mouth. He draws out and I hallow my cheeks to keep it in as long as possible until I release him with a pop.

“Stick your tongue out for me.” I oblige and he slides his heavy dick across it gathering spit before pushing back down my mouth. A pulse grows in my clit again. A revival from seeing the remains of the mess I made in his thick beard.

“It's so good,” I tell him while slapping it on my tongue for him, earning a groan. The skin of him is soft as he stretches my mouth. I can taste the salty precum and I cant wait for the rest of it. I never trusted a man to release his bodily fluids in me in any way. It kind of grossed me out. Oh, but not tonight. He can release wherever he chooses.

Using one hand to twist in tandem with sucking him, I study every change in his expression, every pattern of his breath to record what feels the best to him.

“Go ‘head,” he urges in a low guttural tone. “Just like that. Take it all the way down. Don’t stop, babygirl.” That’s all I need to hear.

The eye contact is so deep it puts me in a trance. In a constant and fluid motion I take him in and out, making sure he reaches the back of my throat every time. In and out. In and out. In and out. The sounds of spit and his heavy breathing take charge of the room.

His body stiffens a bit and I can feel him get harder on my tongue. Deliberately I take him as far as possible and stay there until I make myself choke. The contracting of my throat around his thick head sends him completely off the rails. He breaks our bubble, throwing his head back to the ceiling.

“Mmm. Aw fuck!” A strong hand grabs a fistful of my hair, making it impossible for me to move. Thick ropes of his warm cum shoot down my throat and all around my mouth. “Ahh,” he groans out with a hiss jerking his hips forward a few good times. “Oh my god,” he blows out a heavy breath and lets his hands rest on his hips.

I’ve made dean’s list, honor roll all throughout high school, medals of all kind from track decorate the walls of my bedroom in my parents’ house. None of those accomplishments compare to the sight I just witnessed. The Roman Reign’s spent and sexually exhausted because of little ole me.

“Let me see,” he whispers while watching me suck the last of it out. I open wide and stick my tongue out so he can see his cum on it. His massive dick jumps at the sight. I feel the warmth of some of it seeping out and running down my chin.

“Don’t move,” he instructs. Like his obedient soldier I stay put, only looking around with one good eye. The other shut tight so none of his cum could invade it.

When he emerges again, he has a wet cloth in hand. Gently but still firm he wipes my face clean of him and my tears that slipped from the intensity of choking. Who knew the Tribal Chief is into aftercare?

A squeal escapes me from being lifted into the air and over his broad shoulder. I’m hanging as he moves us about. There’s no way that any of this is happening.

The shower starts to run. Even upside down I can see the marble walls and waterfall shower head raining down.

“You care about your hair getting wet?”

“No,” I strain to get out with his shoulder digging into my stomach. He chuckles so softly, I would’ve missed it if I couldn’t feel it from being on him.

He fucks me for hours in the shower. My back against the wall. In the air. Face against the tiles. On all fours again. I guess older men carry more stamina. The water cascaded from up top on us both while we locked tongues passionately, breathing in each other’s air.

He was in control the whole time. He flipped me every way he wanted me to go. Told me what to do, never asking. I’m left a wet, quivering mess at the end of it all.

I don’t realize how exhausted I am until he asks if I want to stay the night. I think about getting dressed and leaving, but the bed is impossibly plush and the sight of him naked still is impossibly sexy. Even better than I imagined.

I threw cuddling out the window once I seen his stoic nature and how he moved about earlier like this was just a business deal. He lays in the bed, still naked on his back with muscular arms slightly stretched. I lay on my stomach beside him trying to get comfortable. My heart thumps out my chest knowing he’s still here with me and so accessible. We literally just violated each other in the nastiest way possible and now we lay in bed not even touching.

His heavy breaths and light snore fill the room in no time creating a sort of white noise for me to descend to.

Some time in the middle of the night, I don know how, but those light snores ended up right in my ear. His breath hot on top of my head, accompanied by a very heavy arm over my hip.

My heart smiled and my face caught fire. It was so intimate. Undeniably my favorite part of the night. I shifted as quietly as I possibly could, inch by inch, until I was facing him. His bun fell completely apart, leaving his dried and fluffy curls cascading over his shoulders and the plush pillows. I make out what I can in the dark of his sharp features. I never seen him so relaxed. In the ring he’s always tense, always painted with tyranny and stress, but not right now. He almost looked like an angel.

I make a mental image of him. This is exactly how I want to remember him— how I want to remember this unpredictable night. This is the part that even if I could tell it, I don’t think anyone would even believe me. Burying my face into his chest, I breathe deep, trying to imprint his smell into my brain like ink on the skin.

The loud voices of men I don’t recognize, serve as my alarm clock. Eyes still shut, flashes of the night before and the soreness of my body, warp me back to reality. Oh, shit.

I shoot up from the pillow to scan the room, keeping the covers close to my naked chest. His suitcase still stood in the corner, but there’s no trace of him. No water running. His slides are gone. The thick curtain shields me from the rest of the bus.

6:07 AM flashes on the digital clock of the now cleared nightstand.

It's not like I was expecting this grand goodbye. The man didn’t even say hello to begin with. I thought I could at least see him one last good time before I leave LA for good.

I attempt to rise up, but something crinkling under my palm stops me. I grab the sheet of notepad paper and rub my eyes before reading the contents of it.

Thanks for last night. Joe.

Short and simple. In the corner, two cursive R’s as a signature. I neatly fold the paper and drop it into the pocket of my jeans I find folded on the chest dresser. I want that paper with me everywhere I go. A small piece of the whole experience. A subtle reminder of the best night of my life.

Every part of me wants to feel bad. How could I let him just use me for his needs for a night and then discard me like it was nothing? I should feel low. Cheap. But thats not even the kind of girl I am. The glass is always half full to me. Last night was arguably the best night of my young life. I’ve never known such adventure. I never felt more free—more like a woman.

I flop down in my bed still in a daze from the events of last weekend. Demi had a million and one questions. The NDA kept me from spilling. Even if I could’ve given her a play by play of how the night went, I don’t think I would’ve. Demi and I have the kind of bond thats void of any secrets. But that night with him was so special to me, I want to keep it for myself. Something for just me and him. It makes it more magical when only we know what happened. I just want to soak and bathe in it all.

Light as a feather I stare at my ceiling, letting the flashbacks corrupt me. The feel of his soft skin. The smell of him. His grunts and pants. His hands caressing and gripping my ass. The warmth of his tongue filling my mouth. I blow out a breath getting worked up again. I’ve touched myself countless times since that night to the memory of his voice and his energy. He was just so damn good. So much man and dominance, but still gentle and cautious.

After we touched back down in New York, it was back to reality. But that didn’t stop me from walking on a cloud. You can’t tell me shit. I fucked the Roman Reigns. Drained him and swallowed the aftermath. How’s that for a spring break?

It's currently Thursday. Almost a week has passed since the greatest night of my young life. I just got back from the gym with Demi. She’s pressed me every single day since that night, but I won’t budge. The confines of the NDA keeping me stronger than I normally would be.

Tomorrow is Smackdown at the Garden, but it's unclear if Roman will even be in attendance. He takes so many hiatuses it's really a hit or miss with him. Demi asked if we should go, but I declined not wanting to spend the money I didn’t have just for him not to even show.

A sudden dread came over me knowing that he couldn’t possibly be thinking of me even half as much as I’ve thought of him. He’s overridden my mind. I’ve obsessed over every little detail and played it back a thousand times, while he doesn’t even know my name.

Paul said it himself. He likes the comfort of company while he’s on the road. All the times he has to travel for work, cameras in his face nonstop, and body aching from all the physical exhaustion, I’m sure he always has to release the tension somehow. I’m just one of many.

I knew that going into it. I know I’m not special, but I tried my hardest to be. I did what I could to make him remember me. Constant eye contact, carrying out his every command, throwing this ass back as hard as I could and sucking the soul out of him.

A violent buzz of my phone snaps me out of my daze. I feel for it on the covers. My eyebrows dent at the message notification from a number I don’t recognize, causing me to unlock it.

Your Tribal Chief has requested your services again.

Sorry for that long ass disclaimer lol. It’s a shame I even have to include that, but I literally watched a girl argue with an author on here about promoting adultery and cheating simply because a character was cheating. Like, it’s a story?? It’s a fictional character?? Don't read it??

If you read it or even just parts of it, I really am appreciative. Pls like or reblog. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Please remember I am an artist…and I’m sensitive about my shit lol 💋

banner credit: @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

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sillygoofyqueer · 2 months ago

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Any thoughts on Crowyuan who was found by Shen Qingqiu (maybe Shen Jiu at the time) as a baby and then Shen Qingqiu went this is mine now for whatever reason and promptly adopts him. Sorry if this is incoherent or if my grammar is bad, it's 5am as I'm writing this. I am running solely on tea like a true Brit.

First of all honeypie, great grammar and coherency, you don't need to apologise for anything. Secondly, AS A TRUE BRIT SHOULD!!! LET'S FUCKING GO LADS, WOOO BRITAIIIINNNN 💪💪🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧💪🇬🇧🇬🇧💪🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧💪💪💪‼️‼️‼️

Patriotism aside, I'm so glad you brought this to my attention, this is such a fun idea and I adore random kidnapping adoption AUs so I'm going to find literally the perfect reason for child-hater Shen Jiu to find this random baby demon and not just kill it on sight.

Okay, so. Shen Qingqiu, Shen Jiu, badly injured during a mission and basically just trying not to die because if he does, he can't blame it on Yue Qingyuan and he won't let that happen (or whatever reason he comes up with). He's got no qi, he's used up all of his stock when fighting because fucking hell that beast was not what he expected it to be (stupid villagers giving vague explanations of the monster so he believed it to be something entirely different), so he's basically stuck alone in this forest, trying to figure out which beast would come at him first.

Xiu Ya is in his weak hand, his only weapon against the creatures hiding in the shadows, ready to help maim anything that tries to attack its master. The first beast is too cocky, thinking that he's an easy target, but the dead body just brings in more beasts, all attracted by the scent of blood. Every kill becomes more of a struggle to complete, until it's hard to so much as raise his blade to meet the next beast, but he does the best he can as he hears something snapping twigs as it creeps closer.

Whatever monstrous creature he has been expecting to be his murderer, he does not expect it to be this strange little creature who looks rather human, but has these wings and a frankly shocking amount of rocks clutched in its small arms. They lock eyes for a moment, the thing making a sound that could be related to shock. Shen Jiu tenses up as the beast drops all of its rocks, but then the little creature begins to sort through them with more focus than his own disciples greet their work with, pushing them around and throwing a few back into the pile after careful inspection.

After a while of this, Xiu Ya almost wilting in Shen Jiu's grasp with how he begins to involuntarily loosen his grip on the hilt, the little creature suddenly moves and he tenses up again as it approaches. However, instead of getting too close to Xiu Ya, it just stares at him and holds out a rock. Of course, he's not going to trust this creature, so he jabs his blade forwards and the little beast darts back into the trees, but not without dropping the rock where it was just standing.

Now that the creature is gone, Shen Jiu glares down at the rock as he uses Xiu Ya to drag it over for closer inspection, which reveals it to not be a rock but a sort of crystal, one that Mu-shidi would swear helps with cultivation. Judging by the type of creature, it was likely a baby demon of sorts, unaware that it had given its easy prey a means of survival. Fucking moron.

Meanwhile, baby Crowyuan is confused by the crow demon who has no wings (not aware of what humans are) and why he's attacking him with the shiny metal (he wants it so bad, but it's obviously been claimed by this other demon), but he still wants to help!! He doesn't know much, but he knows the smell of blood and this demon reeks of it, and that isn't good at all. So, what does baby Crowyuan do? He goes looking for food to help this injured adult demon. His parents are going to be so impressed!!!...When he..finds where they went....

First, he starts with things he can reach, plucking different berries from bushes he knows are safe, grabbing a few plants that always helped him when he was super hungry, and even finding some sticks so that the demon can nest while it heals!!! He's such a good friend, even if the injured demon doesn't quite know it yet!

This goes on for a couple of days, with Shen Jiu becoming more confused as the little demon brings back more things that would aid his survival rather than prevent it. Hell, some of these plants were said to be extinct in all the books he's read about them, and yet here the little demon comes with them everyday, sometimes waving the sticks around in concern and then placing them down in what seems to be an organised pattern and then shuffles them over to him expectantly. It gets to the point where he doesn't even bother bringing Xiu Ya out of its sheath when the beast comes back, and yet the demon does not make any attempt to attack him when he's disarmed.

Eventually, of course, he is healed enough to go back to Cang Qiong and yell at his so-called ' 'shidimei and shixiong' for not noticing about his absence. He finds himself delaying his return however, waiting for the little demon to come back so he can...what? He doesn't know. When the little demon does come back, however, it's looking terrified and one of its little wings isn't moving properly on his back. He's crying and this is how the world is but this child hasn't even been near humans before, he doesn't deserve to be hurt by a world he's not even a part of-

Liu Qingge, who has been sent out looking for their missing shixiong, finds a little demon gripping what is unmistakably Shen Jiu's fan (baby Crowyuan found it nearby and wanted to give it to his new friend!!), and immediately assumes that this demon has harmed Shen Jiu. When he follows the slippery little bastard, he comes face to face with an absolutely infuriated Shen Jiu holding this sobbing demon to his chest and looking ready to kill without hesitation.

#SJ adopts crowyuan AU #crowyuan au #this is so fucking cute #I was literally possessed to write this #I love it so much #I'm proud of it #hehehe #scum villian self saving system #ren zha fanpai zijiu xitong #scum villain #mxtx svsss #svsss au #svsss #shen qingqiu #shen jiu #shen yuan #liu qingge #four's asks

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sanaexus · 1 year ago

Text

social's as chigiri's girlfriend

-liked kuniisuke, nagi.seishiro and 155.6k others

yourusername: he lets me touch his hair i win losers

tagged: chigi.who

kuniisuke: yeah but i'm the one who he kicks balls with ↳hiyori: MATE. NO. ↳yourusername: yeah and i'm the one playing with his balls ↳karasu_tabito: okay what the fuck ↳chigi.who: not true please don't trust her ↳eita.otoya: you sure ab that princess? ↳yourusername: ew don't you have enough bitches already?

nikkoki: he looks so tired of you in the second picture ↳yourusername: YOU CAN'T EVEN SEE HIM WHAT ↳nikkoki: exactly. his annoyance radiates off the picture ↳yourusername: go back to crying like a lil wuss or something

user1: i love your eyelashes ↳yourusername: i love you ↳chigi.who: no you don't ↳yourusername: i'm a free independent woman with my own free will ↳chigi.who: icecream if you shut up ↳yourusername: ok ↳karasu_tabito: so you just buy her silence? ↳chigi.who: yes ↳yourusername: HE LETS ME TOUCH HIS HAIR TOO SO HONESTLY I'M WINNING ↳karasu_tabito: valid

kenyu.yukimiya: what the fuck is he doing in the first picture? ↳chigi.who: can't you see? ↳chigi.who: oh wait no nevermind he actually can't ↳yourusername: THAT'S SO RUDE?? SAY SORRY ↳chigi.who: i'm sorry that you're blind as a bat i guess ↳kenyu.yukimiya: fuck you

mikka.kaiser: why is everyone fucking everyone in this comment section ↳alexis.ness: could be us? ↳isaichii: no one's fucking

-liked by megubachi, reo.miikage and 163.9k others

yourusername: in a world full of boys he's a gentleman (the last image is me n him)

tagged: chigi.who

chigi.who: no that is not us what the fuck. ↳yourusername: aww hyo don't be shy ↳chigi.who: you like playing w my hair right? ↳yourusername: no i'm sorry+ i love you+ don't remove my hair touching privilege + i'm js a girl + don't be a hater

megubachi: the last image is canon (i was the chair) ↳yourusername: my real one fr ↳isaichii: bavjura i didrn except tjis frmo yoi ↳rin.itoshi: what ↳yourusername: "bachira i didn't expect this from you" ↳megubachi: you're still my number one ↳isaichii: sorry guys kaiser was chasing me around like a mad maniac ↳mikka.kaiser: come to papa ↳reo.miikage: what the fuck

nikkoki: was the last picture really necessary? ↳yourusername: are you really necessary ↳isaichii: throwback to the time when someone asked chigiri if his haircare was necessary and without any hesitation he went "are you really necessary" ↳shiidoryu: dk ab that but i can throw a back ↳chigi.who: did it once and i'll do it again

user2: you should date me instead i'll let you touch my hair ↳yourusername: oh emm gee let's go on a date to the park and we'll terrorize kids tgt !! ↳user2: ofc bae ↳chigi.who: i am that kid because what the fuck . ↳yourusername: 🙁 ↳chigi.who: ew ↳yourusername: BEO YOU BETTER FUCKING SLEEP WITH A EYE OPEB I'M GONNA FUCKING CHOP OFF YOU'RE HAIR STEAL YOUR SISTER AND THAN LIKE DRAW IN YOUR FACE ↳mikka.kaiser: bro* an* open* your* then* on* ↳shiidoryu: SHUT UP CAN YOU NOT ENJOY THE DRAMA W/O BEING AN GEEK FOR 2 MINUTES ↳alexis.ness: it's a geek and don't talk to kaiser like that you good for nothing zesty butt loving horny demon ↳itoshi_sae: please help he keeps touching my butt ↳shiidoryu: you're into that bae 😘

-liked by julian.loki, oliver.aiku and 211.5k others

chigi.who: i actually act like a normal boyfriend

tagged: yourusername

julian.loki: just how broad is normal in this situation? ↳yourusername: broader than yo mom ↳julian.loki: .. ↳julian.loki: ok i kinda maybe sorta might have laughed ↳yourusername: normal can mean pushing me off a swing or fighting w a 7 year old who was rude to me btw ↳oliver.aiku: bro got bullied by a 7 year old ↳yourusername: you got cooked by a guy who does puzzles btw ↳oliver.aiku: bye

yourusername: i'm spiderman (REAL NOT CLICKBAIT 3AM CHALLENGE GONE WRONG 🙀🙀😱😱💯💯) ↳rin.itoshi: weren't you batman? ↳yourusername: shhhh that's a secret ↳megubachi: I'M BATMAN??? ↳yourusername: no but you can be hello kitty ↳megubachi: deal

nagi.seishiro: how much we betting y/n fell of the roof on her ass ↳yourusername: RUDE !! I HOPE CHOKI DIES ↳nagi.seishiro: not cool dude :x ↳chigi.who: she did in fact actually fall on her ass ↳yourusername: ihy ↳chigi.who: not what you were saying last night ↳yourusername: I'M STILL A MINORR ↳eita.otoya: TRYNA STRIKE A CORD AND IT'S PROLLY A MINORRR ↳mikka.kaiser: drake fr got cooked ↳yourusername: so did you ↳karasu_tabito: drake x kaiser

yourusername: no but i fr love you ↳chigi.who: i know you do ↳yourusername: WOULD IT KILL TO TELL ME YOU LOVE ME BACK?? ↳chigi.who: i'm js a girl ↳kuniisuke: I FUCKING CALLED IT HE WAS TOO 💅💅 TO BE A SWEATY MAN WHO KICKED BALLS ↳reo.miikage: what ↳megubachi: wajt ↳isaichii: huh ↳hiyori: the fuck ↳mikka.kaiser: why ↳alexis.ness: what ↳eita.otoya: 💀 ↳karasu_tabito: w h a t . ↳rin.itoshi: what the actual fuck ↳shiidoryu: I FUCKING KNOW RIGHT ↳itosh_sae: no ↳barou.shoei: get help and sleep because it's 2 fucking am ↳chigi.who: :p

chigi.who: you're pretty ↳yourusername: i know

wellll that was mid asf i don't know how to write chigiri exactly if you can see but it's fine

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corroded-hellfire · 10 months ago

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hi, babes! i saw that you’re open to some AYW blurbs so i wanted to shoot my shot 🥹 i am YEARNING for jealous!eddie sooooo bad so could we pretty please with cherries on top have a lil blurb about him where a different dad hits on the reader while they’re picking up the boys from school or maybe while they’re doing some kind of errands like grocery shopping or something? it could be from when they’re already dating or from when they’re just pining over each other, it’s up to you! i just want possessive!eddie to come back lmaooo thank you in advance if you choose to do this! i love youuu and the entire AYW universe ❤️

Jealous!Eddie? Possessive!Eddie? Oh, you're definitely speaking my language. As much as I love Eddie being possessive after he and Reader get together, there's something about Eddie being a total jealousy monster while they're still just pining for one another that butters my biscuit.

Words: 2.9k

Warnings: age gap, Eddie is technically married to someone else but if you know this series you know what that's all about

[As You Wish masterlist]

The stoplight turns green, and you put pressure on the gas pedal of your gold Elantra. The car rumbles down the road as you bop your head and sing along to the radio. Everybody (Backstreet’s Back) by The Backstreet Boys is a great song, you don’t care what boy band haters say.

It’s part of the usual routine for you to be early when arriving at Hawkins Elementary School to pick up Ryan and Luke, but since your literature class let out twenty minutes before it was supposed to, you’re extra early. You turn your car into the school’s parking lot and find a visitor spot that will allow you to easily swing into the pick-up line when the time comes.

Car in park, you turn the volume on the radio up and tuck one leg underneath you. You’re so engrossed in the music that you have to do a double take when you see an attractive man walk past a few cars, headed toward the school.

It’s Eddie. Something is in his hand but he’s moving so briskly that it’s hard to tell what it is. Lead fills your stomach. Why is he here? What happened? Did something happen with the boys? Are they okay?

You yank the key out of the ignition mid-song and throw open the driver’s side door.

“Hey, Eddie!” you call as you jog to catch up with him—his long legs striding further in one step than either of his sons can go in three.

Eddie turns his head as he reaches for the handle of the door. He’s just reached the entrance, and he stops with his hand on top of the silver bar. You could almost swear his tense face eases into a smile when he sees you coming up behind him. But perhaps that’s just wishful thinking. Of course it is. What else would it be?

“What’s going on?” you ask. “Is everything okay?”

He sighs and pulls open the front door of the school, gesturing for you to step inside first. You do, and he follows in behind you. He lifts his other hand which is holding a pair of small pants.

“The school called me at work and said Luke spilled glue all over his pants, so I grabbed a pair from home for him to change into,” he explains. “I tried calling you when I got to the house, but I guess you were already on your way.”

It should probably surprise you more than it does that Luke got into such a sticky situation, but you’ve known him for long enough that this just seems par for the course.

“Oh, Luke,” you sigh as you and Eddie stride side by side down the hallway.

“He keeps life interesting,” Eddie says. He checks his watch and sees there’s less than half an hour left in the school day. He gestures toward a classroom door covered in student’s artwork. “Might as well grab Ryan from his class since it’s right here.”

You wait out in the hall as Eddie slips inside to get his oldest son.

“He did what?” you hear Ryan asking as Eddie opens the door on his way out. The little boy looks as if he’s going to say something else, but he sees you standing in the hall and immediately steps forward and wraps his arms around your waist. “Hi!”

“Hey, Ry.” You chuckle at his eagerness and ruffle his honey brown hair. “How was school?”

“Pretty good,” he says as he takes your hand. Both Munsons head down the hall, you tagging along since you don’t know the right direction to go in. “I played kickball in gym. I ran the bases so fast!”

“Nice!” You hold your free hand up for a high five, which he gladly returns.

Eddie stops in front of another classroom door and nods towards it.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

He slips inside and Ryan swings your joined hands between the two of you for a few moments until the door opens again and Luke waddles out in a bow-legged stance, feet slowly shuffling him along.

“What did you do?” Ryan asks with a sigh. It’s in the same exasperated tone that Luke brings out of a lot of people.

“Nothing!” his little brother defends. “The bottle was clogged so I took the lid off. Then it slipped out of my hands!”

Eddie lets out a silent chuckle as he closes the classroom door behind them.

“I think they’re stuck to me!” Luke says.

“Okay,” Eddie says, gently taking Luke by the shoulders and leading him towards a bathroom a few doors down. “I can help get them off.”

“Can Ryan?” Luke asks, reaching for the door handle.

“Ry?” Eddie looks at his oldest son.

“Yeah, let me help.”

Ryan holds the door open and Luke crab walks his way into the single bathroom. The door clicks closed behind them and Eddie gives you an amused look. You can’t help but giggle as the two of you wait out in the hall.

Sounds of movement come from the other side of the door, along with the murmur of Luke’s voice as he speaks to his brother. A few minutes pass before the door opens a crack and Ryan sticks his head out.

“Daddy?” he asks. “Can you get a Band-Aid from the classroom?”

“He’s bleeding?” Eddie asks, slight alarm creeping into his voice.

Ryan sighs. “Glue pulled off a scab on his knee.”

“Alright, I’ll be right back,” Eddie says. He looks at you as Ryan pulls his head back inside, and you nod, letting Eddie know you’ll be here with the boys.

Parents begin to trickle into the hallway. It’s the kindergarten wing so it’s not unusual for guardians to be waiting right outside the classroom to pick up their kids. Luke was more capable than that, he assured when he said that he could walk to the pick-up lane outside all on his own—or sometimes with Ryan.

“Everything okay?” a voice asks from behind you.

“Oh!” You’re slightly startled as you spin around to see a man standing near you.

A smile quirks up on one side of his mouth when he sees he surprised you. His smile is nice, you notice. In fact, all of his face is nice. He’s around Eddie’s age and height, with short black hair and piercing green eyes. Very attractive.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you say with a wave of your hand. “Um, yeah, everything is okay. Just a glue incident.”

“Been there,” the man says with a gruff laugh. “Nail polish remover.”

“I’m sorry?” you ask.

“Nail polish remover will get the glue off of clothes,” he clarifies. “Just in case you or your husband didn’t know that.”

His words fluster you. Had he seen Eddie and just assumed he was your husband? Or was he just assuming in general? Either way, it takes a moment for you to compose yourself.

Part of you doesn’t want to correct him. But it’s possible the boys can hear this conversation through the wood of the door. Also, what if the man says something similar after Eddie comes back? Eddie would obviously refute, and you’d be mortified all the way around.

“Oh, uh, he’s um, he’s not my husband. He’s their dad. I’m the babysitter.”

“Ah, my mistake. Sorry.” He doesn’t look the least bit sorry though. “I should’ve guessed. You’re far too young to be their mom.”

He must’ve seen Eddie and at least Ryan, then.

Again, you’re flustered. He’s clearly flirting with you, so why does part of you want Eddie to hurry up and come back? This man is handsome and charming and neither of you are doing anything wrong by having this conversation with one another. There’s not a ring on his finger either, you notice.

You still haven’t responded though.

“You have a beautiful smile,” he says.

You hadn’t even realized you were smiling.

“Thank you,” you say, your smile turning shy.

The man takes a step closer to you and tilts his head to the side.

“Do you come by here every day? Or is it just my lucky day?”

Behind you, Eddie comes back with a Band-Aid in his hand. He hears the man’s question and immediately his hackles go up. His back straightens and his jaw sets as he purposely squeaks one of his black boots against the tile floor.

The sound has the intended effect, and you spin around in his direction. Why do you feel as though you’ve been caught doing something wrong? An image of Brittany’s beautiful, cold face flashes in your mind and the trace of guilt disappears.

“You got it?” you ask Eddie.

“Yep,” he states curtly.

He brandished the Band-Aid, realizing he had crumpled it in his fist in his irritation. He knocks on the bathroom door. “It’s me. Here’s the Band-Aid.”

Ryan opens it a crack and sticks his hand out. Eddie lays it in his palm as you hear a footstep right behind you.

Spinning back, you see that the handsome man is closer to you now. Eddie is not happy. But neither you nor the man notice.

“I feel like I would’ve noticed you here before,” the man says to you.

“I’m usually in the carpool,” you explain.

“See, I knew I would have recognized you,” he says with a bright smile. “You’re very pretty.”

Your face immediately fills with heat. So does Eddie’s, but for another reason entirely.

“Thank you,” you say.

A fist banging on the door behind you startles you, and you spin around to see Eddie pounding on the wood.

“How’s it going?” Eddie asks loudly.

“Good!” Luke calls back. “I’m almost all the way unstuck!”

Eddie takes a breath and turns towards you.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to stay here through this.”

Though he didn’t consciously intend it, there’s possessiveness in the pet name. It’s not uncommon for him to call you “sweetheart,” but this time there’s a harshness in his tone that whispers he’s staking his claim on you.

This may be the only time Eddie has ever wanted you to go away from him. And it’s not because of him, but because of the flirtatious father that is not him. The father who can’t leave with you because he’s still waiting for his kid.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” you assure Eddie. “I can take the boys back home and you can go back to work.”

Eddie waves a hand dismissively.

“Nah, I already took the rest of the day off.”

The stranger behind you opens his mouth to speak, so Eddie makes sure to beat him to it.

“What do you say we go get some food once Situation Sticky Pants is solved?” Eddie asks. “The gremlins are always hungry.”

“If I had a nickel for every time Luke climbed into my car and immediately brought up food, I’d be able to buy this school,” you say with a fond smile.

Eddie’s responding chuckle makes your heart leap into your throat. You’re so ensnared by the man you’re so infatuated with that you almost miss his eldest son calling your name through the bathroom door.

Quickly, you shake it off and press your ear up against the smooth wood.

“Yeah, Ry?”

While your focus is on the boy talking to you from inside the bathroom, Eddie looks at the man behind you, steel in his deep brown eyes. The man doesn’t react or respond one way or the other. It irritates Eddie even further.

“What was the name of that movie we watched yesterday?” Ryan asks you.

“Flubber?”

“That’s it!” you hear Luke say.

“Okay, thank you!” Ryan adds.

You pull away from the door with a soft chuckle.

“I really hope whatever conversation they’re having about that movie has nothing to do with getting Luke’s pants unstuck,” Eddie says.

You lean back against the cool, white brick wall next to the bathroom door and the man sidles up closer to you. Eddie doesn’t have the chance to intervene before he speaks this time.

“I know it’s a shot in the dark,” the man says to you, “but would you want to get dinner sometime?”

You’re stunned speechless. Sure, he had been flirting with you, but you assumed that’s all it was. Just some innocent, fun flirting. A date could also be some innocent fun, you tell yourself. And this man has been nothing but kind and respectful towards you. But…it doesn’t feel right. It’s hard to parse out if it feels wrong accepting another man’s advances in front of Eddie because of how you feel for your boss, or you just don’t want to go out with the guy, as nice as he seems. Just because he’s nice doesn’t mean you owe him anything. Regardless, you feel a sense of relief when you decide to decline his offer.

What you don’t know is that Eddie is ready to combust behind you. Waiting for you to answer the question is pure agony for him. He’s pretty sure he’ll burst into flames if you keep him in suspense any longer.

“Oh, that’s very sweet of you,” you say.

Eddie’s heart seizes in his chest. He leans his shoulder against the wall, hoping it will help keep him propped up.

“But…” you continue, and Eddie’s heart starts beating again, even if it’s at an erratic rhythm.

“I actually have a boyfriend though,” you finish.

Eddie feels sick. He half thinks he’ll have to barge in on the boys in the bathroom and empty his stomach into the toilet.

The man gives you a sad smile and nods his head.

“He’s a lucky guy.”

You offer him a small smile just as the bathroom door bangs open and the boys step out—Luke clad in his glue-free jeans.

“How we doing?” you ask them.

“Good!” Luke grins and gives you two thumbs up. His previous pair of jeans are slung over his shoulder. Eddie slips them off and rolls them up into a ball.

“We ready to go?” Eddie asks.

Luke nods his head enthusiastically and slips his smaller hand into yours. He begins to pull you in the direction of the school’s exit. You turn your head as you’re pulled away and give the man a small smile.

“Have a nice day,” you wish him.

“You as well,” he replies.

Once your gang makes it into the parking lot, the boys start bickering about whose car they want to ride in. They come up with Rock, Paper, Scissors as a way to decide.

While they play that, Eddie turns to you.

“Boyfriend, huh?” he asks. It takes a Herculean amount of effort to keep bitterness from coating those words.

Eddie knows he has no right to ask you about this and it’s completely inappropriate. Yet, he can’t stop himself from asking.

“Hmm?” you question. As soon as his question registers in your brain, adrenaline pumps through your body, eager to let Eddie know that you’re very available—even if it doesn’t make a difference one way or the other. “Oh! No, no, I don’t have a boyfriend. My best friend taught me to use that excuse when I don’t want to accept. It’s a no, but the guy won’t get all bent out of shape or start harassing me because it doesn’t really hurt his pride.”

“Wow,” Eddie says, blowing out a breath. He’s immensely relieved that you’re single, but also annoyed that you’ve had to employ this trick for your safety. ‘I am so sorry that you have to do that. A ‘no’ should be enough.”

“Should be.” You agree with a shrug. “But it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Scissors!” Luke exclaims before he turns in your direction. “We’re riding with you!”

“Want to meet at the diner on Essex?” Eddie asks.

“Sure!”

Eddie ushers the boys into the back of your car and makes sure they’re buckled in before walking across the parking lot to his own truck. As he slips into the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition, Eddie replays the last fifteen minutes in his head.

“She said no to that guy,” Eddie muses out loud to himself as he navigates through the traffic that’s collected in front of the school. “She said no to that guy because she has a boyfriend. But she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

A large sigh of relief spills from his lips. The mere thought of you having a boyfriend created a multitude of knots in Eddie’s stomach. He can’t even bear to think about how much of a hypocrite it all makes him.

“But…” Eddie continues to himself, a new sickening thought taking root. “Oh, fuck. What if she didn’t want to date that douche because he’s older than her. My fucking age.”

The thought disheartens him even more than the idea of you having a boyfriend does. He reaches up and rubs his calloused hands over his face as he rolls up to a red light.

“Jesus Christ, Munson,” he groans. “You’re sitting here, talking to yourself about whether or not she has a boyfriend, or if there’s a possibility she could be into someone older. You’re fucking married, douchebag. It shouldn’t matter one way or the other if she's with someone or not. Or who she might want to date or not.”

The light turns green, and Eddie lets his foot rest heavy against the gas.

Maybe none of this should matter to Eddie. But it sure as hell does.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #older!eddie #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson imagine #AYW #AYWS #request

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slxtarchive · 7 months ago

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𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 ✦ 𝐬𝐚𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐡

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. all you’ve known was that you had one hater in the world and that was sam golbach. what happens when your enemy tried to protect you against something you didn’t need help with? what argument will be held and what will be said?

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭. requested here <-

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. SLIGHT ANGST ! SMUT ! enemies to lovers trope, slight violence, love confessions.

𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬. gosh again, i am so sorry this took forever!! college is kicking my ass but omg this trope… i will never get sick of it. thank you 🧚‍♀️

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭. 2.3k +

as usual, after your last class period before lunch you went to your locker to drop off the books you didn’t need anymore. you heard the familiar laugh of your best friend tara. she was walking with your other friends. “yn! hurry!” she called out skipping toward you.

you shut your locker. “why hurry?” i questioned putting my back over my shoulder.

she placed her hands on your shoulders steadying herself. “colby asked if we wanted to go out for lunch. he got an outside pass and he said ms rogers could get us all one too!”

you had a tilted frown. “uhh maybe next time. i don’t really feel like going out today. plus i was planning to leave halfway through fifth.” you shrugged. the real truth was that you didn’t feel like dealing with sam’s bullshit today.

“nooo you have to come!!” she pleaded. tara was always the one trying to involve you in plans that she and the boys made. you weren’t much of a party person but they sure were.

you shook your head. “no tara, i promise maybe next time. maybe… tomorrow after the football game?” you questioned. tara thought about it and realized she should take what she can get.

she nodded reluctantly. “okay fine. no backing out now! we’re all going! i’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked. you nodded watching as her and the girls left to go to lunch.

the day passed you by as usual. you went home, did what you needed to get done, watched some tv, and then went to bed preparing for tomorrows plans.

the next morning you woke up to more texts than you usually did.

it was a group chat that was made with you, tara, colby, jake, the sturniolo triplets, carrington, larray, quen, and of course they had to add sam golbach.

you groggily groaned at what you saw.

plans !!

colby: what is this

tara: it’s for the plans for today!!

tara: yn you’re going. no backing out

sam: let her back out please

tara: don’t start

sam: start what?

tara: you know what

quen: WHAT THE FUCK IS UP BITCHES

larray: it’s too early for this

tara: okay so plans to go to the football game then out to eat after??

quen: always down for food

larray: me too

chris: nick matt and i too

sam: i guess

yn: wtf is going on

sam: oh great.

you rolled your eyes as he responded to your message.

yn: please stfu thanks

sam: someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed

yn: aw, unfortunately, someone WOKE UP.

colby: LMAO

sam: shut up

you put your phone down and started to get ready for the day. you then got to school and saw the whole group waiting around beside your first period.

you approached them immediately making eye contact with sam. he grinned smugly causing you to roll your eyes. tara noticed and turned around. “hey yn!!” she greeted giving you a hug. “still on for plans today rightttt..” she smiled.

her contagious smile elicited one from you. “of course.”

she cheered as the bell rang. “okay well gotta get to class. see you laterrr!” she sang walking away. you then made quick eye contact with sam before glaring at him and walking inside your class.

sam grinned watching you walk inside before walking away. of course he hated you but something about you has always intrigued him. he didn’t know what. he couldn’t put a finger on it.

by the time school ended you were exhausted and really didn’t feel like staying for the game but tara texted you knowing all too well how you worked.

you groaned as she texted the words. ‘no backing out!!’ you headed toward the front of the school ready to meet up with the group. they insisted on going over to colby’s house and then riding back to school for the football game.

you finally reached them smiling tightly. “okay guys yn is here! let’s goo.” tara said. “yn you can ride with us!”

jake interrupted. “there’s not enough space. she can go with sam?” your blood boiled. “i’m pretty sure you guys can last at least ten minutes without killing each other.”

you sighed. “i just won’t talk to him.” you then headed toward where sam was waiting for him to walk to his car. to distract yourself you took our your phone mindlessly trying to look like you were doing something.

“not like i want you in my car either,” he muttered taking out his keys.

you humorlessly laughed. “like i chose this either way. you probably suck at driving so I'm putting my life at risk.” you sassily remarked.

he sucked in a short breath feeling his patience already thinning. he swung his keys around before walking to his car. he unlocked only the driver's side and got in.

you tried opening the door but he looked at you smiling refusing to unlock it. “can you open the fucking door?” you cursed, pulling the handle.

he frowned. “it’s wise to use manners when speaking to someone doing you a favor.” his fingers hovered over the unlocked symbol.

you gritted your teeth. “open the fucking door sam.”

reluctantly, he unlocked it after you said that, already enjoying the way you got heated up. you climbed in slamming the door crossing your arms.

he looked over. “seatbelt.” he said shortly. you let a breath out of your nose and pulled the belt across your body connecting it to be red receiver.

he loved teasing you. the way you despised every little thing he’d say to you. “drive.” you demanded, starting straight ahead not bothering to look anywhere else. he nodded, trying hard not to laugh.

you guys went to colby’s house and all you did was sit and listen to the conversations held around you. you didn’t feel like hopping in at any time. all you were doing honestly was replaying the moment in the car earlier in the day.

you didn’t know why sam pissed you off so bad but something just irritated you and yet you couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him.

you don’t have time to think further about your feelings because tara screeched. “okay guys let’s go!! game starts in 10.” she spoke chewing on a brownie.

you nodded standing up. you huffed as the whole group exited out colby’s house before heading back to the cars. “you’re with me again.” sam shoved past you.

you glared at him before following him without complaint. you didn’t have the time or the energy to argue with him.

you both were silent on the way to the game. you parked, you walked, and you entered not saying a word. the game went by okay. you didn’t have an amazing time but the game was eventful. you could tell your school and the opposing team had tension in between them.

at the end of the game your school ended up winning by a few points. it was close and the whole school cheered as the whistle blew. your friends cheered as well as sam while you also smiled at the victory.

you guys were not exiting but came across a huddle. tara noticed a friend in the huddle and asked what was going on. that was until one of the girls from the other school spoke up. “oh now you wanna bring other bitches into this? scared as fuck.” the girl cursed.

it was looking like this huddle was a fight waiting to happen.

tara was caught off guard but still defended herself. “first of all, i just came to ask what the fuck was going on. second, don’t call me a bitch.” she sternly said, hands on her hips.

the girl snorted before speaking up. “what the fuck you gonna do about it? this shit has nothing to do with your ass anyway.” the girls' friends who were quite a lot agreed and some had kept their arguments with some other kids from your school going.

tara’s fists balled up. you didn’t want the situation to escalate so you stepped forward putting a hand on tara’s shoulder earning another laugh from the girl. “oh you brought your whole crew because of us?”

you made eye contact with her seeing the smug look on her face. “she didn’t.” you told her. you usually weren’t one to argue or to fight so tara made sure to shake her head letting you know it’s okay.

“oh really, then why the fuck are these unknown people here.” she gestured to your friends.

you slowly began to get more irritated. “maybe because we watched the fucking game together?” the comment pissed the girl off. you could tell. “now you can go get your dogs and leave. the games over and you lost get over it.”

the insult offended her and her friends even more causing her to walk forward. “who the fuck are you calling dogs, bitch?”

you clenched your jaw preparing yourself for what could happen. you clenched your own fists before you heard a male voice. “you guys need to chill. we were just meeting up with a friend.” colby stepped forward causing one of their guys to step forward.

colby glared at the guy but your eyes were dead set on the girl in front of you. “all i’m hearing is these bitches wanted to be nosy.”

tara stepped forward. “what the fuck is your problem?”

you stepped forward with her trying to diffuse the situation but one of her friends took that as you both trying to gang up on her so she stepped forward shoving just you back. you stumbled being caught off guard but then you quickly recovered. “don’t fucking touch me.” you cursed, moving closer.

she raised her brows. “what are you gonna do about it?” she crossed her arms.

you raised one of brows. “oh what am i gonna do about it? do you wanna find out?” your patience was wearing thin. that’s when the girl once again shoved you and tried to swing but missed as you moved back.

while that happened, tara shoved the girl who swung back causing the girl she was arguing with to grab tara by her shirt and pulling her to the side causing her to stumble and fall.

tara then got up and lunged at the girl but before you could do the same to the girl who swung at you, you felt someone’s hands in your shoulder.

the hands grabbed you and pulled you back from lunging at the girl. you didn’t register what was happening, all you wanted to do was punch the girl.

as you were being pulled away you caught a glimpse of the scene. colby trying to diffuse the fight, larry grabs quen from jumping in, jake pulls tara back, sam — no where to be seen.

you wondered where he had gone until you heard the mysterious person speak up. “calm down calm down.” sam.

he held you sternly in his arms pulling you away but not far enough because you could still shout to the girls who were also being pulled away. “that’s why you fucking missed bitch! keep trying it.” you yelled trying to fight your way out of his grasp. that was when you realized who it was holding you. you groaned. “let me go.”

he held you tighter. “no. you’re gonna get fucking expelled yn.” he said sternly his arms fully wrapped around you. “stop fighting me yn. fuck.” he complained before successfully pulling you from the situation and walking you out toward the parking lot.

you looked back seeing that the fight was separated but you didn’t see any of your friends.

you then took a deep breath, adrenaline coursing through your veins. because you were far from the fight sam loosened his grip letting you free yourself from his grasp. “the fuck is your deal?” you immediately went off, the heat of the situation still lurking.

sam immediately became irritated. “my problem? i just fucking saved your ass.”

“saved me?! i can handle myself. i didn’t need you to do shit!” you argued. “i don’t need you to fucking worry about me!”

his jaw clenched. “it’s not my fault i don’t want you to get in fucking trouble yn.” he breathed through his nose.

“since when do you give a fuck about what i do?” you crossed your arms.

“i don’t know! i didn’t fucking expect myself to care about you or want to be protective of you either, alright? i fucking despise you.” he paced around, looking unsure of the words he was spewing out.

“yeah you say that and yet you act like you’re in love with me or some shit.” you replied but as soon as you did, his irritated facial expression dropped and got replaced with one you couldn’t read.

he gulped, refusing to make more eye contact with you. he pressed his lips together, looking stuck in thought. that’s when his next words were spoken up quieter than before: " and what if I was?”

it was like a slap in the face. his words caught you extremely off guard. you didn’t know how to feel, but all you knew was that his words didn’t make you disgusted, irritated, or angry. no, his words made you feel giddy. you felt weird butterflies in your stomach as he said that.

you didn’t know what to say as he moved closer to you. getting inches and inches closer. “you fucking piss me off but somehow… i cannot stop thinking about you.” his face was centimeters away from yours. your lips fell open in awe.

you stood there allowing him to get closer with no complaint. he then whispered, “say something.” he expression made it look as if he was pleading for you to acknowledge him. his eyes desperately searching yours.

you chose your next words carefully, feeling as if you had just come to your true feelings that you buried deep within yourself forever. “i can’t stop thinking about you either.”

#𖦹°‧★ 𝑺𝑳𝑿𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑪𝑯𝑰𝑽𝑬 #𝑺𝑨𝑴 𝑮𝑶𝑳𝑩𝑨𝑪𝑯 ᝰ.ᐟ #sam golbach x reader #sam golbach smut #sam golbach imagine #sam and colby imagine #sam and colby smut #colby and sam #sam golbach #sam x reader #sam #sam golbach angst #sub sam golbach #sam golbach edit #sam golbach fluff #sam golbach one shot #sam golbach au #sam golbach fic #enemies to lovers

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soft-pine · 6 months ago

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when i think about this scene from 15.15 it makes me want to chew glass and tear up the walls in rage.

AMARA: I wanted two things for you, Dean. I wanted you to see that your mother was just a person, that the myth you'd held onto for so long of a better life, a life where she lived, was just that, a myth. I wanted you to see that the real, complicated Mary was better than your childhood dream because she was real. That now is always better than then. That you could finally start to accept your life.

for the record i want to say i am a known amara-hater. don't like the non-con shit. don't like that she's doing what so many beings in spn do and narrativizing dean's life back at him while judging him because she drew the wrong conclusions. but i think fandom does have a tendency to take those claims at face value because that is easier than combing back through to check if it's correct or not. (see for example, rachel saying dean only calls cas when he needs him in 6.18. narrativizing, incorrectly. but i digress)

so let's talk about mary. because, through the seething rage, i think two main things about this claim. 1. dean does not have this mythos around mary and 2. mary has arguably more of that mythos around dean.

first off, we'll tackle the claim that it's a myth that if mary hadn't died, dean wouldn't have a better life. because that is absolute, utter, dogshit. OF COURSE HE'D HAVE A BETTER LIFE. while i will always maintain that clearly mary and john were far from stable before she died, her death was what speared john forward into hunting, into turning his kids into soldiers, into neglect and parentifying, and every other god forsaken thing he did. "a better life, a life where she lived, was just that, a myth" - girl, i DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE DIVINE, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

like please don't come here acting like dean grieving the future he could have had that didn't include him taking care of his younger brother alone in motel rooms for days while maybe actually being left as bait for the Kid-Eater is a character flaw on his part that he needs to learn better from.

next, amara claims dean needs to see the "real, complicated Mary."

but hasn't he? dean goes back in time and meets his mom in 4.03 and 5.13. and both times he treats her both as a competent hunter and a colleague. like to be clear, before that, i dont think he was wrong to be relying on a four-year-old's memory of what his mom was like because that's literally all he had access to. but dean actually did meet and interact with the whole, complex woman who was his mother long before amara decided to teach him a lesson with her as the homework. in both 4.03 and 5.13, dean tries to give mary advice to save her life but he doesn't belittle her experience hunting or her desire to leave and life a normal life. i don't know what more you want from him in terms of interacting with his mom as a whole, real, complex person?

this also applies wholly and completely to his interactions with her when she returns in s12. he apologizes for being nervous for her safety (AFTER SHE WAS JUST RESSURECTED) at first. mary says she wants to hunt, dean gets on board. mary says she needs space, dean asks clarifying questions to best support her request. he gets mad at her not for being who she is or needing what she needs but for lying to him for months and working with people who tortured him and sam.

in fact, s12 is what i would point to to indicate how well dean articulates and navigates the nuance of being hurt by someone's actions while still understanding and empathizing with why they did it and forgiving them. for example, he says this in 12.04

DEAN: This whole mom thing, it's... I mean, we get her back, and then she leaves. I hate it, but I get it. I do. I guess I'm just...still working through some of that crap. I'll try to be less of a dick about it.

[you're not a dick, dean, ilu]

in fact, dean's much maligned "how 'bout for once, you just try to be a mom?" isn't even about dean wanting anything particularly maternal from mary. it's about him not wanting her to ditch them to hunt alone and/or with the aforementioned torturers.

so circling back to amara's speech about expectations and myths. cause while her words do not apply to dean. amara's speech does remind me of something that happens upon mary's return in s12. these lines from 12.03:

DEAN: Mom, it's okay. All right? You're home now. MARY: No. I'm not. I miss John. I miss my boys. SAM: We're right here, mom. MARY: I know. In my head. But I'm still mourning them as I knew them. My baby Sam. My little boy Dean. Just feels like yesterday, we were together in heaven, and now...I'm her, and John is gone, and they're gone. And every moment I spend with you reminds me every moment I lost with them.

of course she has every right to grieve the time she lost with her kids. but someone in this room is having trouble really looking at the people in front of them because of their idealized memory of who they were compared to are and It Is Not Dean.

and i just think about dean's speech in 12.22. cause it wasn't dean that needed to see the real mary. it was mary, tucked away in her dream world where sam is a baby and dean is a little elementary schooler who likes pie and has never held a gun, who needed to see the real dean.

#dean studies #to be clear i am not blaming mary for the insane and impossible challenge of navigating being resurrected #dean and mary #amara also says she wanted dean to get less angry #which is a skill issue on her part #the correct response to seeing dean angry is putting gold stars on his behavior chart and giving him a kiss on the head #yeah mary it is #one of my top 10 dean lines of all time #i love you forever boundary boy #15.15 #4.03 #5.13 #12.03 #12.22

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zot3-flopped · 1 year ago

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Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

#this review is everything #anti taylor swift #taylor swift #travis kelce #3.6 !!!#hope Pitchfork comes for her too #jack antonoff #taylor swift reviews #the department of tortured poets #poets review #ttpd reviews

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dalamjisung · 6 months ago

Text

A muted shade of green ✧ Chapter 8: It's a natural progression

genre: will ever write something not angsty?

word count: 6793

pairing: reader x spencer reid

description: you and spencer finally give into the tension that's been growing between you, but what happens now?

a muted shade of green masterlist

previous chapter // next chapter

I decided to give you all a pause from Abigail because we're now turning into an Abigail Hater Club HAHAH

This is the third time you’re saying this, but you’ll keep saying it until Spencer hears you. “I am not relocating.”

“Y/N, if she found out where you are, we need you to be somewhere else,” Spencer groans, but you have no mercy on him; not this time. Not after everything.

His hair is pointing everywhere, surely from the way your stubbornness is making him tug at it like he needs the sting on his scalped to remind him to focus. It’s been almost thirty minutes of you two arguing, and this isn’t exactly the conversation you wanted to have when you first woke up that morning. In fact, you could have lived your entire life without having this conversation and you would probably have been a very, very happy woman. Alas, things never really seem to go your way even when they are going right. And right now, you are far, far away from things going right.

“I am not going to relocate!” You say again, exasperation getting to you the more he insists. Now, your hands are flying around you and it’s like you two have switched places for a second– while he seems tense and immobile, you are gesticulating like crazy, trying to make a point with your entire body; you are not leaving. “I’m done relocating! I’m done being am active case that doesn’t move on! I’m done being thrown around like a doll! Maybe that’s her end game, Spence– have you thought of that?! That she gets some sort of… of… sadistic satisfaction from seeing me squirm away every single time!” You cry out, brows furrowed in frustration. Nothing is making sense to you, and your anger only grows. Why is he so okay with sending you away like it means nothing to you? Why is he not using that big, beautiful brain of his to find other solutions than just rid of you? “I can’t keep running! I can’t keep stopping my life anymore, Spence, I can’t! I–“

An odd sense of coldness comes down on you, like a wave crashing against the walls of your stomach, spreading through your veins, cooling down your stressed out brain. It takes you a little while, but you finally understand. You understand his hesitation, his silence, and you understand it as an answer. “I’ll go home,” You mumble, looking down at your hands. They laid lifeless on your lap, almost like they are now tired from all the talking through them. “Yeah, I– I think that’s the best idea. It’ll be relocating, right? I’ll g back home. You must be tired of me here, anyways, and–“

“Don’t.”

The ice in his voice startles you enough to have you scoffing. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t make this about something that it isn’t,” His voice is in that whisper-scream pitch that you’ve heard him using with other people. Never you, though. Spencer never got this aggravated with you before, not even when you kept leaving your tea bags inside your empty mugs until they were dry. This, the way he is talking right now, is beyond annoyance. This is anger. Spence is angry at you and that doesn’t make you feel any better. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“The give up already,” You whisper back, slowly getting up from where you’re sitting. “Because I’m not going anywhere that is not my own apartment across the street.”

The package is still sitting on his counter, and you hate that you can feel it burning deep in your soul. At first, he didn’t want you looking at it, trying to keep you away, but you don’t like when you Spencer keeps secrets and you just push away his hand that is reaching for you. This sounds a bit insane, now that you think back to it, but when you first see the book cover, so familiar you can quote some of its content, you laugh. It’s a daring move, but an effective one– Kill Me If You Can, by James Patterson and Marshall Karp, is all about the chase. And all about the run. “That fucking bitch,” You whisper to yourself, grabbing the book and opening it to the cover page, where her inscription would obviously be– Dear Y/N, Check-mate. What now? XOXO Cat.

You’ve never hurt a book before, but you have half a mind to rip that one to shreds with your bare hands.

“No, no, no, you are relocating and that’s the end of it.”

To Spencer, you are the sweetest of the sweets– sugar pours out of your lips and he had the pleasure to taste it. No way he will risk losing that now, not before he can have a chance to douse himself in them. But every time you cuss, every time you frown, he swears that sugar gets the slightest hint of bitterness, and every time he blushes because of it, every time he lets out a sharp exhale with his eyes fixated on you, he can’t help but wonder how well that bitterness would mix in with your sugar.

Right now, though, you are about to get downright rotten.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Spencer Reid?” His full name sounds wrong when you feel this pissed off. “You’re not my dad!”

“No, I’m not your dad, I’m your boyfriend, and I’m trying to keep you safe!” This time he screams; he truly, really screams, neck veins popping out and face reddening with the strength of his words. Spencer revels yet another side of himself to you. “I’ve lost enough, okay?! I’ve lost enough… First Maeve, then Gideon, and, a-and, and now you– I can’t lose you! You can’t die, you can’t die on me, and it’s like you keep trying to! You refuse to cooperate, you-you are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, and you’ll drive me insane! So please, don’t… don’t let me lose you…”

The way his voice dies out should’ve been enough to get you to quiet down, but tensions are high and now you feel like you’ve just been hit with a brick to the face.

“You’re my what?!”

This is news to you, though it doesn’t seem to be news to him. You’ve been dreaming of hearing that word slipping from his mouth, you won’t lie, but not like this. Not in a fight, and your first fight at that.

Spencer seems shocked at your surprise, and you two go quiet for the first time in what feels like hours.

“Am… Am I not?” You are still in awe of how Spencer can go from zero to a hundred in a matter of seconds. A second ago, he looked like he was about to rip his hair out of his head and now he was back tohis normal bright, wide eyes and fidgeting hands. Whiplash isn’t enough to describe how you’re feeling, staring at him with your mouth hanging open, willing for words to come out but failing every single time. “Oh god, I’m not. I’m sorry, I just assumed that after last night we–“

“Wait, stop, stop, stop!” You shriek, hands going up to cover your face. “I need a second to think!”

“No, you don’t, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, just forget everything I said, I just–“

“I might not have an eidetic memory, but I don’t think I can ever forget what you just said,” You breathe out, hands shaking as you pushed your hair back and away from your face. “Spence… you thought we were dating?”

This has him paralysed. “That’s what you want to talk about? Right now? After everything I said?”

“I want to talk about everything,” You do, you really do; but you need to get this out of your chest right now. You need to start clean. “But we need to talk about this first… because I need to know how to act when we get to the rest of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Spence, we kissed,” You whisper, hands sliding down your face with a frustrated groan. “And I thought that maybe… I don’t know, I thought we were going somewhere good, you know? Somewhere at all! But then we got to the room and you just pushed me away!”

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to do anything you didn’t want to!” Spencer defending himself like this feels like you’re living in an alternate reality. To be honest, even if you had had the chance to talk to him like you initially intended to, you weren’t really sure what you’d do after. It wasn’t a situation in which you could predict an outcome, not when it comes to Spencer– he is too good in hiding form the world. Too good in hiding from you. “Y/N, I swear, that’s all! I wanted more, I always want more when it comes to you but I don’t want to get greedy and scare you off.”

“What about the next morning?” If you don’t sit down, you think your legs will buckle under you. So you sink onto the couch, head on your hands trying to keep you from looking at him with hopeful eyes. Spencer doesn’t want to pressure you and you don’t want to pressure him– and just like that you two fall in a cursed, never-ending dance. In a game where both are in defence, no one wins. One of you has to either take a risk or go home crying. And you’re oh so tired of going home crying… “The next morning you didn’t kiss me or, or, or talked to me! I woke up and you weren’t even in bed!”

“I wanted to make you breakfast in bed,” This is getting more and more ridiculous by the second. Had you really jumped the gun here? “But when I got out of the shower, you were already freaking out about Abigail!”

“What– But what about after?!”

“After we talked about Abigail, I got a call from work and you were almost pushing me out of the door yourself!” This time around, you don’t ask anymore questions, not when you can see how exasperated Spencer is getting. “You said–”

“Now is not the time to quote me,” You say as softly as you can. Though sometimes it can sting, having your words thrown back at you, you can’t help but smile every time he does it. The secret is in knowing Spencer isn’t trying to hurt you, but simply attempting to logically solve whatever issue he has to face. What he doesn’t seem to understand though, is that sometimes, the issues of the heart, aren’t logical to begin with.

“I’m just trying to… I don’t know what I’m trying to do, but this is all a bit misunderstanding,” He shuffles closer to you with that look in his eyes that you’ve seen before in the mirror, your own familiar desperation glaring back at you with that lost, confused glint of what will happen next? “Please, I don’t… I don’t have much experience but I– I don’t want to lose you. Y/N, please… help me.”

“Spence, what do you mean?”

“Help me,” He whispers again, worry sketched on his face like it belongs there. His breathing is shallow, and you notice the way his hands wrangle each other in his lap. If anything, he’s trying, and failing, to hide from you for the the first time. As gently as possible, you reach up with a small smile playing on your lips, and you press your thumb to the lines between his brows, soothing them in a back and forth motion. “Help me, I don’t know what to do.”

The way he chuckles in that coy way he does whenever he feels like he’s out of his league is what pushes you forward, the carefulness of your actions clashing with the eagerness in your kiss. You’ve been waiting for this all day, and everything inside you melts when you feel his hands reaching up hold you close, cradling your face as if you’re the most precious thing he has ever touched. There is a slight shake to them when his lips move over yours and you can’t help but smile, laying your smaller hands over his– I got you, you want to tell him. I’ll help you.

“Y/N…” His words hit you with a puff of air, lips brushing against each other every time he speaks. If Spencer pulls back an inch, you follow; if you try to put some distance, he follows. The wall between you two that had been shaken before was now completely shattered, bulldozed by his hands sliding down your neck, your sides, tugging on your waist until you’re as close as you can possibly be. Until you’re on his lap, surrounded his arms, overtaken by him and him only. “Don’t go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” You promise, laying your head on his shoulder like you’ve done many other times before. “I’m not relocating.”

“Y/N–”

“Who’s Maeve?”

His body tenses underneath you horribly, and you hate that it’s all because of you. “I–“

“You don’t have to tell me now if you don’t want to,” You say, pushing his hair away from his panicked eyes. “I just want you to know I heard you. I heard you talking about Maeve and Gideon and me, and I think if we want to start… whatever this is… we need to lay our cards down,” It’s a risky move, if anything. Not only are you asking him about his past, you will also allow him to ask about yours, and that is only fair.

“But what is this?” He asks, eyes sharp on yours while you play with his hair to try and distract yourself from the reality of it all. “What are we?”

“I mean, you said you were my boyfriend, right?” You don’t want to be the one to make a decision this big, but then again, it shouldn’t be all him.

“Then what are you?” He mumbled, eyes threatening to shut the more your fingers run through his hair. “Are you my girl?”

A move you don’t really expect from Spencer, but that is welcome nonetheless. The way you two look at each other, like teenagers all giggly about confessing, is equal parts pathetic and hilarious. But it’s the way you two chose to go about it and that is all that matters. Until you remember that this is reality, and you’re not a teenager anymore– there are higher stakes at play here that have to be addressed. There is heartbreak in the end. Pain. Hurt. Fear. That’s what you had before, waiting for you in the end of a very dark tunnel, and you’re scared that’s what will be waiting for you this time around, too. Not because of Spencer, but because of you.

“Joshua McMannon,” You mumble, slowly climbing out of his lap and sitting on the other side of the couch. Like a barrier, you bring your legs up, hugging your knees close to your chest in an action that Spencer will surely read right– separation, space. It happens whenever you talk about Josh, the wave of shame and embarrassment that paralyses you inside-out. The self-loathing. “He was uh, a big shot new player in the stock market, worked for some big firm I forgot the name. We met in a bar, I think. I know this sounds crazy but I blank on a lot of memories that include him, it’s– it’s hard to think back.”

“Y/N–“

“No Spence, I can’t ask about you your past without telling you about mine, that’s not how it works,” You say with such a tone of finality that he doesn’t even try to fight you on it. “So please, just… listen to me. The entire thing, because it makes me look dumb and foolish, I know it does, but I want to be honest with you, I don’t want this coming back later to haunt us, okay? So just… don’t judge me to harshly. Please.”

His silence is enough to encourage you to keep on going.

“You know a bit about it and there isn’t much more to tell, to be very honest,” There are some undertones of anxiety in your voice, and you know he hears it. You know he wants to move, pull you back to him, comfort you, anything. But he respects the shield you’ve put up and he listens, just like you asked. “He was one of those guys that love the chase, you know? Likes showing off, too, so I was always uh, well dressed and all that jazz. Josh hates when I– no. Sorry. Josh hated when I looked sloppy. He worked hard to play hard, according to him, so he wanted to show things off. Expensive restaurants every day, expensive clubs every night… expensive girlfriend all around.”

“No,” Spencer quickly blurts out one of the many words he’s surely holding in. “No, Y/N, you’re not something to show off, you’re not a thing!”

“You’re sweet,” You chuckle. “But I was a thing to Josh. Something he owned, remember? And I fell for it, Spence. I was so, so stupid and desperate that I said nothing, I just went along and played into his fantasy until I couldn’t anymore. So I started talking back. Saying ‘no.’ You know what happens next, I guess. You know his type. I didn’t.”

Gulping, you look down at your hands embarrassedly. Spencer would’ve clocked Josh on the dot. He would’ve known who he was and what he’d do in a second. You, on the other hand, hadn’t been so smart. Probably still aren’t. Probably never will be. It’s hard, not putting yourself down when you’re telling the smartest man you know about such idiotic mistakes.

“Y/N, don’t even think about it,” Spencer hisses and all restraint is gone. He is sliding down the couch to sit close to you, and his hands sneak under your knee and give a gentle tug. He’s trying to respect your need for your own space, but he needs to make sure you’re listening to him. “You’re not dumb. You are not stupid. You are a kind woman with a heart too big for assholes like him, and I won’t have you thinking this was your fault. Sweetheart, this is all his fault. You had nothing to do with that, you… you were just in love.”

“I wasn’t, though,” You whisper, shaking your head slowly. “I really liked him. Like, a lot. But I didn’t love him.”

“It doesn’t matter, sweet girl,” He gently put your legs over his, hands holding onto your calves like it’s his lifeline. “There is no scenario in which this is your fault. None. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” You’re not lying– you hear him, you truly do. But believing him is a whole other thing, and you’re not sure if you’re there yet. “I’ve been hearing you, Spence. Every time you explain something new or you tell me some more fun facts, I hear you. It’s just that this time around it’s a little bit harder to process, that’s all.”

“This is a fact like all the other facts I’ve told you,” With one more pull, you get closer and closer to his body until you can feel the press of those perfect lips against your forehead. “It’s irrefutable– none of this is your fault, angel. None of it.”

Nodding, you relax onto his hold, head resting on his shoulder when you deliver the final blow. “Him hitting me wasn’t my fault, I know that much. I ran after that. It sounds a bit drastic, but I had never been in the position before and Josh is someone with a lot of influence back in New York. I would have never survived in there and I would’ve been scared all the time.”

“He touched you?” The way he says it, voice sharp like a knife, makes you look up at him with squinted eyes. “Where?”

“What does it matter?”

“Where did he hurt you?”

Chuckling, you grab his hand and lean your cheek onto it. “Right here,” You whisper, turning a little to drop a kiss on his palm.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Everything about him screams comfort, from how his thumb gently caresses your face to the way his lips pull downwards in disscontempt. You know that by now, he’s making a mental note to run Josh’ name through Garcia, but that is something you will deal with later. Despite their good intentions, that is not a door you want to open any time soon. “I–“

“You will do nothing about it, Spencer Reid,” You say with as a teasing warning. You don’t know that, but Spencer wonders how can you smile while telling him about such terrible memories; how could you withstand pain so well without telling anyone about it before. “Whatever happened happened and it’s done. I just wanted to be honest and give you the full picture before… we make decisions.”

“And what do you think this will accomplish, huh? That it will change my mind? Make me regret it?”

“I don’t know Spence,” You groan. “I’m just… trying to be honest.”

“And I appreciate that, Y/N,” This time, he kisses you on the lips, but it’s too fast and too light to satisfy the yearning inside of you. “But nothing will make me change my mind. Much less that asshole. I want you. I’ve wanted you since I met you, I–”

His pause lingers in the air with a something heavy over it. This time, you shuffle on his lap to try and get a better look of his face, legs holding you up on each side of him. It’s such an intimate position to be in, you straddling him with his hands dragging from your waist to your thighs then back up again; your hands playing with the little curls by the nape of his neck; his lips, opening and closing and opening again in what feels like failed attempt after failed attempt to tell you something.

“I– I think I’ve wanted you since Maeve died.”

There is a lot to unpack in this sentence, but you keep your expression clean of any reaction. He doesn’t need you gasping and fawning over him… he just needs you to listen.

“And I know it sounds messed up and weird, but like, the metaphorical you, you know? The you you are but disembodied and– and now I’m not making any sense, but I mean it.”

“I know you meant it,” You whisper, nails gently scrapping his scalp. “It’s okay, you can not make sense, I’ll figure it out. I’m good with puzzles.”

“You are terrible with puzzles, angel,” He chuckles and your shoulders relax a little. “I’ve seen you trying to put together that Pride and Prejudice poster puzzle… I think you’re just good with me.”

“Hm, I think so to,” You smile. “Why don’t we start from the beginning then? Tell me your story.”

Nodding, Spencer tugged you a bit closer and you like it– this tugging habit of his, the need to have you pressed against him winning against his need to keep the germs at bay. In a very simplistic way, it makes you feel special.

“Maeve… I loved Maeve,” He admits, eyes looking into yours with an insecurity that is misplaced– though you are not above feeling the poke of jealousy down deep in your gut, you are mature enough to know when you are being an absolute idiot, and you smile at him. “I love Maeve, but I am no longer in love with Maeve. I mean, she’s dead, so…” Spencer clears his throat for a second, and when he’s ready– only when he’s ready– he continues.

There is real pain in his voice as he tells you the entire thing, and there is real pain in your voice as you call him name oh so carefully. The tears in his eyes are few, but they are there, and you thumb them away as gently as you can. In your hands is the shell of the man you know, his words slowing down as his brain surely relieves memories he wishes to delete.

“Spencer,” You call, his eyes shut so tight you think he might just hurt himself if he continues like this. “Spence, I’m so sorry that happened.”

“It was my fault,” He whispered as if he is in a confessionary. “Diane Turner. That was the name of the girl that killed her. We were trying to negotiate with her and… and I failed.”

“Spencer, no,” Oh how the tables have turned. “The girl was going to kill Maeve no matter what, and I’m sorry that it came to this. I’m sorry–“ You can’t even say it, confused with your anger and how it makes your hands shake.

She blindfolded him.

She read his letters, his fears, and she made them real.

That is enough to have you wishing you had shot her yourself.

“Sweetheart,” He chuckles sadly, bigger hands coming to encage yours in a futile attempt to extinguish your anger. Bringing your knuckles to his lips, he kisses each and every single one of them, and for a moment you think he knows– he knows you’d be someone you’re not, for him. Someone who hurts other people. And you think he’d hate himself if that ever happened. “It was a long time ago…”

“But it wasn’t your fault…” You move until you embrace him, body covering his like a blanket willing to keep him from the cruel, cruel world around you two. “No matter how long ago it was.”

“I guess that’s just something we both have to learn,” His voice is muffled by your sweater, and you pull back a little. When he offers you his pinky finger, you don’t need any explanation, wrapping yours around it with a giggle. “Something we’ll help each other learn.”

“It’s a deal,” You whisper, leaning forward and dropping a slow kiss to his lips. “Sealed with a kiss.”

“Does this mean that now you’re actually my girlfriend?” He asks after a while and you laugh, loud enough to burst the bubble you two created.

“If you want me to be, yes.”

“I want you to be, in case you haven’t noticed by now,” God, you love when he jokes, the casual tone of his voice making you both relax. “But I also want to be your boyfriend.”

“Hm, you want an awful lot, don’t you?” Pushing his hair back, you smile impossibly wide. “Good think I want a lot, too.” The way he kisses you makes you believe that you truly are the only girl in the world, even if just his world. “Now you have to tell all the guys that hit on you that you are taken.”

“Spence, what guys?!” You snort, eyes wide when you try to move and sit next to him. He is quick to catch you, though, and place you back on his lap.

“Just because you don’t notice people flirting with you doesn’t mean they don’t!”

“Okay, wait a second, I notice–“

“I’ve been flirting with you for months!” He says in that way that makes his voice go a tone higher, his smile so wide and bright that you can’t help but laugh.

“Maybe you’re bad at flirting?”

“Even Garcia noticed,” Spencer points out and you groan, knowing that if you admit defeat he will forever gloat. “But that’s okay. We got there in the end.”

“We did… which is why I’m not relocating.”

“Y/N, this is for your safety.”

“I’m safer closer to you,” You whisper. “Spence, I won’t be safe with god knows how many strangers surrounding me in a location I have no clue how to navigate. Here, I have you and I’m in a familiar place– I know the closest subway, bus stations, taxi points. I know the owner of the cafe down the street, I know your neighbours, hell, I even have Abigail! Isolating me is not safe. Please.”

For a moment, you wait. You’re unsure if you got through to him, his eyes looking at you so intently that it’s a little embarrassing. Everyone knows his brain works differently– it works faster, better, more precisely. Whenever Spence zones out like this, it’s not because of lack of attention, but simply because he’s thinking… and what a wonderful thing it is to see him think; to see those theories taking form in his beautiful head, to see those honey coloured eyes working out probabilities that you’d never even get close to understand. He’s a special one, and you love that about him. Because you love him.

And as much as everything between you two is new, this feeling is quite old.

This growing warmth in your chest, expanding like rivers of gold adoration through your veins.

It’s not surprising that you love Spencer.

It’s only natural, considering how much he loves you.

How you know it?

“Yeah, okay. I’d feel more comfortable with you here with me, anyways.”

Well, it’s obvious.

“And you’re right, you know?” He continues, speeding through his words as if he’s trying to convince you and him both. “You know this area well. Cat has managed to get through us easily, and I don’t know what I’d do if she found you and I was the one to send you all alone to strange place where you can’t ask for help…”

“That won’t happen,” You promise, shaking your head at the terrifying thought. “So does that mean I’ll stay here or go home?”

The reason you enjoy asking Spencer obvious questions is because sometimes, times like this, you get to see his personality shinning like a beacon in a dark night. His sassiness is so refreshing that you can’t help but giggle every time he lets it out. “Don’t be ridiculous,” He mumbled, rolling his eyes like the little know-it-all he is. “You’re obviously staying here. You’re my girlfriend, you’ll stay where I can protect you. Which is also something we have to talk about.”

“Nooo,” You are so tired of talking about things at this point. “Can’t we talk about it tomorrow? Please, I just want to spend one nice evening with my boyfriend without discussing the fact that his psychopathic stalker wants to kill me.”

“Y/N, that is not funny!” He gasps when you chuckle. “Sweetheart, I just want you safe. I think it would be important for us to have a plan if someone ever breaks into my apartment, for example. You should know where my gun is and–“

“Woah, woah, woah, no way!” You shriek, climbing off of his lap and standing right in front of him. The though of having to use a gun makes you nauseous. “I don’t want to know where your gun is, and I don’t want to even think about the possibility of having to actually point it at someone!”

“Okay,” Spencer says softly, getting up too and coming to hug you. Despite people thinking that Spencer is not quite adept to human touch, he has gotten quite good at comforting you, knowing exactly how to hold you and how to talk you down of your rising panic. “That’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll talk about it another day, we don’t have to overwhelm you right now, it’s alright, my angel.”

For a moment, the two of you just… stand there, swaying from side to side while he whispered sweet nothings into your ear. “Can we just be normal for a night and watch a movie?” You finally ask, looking up at his smile because right now, that’s the only thing that matters to you– him.

“Yeah, let’s watch a movie.”

For a few hours, life is perfect.

For a few hours, you get to kiss him like you’ve been meaning to. Touch him like you’ve been meaning to. You get to run your hands through his unruly hair, pushing it back and feeling its softness slip between your fingers like the finest silk that ever was. He touches you, too, albeit a bit more reservedly. His fingers find the sliver of skin on your hip, thumb caressing back and forth, sending shivers up and down your spine. His lips brushed against your cheeks, your neck, your collarbones.

For a few hours, you laugh and smile and chat. You memorise more fun facts to put on your little notebook later, now secure on the left bedside table, right next to where you lay every night. He tells you how the movie doesn’t make logical sense and how they have physics all wrong. He points at the screen and his voice gets higher and higher with his passion for correcting fiction and you can’t help but shut him up with a languid kiss.

For a few hours, you two are just a couple. This is just a date. And this are just good.

But the higher you climb, the better it gets, the harder you’ll fall. This might just be what Cat wants– you, in perpetual anxiety, always looking over your shoulder, always scared of losing the little you were able to build in your new life. From what Spence and his team have told you about her, Cat’s main skills are all mental; manipulation, gaslighting, coercing. Is this how you’re going to end? Terrified with ever step you take, antsy at your boyfriend’s house while watching a movie, giving up on your bookshop so that strangers don’t have such an easy access to your life?

For a few hours, you didn’t have to worry about that.

For a few hours only… because once the second movie is done, you two are forced to pull apart thanks to the incessant knocking on Spencer’s door. “If this is Abigail again,” Spencer warns as he gets up, lips all swollen from kissing and making out. “I will arrest her.”

“On what grounds, agent?” You hug a pillow close to you, completely ignorant to your current messy hair and blushed face.

“Cockblocking,” It’s so rare to hear such a word coming from someone like Spence that you can’t help but burst out laughing. “JJ?”

The name has your smile slipping a little. Why is JJ here? Did something happen? The moment Spencer opens the door, she’s marching inside, her beautiful blonde hair floating in the air as if she is some sort of magical being. “Spence, what the fuck?!” She cried out, completely oblivious to your presence in the couch. “Why are you not picking up your phone? I’ve been calling– Hotch mentioned something about you not taking Y/N to a secondary location, are you insane?! You can’t take care of her all by yourself, she’ll–“

You clear your throat as loud as you can, smiling sadly at her when she turns around with a shocked expression. “Hi, JJ.”

“Y/N, I’m– I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were here…”

“She is,” Spencer suddenly sounds quiet, eyes cast down as if he’s a child who’s been caught red-handed doing something wrong. But then he raises his head, chin high and chest puffing out a little. “And she’ll stay here with me. Y/N doesn’t want to be moved to a secondary location, and considering we don’t know who Cat’s secondary is, I wouldn’t say it’s wise for us to do so. She’ll be alone in an unknown place. I… I would prefer if she’s here. With me. And officer Kaper.”

JJ’s eyes go wide and you can understand her surprise to hear her usually shy and quiet co-worker being so adamant. Hell, even you are a little bit surprised. “What you prefer?! Spence, this is not about what you prefer! This is about– oh my god, you two were making out.”

Her observation is so dry that you almost choke on air. “What?!” His voice is a dead give away. Or maybe it’s the way you wince, looking away from her, that gives you two away. “JJ, this is none–“

“You are having an interpersonal relationship with a victim under our protection in an active case,” It’s the way she describes you as a victim, as if that’s the only thing you are to her, that makes you exhale harshly. “Yes, Spencer, this is my business.”

“Uhm, technically–“

“Y/N, I’m sorry, but not now,” She speaks to you like a mother, and from what Spence has told you about her, you know that she has two wonderful boys. Two kids for her to mother. You, however, are not one of them.

Slowly rising up from the couch, your voice is shaky when you speak, but your proud of yourself regardless– confrontation is not your best suit, some might say it’s your worst suit, but there is no escape this time around. Not if you want to stay with Spencer. “I’m sorry, JJ, but yes, now. I’m the one this is all happening to. I’m not a passive participant in all of this and I do get to make choices, even if those choices are against your recommendation. I chose to stay here. Not Spence.”

“Why here? Why not–“

“I know the area!” You basically squeak, frowning deeply at her. The JJ you know is sweet and soft-spoken. This JJ is… well, not that. This JJ is someone who gets the job done. This JJ sees you as a job. And that hurts. “Cat knows you guys, she has shown us again and again that she is one step ahead– look at what happened to Officer Kaper. He has a family! His wife and kids were there and– fuck, JJ, if something happens here, I know where to go! I know where to run to, I know the back alleys, I know the people… I can’t handle you guys taking me away from everything I know again. I can’t, I’m sorry, I just can’t, I–“

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re not going anywhere,” In a second, Spencer is by your side, arms pulling you into his chest. “You’re stay here, sweetheart.”

“Spence–“

“JJ, do you think I’m stupid?” The question shocks the words out of both of you. “I calculated the odds, okay? I know the risks. I know the pros and cons. But do you know what else I know? I know that when we thought Maeve was safe, her stalker was in her apartment. We put her under protective custody, and Diane still got to her. She could’ve been with me, I could’ve saved her!”

JJ doesn’t speak, and neither do you. You are frozen in place. Spencer had told you about Maeve just hours ago, described the entire thing, told you all the details of what happened back then… but he never touched on the now. On how he feels now. On how he remembers the whole thing now. On how it still affected him now. You can feel the anxiety on the way his breath shudders. The anger in his words, the regret, the fucking guilt As gently as you can, you circle his waist and squeeze. There is a part of you that hates doing this in front of someone else, giving them a part of this reality in which only you and Spencer exist; but he need to know you’re still here. Next to him, where he can keep you safe. “Maeve wasn’t your fault, Spencer,” JJ whispers, and you see in her a glimpse of the woman you’ve met before. “It wasn’t your fault…”

“But this is!” He shouts back, stopping himself from lurching forward thanks to your body glued to his. Instead, he cradles your head closer, shuts his eyes tights, and let out the most pitiful exhale you’ve ever heard. “This is my fault… Y/N wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for me.”

“Spence–“ You can’t even deny it. Logically, it is his fault this is happening– Cat is after you simply because she’s after him. That is undeniable, and you lose yourself in the endless search of what to tell him, how to comfort him. This is your Spence. Your boyfriend. And you don’t want this type of phantasmagoric guilt hovering over his head over the course of your relationship. This is how things end before they begin.

“I won’t let her take Y/N away from me,” When he looks at JJ again, you gasp. His eyes shine with a determination you’ve never seen before, jaw tense and hands holding you to him like he means in. This time around, you know he means is. “Not now, not ever.”

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