#anyway he was adorable and he was a little shorter than me and seemed to have a pretty outgoing personality lol

[deathbyday]

𖥔not so gen. mouthwashing relations headcanons.𖥔˚

Written By: DeathByDay

TW - death, SA.

Includes: Captain Curly, Daisuke, and Anya

__________

Captain Curly

• This man is 100% a sucker for romance

• I’ve seen some people say that they think that he’s one to be into PDA, but honestly I just don’t see it

• Maybe a few pecks on the cheek or light hand holding, but nothing more

• He just doesn’t seem that type of guy to me

• But in private? That’s a whole different story

• He’s all on you whenever you want him to be or not, especially in the mornings

• I feel like he’d love to hug you from behind while you sleep, his nose pressed against the back of your neck while his arms are wrapped around right underneath your chest

• Would 100% wake up first like c’mon he’s literally a captain, he needs to (much to your dismay)

• But while you’re still asleep he’d plant small kisses on the back of your neck to try to wake you

• If that doesn’t work, then he’d leave the room before coming back soon enough with a cup of your favorite morning drink. Coffee, tea, milk, water, you name it

• If you came to him during a bad day, rest assured he’s gonna take care of you

• He’s running a bath with the exact temperature you wanted, laying out pajamas for you, along with towels. Probably would put bath salt in there too (if you aren’t allergic and like the feeling of it)

• Acts of service and words of affirmation are his love languages, prove me wrong. YOU CANT

• You don’t understand how bad he would feel after the crash

• Like he can’t be there for you and you need to be the one taking care of him. He just feels pathetic

• You sometimes make Jimmy let you give him the painkillers. You wouldn’t be as harsh as him, of course. Just gently slide it on his tongue and help him swallow, not shoving or pushing it down

• Anyways back to pre-crash Curly

• I think he would adore it if you ever planted kisses on his cheek, neck, or forehead (or honestly anywhere else)

• If you’re shorter than him, you’d have to grab his jawline and bring him down to your level to properly kiss. Trust me when I say he would never recover from it

• Loves kissing your neck, especially before you two begin the day together

NSFW

• Y’all cannot tell me this guy isn’t the most gentlest man in bed

• Always asking if you’re comfortable, moving at a reasonable pace until you’re ready, praising you for taking him so well, etc

• He 100% presses down on your stomach to feel how deep he is inside of you

• Gives you neck kisses while he praises you

• #need that

• I think he’d end up being more serious than silly

• Although he would occasionally chuckle at your whimpers and moans, I don’t feel like he’d actually crack a few jokes

Daisuke

• Ten thousand percent blushes at the slightest contact. Even from your hand accidentally rubbing against his he becomes a flustered mess

• Adores PDA, he doesn’t care

• But of course if you don’t, that’s fine

• Just hold his pinky finger and give him a kiss on the cheek from time to time and he’s good to go

• 100% does puppy eyes whenever he wants a kiss

• You guys could just be laying on the lounge area’s couch and he would give you those eyes. Obviously you gave him what he wanted because who wouldn’t

• When you cuddle, I don’t really see him having a favorite position. He could be the big spoon or the little spoon, he’s happy with both

• When he’s the little spoon, he’d have his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. His head would be smushed into your chest, snuggling close

• When he’s the big spoon, he’d almost always have an arm wrapped around your shoulders while being in a starfish position

• Not to mention the snoring. He snores so loud you can’t prove me otherwise. He would sleep with his mouth open, which makes it even worse

• At first, it was tricky getting used to his snoring. But after a month or two of sleeping together, you couldn’t sleep without it

• Definitely not the one to wake up first. Most of the time, you have to drag him out of the bed to get him up and get ready for the day, leading to him whining and groaning

• Physical touch has this man in a chokehold

• Whenever the two of you actually have to work, he’d be so sad to leave you alone

• But after you two finally met up after, he would blabber about what he did, who he talked to, etc. and you would listen to every detail

• 100% the one to say “gyatt” whenever you pass by him. Even if you have a flat ass he still says it

• If you ended up dying before him, this guy would actually become depressed

• We all know he started getting drunk due to the mouthwash, but that is nowhere near how much he drank when you passed away

• If he ended up dying before you, he would promise you a thousand times while he’s bleeding out that he’d wait for you

• But back to fluff

• Whenever you have a bad day, this guy is definitely not leaving you alone

• He’d cuddle you until you literally explode

• If you were to ever kiss him anywhere on his face, he’d be a blushing mess no matter how light it is

• He genuinely doesn’t know what he’s doing and just wings it with you, knowing you’d love him no matter what

NSFW

• He’s definitely a whiner

• You’d have to shut him up by either making out or keeping a hand on his mouth to muffle him

• Soft sex soft sex soft sex

• There’s no way he can take it seriously when you two are in bed. Of course he would try if you were into that, but he’d end up giggling at the end of each sentence

• 100% has a praise kink

• Please tell this man how good he’s doing at keeping you satisfied. He’d be way too embarrassed to do anything more with you if you don’t

Anya

• My poor baby

• She isn’t the best at expressing her love for you, but it’s obvious she loves you so much

• Not very big on PDA, but you do sometimes get a hug or a light peck on the cheek whenever you walk into a room she’s already in

• Will rant to you about how dumb it is that Daisuke won the game in Sorry!. She could honestly go on for hours on end

• You have to calm her down and tell her that it’ll be okay. Never tell her “it’s just a game” because then she’ll get even more upset

• When she found out she was pregnant, she felt terrible. Not just for herself but for you

• What would you think? Assume she’s cheating on you with her assaulter?

• You two were in bed when she finally broke the news to you about Jimmy and the baby. And oh my god you actually almost fought that man

• She had to hold you back from getting up from your spot. After that night, you shot daggers at that man every time you passed him. You didn’t speak to him once, no matter the situation

• You held her in your arms that night, whispering praises into her ear before she finally fell asleep

• Speaking of sleep, she adores being the little spoon while cuddling with you

• Her face smushed into your chest? Your arms wrapped around her, fingers twisting around her hair? It sounded like heaven

• I feel like Anya would be the one to wake up first

• She won’t leave you alone until you did, so it doesn’t take long for you both to be up and ready

• She would mutter petnames against your neck, pleading with you to wake up from your slumber

• 100% makes your favorite drink in the morning and makes it perfect every. single. time

• If you can’t cook, she’ll teach you

• She’s a wonderful teacher and chef. She explains everything to you correctly and soon you actually catch on

• You bake cookies by yourself (under her supervision) and if you burn them, she still praises you like you did everything right

• Whenever you get hurt, even if it’s just a scratch that’s barely bleeding, she cares for you as if you’ve broken a bone

• Both of you are each other’s protectors. She watches out for you, and you watch out for her

NSFW

• She wouldn’t be very talkative, but she would occasionally speak if you ever asked

• Ex: “Use your words, baby.” “Y/N-.. Please..”

• I feel like she’d shed a few tears whenever she becomes overstimulated, or if it’s your first time together

• Let her go as slow as she wants. She’ll eventually become comfortable enough with you, but it’ll take a few attempts

• I’m literally begging you, don’t slam your fingers, dildo/strap, or dick into her. She won’t talk to you for ages

• Don’t do anything harsh while having intercourse. I feel like she’d rather you be soft with her

• She’d be a mix of silly and serious. Drop a few occasional jokes to get her to laugh. But only do that when you two are actually moving at a good pace

• At first, I think she would be serious. If not nervous. But when you guys are finally adjusting to each other, it’s always nice to see her giggle

__________

authors note

I sincerely apologize if anyone was hoping for swansea.. I just couldn’t think of anything for him. Still wanna kiss that grumpy old man though!!

but nonetheless, I hope you all liked this<3

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[bunnyrafe]

𓊆ྀིRULES OF ENGAGEMENT𓊇ྀི — rafe & reader make their official debut at midsummers, but things can never seem to go to plan.

♥︎ 𝓃otes: so excited to share this one with everyone— i adore playing around with AUs and dynamics. enjoy xoxo

content / warnings -> 18+, MDNI. 900. arranged marriage AU. f!reader, kook!reader, mean!rafe, drinking, violence.

from your understanding, it was more or less ward's last wish. it was something him and rafe had privately discussed with your parents while you were somewhere twiddling your thumbs, you suppose. you were to marry into the cameron family and there was very little you could do about it— even after ward's passing.

it’s the way things go. it’s what the island needs.

your mother and father were more than happy to send you off to tannyhill, helping you pack up your childhood bedroom into designer duffle bags. from your stuffed animals and comfort items, to your prettiest sundresses and most expensive heels.

that night while you unpacked everything you were inconsolable. shivering in your new room that seemed uncomfortably vacant despite the vintage furniture and floral wallpaper. you could feel rafe’s gaze on your back. it burned right through your blouse— it made your frame tremble and shake more than your sobs ever could, all while he silently stood in the doorway like a sociopath.

“things aren’t so bad here, y’know?” rafe almost sounded like he was lamenting— like he was trying to convince himself more so than you.. but his next words were like a dagger to your chest, “i can guarantee i’ll treat you better than your parents did— they couldn’t wait to get rid of you.”

he was gone before you could say anything in return. although it would have been tearful nonsense.

for the first time since you entered the house, you felt like you could breathe due to his sudden absence.

midsummers— you almost wonder if this was all coordinated. it can’t be a coincidence that your first sighting as an “engaged couple” is at midsummers. yet you try not to dwell on it, because it’s too late now anyway as rafe helps you out of his truck.

you land on your heeled feet with a squeak, quickly fixing the skirt of your dress while he scoffs at you, “could you have worn a shorter fuckin’ dress?”

“fuck off.”

you bite back with zero hesitation, snatching your hand away from his own and grabbing your clutch out of the passenger seat where you left it. you stomp away with a clicking sound every time your feet fall on the pavement, and rafe can’t help but grin before he slams the truck door shut and follows behind you.

it takes you all of two minutes to find a glass of champagne and your friends. you ignore rafe's fond gaze on you from the bar, assuming it's nothing but an act for all of the other kooks around the two of you to fall for and fawn over. you're trying to have a good night— you haven't had that luxury in months.

rafe is content at the bar. until he feels an unwanted presence. some guy he vaguely remembers from the private school you all went to. he has the nerve to eye rafe up and down, leaning over the bar right next to him and slurring on his words—

“you got a good one— huh, cameron?” rafe watches this bastard’s gaze travel to you. you, who’s giggling with your group of girls and lighting up the whole room… but you're still causing trouble in that dress— “hate to say it, but i can’t believe i didn’t get a chance with her before you got to her. bet she's real sweet... right?”

rafe cocks his head to the side, breathing in deeply before he brings his scotch glass to his lips, shooting the rest of his whiskey in a single second before he slams the crystal down on the wooden bartop. in an instant, he has this guy’s collar balled up in his fists. nearly choking him with the stiff cotton making up his dress shirt with not an ounce of remorse as he threatens him, meaning it with every fiber of his being— “y’ever even think about her again i’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth out— you hear me?”

when rafe lets go, he falls backwards.

a strong hand wraps around your bare arm, yanking you in whichever direction it wants you to go in while your eyebrows furrow and your face scrunches up.

rafe's voice meets your ears— "we gotta go."

at that your eyes meet his own. his irises are dark and his pupils are blown out with what you can only imagine is anger. his grip on your arm doesn't relent for a single second. especially now that he's dragging you out of the country club so fast that you're tripping over your feet. you feel dizzy with confusion, and the alcohol in your system only exacerbates the issue.

you throw your head over your shoulder, watching the fairy lights twinkle around the patio while both you and rafe get farther and farther away from them, "i haven't even talked to my parents yet..."

rafe only shoves you towards the car.

"why do you have to ruin everything?" you whisper as the waterworks start, just as rafe expected.

he grumbles in return, "shut the fuck up and get in the truck already."

the ride “home” is quiet. aside from your sniffles and tipsy babbles about how you want to go back. rafe grips the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles ache due to the tension, jaw locked even though there’s so much he would die to say to you.

if only you knew that he would kill for you.

[ramen8008]

Give me Percy asking his mom if he can invite some of his orphan friends for the holidays. She says yes of course so he does. He invites Leo, Hazel, and Frank. And though Sally knows of them this is the first time she meets them.

So she opens to see this kid wearing nice clothes as if they are just wrong. His hair made as he continuously resists the urge to run his hands through it. He's shorter than she imagined. He's also too skinny. And it turns out he's Leo Valdez, the kid who can summon fire, who built not only a giant mechanical dragon but also the flying ship they travelled thousands of miles on past multiple oceans and monsters. The kid who Hera and Gaia presented themselves to as a kid, the kid who's the only one in centuries to possess the power he does only for it to be one that was a reminder of what killed his mom. And he's in her front door, a too skinny, fidgeting kid with a small gift bag.

Then it's Hazel and Frank (and Nico but she's mostly used to him). The girl who came back from the dead, the one who can bring out cursed jewels from the Earth, who was a black girl alive at the time of World War, and here she is. And she's this adorable kid who's well dressed and presented who calls Sally "Ma'am" and thanks her.

And then Frank who can turn into any animal in existence, the one who killed a titan while he was turned into a bear, the one who's a master archer, the one who's the son of ARES. And he's this pudgy yet buff adorable kid who seems awkward and gives her a small thanks as he hands her a cake box.

All this and she's amazed because although she knows, seeing them like this just reminded her that they're just kids.

Anyways they have a nice dinner, Paul plays games with them, Hazel has a sailor's mouth when she's playing card games, Frank has a horrible poker face so he just turns into a reptile or something to hide his face, Leo is always trying to cheat but never admits it, ( he makes a little robot to freak Paul out so he can change his dice).

Nico ALWAYS wins in card games except uno in which he loses horribly each and every time.

They all compete to wash the dishes and help Sally but she tells them no and to Percy's disappointment tells him to clean the dishes. Which he does, by controlling the water. And they lose it. They try not to show but they can't believe that Percy Jackson, the one who has defeated Kronos, who went through Tartarus, who fought Ares when he was 12, rejected immortality, and so much more. And here he is washing dishes for his mom while pouting about it.

[yoonstudios]

OH MY GOD HE ASKED FOR MY NUMBER 😭💞

went to wendy's earlier to get some food for my grandpa and we saw my half-uncle (we'll call him K) who works there. we walked in and saw this older guy and his wife there ordering. we ended up discussing about who dips their fries in mayo (my mom and his wife do; me and the guy found it gross lol) and who dips their fries in frosties (me and K absolutely love that shit). the older guy then tells us how he loves how people are different and how boring the world would be if we were all the same. my mom also says to K that the more he grows facial hair, the more he looks like my other uncle. and he responds with a sigh and 'ahh, i don't want to get older!'. he's only a few years older than me so i def get that.

while me and my mom are ordering, the following happens:

K: logan's obsessed with you guys (me and my mom) btw.

us: huh?

K: logan.

K: *turns to yell at this logan guy, who's like 4 yards away from us* ISN'T THAT RIGHT, LOGAN

logan: WHAT DID YOU SAY

K: THAT YOU'RE OBSESSED WITH THEM

logan: I DIDN'T SAY THAT IDK WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT

K: IS THAT NOT WHAT YOU SAID

K goes to the back and this progresses into a full minute long shouting match about what logan did and didn't say about me and my mom while me and her are giggling our asses off lmao. K also offers to get us some of wendy's orange dreamsicle frosty. i said i'll take some and also asked him if it was legal for him to give us free food but he said he'd cover it 😭😭 i tried it and it's delicious btw!

sooooo yeah. i think life is worth it and humanity is overall very good actually.

[bonbelles]

˗ˏˋ height difference ˎˊ˗

prompt: (again, from my own tiny brain that reflects my tiny self) you are small. they are not. here's how that would go.

content: gn!reader

characters included:

diluc

alhaitham

childe/tartaglia

neuvillette

would only make fun of you for it if you did something 'silly' in front of him, like trying to reach for something and failing.

otherwise he's not that bothered, and doesn't point it out to yourself or others.

if he sees you trying to reach something, he'll get it for you then just make a little comment:

like "were you ever going to ask me for help?"

"yes, shortly."

"but you always do everything shortly anyway"

you would then ignore him for a while, but he would not feel bad in the slightest. more so impressed at his improvisation skills.

but overall, he finds the height different endearing, and helps you whenever he can - you just learn to let the little comments slide every so often.

another one to help you if you need anything.

but more likely to make fun of you for it, or just make comments you hear all the time

"what's the weather like down there, anyway?"

and think he's original.

even if you tell him he is not.

he's also the type to watch you and just smile. he just finds everything so much cuter because you're so much shorter than he is.

like diluc, he doesn't really bring it up on the day to day.

but he just observes you, existing, and thinks it's sweet.

curling up under a blanket, he'll just watch your little legs dangle from the sofa (not self-inserting at all haha) and laugh to himself.

"what's so funny?"

"oh, nothing's funny. you're just amusing."

"but i didn't do anything."

"intentionally, dear."

now he's one to make fun of you for it

the type to use your head as an armrest while he's talking to someone

but he does it knowing you're okay with it

if ever you seemed uncomfortable he would stop.

he'll also tease you on a 'spur of the moment' basis.

you'll have a relatively normal evening, and he'll just say "sorry, repeat that"

you repeat it.

"sorry, didn't catch that"

"are you deaf?"

"no, you're just so far away."

he'd deal with a punch to the shoulder every time, but that added to his amusement. you weren't tall enough to hit the face comfortably.

"i'm up here"

"shut up and eat your soup"

like al-haitham, he's an observer

he will just watch you potter about and not really say a word.

he'll comment on his observations every once in a while.

"do you know you waddle when you walk?"

"waddle?"

"yes, akin to a penguin."

you then walk around the room, staring your body down to confirm his inspection.

"oh no, i do."

"it's not an 'oh no' situation. i actually find your waddling endearing, i don't know anyone else who does that."

if anyone else had told you that, you might have become insecure over it. however, neuvillette spent his evening discussing the adorable nature of penguins with you, and using the comparison to, in turn, to you as adorable also.

"penguins can actually communicate in a speech pattern similar to that of us and primates. they are supposedly the only animal to have a type of species-specific linguistic system..."

[probably-writing-x]

Right Here

Summary:

Warnings: Slight references to sex, fluffy as ever

Author’s Note: Kind of a shorter one but this request was so wholesome to write! Thank you so much for your suggestion <3

There were a lot of perks to dating Drew. He was a good boyfriend in every sense of the word. He cared for you, he made you laugh, he checked all of the boxes. Oh, and he was obviously good in bed. But, wasn’t that kind of a given?

Your favourite part though, was always the moments after. The hours after, on more occasions than not. In those times it was like it was only you and him in the whole world. Nobody else. You saw each other in the way that nobody else did.

His legs were tangled with yours, you laying with your head on top of his chest. His arms were around your back, drawing lines up and down the smooth skin, forming goosebumps in their shadows. You’re sure that you could stay like this forever, both of you not needing to speak.

Drew dips his head down and kisses your temple and you lift your head up to perch your chin on his pecs, looking up at him with tired eyes. He smiles, the sort of fatigued smile he gave you in the mornings, his hair sticking flatter on his head now laced with sweat.

“Was it me or you that forgot to shut the window?” He comments, breaking the silence after so much time had passed that you were no longer keeping track.

You turn your head and only now realise the light spilling through, curtains swaying in the breeze as both sides of the wide window were open, “Oh shit.”

He laughs, a deep rumble in his chest, underneath you, “Let’s just hope we weren’t too loud.”

You hit his chest and sit up a little, a blush flurrying it’s way over your cheeks. You were almost one hundred percent certain that, with Drew, it was definitely too loud.

“It’s fine, babe, don’t worry,” He wraps his arms tighter around you to pull you back down to him, “We’re high up here anyway.”

You settle back onto him and he kisses the top of your head, stretching out one arm away from you to grab his phone.

“Plus,” He says, tapping the screen a few times, “What could be more perfect?”

Through the speakers around the room, the sound of the playlist he had made for you starts filling the space, quiet and floating through the air towards the open window. From the angle of your apartment, the moonlight was spilling through, a full moon tonight. From this high up, the sound of the city is almost completely drowned out, just a gentle hum in comparison to how busy it really was.

Drew hums along to the tune of the song, a deep rumble underneath you with his voice still thick.

"I never want this to end," He speaks out, and it makes you frown, pulling away from his chest just a little.

"What do you mean?"

"This, the way we are now," He smiles at you, cupping one side of your face with his large hands, stretching it along the space of your cheek, "Even in five, ten years time, I want it to be exactly like this."

You know he cherishes times like this, when you don't have jobs pulling you apart, or press taking you into two different countries. You could just be the two of you, completely immersed in each other. Every bit of time just stood still, even when it felt like your lives normally moved at a thousand miles an hour. Right now, right here, it all just seemed to stop.

"Exactly like this?" You smile, sure that you could stare at his eyes for as long as you lived.

"Well, maybe with a ring on your finger by then," He tangles his outer hand back into yours, brushing over the empty space on your ring finger, "We could be in a big house just out of the city, maybe a dog and a garden with a pool."

You can't help but look at him with adoration. As much as you wanted to live in this moment, you couldn't wait for your future with him.

"Tell me more," You mumble, resting your head back on his chest and letting your eyes flutter shut.

The moon was casting a glow onto his face but you were sure it was brightened by the excitement that radiated from him as he spoke. He told you about date nights, and decorating the house together, and picking out furniture for the nursery you'd eventually need. At some point, you could feel the sleep take over you and you drift off into a slumber wrapped up in him.

Drew stays awake a little while longer, listening to the rhythm of your breathing, the way it seems to blend with the slow beat of the music. He fixates on the way your hair falls over his skin, tickling every patch that it touched. The way your hands were tucked around the back of his shoulders like you were drawing him into you, the way your legs slotted between his as if they were the perfect fit. Every part of you made him certain that you were exactly the person meant for him. So he held onto these moments, sure that he wanted them for the rest of his life.

[tinythiefalex]

Ouran's Giant Host Club Chapter 3

First Previous Next

Y'all strap in, everything's about to go to shit. /j

This one's a little shorter. To compensate, the next part will be out tomorrow, and that will be the end of episode one.

--------------------------------------------------

In all honesty, Haruhi’s first solo meeting wasn’t terrible. She stood on a table with three guests. The three giant girls were sweet, if a little overwhelming. They weren’t nearly as grabby with Haruhi as the other hosts were, but their non-stop questions were not a great upgrade.

Seemingly endless rounds of questions, cut-offs, and more questions, not to mention all of the fawning. 

“How do you get around?”

“Well, actually, Tamaki-”

“Who does the work in your house?”

“Oh, I do most of-”

“How do you do chores?”

“Like anyone else. My house is my siz-”

“Look at your little uniform! It’s so adorable!”

“Um, thank-”

Haruhi could barely get a few words out before they jumped to the next question. After what felt like an eternity of this, one of them asked “What are your hobbies?”

Haruhi waited a moment to see if one of the girls would interrupt her again. After a few seconds of nothing but wide, curious eyes staring down at her, she answered., “Well, I like to cook, my mother taught me. She was an amazing cook. When she went to the hospital, she left me all kinds of great recipes.” She could hear the giants’ quiet ‘aww’s over this answer, but chose to ignore the cooing. “It was fun to create each dish, especially when they turned out well. And it made me happy to see my dad enjoy it.” Haruhi smiled softly down to herself, “I’ve had a hard childhood, but,” she looked back up to the girls, seeing the awe in their eyes, “Dad and I have managed to make it through okay.”

As the questions started up again, Haruhi couldn’t quite understand why the girls seemed so interested in her. She wasn’t used to this much attention. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one with this question. From the corner of her eye, she could see Tamaki spying from his table. 

Tamaki listened intently from the background. Haruhi’s little voice was hard to make out from more than a few feet away, but he managed to fill in the gaps. He was honestly surprised by how eager the girls were to sit with the human again tomorrow. 

“How is he so popular?” Tamaki wondered to himself. The twins, having no guests at the moment, were sitting close by and answered, “Well, he’s a natural-” “-And anyway, it’s rare for people at this school to see a human up close, much less get to talk to one for this long.”

“Have you forgotten about me?” A feminine voice drew Tamaki’s attention back to his current guest; Ayanokoji.

Tamaki hummed. “Oh no, sorry princess. I’m just a little bit concerned about our newest host.” 

“Well that’s obvious, Tamaki,” she took a sip of her tea. Setting the cup down elegantly, she gave Tamaki a look. “You sure have been keeping an eye on him.”

Tamaki gave her a charming smile, “Of course, I have to,” He looked back at Haruhi’s table thoughtfully, “He’s so tiny, and he’s not used to being around giants. I just don’t want him to have a bad experience here. Not to mention, I’m training him to be a gentleman, like me.” Tamaki brushed a hand through his hair, looking back at Ayano. “Speaking of,” he held his hand out to the lady, smiling, “Why don’t we go check on our little friend?” 

The two giants got to Haruhi’s table just in time to hear her saying goodbye to her guests, “Goodbye, it was a pleasure to meet you!” she says with a smile and a little wave. The girls giggled as they walked away. 

Tamaki grinned wide at the sight and swept Haruhi up in his hands, squeezing her against his chest. “That was so cute!” he squealed as he spun around, “That air of bashfulness was very good! Super good! Amazingly good!” 

“S-Senpai!” Haruhi pushed at Tamaki’s fingers with all of her strength, but they didn’t budge. The spinning felt like being thrown onto a roller coaster without warning, and she did not like it. As she kicked and pushed at the giant’s hands and chest, she looked frantically around the room for an escape. The spinning was disorienting, and she struggled to see anything in the quickly-moving room, but she did spot something, or rather, someone.

Mori. 

Remembering how the especially-tall giant had helped her with Honey before, she decided to take the chance. She managed to squeeze a little arm between Tamaki’s huge fingers and reached out to Mori. Hoping her voice wouldn’t be muffled too much, she shouted,

“Mori-Senpai! Help me!”

Hearing this, Mori immediately rushed over, grabbing Tamaki and sweeping Haruhi into his hand. Haruhi took a moment to catch her breath as she was held gently in his open palm. Not ideal, but much better than the fists that she’s sadly getting used to.  

Tamaki stopped, surprised. “Uh, Mori-Senpai,” he said awkwardly, “you really didn’t need to go that far.” He reached out for Haruhi again. “C’mon little one!” Tamaki giggled, “let daddy give you a big hug!” (← quoted from the show! I didn’t come up with that! I’m not a freak lol!)

Mori curled his fingers around Haruhi a bit, just enough to shield her from Tamaki’s hands. 

Haruhi stood up in the hand, bracing herself against one of Mori’s fingers and scowling up at Tamaki. “Stop it! I’ve already got a dad, I don’t need another one!”

While the argument went on, Princess Ayanokoji sat to the side, glaring at the little human. 

Haruhi sighed and craned her neck to look up at Mori, “I think I need a moment to myself.”

Mori obediently let Haruhi back down at her table and walked off, dragging Tamaki behind him and slightly shaking the table beneath her with their steps. A short minute later, as Haruhi took a breath, she heard, and felt, giant footsteps coming up behind her. Expecting Tamaki again, she turned around to scold him, but froze at the sight of Ayanokoji staring down at her. “Oh, h-hello-”

Before Haruhi can finish greeting the giant, Ayano interrupts her. “I bet you love having Tamaki making you over and fawning over you.” Haruhi furrowed her eyebrows at the princess’s words as she continued, “It’s useless though, you’ll always be a second-class citizen.”

Ayano walks away, subtly bumping the table just hard enough to make Haruhi stumble.

I didn’t think there were bullies at this school. Haruhi thinks, brushing off her uniform, I guess they’re everywhere. 

The next day, as Tamaki carried Haruhi over to her assigned table, the human was surprised to see Ayanokoji sitting there. As Tamaki quickly greeted her and walked away, Haruhi smiled up at the giant, deciding to just try and get through this meeting as calmly as possible. 

Why would she request me when it’s so obvious she hates me? 

For the first while, the meeting went on as normal. Ayano spoke to Haruhi casually, if a little condescendingly, before it took a turn. 

“And you actually convinced Tamaki to be your chauffeur? How astonishing.” Ayano giggled softly. “You do realize he’s a blueblood and not a commoner, right? He’s far above dragging a little human like you around from room to room. The only reason he’s paying attention to you is because he wants to turn you into a gentleman. A polite little doll he can show off in his club” Haruhi turned away from her slightly, in thought. Ayano continued dismissively, “Don’t start thinking he cares about you just because he’s doting on you.” There. “He’s just-”

“Now I understand.” It was Haruhi’s turn to interrupt. “You’re jealous of me.”

She saw something in the giant’s eyes tighten. Then, Ayanokoji stood up, placed her hands delicately on the table, and, 

“Whoops.”

Ayano pushed the table over, sending everything on its surface crashing down toward the floor. 

Everything, including Haruhi.

[karmaholik]

Suguru enters into the classroom with a sleepy greeting and is met with two wide-eyed stares. It was the morning after he got back from a particularly irritating mission. Not only did it take longer than expected, but the curse he was dealing with was just plain annoying.

 

It would have been fun if Satoru was with him like he was supposed to be, but Yaga had separated them as a punishment. So they were sent on solo missions apart.

 

"What?" He asks slowly as they continue to stare at him. He looks down at his uniform. Nothing seemed out of place. It's not like he showed up to class without pants. Though, Satoru would probably have enjoyed that. 

"What the fuck happened?" Satoru exclaims as he shoots out of his chair, it clatters to the floor at the force. He's rounding his desk and coming right for Suguru. The black-haired boy can only watch Satoru with confusion etched into his features. 

"Where did it go?" Satoru gestures to him wildly, looking a little frantic. Suguru just stares at him. What the hell is he going on about?

"He means your hair, dumbass." Shoko says as her teeth clack against the sucker she rolls around in her mouth. 

Oh. He forgot about that. 

"Ah, the curse got a chunk of it. It was this ball with a bunch of razor blades on it. I just cut the rest off for it to be even." He hears a sharp intake of breath from Satoru. His hand unconsciously goes up to tugs at the ends that now fall around his ears. 

It was much shorter now. Suguru didn't mind it. Sure, he liked it longer, but this was fine, too. His showers would be a lot shorter now. 

"Shoko, use your RCT to fix his hair!" Satoru demands, pointing to Suguru as he looks expectantly at her. She doesn't even blink.

"That's not how that works, idiot." She says blandly. It wasn't a big deal. Except it seemed to be that way to Satoru, who looked absolutely devastated as his gaze fell to the shorter black tresses. 

"Satoru," he calls out softly as he steps closer to the other boy. They are nose to nose, and Suguru gives him a smile as he brings his hands up to cup Satoru's face lovingly.

"It's just hair. It will grow back." He tries to sound reassuring. Satoru blinks rapidly, and Suguru notices his eyes looking glassy. 'Aw,' he thinks. 'How adorable.'

"But I liked it long." His mouth wobbles a bit, and Suguru can't help but coo at him. It was honestly so cute how upset Satoru is over his hair. He'll grow it out again and keep it long since Satoru seemed to like it so much. 

Satoru runs a hand through Suguru's hair with a pout. With a laugh at the other boy's actions, Suguru starts leaning in for a kiss.

"I swear, if you guys kiss in front of me, I won't heal you the next time you fuck up. I'll let you suffer." Suguru doesn't heed her warning and leans forwards anyways to press a kiss to Satoru's pouty lips. Oh well, guess he'll suffer. 

[irkimatsu]

How about Fem!reader and Sick!Husk 🤒 they are already dating and while doting on him and playing nurse, she nuzzles/kisses him. He's huffing and lightly shooing her away saying she'll get sick too and she's says it will help.

---fast forward---

She's in bed mostly covered with blankets all the way up to her nose. Puffy eyes, washcloth on forehead..the works. Husk at the foot of the bed, looking like 😪

Reader: .....worth it 😁😇

Thank you for the adorable ask! The piece I came up with for it is a little on the shorter end, but tooth-rottingly fluffy. I'm happy with it!

SFW, about 1k words. Reader takes care of Husk while sick, then Husk returns the favor.

Husk looks like shit.

Not that you would tell him that; you’re sure he’d agree with you, but it’s not the sort of thing you enjoy pointing out.

You’re sitting by his bedside as he curls up in a ball, sweat and snot pouring down his face. You’re assuming they are, anyway; he rolled over shortly after you came in, saying that you didn’t need to see that nasty shit. His wings and ears are drooping, and even just looking at him from the back you can tell he’s miserable. For all the temptations it offered, Hell did occasionally like reminding its residents that being there is supposed to be a punishment, such as by giving Sinners illnesses that made them crave death without actually granting that mercy.

“My head fuckin’ hurts…” Husk groans before launching into a horrible cough. You stroke his back to try to ease his cough, and you frown at how feverish and slick his skin is. He isn’t doing well at all…

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask.

He opens his mouth to speak, but you feel the need to clarify.

“Besides bringing you alcohol?”

“Aw, babe…” he whines as he curls up more tightly. “Some whiskey would help me sleep…”

“If you want to sleep I can find you some cough medicine. That you will take a proper dose of.”

Husk would probably complain further if he wasn’t having another coughing fit.

“Is it me, or is it fuckin’ hot in here…?” he asks after he’s done coughing, his voice hoarse and weak. “Even hotter than normal…”

“That must be the fever…” you say. “Give me a second. I’ll be right back.”

As expected, he doesn’t move as you disappear into his bathroom. As you run a washcloth under the tap, the water turned all the way to “cold”, you hear Husk continue to cough and retch.

“I’ll be right there…” you say softly. “Just hold on…”

Once the cloth is soaked through, you return to his bedside, this time sitting so he’s facing you. His eyelids are half shut, and he doesn’t appear to be comprehending much of what he’s seeing.

“Fuckin’ hurts…” he murmurs as his eyes drift closed.

“It’s okay…” you assure him as you lightly dab at his head with the cloth. He hisses through his teeth at first from the cold, but quickly relaxes as you wipe him down.

“Feels good…” he murmurs, eyes still closed. You lightly smile at him as you run the cloth down his cheek, and then his neck.

“Roll over on your back?” you ask him. He groans, but follows your advice, not opening his eyes as he does. Once he’s in position, you drape the cloth over his forehead. “This will cool you down. Rest as much as you need to, okay? The bar can wait.”

“Thanks…” he says, sounding half-asleep. His breathing is so raspy… you hope some rest will take care of that soon. He really seems to be struggling. If only there was more you could do to help…

You know one thing that might make him feel better, if only emotionally. As he continues to lay there peacefully, trying to drift off into sleep, you lean in and gently kiss his cheek.

“Hey!” he says with a growl, swiping his paw at you without opening his eyes. “Are you trying to get yourself sick, too?”

“Don’t you like it when I kiss you?” you ask with a small smile.

“Yeah, but…”

“Having things you like can help you heal quicker,” you say before kissing him again.

“You don’t need this fuckin’ flu… I don’t want you to feel this shitty…” he grumbles, but he doesn’t protest any further than that. You kiss his cheek one last time, then turn off the lights and leave the room so he can rest.

—

About a week later, it’s your turn to feel like shit.

You slowly open your aching eyes, not quite certain where you are. Your own bed at the hotel…? It’s so hard to think when your entire face is stuffed with crap. Your whole body aches, but nothing hurts more than your head, which feels like a tiny imp is trying to claw his way out of your skull.

A cold trickle of water runs down your cheek, and you instinctively reach out your tongue to lick it up. God, you’re so thirsty…

…wait, water? Upon focusing a little more, you notice there’s a wet rag over your forehead.

You can already guess who put that there for you before you turn your head. Husk is kneeled at your bedside, his arms crossed on the mattress. His head is resting on them, and he’s snoring quietly.

Smiling as much as you can given the circumstances, you weakly lift your aching arm and give him a slight scratch behind the ear. He grunts as his eyes slowly open.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Awful.”

He chuckles to himself. “I told ya you didn’t want that shit.”

“Yeah, yeah, you were right…” You’d roll your eyes if you didn’t feel like your face was about to explode. “You can make fun of me when I’m not dying anymore.”

“Deal.”

You close your eyes again, wondering how long it will take for sleep to show its sweet mercy and turn your brain off for a few hours. Before you can fully drift off, you feel weight on the bed next to you.

“Husk?” you ask. “What are you doing?”

“I already got sick. I don’t think I can get it again.” With that excuse, he settles into bed and cuddles up next to you. “What was it you said before? Things you like can make you get better quicker?”

“You’re right… and this is something I like. Thank you…” Before you can try to sleep again, another thought occurs to you. “Cat purrs are supposed to be healing, too…”

Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You know how insecure he is about his demon form being a cat.

But now doesn’t appear to be the time for insecurity. Without hesitation, he nuzzles his head into your neck, and he starts purring.

You’re asleep in his embrace within minutes.

[narkissistikos]

Dating Connor Stoll Headcanons

· This man. This gorgeous man. I love writing for him so much

· He’s literally so pretty

· And adorable

· The list goes on

· Anyways, moving on.

· I think at this point it’s just unanimously decided that Connor’s love language is physical touch. It’s also gift giving, but that’s more like a secondary thing.

· He constantly has his hand on you. If not his hand at least some part of his body is touching you.

· Like if you guys are just going somewhere, even to another room he has to grab your hand while you walk

· Also, loves linking pinkies with you.

· It seems like a pinkie promise that he’s right here and not going anywhere, which is good reassurance considering your lives

· Also…. Hugs. Lots and lots of hugs

· Hugs where you have your hands around his waist and your head is on his chest. (its easier to imagine if you’re kinda shorter than him)

· He likes those hugs because feels like he is protecting you

· Don’t get me wrong he knows dam well that you can protect yourself. He just feels better when he’s the one doing it

· He also loves the hugs when he wraps his hands around your waist and gets to lay his head on your chest

· He likes hearing your heartbeat in those moments

· LOVES it when you play with his hair

· Or just touch his hair

· Which is actually very soft

· Also be ready for back hugs. And also surprise back hugs

· Like you’d have just been talking to your friend and he sees you from a little far away and sprints towards you to give you a hug

· There have been incidents earlier where you punched him cuz you felt like you were being attacked

· He’s probably a very deep sleeper

· Like once he falls asleep it’s nearly impossible for anything to wake him up before he’s ready

· His sleep is extremely precious to him.

· But if you’re a person who gets inspiration at the most random times (like me) and absolutely NEED to do your work, he’ll stay awake with you even if his eyes are drooping and he barely can sit straight.

· But once you’re done, he’ll help you keep your things away and hold you tight causing both of you to go straight to sleep

· Also if you’re a type of artist (like writer, poet, musician, etc etc.) he’ll love it so much if you do something keeping him as a muse

· Like if you’re an artist and draw him, he’ll be so flustered

· Or if you write a poem, like dedicated to him, he’ll feel so freaking flustered

· He’s a huge blushing mess

· Can’t think straight for the next five minutes and has trouble breathing.

· Not gonna lie the first time you gave him an artwork (or written piece) he started tearing up because it was so dam beautiful and thoughtful and he never would’ve thought that somebody would do something like this for him

· You were so scared you thought he was crying because it was terrible

· He told you ‘no it’s beautiful’

· Didn’t let you go for the rest of the day

· Lowkey insecure, so be sure to tell him affirmations.

· And also he turns into a blushing mess whenever you compliment him and its very adorable to watch

· It’s a win win situation

· Ok hear me out, naps together.

· Because you get tired

· There also are days when he’s tired

· So you two just hold each other and try to sleep your problems away (me honestly)

· I feel like he’s more of a big spoon

· And if he’s spooning you he’ll probably have his hand up your shirt rubbing circles on your stomach

· There also are days when he’s the little spoon

· That’s mostly when he can’t sleep because of his nightmares

· Spooning him is a little hard considering how freaking tall he is, but you make do

· Sometimes Connor will just scoot a little lower and lay his head near you heart and go to sleep.

· It’s also the other way round a lot of times

° He absolutely loves it when you wear his shirt or just clothes in general. So cuddling while wearing his clothes

· KISSES

· Lots of kisses

· Cheek kisses

· Forehead kisses

· Hand kisses

· Kisses where he knows he has to stop but he really doesn’t want to

· Little pecks when one of you has to leave

· Kisses where both of you are smiling so hard because you make each other so so so happy

· Before ya’ll started dating and there was this constant tension in the air, you often caught Connor sneaking glances at your lips

· He just couldn’t help it

· He really wanted to kiss you and he hated that he couldn’t

· Also, surprise kisses

· At this point you’ve just trained yourself to be ready for surprise kisses

· Imagine you’re walking back to your cabin and you hear a “hey darling” with a little peck on your lips

· Also, he either calls you love or darling, with the occasional babe sprinkled here and there. You can’t convince me otherwise

· If you speak another language other than English, he’ll learn some nicknames in that language to call you.

· He loves how happy you get when he calls you ‘his love’ in your language

· This is sorta an au where you guys are allowed to use phones

· His phone is filled with multiple photos of you

· Some are really beautiful

· Some really are not. Or so you think

· “Connor please delete that photo.”

· “But you look so pretty in it.”

· “I look like an idiot. Delete it.”

· “No, you look like a cute idiot.”

· Despite many protest he still didn’t delete the pics

· He sometimes cooks for you, while you look cute on counters

· Although mostly the cooking is done by you

· After one too many incident with uncontrollable fire you both decided its best for you to cook

· He’ll probably also feed you while you’re very busy paying attention to the show you two are watching· Dancing together

· Its sometimes just stupid dances together where you’re too busy having fun

· Other times it’s really romantic with both of you swaying along with romantic love songs

· Stargazing dates

· If you don’t know a lot about constellations he’ll tell you stories about the stars

· If you do you just end up talking about life and everything between everything and nothing

· Long drives or walks together

· Kissing at the stop signs darling

· Connor seems like the type of guy who really likes 5 seconds of summer and arctic monkeys

· So there’s a lot of their music sprinkled throughout the drives

· There’s two ways to cheer Connor up when he’s upset

· Cuddles

· Or long drives

· And pranks

· Look just because you’re his lover, whom he loves very much, does not mean you get a free pass

· He’ll still prank you but it’s pretty mild stuff compared to the landmines set on the wrong hill

· There have been multiple occasions where you woke up with dyed hair

· And all the walls of your cabin painted the most ridiculous colors which didn’t match the aesthetic at all

· I don’t feel like he’s the kind of guy to get jealous really easily

· He trusts you

· He also supports anyone who gives you a genuine compliment

· ‘Yes. This is my gorgeous and talented partner and they deserve to be complimented.’

· Likes it when anyone lifts you up

· But if he sees a guy openly flirting with you and sees that you’re uncomfortable that’s when he gets mad.

· He gets so mad

· Won’t openly fight that person since he knows you’re more than capable of doing that and would have done it if you wanted to hurt them

· But he’ll purposefully get touchy and make it clear for them to back off and the glares he gives them are enough to kill

· And if that person still doesn’t get a hint Connor will probably somehow get you out of that conversation

· And the next day the first thing you hear is that the person who was flirting with you last night, has blue skin now

· But that’s only the beginning, Connor doesn’t stop there. For the next two day, that person gets the worst pranks

· He loves making you smile

· He also loves making you laugh

· Your laugh is pretty much his favourite sound in the world· And don’t tell me that your laugh sounds like a baby goat being strangled

· Or a car engine which won’t start

· He still loves it· He wants to get drunk on it every night

· Also whenever he’s like super tired, he’ll get so so so sappy· He’s literally telling you the cheesiest and sappiest things· Loves taking care of you

· He’ll constantly make sure that you ate enough, or that you drank enough water, and that you’re sleeping enough

· He isn’t the best with feelings

· So whenever he sees you upset he tries his ultimate best to cheer you up

· Or to hear out what’s making you upset

· He’ll give you a hug if you want

· He’ll give you space if that’s what you want

· Heck he’ll even kill someone if you want

· He doesn’t know that just the effort makes you feel better

· Did I mention that he looks at you like you literally are the most beautiful person on the planet (you are tho, he ain’t wrong)

· Travis teases him all the time

· Connor retorts saying that he isn’t any better and that he’s seen the way he looks at Katie

· Connor loves your hair

· Connor loves your eyes

· Connor loves your smile

· Connor loves your laugh

· Connor loves your hands

· Connor loves your personality

· Connor loves your body

· Connor loves you so freaking much that it genuinely shocks him sometimes, what he would do for you

[witchthewriter]

𝑴𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆   𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄

Paid story for @yourwinchesterbros. Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: swears, SMUT no one under 18 read this please, i.e., rough sex

ᵐᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡⁱˢᵗ

Jax decided to drive both of you over to his place, pick the boys up and go to the park. You agreed, because … you didn’t really know what the boys liked to do. Jax found your anxiety a tiny bit humorous, only because you were so riled about it.

    “I mean, what if I say … the wrong thing and they hate me forever? I don’t want to be the evil stepmother!” You said while the two of you got dressed.

 “Babe, they’re not gonna think of you like that. I promise,” he said and gave you a peck on the cheek. Rolling your eyes, you zipped up your boots and went to feed your own two boys. They were waiting patiently at their bowls, both tails wagging when you made their food.

   With Jax in the shower, your mind wandered to all the things that could happen. Fuck, what if one of them gets hurt on my watch? You thought while placing the silver bowls on the ground.

You weren’t expecting things to go well. That’s just how your mind worked sometimes, okay ... all the time. Low expectations meant you couldn’t get hurt. That whatever went wrong was bound to happen anyway. Basically, you were a supporter of Murphy’s Law.

You were already dressed and waiting on Jax. So, you decided to do a bit of tidying up, which turned into cleaning and when Jax came out of the bathroom, he saw you with two gloves on, heavily scrubbing the benches.

   “Babe! It’ll be okay. They’re just kids-“ Jax had your face in his hands as he spoke, so you had nowhere else to look but in his eyes. Eyes that seemed to look straight through you. To see everything you were feeling.

It made your stomach flip. He truly believed his sons would somehow adore you. Just as he did. Oh, the folly of men.

You rode over to Jax's place on his bike and the whole way there you couldn't stop panicking. Children frightened you a little, but what you didn't realise was that Jax could feel your heartbeat through his back.

And at one point, he lightly slapped the side of your thigh. It was his way of trying to get you out of your own mind.

The ride felt shorter than usual and as you hopped off the bike and undid the helmet, you followed Jax up to the house. It was just like any other house. It was middle-class; clean, and well-maintained, even the lawn had been mowed. The mailbox stuck out to you, and you didn’t know why. Maybe it was because of how weird a biker in a gang would have such a normal, everyday, and mundane … thing. It wasn’t rusting or chipping either...unlike yours.

   With one knock to the door, Jax opened it and went inside. With you right behind him, he squeezed your hand once and went to find his boys.

Oh fuck, okay here we go, you thought, looking around the place. Hell, it was clean. Cleaner than your own home. Well, Jax would have hired a cleaner, or at least, Gemma would have. But if you ever moved in with him, would you still keep the cleaner around? Would Gemma still come around as often?

It was these weird thoughts that sometimes kept you up at night. Were they stupid thoughts? Over the top? Were you thinking too far ahead? Calm down, you thought to yourself. And tapped your thigh right where Jax had before.

  Your mind was snapped out of its cage when you heard the sound of heels on tiles. Holding a breath, you saw ...that Wendy wasn’t there. Unbeknownst to you, Jax had had a conversation with her the night before. It wasn’t a fun one either. But he did make things clear, as well as assure Wendy that her boys weren’t being taken from her.

  Gemma stood there with her arms crossed. Was she glowering at you? No, no she was sizing you up. Once again.

   “The way you handled Wendy the other night was pretty badass, Zoe.”

Some people would see that as a compliment but there was something sour in her words.

Before you could reply, Jax came out with two blonde-haired boys.

Abel and Thomas were hesitant as they clung to their father. All three had blonde hair, and the thought made you smile. For a split second, you wondered what coloured hair your baby with Jax would be, but instantly you scolded yourself. Don’t think so far ahead! you thought.

Abel was the easiest one to get along with, all you had to do was ask him about his toys and off he was, running around his house trying to drag you along, showing you all the different rooms and what he used them for.

   “And in that one we do number ones and number twos,” he said brightly while pointing to the toilet.

  “Whew, that’s good to know,” you responded with a laugh. Jax howled with laughter, while carrying Thomas close to his chest. Jax held onto Thomas, who didn’t want to leave his father’s arms. Not because he didn’t like this new stranger, no, he’d been around strangers all the time. It was just that right now he got all his father’s attention. Finally.

   “Isn’t that right, daddy?” Abel said with such innocent eyes.

“Absolutely,” Jax huffed, and scruffed his son’s hair.

   But he wasn’t done. Once Abel got someone’s attention, he had to keep it.

“And this…” he swung open the door, “is my bedroom!” He opened his arm in a ‘ta-da’ kind of way and then ran to his bed and jumped on it.

   “Woah man,” you said. Trying your best to be as interested as possible. And it was interesting to see the little knick-knacks in the toddlers room. It was blue, with shelves full of photos and race cars. And a LOT of miniature toy bikes.

   Jax followed you guys in and took in the picture before him. The three people he loved most in this world. His two beautiful boys. And the woman he’d been waiting for.

  “Hey, you guys wanna go to the park?” Jax said and both the boys screamed “yes!” Even Thomas let his excitement show.

Fuck Murphy’s Law, you thought. The sun was shining, warming everyone’s skin, not a cloud in the sky. The playground was empty except for the four of you, who were currently in a very serious game of tips. Abel was it, and he had to tap the closest person so then they would switch. In a child’s mind it was perfectly logical. But explaining it to Thomas was a bit of a challenge. He was just happy to cling to Jax.

  Whenever you looked over at Thomas, he buried himself further into his father’s chest. Almost covering himself with the kutte. God, if you weren’t seeing a lot of Jax, then these poor boys barely saw him. A pang of guilt hit you in the chest and you felt a little sick. You hadn’t even thought about the boys and what Jax meant to them.

“No, no ah!” You yelled as you ‘ran away’ from Abel (you couldn’t help but go easy on the kids. If it were with other adults … then your competitive nature would send you overboard.)

  Abel’s tanned arm reached out and tugged at your shirt. “Got you! Got you!” He screamed in delight, his little mouth curling in a big smile.

    “Zo is it!” Thomas babbled, giggling near his dad. The first time he acknowledged you. It made you beam. Maybe this was the reason people had kids … for some validation.

Looking at both boys, you curled your fingers, and you did your worst evil laugh. Abel screeched happily, jumping to the upper level, and running to the slide. Jax held Thomas’ hand and slowly ran away from you, hiding between the swings.

    “Ohhh, I’m gonna get you!” You said to Jax, who looked at you with a sly grin.

“I would like to see you try-“ he replied, trying his best to hold in a smile. Being suave wasn’t actually that easy. Especially while playing tips.

  But you took off, and without even moving, Jax let you jump onto his back and down to the ground. Abel and Thomas screamed in pure excitement.

   The little boys piled on top of you two, squealing and giggling, they could barely stay on top because they were so small.

    “We got you Dad!” Abel said, holding onto your back.

“Yeah, we dot you!” Thomas echoed, giving his father a kiss on the face.  He was going to be the sweetest thing on earth. You just knew.

Your things were sitting on the park bench not that far from the playground. But Jax didn’t hear his phone ring. He placed it in your bag and actually forgot about it.

   For once he wanted not to be interrupted, to have time true family time. Because he learnt from his past. And wasn’t going to make the same mistakes again.

  But that meant he missed a call. Well, a few calls actually. Ones that would change the course of club business.

  On the drive back home, you looked at Jax and spelled out “I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M?” He only responded with a deep belly laugh.

   “Yeah, I reckon we can do that.”

By the time the boys arrived home, their faces were covered in icecream and sprinkles. Much to Gemma’s dismay.

   “God, now they’re gonna be running on the roof,” she said with a huff. But you knew it was an act. She loved that the boys were spending time with their father.

   “It’s alright Ma, I’ll clean them up.”

“Yeah I know you will,” she said like a whip. Her hands on her hips as she led the four of you inside. She ran the bath, and although the boys were filthy, they both whined.

   “C’mon, Zo loves baths,” Jax said, adding bubbles and toys to the tub.

“Y-yeah, I do! They’re great!” You said enthusiastically, doing your best to persuade the two little grubs to get clean. They looked like the lost boys from Peter Pan.

  When the tub was full enough, the boys still wouldn’t get in. Both with crossed arms (Thomas just copying his brother), they refused.

     “I bet,” you said with an idea in your head, ”that you’ve never had a bath with your clothes … on.”

And their eyes lit up.

   Gemma rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“I mean a bath is a bath right?” You said to Jax, who looked at you with raised brows.

    “I mean … yeah.”

After the boys were cleaned, Gemma was almost adamant that the two of you leave. You could feel the ownership radiating off of her.

  Like leaving a lioness’ den, you got on the bike and Jax took you home. Gemma watched as you two sped off, and when she turned to go back inside, you could have sworn her tail followed.

  When Jax dropped you home, he finally looked at his phone. You could see the concern on his face, but something in you told you to back off. To give him some privacy. Hey, maybe it wasn’t club business for all you knew. Maybe it was a big day for him as well.

Barely giving you a kiss, he waited for you to walk inside and sped off.

The club business had Jax fired up. And when he got to your place, he harshly knocked on the door, then started pacing back and forth.

   “Coming,” you called, slipping on your pajama pants. Reaching the door, you yanked it open and saw a frazzled Jax Teller.

   “Shit,” you said plainly.

“Yeah, shit,” he said darkly.

Moving aside, he stalked in and did not take a seat.

  “Do you want a drink?” You said letting the door click closed.

“I- I don’t know,” he started pacing again, and you realised you were seeing the real Jax. The one that no one else saw. The one who did all his thinking by himself.

   “Yeah, I know what you need,” you said slightly wide-eyed. Half of you was worried for Jax, and the other half was … excited. Excited that your relationship had progressed to letting each other see one’s breakdown.

In the kitchen cabinet sat a heavy glass bottle of brown liquor. It was something that Skeeter had made at home. You tried it before, and one glass was the equivalent to four standard drinks.

Getting out your nicest drinking glass, you put in a few ice cubs and two shots of the liquor. Before closing the lid, you took a swig and scrunched your face in reaction. That shit was strong.

    “Here,” you said and sat down. Finally, he followed your lead.

For some reason, it was only now that he could take a deep breath. When you handed him the glass, Jax’s fingers lingered over your own, needing to feel your touch. It was then that he started to calm down. Down a step, then another.

 Jax drained the glass and looked at you with the hunger of a wild animal. Pure lust in his blue, glowing, eyes. Heat travelled from your face, down your neck and in between your thighs. Fuck.

  Prowling over to you, Jax picked you up with ease and laid you on the carpet floor. Your long hair now a messy crown around your head, the tv became background noise, as Jax became mesmerising in his pursuit of pleasure.  

Biting down on your neck, he claimed you as his. With his hands clutching you tight, moving your top further upwards, he kissed at the exposed flesh. Groaning at your taste. The smell of you turned him on, let alone how you looked, how you walked and talked. The whole of you was like a need for him. Sustenance, nourishment; he needed you.

 It was as if you both had that same thought. Jax needed Zo. And it was a race to have all of you.

With swift movements, he pushed your clothes from your body, grabbed ahold of you, and twisted you around. With your face to the ground, he pushed down your pants and ground against your bare ass.

   “Jax,” you whispered and in response all he did was growl. Fuck, you thought. You weren’t with Prince Charming tonight. He wrapped his hand around your neck and with his lips, pulled on your earlobe.

  Jax let go of you, only to undo his pants, and you started to move. But as quick as lightning, he pushed you back to the floor.

    “Don’t fucking move,” he roared and the heat between your legs turned to slick.  

 In a split second you were completely naked. You could feel the roughness of his beard between your legs, the warmth of his hands rubbing your thighs, his mouth was everywhere. All you could do was lay there, doing your best to slowly arch your ass closer and closer to his cock.

 Tonight Jax was full of aggression, of rage, of … tension. And he needed you. He hadn’t planned on having you face down on the ground, ass in the air. Such a pretty ass, he thought. And slapped it hard.

   “Ah!” You flicked your head towards him and your eyes grew red. Raising an eyebrow, he inclined his head.

  “No?” He grumbled. His voice was lower than usual. Gravelly, hoarse.

“Yes,” you said in a command. And an evil grin spread across his face. Within moments, your ass was red raw and it made your cunt even more sensitive.

    Seeing you in that position made Jax want to touch every part of you. His hands gripped your cheeks and spread them apart. You knew his face was centimetres away from your core because you could feel his hot breath against it.

  If it was any other night you would say something, but all you dared do was whine.

     “Shhhh,” he cooed, swiping his nose against the exposed flesh. Licking your folds, toying with your clit with one of his fingers.

  “You want me to fuck you?” He asked, almost entranced.

“Yes,” you whispered, and tried to move backwards, so his face was flush against you. At that, he laughed. But a hard hand slapped your ass again and you cried out.

    “I know you want me to fuck you…” and then his mouth was sucking on your cunt, his nose gliding up and down. “I know you do…” he murmured against you.

The tension in stomach was tightening and tightening, but you didn’t want to cum without him inside of you.

  “Jax-“ you whined, trying to get his attention. But he hands were firmly planted on your hips, his face completely buried in your ass, his fingers in your pussy, his mouth moving everywhere.

    “I’m gonna-“

“I know,” and then he undid his pants and let his hard cock spring free.

It didn’t start off slowly like it had the first time. No, this time around Jax was rough. He plunged himself into you, thrusting hard; in and out, in and out. The sound of his balls slapping your ass filled the room but you were too hazy to be embarrassed.

  “G-god,” you moaned loudly, letting his body pound into your own. Jax’s body was practically on top of yours, one hand around your throat, and the other around your middle, thrusting into you erratically.

“Fuck.” 

     “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

    “What was that about.”

“The deal went through babe, I’m sorry – wait I didn’t hurt you did I?” Jax got up from the floor to look you over. Only a few hickies on your neck and breasts. Well, and some on your thighs.

 But you only laughed, a glint in your eye. Having his kneeling body right next to you was a sight to behold. Tanned all over, his hair messed, muscles bulging (may or may not have been flexing). He looked like a god. But to you, he was only a prince. Your prince.

   “I’m fine, Prince Charming, now go get me a blanket, I’m cold.”

“As you wish,” he said and got up, his cock dangling between his legs. You almost gasped. Yes, you were a mature grown woman, but seeing the male form always gave you a little shock. Especially a male form that had been inside you.

“I gotta talk to you about somethin’,” Jax’s voice was heavy and your stomach twisted.

    “…yeah?” You looked up at him and he sighed.

“I have to leave again, not as long as last time though. But I leave tonight.”

  You groaned and flopped back onto the floor. You had only just gotten him back.

“Hey baby,” he said with a smirk on his face, “at least you have somethin’ to masturbate over now.”

[a-blog-for-kat]

Arturo and Charles parallels in DRDT and just how much they're alike and different.

Sorry if this is confusing and all over the place it's just an info dump for myself 😭

So DRDT is a guilty pleasure for me, I enjoy it to death, and I honestly couldn't see myself without it today. It's shaped so much of my personality and how I act and am today.

But enough talk about how drdt has changed me. There's been something on my mind.

You see... Charles and Arturo are some of my favorite characters in despair time. They're both really well written. Then, I started to see more and more similarities between the two men. And my friends can back me up on how crazy I went.

!!SPOILERS FOR ALL OF DESPAIR TIME AHEAD!!

Website information

Arturo and Charles both get a lot of information on the website already, without even needing to watch any episodes of drdt. We can immediately pinpoint a few things just from the character page alone!

Their names follow a "last name is 1 letter shorter than the first name" pattern, and while that holds no significance, I find it funny that BOTH of them have that. It's just a cool little thing, yknow?

They also have condescending lines at the top of their character bio's

Charles:

"Heh. It's a waste of my time talking to an imbecile like you."

Arturo:

"I only talk to attractive people, so you can get out of my sight."

Both of their talents also fall slightly under the "science" field. Chemistry, and

can I say biology for plastic surgery?

They both have similar favorite colors; Charles having his favorite as Cerulean, which is a shade of blue. And Arturo's being a blueish white color.

They both smell alike as well. Laundry Detergent and Antiseptic, both chemical like smells. Both of the things I've just mentioned don't really matter but more tiny similarities between them.

Diving further into the character page we get these lines in their bio's

Arturo is rude, condescending, and has little value for others

And for Charles

He(Charles) looks down upon those he views as less intelligent.

They both speak down to people, having high standards for them, and if you don't meet them, they'll flick you away. They don't care about you unless you meet those very specific standards. You either must be smart or beautiful.

Another small thing about these two we see on the character page: they both have specific likes and almost opposite dislikes when it comes to how the common person would react to this.

Charles:

Likes: Coffee ice cream

Dislikes: Dogs

Arturo:

Likes: Tabloids

Dislikes: Unclean air

Dogs are a beloved pet by many. They're friendly, adorable, lovable, and all in all, just an enjoyable animal to be around. Charles, however, dislikes them. A very opposite view to a common person.

Unclean Air, on the other hand, is something so many people live around and have to deal with every day. It's unlivable to deal with, and many can agree with Arturo's dislike to the dirty breathing.

And that's all we can get from the website. All we can g-

Arturo: You hated them, but even that doesn’t justify what you did.

Charles: If you forgot it, then it probably wasn’t important to begin with. None of those memories should ever be kept, anyway.

Oh... those things. Arturo seems to be the catalyst for this, causing something to happen to "them" because of hatred.

Charles seems to be on the other end, something happening to him and then his memories being gone and then being told, "none of those members should ever be kept anyway."

A theme you should keep in mind. The attacker/catalyst and the receiver/victim.

Now let's move on :3

Prologue

In the Prologue, we get another simple scene of Arturo being condescending towards others when we first "meet" him:

Arturo: Tch. Do I need to spell it out any more for you two(Xander and Teruko)?

Arturo: You two are ugly. And I don’t talk to ugly people. So get out of my sight.

Charles also doesn't hold high standards when he meets "us," telling us that our talents are useless, and then we get this amazing thing

Charles: I was informed that Hope's Peak Academy was allegedly a prestigious place filled with talented people, but I see now that I may have been better off going to an elementary school with a bunch of children.

Bro is roasting us and leaving nothing left but ashes !!! (/j)

Sadly, I couldn't find too much to compare these two men with in the Prologue since they don't get much screen time as a whole. Though I do have to say neither of them seemed to even give a single care about the killing game, even saying they wouldn't mind.

Chapter 1

These two act just like an old married couple like, seriously. They're just bickering back and forth but absolutely ROASTING the living life out of each other.

I said I respected your talent, Arturo, not your character nor your weird obsession with attractiveness. Those latter aspects could use significant work.

At least my talent could fix your ugly face. There's nothing that can be done for your foul personality.

They need frigging Levi to break them up like who knows where they could've gone with that back and forth banter and for seemingly "serious" characters they can get down right PETTY responses.

But. That's basically them during chapter 1, rude, condescending, awful assholes who no one really likes. Not even me. Though I thought Whit was going to be an awful character, so tkle that into account.

Until the BDA.

Both of them had slightly important roles in the BDA. Arturo finds the body with Veronika and is a catalyst into the BDA announcement going off. And then Charles, who is the unfortunate victim of finding the body of Teruko while she's unconscious and bloody. Running off in fear and panic as he has to cope with the fact he saw a bloody body. And he hated it.

Arturo was pretty accusatory during the trial, but that wasn't something out of the ordinary. Everyone was. Though he did save Teruko and was a major part of her being in the good condition she is. As good as you can get eoth a stab to the abdomen anyway. Charles, though, he was quiet. He didn't speak. He was horrified by what he saw.

Huh. Being a catalyst and saving someone from having worse injuries and then being the victim of seeing a body. This is another time it's happened.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 is where shit goes down for these guys. So, in chapter two we start out with the motives being announced, and MonoTV being the incompetent FUCK it is, mixed them up and gave the wrong secrets to everyone.

So Arturo ends up getting J's secret about J being the child of Mariabella Rosales and this. This makes him absolutely obsessed over J. Causing him to go into a negative arc, going from an asshole to a creep.

Charles, on the other hand, has become at least slightly nicer and more bearable to be around. Whit has even said

"He's not an asshole all of the time. He's only an asshole some of the time."

Which is an improvement from when we first met him, he was rude pretty much every line he spoke. So he's going into a positive arc, becoming a more positive person.

And then we learn their secrets. Both of them have something to do with a family member dying:

Charles is visibly shocked but takes it like a champ and goes on about having parents keep secrets about your life from you for your safety.

Arturo, on the other hand... despite Eden being a sweetheart about it, that wasn't enough. Arturo threatened her with his scalpel.

The trial happens, and Arturo is quite defensive the whole time while Charles actually tries to keep the trial going on the right track.

Hell, look at the visual differences between the CG's they had this chapter:

Arturos are in a more negative light while Charles's are in a more positive light.

Family

Ah, family. A quote from a show "Family will always end up together, somehow" - Rescue Bots.

Not these families, though..

Elliot "Ellie" Cuevas is the older sibling of Charles Cuevas by about 11-13 years. They share many visual similarities and similar likes. Ellie is implied to be a much more laid-back person with the vibes his music video gave off. An older sibling who cared for their younger brother dearly. Elliot was an example for Charles. He'll the latter even grew their hair out because of the former.

Ellie is speculated to have died from a dog attack as Elliot love dogs, and Charles not only dislikes them but also has a scar on their arm from a dog (but was told and believes it's a birthmark). Charles most likely was present at the death of his brother and from that developed a phobia of blood and dead bodies.

A victim caught up in the awful tragedy of losing a beloved.

Felicity Giles is the younger sister of Arturo Giles by 3-4 years. She is shy and has low self-esteem but has never made a canonical appearance. One of the only siblings(the only sibling of the 4 important ones we've seen) that don't have a canon look.

We know she committed suicide because Arturo left her. We don't know the circumstances surrounding it, though it's commonly speculated Arturo left for medical school. Arturo denies it being his fault. However. See where denial gets you.

The catalyst for pushing his sister to suicide by leaving.

Bonus:

It's just a silly little thing. The placement of Arturo and Charles on the website is that Charles is 3rd on the website character order, and Arturo is 10th.

Nothing big, right? Well guess what happens episode 3.

Yep. Charles is threatened by Teruko, the protagonist, with her custom weapon. In the infirmary, nonetheless.

Now, that'd just be a one-off thing, right? Well, Episode 10 rolls around and..

Yep. Episode 10 is the episode where Arturo threatens Eden, the support in a sense, with his custom weapon in the infirmary.

One last thing..visual similarities:

And also they both have something covering a part of their face !!!

Green is associated with disgust, and Arturo is disgusted quite a lot.

Purple is associated with fear, Charles is fearful quite a bit around blood and dead bodies.

---

Thank you for reading all this and listening to me ramble, it means a lot. ❤️

[notmaplemable]

9 Days Of Lancaster Day 8: Meeting The Family

RJ: *Standing outside the Arc household*

Jaune: Nervous?

Ruby: A little bit.

Jaune: Don't be, they'll love you. And I mean, you meeting my family can't go any worse than me meeting yours.

Ruby: What do you mean? Dad loved meeting you, and Uncle Qrow likes you more than he likes most people.

Jaune: I meant throwing up on Yang.

Ruby: Oh... Yeah, hopefully I can do better than... that.

Jaune: You will. You did great when you met Saph and Terra.

Ruby: But we weren't dating then, and two people are easier to deal with than ten!

Jaune: Well... you aren't wrong.

Ruby: You're supposed to encourage me!

Jaune: I have been.

Ruby: Well I don't feel encouraged!

Jaune: *Sighs* Let's just go meet everyone.

------

Ruby: H-Hello, my name is Rubin Rose!... I mean Robin Rose!... I mean Ronald Rose!... I mean-!

Jaune: This is Ruby.

Ruby: RUBY ROSE!

Mama Arc: *Chuckles* Well aren't you adorable.

Papa Arc: There's no need to be so nervous, Ruby. We've heard a lot about you.

Mama Arc: And if you're anything like your mom, you'll get along with the girls just wonderfully.

Papa Arc: Hopefully.

Jaune: Where is everyone else anyways?

Mama Arc: In the den, we wanted to give Ruby a little bit of breathing room before we throw her to the wolves. *Chuckles*

Ruby: *Mortified*

Jaune: Thanks mom, really helping her anxiety there.

Mama Arc: Oh I'm just teasing.

Jaune: Tease less, please.

Mama Arc: Oh sure, sure. Let's go introduce her to the girls! *Grabs Ruby's hand and drags her away*

Ruby: Eeep!

Jaune: Oh, boy.

Papa Arc: This is going to be a... fun day.

------

Mama Arc: This is Ruby Rose, Summer's youngest daughter, and Jaune's fiancée! Isn't she just adorable?

Arc girls: *Various forms of yes*

Ruby: H-h-h-hi?

Mama Arc: Now, you already know Saphron and Terra.

Terra: Hello again, Ruby.

Saphron: It's been too long. I like what you're doing with your hair now, though.

Ruby: T-thank you. It's good to see you two again.

Mama Arc: This is Garnet, our oldest.

Garnet: I see you like red a lot.

Ruby: Yeah, it's my favorite color.

Garnet: Well, we have that in common. And from what I've been told about you, I look forward to having you as a little sister.

Ruby: Oh, umm. Thanks?

Mama Arc: This is Jaune's twin sister, Joan.

Joan: It's nice to meet you.

Ruby: It's nice to meet you too, you look a lot like Jaune.

Joan: Except a good bit shorter and a lot less muscular now. *Chuckles* He's changed a lot since he left.

Ruby: Yeah.

Joan: Mostly for the better it seems, and I believe I have you and the rest of his friends to thank for that.

Mama Arc: This is Kelly.

Kelly: So, I hear you like weapons.

Ruby: They're my second most favorite thing in the world.

Kelly: Can you show me some cool weapons sometime?

Ruby: Sure! I mean, if you want me to.

Kelly: I do! This is going to be so awesome!

Mama Arc: This is Livie.

Livie: Sup?

Ruby: Umm, not much?

Livie: Hmm.

Mama Arc: She doesn't talk much, now onto the second set of twins. Milly and Amethyst.

Milly: You seem really cool!

Amethyst: You stole my big brother you harlett!

Ruby: Umm, I don't know what that means.

Milly: She just called you a w-

Mama Arc: And that's enough of that conversation! Let's eat!

------

Several hours later.

Jaune: See, I told you it wouldn't be that bad.

Ruby: Your little sister called me a "harlett".

Jaune: She's just getting used to me dating. It'll all be better after a good night's sleep.

Ruby: Where am I supposed to sleep?

Jaune: We have a ton of guest room you can stay in.

Mama Arc: Actually, I donated all of the beds in the guest room to charity.

Jaune: What? Why?

Mama Arc: It doesnt matter why! *Starts pushing Jaune and Ruby towards Jaune's room* You two can just sleep together in Jaune's room while you're staying here!

Jaune: Mom!

Ruby: *Blushing*

Mama Arc: *Pushes them into the room* Have a good night you two~! *Leaves*

Jaune and Ruby look around at Jaune's room, which is currently lit by several candles with some soft romantic music playing in the background.

Jaune: ...

Ruby: ...

[shinnyscats]

!¡ Copia x Gn!Reader

"Kinda adorable."

A/N: Put an eye on Copia for a little while (・・) I don't know how to write him at 100%, so I apologize if it's a bit OOC, Enjoy!

Versión Esp aquí !

Tw: Gn!Reader, pronouns not specified, fluff

"I'll be outside for several hours." He says while combing his hair back. "Don't do anything I'm responsible for." Ghouls nodded while his hands half-heartedly fixed his suit, which seemed to have been recently ironed. "And you." He says while one finger of his pointed directly in your direction "Don't cause trouble

Your eyes are roll. You? Cause trouble? Pff, not in a million years. Maybe the other day you broke the microwave because of a supposed "constant threatening noise" that it came from it, or that the day before that you climbed onto the roof trying to hide from Sodo, who you made angry all the time, almost dying trying, or that the week before they almost canceled a live show because you had broken your instrument and, trying to fix it, you caused a short circuit in the entire theater.

Well, those are small exceptions that did not have a great impact, or that's what you called them, something that Copia didn't always find very funny. It was always something new with you. Once Papa Emeritus V passed the door and closed it, it was only a matter of seconds before the other Ghouls found out about your antics..

"I told you to give it to me!" Sodo yells angrily as he tried to grab you. "I just want to play my great solo, give me five minutes, yeah?" That makes him even more angry, you didn't even have one. His legs move nimbly to match your speed, but all that effort is in vain. "Let's see, how do you play this thing?" You say to yourself, completely ignoring the fact that a Ghoul taller than you was directly in front of you, and was prepared to stop you.

Sodo reaches out to grab his guitar before it hit the ground and broke. What did reach the ground, and what caused you slight pain, was you and your head when you collided with Mountain and fell to the ground.

"Ugh, thanks.'" The shorter one said as he left the place, but not before giving you a look that indirectly communicated 'I'm going to kill you.' You were already used to that look anyways. 'Stop stealing his guitar, he'll kill us all if you even scratch it." Mountain tells you as he helps you stand up. "I didn't steal it, I borrowed it without asking." The ghoul in front of you nods while rolling his eyes with an amused smile. "Yeah, yeah, You better come to rehearse with me."

Your hand was behind your head, where you had received the impact against the ground, as you followed Mountain towards the rehearsal room. Those few minutes in which you remained silent listening to Mountain speak were the most calm sounds that the Ghoul could witness coming from you. "You're very quiet, did you hit yourself too hard?" Sorry for tha-" but, when he turns around, a disappointed expression appears on his face and a hand rises to his forehead when he sees that you weren't around.

Well,maybe you got distracted halfway when you passed by Copia's room. Maybe you entered without being heard and maybe you were rummaging through his drawers.

You laughed while seeing how many suits of the same color Papa Emeritus IV had, perhaps it was you who could not distinguish between two almost identical colors. His room was gigantic, or well, it was bigger compared to yours. The sheets on the bed were very thick, not to mention soft too. You lay down as if you didn't have obligations gripping your shoulders and sigh deeply.

Your eyes traveled around the room looking for something fun to do, until you find a very familiar white suit shining before you. That black hat was calling you, and you knew it. It didn't take long for you to decide to put on that white suit. You noticed that it wasn't too big or too small, it was almost taylor made for you.

You look at yourself in the bedroom mirror. You looked good, pretty good. You start doing the poses that Copia did during the shows, using the cane that was next to his clothes as a microphone. Humming song lyrics, you don't notice eyes behind you. You get scared and trip, colliding with the closet and causing the hat to fall on your head.

"What are you doing?" You can recognize, by the voice, that it was Copia. You weren't usually one to be embarrassed by what you did, but this did more than make your heart race. You quickly stood up, staggering, avoiding eye contact at all times for fear of worse humiliation. A few seconds of awkward silence pass, which you can't stand, and you run out of the room. You would change and return him his clothes another time. Now you just had to hope that Copia didn't take it the wrong way and that he didn't tell anyone...

However, what you didn't see was that Copia, after grabbing the papers that he had forgotten on his desk, let out a faint laugh as he shook his head.

"How adorable."

[riverevanss]

I just say your post about wanting to write T/olkien Elf content. I have been thinking about something like this for a while but writers block is a bitch. I was thinking that since Elf's love fine wines/meads things like that, what if, there was a wine made of a berry that is quite rare and it makes them sneeze? Like how when some people drink red wine they get sneezy? But with this rare berry. I have no idea if this makes any sense, just an idea. Have a wonderful day!

hello!! :)

thank you so much for the idea - as promised, here's a shorter fic, starring my two favorite elves, E/restor and G/lorfindel.

Set sometimes in the 2nd age

E/restor looked around the room carefully. He wasn't pleased about this shared celebration with some of the men from N/úmenor, but again, what could he do if E/lrond and G/il-G/alad insisted on it? After all, you don't get a reborn hero in front of your tent every day.

Speaking of reborn hero... Erestor stood up, so he could see the room better. It took a little time until he spotted Glorfindel, standing next to the huge door. The blond elf looked nothing like Erestor remembered him; but, after all, he just barely met him once, thousands of years ago, before the Fall of Gondolin. It's not like they had the opportunity to talk to each other or get to know each other.

Erestor remembered Glorfindel as a tall, confident person, who wielded the sword wonderfully, and his tongue was sharp - Maedhros said that the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower was the least most annoying person he ever met, which was a compliment at the time.

This Glorfindel was tall also, with a slight smile on his lips as he was looking around the room. When he noticed Erestor, his smile grew bigger and waved. Erestor waved back, then started to walk towards the blond elf. He was quite sick of the hot room full of people anyway, and Glorfindel seemed like a pleasant company. Certainly better than Gil-Galad and Elrond - those two were too busy speaking with Elendil and one of his sons.

"Wine?" asked Glorfindel, and without waiting for an answer, he grabbed two glasses from one of the desks, and Erestor accepted it without a word.

"Would you like to go outside?" Erestor couldn't even finish the sentence. Glorfindel had already nodded and was hurrying out of the palace.

Maybe Erestor wasn't the only person who preferred places with little to no crowds.

***

They found a little bench under one of the trees, full of golden leaves. It was quiet and quite cold - it was the end of autumn after all. Erestor pulled his cloak together a little more and then drank a little from his wine. It tasted rather good, but he had this drink a million times in the past few years, so it was actually nothing really interesting. Just the usual.

"How do you like Lindon?" Asked Erestor, not even looking up.

Glorfindel didn't reply at first, he just took a rather weird-sounding breath, then shrugged.

"It's..." he stopped, and then his breath hitched again. "It's ni... ehh... eh'tsCHIEW"

Well, Erestor certainly looked up to that, after he got so frightened he particularly jumped up. He glanced at Glorfindel, who looked just as confused as he did, but then the blond elf just shrugged.

"Something in the... eh'shiew'tshiew... oh, Valar," said the blond quietly after he sneezed again, two times this time, so fast he wasn't even able to catch his breath. "Excuse me, I don't... I... heh... he'TSChiew..."

"Galu" offered Erestor the Sindarin version of bless you, and then handed a folded handkerchief to Glorfindel who took it.

"Thank..." Glorfindel stopped speaking.

Erestor looked up. The blond froze, eyes unfocusing a little bit. His lips halfway parted as he wriggled his nose a little, then sniffed. Erestor had to admit, he looked quite adorable.

"Sorry." The blond shook his head and laughed. "I don't think I have ever sneezed this much since I was... well since I came back. Back in Gondolin, maybe. You know, I was quite sensitive to dust, I guess... but it wasn't that bad" he added, laughing, and sipped his wine again.

Erestor really couldn't say anything to this; the conversation took a pretty awkward turn, so the black-haired elf just nodded. He just started thinking of another question to ask, when Glorfindel suddenly shoved his glass of wine into his hands and turned from Erestor.

"Excuse me-eh... eh'tschso... heh... Valar, I... eh-eh... heh'TshIEW... excu-uh... eh... eh"gnxztsh"

Erestor froze, a glass of wine in both of his hands, while Glorfindel sneezed his head off. He didn't know what to do, so he just put the glasses down, and placed a hand on Glorfindel's shoulder; he felt the blond elf tense as another sneeze escaped him, quite loud this time.

And then it passed, just as fast as it arrived.

"Excuse me," said Glorfindel again, after he blew his nose into the handkerchief he got early. It sounded like he needed it, after all.

"Galu" nodded Erestor, as he really didn't know what else he should say. He offered back the wine to Glorfindel, who smiled and took it.

Erestor smiled back, and then he slipped his wine - just a moment before Glorfindel spoke, Erestor felt a strong, burning sensation in his nose. He wriggled it, hoping it would pass, but he was too late.

"I think that's not my..."

"hgnx'tgxhth"thxgngnt" Erestor felt his face heat up as the sneezes escaped him in such a rapid manner he couldn't even do anything about it, only pinch his nose shut. Still, he felt his fingers getting a little moist, and he was a little upset about his handkerchief missing now, especially because even his suppressed sneezes were so strong, that he unintentionally spilled some wine on his dark robes.

Erestor looked up, and his eyes met Glorfindel's.

"I think it's the wine," said Glorfindel, and Erestor nodded, agreeing him.

He emptied the bottle, spilling the rich, red wine onto the ground.