#and the people who cried over will the first time

[spcherryygirl]

𝓜𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝓐𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 — 𝓙. 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒅

𝓢 YNOPSIS : : you have bewitched me, body and soul, and i love, love, love you.

𝓒ONTENTS : : yearner!jason todd. yearner!reader. female!reader. injuries( his scars. not detailed, the fic is sfw ). mentions of the lazarus pit. povs are separated ( still in second person. jason's first, then reader's ). ooc(?) jason feeling underserving woah woah woah. fluff. angst (?). mentions of sex. some parts are inspired by lyrics. ( new ) established relationship. no beta read, we die like bruce's parents. wc : 2.4k

BOOKS — DC BOOK

REQUESTED ; SUGGESTED : : @yeoniverseee && @laufeysgoddess

ᨦ𓏲 ، ݃♟❜ : : this is kind of,, a remake of this,,, if u squint.. layout slightly inspired by @laufeysgoddess ' carrd mwah mwah.,, ig it can be gn!reader, ithinkitjinkiithink also. i made hannie & ellie pick a fic to remake & they picked this !! & i was feeling very most ardently these days lolzsk. i am a STRONG believer that jay cried the first time he has sex with someone he really, really loves. like my "my love, mine all mine" fic,, JAY DED CRIED THERE SHUT UP. okay, now im really just recycling the pictures and layouts hehehehe. also,, 800???? YOU GUYS?????? ARE???? 800??? EIGHT HUNDRED ?????? EIGHT FUCKING HUNDRED ???? IM MAKING BABIES W U ALL. some parts here are actually what i said to @fromdove 😋( this is also dedicated to her btw. all of my works r prolly dedicated to her, hannie & ellie ) i love her ( including my cherries ) as much as i love jay, btw !! i tried to be poetic, guys. i really did🥀. idk if i hate this or love THEM. also... @yintous jinxed the crying part........ yin, you freak. this took me a whole week gng #writersblockslanderer. probably not ur taste in fics bc it's more focused on how they love

every time. every single time he finds himself staring at you too long, he hears it in his head like a fucking prayer. not that he's still into that kind of thing, but anyway. there's something sacred about the way you smile at him. something that gives him the sense that he has god's favorite secret beside him on the couch, his hoodie wrapped around your with her hair tied up in a bun and your toes against his thigh.

he thinks you're unreal. and maybe a little unfair. because you're soft with him. too soft. you're gentle in ways he doesn't think he deserves, like you were made to prove him wrong just by existing in his space. just by existing on this planet, actually.

it's a new relationship. not new in the way that it's uncomfortable or awkward. just new enough that he still feels the flutter in his belly when you kiss him first. just new enough that anything little you do still surprises him.

like how you touch his scars.

not with pity. not with horror. and obviously, not even with that unattached interest people sometimes get. no. you touch them like they're part of a map you're memorizing. like your fingers are tracing out every inch of what made him and you don't want to miss a single marker.

"this one," you said once, tracing over the raised scar near his ribs, "looks like a half moon."

and he looked at you like you'd said something ridiculous. because who the hell gazes at a scar━━a remnant of a knife that nearly killed him( not really )━━and thinks of the fucking moon?

you do. apparently.

he wants to write that down somewhere. with a permanent marker. place it into the back of his head so he'll never forget the way you looked at him that way. like you saw something lovely in all the spaces he thought were destroyed. maybe a tattoo would do.

sleeping beside you is its own kind of pain. he doesn't sleep much, usually. his body doesn't find stillness comfortable. but when you're in his arms, curled into his chest, breathing slow and steady and trusting him with your entire heart, he sleeps like the dead. it's dangerous. it's silly( not to you ). it's addictive. he wakes with his arm around your waist and his nose pressed to the back of your neck and wonders if perhaps this is what peace feels like.

god, not once in his life. even when bruce wayne took him in, thought he'd get to feel that.

and when you kiss him━━god, when you kiss him━━it's like you can feel what he wants before he can. you kiss him slow. careful. sometimes sloppy, sometimes quick. but always as if he belongs to you. as if there is another place in the entire world you'd rather be. and he breaks down. melt. dissolves for it every time. he leans into it with his entire body, as if the only thing holding him to reality is your lips on his.

having sex with you isn't forgetting. not with him. not anymore.

it's not an escape. or temporary. it's a return. a coming home. it's permanent.

you're kind to him. not only in kisses. but in the way you look at him when he undresses in front of you. in the way you stroke his back like it's holy. in the way you whisper his name like it's fragile.

he recalls the first time you had sex. the day he first cried while having sex with you. recalls how he attempted to hide it. bury his face in your shoulder and try to convince himself that it was merely sweat. but you were aware. of course, you were aware. and you kissed his temple and whispered, "i've got you," as if he wasn't shattering in your hands.

you make him believe that he is worth the gentleness. worth, this.

and perhaps he is. perhaps, with you, he is.

because you stay. even when he's not speaking. even when he's being grumpy or distant or two steps away from breaking. you stay. you wrap yourself around him and fetch him tea and refuse to ask him questions he doesn't want to respond to. and somehow, that gets him to speak. not everything. but enough. enough for you to understand.

he spoke to you about the pit. once. and only once. you didn't flinch. just gripped his hand. and said he was here. now. with you.

he trusts you.

and that shit scares him.

love was never simple for him. even before the pit. it was always rough. always a distance. but with you, it is. still. not in the boring sense. in the safe sense. in the "i can finally breathe again" sense. it's rough. but no longer a distance.

sometimes you're singing in the kitchen. poorly. on purpose. or not. and he leans in the doorframe and listens to you spin around in your socks, spatula clutched like a microphone, and he thinks, i could die right now and it would be enough.

he doesn't say anything. not yet. but he thinks about it all the time.

and he loves you. most ardently. passionately. in every possible way that a person can love.

in the way he remembers your coffee order and has a hair tie wrapped around his wrist for you.

in the way he allows you to see him when he's at his worst.

in the way he handles you like you're fragile. like you're not. like you're his.

in the way he sleeps more soundly when you're breathing next to him.

in the way he wishes to believe again in the future.

he loves you. hurtfully. shamelessly. completely. perfectly.

and if he could cut that into the sky, he would.

he loves you in the "let's run barefoot across the universe together" sort of way.

to saturn and back and then beyond.

to the spaces between stars where time loses track of how to move.

and jason todd━━jason peter fucking todd━━doesn't want to be rescued anymore. the child. the second robin. red hood. jason todd.

they all just want to stay.

with you.

he has no idea what he looks like when he is in love. but you do.

you've committed it to memory. tattooed it( at least, in your mind you did ) near your heart. the gentle droop of his eyelids when he gazes at you as if you're a dream. the slight opening of his lips, as if there is something he would like to say but can't. how his hand lingers in mid air before it settles on the small of your back, as if requesting permission still, even now, despite all that has happened.

he stares at you as if you're the last sacred thing in a world of tombs.

and you feel it. every ounce of the burden he bears. not because he loads it onto you, but because he never does. he bears it all as though he was meant to endure it alone, and you have to press yourself into the crack just to make him remember that he doesn't have to. not anymore.

you love him like breathing. all the time, without thinking, with no effort at all. it's just there. like his name on your tongue. like his shirts in your drawer. like the way your heart slows when you hear the front door open and it's him. again. and god, you never felt more real.

you remember the first time he told you about the pit. how his voice sounded like it was scraping the edge of something sharp. how he didn’t look at you, didn’t blink, just stared at the floor like it held the truth and the punishment and the apology all at once.

he said it like it was a confession. like it would be the thing that finally pushed you away. that will make you want to not stay.

it didn't.

you simply leaned over, wrapped your fingers around his, and told him, "you're here now."

he blinked then. just once. as if he was trying to process your words. as if he had no idea that something so simple could mean so much.

sometimes, you wonder if jason todd doesn't know that he's still alive.

not just breathing. but alive.

in the way his eyebrow creases when you laugh too loudly. in the way he rolls his eyes when you steal fries from his plate but pushes the rest up towards you anyway. in the way he allows you to sit on his lap with a book in your hand, not saying a word, just,, existing.

his scars don't frighten you. they never have.

he showed them to you as if he was getting ready to be turned down. again. god. it's like he expects you to just vanish. as if he was showing you the remains of a city he didn't think anyone would want to live in.

you touched them all. one by one. kissed the one under his rib. trailed your fingers over the one that curves into his shoulder. learned the mosaics of him with devotion. patience.

"you're not broken," you told him. "you're written."

he didn't say a word for a long time afterward. just gazed at you like you'd reached into your pocket and pulled out the sun and given it to him.

he tries━━no━━he does his best. every day. every time.

that's what bothers you the most. the way he's doing so hard. not to be good. not to be complete. but to be gentle with you. to be with you. even when it hurts. even when he's afraid.

you notice it the way he cradles your face like you'll disappear. the way he asks you "this okay?" even when it's just your limbs knotted up on the couch. the way he wears your keys around his neck( just to make sure he won't lose it, he told you once. ) like they're where they're supposed to be.

you recall the first time you had sex.

how he touched you like prayer. how his lips shook against yours. how his voice cracked when he said your name.

you knew. immediately. when his breath caught and his chest faltered and he tried to hide his face in your neck, you knew.

and so you cradled him. gently and slowly. allowed him to rest in your arms as if he were something fragile. kissed his temple and said, "i've got you," repeatedly until he accepted it. until he relaxed.

you don't realize that no one's ever made him feel little before. like that. little as in the safe kind.

he clung to you as if he thought he'd lose you if he relaxed his hold.

he didn't have anything to say then. just sat there. still. for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

he looks at you as if you're cut out of finer stuff. but you look at him and observe someone who has been to hell and is still willing to be kind. still tries. still wakes up every morning and makes coffee and leans his head on your chest as if he's found home.

you'd adore him in all the iterations of this life. even the ones in which you never get to hold him.

but you do. and that's the part that takes your breath away.

when he kisses you, it's all. everything. like he's famished and you're the only thing that ever satisfied him. he kisses you like nothing else exists. like if he died the instant after, it'd be alright. because he got to have this.

when you kiss him back, you kiss him with the same desperation. the same longing.

he once held your face in his hands, he didn't say it. i don't think he needed to. you don't either. the words, "you feel like home." was a line the author made solely for him. to recite it to you, the love interest. his love interest.

and you smiled as though your heart was breaking.

because that's what he is. to you. every hurting bit of him. every bruise and sigh and quiet stare and kisses. he is home. he is the place you come back to. the one you'd wait for lifetimes. the one you'd fall in love with all over again.

he can't say it in words, so he says it in everything else.

he gives you flowers wrapped up in yesterday's newspaper. leaves you little notes in your pockets. sits with you through thunderstorms just because you hate the sound.

he stays.

even when he's exhausted. even when he thinks he shouldn't.

and you do, too.

you stay when he's quiet. when he's distant. when he's hurting and doesn't talk until you're kissing his bruised knuckles.

you stay when he's laughing and when he's too far gone to remember why and how.

you stay because there's not a piece of him you'd want to leave.

you love him in the gentlest ways. in the harshest ones. in all the ways he doesn't believe he's worthy of being loved.

you love him when he's in your bed, breath warm against you, arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline.

you love him when he's disappeared for hours and returns with your favorite pastry because he "just happened to pass by."

you love him when he refuses to say he's hurting but lays his head in your lap like a silent surrender.

you love him because you do.

because something in you saw something in him and chose him anyway.

and you think━━no, you know━━that he is the great love of your life.

he doesn't think in miracles. but you do.

and you think he could be one.

because somehow, some way, despite it all, despite the blood and the grave and the fucked up environment, he's here.

with you.

and if you could have him write that in the stars, you would.

because you love him in the way the sky turns soft pink when the sun forgets how to hide, disappear, go down.

because you love him in the pauses between words, in the spaces between stars, in every what if, could be, maybe, probably, really, statistically speaking, almost, & someday.

he has bewitched you. body and soul.

and you never want it to shatter.

© spcherryygirl

[quietstormxr]

Inconsequential

Bodhi Durran x reader

Summary: Bodhi tries to comfort you after you're left feeling inadequate.

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: Feelings of low self worth and mentions of depression, no real spoilers, Angst/Comfort

Just a little something for Bodhi Week, because we couldn't leave out our soft boy. (At least he is in my mind.)

“Did you see the way I took down Denton today? Seems like all those lessons are finally paying off.” You croon as you sit down at your usual table, directed specifically at Garrick and Xaden. They had been working on your sparring and you’d only hope they were proud of the way you handled yourself.  

Though it isn’t until you pick your head up from sitting down that your brows furrow. Searching the faces around you, Garrick and Xaden are still in a discussion and haven’t even turned their heads. No single inkling on their faces that they even heard you speak or noticed your presence at all. Imogen is talking with Quinn and Bodhi looks enraptured in whatever they are discussing as well. 

As you take in the scene around you, your face falls. This isn’t the first time that you’ve felt yourself passed over, but the way no one even acknowledged your presence had you shrinking in on yourself. 

Knowing the look on your face well, you get up, before even sitting for a full minute. Appetite entirely forgotten, you pick up your tray and head straight for the door. Before you walk completely out, you turn and look back towards the people that you’ve grown accustomed to calling your friends, maybe even family. Eyes meeting the table, you aren’t shocked to see that not a single one of them has even looked your way. 

Dumping your tray, you let your gaze fall as you begin the slog back to your room. You don’t let your head rise the entire time that you walk back. Failure making a home in your bones.

‘You need to speak up. You should never let them dictate your feelings about yourself.’ Dearmad huffs in your mind. 

There’s no reason to respond, this wouldn’t be the first time your bonded would berate you for your feelings of inadequacy and unimportance, and it won’t be the last. Reinforcing your shields, you continue until you hit the end of the hallway of the first years. Shutting out your dragon the only way you feel you can move forward.

Staring at your own door, you can feel the way the tears swim, there’s nothing less you wanted to do than cry. You’d cried more than enough for one lifetime already, but the walls feel like they’re caving in. The fortress you thought you had built around yourself shattering into irreparable pieces.

Opening the door to your room, you don’t even make it to your bed when the tears come in earnest. Your breaths become shallow, and your knees crash to the ground, the weight of being inconsequential settling on your shoulders like a immoveable force. You don’t try to move, you just let yourself curl in, the emptiness in your mind crushing the small seed of hope that had begun to grow over the last few months. 

If someone asked how long you cried, you wouldn’t be able to tell them. You didn’t even rise the next morning when formation came. The knocks on your door emanated, but you just laid there, staring at the beams that crossed your room. Limbs feeling heavy, you don’t move for the next two days. The force of depression holding your limbs down. 

A strong rap of two knocks makes one eyebrow raise. You try to think of who it could be, but there aren’t any names that come to mind. 

“Cadet L/N.” A stern voice calls from the other side of the door. 

You wince knowing that there’s no way to avoid this knock. Trying to comb your hair down with your hands, you walk to the door and open it to see Professor Devera and your wingleader on the other side. 

“You have not been to formation for the last two mornings, cadet.” Devera states, though there’s a softness in her eyes you’ve never seen before as she looks you up and down. “Though I can tell you haven’t been feeling yourself, have you?”

You look back at her in slight confusion, is your professor really going to let you off the hook? She turns her head and looks back towards your wingleader, the only thing you can be thankful for at the moment is that it isn’t Xaden. 

“She will need to have a punishment, as she did not come to command for leave due to illness. However, I believe we can limit its severity.” She finishes before giving a nod to both you and your wingleader and walking back down the hall. 

As you watch her walk away, you catch a glimpse of familiar black curls down the hall before your attention is brought back to your wingleader.

“Looks like it will be dish duty for a week, Cadet L/N.” Septon called as he walked away from your room. Though he surprised you turning around and giving you a small smile. “Next time, let your squad leader know and you can avoid it.”

With a small shake of your head, you pad back into your room and close the door softly. Letting out a large sigh of relief and dread. You don’t even get two steps in before the knock on your door comes, and there’s no doubt in your mind at who is on the other side.

Not wanting to go back to the world yet, you ignore the knocks and sink into your bed, pulling the covers over your head. The knocks sound again, sharper this time, but you just sink further into your bed and close your eyes. 

The dreams hit harder than normal, your mind pulling images of taunts and those who claim to care turning their backs on you. But when you watch your dragon fly away without you, you rise clutching your chest, your heart feeling like it may flutter completely out. 

Feeling the sweat drop down your brow, you rake your hands through your hair, pulling at the untamed mess. Knowing that sleep will not be finding you again any time soon, you take a deep breath and walk to the communal showers.

The halls are quiet now that it’s the middle of the night, but you still take the time to check your surroundings. It’s then you notice the note that was lying on the floor at your feet, the familiar sprawling script adorning the page.

Y/N,

I don’t know what happened, but we all need to know you’re alright. I’ll come check on you again in the morning.

Your Bodhs

You try to reign in the quiet scoff, but it’s out before you can stop it. You shake your head at the note, a wistful feeling leaving you knowing that its always Bodhi. 

Tucking the note on your desk, you head to the bathing chambers hoping to chase away the feelings that have settled over you. The threat of never being good enough biting at your core. As the water begins to warm, you will yourself to drudge up at least one good memory, one instance that will bring a smile back to your face.

When it seems impossible, you shower quickly and turn the taps off, needing some fresh air, something that doesn’t feel like the oppressive weight of Basgiath. Tying your boots tightly, you wrap your cloak over your shoulders and walk towards the clearing, hoping its empty since most of the Tyrs have already been assigned their help. 

As you walk through the tall grass, you let your fingers graze over the strands, the sound of them blowing in the wind bringing a soothing melody. Once you arrive at the familiar oak, you let your back slide against the rough bark and look out towards the moonlit sky and the slightly illuminated town in the distance. 

“Looks like Garrick is going to owe me, just like I thought.” The familiar voice floats over the light hum of the rustling grass.

Turning your head, you watch as Bodhi’s shape continues to come into view.  

“Are you stalking me Bodhi?” You voice comes out harsher than you intended, but it seems to have no effect on the man coming towards you.

“No.” Bodhi replies cooly. “But I do know you rather well, so I’ve been checking out here the last few days.”

Your brows scrunch in confusion at his words. 

“You don’t have to look so disbelieving.” Bodhi continues as he finally sits down next to you, long legs sprawled out and hands resting behind. “I saw the look you gave everyone before dumping your dinner and bolting.”

Your brows now rise in surprise at Bodhi’s revelation. For months you’d been feeling like an outsider in the group, a mere spectator to the stellar show that everyone else provided in the quadrant. 

“People do see you, you know. Even if you don’t feel like it.” You don’t try to hide your scoff at Bodhi’s words.

“Please, if that were the case, then someone would’ve noticed when I spoke to them days ago.” You let the hurt leach into your voice, a bitter taste coating your tongue. 

Closing your eyes at your frustrations, they are startled back open when you feel a warm hand tug against your waist in a bid to move you closer.  “I did notice. And you’re right, you should be proud of the match against Denton.”

Your eyes flare as Bodhi continues to haul you closer to his side, his arms wrapping around your shoulders. 

“Surprised?” Looking into those chocolate brown eyes, you can’t help but admit to yourself that you were. 

“Considering you didn’t breathe a word when I was leaving - yes.” The statement said with a nonchalance you didn’t really feel.

A look of regret passes his face as he squeezes you a little tighter. “I wanted Garrick and Xaden to realize what they had done. But the minute you walked through the door, I regretted not kicking them both under the table.”

There’s no stopping the slight laugh you release at Bodhi’s statement and as you relax, you let your head fall to Bodhi’s shoulder. 

“Why is it always you Bodhi?” You can’t help the question as it leaks out. “Why are you always the one to breathe warmth back into me?”

A contented sigh leaves his lips as you both stare up at the stars. “I don’t know about warmth, but I do know that you should never feel insignificant. You are a treasure to this world and we would be missing too much if we lost your light.”

“Thank you Bodhs.” The words pass you lips on the smallest whisper, the feeling of warmth finally crawling its way back through your veins. 

As you watch the night sky with a small smile, you let yourself snuggle a little closer to the man that always makes you feel everything, except inconsequental.

Taglist: @ilovetomtailor @nevermoresworld @nastylicious @iambored24601 @mysticalfuncollectorus @sadpieceofbread @alwayshave-faith

Divider: @empyreanevents

[gottencents]

Start a War - Jennie Kim

main masterlist | navigation

pairing. idol!jennie x reader

synopsis. Struggling with the pressure of her many public personas, Jennie confides in Y/N about her exhaustion with being everything for everyone—and decides, for once, to be selfish.

Practice Room – 9:42 PM, Los Angeles

The mirrored walls of the rehearsal studio gleamed with the last traces of daylight, catching the flashes of sequins and sweat as Jennie Kim moved through the final beats of her choreography.

Music still thumped in the background—low and repetitive—but she’d stopped dancing a few minutes ago. Now she stood still, center of the room, hands on her hips, chest rising and falling. Her hoodie clung to her damp skin, and her mind whirred with unfinished thoughts louder than any bass.

The door creaked open, and she knew who it was without turning.

“Practice robot mode activated again?” Y/N asked, her voice a warm contrast to the sterile room.

Jennie gave a small smile at the familiar teasing. “If I stop moving, I start thinking.”

Y/N shut the door behind her and crossed the room quietly. “And thinking’s dangerous?”

Jennie finally looked over at her—hoodie sleeves too long, hair pulled into a lazy bun, no makeup, no pressure. Just Y/N.

“Thinking is… everything I try not to do during prep,” Jennie muttered. “Because when I think, I start asking myself the wrong questions.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Like?”

Jennie dropped onto the floor, back against the mirror, legs stretched out. “Like… who am I doing this for?”

She tugged her towel off her shoulders and ran it across her neck, eyes distant.

“I’ve been Jennie: the soloist. Jennie: the ‘It Girl.’ Jennie: the brat. The perfect one. The ‘ungrateful’ one. Everyone’s favorite villain. Everyone’s misunderstood softie. I don’t know how many of them are real anymore.”

Y/N crouched down beside her. “They’re all you. But none of them are the whole you.”

Jennie glanced at her, eyes searching. “And you know that?”

Y/N sat beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “I do. I know the you who cries in the car after every comeback no one knows you fought to make happen. The one who rubs my thumb when she’s overwhelmed. The one who stays quiet at parties because she’s too tired to perform joy.”

Jennie turned her head to face her fully now. She blinked like she hadn’t realized how deeply she needed to be seen until this moment.

“I’ve spent my whole career being selfless for the sake of something bigger,” she said. “The brand. The legacy. The team. The fans. I don’t even remember the last time I did something just because I wanted to.”

She hesitated.

“I think… I want to be selfish now.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “With me?”

Jennie nodded, almost shamefully. “I want them to see you. To see that I love you. Not hide it. Not make you my secret safe place in the dark while I pretend to be untouchable in the light.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“Jennie…”

But Jennie rushed forward, the words tumbling now.

“I don’t want you backstage in the shadows anymore. I want you in my trailer. I want to walk off stage, sweaty and messy, and hug you first. I want the fans to know that this version of me—that’s not posing, not filtered—is yours.”

Y/N reached over and cupped her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye.

“Then let them see,” she whispered. “Let them see who you really love.”

Jennie leaned into her touch, eyes glassy. “Even if they hate me for it?”

“Especially then,” Y/N said. “Because for once, you’re choosing something for you. And maybe the ones who matter will love you more for it.”

Later, Jennie sat nestled into a hoodie that smelled like Y/N, wrapped in a blanket, her head resting on Y/N’s lap. The city lights blinked below them—tiny, artificial stars—and the sky stretched out like a quiet permission to just exist.

“I’ve always been scared of giving people something too real,” Jennie said softly.

Y/N played with her hair. “Why?”

“Because real things get picked apart first. They hurt the most when they break.”

Jennie closed her eyes.

“When I think about showing you to the world, it’s not because I want to make a statement or prove anything. It’s because I can’t not anymore. You’re in every part of me now. You’re my good days, and my worst ones. You’re the reason I haven’t let this industry eat me alive.”

Silence stretched between them, long and delicate.

Y/N whispered, “You’ve been holding this in for how long?”

Jennie’s voice cracked. “Since our first night together.”

Y/N leaned down and kissed her temple, her fingers threading through Jennie’s hair.

“You don’t need to be anything for anyone right now,” she said. “You’re allowed to just be mine. And let me be yours.”

Jennie closed her eyes again.

“Then I want to be selfish,” she whispered.

The concert had ended hours ago, but the venue still hummed faintly with residual electricity—like the stage itself was reluctant to sleep. Outside, fans lingered behind barricades, still screaming Jennie’s name into the night. Inside, Jennie Kim was peeling herself out of her ruby-red stage outfit, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with performance adrenaline.

Y/N was waiting in the dressing room, exactly where Jennie had told her to be.

Jennie’s assistant had brought Y/N in through a secured side entrance midway through the encore, and she’d been watching the rest of the show from a private, curtained viewing spot just off-stage. But now, with everyone else cleared out—dancers hugging goodbyes, stylists busy with garment racks—it was just them.

Jennie stepped into the dressing room in a black silk robe, makeup still perfect, hair slightly tousled. She spotted Y/N sitting on the leather couch, legs tucked beneath her, wearing one of the custom “RUBY” tour tees Jennie had slipped her before the show.

“I’ve been waiting forever for this part,” Jennie said, voice low, warm.

Y/N looked up and smiled. “You mean the post-show makeout part?”

Jennie grinned. “Exactly that.”

She crossed the room slowly, deliberately, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the floor.

“I couldn’t stop looking at you during ‘Start a War,’ you know,” Jennie murmured, now standing in front of her. “I sang the whole second verse to you. You just didn’t realize it.”

“I realized it,” Y/N replied, tilting her head up. “You winked at me and nearly tripped.”

“I did not trip,” Jennie scoffed playfully.

“You stumbled,” Y/N teased, tugging her by the robe’s tie. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Jennie leaned down and kissed her—soft at first, then deeper, letting herself melt into it. She tasted like gloss and lemon water, sweet and slightly sharp, just like the afterglow of a show well done.

Y/N’s hands found Jennie’s waist beneath the robe, fingers warm against her skin.

“You were incredible tonight,” Y/N whispered against her lips.

Jennie pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. “No. You were. Just being here. I kept thinking how badly I wanted everyone to see you. Not just the fans—my people. The ones backstage. The team. I wanted you to be part of this. Of me.”

Y/N’s breath hitched slightly. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said that.”

“I mean it,” Jennie said. “For the first time, I wanted something for me. I wanted to be selfish. And that something—someone—is you.”

The words were a whisper, but they carried the weight of a thousand unsent texts, the kind of confessions you only make when the lights go down and you’re left with truth alone.

Jennie sat down beside her, curling one leg up, pulling Y/N closer until they were flush. Her hands found the hem of Y/N’s shirt—her shirt—and she toyed with it gently, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns along her hip.

“You always wear my things better than I do,” Jennie said, voice going silk-soft.

“Maybe because I don’t wear anything under it,” Y/N murmured with a sly grin.

Jennie raised a brow, gaze darkening just slightly.

“Well now that’s not fair,” she said.

Y/N leaned in, brushing her lips over Jennie’s jaw. “What’re you gonna do about it, Kim?”

Jennie didn’t answer—not with words.

She kissed her again, this time with intent. One hand tangling in Y/N’s hair, the other gripping her thigh. Her robe slipped slightly, revealing a glimpse of the stage-worn lingerie beneath, and Y/N let out a soft breath against her mouth.

Their kisses grew hungrier, deeper, that intoxicating mix of love and longing—the kind that simmers through months of hiding, late-night texts, long-distance flights, and the ache of wanting someone in silence. It was all pouring out now, here, behind a locked door.

“I want you to be the first thing I see after every show,” Jennie whispered, forehead pressed to hers. “Let them talk. Let them guess. I’m not hiding you anymore.”

“Then prove it,” Y/N said softly, tugging Jennie into her lap.

And Jennie did—again and again, with every kiss, every sigh, every soft whisper that only Y/N was allowed to hear.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

Musing...

Woke up thinking about a Modern Day World AU, Mafia style reverse harem with Doflamingo, Corazon, and Law, and I can't get this out of my head. I'll leave you with my deranged thoughts and some warnings: NSFW; Dub-con;

Just imagine that you wandered into the flamingo's den, uninvited, lost, but not scared. You're precious, maybe the daughter of an enemy, maybe the arranged wife of another enemy, one who ran away. And now they're either your salvation or your demise.

Doffy would watch you in his leather chair, one leg propped up, chin resting against the back of his hand. You're intriguing, valuable, breakable... his red eyes glinting behind his tinted lenses, a King in a metaphorical throne. He wants to keep you to himself.

Cora, sweet, precious Cora would plead for your release. You're just a victim in a game that isn't yours to play, and he understands that very well. You're a precious thing, and he doesn't want any blood on his hands. But you're so sweet, maybe he would like a taste first, if you're willing. He knows it's unrealistic to let you go now, you've seen too much. Maybe, just maybe, you can be his?

Practical Law, who became rather ruthless operating under Doflamingo's thumb, wants you dead. Tortured for your secrets, pryed of vital information. He doesn't want you or your body. Why would he? He can have whoever he wants, whenever he wants. Why would he want a taste of the defiant little thing who keeps fighting him like she stands a chance? Or maybe that is the way to make you confess?

Doffy knows how to break you. But it will take all of them cooperating, and they're not very good at it.

At first.

And then they start to understand the way your body responds to their touches, and no matter how hard you want to fight them, you want this as much as they do.

Cora is lovable, sweet, and kind. He seeks your pleasure before his, calls you sweet pet names, praises you for your cooperation, for how well you're taking him. Thanks you for your tears, coos when you whimper. Licks the saltiness of your cheeks and peppers you with kisses. He slides in and out of your cunt languarously, slowly, almost as if he's making love to you. He holds you when you shake your head and say it won't fit; he guides you gently. You like him.

Law takes you from behind. He doesn't want to look at you; he doesn't want to acknowledge that the way your lips are pressing against each other to muffle your moans drives him crazy. He wants to fuck the attitude right out of you with deep thrusts, not even caring when you cry out when pain mingles with pleasure. He pistons his hips harshly and cruelly; tattooed fingers digging deep indents into your skin, marking them with blemishes and bruises. He degrades you with filthy words: his little whore, his cumslut, his doll to play with. Every time he claims you as his, something inside you breaks. You don't like him, but you're his.

Doflamingo watches everything, and when his men are both winded and exhausted, he rises from his throne. It's his turn. It doesn't matter that you're drained, panting, filthy from their cum and yours, with bite marks and hickeys; hair all over the place. You're ruined. And he's going to be the one to completely wreck you. He takes everything. Your pleasure, your moans, your cries, and your tears. He's a mix of Cora and Law: he degrades and praises equally, tearing your heart apart, leaving you on the brink of insanity. He claims your orgasms like prizes, counting them with whispers, each one increasing his grin. You are his treasure. And the only people he's willing to share you with are in that room.

He leaves you wrecked on that carpeted floor. Shivering from the aftershocks, your body still craving their touch. You've stumbled into the flamingo's den, but the creatures it holds within are vicious.

And when they all decide to pounce at the same time, you're left wondering if this hell you walked into isn't a twisted version of heaven, coated in danger and sin, and they're nothing more than your fallen angels.

Anyway... these are my unholy thoughts today. Might've been reading one too many dark romance books.

[lvnleah]

Would you write a bit where Hayden is really nervous about motherhood, like terrified, and maybe has a chat to like Amanda or Katrina Gorry or literally anyone with kids who reassure her about the whole thing and tell her she’ll be fine

not alone | no more secrets.

“She’s so good with her,” you smiled as you watched Kyra run around with Harper as the pair of them chased a ball. “I can't wait for days like this when my little bubba’s older.”

“Are you excited?” Katrina asked you, “You’re 26 weeks, it’ll fly by, before you know it she’ll be here.”

You watched Kyra and Harper laughing together, the sight filling you with a mix of joy and nervous anticipation.

“I think so,” you replied, your voice a little quieter than usual. “But it feels so far away, and also, like, right around the corner. I don’t know… it’s like, I’m so excited, but then I panic. What if I can’t handle it?”

Katrina gave you a soft, understanding smile, her gaze moving from Koby, who was resting contentedly in her arms, to you. “You’ll handle it, you will. It’s normal to doubt yourself, especially in the beginning, but you’re already thinking about it. That’s half the battle.”

You nodded, though the doubt still lingered in the back of your mind. The thought of being a parent, being responsible for a tiny, helpless baby, was overwhelming.

“I just keep thinking about how much everything is going to change.” You sighed, “Like, I’m going to be responsible for a little human.”

Katrina shifted Koby slightly and gave you a knowing look. “Everything is going to change. But not all change is bad. You’ve got people around you who love you. You’re not doing this alone.”

Your eyes drifted back to Kyra as she scooped Harper up dramatically, both of them giggling as she spun the little girl in a circle. You smiled without meaning to, the sight easing something in your chest.

“She’s been… really amazing,” you said softly, almost more to yourself than to Katrina.

Katrina hummed. “She’s been completely smitten with you since day one.”

Your head snapped to look at her. “What?”

“Oh come on,” Katrina laughed. “You really think she offers to do grocery runs with you just because she loves supermarkets? Or that she shows up to every appointment ‘just in case you need someone to drive you home’? That girl would wrap you in bubble wrap if she could.”

You looked away, biting down the flush rising to your cheeks. “She’s just being a good friend.”

Katrina raised an eyebrow. “I know what it’s like dating with kids. It was the exact same situation for me and Clara, but it’s close enough. Just let her in and be there for you.”

“I’m scared I won’t know what to do,” you admitted, your hands resting protectively over the curve of your bump. “Like, what if she cries and I can’t figure out why? What if I mess something up and she gets sick or hurt?”

“You will figure it out,” Katrina said gently. “I promise you will. Every parent has those thoughts. I had them and I still get them some days. You’ll learn her little cues, and what she needs. You’ll learn together.”

“Sometimes I lie awake at night just thinking about if she’ll be okay.” You sighed, “Like, what if she doesn’t sleep, or she hates the car, or I can’t get her to feed right?”

Katrina gave a soft laugh. “You’ll have nights where you cry in the dark with her in your arms, and then mornings where she smiles at you for the first time and everything else fades. It’s hard, but it’s not all hard. And you’re not doing this alone, no matter how much it might feel like it sometimes.”

“I don’t even know how to hold a newborn properly,” you whispered, the vulnerability catching in your throat.

Katrina smiled, “You’ll learn. You’ve got a whole load of support. And me. And Kyra. And everyone else who loves you. You’ll learn. Honestly, they just want to be close to you and feel safe. You already know how to love her. That’s the most important thing.”

You blinked back tears, overwhelmed by the weight of it all, “I just want to be a good mum.”

“You will be,” Katrina said without hesitation. “Because you already care so much.”

Kyra jogged over a moment later, cheeks flushed and hair wild, carrying a breathless, grinning Harper in her arms.

“She wore me out,” Kyra laughed, carefully lowering Harper onto the picnic blanket beside you. “You alright?” she asked.

You nodded, wiping your eyes before the tears could properly fall. “Yeah. Just… having a moment.”

“No over ice cream right?” Kyra asked wearily, “Because if you start crying and screaming over it like you did the other night then I might—”

You shook your head and cut her off, “No, Ky.” you laughed, “Just thinking about everything. About baby girl. About being her mum.”

“Thank god because I couldn’t cope,” Kyra mumbled, sitting down beside you.

You let out a shaky laugh, your hand instinctively rubbing your belly again as your baby rolled gently beneath your palm.

Maybe Katrina was right. Maybe you would learn. Maybe it was okay to be scared, as long as you kept showing up anyway.

[httpvomitello]

Hii💗how are you?

Usually there's only joel miller x child!reader on tumblr when it comes to non-romantic fics, so I was thinking of something with tommy (I already liked his character in the games but now that he's gabriel luna I love him more than ever), and I came with a request on my mind: Can you write something where Tommy has toddler daughter reader before outbreak and how it would've been the outbreak morning and night on the first episode if tommy had a kid himself, a baby depending on him?

Ooh, i really like that one. And i hope you like too ~ ♡

(btw i'm also taking requests for the last of us now!)

When the Sky Fell Quiet .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: Tommy Miller wasn’t supposed to be a single dad. But one mistake and a miracle later, he had a daughter. You. And nothing else in the world mattered. On September 26th, 2003, everything changes. But he still has one job: keep you safe. No matter what it takes.

tommy miller & daughter!reader

WARNINGS: Angst, panic and chaos, parent/child trauma, minor language, character death, bittersweet ending.

Morning — September 26, 2003

The morning started like most others.

You woke up in your tiny toddler bed—an old crib frame with the bars removed and cartoon sheets from a garage sale. You were rubbing your eyes, thumb stuck in your mouth, curls wild and messy.

Tommy was already in the kitchen, pouring burnt coffee into a mug that said #1 Dad, a Father’s Day gift you didn’t even remember giving him (you were still learning how to talk, after all). He was in his usual half-buttoned flannel and jeans with drywall dust on the knees.

“Bout time you woke up, sunshine,” he called softly as you padded down the hall in fuzzy socks.

You grunted.

He laughed. “That’s my girl.”

He picked you up and kissed your cheek, tickling your side until you squealed and kicked.

“Don’t tickle Daddy,” you warned with mock seriousness.

“Oh, is that so?” he teased. “Who makes the rules in this house?”

You leaned in close, finger to your lips. “Shh. Me.”

Tommy barked a laugh and kissed your forehead again. “Hell, I believe it.”

He dropped you off at the little daycare by the fire station—one of those rundown places where the toys were cracked and the paint peeled, but the teachers loved the kids like their own.

You didn’t cry when he left anymore. Not since last spring.

He looked back twice from his truck just to make sure you weren’t upset.

You weren’t.

You were waving.

And smiling.

Around 3:00 p.m., the sirens started.

At first, Tommy ignored them. Helicopters flying low over the suburbs, firetrucks screaming in all directions. One of the guys on site said something about the news—riots, maybe? People going crazy?

By 5:00 p.m., Tommy was already on edge.

He tried calling Joel. No answer.

Tried calling the daycare. Busy.

By 5:30, he broke every speed law in Austin trying to reach you.

When he burst through the front door of the daycare, the place was in chaos.

Children crying. Staff on their phones. A teacher holding the door shut while pounding echoed from the other side.

He saw you sitting on the floor, little backpack clutched to your chest like a lifeline.

Your eyes were wide, your cheeks flushed.

“Daddy!” you cried.

He ran to you, scooped you up in his arms, and didn’t let go.

“I got you, baby girl,” he whispered against your hair. “I got you.”

Back home, things were worse.

News reports said the virus was spreading. Airborne, waterborne—they didn’t know. Tommy shut every window, every vent. He grabbed the emergency bag Joel made for him after the Y2K scare. Loaded the pistol he hadn’t touched in two years.

He held you the whole time.

You weren’t asking questions—you didn’t need to. You knew something was wrong. You didn’t want your juice or your bedtime book. You just held his shirt and didn’t let go.

When night fell, the neighborhood lit up with fire and screams.

Joel called. Finally.

“Get ready to run,” he said. “I’m coming.”

When you arrived at your uncle's house, everything seemed to be happening too quickly.

Sarah cried when she saw you. She hugged you tight. You used to call her "Sasa" when you could barely speak.

You sat in the middle seat of the truck, clinging to Sarah's hand while your dad drove and she asked what was happening.

Neither of them had answers.

Helicopters crashed in the distance. Streets were blocked. People ran in the dark. Fires rose behind them.

Tommy wouldn’t let you go.

You didn’t understand it.

But you knew something was breaking.

Tommy ran, carrying you the whole time, trying to get to his brother and niece.

When the soldier pointed the gun, when Joel screamed for him to stop, when Sarah hit the ground—

You screamed too.

He couldn’t feel his legs. His throat was raw from yelling.

But you were warm and alive in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

Joel held Sarah’s body.

Tommy sat by the ditch, cradling you. You were shaking. He held your head to his chest and rocked you gently, even as the world around you burned.

You didn’t sleep.

He didn’t either.

Your hands clutched the collar of his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear.

“I got you, baby girl,” he whispered again and again, like a prayer. “Daddy’s here. I got you.”

And even when the world ended, you believed him.

Because his arms never let go.

[batsandbirdbrains]

The one where Oliver is the only one who knows Batman and Robin’s secret IDs

I want Bruce and Oliver to be bffs best pals. They were roommates in boarding school. They’ve known each other practically their whole lives. Oliver was one of the first people Bruce introduced Dick to when he adopted him (because this Bruce would absolutely adopt Dick immediately), and Dick calls him Uncle Ollie. They hang out all the time. If Dick is ever at a gala and is uncomfortable or tired or scared or just needs help convincing a waiter to give him an extra dessert, Dick knows Uncle Ollie will always help if Bruce is unavailable.

So of course Bruce lets Oliver in on the secret of Batman and Robin. It’s only natural. Plus, he’s glad to have an extra hero who knows their secret in case Robin ever needs help.

Once they form the Justice League though, Batman doesn’t trust most of them around Robin. Because of this, Robin isn’t super well known amongst the League members. They know OF him, but they’ve only actually met him once or twice. Superman and Wonder Woman have met him a fair few times, but only because Bruce trusts them more than the average JL member.

But still, only Oliver knows who they are behind the masks. Oliver takes it very seriously, because he knows how paranoid Bruce is. He wouldn’t compromise their secret identities, he wouldn’t even joke about.

Which is why it’s such a shock to everyone when Batman is late for one of their monthly meetings, and instead they’re greeted by a panicked Robin who comes running through a zeta tube and launches himself at Green Arrow.

“Uncle Ollie! Uncle Ollie!” he shrieks. “You have to help, you have to help him! Please, you have to help!”

“What happened, what’s wrong?” Oliver is quick to ask, catching Robin and holding him. “Robin, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Agent A is on vacation. He’s not home. It was just us,” Robin says quickly. “I dunno what - it was Scarecrow - it’s a new fear toxin and I dunno how to help ‘cause our usual anti-toxin isn’t working and he’s going crazy in the cave and I can’t help him I don’t know how to help him you have to help him!”

“Robin - Robin, listen to me, alright? Everything is gonna be fine. Just breathe with me, okay?” He’s holding a hand flat on Robin’s chest, trying to help him calm down. “But you have to tell me, were you hit with the fear toxin too?”

Dick nods. Dick is ten and he’s terrified because he was hit by the fear toxin too, but Bruce covered him quickly and he wasn’t hit with as much as Bruce was and he doesn’t know what to do.

And the rest of the JL is now on high alert, because one of their founding members was apparently hit by a new strain of fear toxin, and his child sidekick was too. And as far as they all know, none of them have access to the batcave to go help him, and they sure as hell aren’t sending a terrified Robin back by himself.

“I’m gonna go help him, okay?” Oliver says gently. “But I need you to stay up here.”

“No! No!” Dick cries. “Take me with you!”

“I can’t do that, Robin,” Oliver is being so soft with him that it’s actually freaking everyone else out. “You’re gonna stay up here with Superman, alright? He’s your favorite, isn’t he?”

“B is my favorite,” Dick cries, sounding completely miserable. “I just say Superman ‘cause it’s funny to mess with him.”

“Well Superman is your second favorite then, isn’t he?”

“No, you’re my second favorite,” Dick whines. “Take me with you!”

“Your third favorite then!” Oliver laughs, wiping away the tears that spill through Robin’s mask. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna go help him. But you need to stay here.”

“But how will I know he’s okay?”

“I’ll call as soon as I have the new anti-toxin figured out. I promise.”

He passes Robin over to Superman and then goes to the zeta tubes, using an override Batman have him to enter the batcave.

And everyone is so freaked out, but they’re trying to stay calm so Robin doesn’t feel any worse.

Oliver ends up just knocking Bruce out so he can figure out the new anti-toxin in peace. He maybe has to call Flash from the batcave to get some help with the sciencey shit. He administers it to Bruce as soon as it’s done, then takes a dose up to Dick on the Watchtower. It ends up making Dick so drowsy he just falls asleep.

They both wake up in the med bay the next morning, Oliver sitting in the corner watching their stats to make sure they’re still alright.

[moosesarecute]

Chapter 5: War and Peace

Masterlist

Series masterlist

They were going to lose this battle.

He had just given Azriel the command to get out and fight when they came flying in. He knew sending his brother would destroy his wings, but he only knew that if he hadn’t let him, he would have gone anyway.

He had just commanded Azriel to take the northern flank and Cassian to take the southern one, when a warrior with mesmerising iridescent wings landed beside them. Above them thousands of warriors halted in the sky. After him came five more warriors. Two females and three males.

They walked carefully across and stopped beside Cassian in a comfortable distance.

“You’re Cassian,” the male said, and Cassian nodded. “Our General told us to talk to you about where you wanted us. We’re not trained in ground battle, but we’re good in the sky.”

Cassian looked carefully over at Rhys and Azriel, and it was first then Rhys noticed how intensely Azriel looked at the male speaking.

Rhys saw it then. The eyes colour and the shape of the nose.

Out of the other warriors, the two females also shared similar features.

“How many are you?”

“About 2500. The next group left a couple of minutes after us.”

Y/n always talked about her people as her family, he guessed that’s why he never realized just how big this family was. He should have understood that if she herself had 17 children, the rest of her people had many children as well.

2500 extra warriors on their sides. He didn’t dare to hope.

He also realized how far they must be from their territory and that most, if not all, hadn’t been outside in almost 450 years. However, they had come to help them.

How had their general managed that?

“And, you are?” Cassian asked the male. While both Rhys and Az knew about the people, Cassian still seemed hesitant.

“I’m Kyle, second in command.”

That was Y/n’s oldest child, Rhys realized. The one she had cried about when he turned 600 years. Her “baby”. He looked a lot like her. Both in his features and the way he carried himself.

“And your general? He decided to sit this one out?” Cassian again asked a little harshly. Cassian hated generals that didn’t take part in battle, but Kyle just shook his head.

“Do not think little off our general. She’s unable to fly, so she joined the ground forces,” he answered. A female general wasn’t usual in Prythian. Even though there was more and more of them, it was still rare.

Rhys was about to turn to ask Azriel if he knew who this general was, but his brother no longer stood where he was seconds ago.

And that’s when Rhys understood just who this female general was.

The relief still sat heavy in his body. They had all survived. All of them stood together in the tent to debrief. All of them were exhausted, but none of them were seriously hurt. Or at least not anymore. They had healed quickly.

Feyre stood close to his side, and he couldn’t wait for it all to calm down and for him to just spend some time holding her.

Then the doors of the tent flew open.

In walked first a tiny female with iridescent wings, she wore the same fighting leathers as the rest of her people had. In her arms she carried a bunch of wings. Broken, cut off wings that only meant that their carriers were dead. Rhys felt his heart fall deep. It was awful.

Behind the female walked Y/n and Rhys could hear Azriel’s breath catch.

Y/n didn’t wear the leathers the rest of her family wore, she carried an Illyrian leather jacket. A jacket that was so big, she had folded up the arms and had closed it with a belt around her waist instead of using the normal ties. It was a custom jacket with the space for seven siphons.

He glanced slowly at Azriel and realized he wore his old leathers. He must have somehow found Y/n and forced her to take his own leathers. Rhys didn’t know enough about Y/n, but he knew she was stubborn enough to not take the leathers his brother presented her. He could almost imagine Azriel trying to convince her not to fight.

“High Lord, High Lady” Y/n spoke and the female beside her bowed slightly. She still had not acknowledged Azriel.

“Thirty years in the same room and you failed to mention that you were the general.”

“I didn’t fail to tell you, I actively chose not to,” she answered, and Rhys felt the need to roll his eyes at her. He would never get to learn this female. “I present to you the wings of our fallen. If you cut a piece and lay it over the wound, it will heal. Grind a piece of a decent size to a powder and mix with water and the internal wounds will heal.”

The other female handed the wings to Feyre.

It was such an important gift. Rhys realized how painful it must be. How they had known all the fae that had lost their wings.

“Thank you. We understand the importance of your gift, but don’t you need them yourself?” Rhys asked. “Have you many harmed?”

“Our magic doesn’t work on ourselves, only our own wings work,” she explained, and Rhys found it mean. Why couldn’t they heal themselves? Why was losing a wing so groundbreaking and dangerous, for them not even be able to heal themselves. “Every life lost is one too many, but we’ve been lucky. We’ve given wings to all the courts. The ones with the most losses have gotten the most.”

Rhys nodded at her. He wondered if she had lost any of her own children or siblings, but it felt wrong to ask. Too personal after she had introduced the conversation in such a formal way.

“Sarah, you can leave now,” Y/n told the female standing beside her. Sarah was her second youngest. The one Azriel had found in the woods when she was only two. Y/n and Sarah didn’t really look alike at all. Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but Y/n didn’t let her. “That’s an order Sarah.”

Sarah let out a sigh but did as her mother and general said.

The second she stepped out of the tent, Y/n made her way to Azriel. For each step she took, her wings glowed brighter and brighter. Rhys had never seen her wings as bright as when she stopped before him. He let an amused smile grow on his face.

“Spymaster.”

“General,” he answered with a nod towards the opening of the tent. “Little Sarah is not as little anymore.”

“Little Sarah is over 500 years,” Y/n answered, but after that her features softened. “Are you hurt?”

“Not beyond repair,” he answered just as softly. He lifted his hand and brushed her hair away from her face. A couple small bleeding wounds covered her face and the rest of her body. “You’re bleeding.”

“It will heal,” she answered plainly.

“In how long?” Azriel asked as his throat bobbed.

“A couple of days.” Azriel nodded at her answer. “Kyle is flying home with the rest of our family. I’m staying to make sure the wounded ones get home. I must go help them leave, but I’ll be back and explain later this evening.”

“You better be,” Azriel told her, and Rhys almost felt shivers down his spine from the iciness in his voice.

“I keep my promises, Spymaster,” she answered harshly.

“Oh, I know you do, General,” he spoke just as harshly.

Rhys thought back to what Azriel had told him. That Y/n had promised to protect him from danger. And that if any danger ever occurred, she would make sure it didn’t happen again.

She had kept that promise and sacrificed their love for one another.

Rhys didn’t know if it was romantic or toxic.

They gave each other a nod and Rhys was convinced Y/n was about to leave, but instead she closed the distance between them and kissed Azriel almost passionately.

Then, she walked away without another word. Azriel didn’t move after her, but his shadows did. It was almost unnatural to see Azriel without a single shadow.

“What was that?” Cassian was the first to speak.

Rhys was about to reach into Azriel’s mind and give him the rest of the night, or week, or month or year off, but he didn’t need too.

He saw the determination in his brother’s face, and it only took him three more seconds to run out the tent after her.

Rhys then felt the familiar feeling of his mate trying to get through his mental shield.

“Yes, Feyre darling,” he spoke knowingly.

“You have to tell me everything.”

“I don’t think I will.”

Azriel had ended up taking first a week and then an entire month off. Then, he had been in Velaris for a week, before he asked for another month off.

Rhys loved having his brother nearby, but he also loved that he and Y/n finally took some time for themselves to get to know each other again.

“I promise to do what I can to keep you safe,” Y/n had promised him in their wedding vows. Her way of keeping him safe, was staying away from him after he had gotten hurt, so that the bounty hunters didn’t hurt him again.

Azriel had willingly told him that, but other than that, Rhys had kept away. He had given them the privacy they needed and asked for.

He realized both Az and Y/n had a lot of trauma they needed to work through. Y/n had the world on her shoulders. She was not only the mother to so many, but also the general to all her people. He understood now that she worked to keep Azriel safe, because that was what she did. She protected her children and family, she protected all of her people and she needed to protect Azriel.

Azriel on the other hand needed something or someone of his own. He needed her stability or their relationship to be their own.

Their needs were very different, or at least Rhys would expect them to be, but neither one of them had spoken to him about it.

He knew too much to not be curious, but too little to understand what was going on.  

He also knew for a fact that Feyre, Cassian and Mor had asked Azriel to bring Y/n to family dinner, but that he never answered them when they did.

That was until a year after the war, when the two of them suddenly showed up.

After spending two full months together, they had gone back to “normal”. Which to them meant Azriel working normally and always taking a day or two extra on missions to be with her. Unless it was something urgent.

He didn’t speak about her. He didn’t talk about how they were doing, and Rhys knew better than to ask. He wouldn’t get an answer if he did.

“Hi,” Y/n spoke awkwardly and Azriel let out a snort at her. She mocked him back.

The rest of them had already started eating, but Azriel found chairs for both, and they sat down. None of them knew how to act. They sat in silence and just watched for a few seconds.

Y/n’s wings were glowing and lit up the room. It took all the other’s attention. Rhys was used to seeing the glow, but he had never seen it so vibrant. It made him happy to see. It was obvious that their relationship was doing okay. Azriel even rested a hand on her thigh.

He wore a ring.

They hadn’t been wearing rings before, or not that Rhys knew about. But now, both had rings on their fingers.

It was small but obvious: they were married and each other’s. Finally.

“I don’t think we have a vegetarian alternative ready,” Rhys spoke before Feyre could fill their places with food.

“That’s fine, we ate before we got here,” Y/n answered.

“Why be a vegetarian when there is so much good meat out there?” Cassian asked and the conversation started boldly. Y/n did great throughout the entire dinner. Both she and Azriel answered a few questions, but Rhys had made peace with the fact that they would never learn all there was to know about their relationship. It was something for them to keep to themselves.

Later in the evening, they had all moved to the living room for drinks and as Feyre and Mor started dancing, Y/n sat down next to Rhys.

“I think we were lucky,” she told him. “Lucky we had so many good people looking after us when we got out.”

“Wouldn’t have made it without them,” he answered and took a few moments to look at everyone. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I’ve never been happier,” she answered, and Rhys noticed how she watched only Azriel.

“Me neither,” he agreed as he looked at Feyre’s smile.

It had been a couple of years, and even though they didn’t hear much about it, Azriel was happily married. While Az attended every family dinner, Y/n only showed up once or twice a year. It was always unannounced, and she never ate the food.

 It was one time, they had all gotten together for dinner and waited for Azriel to arrive. He was a little late which was unusual.

“I need help,” Azriel said as he walked into the River House. “From all of you.”

It only took them seconds to stand up and be ready. It was Rhys, Feyre, Nesta, Cass, Mor and Amren.

“What’s going on?” Rhys asked.

“I don’t have time to explain, we have to go now,” he answered.

They became worried and Azriel showed the place they were going to Feyre and Rhys.

Azriel shadowwalked Cassian, while Feyre and Rhys winnowed Nesta, Mor and Amren.

They landed in a clearing in the Dawn Court filled with flowers of all kinds. However, he saw no tulips. It had gotten dark, but it was decorated with both lights and fireflies. However, that didn’t matter, because most of the light came from the wings of about 150 faeries that stood speaking.

“What’s going on?” Feyre asked Azriel. But he didn’t answer her.

“I need you two in the front,” he told Rhys and Cass.

 In the front was a beautiful house. A house that yelled “I’m the coziest place in Prythian.”

A house Rhys had seen in Y/n’s memories.

It was Azriel’s and Y/n’s home. It was the house that Y/n’s father, son and previous partner had built. However, Y/n and Azriel had made it into a home. Rhys could see details from both of them just from the exterior.

He could imagine Y/n in the garden and Azriel working on the house.

It felt correct for the two of them. If Rhys was going to imagine where they lived, it would be exactly like the house.

Az, Cass and he walked and stopped in front of all the people. The rest of their family stopped in the front as well, but a few meters away from them.

Opposite of them stood three females. Rhys recognized one of them as Sarah, Y/n’s daughter.

The second they stood still in the front, all the people stopped talking, and inn walked Y/n. She was walking arm in arm with a male. Rhys didn’t know who he was, but he looked familiar.

She carried a bouquet of white and orange roses.

Roses, not tulips.

“Are you getting married again?” he asked his brother, but Azriel could see nobody else than Y/n.

Y/n and the male stopped a couple steps in front of them. She wore an ordinary and cute dress, and her hair was filled with flowers.

“You could have told me your husband looks like a god,” the male loudly whispered to Y/n.

“I think I have, multiple times,” she told him back. “Now go to your own husband Sky, this one is mine.”

Rhys could almost see Azriel getting weak at the knees.

Sky was Y/n’s previous partner and the father to all her children. He smiled at all of them before he went to stand next to Kyle.

Then, Y/n took Azriel’s hand, and a priestess walked up behind them.

“We are here today to witness the vow renewal of Y/n and Azriel. Or, a second wedding, as the couple likes to call it.”

A small gasp went through the people and Rhys realized no one there knew what was going on. Had they told anyone at all?

“Love comes in many different forms. It comes in daring to leave one’s home to be with someone else. Love is protecting, but love is also daring to live through the danger. Love is knowing and relearning year after year after year.

“Y/n and Azriel met in the first war. The adventurous Sarah had started to fly and went exploring. Azriel had found her and made sure she found her way back to her mom unharmed. It then took 150 years for them to meet again. 150 years where Azriel’s shadows, without his knowing, always looked out for the female with the determined look and fantastic wings. When they first did meet again, it took them no less than 255 years to get married.”

A happy laughter went through the crowd.

Azriel and Y/n laughed too, but they were still only looking at each other.

“Y/n describes loving Azriel as not knowing if he’s coming home covered in his own or someone else’s blood. She also describes it as a safety net. She knows he will always be there for her and for that she is grateful. Her favourite thing is when he cooks, and she knows that he loves it even though he pretends not to.”

Rhys had never ever seen Azriel cook.

“Azriel describes loving Y/n as a new adventure every day. He describes it as not knowing if she is crying because someone died or because one of her children turned a year older. He also describes her as his stability. He knows that it doesn’t matter where and when, he can always come home to a home filled with flowers and a fresh, vegetarian meal on the stove. His favourite thing is when she sings when she thinks nobody is listening, but his shadows always dance a little extra when they hear her songs.”

Rhys saw multiple people crying. He saw what must be either Y/n’s mother or sister hugging Sky.

“It’s now time for your vows.”

Azriel picked up a note from his pocket.

“Y/n, you are the most stubborn and annoying female I have ever met,” he got interrupted by Y/n’s laugh. His shadows were swirling around both and them and he softened a little at the sound. “However, it has never been hard to love you. We have gone from strangers to friends to lovers to husband and wife and then back to strangers. The last couple of years getting to know us again has been the most amazing in my life and I can’t wait to keep going. You gave me another chance, both at life by healing me, but also at love. I’m in love will all of you and even though a know you know it, I will never stop saying that I’m the proudest to be your husband.”

Y/n didn’t have a note.

“Azriel, I have brought most of my closest family here today, both because I wanted them here, but also for them to be there to keep me in check. I previously vowed to keep you safe. It’s been a vow I’ve given to so many people in my life, I didn’t realize how different it would be giving it to you. I can’t keep you safe, Az, and I have learned that now. However, I can give you all the love and it’s my favourite thing. I love seeing your cute dimples and your shadows special dance. I know I will get scared again, I know I will mess up, and therefore I have my family here, so that they can kick me out of our territory when they need to. I love the life we have made, and I can’t wait for it to continue and continue and continue. I’m lucky in many ways, but I’m the luckiest when I get to be your wife.”

A tear fell from her eye, and it wasn’t only Rhys that got surprised that Y/n was crying about someone other than her children.

“You may now kiss your wife,” the priestess spoke, and Y/n closed the distance between her and Azriel.

The second their lips touched multiple people yelled “Ew!”

“Oh, shut up,” Y/n spoke and then she leaned back in to kiss Azriel again. It must have been Y/n’s children, Rhys realized.

The ceremony ended and everybody wanted to talk to the two of them. Azriel was bombarded with questions and even though Rhys expected Az to get overwhelmed, he did quite well.

“Come here,” a loud voice sounded, and Y/n got engulfed in a hug. “Good job, I never expected you to actually manage this.”

“It’s good to know you have such high expectations for me, mother,” she spoke back.

Her mother then let her go and quickly gave Azriel the same tight hug.

It kept going. Rhys got to meet Y/n’s children, friends, siblings, grandparents and grandchildren. He lost track after a while. He had counted 11 children though. Three had died earlier on, but there was three more that weren’t there. He hoped it was different reasons for them not to be there and that they hadn’t died.

“How many of them are there?” Feyre asked him after a while.

“Too many,” was his only answer.

All of them asked about Azriel. While Y/n had been to Velaris a couple of times, Azriel had never been inside their territory. Most of Y/n’s family hadn’t been outside their territory either, so most of them hadn’t met him.

While most of them stayed, some of Y/n’s family went back home. It seemed like it wasn’t for everyone to stay outside the safety barrier for such a long time.

“High lady, high lord,” a voice sounded beside them, and there stood Kyle.

“No need for the titles, we’re just Rhys and Feyre,” Feyre told him. He nodded in agreement.

“You’re Y/n’s oldest,” Rhys spoke next. “She told me about you.”

“I know, that’s why I’m here. I wanted to thank you for keeping my mom safe. I know she thanked you, but I really wanted to thank you too. I don’t know what we would have done without her.”

“We saved each other. I wouldn’t have made it either if she wasn’t there.”

Their conversation stopped, when Y/n and Azriel stopped beside them.

“Thank you for coming,” Y/n told all three of them, but hugged only Kyle.

“You could’ve told us you were doing this! We don’t have a gift or anything,” Feyre told them.

“Pretending it was an hurt animal that needed help was smart though, you got everybody out quickly,” Kyle told Y/n. “But I would have liked to dress up a little more for my mother’s wedding.”

“Knowing takes the fun out of it,” Y/n answered. “We didn’t even know we were doing this until this morning. It was a surprise for all of us.”

They continued speaking, but Azriel didn’t really partake in the conversation. He only looked peacefully at his wife.

Rhys realized how long Azriel must have been longing for this. To be able to watch his wife, hold and hand and tell people about it.

Azriel looked the happiest he had ever seen him. His posture was soft and so was his gaze. He smiled and laughed throughout the entire evening.

They had prepared food. A lot of vegetarian dishes, but at the opposite side of the table, stood one lonely dish with meat. All of it tasted amazingly.

Y/n and Azriel kept to themselves for most of the evening. They danced and laughed and ate. Y/n danced once with Sky and once with Kyle, but other than that she stayed with by Azriel’s side.

Then the celebrations eventually stopped, and they went to say goodbye, Rhys noticed the flower in Azriel’s hair.

It was a rose given to him from Y/n.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Azriel kept that single rose forever.

Thank you so much for reading!

Taglist: @tele86 @mariahoedt @miadialila @fuckingsimp4azriel @bookandtealover @saltedcoffeescotch @brekkershadowsinger @scatteredstardustt @pablopascal @bravo-delta-eccho @meritxellao @grey-clowd @adventure-awaits13 @whoreforfictionalmen18 @chicken-fifi @helo1281917 @coeurdeveea @i-am-infinite @lindsayjoy444

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

[sebstanaddict]

Blurring The Lines

Sebastian Stan x Reader One Shot

Summary: When reader is Sebastian's personal assistant and falls head over heels for him but he already has a girlfriend, until one day he asks her to write on his bare chest?!

A/N : That legendary Port photoshoot where he had PORT written on his chest inspired me to write this. I'll be honest, I was thinking about something more daring but somehow it ended up being this sweet, funny but intense story. Hope you guys enjoy this :)

Warning : None I think, just Sebastian being his hot yet sweet and dorky self ;)

Word count : 3.6k

Read more Bucky Barnes and Sebastian Stan one shots here.

Check out my master list here for more Bucky and Sebastian stories.

---

Blurring The Lines

There are several rules when it comes to working as a personal assistant:

Don’t get attracted to your boss.

Never get too close to your boss.

And for the love of God, do not fall in love with your boss.

Especially if he already has a girlfriend.

A year into the job, Y/n had broken every single rule like a raccoon let loose in a fine china store during a thunderstorm. With fireworks.

But honestly - what chance did she stand? Her boss was Sebastian Stan.

Six feet of forbidden dreams. A man built like a Greek god who walked like sin in a leather jacket. His jaw could cut glass. His eyes could start a cult. His laugh? A serotonin factory. And he was polite. So, so polite. Like “saves turtles in his spare time” polite. The worst kind.

He was the kind of man who said thank you to baristas, remembered people’s birthdays, and once helped a stray cat find its way out of a parking garage. She knew because he made her call animal control to make sure it got home safe.

It didn’t happen all at once.

It started with coffee. Not just any coffee - almond milk, cinnamon, no sugar, just the way she liked it. She never told him that. He just… figured it out. She drank it and nearly cried in the middle of a production meeting. That was Day 27.

Then came Day 49: the rainstorm. The Umbrella. The Sandwich Shop. He’d held the umbrella like a damn hero and asked about her favorite movie, and somehow, thirty minutes later, they were laughing about childhood trauma and sobbing about The Iron Giant. He gave her his jacket when she got cold. It smelled like cedar and destruction.

Day 61: Her mom’s diagnosis. She hadn’t said a word - just walked in, quiet, pale. He took one look and said, “You don’t have to be here today.”

She nodded. Left. Found a gift box waiting at home that night with dark chocolate, a cozy blanket, and a note in his handwriting: Take care of yourself. I’ve got this.

That note lived in her wallet now like a relic from a sacred religion. She once panicked when she thought she lost it and cried in a CVS parking lot.

So yes. She fell.

Not in a cute, flirty way. In a full-speed, forehead-first kind of way. Like a tragic Victorian heroine but with Wi-Fi and bad skin.

And of course he had a girlfriend. Because the universe loves irony.

Madeline. Tall, blonde, legs for days, possibly made in a lab by Vogue scientists. She smelled like lavender and expensive regret. She drank green juice. For fun.

They looked perfect together. Red carpet chemistry. Matching cheekbones. Enough aesthetic synergy to crash Pinterest.

But Y/n? Y/n saw the behind-the-scenes footage.

Madeline didn’t laugh at his jokes - especially not the weird dorky ones about raccoons and elevators. She tuned out when he talked about Romania. She once asked him if Bucky was a DC character.

Y/n still hadn’t recovered from that.

Y/n on the other hand. She laughed at his dumb puns. She knew how he liked his eggs. She knew which cologne he wore based on whether it was a press day or a chill day. She knew when he needed space. When he needed silence. When he needed caffeine with a side of sarcastic commentary.

She knew him.

Which made loving him approximately 99% more painful.

She was his assistant. His overly caffeinated sidekick. His professional keeper-of-schedules and wrangler of scarves.

Not the girl he kissed in trailers.

So, of course, this morning was a disaster.

She walked in and BAM - trailer smooch. Sebastian and Madeline, playing tonsil hockey like a cologne ad.

“Oh! Sorry! Should’ve knocked!” she squeaked, hoping the floor would open up and swallow her into a Target clearance bin.

“Y/n, wait. It’s okay,” Sebastian said, lips still damp with betrayal.

“But Seb, we were busy,” Madeline purred like a Bond villain.

Y/n mentally wrote a strongly worded resignation letter with crayons and tears.

“It’s nine. I need to work,” he said gently.

“You owe me dinner at The Plaza,” Madeline said, flipping her hair like it owed her money.

“I will. Tonight.”

“I’m gonna miss you,” she said dramatically, like he was off to war and not just filming an indie movie.

Y/n turned her insides into drywall.

Madeline sauntered off like a Victoria’s Secret model who just paid off her taxes.

Sebastian turned to her. “I’m sorry about that.”

She smiled like a liar. “It’s fine!”

Her heart was a sad little raisin inside a microwave.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Protein bar.” AKA the breakfast of emotionally repressed women with Pinterest boards titled Do Not Fall In Love With Him, You Fool.

He tsked and pulled out his phone.

“You don’t have time - ”

“Ordering now.” Tap. Tap. Swipe. “Done.”

He stepped close. Too close. Tragedy-level close.

“I’ll be mad if you don’t eat,” he said like he wasn’t setting fire to her nervous system.

She blushed. Because of course she did. Her dignity had left the building fifteen minutes ago.

“Okay,” she said. Or whimpered. Hard to tell.

“What scene am I doing today?”

She handed him the schedule without looking up, because if she made eye contact for more than three seconds she might ask him to marry her or throw herself into traffic. Possibly both.

By the end of the day, she made a vow.

She would fall out of love with Sebastian.

Right after she stopped replaying every nice thing he ever did like it was a reel of deleted Pride and Prejudice scenes.

But let’s be honest - it was just wishful thinking.

And maybe hormone-induced delusion. But mostly just a girl with a clipboard and a heart full of bad timing.

—

One month.

It had been one whole month since the movie wrapped and Sebastian left for a romantic getaway with his supernaturally flawless girlfriend. While he was hiking scenic cliffsides and sipping overpriced rosé on yachts that probably had names like Serendipity or Ego, Y/n had been binge-eating cereal in bed, crying into oversized sweaters, and Googling "how to remove romantic feelings using essential oils" and "remote monasteries accepting brokenhearted applications."

They hadn’t seen each other since. Not a single text. Not a single call. Just silence and the occasional soul-crushing photo of Sebastian and Madeline looking like the cover of a luxury travel magazine curated by Instagram itself.

So naturally, fate decided they should reunite at a Port Magazine photoshoot. In an echoey studio filled with unnaturally attractive people, blinding lights, and stylists who probably had more followers than she had serotonin.

She wasn’t ready.

She would never be ready.

And yet, there she was - standing by the wardrobe rack, hyperventilating into her iced matcha as Sebastian Stan walked into the studio like he owned every molecule of air in it.

He was tanner. His hair was a little longer, in that accidental vacation way that made him look even more like a man who would destroy you and then say sorry with a handwritten note and flowers. His beard had that effortless “I climbed a mountain and discovered my emotional depth” kind of vibe.

He looked absolutely, infuriatingly, unfair.

She blinked too many times. Her body betrayed her immediately.

“Hey,” he said casually, voice smooth as butter and far too familiar. “Long time no see.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Just a faint, tragic wheeze.

His smile grew the way it did when he knew exactly what he was doing. “You look good.”

She blinked. Again. A full reboot was clearly needed.

Then he said it - soft, offhanded, like a laced thread in the air between them.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, soft, casual, like it didn’t split her open.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Her mouth opened. Then closed. Her brain queued words, but none made it past the velvet rope of her lips.

He waited. A beat. Two. Then he nodded slowly, like he heard her silence better than any yes.

—

THE PHOTOSHOOT THAT DESTROYED HER

LOOK ONE: Denim jacket, white shirt

The Boyfriend Aesthetic™. And not just any boyfriend - the fictional kind. The type who cooks barefoot in the morning, reads poetry without being annoying about it, and kisses your forehead for no reason.

He leaned against the wall casually, denim hugging his shoulders like it had been tailored by Cupid himself. The sleeves were pushed up slowly - purposefully - as if this man had never once in his life rushed a single seductive movement.

She stared. She did. She had eyes and they worked.

He caught her gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Staring already?”

“I’m just... monitoring fabric fit,” she muttered.

“Oh, are you in wardrobe now too?”

“I’m multitasking.”

He grinned and tilted his head toward her during a lighting check. “Still didn’t answer me, you know.”

“About what?” she said too quickly.

He smiled. “You remember.”

She focused on her clipboard like it held the secrets of the universe.

—

LOOK TWO: Maroon leather tank top

This outfit was a personal attack. That was the only explanation.

He stepped out in the leather tank, chest broad, biceps glowing under the studio lights like God had turned the saturation up just to hurt her.

“Does this work?” he asked, flexing lightly as he adjusted the strap.

No thoughts. Only alarm bells.

“Functional,” she said vaguely, voice strained.

“Functional?” he repeated, amused.

“You know. Fashion-forward. Performance-enhancing. Aerodynamic.”

“Right,” he said, stepping closer, his expression unreadable but not uncurious. “So it’s a yes.”

She stepped back, only to bump into a stack of chairs.

His hand darted out to steady her. His fingers brushed her arm, then lingered for just a breath too long before letting go.

“Careful,” he said, smiling faintly. “You look a little off-balance.”

You are my imbalance, she wanted to scream.

—

LOOK THREE: Shirtless, velvet suit jacket, tie

This was unfair. Immoral. A violation of several HR clauses she was fairly certain she had drafted herself.

He walked over shirtless, just a perfectly fitted black velvet suit jacket and a silk tie hanging loose around his neck.

He handed her the tie, eyes on her face. “Can you?”

Words abandoned her. Her fingers reached for the silk like she was about to defuse a bomb.

He didn’t step back. He stepped closer. And stood still. Quiet. Waiting.

She started tying the knot, but every movement brought her closer to his skin, his warmth. Her fingers brushed his chest. Once. Twice. Accidentally. He didn’t flinch. In fact, he watched her like she was saying more with every tremble.

“I missed our coffee runs,” he murmured, voice so low it rumbled. “Even the part where you judge my muffin choices.”

She glanced up, startled. “Your muffin choices are... criminal.”

He smiled, but it was softer now. “Still. Missed them.”

She pulled the knot a little too tight. “There. Done.”

He didn’t move. “Y/n.”

She didn’t look up.

“I dreamed about you.”

She froze.

“I think it’s the only reason I got any sleep at all.”

She let go of the tie and walked away before the tears could form. Or the truth could escape.

—

LOOK FOUR: Black leather robe

He looked like a villain who would steal your inheritance and your heart. Barefoot. Robe flowing like he’d just exited a wind machine and a luxury sex cult.

She considered just passing out to save time.

He raised an eyebrow. “Too much?”

“Yes. And also not enough,” she muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing! You look... editorial.”

He grinned. “So you have missed me.”

She walked into a light stand.

—

LOOK FIVE: Same black leather robe. Chest bare. Her task: write ‘PORT’ on him.

Who gave her this job? Who hated her that much?

He sat on a stool. Calm. Chest bare. Looking like he was ready to launch a thousand regrettable decisions.

“Here,” the makeup artist said cheerfully. “You do the lettering. He asked for you.”

HE ASKED FOR HER.

She dipped the brush in body paint. Her hand hovered over his chest.

“Go on,” he said, voice low. “You’ve touched me before.”

“I did not touch you.”

“You tied a tie around my bare neck while staring directly at my mouth. I call that foreplay.”

She dropped the brush. He chuckled. Picked it up. Handed it back.

“You okay?” he asked softly, eyes warm.

She blinked at the brush in her hand like it was a live grenade.

“Yep. Fine. Just mentally preparing to commit... chest graffiti.”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “I believe in you.”

That made it worse.

Why was he like this? Why did he have to be so gentle? So sincere? Why did he have to look at her like he wanted to memorize her? Why did he have to have pecs?

“Let’s do this,” she said, mostly to herself.

She stepped toward him and he let the robe fall a little wider, fully baring his smooth chest.

Her brain promptly exited the building.

She reached forward, pressing the tip of the brush just under his left collarbone, and prayed not to visibly shake.

He looked down at her hand, then back up at her, unblinking.

She began.

---

The P

She made the vertical line first - slow, steady. His skin was so warm it should’ve been illegal. She could feel the heat radiating through the brush. She added the curve of the P, curling it neatly, breathing like a woman in labor.

Sebastian exhaled.

“You’re very... focused,” he murmured.

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. “Trying not to pass out.”

“That would be a shame,” he said. “I’d have to catch you. Shirtless. On camera.”

She made a small, dying noise and moved on.

---

The O

The O was worse.

It went over the center of his chest - right above the sternum - and the second she placed the brush down, her knuckles brushed his skin. His very soft, very smooth, very illegal skin.

She hesitated.

Drew the top arc. Rounded it slowly, like she was tracing his heartbeat.

He watched her the whole time. Not smirking. Not teasing. Just watching.

She felt it. The weight of his attention. Like a hand on her neck.

Halfway through the circle, her hand trembled.

He leaned in slightly. Voice low. “You’re doing great.”

“Don’t say that,” she hissed. “It makes it worse.”

“Worse?”

“More... everything.”

He smiled. “I’m not sorry.”

---

The R

The R was dramatic.

It started off fine - straight line down, good spacing. Then came the curve, and the loop, and... it went rogue.

The R had flair. The R had feelings. The R said, I want you but I can’t have you and I’m emotionally compromised by your clavicle.

Sebastian tilted his head, glanced down, and said, “That R is really... expressive.”

“Yeah, it’s crying for help.”

He chuckled. “What would that look like if you were calm?”

“Worse.”

“God, I hope so.”

She almost dropped the brush.

---

The T

The T was the final frontier.

It went on his right side, just above the robe belt. Which meant she had to lean in. Had to press her palm lightly against his stomach for balance. Had to breathe in the scent of him - clean skin, something warm and woodsy and absolutely not helpful.

She drew the vertical line slowly, deliberately.

Her fingertips brushed muscle.

He tensed. Just slightly.

“Y/n.”

The way he said her name - it wasn’t teasing. It was breathless. Careful.

She looked up.

Their faces were so close now she could count his eyelashes. His expression had shifted. No smile. Just heat.

He looked like he was waiting for something. Like he was done pretending.

And when she finished the T and stepped back, still gripping the brush like it had personally wronged her, he said - 

“I broke up with her.”

The brush dropped again.

“Okay, everyone! Final shot coming up!” the photographer shouted.

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

—

Y/n was hiding in Sebastian’s trailer.

Not intentionally. Okay, maybe semi-intentionally. She had been sent to tidy up his wardrobe and prep some final notes for his post-shoot briefing, but the truth was, she needed a safe space with a lockable door and no visible abs in sight.

Because ten minutes ago, he told her he broke up with Madeline. In the middle of a photoshoot. With PORT written across his bare chest.

And then he was whisked away like a hot, shirtless hurricane of emotional damage.

Now she was trying very hard not to spiral while folding a T-shirt that probably cost more than her rent and still smelled like his cologne.

She couldn’t stop hearing it - I broke up with her. Just floating around her brain like a particularly smug balloon.

Did he mean it? Was it real? Did he mean because of her? Was it a strategic breakup? Was this a soft-launch into her own mental demise?

Nope. Nope, nope. She was not going to think about it. She was going to focus on - 

“Oh hey.”

She spun around so fast she dropped the T-shirt like it was made of lava.

Sebastian stood in the doorway. Hair slightly tousled. Robe gone. Just a fitted black T-shirt that somehow made him look like a brooding European prince on his day off.

He closed the door behind him. Casually. Which immediately made her suspicious.

“I was just, uh, organizing,” she said, pointing at the shirt now lying lifeless on the couch.

“Looked intense.”

“It was a very emotional shirt.”

He smiled. Walked a few steps closer.

Her heart tried to exit through her spine.

“So,” he said slowly. “About earlier.”

Her brain short-circuited. “The... um... paint? The PORT thing? I know the lettering was a little crooked - ”

“No,” he said, eyes holding hers. “About what I said. That I broke up with Madeline.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “You said it very... dramatically. Mid-body-paint.”

“Timing’s never been my strong suit,” he admitted. “But the breakup happened weeks ago. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

She blinked. “You... didn’t tell me because...?”

“Because I knew once I said it, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t want more.”

She stared. “More... like?”

“You. Always you.”

She stopped breathing. “Sorry, did you hit your head during the robe change?”

He laughed softly, eyes warm. “I’m serious. Y/n... I fell in love with you. Completely. And embarrassingly fast.”

She looked at him like he had announced he was actually a vampire prince.

“You don’t... you can’t just say things like that.”

“I can. And I will.”

He sat beside her on the couch, close enough to make her heart sprint like it was running a 5K.

“Y/n.. I love how you organize chaos like it’s your superpower. I love how you mutter threats at printers under your breath. I love that you once fake-married a croissant in front of the interns because ‘true love deserves witnesses.’”

She covered her face. “It was a very good croissant.”

“I love it,” he said. “I love the way you say my name when you’re annoyed. I love that you always order the weirdest tea on the menu and make me try it. I love that you remember every single person’s coffee order on set but forget to eat your own lunch.”

She blinked rapidly. “You... notice that?”

“I notice everything about you. I notice you the second you walk into a room. And when you're not there, the whole place feels... off. Like it’s missing its center.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Sebastian...”

“If you don’t feel the same, I’ll shut up. I swear. But I needed you to know. Because I think I’ve been falling in love with you since that day we shared an umbrella and you told me The Iron Giant emotionally destroyed you.”

“It did, okay? That movie’s traumatizing.”

He reached for her hand, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

“I want to take you out,” he said, voice low. “Not as your boss. Not for PR. Just me. And you. Somewhere with terrible lighting and good wine, where I can spend an entire evening making you laugh until you threaten to throw a breadstick at me.”

Her eyes were wide. Wet. Hopeful. “That sounds... nice.”

“Yeah?” he grinned. “That’s a yes?”

She nodded. “That’s a definite maybe. With potential for escalation.”

He chuckled, leaned in slowly, carefully.

When their lips met, it was warm and breathless and filled with a year of missed chances. It was a confession and a beginning and a thousand rewrites of every moment she’d pretended not to feel anything at all.

When he finally pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed to hers.

“Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna have to let you go.”

Her heart did a weird cartwheel. “What?”

“As my assistant.” He paused. “So I can hire you as something more important. Like... my girlfriend.”

She groaned. “That was aggressively cheesy.”

“I panicked.”

“You’re lucky I have a thing for emotionally stunted, absurdly hot dorks.”

He beamed. “That’s what I was counting on.”

She laughed, the sound loud and real.

And for the first time in a long time, she let herself believe this could be the beginning of something worth breaking all the rules for.

Rule one: Don’t get attracted to your boss.

Oops.

Rule two: Don’t get too close.

Oops again.

Rule three: Definitely don’t fall in love with your boss.

She looked at Sebastian, who was still holding her hand like it was made of magic.

Oops, forever.

[shiningjustforreid]

go easy (on me baby)

bau!fem!reader faces immense grief and the aftermath. Spencer attempts to be supportive. sometimes it backfires.

a/n: grief is cruel. and sometimes, even the most caring people don’t know what to say or do.

word count: 4k

warnings/tags: 18+ for content, reader goes through it, funeral, season 11ish boyfriend!Spencer, mental health crises, Spencer is trying his best, grief, reader is fem but only physical descriptions are long hair(?), no use of y/n, church is mentioned for the funeral, mild religious themes

Crisp July wind, warm and suffocating, leeches into the bullpen, somehow, through the windows. Spencer’s flipping through files at his desk, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose; you’d both been in a rush this morning - your hair in a barely holding on pony tail and his lack of contacts proves that. Across the room, he hardly glances your direction as your phone buzzes and a frown paints your face when you answer. The gentle hum of other people and their computers drown out whatever conversation you have with whoever, but he does look up when you’re suddenly at his side.

All the life and color has been washed away from your face, smoothing your hands over your slacks, eyes unseeing, as you look down at the dingy carpet.

“That was my mom.”

You breathe out, voice catching, creaking. It doesn’t go unnoticed, certainly not by your behaviorally tuned boyfriend. He stands, his hands taking your forearms, sliding down until he can hold both your hands. HR and ‘PDA’ and fraternization be damned; you look like you’re about to tip over, and he’s not going to let that happen.

Strangely, though, you don’t look close to tears, as empty as your tone is. Thumbs soothe over your knuckles, as he watches your face, voice low enough that it gets lost in the nine fifteen hustle and bustle.

“What’d your mom say, Angel?”

Faintly, you realize he’s talking to you like he would a victim, or a victim’s family. You’re too stunned to be bothered by it.

“My grandma. She’s gone. Stroke.”

Several thoughts fly through Spencer’s brain. Your grandma, who practically raised you, while your parents were working. Who calls you at least once a week to check in, and sends small trinkets she thinks you’ll like in the mail. Gone. With absolutely no warning.

Quickly, he goes through what he knows about grief. What does he know about grief? Statistics, and informational articles about the five stages (or more) fly through his brain, but he comes up empty with what he should say. So instead, a simple phrase falls out.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.”

Wrong response. Was it? He’s starting to freak out internally when all you do is raise your shoulders up, and down, a lethargic movement, as your eyes stay low.

“I suppose I should tell Hotch. My mom will want help. Planning the viewing. The funeral.”

Numbly, you turn, before he squeezes your hands tight, to keep you in place.

“Hey. Woah. Um, maybe you should just take a second and—“

“Spence. It’s fine. I’m fine. This— I’m just going to be very busy for a few days.”

You’ve got your ‘please-just-let-me-avoid-thinking-about-this’ face on, but to be honest, he’s considering having you go sit right back down and telling Hotch himself. Frozen to the spot, he watches you head up the stairs, how your fingers brush along the handrail.

As you initially described it, the next few days are a blur. Hotch gives you time off, and you spend it at your mother’s or the funeral home or your grandma’s house. The first night you come home after spending the day with family, Spencer’s already on the couch, book in lap, when you open the front door. He’s over at your side in a flash, too-quick hands shutting the door behind you and taking your freezing ones in his.

“Hey. You, uh, okay?”

You shrug, a half-hearted movement as your hands sit limply in his.

“I guess. I— maybe it hasn’t hit yet. I haven’t cried yet. My mom was crying, and my cousins, but I couldn’t. Think something might be wrong with me?”

Spencer’s face falls, and he’s quick to busy himself by smoothing through your hair, over the high plane of your cheek bone with his thumb; worrying with his hands so he maybe won’t say the wrong thing.

“Lovely, no. Nothing’s wrong. Grief, it, uh, comes in all types of patterns and forms, and maybe you’re still in denial?”

Still locked away somewhere in your mind, you shrug again, rubbing your hands over your arms. You might as well be underneath layers of ice, underwater, watching everyone up on the shore.

“That’s the first stage right? Makes sense. It’s cold in here, don’t you think?”

Frowning, he watches you head over the thermostat, and then to the kitchen.

Like nothing’s amiss. Like you didn’t just lose someone irreplaceable.

And yet—clearly, something’s very, very wrong.

“Angel…”

You don’t look up as you get out a pot, pan, a colander. Must be making pasta.

“Mm?”

“You can just go relax, okay, I’ll— let me get dinner tonight.”

Now it’s your turn to frown. He swallows, watching your face stay perfectly devoid of any real emotion, just carefully placed confusion as you turn his direction.

“Spence, why wouldn’t I make dinner? I usually do.”

“But I want to. Can you just let me? Please?”

He watches the indecision flicker through your eyes at his plea, and then you nod, slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll go— sit. For a bit. I’m really hungry anyways. Long day.”

Talking in cliches never good, especially when it’s you. Spencer watches you head to the couch, your eyes landing on a shelf — and he winces as you look dully at a frame.

He knows which picture rests behind the glass.

Staring for a moment, your muscles tense, and then you whisper, hoarse, like you’re talking to yourself more than him.

“It’s funny. How time works. Maybe ‘funny’ is the wrong word, but— how someone can be alive in a picture and you don’t think about it until they’re gone, it’s jarring. Wrong. That the picture is all you have.”

To your credit, you don’t choke, there’s no lump in your throat. But you sound so distant, and it absolutely crushes him.

“Baby, you—“

You head down the hall, before he can finish, and the soft click of the bedroom door is all he hears. Sighing, he turns back to dinner, anxiety bubbling in his chest. He knows you need a moment, to gather yourself back into something vaguely presentable, even for him.

How can he fix this? Can he? He can’t just apply his knowledge to his girlfriend like she’s a part of a case.

But he doesn’t know. And that terrifies him the most, that there’s something he can’t learn, can’t prepare for, because grief is different for everyone and God knows it’s going to be unique for you.

When the morning of the funeral dawns, you’re up before he is, taming your hair in the bathroom, already dressed — black skirt and a rather nice matching blouse that he’s never seen before. He comes up behind you, as you run the straightener down your hair, and you meet his eyes in the mirror. What he sees in your eyes is a whole lot of nothing. Emptiness. It’s deeply concerning.

“Hey. Morning, lovely.”

His lips find the side of your face, feather light, and then the column of your throat, but your face stays blank. Nodding your acknowledgment of his presence, your voice comes out dangerously close to emotionless. As if you’re discussing the schedule for a normal day.

“We need to leave by eleven. The funeral’s at 2, but the roads might be busy, there’s a lunch for us before, and a private last chance to—“

You stop. Compose yourself into something steel and put together, and continue.

“To see. Her. Before they close the-her- it. The casket.”

Spencer lets his hand come to rest against your hip, gentle, grounding.

“And then, there’s the funeral, and the burial, and—“

The recitation of the agenda halts as you finish your hair and set the straighter down with a clack against the laminate top. Hands falling against your un-made up face, as though you can hide yourself from the inevitable of today. As though you’re young again, believing that if something is not seen, it simply doesn’t exist.

And God, he wishes it could be done that way.

“Spencer, I don’t want to do this. I can’t, do this.”

A beat. He sighs, his other hand reaching to click the power button and unplug your tool.

“Baby, you have to.”

Perhaps, softer reassurances could have been spoken, but his gentle ones, firm in their candor, have you nodding, measured as you reach for your makeup bag. He can almost hear you repeating his reminder to yourself in your mind - an affirmation, that some things in this world are agonizing beyond human comprehension, because of how they remind us of our mortality. How small we are under the stars, but that we must use their light to keep going anyways.

Morning rushes into noon, and Spencer is dually impressed and unnerved as you stay polite but quiet through tearful family interactions and casserole. Right before the service, he pulls you to the side, some small room in the church, clicking the wood paneled door closed behind the two of you.

When he runs his hands over your arms, he winces at the chill he feels through your sleeves. Your eyes stay low, on the mulberry colored thinning carpet, avoiding his gaze, because you know — meeting his eyes and seeing the pain there will break you more than anything else.

“Angel girl. Hey. Listen. If you don’t feel these emotions, this grief, now, I’m afraid you’re going to regret it.”

Shaking your head, you look off to the side, voice hoarse.

“I can’t. I can’t fall apart in front of all these people, my mom, Spencer. I have to push it down, squash it so far into my heart that I can pretend it’s not even really happening to me.”

But it is happening to you.

Neither of you say it, but both of you feel it. Your mother weeps during the service, during the burial, until she’s all cried out and sort of just stands there and trembles. You? Stone. Several times, the urge to let out some sort of bitter little whimper crawls up your throat, but you shove it down.

You’re a gargoyle, watching the people you love and grew up with weep over the casket as it’s lowered into the dirt, your face impassive. Spencer’s fingers find yours when someone hands you a rose to toss in the grave, and on wobbling legs you move, tugging him with you, the breath in your lungs kept there only by the physical contact.

It’s not until you’re both back in the apartment, and you stand there, purse in when hand, dangling to the carpet, in the entryway, until Spencer turns to you, voice so soft you barely hear it.

“Baby? I can help with your shoes if you want, or—“

“I don’t need help with my fucking shoes.”

Immediately, the guilt replaces the anger, but not by much. Swallowing hard, you set your bag down on the counter with a little more force than necessary, and sigh, a quick, short burst of air.

“God, Spence, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

Pressing your fingers against your eyes, you vaguely realize that you’ll smudge your makeup. As if that matters. He’s silent, as you stand there, his hands darting over his slacks a few times, uneasy, before they’re shoved in his pockets.

“You didn’t mean it. I know. It’s okay.”

Is it? Does grief give you the right to respond in any way that rolls off your tongue? Looking away, out the living room window, you shake your head.

“No. It’s not okay. I’m sorry. None of this is okay. None of it. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I just can’t believe we just put her in the dirt like that in her dress; she doesn’t have her rose sweater, she’s going to get cold—“

During your ramble, your voice has gotten high, crackly, almost unintelligible, as you turn back to meet his eyes. The expression on his face borders on pity.

“Hey, come here. Let’s just sit for a bit, I can make tea.”

You can’t bear it.

“Don’t look at me like that!”

Spencer sighs, steps closer, lets his hand rest tentatively on your waist. Tensing, you turn, barely, out of his touch.

“Spencer, she can’t be gone, she— she didn’t even look like herself! Didn’t you see it? In the casket? That wasn’t her, they made her all up to look like her but it wasn’t, I swear to God, it wasn’t. How could my mom not tell? It couldn’t be, my grandma can’t be dead, she can’t, Spencer— she is.”

There’s the tears.

He folds you into his chest, feels your tears against his shirt for a moment, arms around your waist. In a desperate attempt to ground yourself, yours wind around his neck, lifting your head to rest on his shoulder so you can speak.

“I want it all to be some lie. That I’ll wake up tomorrow and call her again and she’ll tell me about the new cookies she baked for her neighbor and I would call every day, I would.”

What can he say? He’s never been well-versed in words when they matter, so he lets you get it out. His thumb drifts up and down the fabric covering your ribs as you hiccup another sob.

“It almost makes me sick. I can’t think about the fact that I didn’t return her calls, or that they all got together last Thanksgiving and we didn’t go, I can’t go back to see her, I can’t go back and fix it, I can’t—“

Breathless nearly, he shushes, gentle, one calloused hand coming to rest on your scalp, smoothing down the hair there.

“Breathe, angel. You will make yourself sick if you don’t stop hyperventilating. Just— let me help. Tonight. Okay?”

Somehow, the minutes tick by, and he’s managed to get you showered, in pajamas you love with tea in your hand, and he’s combing through your hair. Sitting, half nothing, half human, in front of him, you let him slide the plastic teeth through your damp locks.

“I was horrid today. You were nothing but supportive and helpful and I was terrible. I’m sorry.”

“You’re grieving. I can take it, okay? The anger. The pain, it’s all a part of this, and I want to be able to handle it with you. That’s— sort of my job, isn’t it? To help you. When you need it.”

Sighing, you turn to face him. He takes your hand, threading your fingers together and letting his thumb ghost over the side of your hand.

“I mean it, sweet girl. Grief is ugly. Horrid, as you say. I definitely can’t expect you to just act as though you’re fine when you’re not.”

“But you also don’t want it to consume me.”

You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek, and he grins softly through the light pink that stains his face. Somewhere inside your heart, something glows— still, your affection overwhelms him, just a little.

“And I’ll be damned if I let it.”

“Spencer.”

There’s a warning in your voice, gentle, sad.

“There are some things you just can’t control. No amount of knowledge of statistics or information can fix my heart. This just hurts.”

He blinks. Something flickers in his eyes — upset, raw fear, then, that he won’t be able to drag you out of the pit that you’re slowly sinking into.

“Okay, but I can still apply what I know. How to alleviate some stress, please, just let me.”

Your heart twists. The way his shoulders won’t relax, how tense he is as he tries to hold your eyes despite how you try to avoid avoid avoid.

“We’ll see.” You concede, before you let yourself be tugged under the quilt of your bed and into Spencer’s grasp and the warmth that seems to seep from him. Mentally, you promise to try to let him help. However he can.

God, you try, you do. At first, it’s easy, faking cohesiveness, and you begin to wonder if you’ll really need external assistance at all. Too much blush and caffeine. A tight grin when needed. Barely collected and rationed laughs that the entire team pretends aren’t flimsy like ash.

Until you take the first sick day. Spencer isn’t thrilled about leaving you home alone, but you tell him that you’re just sort of blech, and a day is all you need to recover, and tidy up around the apartment.

What you don’t mention to him is how you spend the entire day in bed. Nothing gets cleaned. The lights stay off all day, curtains drawn tight, your home a dim shadow of what it normally is. Normally? It’s a sanctuary. It’s starting to feel more like a crypt. Coffee cups pile up on your nightstand, on the end table, and the more you stay home, the harder it is to leave. At all.

Because there isn’t just one sick day. There’s another, a week later, after a night spent in tears. And another two days later, when you feel so nauseous and tense at dawn that you feign a stomach bug. Despite the guilt the first few times, each time, it becomes easier to text Garcia that you won’t be in, with excuses that begin to sound poorly crafted even to you. And you want to believe them more than anyone.

You stop looking in the mirror, because all you see is her, and your mom’s soft reminders from childhood turned haunting whispers of ‘you look so much like her.’

In some back corner of your mind, you begin to wonder how long you can wallow before the water fills your lungs and you drown off shore, a corpse waterlogged with muddy memories. The sea salt in your wounds is when you see a picture, hear a song she loved, or smell her perfume in public, and your lashes catch droplets you try to hide from Spencer. Before you know it, you stay home from a case. One in Florida, that you probably would’ve been helpful on.

You don’t care. Every time you close your eyes now, you see her body, fragile and made up to look less gray than she really was, cushioned by pale pink satin. Hotch calls early, to say there’s a case, and you refuse to go, numbly, dully.

Spencer is shocked; no matter the amount of recent absences you’ve had at work, he still can’t believe the development of your depression.

“Baby, you love cases. Please, come along. You can’t just keep taking sick days and not getting out of bed and—“

“Watch me. I’ll do whatever the hell I like.”

The words are empty, despite their vitriol quality, and he frowns. You’re sat on the edge of the bed, hugging your knees to your chest, cheek laid upon them.

“Easy. I didn’t say you couldn’t stay home, but you already took Monday off, and last Thursday, and—“

“Damn it, Spence, I know! I know. I just can’t. Okay? I can’t. I don’t want to. Let it fucking go.”

Now his face goes dangerously blank. You two rarely fight, but your tone is starting to border on hostile. Guilt creeps up your throat.

“Sorry. God, you didn’t deserve that.”

He glides his hands over his suit jacket, voice clipped as he looks down at his shoes.

“I’m not able to support you if you don’t want it. I’ll see you when we get back, then, I guess.”

Panic claws at your chest, sinks its teeth in and has you flying from your spot, voice shrill.

“Spencer, hey, stop, I’m sorry, please, I know—“

He turns, and the anguish in his eyes is intense.

“Baby, I don’t know. Okay? It is excruciating to watch you collapse in on yourself. I want to apply some study I’ve read or even just cheer you up and I’m beginning to think you don’t even want to be helped.”

Taking in a uneasy breath, you nod, color drained away from your face. Spencer’s fingers itch to comfort you. He doesn’t. There’s so much defeat in his eyes, unbound desperation to fix and heal.

“If I stop being sad, if I just keep going on with cases and life, it’s like she’s not even gone. It’s like she didn’t even die, Spencer! And she did! She’s gone, I can’t do anything to bring her back, please, just let me—“

The tears fall now, clumping on your lashes and dribbling down your cheeks, and the pit in Spencer’s chest gets bigger. Sometimes it feels like all time is anymore is minutes spent weeping or not. He steps forward to bring you against his suit coat, trembling hands smoothing over the linen of your pajama top as you heave silent sobs.

“I’m here. You’re not going to make me leave. Because the one thing I do know, Angel? Deep down, you want life to go back to normal. And it will. The grief won’t get smaller, but you’ll grow around it. Okay? I love you. So much.”

Tender hands trace up and down your spine, one eventually coming to tangle in your hair.

“Tell you what. We take this case, and then come home, and take some time off. Together. I’ll help you clean, and maybe—“

Is he pressing too much?

“Maybe we could go see her. It’s been a few months.”

Immediately, your brain lights up with a oh no please don’t I can’t-

“Sure. Yeah. When we get back.”

Florida is what it is — hot and humid and you manage to stay in the field office the entire time. Vaguely, you wonder if Spencer spoke to Hotch. Eventually, you decide it was probably for the best.

True to his word, the apartment is cleaned when you both return home, and two days plus the weekend is granted to the both of you. During the drive there, your heart twists and you’re pretty sure no interrogation has ever made your stomach turn like it does when Spencer slides the car into park, and his hand squeezes yours to help you out of the vehicle and onto sun starched grass.

A quick glance your way tells him you’re apprehensive to the extreme, and he stops halfway there, turning to face you.

“We uh, don’t have to do this. If you don’t think you’re ready.”

You shake your head, one quick movement.

“No. I need to do this.”

He looks relieved, his small smile growing after you try to smile too.

“A lot of people say that it can provide a lot of closure, and be cathartic. It might also… not be easy. Might be jarring, but really, the potential benefits of this outweigh the possibility that—“

You stop, pulling him to a halt with you. Fresh stone, neatly carved letters, her name, followed by years, followed by some lovely sentiment you can’t read because your eyes are clouded.

“They did a good job. With it.”

He says softly, and suddenly, the adrenaline kicks in, and you’re shaking so hard you might just collapse right there.

“We need to go. I’ll come back another, we’ll come back, but right now I need to go.”

Typically, he’d suggest that studies show facing fears can help with said fears, but one look at your terrified, gutted expression and he’s leading you back to his car, hands on shoulders, voice in your ear.

“You’re okay. Breathe baby. In, two three four, out, two, three, four. I’m not going anywhere.”

Once back at the car, you sink down, your back against the cold metal of the car, to land on the ground underneath. He follows suit, and your glossy eyes find the sky, a crisp, autumn cerulean that you just stare at.

“Think she’s watching? Like people say?”

He stares too, and takes your hand. He hears the guilt, the loss in your tone, and knows you’re afraid she wouldn’t be proud.

“That’s one thing I’m not sure about. Religion is, I think, at its core, a response to what people see in the world. A solution to the agony and problems we face down here. I can’t comment on whether or not she’s watching, but if she was, she’d still love you. Still be proud. Just like me.”

“Really? Proud? Of me? When I’ve spiraled into a caffeine and depressive lump that barely gets to work, let alone gets anything productive done?”

“Always. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that, well, I love you. Adore you, really, and you’re still in there, even if it feels like it’s all too foggy to see. I still see you.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, and then pulls back, flushed, and looks away.

“Sorry, that was probably cheesy. But I do. Love you. A lot, and it’s okay if you can’t do this yet, and I—“

You silence him gently with your own mouth, a lingering kiss before you stand.

“We should go. C’mon. Thanks for driving me all the way here. Even if I couldn’t do what I wanted to yet.”

“Good clarifier, ‘yet.’ You will. Eventually. And I’ll be here for each attempt. And, when you finally talk to her.”

In that, in him, you have no doubt.

[c4tluver02]

hi!!! i love everything abt ur page and ur writing is just *chefs kiss* - i was wondering, could u possibly write a steve x reader fic based on ‘delete ya’ by djo 🧐

okay that’s it.. thank u!!! bye :3

wc: 2.6k

cw: mention of dying (literally one line barely there), sad Steve :(, break ups, fighting, hurt/comfort

a/n: i hope you enjoy!! this song is so sad to me so i kinda kept w that theme lol!!. thank u so much for the kind words!!!!!!!!!! <333

And now I'm back on your couch, frozen peas to my head, driving up to your folks, cramming into your bed, you picked me up every time, drove me back to our home, it doesn't leave you alone.

When Steve falls asleep his mind loves to play back moments of when you two were at your prime. The ‘it’ couple that couldn't, wouldn't, let up. The dream wasn't even a dream really, just a replay of the times you've shared. One that meant so much to Steve. 

He had called you to pick him up after everything that happened at StarCourt. His family wasn't even a first thought at that moment, it was you. It was always you, when he woke up, when he went to bed, when he was high off his mind with Robin during the movie. His mind never let him wander too far. When you brought him to your place you immediately brought him to your family couch. Speaking of them, they weren't anywhere to be seen. Steve wishes he could have been here with you instead. 

“I’m gonna get you a bag of peas. Stay here okay?” You say it rushed like a second more he would bleed out and die. And really you weren't being too dramatic Steve was badly injured. But the guilt he felt for making you worry felt even worse than any pain. 

“I’m okay, really, I just have a headache.” He says as you gently press the freezing bag to his head. He was lucky to have you by his side at that moment. Being alone would have shattered him completely, instead he fell asleep with you and dreamt of something good. Unlike he is now. 

“I’m so sorry I wasn't there for you Steve.” Your eyes are glassy as you hug him and run your hand through his hair. Now you’re crying over him, but he doesn't deserve to be cried over. He rubs your back trying to soothe you even though he's the one who’s beat up.

“You’re here right now aren't you? I mean without you I'd have nowhere else to go.” He thought this would make you feel better but really it just confirmed that you should have been there. 

– 

Oh, God, I wish I could delete ya 'cause nothing can compete with ya I replenish and repeat ya a heart excretes only one of us, only one. 

Waking up was always the hardest part. Getting his dream of you out of his head was tough and it stuck to him all day. 

He tried to distract himself with work and talking to Robin. And when a girl walked in he tried even harder. But when he got the date or went for the hook up it never felt like it did with you. You weren't even here but somehow you were ruining everything for him. Each week a different girl came in and flirted with him and each date ended with him at their house for the first and last time. 

Robin would say that he needs to have a few rebounces and fun dates to get you off his mind. That it was normal to go through this period and one of these girls will be the one. Nancy said that he can't look for you in every girl he goes out with. Which she was right but here he was getting help from his ex girlfriend on how to get over a girlfriend to find a new girlfriend. Were you thinking about him like he was thinking about you? Was he the one keeping this relationship alive while you’d moved on? It all broke him all over again. 

–

Blue and gold, Friday night team up with Charlie, take these kids for a ride why's my heart pounding, beating out of my chest? remember to try and forget. 

The group had told him he needed to get out, hang with people who love him and care for him. And maybe it would help Steve. Having a distraction and doing what he knows he does best, babysitting. The kids are in the back of his car and the adults are in Jonathan's car, all ready to go to get ice cream and then go to the movies. This was a normal activity for the group, nothing crazy but something fun to get him out of the house.

At the ice cream shop they were playing your favorite song, one you and Steve danced to many times. His heart is pounding so fast in his chest he feels like he can't breathe. Quickly walking out of the small shop hoping to find some air. The wind helps him calm down but the song can be heard from outside and he feels like a train wreck. He’s supposed to be having a fun time and be a normal adult, instead he's sitting on the sidewalk with his hands over his ears and sweat dripping down his neck. 

“Steve?” He can hear Robin ask from the door.

“I’m fine.” It comes out louder than intended because his hands are so tightly pressed to his ears. 

Robin walks over to him and grabs onto his wrist. “The songs over Steve, you can come in.” 

He slowly lifts them up to make sure she's not lying to him, not that she would, especially about the song, but he’s scared. When the song is actually gone and Queen is now filling his ears he stands up. 

“You good?” Robins a little higher since she's on the sidewalk and he's on the gravel. They are at even heights now and eye level which allows Robin to really see if he's ok. 

“Yeah, I‘m sorry.” Steve says, hanging his head low. Completely embarrassed. But Rob just rubs his shoulder and walks him back inside and they all act like nothing happened. 

“You need to try and forget it, Steve. You can't live forever being scared of a song.” Nancy said. 

She’s harsh but the reality is she needs to be. He’s not getting any better and it's not like she's not saying anything that isn't true. When Steve drives them to the movies his heart is still pounding but he makes it there safely. The kids drag him out of the car and he has to yell at them for being loud in line for snacks. For 23 minutes he wasn't thinking about you, which is progress right? 

–

I'm locked, she's the key. I'm a boat that's sinking, guess who's the sea? It's hard to shake it off and get back to me when anything is a memory and you repeat to the nth degree.

When Steve has bad nights like tonight, when he can't sleep and his dreams are more like nightmares he wishes you the most. You’d always feel it yourself, somehow. He would wake up and minutes after, so would you, ready to talk about what is making him feel so off and every time you’d have the perfect answer to make him feel better. 

Where is Steve gonna ever find someone like that ever again? Will he ever find that again? Maybe he needs to get better at being that person for himself. So greedy and spoiled to have that feeling in the first place. 

He calls Robin to see if she's up, maybe her rambles could ease him into a calm state but she doesn't answer. He’s not mad at her for it but it does mean he won't sleep tonight. How’d you mess up his sleep schedule? Steve even washed his bedding so it wouldn't smell like you. He felt like grieving that day, feeling sorry for himself about something he’d never get back. It was something he had been putting off but smelling your perfume made him feel like suffocating in it, then he’d die happy. But that scared him so he washed them the next morning. 

All Steve dreams about is things you two used to do or things he’d wish you'd done. How you helped him with everything or what you would do to fix him back up if you were here right now. God he wishes you were here right now. It’s bad he's thinking like this, trying to shake it out of his head and get back to how he's gonna fall asleep on his own. 

–

And now I'm back in my truck, I'm driving up to our place. We're sitting dead on the ground, there's nothing more to be said. You kept it tight to the chest at someone else's expense. That doesn't sound like real love.

Steve wasn't opening up to you about Vecna or the mall. Or anything at all really. He often pushed everything down until he had bad moments and then you’d help him in any way you could and then he’d move on. An exhausting cycle of feeling untrustworthy with someone you told everything to. The dinner with Jonathan and Nancy went okay, you talked to them most of the time and Steve made some comments here and there. The drive home however, was silent. 

When you did get to Steves he finally spoke up. “The food was good huh? We should go there more often.” 

It made you boil. You’re surprised he tasted anything at all he was so far away all night completely spaced out. 

“Steve, we need to talk.” You pulled onto his hand and sat on the ground. His mom got rid of the couch and is looking for a new one after Steve threw a party and someone threw up on it. For right now the padded carpet will have to work. 

Steve sat with you and you could tell he still really wasn't there. His mind somewhere else that you couldn't even ask about knowing he’d turn you down. 

“What’s up with you?” You ask. It comes out a little more harsh than you meant but it’s needed since it knocks him awake. 

“What do you mean ‘what's up with me’ I haven’t done anything.” He answers defensively because of your tone. 

“You haven't done anything in days. I feel like I’m talking to a wall.” There's no emotion in your voice. But he can hear it’s raw.

 “I have been busy with work, you know this. What I really need is to just come home and know that I’m not gonna be asked a million questions. I thought we were having a nice day and dinner went well.” 

“Dinner wasn't good Steve. You barely talked. I was talking to Dean about it and he said-”

“Oh Dean said something, your new best friend at work? What the fuck does Dean know? He doesn't know shit about me.” It comes out with malice and the two beers he had at dinner is showing through. 

“Steve, I don't know shit about you. You won't tell me anything!” You yell. How can he be upset when you finally have a friend to talk to this stuff with when he's the one keeping it from you? Each barely there conversation you two shared pushed you further away. 

He stays silent and gets up to walk upstairs. Leaving you sitting criss-crossed on the ground with glossy eyes and a quivering lip. There’s really nothing to be said if he wont talk to you. Conversation over. 

–

I wanna know (Just two weeks, how'd you cut it like that?) Maybe you show me how (I'm built different, I don't work like that, huh) I got to repeat, chew up, spit out The blame complex in me, me, me. 

Two weeks after you adn Steve had broken up, news broke out that Dean had kissed you. He doesn't know exactly how it happened but apparently you didn't pull away. His throat burned and he could taste the acidity that was coming up. It was two weeks since you and him had cried in each other's arms and said nothing will change from the break up. But everything had changed, you won't answer his calls, you weren't going to group meet ups, and now you're kissing Dean. 

Everyone in the group knew and the adults got the brunt of it. Every hang out Steve talked about how you two broke up and how he misses you. Often drunk and slightly teary eyed but no one shuts him up. They allow him to slur his words and embarrass himself because you two were supposed to last till the end. By the end of the night his words turned venomous and had poison laces in every letter. So ready to blame you for ending things even though it was mainly mutual. Next week Robin will tell him to let up on it but for right now, after the Dean kiss, they’ll let him have it.

It was something they all just had to wait for him to grow out. Learn to move on and live without the person he’d spend most of his days with. Someone he thought he knew like the back of his hand. When he sits and really thinks about it Steve doesn't even know the specific time that things went so wrong and out of his control. Maybe he really wasn't there and things had been bad for a while. Little moments of uncertainty and secrets that grew with each day. 

It was understandable to have trouble when dealing with something as awful as underground Russian spies but it wasn't something you were taught how to handle nor was Steve taught how to deal with it. Still the fact that you couldn't stick it out with him and make it through to the other side told Steve all he needed to know. 

–

Oh, God, I wish I could release ya Wind it back and never be with ya Then I'd be happy just to meet ya (oh, my God) One heart could bleed for the future us If we were young, but this is done.

Three months have passed since you two broke up and Steve can finally sleep without seeing you. Getting used to living alone is something he finds hard to get used to but he manages it. Forgetting how he’d used to pour coffee in two cups but now one, or that he’d now have to put his own music on in his car now that it was only him. It was different but his new normal and that wouldn’t change. 

Steve has thought about what he would be like if you two did not meet. Maybe if you’d just given him a tight nod instead of your big bright smile Steve wouldn't have gone through all of this. But then he thinks about how he would have gone home alone after almost dying, having to put ice to his own head. He was lucky to have had you in that moment and now, years later, Steve could call it for what it was. A relationship that was good for him then but not now. Two people growing in different directions, experiencing different things. People grow apart even when it's not convenient and Steve can sleep peacefully knowing that. 

Robin and him have Friday night talks about everything that goes on with him. A dedicated time that Steve can talk to the one person who won't judge him and just let his feelings out. Something that he didnt do with you, and if he did maybe it would have helped but he didn't. He wouldn't have known he needed it until you left. 

Everyday he gets better and the kids are seeing him more now that it's summer which is fun. Nancy is hanging with him because Jonathan is in California so they both get to be lonely together. It’s new for him but with time he’ll heal and become a better person for it. Ready to be better for the next person who he pours two cups of coffee for.

[dsireland86]

Hi, how are you? I was wondering if I can get a nick folio request where you’re friends with the band and the topic of sex comes up and the guys find out that no man has ever been able to make you cum and nick wants to make it a challenge to get you off and be the first man to make you cum as many times as he can. So overstimulation, smutty and fluffy where feelings get admitted.

Thank you so much ☺️🥺

Oh no... this might ruin me!

The Challenge

Tag list:

@philomenie @supersquirrel1996 @foliosgirl @angelmarie89 @fadingintothegrey @thisbicc @lacy1986 @dominuslunae @shayzillaaaa @mrsnoahsebastian @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @stardustsirenmelody @romanreigns-supreme @anything-more-than-human @into-the-grey @rumoured-whispers @myownthoughts12 @sister-sebastian @missduffsblog @bngurngheart  @somebodyllelse @xxkittenkissesxx @dizzylmwahh @kenjipepsi1 @blackveilomens @chey-h @disappearintothegrey @jilliemiw86 @pathion @fear-its-beauty @an0mallly @potterheadquinn @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @montgomery-929494 @missduffsblog @lilcazy011 @Lonelydragonlady @Mattysbitchvic @athenexe @pipidoll

“Oh my god, this movie is boring as fuck," Matt groaned, removing his hat and letting his hair out.

"Agreed. Can we change it, please," Nicholas sighed, hugging the pillow tight.

"No! Don't change it. I need to find out what happens," Jolly cried, terrified he was going to miss something important.

"Dude, it's predictable," Matt chided, turning his head to stare at the tall Swede who's eyes were glued to the tv screen. Jolly just waved him off, fixating his gaze even harder on people inside the large rectangle.

Moments later, the two main characters exchanged kisses and, in a matter of seconds, were entangled in a very detailed sex scene that was filling the living room with crude sounds that grew intensely uncomfortable. 

"Wow, okay, this is awkward," you laughed, turning your face into Folio's shoulder, "What, you don't like intense sex scenes," he joked, nudging you in the side.

"Um no, not really. Most of the time they’re not even accurate. Too dramatic and way over climactic to be real."

"Says you," Matt chimed in.

"Say's logic, Matt. I mean, do you honestly think every girl looks or sounds like that when she's doing it," you stated, pointing at the tv.

"Don't they?"

You gave Noah a look that made him chuckle.

"Well, it sure sounds pretty good. I think it's legit," Jolly said.

"Yeah, okay," you snickered.

"What? Are you saying you've never made sounds like that during sex?"

"Jolly, dude. Really?" Folio narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. "I'm sorry," he muttered to you as you turned your face against his shoulder again to hide your embarrassment.

"Sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to embarrass you," Jolly apologized. You smiled softly at him, telling him it was okay.

"All I'm saying is that scenes like this make the expectations too high, and then girls end up frustrated and angry that their partners can’t do what they're assuming is supposed to happen."

"Well, that sounds like a partner issue then," Noah stated.

"You’re probably right,” you agreed with Noah.

"Are you saying you’ve had shitty partners; boyfriends or just a random accidental pickup?" Folio asked, genuinely curious.

"Both," you stated honestly. "The first two guys I dated cheated on me. The second break up hurt me so badly that I had a, what did you call it," looking up into Folio's adorably sweet face.

He grinned at you, brushing the loose hair away from your eyes. "A random accidental pickup," he smiled softly.

You stared at Folio for a moment, drawn in by the way he was gazing at you; sultry and seductive without even trying to. You noticed things about him you never had before, like the way his lips were thin yet full and completely kissable and his cute button nose with the small gold hoop that one could only see if they stared hard enough, and the gold stud he'd traded the dangled cross for that somehow complimented his jaw line perfectly. 

"Yeah, that," you replied, sitting up while clearing your throat. "Anyway, a guy friend and I had one of those, and it turned out to be the worst mistake ever. We got drunk at a party, and, well, you know how that story goes."

“Damn. What happened after?”

You shrugged, hating to even have to think about it.

“I figured out he was just using me.”

"You mean he just took what he wanted and bailed?"

You nodded. 

"I didn’t think about it at the time. I should’ve known better though. The other guys I’d been with did the same thing, but eventually, I just convinced myself that it was the way it was and until eventually, it didn’t hurt anymore.”

All five guys looked at each other as if you'd just told them you were a virgin.

"What?"

"They never made sure you, you know... finished first?" Nicholas asked.

"Um, no," you said softly, looking down at your hands in your lap. "Were they supposed to?"

"Any decent guy does," Noah implied.

"Do you," you asked jokingly.

"Absolutely. Every time," he smiled. Noah might have been your friend, but that didn't mean you didn’t have a crush on him. He knew exactly how to get your blood pumping every time, and he knew it. Just like now.

"Oh, well, lucky them," irritated with girls you’d never met.

"Y/N, making sure the girl finishes first should always be the priority. Like Noah said, decent guys know that," Folio added when you laid your head down on his shoulder.

"I honestly don't think it would have been a big deal even if it didn't happen first. Just as long as it happened."

"But it did."

"No, it didn't."

"What? But you said,"

"You asked if he took what he wanted and left, and I said yes. Nick was the one who mentioned the finishing first thing."

"So, what you're telling me is that none of the guys you’ve been with were able to make you cum?"

Folio took your hand and laced his fingers through yours. Your body shivered from his touch, from the way his fingers brushed over the skin on the back of your hand, quickening your breath. The calloused skin on his palms raked against yours, matching the size of your hands together as he gently played with your fingers, waiting for you to answer. With his finger on your chin, Nick turned your face towards him, dragging his eyes up and down as if trying to memorize your features.

"Yeah," you swallowed hard, unable to look away, feeling compelled to answer him. "That's what I'm telling you."

Nick traced your bottom lip with his thumb, a teasing gesture that had you swallowing back a whimper. You couldn't stop yourself from darting out the tip of your tongue and catching a taste of it, watching the light in his eyes turn darker. The saltiness on Nick's skin heightened your senses, leading you to wonder if the rest of him tasted just as good. You heard a faint groan escape him from somewhere deep inside his chest, shifting as the intense feeling of arousal from it slipped between your thighs.

"I can fix that if you want me to. I bet I can make you cum more than once," was all Folio said.

Your eyes were fixed on his lips as he said those words. Your heart raced. The thrill of what was happening between you two was exciting and you didn't want it to stop.

"You can? I mean, why would you want to?" you stammered, barely above a whisper.

"Because I'm attracted to you. Because you're beautiful. Because I want you," Folio replied, slipping his arm around you and pulling you closer to his chest. He smelled like sandalwood and whatever shampoo he used. "It's never been a secret, Y/N. I've never tried to hide it from you or pretend I wanted anything less."

"You- you said you wanted friendship,"

"I did. I do," he nodded, continuing to play with the fingers of your hand that you now had against his chest. "But if we're being honest here, what I've been feeling lately is more than a crush. Every time I see a guy hit on you, I get jealous. And every time I'm around you," he paused, pressing you tighter against him until his grip felt almost bruising. The look in his eyes told you he wanted to be totally honest with you.

"What?" you asked, needing him to tell you what you wanted to hear.

"I want to keep you safe and fuck you like an animal at the same time," he breathed, almost as if he was afraid.

You arched into Folio, claiming his lips, kissing him like it would be the only time. Slowly, you guided your hand over his jawline, running it up the side of his face and over the freshly shaved spot of where his hair started until your fingers found where it ended and tangled themselves in it. Nick pulled you closer against him, as the two of you fell into the unnatural desperation for each other that was quickly spreading like wildfire and threatening to burn you both to the ground if you'd let it. The kiss was deliciously carnal as you matched every thrust of his tongue with your own. He tasted like the beer he'd been sipping on since the start of the movie, and you could barely think about anything else other than wanting as much of him as you could get.

"So, does this mean yes? Do you think I can be the first man to make you cum as many times as possible, sweetheart?"

You smiled against his lips. "I guess it does."

"So, how does this work?" you asked?

With the rest of the guys downstairs fully engaged in the movie, Folio managed to sneak you upstairs to his room without making a scene. Once the door was locked, he removed his shirt and faced you. You were nervous. He could easily tell.

"We'll go slow. Start off simple. No getting naked or anything over the top. I want you to be comfortable and relaxed. I want your body to want to have an orgasm not feel like it has to."

The way Nick was taking care of you made the butterflies inside come to life. He was sweet and gentle yet dominant enough to trust that he would keep his word and give your body what it needed.

"Okay," you smiled, laughing lightly.

Folio moved in towards you, taking your face between his hands and kissing you slowly. You fell against him as his hands fell to the bottom of your shirt, where he lifted it and pulled it over your head, revealing your upper half to him, your breast covered by a black sports bra.

"You like normal underwear. That's a good thing," Folio grinned, leaning down to place small kisses on the skin of your neck.

Your body screamed from his touch, from the way his bare chest was almost flushed against yours. You wanted to cling to him, to rake your nails down his back and devour his lips, and as if he could feel your want, he bent his knees slightly and pulled you against him until you could feel his own excitement between your legs, making you gasp.

"Relax, sweetheart, I've got you. Let me love on you for a moment," Nick assured you, caressing the side of your face.

You nodded and closed your eyes the moment he attacked your neck hungrily, spilling kisses that seeped all the way to the middle of your pussy, creating a heat that you were unfamiliar with. It was a much stronger arousal than you were used to, and it made you feel wild and crazy. His hands roamed your body, leaving trails of fire behind, and when you broke apart, you were both breathing heavily.

"I think I'm falling hard for you, Y/N," Folio unapologetically admitted. "I know I am. You're all I think about, all I want. You consume me."

"I know. Me too. I just never believed I was good enough for you."

"I don't know why.”

"Nick, you could have any girl in the world.”

"Yeah, I know, but I want you. I've always wanted you; only you. To taste you, to fuck you, to wake up to your beautiful smile and make love to you in the mornings while you're still asleep. I've wanted you for a really long time. You've just never noticed."

Grabbing Nick's face, you pulled him down and kissed him long and hard. When you let go, resting your forehead against his, he smiled that infectious smile at you, making your insides flutter like crazy.

"What are you saying, Nick?"

"I'm saying you're mine. I'm saying just the thought of you being with another guy hurts me. Y/N, I want to be yours."

Grabbing Folio's shoulders, he encouraged you with small little words and phrases that made your panties wet, something no guy had ever done before.

"Nick," you said quietly, scared of sounding so inexperienced.

"What is it, little mouse?"

"Nick, my undies are wet. Like really wet."

Folio stopped mid kiss and looked at you.

"You've never felt that before?" he asked, puzzled.

"No, I have, just... well, not this much."

Folio smiled and moved you both over to his bed, where he sat down and had you in between his legs. You laid your hands on his shoulders.

"Can I look?" he asked, peering up at you.

You smirked. "Yeah, you can look."

Folio kissed your belly, dragging his lips across your skin once more. Tugging your leggings down, he grinned big when he saw your cotton panties with the daisies on them.

"These, I love these. They're adorable."

Glancing up at you, the corners of his lips curled, making your knees weak, as he continued his exploration of your lower half. Once your leggings were low enough, Folio tugged at the waistband of your panties, pulling them out far enough to peer down inside.

"Yeah, you're nice and wet for me," he muttered more to himself than to you, licking his lips.

He ran a finger through your soaked wet folds, humming in approval when you clenched down on his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin from the overwhelming sensation. But it was when he entered you, that you started to fall apart. Thrusting slowly in and out, Folio guided his finger inside you, penetrating your walls and forcing himself deeper into you.

"You're so warm and wet. Fuck me," Folio groaned, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, pushing your leggings down more to get a better angle of your are. "You like that, don't you?"

The air lodged in your throat, making it harder to breathe as a small gasp followed by a desperate whimper escaped your lips.

"Y-yes. Oh, god, Nick. It feels really good," you confessed.

Folio glanced up and held your gaze, planting his lips on the spot right below your abdomen, a spot where no man had gone before. The feeling of his hot breath, the way his lips glided across your skin and his hand pressed against your bare ass to hold you tightly steady against his mouth, had your breath shaking and your legs trembling.

"Tell me what you want and I'll give it to you, honey.

Your fingers ran through his hair, tugging at it as your moans grew louder.

"Tell me baby, please," Nick begged you in a whisper, kissing your pubic bone. That was all it took.

"Make me cum, Nick. I wanna cum for you," you panted, biting your lip to hold back a moan.

With no warning, Nick slipped another finger inside you, making you cry out a desperate whine. He fucked you with only his fingers, starting slow, but quickly building speed, holding your gaze with an obsessive desire to watch the orgasm he was determined to give you ruin you.

"Deep breaths, beautiful."

You did as instructed, tipping your head back as choppy breathing and whines slipped out of you filling the room.

"Goddamn, look at you," Folio purred, "fucking yourself on my fingers like a perfect wet dream," dropping to his knees before you, kissing your thighs. "You have no idea how many times I've thought about this moment, Y/N, watching you get off on me, so desperate and needy."

Glancing down at your sex, he softly ran his fingers over the top of your clit.

"God, you're too beautiful," spreading your lips apart to look at your cunt glistening with the wetness from the way he was making you feel. "You smell so fucking delicious and I swear if I don't eat you right now, I literally might die," licking you with just the tip of his tongue.

Nick didn't give you enough time to process anything he'd just said before he pressed his mouth between your legs. Your sharp whimper turned onto a low moan as his tongue teased circles over your sensitive clit forcing you to buck your hips against his face. The intense heat building in your lower back and abdomen said you were really close.

"Fuck, you taste like heaven. So fucking good," Folio muttered, pulling back for a second to wipe his mouth.

He went back to work quickly, doing his best to lick your pussy clean as you let go of every thought as you grinded on him, no longer holding back anymore. 

"Ride my hand harder, sweetheart. You like that, don't you?"

You nodded quickly.

"Don't stop, Nick," you panted.

"Ride it, baby girl, while I make your pretty pussy cum on my fingers."

"Nick," you whimpered, clutching and pulling around his fingers and tongue.

"That's it, feel me in you," he muttered, sucking gently while working your swollen bud with his tongue.

Curling his fingers inside your tight warmth, you moved with his touch until you couldn't hold back any longer. You let out a wrenching moan and finally fell apart on Folio's fingers, pressing your hand on the back of his head to ride your orgasm out on his face. The waves in you broke and your clenching became a languid flutter. Then you pulled Folio to his feet and your fingers were on his belt, undoing his pants as fast as you possibly could.

"I claimed you. I made you mine so now, assholes know they don't have a chance."

"That'll depend," you challenged him, high on a feeling you'd never felt before.

Folio's face fell. "What do you mean? On what?"

Grinning, you yanked his pants down and stared hard at the swollen length of his beautiful cock that was glistening at the tip with arousal just from you alone. You wanted him inside you, destroying you until all you knew was the shape of him. Taking his cock fully into your hand, Folio's head fell back.

"If you can make me cum again."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe," you smiled.

His face lit up with a smile, grabbing the bottom of your sports bra and pulling it off. The darkness of his pupils widened as he took in the sight of your breasts, brushing over the hard peaks of your nipples with the pads of his thumbs and pulling a gasp from your mouth. He pinched and tugged gently.

"You like that, love,"

“Mmmhmm," you replied, sighing. 

Nothing in the world had ever felt so damn good. Folio wrapped his arms around, lifting you up until your breasts were practically in his face. Throwing your arms around his neck, you blushed, feeling awkward, but Folio just shook his head and kissed them. It was enough stimulation to pull you back into the moment with him. You wrapped your legs tightly around his torso, grinding onto him to satisfy the appetite for wanting to cum. You were starving to feel the overwhelming explosion in your body again and would let him do anything to you at this point just to make you feel it.

"Needy girl," Nick teased, pressing you hard against the available wall behind you.

Pinning you there tight, using every muscle in his body, he inserted two fingers in your mouth and told you to suck. You obeyed, but when he took those same fingers and shoved them up inside you, a small squeamish moan filled the room, forcing a buried feral growl out of Folio. Sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, he curled and thrusted his fingers through your soaked, raging hot pussy that was screaming for a second release and driving you absolutely mad.

"Oh god, Nick, baby, I need you," running your hands down his face and pulling him in for another kiss.

Folio chuckled.

"Ready to cum again for me so soon?.

You nodded, enthusiastically, biting your lip so you're did make too much noise.

"I know I should take it slow with you, Y/N, but I'm having a hard time doing it. I wanna tear you apart," he confessed unapologetically.

You grinned, running your fingers through his hair.

"You wanna fuck me like an animal?"

"Exactly, baby."

Looking Folio right in the eyes and slamming your lips on his again, you gave in to his wild animalistic behavior.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

With his chest heaving up and down, Folio didn’t waste a second. He carried you to his bed and laid you down, parting your legs and climbing in between them.

"How long has it been since these beautiful legs were thrown over a guy's shoulders?"

You blinked a few times, realizing the answer was never.

"With both the guys I dated, it was either simple missionary or me on top. So, never, I guess."

Folio's head fell.

"You're killing me, doll. But their loss is my gain," he sighed, getting on his knees before you. "I'm gonna bend you in half and fuck you hard and deep until your screaming. I'll take care of this pretty pussy for you, sweetheart and have you cumming all over me."

As a man of his word, Folio took your legs and placed them on his shoulders. Spitting into the palm of his hand he lathered his cock with it, mixing it with his arousal with slow gentle strokes. Lining up the tip of his cock with your swollen pussy, he penetrated your walls, forcing himself deeper and deeper with each emotionally attached thrust. You moaned a curse, gasping from the tightness you were feeling as your walls clenched around Nick, digging your nails into his biceps as he moved back and forth, dissolving into the pleasure of you. Shattered breaths and strangled noises escaped both of you as you lost yourselves in the feeling of each other. This was heaven. Your body trembled in his hands. The deep thrust that hit your cervix had you crying his name, beginning him not to stop.

With a hard grunt, Folio lowered your legs, bringing your bodies close together for the first time. Skin against skin, his muscles tensed from feeling you so soft and hot from the inside, and as he watched you start to unravel as he buried deeper into you, Folio knew then that he'd let no one else see you like this; no other guy would ever touch you this way again. The sounds he made; the deep sensual groans, the panting sighs, told you just how much he'd been longing for this moment with you. As if feeling his thoughts, you pulled him tighter into you, dragging you nails down the damp skin of his back, feeling how all the years of hard-core drumming had shaped and defined his body.

"Nick, look at me," you demanded.

He looked up at you from burying his face against your neck. Tracing his jawline with your fingertips, Folio smiled softly, grabbing your thigh and yanking it up higher around his waist and pushing inside you harder. You pushed his hair back out of his face, and he kissed your arm as you did so, following it with a hard, needy kiss on your lips.

"Y/N, tell me what you need. Tell me what I need to do."

"I need... mmm, f-fuck... can you...?"

"Anything, sugar," Nick promised, licking your lips and biting your lip as you opened your mouth to him.

His tongue wrestled with yours, tasting you, making you moan into his mouth.

"Oh god, I'm almost there, Nick. Make me cum. Fuck me hard until I do, please!" you whined, barely able to breathe.

Pulling out until just his tip was inside you, Folio shifted, repositioning you both so he could give you what you begged for. He found a slow, steady rhythm, thrusting roughly over and over, until all you could do was bury your face into his shoulder and bite down to muffle the screams. It wasn't long before his thrusts became unsteady. His breath was shaking, and his body trembling. You clenched around him, feeling the wave of your orgasm quickly approaching.

"Nick, don't stop, I'm almost there," you gasped.

With a few more loud moans, you clung to the man on top of you, his thrust suddenly more intense, and you cried out sharply as the very first orgasm you'd ever had from a man inside you, hit you so hard you, making you feel so fucking incredibly that you started to cry. Your toes curled against the sheets, and your back arched as you desperately clung to Nick, holding onto him so tight as he shuddered, cursed, then came undone himself, filling you so full of his seed that you could feel it seep out of you. Folio collapsed into you, completely wrecked, holding you the best he could. You caressed his back, kissing the side of his head and wrapping your arms around him in a protective manner. He sighed, placing his lips against your neck and kissing your damp skin.

"You don't know what that does to me, honey," he mumbled.

Nick's sweet pet name for you made you grin.

"Tell me."

He lifted his head as hair fell over his brow again.

"I feel owned. By you. And I like it. A lot."

His honesty killed you. 

"I do own you, Nick Folio. And you own me. And you, sir, are a man of your word," giving him a slight smirk.

"Oh yeah? How so," he asked softly, planting kisses over your chest, taking your softened nipple into his mouth and sucking on it until a hard peak formed.

"Well, you said you could help me with cumming and you did. Twice. That's a record, baby," you giggled.

Nick's mouth curled into a soft smile.

"I love hearing you call me baby," he confessed. "And just so you know, I'm not stopping at two. I plan on making it happen at least one more time before bed."

"Oh, is that right?"

"Yup," he said, finally sliding out of you and getting up. "Come on, let's shower," reaching for your hands. 

Giving them to him, he pulled you up and with the sheet wrapped around your body, you followed Folio to the bathroom. He closed the door and locked it and after turning on the water and waiting for it to get hot, he removed the sheet from around your body and pulled you into him. 

“Are you up for another orgasm? I know you’ve got at least one more in you.”

“I’m assuming you have an idea of how to make that happen.”

Folio chuckled. 

“I was already planning on fucking you in the shower. There’s nothing like steaming hot water to stimulate the senses as you cum," he smirked.

“And you would know?”

“I would. Shower sex is one of my kinks, just so you know. That and my drums. I have a really bad fetish to bend you over my snare.”

Your eyes widened in surprise and you huffed a laugh.  

“But for now, I’m gonna make you cum under the hot water,” he promised, taking your hands and guiding you into the shower.

And that's exactly what happened. For a third time, Folio had your legs shaking terribly, and after you cleaned up and got out, you collapsed into him and that’s how he knew you were spent. Once you were back in his room, he slipped one of his Harley shirts over your shivering body and helped you into his bed, where you curled up into him and fell fast asleep, his challenge completed.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

“White people, your world makes me very sad”, says Indigenous Brazilian activist

Ehuana Yaira Yanomami is suffering. Her shoes hurt. But how can she walk shoeless on ground smothered by concrete? She’s in pain. Why don’t white people look each other in the eyes? Ehuana doesn’t understand this. Why are those people sleeping on the street? What do they eat? Why doesn’t anyone take care of them? When Ehuana enters the apartment, she is amazed—after all, she lives in a communal house, home to over 150 people, most of them women. “Why do all of you live locked up in your houses, like armadillos in their burrows?”

Ehuana arrived in Barcelona straight from the Amazon Rainforest, from Yanomami Indigenous Territory, between the states of Amazonas and Roraima. She never left her Forest-Home until she was sixteen, and not often since then. It took her seven flights to reach the capital of Catalonia. Ehuana is a dreamer of worlds who is stunned when she sets foot in Barcelona, one of Europe’s top tourist destinations. It is fascinating to discover ourselves through her eyes because her astonishment exposes our ludicrousness.

With her is Ana Maria Machado, an anthropologist, researcher, and translator of Yanomam, one of the six languages spoken by the Yanomami people. This isn’t a chance encounter for the two women; one wouldn’t be here without the other. Their story illustrates how worlds can meet—nonviolently, supportively, lovingly. They translate each other into their respective worlds, taking the other by the hand into what is unknown by one but not the other. It is illuminating to see them together, in a relationship impenetrable to anyone else.

They are here for the first public talk ever given by a Yanomami woman in Europe. It will be five months before Ehuana speaks publicly in Brazil for the first time in her life. Right now, it is late spring in Europe and the cold is bothering her—the cold weather, people’s coldness too. Ehuana is horrified by what she sees of our habits, but she also laughs at us a lot. According to her, we’re a sad lot as a civilization but also quite funny. She shares her observations with Ana Maria in Yanomam, and the two of them roar with laughter. Ehuana laughs as only children are capable of laughing in our world.

The two women are here for the first public interview in the series Rainforest is Female, curated by me during a three-month residency at the Centre de Cultura Contemporània de Barcelona (CCCB), one of Europe’s most powerful institutions, led mainly by women. The four interviews in the series will be published by SUMAÚMA starting this week, with the support of the CCCB.

Every interview begins with a statement by the interviewee in her own language, and this part is never interpreted. Instead, it is a warning to the audience that they must venture into a world they don’t understand, that they would never be able to fully grasp even if the words were perfectly translated. Based on this non-understanding, the audience must make an effort to move toward another experience in inhabiting the planet-house we share. Or rather, the planet-house protected by people like Ehuana’s—and that a non-Indigenous minority is destroying while the majority stand by.

I still don’t know what Ehuana said that night to an audience of 334 people. Only Ana Maria was able to understand. What was said is tucked away inside them, between them. But some people in attendance cried, because Ehuana’s whole body said so much beyond words.

In this interview, Ehuana takes an anthropological look at her own people—and at non-Indigenous people as well, contemplating us, consumers of commodities.

Continue reading.

[amphitriteswife]

Would they still date you if jonggun was your brother?

Shit was interesting in my head

Break up: Johan seong + Eli jang

Eli loves you. Thats a fact. An undeniable fact. But he’s more than just a lover or boyfriend. He’s a dad with a family he needs to protect. Eli is without a doubt convinced that Jonggun is the reason why Hostel ended up the way he did. He doesn’t forgive him not will he ever. And he still holds him accountable. To find out you’re related to him doesn’t make him see you any differently. You’re still Y/N to him. But, he is cautious and would like to know the relationship you have with Jonggun. If you are close to Jonggun, Eli would be on high guard. He’s sorry to break your heart. He hates it. But he can’t risk his family getting damaged once again by Jonggun. He can’t put Yenna or the other family members ot Hostel in danger. He hopes you understand..and if you don’t, then it’s also fine. He has been a hypocrite all his life, and if you tell him he’s still abandoning his family. Aka you. He doesn’t have an answer. If you hate him, that’s fine too. He doesn’t mind. He can handle it…he’ll try to. After all, his first priority is Yenna and that will never change…he’s sorry. But he has to.

Johan has always doubted people. He’s naive, yet untrusting towards other people. He’s always been alone. Sometimes it wad because it was necessary. Sometimes because he preferred to be on his own. You were no different. He was rather awkward when you two forst met, and it took quite a while for him to trust you. But it all worked out in the end. At least. That’s what Johan thought. Hearing you say you’re related to Jonggun made him wary of you. It’s not intentional. He knows it’s wrong…it’s just…how? How are you related to that monster? Everything in his life fell apart because of Jonggun. His mom. His gang. Charles. The drugs at club Vivi. It’s the drive to keep him going. You’re important to him, that’s true. But He can’t overlook it. His hatred seeps too deep to forget or forgive. You’re not him. He knows that. He keeps telling himself that. But he still feels betrayed. Why didn’t you tell him? Even if you were afraid to tell him about it because of his reaction, he still wanted to know and it wouldn’t change the answer. He feels too much rage. Too much betrayal. Too much hatred. He’s sorry. He really is. But he doesn’t want to be with you anymore.

Okay-ish: Jake kim + Samuel seo

To find out you’re related to Jonggun is… a surprise to say the least. Jake himself feels strongly about Jonggun, it’s not something he hides. Even if he knows you’re Jonggun’s sibling, he still doesn’t change his opinion on him. However, he does tone down his words to you. After all, you love your brother for who he is and Jake won’t say you can’t. His revenge is important to him, for Sinu, for Big Deal, and for himself. But ultimately he doesn’t make you choose between him or your brother. He thinks you can love him and your brother at the same time. And he’s okay with that. He’ll learn to live with it, and he hopes you’re fine with him being rather distant at times when you mention Jonggun. Overall, as long as you don’t make him be in the same room as Jonggun. Will he still take revenge on him? Yes definitely. He’s sorry if he hurts you because of it. He won’t hold it over your head, so don’t hold it over his either please.

Now, if this was early samuel, he would have absolutely lost his shit. Probably screamed, cried, yelled, 100% got violent with you and i’m not even sure if you would make it out alive. Especially if you had kept it hidden from him. He would NOT have forgiven you for it. But, as we can see in the manhwa now. He has grown as a person and overall doesn’t hold the grudge that was deeply rooted in his against Jonggun anymore. He’s over that now and focuses on the things he does have in his life. He seems more composed and started to actually reflect on what he does or doesn’t want. If you meet Samuel after he is over Jonggun and getting his validation, he doesn’t seem to care all that much about you two being related. As long as you don’t force them to be buddies he’s chill with it and couldn’t care less.

[caramelpenguin]

reincarnation au coffee shop simons pov

reincarnation au coffee shop willes pov

What Wille has learnt, in all these lifetimes, is that they don't have a chance. Simon will inevitably die- sometimes his life ends without ever remembering Wilhelm. Most often, he does remember, and they only have a few days together before the world plots against them.

They were foolish this time. Simon remembered six days ago and he hadn't yet died. For one blissful moment, Wille had let himself believe it was over- the curse broken, the cycle done. They would live.

He nods at the palace guards before rushing down the dungeon corridor, the smell of candle wax and dust echoing in his ears, heart in his throat. He dashes past inmates who have been stored for months, past inmates who would probably never see light again, before arriving at the newly imprisoned, the people who slowly began to trust him through all their secret meetings. And there, Wille finds Simon curled in the shadows, alone in a cell towards the end.

"Simon," he breathes, falling onto his knees and clutching at the bars separating them, as if they'll dissolve under his desperation. He'd heard the rumours murmured around only fifteen minutes ago, how a rebel group had been caught. "Simon, what-"

Moonlight slinks through the small window in the cramped cell. Simon is glistening in sweat and dirt, face gaunt with exhaustion, clothes ripped at the seams, frayed at the edges. He crawls to the bars and clasps Wille’s hands tightly through the bars. His eyes are shining. "I have until tomorrow."

"What?"

"I'm first on the list. To be executed. The guillotine-"

"No!" Wille exclaims, the word erupting from him like a wound. He presses forward, as if he can break the iron bars. He slips his fingers through, touching Simon's cheek. "They- i don't understand- why-"

"They want me dead by 9 am tomorrow," Simon says, voice hollow. "That's around exactly seven days since I remembered everything. Our time's up."

“We could run,” Wille almost cries. He should be used to this pattern. “I’ll get you out. I’ll-” But the rest breaks against his throat. He knows it’s too late. The execution is scheduled. The wheels are already in motion. The machine is already hungry.

“You always say that.”

Wille swallows hard, fingers trembling. “But I mean it.”

“I know.” A soft smile ghosts over Simon’s face. “You always do.”

The stone floor is cold beneath them, history thick in the air. Wille wants to memorize every detail - the line of Simon’s jaw, the warmth of his breath, the calluses on his hands. In this lifetime, they had met in whispers and rebellion, kissed behind cellar doors lit by flickering flame. It was danger itself, plotting against the crown, but Simon thrived. Wille could do nothing but follow, pretending with every aching heartbeat that this was the first time they'd ever met.

“Can you stay?” Simon asks.

He nods. “Of Course”

Simon pulls him a little closer, voice shaking. “Don't let go.”

Wille bites down on a sob, presses his forehead against the bars again. “I don’t want you to go. I- I can’t keep losing you, Simon.”

He closes his eyes. “But you will.”

Wille doesn't let go. Not until the sun creeps into the sky as dawn approaches, as the guards unlock the cell door. Simon clings to his hands until the last second, until their fingers are forced apart. He goes screaming.

Wilhelm doesn't watch the execution, but he hears the guillotine fall.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Hi! I've been following you for a while now and really like your posts. If you don't mind, could you write smut for Lee Jun Young's roles in The Impossible Heir and Class of Lies? English is not my first language, there may be typos. I hope you do it! Have a nice day🤍🩷

omg, hey I remember you, you reading my ff means a lo,t and for the ff, I think its such a good idea sorry for the delay and here you go

💗 Kang In Ha x Reader — “Let Me Love You Right”

(Long-form smut | 18+ | Sweet, Gentle, and Deeply Intimate | Emotional Tension | Soft Dom | Luxury Setting | Reader-First Focus | Aftercare)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The room was silent, the kind of silence that only existed between two people who knew exactly what they meant to each other.

You stood near the glass wall of Kang In Ha’s penthouse, wearing one of his button-down shirts and nothing else. The city lights stretched out below, but all he looked at… was you.

“In Ha,” you whispered, barely a breath.

He stepped closer, his expensive suit jacket discarded somewhere behind him. His sleeves were rolled up. His hands, those elegant, calculating hands — they reached for you with a gentleness that contrasted everything the world believed about him.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said softly. “When I’m in meetings. When I’m pretending to care about board votes. When I’m smiling at people I’d rather destroy.”

He rested his forehead against yours. “You’re the only real thing I have.”

You blinked, your fingers brushing over the front of his shirt. “Then take me. Not like I’m a deal you won. Like I’m someone you love.”

That broke something in him.

He kissed you like it was the first time. Slow. Soft. Deep.

And when he picked you up — bridal style — he didn’t say a word. He carried you to the bed like you were fragile crystal and laid you down in the softest sheets money could buy.

But the way he looked at you?

Priceless.

He undressed you slowly, watching every layer fall like it was a ceremony. His fingers traced your skin, learning you again — not with hunger, but reverence.

He took his time kissing you.

Your lips. Your neck. Your chest. The insides of your wrists. Your thighs. He whispered between each kiss.

“So beautiful.”

“I’ve waited so long to do this right.”

“You’re perfect.”

When he finally moved over you, bare skin against bare skin, he didn’t rush. He looked into your eyes as he guided himself inside, watching your lips part with a soft gasp.

His movements were slow and deep — just enough to stretch, to fill, to make you feel like you were completely his.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in. He cradled your face, resting his forehead against yours, and whispered, “Tell me what you need.”

“You. Like this. Always.”

“Then that’s what I’ll give you.”

He moved inside you with a rhythm that felt like devotion — strong, loving, not frantic. His thumb rubbed slow circles against your clit while he held your hand with the other.

When you gasped and cried out, he kissed your cheek and said softly, “That’s it, love. Just like that. Let me make you feel good.”

You came with his name on your lips, and he followed not long after, holding you close as he whispered, “I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. I was just too scared to say it.”

After, he didn’t leave you. He cleaned you with a warm towel, kissed every part of you he touched, and helped you into a silk robe.

He pulled you into his arms under the covers and held you so close you felt his heartbeat against your back.

“Don’t ever think you’re just a part of my life,” he murmured into your hair. “You are my life. Everything else is background noise.”