#asking me if i was okay and how i was doing

[rissouu]

nerdy!choso who was sick of letting you walk around, doing whatever you pleased. the day you asked him to be your tutor was when his whole world flipped upside down. him? tutor the most popular girl in school??

it was okay at first, but somewhere along the line your saturday study sessions turned into saturday fuck sessions. you were his first which wasn’t too surprising. choso was the school’s number one nerd, and sure he was hot but no girl dared to associate with him let alone fuck him.

but you were different in so many ways, you treated him like fragile glass that you knew better than to break. you liked to test him sometimes though, just to see if he’d drop the innocent boy act. usually your schemes never worked but this time, he’d had enough.

“this what you wanted fuckin’ stuck up brat?” choso chuckled darkly, anger radiating off him in waves. large hands struck down, bruising the skin of your ass for the 10th time.

he had you bent over his lap counting every spank and if you missed even a single one, he’d get a belt.

one look at him had your body quivering, his head was tilted and hair messy as his eyes pierced yours. “thought it was cute to stop sharing your location wimme’ huh mama?”

you shook your head which earned nothing but a chuckle from him. rough fingers danced around your clit, flicking it back and forth despite your overstimulation.

a sharp pain had you whimpering, it was only then you realized what was going on. choso sunk his teeth into your cheek with no intentions of stopping until the mark of his teeth was visible.

“how about i start spanking this pretty pussy next?” he smiled when you waved your ass around in anticipation, his greedy greedy girl. “nah.. think ‘m gonna fill her up instead. maybe then you’ll stop fuckin’ playing with me,”

no way this was your same nerdy!choso from before…

©rissouu 2024 (pls i need a choso in my life)..

[luveline]

𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

You begin to have intimate dreams about your roommate, Spencer. [9k]

c: pining roommates, dreams, tipsy non-confessions, spencer being a sweetheart. fem!reader. this fic was requested! 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.

i. a dreamt bruise 

“What are you doing?” 

Your chest lists slightly forward as a body warms your back. Arms wrap around you, solid but gentle, arms you’ve been held by a thousand times. 

You cover them with one of your own. “What does it look like I’m doing?” you feel yourself ask. 

The room is golden, gaussian, better now he’s behind you.

“I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked.” His voice is soft in your ear. His hair presses to the side of your face as he hugs you —you’ve never felt love like this. It’s palpable. It’s in his hands. 

Nobody’s called you dove before, but he is, he has. It might feel strange if it weren’t for how softly he said it, affection in the very marrow of the word, warmth of it kissing your cheek as he holds you. He says ‘dove’, and it feels like he loves you. Feels like you’ve done something beautiful to earn it, but that’s the beauty of it: you didn’t do anything. 

The room turns narrow, sunlight on the dining room table of your apartment. A table usually crowded thickly with books, or your work. A space has been cleared away and filled with pieces of a jigsaw. 

“I thought you were going to do this with me,” you say, dragging a piece across the table with your fingertip. 

“Maybe later.” 

“You can’t stand there all night.” 

Are you sure? you think he says, but things are hazy, and he’s turning you toward him suddenly, you’re standing, the puzzle forgotten. “How’s your bruise?” 

“What?” you ask, almost sleeping as a big, kind hand drags up the front of your shirt, holding it to the underside of your breast. 

“Does it still hurt?” 

His thumb brushes over your contusion, skin on your side, your back. It’s tender. Any breath is lost, any sense of breathing at all. You’re not a girl so much as something being touched with care, warm joy and love and a contrasting ache wedged under your heart as he draws a circles into your skin. 

He hums sympathetically, the weight of him ebbing as he leans away, letting your shirt fall back into place. 

The dream stretches on for a lifetime, the two of you standing in your living room, dining table behind you, couch and TV opposite. Your life in one room, his life, his books, his furniture, but your home. You know it all well, just, in the light, you can’t see the stitching. 

He takes your face into his hand. Nobody’s ever touched you like, turned your face up like they were moving through honey, staring at you with eyes that shade of brown. Brown, brown… so big. So melting. 

Spencer holds your face gently. 

His nose touches yours. He tips his forehead into yours, his breath skimming lips he’d just warmed as he says, “Don’t worry, alright? You’ll be okay. Just take it easy,” he says, the last of his pleading lost to your mouth. 

You wake up with a caught breath. 

Your eyes are glued together, eyelashes threaded, gummy. You turn into the pillow beside you, slightly deflated and cold where you’d turned away in the night. 

The room is dark when you manage to pry your eyes open. You close them just as quickly, begging your body to sleep, to plunge back into the dream. Just five more minutes of golden colour, hugging your pillow, love in somebody’s hand, in Spencer’s hand… five more minutes…

Your eyes open again. 

Spencer’s hand on your cheek, guiding you carefully upwards for a kiss. 

You raise your hand, feeling along the swell of your bottom lip with your thumb and index finger. They tremble with the weakness of having just woken up. With having something torn away from you. 

What was that? you think, the hook of sleep lodged in your throat as you struggle to sit up. Your face tips forwards heavily, but your back doesn’t hurt like it tends to in the early mornings before work. There’s no ache there —your body slept well. You use your hands as anchors and drag yourself foot first from the bed. Your sheets fall to the floor with a quiet shush. 

It felt so real that for a moment you’re wondering where Spencer went. 

He was touching you, he was caressing your waist. You rush to the door of your room, every night left ajar, pushing it open and beelining for the bathroom. You flick on the light and stop in front of the mirror, staring at yourself, wondering if you’re foolish enough to do this, before peeling your shirt from your stomach to analyse your bruise. 

It’s not there. 

You turn and contort yourself to catch the light. Maybe it was further back? But no… there’s no bruise, nothing for Spencer to check. Your torso is a stretch of unharmed skin to run your hand down without pain. 

Your head whirs. 

From somewhere in the apartment, Spencer puts down a mug. You flush with heat at the realisation that he’s home, and panic flares when his footsteps move in your direction. Your bedrooms are on opposite sides of the apartment, and there are two bathrooms —the bath and toilet near your room, and the en-suite to his room— meaning Spencer’s coming to see you specifically. 

“Hey, Y/N?” he says. 

It’s been a few days since he was home, and you aren’t just roommates, Spencer’s your friend. He sounds happy that you’re awake, pausing at your bedroom door. 

“I’m in the bathroom!” you say, your dry throat turning your voice to fractures. 

“I just wanted you to know I’m home. Are you working?” 

“It’s Saturday.”

He laughs. “Oh. I know, I forgot. Well, can I make you breakfast? I was gonna have oats and sliced bananas and stuff.” 

“Okay.” You clear your throat. “I’ll be right there.” 

“Sorry,” he says, like he’s just remembered where you are. “This is harassment. I’ll be in the kitchen.” 

You wash your face and brush your teeth. You head back into your room to change from your pyjamas into loungewear that’s just as soft. The flavour of your dream follows you around, you’d like to call it sweetness, saccharinity, but it doesn’t fit the bill. The feeling you’d woken with wasn’t a sugar high but contentedness, like a warm evening meal. You’d felt utterly sated, your arms reaching out for a body that wasn’t there. 

A heaviness takes your heart. Suffocating longing, you carry it to the kitchen with you to find Spencer’s already made you a cup of your tea. He’s warming oatmeal on the stove, blueberries and bananas on the countertop. You sit at the island. You should hug him. If you hadn’t dreamt of his hands on your waist what felt like mere moments ago, you would’ve. 

“Did you go shopping?” 

“I did, I went to Leaven last night. You were already sleeping at ten.” He peeks at you from over his shoulder. “Long day yesterday?” 

“I get too tired by Friday,” you say, averting your gaze to stare down into your mug, steam twirling up to kiss your chin. 

“No, I get it. Me too. Are you feeling any better today?” 

You were sick when he left. “I’m fine.” 

“Okay, good. I’m gonna put the blueberries in with the oatmeal, is that okay?” 

“Sure.” 

“Okay.” Spencer’s gaze lingers on you. He turns back to the counter. 

He cuts two bananas. You realise he has strawberries, too, watching as he cuts them, wetness leaking from their punnets where he must’ve rinsed them in the sink. He slices out the stems and cuts the strawberries in clean halves like hearts. 

“I missed you,” he says. 

You can’t read his tone, but you aren’t cruel, even feeling shy as you are. “I missed you too. How was the case? Everyone made it home in one piece, right?” 

“Everyone’s fine. Emily got into a car accident and it was pretty bad, but she’s okay now. Recovering from her concussion at home with Sergei.” 

That’s good. You’ve met Spencer’s boss, Agent Hotchner (very scary), and Emily, JJ, and Penelope (who aren’t scary at all). You’re glad to hear they’re all okay, because they’re good people, and they risk a lot to keep others safe. You forget sometimes how much Spencer puts on the line whenever he leaves. 

You poke at him for details of the case, though legally there are things he has to keep from you, and you don’t mind either way. Nothing personal can crop up while talking of murder, and for now you’d like the conversation to stay far away from you and your bed and your sudden dream. 

You assume you’re safe, but then Spencer mentions the bruise one of the sergeants got from their weapon’s kickback and you’re flushing nervously all over again. 

Spencer grabs two bowls from the cabinet, dark brown ceramics he got from Koreatown, the perfect size for each helping of oatmeal. The purple from the insides of the blueberries bleed into the oats as he pours.

He lays each bowl with a curve of banana slices, strawberries, and covers half with a drizzle of dark fudge sauce. “Salt?” he asks. 

“Yes, please.” 

Spencer grabs two spoons from the cutlery drawer. He grins when he finally turns, bowls held aloft, making his way to the stool beside you. He puts his own down first, then the cutlery, standing ever so slightly behind you as he lays your breakfast down in front of you. “What have you been doing while I was away?” he asks softly. 

You can’t look at him. Can’t think. 

What are you doing? 

What does it look like I’m doing? 

I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked. 

You lean away from his presence, desperate to have him follow, and ashamed. Spencer’s a friend, a good one, he’s kind and loving and handsome beyond description, but you’ve never thought of him like that. Each time your mind slips wondering what he might be like in love, you’ve let the thought go. But now... 

You shrug, grabbing your spoon. “Not much, Spencer. This looks amazing, it’s really pretty. Thank you for cooking.” 

“No problem. Are you sure you’re feeling better? You don’t look so good.” 

You take a quick bite of oatmeal, the spoon scalding your tongue, “Ah,” you say, breathing harshly around it, “I’m fine. Woke up a little wrong, that’s all.” 

Spencer sits in the seat next to you with a soft smile. “Good. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.” 

Oh, no, you think, reading way too much into how he says it. No, no, no.

—

ii facts 

We should explore the city, Spencer declares after breakfast, before we forget what it’s like to be outside!

You were outside yesterday before you got home, and everything sucked as much as it usually did —it’s the weekend, and the point of it is to stay home resting and or lazing, but you wouldn’t usually say no to Spencer so you can’t now. He can’t ever know about your dream, so he can’t know how you’re feeling, so you have to be the friends you’ve always been. 

Spencer analyses people for a reason, but you have practice. You’ve successfully hidden what it was that morning that made you feel cagey and tender. He knows something is wrong regardless. He attempts to fix it the best way he knows how: Spencer talks. 

“Cheese production globally outshadows coffee, tea, tobacco, and chocolate, over twenty two million metric tons of it every year, with almost half of that made in Europe alone, which is only a half million metric ton more than what’s being eaten. The average American eats forty two pounds of cheese a year, but I don’t really like cheese that much? So I’m bringing the average down. Besides, every time I eat cheese I get strange dreams.  There’s actually a chemical in cheese called tyramine which is linked to nightmares. Hey, you okay?” 

“Cheese gives you weird dreams?” 

“Why, have you been eating a lot of it lately?” 

“No,” you say resolutely. “I hate cheese. I’ve never eaten cheese before.” 

“That’s a lie.” 

“Let’s get donuts.”

Spencer is easily swayed. You glance around the square for the McDonald’s and follow that to the street with the bakery, landmark to landmark, until the smell of sugar and oil is strong enough to follow. “Do you wanna know something about donuts?” he asks, crushing in behind you as you pass through the heavy wooden door of the bakery and join the line. 

“Sure.” 

“They were first called oily cakes.” 

“I knew that,” you say, “you’ve told me that, Spencer. That’s the first fact anybody thinks of.” 

“Okay, don’t be rude,” he says, giving you a playful poke in the ribs, right into the bruise that isn’t a bruise. 

You look over your shoulder at him, catching his eye. You share a long look that’s daunted on your part and confused on his, brown eyelashes tangling in the corners the longer he looks at you. “What?” he asks, squinting. 

”Nothing.” 

“Okay,” he says, his voice lowering, quiet to match the hush of the bakery and its humming fridges, “don’t tell me. I’ll work it out eventually.” 

“Dude!” 

“What?” he asks with a laugh. 

“Boundaries!” you laugh back. “Stop trying to figure me out.” 

“But there’s something to figure out?” 

He’s evil when he smiles like that. His pride is adorable, giving his sweet face an even fresher look. You’d pinch his cheeks if they weren’t already pinking in the October cold. His scarf hasn’t saved him, his coat buttoned tightly no match for the winds. Not to say it’s a bad day. The weather is fine if you keep your fingers in your pockets and your nose in the depths of your coat. 

“What do we want?” you ask rather than answer. 

They have white icing, chocolate with sprinkles, jelly middles, smiley faces. They have donut holes by the bag. “Hazelnut spread,” you say, pointing at the side of the case. “That looks good.” 

He enters in conspiratorial whispers with you. “Apple cider doughnuts with cinnamon sugar,” he says, pointing at the row below. “What about a double chocolate chunk cookie? They look good. Hey, there’s cake in the fridge.” 

You let him lean into your side. His hair kisses your cheek.  

“Pick whatever you want, okay?” he asks, offering a smaller smile than before. “I’m buying.”

“You can’t, Spencer Reid, I want so many things.” 

“It’s fine, I missed you, I dragged you out when you wanted to stay in bed.” He stares at you. “Let me,” he mouths. 

You ignore the hot twist of your stomach and nod. Okay. 

Spencer buys the baked goods you’d admitted to wanting and the three others you’d eyed, as well as a cookie and two fat slices of red velvet cake. He asks you to carry the box while he pays. The woman behind the counter gives you a knowing look and a flick of her head, as if to say, Lucky you. You can’t quite smile back, distracted by the insinuation. You haven’t thought of it before, but you and Spencer, naturally, look like a couple. You could easily be one. And the idea that she thinks so fills you with a shocking amount of smugness. 

You and Spencer head home before dinner. On the walk back, he pulls the cookie apart and offers you half. 

—

What if, when you fall asleep tonight, you dream of Spencer again? 

You lay on your back with your hand on your chest, drawing circles. The cold of the evening is explained by the rain lashing your window, distant winds coming forceful now. A thunderstorm. You tap the middle of your chest in an attempt to be idle, rather than restless. 

It isn’t a dream you’d like to have again, you decide. Spencer had been soft. You’d been familiar with each other. 

What would it really feel like to have him touch you like that? Is Spencer confident, when he’s comfortable? Is he imposing? 

My stomach, you think slowly, is never going to stop spinning. 

“Y/N?” Spencer asks. 

You can hear him all the way from the kitchen. 

“Yeah?” you ask, raising your voice so it carries. 

“Can I come and sit with you?”

It’s an odd request. You know Spencer’s like you, no social butterfly, quiet and content to spend time by oneself because being with others hasn’t always been an option. He isn’t timid, however, and his asking shouldn’t shock you, but it does. “Sure,” you say, shifting onto one side of the bed. 

Spencer arrives at the ajar door and lets himself in. He carries two bottles of water and a heat pack, which he likes to use when the weather allows it. A creature comfort, you assume. Something soothing and constant, like the sound of a fan at night, or rain on a window. 

“I can’t sleep,” he says, “which doesn’t make much sense.” Spencer sits on the empty side of the bed, his lips pulled into a grimace. “I like the rain.” 

He’s more handsome when he’s smiling, but there’s a charm to him as he passes you a bottle of water and crosses his legs. The plaid slacks he’s wearing are rough with age, dark blues that seem black in the low lighting. 

“Maybe it’s because of work,” you say. 

“Maybe, but I’m pretty used to getting woken up.” 

“Right. It’s not easy, though, the stuff you do. It would keep me up at night if I did your job.” 

“I think sometimes doing my job is the only reason I can sleep.” 

“It's hard. Sounds hard, Spence.” You relax into your pillow, turning to see him. Spencer’s eyes run along your hip for a millisecond, just long enough to remind you that he’s a boy, that he could see you in a different light. 

“It’s okay,” he says. 

“Was it hard, this time?” you ask. 

“No,” he whispers. “I don’t know, it was bad when Emily got hurt, but she’s so stubborn. If Morgan didn’t strap her down she would’ve kept going like nothing happened.” 

You and Spencer have lived together for so long that you remember a time before he even knew Emily. You answered his ad in the paper —you hadn’t realised people still put ads in the paper— looking for a roommate. His apartment was already furnished and he didn’t want to change much, but the second bedroom was spacious and the bathroom could be monopolised. As a girl, you’d been a little dubious reading about a single male looking for any gender, but his self-description was inviting. Twenty-two, just finished a doctorate, working for the FBI and expected to be away from the state at least once a month. 

You’d met Spencer and felt even less intimidated. He was awkward and dorky but friendly, too, with his glasses he apparently didn’t want to wear, but would eventually give in (before choosing contacts), and his big red sweater fit for a grandpa. “I can make more room for you but I can’t get rid of the books,” he said, “so I don’t expect you to pay a neat half.” 

How could you pass it up? 

“I can’t believe I’ve never met them,” you say. 

“Do you want to?” 

He sounds so surprised. “They’re your friends. I’m your… friend.” 

“You’re my best friend. I’ll arrange something, or try to. It’s hard to get us all in one room when that room isn’t the conference room,” he says. 

“You look nice in a t-shirt,” you say, not thinking as the words come out. 

Spencer leans in to whisper, “Thanks. You like this one?” 

His t-shirt says, I may be NErDy, but only periodically. The NErDy is made up of elements from the periodic table. It’s a bad pun. 

“I love it.” 

He reaches for you. Tentative, he squeezes your elbow. “Is there something wrong? All day it’s like… I don’t know, did something happen when I was gone?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“But…” 

“Please,” you say, as he catches the last bit of light from the hallway, every eyelash illuminated for the counting. “I don’t wanna talk about it, Spencer. But thank you.” 

He, in a move that’s almost uncharacteristic, pushes your arm into the mattress and leans over you. “I wanna be the first one to know when you do wanna talk,” he says firmly, holding your gaze. 

How’s your bruise? 

You nod mechanically. Spencer recedes. “Okay, good,” he says, grinning. 

“Good,” you echo, thinking of Spencer in the dream, his hand on your hip and climbing up your sore ribs. “Let’s watch TV.” 

—

iii. scared of snow 

“You’re being weird.” 

“I’m not,” you refute. 

“You are.” 

Spencer frowns at you, a show full downturn of the lips. A dusting of snow lands in his hair and you both look up to catch it, a drift of it from the marquee as you pass. You don’t remember when it started snowing, but it feels like it’s been coming down for days. It’s in his eyelashes. Your sleeves are wet with it. 

“The snow’s making you strange.”

You hold out your hand with fingers parted, feeling his laugh travelling down his arm and into yours as he takes it, intertwining your fingers tightly. He doesn’t feel cold. 

“It’s making you strange,” you mumble. 

You and Spencer walk down a cobbled road. Snow crunches under your shoes, turned to slush in the high traffic spots by vendors booths left curiously empty of shopkeepers, though their festive wares still line the insides, carved cuckoo birds and metal ornaments, glass balls made to be personalised for mantles. You can smell orange oil and chocolate fudge, crepe carts and churros and cinnamon, and then suddenly any hint of your olfactory sense is gone. 

“It’s so quiet.” 

“It’s the snow,” he says, pulling your arm against his chest as you walk and walk, your footsteps the only sound. “It acts as a sound absorber when it’s fluffy like this. The sound waves get caught.” 

Caught. You think, or say, not sure if it makes it out of your mouth. 

“Like you,” he says, stopping in the middle of the road. 

“What?” you ask. 

Snow lands in his eyelashes. “You’re caught,” he says. 

You wake up thinking his hand is on your cheek. Like a nightmare, you start, still picturing his lips moving around the words. Caught, you think again, heart a hummingbird in your chest. Your mouth is dry. The heat is up —Spencer must be home again. 

You suck in a deep breath and sit up, curling over yourself protectively. 

You dream about Spencer more often than ever, and half the time they’re normal dreams, which is to say, they follow no rhyme or reason, with no discernible plot. Spencer loses all his teeth, or he takes you to the movies to see one of his long Swedish films, or he’s an afterthought, a bystander. The main plot of your dream doesn’t involve him at all. 

But the other half of the time is ruining your life. You dream of Spencer holding your hand like you had been, or touching your shoulder. Never again do you dream of that tender bruise, but Spencer lifts your shirt in other scenarios. He pulls your pyjamas off, his hand inching between your legs but never touching, or he helps you out of your bra. And every time you think, why is this happening to me? Perhaps a sex dream could be explained away by want and Spencer’s proximity, but all these constant intimacies weigh heavy in your head. 

You head to the shower and picture Spencer helping you out of your bra, and all of you goes hot, so you turn the water to lukewarm and stand until you’re cold to the point of misery. You clamber out and shiver into a towel, then your robe. 

Spencer’s humming in the kitchen. 

You honestly wish that the dreams made you like him less, that the sound of him might send you running back into your room, but you poke your head out of the bathroom and wait until he enters the living room. He sees you waiting, his face splitting into a smile. “Hey, good morning, did you sleep better?” 

You can’t explain the discombobulation of your dreams. Spencer had become convinced you have insomnia. You may have let him assume. 

“Slept fine,” you croak. 

“Okay, well get dressed and I’ll make you some coffee.” 

“‘Kay.” Your stomach pangs with nerves seeing him, reminded of tonight’s big event. “Are we still, uh, on, for tonight?” 

“Nervous?” he asks. 

You feel like you're about to be a fish in a pool of sharks. “Of course not.” 

 “Yeah, still on, even JJ.” 

Awesome. Spencer turns around to make you your cup of coffee and you go to your room, dressing quickly, two pairs of socks. You tone your face and moisturise, fanning yourself slowly. You don’t hurry to the living room, but you aren’t slow, and it’s not Spencer, you tell yourself. Not Spencer. You’re just craving the warmth of a cup of coffee. 

You spend the morning together on the couch. Spencer reads and occasionally chats to you about whatever tome it is that specific half an hour. You make sandwiches at lunch time, he showers in the early evening. You get dressed and primped while he’s gone, and at 6PM, Spencer knocks your bedroom door to ask if you’re ready to go. 

“Could I fake an illness?” you joke nervously. 

Spencer’s hand falls on your handle. The door is ajar as usual, but he doesn’t tread any further inside. 

“Come in,” you say. 

Spencer takes a single step inside before stopping. He looks you up and down without the hunger you crave from him, a more clement, familiar appreciation to him as he says, “You look pretty.” He traces your arm, leaving the skin tingly in his wake. “Really pretty.” 

“Thank you. I didn’t want to overdress.” 

“It’s perfect, don’t worry. And no, you couldn’t fake an illness. They all know when I’m lying, especially Hotch. And Emily, actually.” 

You squeeze your hands together tightly at your stomach. “I don’t know why I’m sooo nervous.” You lick your lips. “I feel like I can’t stop fidgeting.” 

“They’re used to it, I promise. They know that they’re gonna make you nervous, but they’ve sworn to be on their best behaviour, and besides, you’re not the only plus one. JJ’s bringing Will, and Morgan’s bringing his sister, I’ve only met her once. The focus won’t be all on you.” He lowers his voice. “After two drinks they forget they’re supposed to be scary.” 

“What if I say something extremely stupid to your boss and get you in trouble?” 

“What are you going to get me in trouble for?” 

“I don’t know. What if I accidentally tell him that that sick day you took a few weeks ago was to help me make brownies?”

“Everyone lies about sick days.” He deliberates. “Maybe not Hotch. But I’m pretty sure he knew I was lying, and it’s explainable. I felt… irate.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “What?” 

“Staying home with you made me feel better. Which made me a better worker the next day, it’s fine.” His phone rings from somewhere in the apartment. “That’ll be JJ. Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Yeah?” He grins. “Okay. You’re wearing a coat, right? It’s cold. The forecast says snow. It’s thirty degrees out.” 

You layer a coat onto your jacket and a scarf to make him happy. You and Spencer get a taxi, black leather gritless under your hands, though you squeeze the seat like it’s gonna stop the car the whole time. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he looks at you unapologetically, and he smiles, and the quiet is as severe as it was in your dream that morning. If this were a dream he’d be leaning over to cradle your ear. He’d ask in whispers if you were alright, and he’d let his hand rest kindly on your knee. 

“What?” you whisper. 

His lips part like he might answer. The car comes to a crunching stop outside the bar, and whatever it was he was going to say is kept for later. “I’ll tell you after,” he says. 

He pays for the taxi before you can work it out and you say thank you to the driver. The sidewalk is clean, broad, and glowing with the last bit of light. The sun sets behind you. The bar beckons in front. 

Your fear is daunting. 

You have years of practice fooling Spencer. You know that he knows your tells, so you’ve changed them, and Spencer cares about you enough to ignore obvious truths if he thinks you might not want to share. His colleagues, FBI agents trained to detect deception, are going to take one good look at you and know you’re lying about… this. 

You’re plagued by dreams of Spencer, but nothing can touch the real thing. 

You feel the space between you like it’s aflame. Spencer checks you’re with him and opens the door. 

The bar is busy even for a Saturday. You aren’t expecting the volume, the boisterousness of the patrons already slumped together over tables and waiting at the bar to get their drinks. It’s smaller than you’d pictured too, but its size is made up for with a patio at the back, smokers haunting the door, wary of the cold. 

You know what his friends look like already, yet seeing them in person is odd. Hotch is taller than you’d thought, Emily more startlingly pretty. JJ’s frowning, and her partner Will looks like he’s about to fall asleep despite a lazy grin. 

Hotch notices you first. He taps Emily on the elbow, who pauses in a thought to follow his gaze. Her face breaks into a smile, and if you weren’t in love with Spencer Reid, you might take a tumble for his pale coworker. 

“Hello,” Spencer says, ushering you to the table with an arm behind your back. 

“Hi,” you say. 

“He-llo,” Emily says, leaning into the table, a strand of her hair dangerously close to a short glass of juice. “I can’t believe we’re finally seeing you in person. I’m Emily.” 

“Y/N,” you say. 

“Aaron,” Hotch adds. (Aaron! He’s far more intimidating casually than as a boss, it seems.)

“Derek was just here,” JJ says in way of greeting, while Will drawls from over her shoulder, “I’m Will, it’s nice to meet you.” 

Spencer pulls out a chair for you and promptly sits in the one beside Emily. “Sorry we’re late. I forgot my wallet and we had to go back up to the apartment and the cab I called got so angry about it that he left.” 

You slide between the table and your chair, looking to Spencer for guidance, but he’s distracted taking his coat off and you have to look at Aaron instead. 

His smile is immediately knowing. Read for filth in seconds. “We don't bite.”

“Not so early in the evening,” Emily says. 

You take a shuddering breath, thankful they can’t hear it over the sounds of the bar. 

—

“I’m caught!” you exclaim. 

Spencer hugs you under the arms. “I know,” he says gently. 

“Caught!” 

He holds back a laugh as your arms react, practically flung behind his head in a hug that threatens to cut off the oxygen supply to his brain. “I think you’ve caught me, instead,” he says. 

You laugh in his ear. There’s gin on your breath and the sweeter smell of orange juice. It’s not bad, but weird to know it’s from your mouth. Or not weird. It gives Spencer a feeling like seeing the soft curve of your hip when you’re lying on your side. Like watching you bite your bottom lip when you’re distracted by the TV and worrying to yourself, which you do more often than not lately. They’re private things that Spencer shouldn’t know about. 

“I’m not trying to,” you say, and Spencer can smell the shot of vodka you did too, which is less pleasant. “Not trying to catch you. Not… I’m sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“It’s hard to explain.” 

Over your shoulder, Spencer spots Hotch’s entertained gaze. All the team has done since you sat down together was pick on Spencer and his obviousness. Boyfriend? they’d asked you. Looking? Sights set on someone? All while JJ nudged him under the table. 

Things are falling apart now. JJ’d departed to hold Emily’s hair back, and Will with her. Hotch caught the eye of a woman across the way, and they sit chatting amicably at the bar with more peanuts than drinks. Derek, when he did appear, stayed for an hour with Desiree, recounting to you his most embarrassing stories of which Spencer had taken care to shield you from, and laughed at his subsequent blush. 

He never wanted you to know about his run in with anthrax, and he especially didn’t want you to know he’d been stripped nude afterwards and hosed off like a muddy dog. 

You’d turned to him with wide, worried eyes. “You were poisoned?” you’d asked. 

It’s stuff like that that makes this difficult. 

“I don’t know if you know this,” he says now, rubbing your back, “but I’m good with difficult concepts.”

“I did not mean to be like this.” 

“You didn’t eat much.” Spencer helps you stand on your own two feet. “They kitchen’s still open. I can get you food, how about a burger? Or we can go find you something.“

“What kind of burger?” you ask, poorly concealing your excitement. 

Spencer gets you back to the table. “I’ll be right back.” 

“Wait, don’t go.” 

“I’m gonna get food. Do you want fries?” 

“Spencer, what if I throw up?” 

Spencer shrugs. “I can rub your back?” 

“I don’t want to throw up.” 

“Then drink that,” he says, sliding his glass of coke toward you. “Alcohol irritates the lining of your stomach and increases the production of stomach acid. If you drink,” —he flinches as you knock the cup back— “slowly you can dilute your stomach contents without upsetting it. Slowly,” he says, squeezing your hand, “I’ll order food.”

“No, wait.” You drop the glass and grab him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to throw up by myself.” 

“You won’t throw up.”

“Please,” you say, holding his wrist in both hands, your eyes shiny. “Spencer, don’t go.” 

“I won’t.” He doesn’t know how true it is and then suddenly he’s sat down. He won’t go. He wouldn’t leave your side ever again if that’s what you asked of him. 

He puts your chairs together, entertaining your tipsy thoughts with light conversation and the occasional slight of hand. You have an aura about you, like Spencer’s doing more than close-up magic, hanging on his every word. Your nervousness had you gasping like a fish, not so subtly downing one drink, then another, but now that you’re feeling the effects of them (and a few extras), the tightness you’d held in your fingers is gone. You’re leaning against the back of the chair with all the ease of you on the couch at home, but the easy fondness you’d usually wear while he speaks is replaced by a bright and shining awe. A sweetness like he’s remarkable. The soft line of your lips and your widened eyes. 

You’re not the sort of drunk that leaves you listless and ready for bed. This is giggly and fun, and so long as you don’t push it you’ll be alright. It wasn’t enough alcohol to leave you inebriated all night, anyhow. In a few hours the giddiness will wear away, leaving you with a headache and a deep longing for your missed dinner. 

“I’m glad you didn’t let me fake food poisoning,” you say. 

“Is that what you were thinking? That’s a terrible excuse. You need something with sudden onset symptoms, like an asthma attack, or pneumonia. An acute illness.” 

You take his hand. “I love that you know that stuff.”

Feeling as in love with you as ever, and sorry for you drunken state —he could’ve stopped you, he just didn’t think— he folds your hands together, both of his, rubbing the hills of your knuckles with his thumb. Your hands look right together. 

That’s what Spencer likes to think, anyway. 

You slow like you’re tired, hand lax in his grips. Your mouth opens but nothing follows, no sigh or gripe or conversation. 

“You okay?” he asks softly. 

“I think I’m having one of those dreams again.” 

“You’re awake,” he says. 

“I don’t know about that. They’re all like this.” 

He hums, smoothing his thumb down the back of your hand. “If this were a dream, you wouldn't have control over what you’re doing. Why don’t you do something you wouldn’t do in a dream?” 

“Like what?” you ask. 

“There’s a ton of stuff you can’t do in dreams. People find they have a poor memory, but I can’t ask you to recall anything. You might not remember regardless. How about temperature?” he suggests. “Most people can’t feel warm or cold in their dreams. Do you want to feel something cold?”

You watch him for a few seconds, your eyebrows pulled together unhappily. “Your hands are warm,” you say. 

“Right.” He suspects they’ll feel warmer in just a few seconds when the hot flush in his face manages to work its way down. “I’m warm. So are you.” 

“Sometimes I feel like you’re warm in the dream, though. You make me feel warm.” 

“It’s remembered, maybe.” 

You don’t look any happier. “Sometimes I wish I could stop having them, but…” You duck your head. “Sorry, Spencer.” 

“What are you sorry for?” 

Your head ducks lower. With a start to his chest, your shoulders shake, like you're inhaling the first half of a sob. 

“Hey, hey,” he says, reaching for your cheek, ducking his own head to see you, “what’s wrong? It’s okay, you don’t have anything to be sorry for!” he whispers emphatically. “You have nothing to be sorry for, why would you think that?” 

“I keep having these dreams, all the time, and– and I– I’ll mess everything up. Everything we have, I’m going to–” You hiccup, eyes turned glassy, imploring him to forgive you for something you haven’t done. “I don’t feel good.” 

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says, his hand sliding back to your ear, down to your neck, “you’re just drunk. You’re confused.” 

“But the dreams–”

“What dreams?” he asks gently. 

You blow out a daunted breath. “Where you love me.” 

“I do love you.” 

“But more than this. You love me more than this,” you say, shaking your head. “I really don’t feel okay… Do you think we could go home?” 

You’re so sorry and frowny that Spencer would attempt, in all his unfitness, to climb Mount Everest for you should you ask. “Yeah, we can go home,” he says, rubbing your arm up and down and up again, a line of affection from shoulder to wrist. “I’ll take you home. It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to be upset, I shouldn’t have asked.” 

He’s not sure what he asked, really, but the answer upset you. His heart’s racing like he just sprinted the length of the bar and you’re close to tears, this strange weepy sullenness about you as you say, “It’s okay. Let’s just go.” 

—

It’s cold to be sitting out by yourself, though the snow stayed its hand another night while the temperature fell again. Your coat poses a weak defence against the chill, nipping at your nose, burning the insides of every breath, and your feet are stiff like ice in your shoes. Yet, the idea of returning to the apartment is a leaden stone in your stomach. 

Spencer could barely look at you that morning. You hadn’t given him much of a chance, slipping out of the apartment with little more than a call to say you’d be back later. Your groceries freeze in a paper bag by your feet. 

You’re not too embarrassed about getting tipsy. It was drinks with Spencer and his friends, not dinner. Emily had been twice as drunk, and Derek had encouraged you to drink with a round on him. You’re mortified, however, by what you’d said. Your memory is clear enough to know you’d told Spencer about your dreams. 

He’d been confused at the time, but he’s a smart boy. He’ll figure it out. 

“This headache,” you mumble, tipping your head into your hand morosely. You rub your brow, fingers against the ache, the cold getting worse. 

Why did it take a dream for you to realise you had feelings for Spencer? And why did you have to realise at all? If you’d never had that dream, never had that phantom bruise, his hands careful and caring and touching up to the band of your bra, you wouldn’t know now what it is to want him. The dream gave you a bruise, and Spencer presses against it real or otherwise every time he looks at you. You were wrong thinking that it never happened; it’s still there, a purple lash against your ribs. 

Every time he makes you breakfast, or he texts you from a different state, or he sits down on the couch just to talk to you. Every time he says something smart, or he tilts his head back as he laughs, or he draws a smiley face on the mirror by the door–

“About those dreams?” 

You rub your eyes hard. Of course he’d come to find you. “Please don’t.” 

“Please,” he says. You see him through your fingers. His thick scarf is unravelled at his neck, his hair ragged around his face like he’s been raking it repeatedly behind his ears. 

You straighten. 

“I don’t get it,” he says, “you’ve been dreaming about me? Why is that such a big deal?” 

“It’s embarrassing.” 

“I dream about you all the time,” he says. “We’re in each other's lives, we live together, it makes sense that your hippocampus would use me. You have a lot of memories with me.” Spencer crosses his arms in front of you. “It’s freezing.” 

“I’ll be home in a bit.”

“I’m not gonna go back without you,” he says, like that’s a given. 

You move across the bench to make room for him. Spencer sits. 

You settle. The occasional bus trundles past, a limited rota for an early Sunday morning. Spencer shoves his hands into his pockets. His lips are already turning blue. 

“I know you know what I mean,” you say. 

Spencer presses his knees together. “Even romantic dreams where I’m… where we’re together, it’s all easily explained away by brain science. You can’t control what you dream, and I’m not going to hold you to it.” 

Silence, silence. You tip your head back to see a horrible grey cloud closing in on you both, the sun a white and gauzy memory behind it. Spencer’s right about control, but he doesn’t get that you like them. It’s not fair to him that you’ve somehow rallied a second life when you’re sleeping, where he’s your mind’s puppet, hugging and holding you, pressing his cheek to the side of your face. Saying things you wish he’d tell you now. 

“Well, I like you.” 

“What?” you ask, coughing. 

“Not to make things awkward or anything, but I like you. Romantically.” Spencer’s voice takes a sharp veer into high-pitched freneticism. “Does that help at all?” 

“What?” 

“It’s far more embarrassing that I like you on purpose than your accidental dreams, right?” He thumbs at the inside of his wrist. “You don’t have to say anything, or think anything, and I’m not going to change, but I have feelings for you.”  

You feel like you’re standing at the top of a very tall building. “Oh?” 

“I kind of thought you knew.” 

“How could I know that?” you ask, cringing as a cold gust of air bites at your face. 

Spencer takes his scarf off and pushes it into your hands. “I don’t know. I guess we know less about each other than we thought.”

The way he says it. 

Spencer wraps his scarf around you when it’s clear you aren’t going to do it yourself, and he touches your cheek briefly, a brush of his fingers like he thinks he’s doing something he shouldn’t be allowed to. 

“I dream about you all the time,” he says quietly. 

A bus passes by and shines headlights at your feet. The wind blows, your ears roar, and just above you, in a cold front to mark the season, snow begins to fall. 

You look up simultaneously. A snowflake gets caught in Spencer’s eyelashes. 

Just one. 

“This is so weird,” you mumble. 

Spencer wipes at his eye. “Could you tell me why?” 

“I had a dream just like this.” 

He laughs warmly. “Of course you did. Forget all reason, then. You’re prophetic.” 

“I don’t think I could’ve predicted this.” 

“Why? It’s only snow. Virginia gets an inch of snow most Decembers.” 

You laugh. In a dream, this is where you and Spencer would kiss or hold hands, or rest your cheek on the other’s shoulder, but neither of you are brave enough. And, as the snow turns to a sleet below freezing, you can’t ignore the cold. 

—

iv. the end 

The longest anyone has ever slept in recorded human history is eleven days. Two hundred and sixty four hours, or nearly sixteen thousand minutes, just shy of one million seconds of sleep. 

The first pillow was invented in Mesopotamia more than nine thousand years ago, in a time where the amount of pillows a person had directly correlated their personal riches. The history of pillows is tumultuous and eclectic. Headrests made of wood, stone, or jade. Curved neck holders worn soft with use. 

And, of all Spencer’s gifted facts, you find yourself circling back to the same one as you wait for him to wake: most dreams are no longer than twenty minutes. However, it’s important to note that the longest dream ever officially observed was in 1994, when a man managed to be in REM for just over three hours. You’ve had dreams that felt like they lasted for hours, but likely took place for just twenty minutes. If you could dream for three hours a night, you could live an entire life of longing in a pocket of time. 

Thankfully, you have no need to hide from reality anymore. Spencer sleeps beside you and you don’t want to sleep, you just want him to wake up. 

“Good morning,” you whisper, drawing your fingertip across his cheek to encourage the hair that’s fallen there back in line. 

He doesn’t stir. It’s alright, you hadn’t meant to wake him. 

“I love you,” you whisper, shuffling across the sheets to feel the heat and weight of his body against your own. He doesn’t move for a while, snoring gently, his breath kissing the top of your head as you burrow into the slip of space under his chin. Then, as if he were awake, he wraps his arm around you and drags you in further. His face angles down and his nose finds your forehead, and a hum of what you’d personally say is content kisses your brow. 

You tuck your hand behind his back and rub a circle. 

Spencer didn’t last long after the initial realisation of requited feelings. In a day he’d asked if you wanted to be his girlfriend (vaguely apologetic, still worried about scaring you, though you’d already come clean about wanting him as you’d warmed your cold hands by the stove). A week later he kissed you on a date outside of the cosiest Indian restaurant in Washington, D.C, and things have been nothing but smooth sailing from there. 

Now, when he’s feeling romantic, he brings home butter chicken and turns your face up for kissing, fork in hand. Every night before bed, he tells you to have good dreams, a self-satisfaction in his eyes that you dearly love. 

You knew he was a dork and you liked him because of it, but the sheer increase in him is amazing. Yesterday he sent you Close to You by Carpenters over text claiming they wrote it about you. When he got home, he tried to make you dance with him in the living room. After two or three kisses, you’d let him pull you to your feet. 

Spencer has turned loving one another into an everyday spectacularity, and not some mystical dream you ached for. 

He squeezes the skin of your shoulder as he wakes. Heavy in the hands of sleep, Spencer rubs the tip of his nose to yours, nudging your face up, and waiting there with your lips a few millimetres apart as he finds his bearings. You don’t open your eyes. There’s no need. 

“Time?” he mumbles.

“I don’t,” —you clear your hoarse voice, his hand flattening protectively behind you— “know, um. Maybe seven. The sun was rising…” 

“You could have woken me up,” he says, and kisses you slowly. It’s almost gluttonous, how he does it. Not chaste at all. His hair falls into your face and tickles your cheeks, his nose smushes your own with his easy depth. 

You hold his face and kiss him twice, following a line under his chin, where you pause, smelling yesterday's cologne on his skin. “I was hoping I’d fall asleep again,” you confess. 

“Oh, no, don’t do that.” He scoops you against him and turns onto his back as you laugh. “Angel. Let’s stay up now. Let’s just… stay here.” 

If you stay here he’s going to waylay you with a smattering of his voracious kisses, and he’s going to turn you on your back and kiss your neck. He’ll touch that place on your ribs where you’d once dreamt a bruise. It’s a secret you couldn’t keep. He likes to kiss you there when he remembers, but most of the time his hands run along it without mention. A slow caressing. 

You push your face against his shoulder and sigh as his arms close in around you. With a little effort, you get your arms around him in turn, and you hug him for as long as you can stand the pins and needles in your fingers. 

“You smell so good,” you mumble.

He pats your back absentmindedly. 

Today, you’re going to make Spencer oatmeal with banana and chocolate. You’re going to shower, maybe together if the small space can handle it, laughing at the soap in his eyebrows and the way he squeals when you touch his hips. You’re going to drape yourself across his lap as he reads, and he’ll lean down to kiss the tip of your nose or some other strange part of you unused to affection. The top of your ear, the palm of your hand, maybe the crook of your elbow. He’ll ramble through dinner or creep up behind you to sniff your shoulder, and it’ll all be choices you’ve made. Nothing left to want or wanting, but being in love while wide awake. 

“Are you tired?” you ask him. 

He takes a deep breath of your hair. “No,” he says, drawing a light line up your side, “I’m okay. There are worse faces to wake up to.”

You try not to fluster noticeably. He’s always been a good roommate. You’re still getting used to the boyfriend part, the intimacy of being complimented, but Spencer seems to have slipped into the part easily.

“Sorry, that was mean. There’s nothing I’d rather wake up to.” 

“Thanks,” you mumble. 

You’re tired, suddenly. The minutes pass in heavy blinks —you don’t want to sleep now that he’s awake, but being here with him is warming you from the inside out.  You doze and wake and Spencer doesn’t say a word. His breaths come evenly against your cheek. 

Eventually, he clears his throat, asksing, “Did you dream at all?” His voice is hewn. He rubs your chest, right over your heart.

”I’m not so sure that this isn’t one,” you say, your heartbeat a crawl under his touch.

“That’s corny.” 

“Mm, the Spencer in my dreams is usually kinder.” 

“Does he ever get to hold you like this?” he asks, letting his hand fall from your chest to wrap it back around you again. 

You take a sleepy breath in. “No,” you say slowly, “he doesn’t.”

｡𖦹°‧⭑.

thank youuuu for reading!! please like comment or reblog if you enjoyed!! thank you❤️

this fic was requested! I usually link to the request I was sent at the top, but I lost the post for this one, but this is what the request said: 

“hi angel! i have a request for roommate!spencer where r has a very romantic dream about him and starts avoiding him because she's really embarrassed but spencer is so confused as to why his roommate suddenly can't even look him in the eye. maybe one of them realizes their feelings aren't entirely platonic in the end? love you!!!”

thank you original requester! 

[monzamash]

★ last chance; long live the inbox graveyard! —i pick a long forgotten request in my inbox and write a short blurb or musings

hot tub time machine lando norris x you —no warnings, just fluff "could we get a number 14 (pool/hot tub sex) with lando pleaseeee? so excited that you’re writing again!!" —requested by anon on october 8th, 2024

“happy birthday, sweetheart...”

“i really needed this," he sighed, "knowing i would be home with you for this was the only thing getting me through the last few of weeks.”

lando could feel every single ache and pain wash away as he slid into the hot tub, stomach full of the gorgeous italian spread you’d ordered for dinner. his favourite. he swore you were an angel sent to earth, everything you did for him was heavenly, he could never find the words to tell you how much he loved you.

“you look so happy lan,” you smiled, dropping the kimono you’d worn during dinner as lando’s eyes cast across your body, luring you into the tub.

“i’m very happy - especially when i get to enjoy all of this… c’mere pretty girl.”

a soft giggle slipped from your lips as you grasped his hand, "let me get a bottle of red wine for us to share and i'll join you — do you wanna open the one daniel gave you?"

"ooo, are we entering that portion of the night?" lando asked suggestively as you stood up, shooting him quizzical look.

"what do you mean?" you asked earning a loud laugh from the tub, water splashing a little as lando pulled himself up to the edge, smiling over at you with a look you knew all too well.

"as soon as you start on the red wine, you get so frisky," he stated as if it was a well-known fact, one that you certainly weren't aware of.

"i do not!" you staunchly defended, earning another loud scoff.

"oh, wow," lando laughed, "yes, you do baby and i'm not complaining so crack her open..." he teased as you carefully stepped into the tub, with lando's help of course, eyes still narrowed in annoyance.

"okay so maybe wine makes me a little more amorous than usual but i think i'm just like that when i drink, no?" you pouted, earning yourself a pity kiss from the birthday boy.

"red wine makes you horny and that's okay," he teased again with a cheeky smirk on his face as you handed him the stemmed glass, "ta."

"we'll see then, won't we," you tutted, pouring two glasses of wine while lando chuckled to himself.

"i already know what's gonna happen but sure," he baited with a wink as he slowly dunked his head under the water and emerged with a shake of his wild curls, sending water flying across the room and all over you.

"you are so sure of yourself tonight."

lando's eyes skimmed across your body briefly while you claw-clipped your hair up, not wanting the hassle of having to dry it before going to bed. secretly you knew where the night was headed, red wine or not— it was his birthday after all, but you weren't about to admit that to the man hypnotised by your every move, jaw slack from the glorious view of your cleavage.

lando was a simple man.

"well, i am the birthday boy after all so i reserve the right to be cocky once a year, yeah?" he taunted from the other side of the tub.

"yeah, only once a year..." you rolled your eyes humorously.

the distance between the two of you seemed too far for lando, so he sculled the rest of his drink and carefully placed the glass on the floor before giving you a mischievous smile.

"steady on, party boy," you chuckled as he leaned forward and snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you into his warm hold.

"i just want to focus all of my attention on you," he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear that had fallen out of your clip, his emerald irises darted over your face, finally resting on yours.

"i missed you a lot, you know."

you took that as an invitation to straddle his lap and rest your elbows over his shoulders, wine glass dangling from your fingers. lando smoothed his hands down your back and and pressed fiery kisses across your chest. his lips travelled back up your neck, along your jaw before finding your soft lips in a slow, passionate kiss. you moved in sync with him, bringing one of your hands up to trawl through his wet, tangled curls. the chlorine always got the best of them.

lando hummed quietly into the kiss before pulling back slightly, "this is the best birthday i've ever had... and i couldn't be more in love with you," he confessed as you took the chance to admire the sweet boy you'd chosen to share your life with.

you grasped his face gently between your hands and pressed another soft kiss to his lips, making sure he knew just how much you loved him, no matter what life threw your way.

"i love you too, darling... happy birthday."

a/n — the first of the end of (f1) season sale!! this hot tub request actually wasn't forgotten, just half-baked so thank you anon for sparking up the inspiration to finally finish it! hope you enjoyed it 😌

[vintagebuckybarnes]

In Vino Veritas

Pairing → Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Lab Assistant! Female! Reader

Total Wordcount → 3.5K

Summary → It all started when you and the Avengers enjoyed drinks during the afterparty back at the Avengers Tower. There, Tony revealed one of your deepest secrets, and even though you wish it had never come to light at first, you’re glad it did when the man you love stands on your doorstep, ready to start the rest of your life together.

Tags & Warnings → Semi-canon compliant, Avenger! Bucky Barnes, Female! Reader, Tony’s Lab Assistant! Reader, Bucky’s past as TWS is mentioned, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, some cursing, and explicit sexual content.

Tags: Smut → Grinding, begging, some dirty talk, praise, teasing Bucky, protected sex, cowgirl position.

Story Rating → Explicit

Author’s Note → This story is beta'd by the wonderful @late-to-the-party-81, and I cannot thank you enough for that. I hope you'll all enjoy my story, which is filled with some angst, lots of fluff, and some smut to top it all off! 💜

Writing Prompts @fandom-free-bingo Bug Edition → “There is no us.” | Riding | In vino veritas | “Touch me.” @fandom-free-bingo Medical Edition → Crush at first sight @julybreakbingo Post-JBB → Being confronted about their feelings for another

Tags List → If you’d like to be tagged in my stories, you can add yourself to my tag list here.

The evening starts fine, good, even. But it all takes an unexpected turn when the man you work for - Tony Stark - reveals your secret. A secret that you’d only recently revealed to him.

Earlier that day, you’d spotted Bucky as he was working out and from that moment on your mind has been with him instead of your usual work and tasks.

“Hello, Y/N? Anyone home in there?” Tony asks as he lays a hand on your shoulder, making you jump. You look up at him with a worried look while he smiles back at you with a kind expression. A soft sigh escapes your lips as the thoughts in your head wander off again, specifically how his back looked underneath the tank top he wore in the gym while doing squats. Not only that, but you also can’t stop thinking about the way his ass looked in the sweatpants he wore. In a word, magnificent.

“Is everything okay with you? You’ve been a bit off your game today.” As Tony sits next to you, you put down the screwdriver you were holding - the one he asked you three times to pass to him - before turning to face him, your gaze focusing somewhere on the wall behind him. For a moment, there’s a silence between you as you gather the courage to tell him what’s been on your mind.

“Well, uhm- There’s something, or someone, that I can’t stop thinking about, and it’s taking over my mind every second of every day. It- It’s Bucky,” you say almost in a whisper. For a few seconds, Tony is completely silent as he lets the thought of you having a crush on one of his fellow Avengers sit in his mind. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he reaches out for your hand and takes it between his warm ones.

“You know that I’ll always support you in everything, right? I supported you when you expressed your desire to halt your life as an Avenger and retrain as my lab technician, and I supported you when you moved out of Avengers Tower to have your own home with more peace. This is not going to be any different. All I’m hoping for is that he will make you the happiest and best version of you, as you deserve nothing less.”

Tears brim at your waterline as Tony tells you this, and even though you deeply appreciate him, his words, and everything he has done for you, you can’t help but still feel a bit… odd about the fact you told him you’re having a crush on Bucky. That you have a crush on the man who was once the most feared assassin in the world under the hands of HYDRA.

“Now, can you hand me that screwdriver before your thoughts wander off to him again?” your boss asks in a teasing tone, making you smile as you grab it and hand it to him. Somehow, he always seems to know the right thing to say, and it's exactly why you enjoy spending time by his side while learning everything there is to know about his lab and what's going on in there.

Just as you’re about to get comfortable with another drink in your hand, you meet the gaze of the man you’re crushing on, and you feel heat coursing through your veins. The lines around his deep blue eyes intensify as he smiles at you, his attention making every last thought in your brain disappear. You’re so captivated by how Bucky looks at you that you miss your seat as you sit down. However, before you fall, you’re caught by a pair of solid arms that prevent you from hitting the floor.

“Careful there, Little One,” Thor says in his deep voice, his accent always making the butterflies in your stomach go wild. Even though you’d known Thor since you were young, you couldn’t help but get a little flustered by the nickname, and he smiled at you as you were finally sitting on the chair you intended to use.

“Thank you, Thor,” you whisper before sipping your cocktail. Around you, the conversations are starting to become a little blurry as you focus on Bucky and everything he has to say, his lips forming around the words effortlessly. When you suddenly feel a little shove against your arm, you yelp, making everyone go silent as they look at you.

“What did you do that for?!” you ask Thor in a low voice, but all he does is point to Tony, who obviously has something to say as he’s waving for everyone’s attention. There are moments when you enjoy the fact that alcohol can bring out people’s true feelings or thoughts, also known as in vino veritas, but not now. Oh no, now you wish you could disappear as you listen to the words coming out of Tony’s mouth.

“Guys, you really shouldn’t say this to Bucky or Y/N, but they’re having a massive crush on one another!” Tony says in a loud whispering tone, but what he fails to notice in his inebriated state is that you two are sitting right across from one another, enjoying the afterparty just like everyone else. Or at least, you were enjoying the afterparty until your secret got out.

The glass you were holding falls out of your hand before shattering into pieces on the floor, and your feet carry you as fast as they can away from the party and away from your worst nightmare come true. The music behind you fades away as you turn one corner after another, tears burning in your eyes as the event repeatedly replays in your mind. Your lungs start to burn as you keep running, the stinging feeling in your side increasing as you run out of the Avengers Tower into the night.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s world feels like it has taken a 180-degree turn. Mere minutes ago, he could only fantasize that you could have feelings for him, but now? A wave of disbelief washes over the super soldier, his expression showing pure surprise as he takes the moment in. For him, it was a crush at first sight from the momentyou walked into the training room on your first day. Over the years, his feelings have intensified, although he has only told Steve about his crush - or rather his now deep-rooted love - for you.

And yet, now that the pair of you have been confronted about your feelings for one another, he doesn’t know what to do. He has replayed the moment he’d confess his feelings to you more times than he can count in his mind, and in none of those versions, this is one of the scenarios that had appeared. It’s only when Steve grabs his arm and pulls him away that he seemingly comes back to reality again.

“Bucky, how does Tony know about your crush on Y/N? I mean, I’m, of course, fine with you sharing it, but-”

“I don’t know, Steve, I don’t know, and it kills me,” Bucky says as he runs his fingers through his cropped hair.“Fuck- I was planning on telling her this week but… but now it’s ruined, and I didn’t even get the chance to talk to her, and-” It’s all Bucky can say as he fights the urge to punch the wall with his metal fist, both hands clenched by his side as he tries to regulate his breathing. Without warning, Steve pulls him into a hug, and Bucky’s arms snake around his best friend's waist as his fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s going to be okay, I promise,” Steve whispers, though he’s not entirely sure that’s true because he knows as well as anyone that things don’t always go back to how they were before. Still, Bucky decides to believe him as they stand there for a little while longer, and he soaks in every bit of comfort he can get for now. Lord knows he’s going to need it.

The past few days have been strange, to say the least. You haven’t been to the Avengers Tower since Tony revealed your now not-so-secret crush on the super soldier. You’re afraid of what will happen if you do. This also means you haven’t seen Bucky in a few days, and you miss him. You miss hearing his laugh, and you miss seeing how his mouth turns slightly upward as you hand him one of your baked goods, but most of all, you miss how his arms feel when he pulls you in for a hug.

Just as you’re about to make yourself a cup of tea, you get pulled from your thoughts by a soft but familiar knock on the door; only one thing can make that sound: Bucky’s metal hand knocking against the wood. For a moment, you contemplate your actions, but decide to give him at least a chance to talk, especially as it wasn’t him who laid out your feelings in front of everyone.

“Bucky, hi,” you say softly as you take in his appearance, your heart sinking as you do. It’s evident he hasn’t slept at all the past few days. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he doesn’t look as healthy as usual—more disheveled. The struggles he’s facing are apparent in his entire demeanor, and all you want to do is wrap him up in a warm blanket and cuddle him until the end of time.

“Hi,” he says hoarsely, and you step aside, allowing him to enter your apartment. He’s been here a few times already, and usually there’s a warmth radiating from you and every inch of the little place you call home, but ever since the party, it hasn’t been the same. It isn’t just the apartment, either. You feel different.

“Would you like some tea before we talk?” you ask to break the tension. “I was about to make some.”

He nods at you before wandering further into your apartment, and you head to the kitchen, picking out another mug for Bucky to use. Once he’s caught sight of your couch, he immediately takes a seat, a soft groan audible as he does. There aren’t many places more comfortable than the large couch that’s standing right here in your living room.

When you emerge a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate filled with chocolate chip cookies you baked fresh this morning, Bucky can’t help but smile at you. He gladly takes the tea with one of the cookies, as they’re his favorite, and when you sit down next to him, it feels just like it always has, as if nothing has changed. But you both know it has, and that’s why the super soldier’s now in your living room.

“So…” you start, unsure what to say now that he’s sitting on your couch. Bucky’s eyes are trained on the steaming tea in his hands, his thoughts going a mile a minute as he’s thinking about what he wants to say - other than confessing his love for you.

“So… uhm, we missed seeing you around the Tower,” Bucky starts, though you both know it’s mostly him who has missed seeing you there. You have always been a staple there during his mornings as you make him a cup of coffee, and during movie nights, you were always the one he could sit next to and enjoy the movie, but now that you’re not there, it’s like a piece of soul has left the Tower with you.

“I mean, yeah. It’s been a bit awkward for me to go back after what happened a few days ago,” you tell him, and a shudder of horror runs down your spine at the thought of having to face Tony again. A smile tugs at the corners of Bucky’s lips as he thinks back to what happened that night, a happy memory of your first meeting resurfacing in the back of his mind as he does.

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes. I’ve made some chocolate chip cookies, if you want some. However, I should warn you, Tony’s been on the prowl since I took them out of the oven, so I’ll advise you to be quick,” you say with a glare towards Tony, who has been eyeing them up since he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. For the first time in a long time, Bucky showed something akin to a smile, and everyone looked at each other to ensure they saw it, too.

“Thank you,” he says lowly, grabbing one of the smaller ones on the plate, followed by a cup of coffee, before swiftly leaving the kitchen to spend more time in his room. Before Bucky even left the kitchen, Tony was on the cookies as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, and this time you let him.

“Can I- Is it okay if I tell you something? Because if I don’t say it now, I don’t know if I ever will,” Bucky says softly, and you nod before repositioning yourself so that you’re facing him. His gaze is still trained on his mug as he thinks carefully about his next words, afraid he might accidentally say the wrong thing.

“Tony was right. He is right, actually. When he said, we’re crushing on each other. I’ve been crushing on you since you offered me those chocolate chip cookies when Tony threatened to eat them all before anyone else had a chance to get them. It was like a switch flipped inside me back then, and I haven’t been the same since,” Bucky says, his mouth now in a line as he tells you about his feelings.

“Each time I look at you, it’s like I’m seeing an angel, and every time I hear your voice, it’s like a little piece of my soul is healing, too. I find myself drawn to you in every room and wonder what life has in store for us. But deep down inside, I know there is no ‘us’ yet. But I want there to be us. I want you, Y/N. I want you to be mine, in whatever capacity you’ll have me. If you want to stay friends, that’s okay with me, but if you want more, I’ll happily accept every bit of love you’re willing to offer me.”

Once Bucky’s done, you’re unsure what to say. What to think. What to do. You want to say that the feelings between you are mutual, that you’re in love with him and that you want nothing more than to be his, but something inside you is stopping you. So, instead of saying anything, you place your hand over his flesh limb, and his eyes slip shut at the feeling of your soft fingers against his rough hand.

“Bucky.” His name is a whisper on your lips, but it’s enough to make him look at you, to meet your gaze.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

As soon as the words leave your lips, Bucky carefully put his tea on the coffee table before hauling you onto his lap, his hands digging into the soft flesh of your waist as your lips interlock in a passionate dance. He can’t get enough of your soft mouth slotting together with his and the way his tongue fights for dominance with yours as your fingers dig into his neck. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt a strong connection with someone, and you’re happy to explore it with Bucky.

Your hips grind over his growing length of their own volition,your body looking for any bit of friction it can get. Without warning, one of Bucky’s hands slides lower until he’s cupping your ass, making you gasp into his mouth as a result. Bucky can’t help but smile into the kiss as he pulls you impossibly closer, your legs spreading just a bit further as you sink against his muscular body.

“Hmm, I’ve been wanting this - you - for so long,” he says between the kisses trailing your jaw towards your ear, his teeth nipping on your earlobe as your head lolls to the side. With every passing second, your thoughts are melting away more and more, and all that’s left inside your mind is Bucky. Soon, his other hand joins the first as he helps you grind onto him, a groan falling from his lips as he sets a perfect pace for you both.

“B-Bucky—" his name sounds more like a whine than anything else. “I—I want you.”

“But you already have me, pretty girl, ‘m right here,” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice, his hands continuing to help you grind until you’re a complete mess for him. Your shorts are ruined, your arousal soaking through them and onto the bulge in his black jeans, much to Bucky’s joy. He was wondering what it would take to get you to this point, and it turns out it won’t take much.

He smiles against the skin of your neck, where he’s taking his time to mark you with hickeys and small bitemarks, all of which leave you a bit more of a moaning, begging mess on his lap, much to his pride. When one of your hands moves away from his neck and down his torso, he quickly catches on to what you’re doing. “Someone’s a little impatient today, huh?”

“Yes, oh god, yes! I need you to touch me, Bucky. I want to feel you inside me as you make me fall apart on your cock, and I need you to fuck me like there’s no tomorrow!” Your voice sounds more breathy than usual, but every care you thought you had has gone out the window. All you want is Bucky and his cock to ride, until you’re orgasming so hard and long you can’t remember your name.

“Okay, I will. Don’t you worry about anything, okay? Let me take care of you, and I’ll give you everything you need and more,” he reassures you in a shushing voice. You nod before kissing him again, which immediately deepens before he gently helps you get up, allowing you to take off your panties and shorts, and he can take off his pants and boxershorts, too. As soon as you’re both freed from your last pieces of clothing, you hand him a condom you retrieved from the side table drawer while he took the time to undress himself.

“Hmmm, looks so thick,” you tell him as you look at it with wide eyes, wondering how he’s going to fit inside you as you’re positioning yourself on his lap once more, your legs bracketing his thicks thighs as you get comfortable.

“I know, but I’m gonna go slow. Wouldn’t want to hurt you and your perfect, sweet little pussy.” He smiles as he holds his cock in place, your pliant body sinking onto him slowly as your fingers dig into his shoulders to steady yourself. Your hiss of pleasure is audible and your face contorts at the slight sting of him stretching you, but just like he promised, Bucky is taking it slow to ensure you’ll both have the most amazing first time.

As soon as you’re fully seated on his lap, your body goes limp against him, your face tucked in the crook of his neck as you adjust to his girth, and Bucky places soft kisses on your head while praising you through it all. “You’re doing so well for me, baby. Such a good girl for me, letting me take the lead and giving you exactly what you need.”

A small smile appears on your face as you look up at him with big, doe-like eyes, and he can’t help but smile back as the back of his fingers gently caress your cheek. He may have thought you were beautiful before, but nothing compares to this moment. 

“I love you, Y/N, and I promise to take care of you with every fiber of my being,” he whispers, his lips sealing his promise against your cheek. Your eyes fall shut at his words, and his hand moves down your side until it’s on your hip again, ready for you to let him know when you’re good to go. Your bodies work in complete sync with one another with every rise and fall of your chest, and his hands guide you beautifully as you slowly sink and rise on his length.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, and it doesn’t take long for both of you to find your highs for the first time, and they’re serving as a promise of everything else that’s still to come in this lifetime. A few days ago, you and Bucky didn’t even know you felt the same about one another, but now you’re sharing the start of the rest of your lives, and it’s all thanks to Tony. Because without him, you wouldn’t have been able to tell the man of your dreams how much you love him.

Masterlist → Bucky Barnes

GIF: Source → All the other graphics you see are made by @vintagebuckybarnes

[darkbluekies]

In the hands of a madman 2024 ver

Doctor!yandere oc x reader

Summary: a doctor is very peculiar about his favorite patient, and senses a threat once they disobey him.

Warnings: yandere, poison, murder, cuff restraints

Word count: 2.4k

You gag.

“Yes, yes, I know”, he coos, grimacing and removes the wooden stick out of your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

You're left with a bitter taste in your mouth. Why does he always stick that thing as far down your throat as humanly possible? You thank heavens that it’s not one of the needles extracting blood from your arm, although you’re sure that’s what’s waiting tomorrow.

“Still nothing?” you ask cautiously. 

He meets your eyes and you know immediately. You sigh heavily. Your heart sinks to your stomach. 

Every three months, he’s doing all sorts of tests to see if you’re getting better — or what’s what he’s saying. Every three months, Dr Kry has to check every vital sign on you to make sure that his sickness isn’t getting out of his control. But you don’t like them. They hurt. Badly.

“Will I ever get to go home? I want to.” 

Dr Kry sighs and sits down on his rolling stool, coming over to your bed.

“I know you do, but you that’s not possible”, he says apologetically. “You know that too.”

“Yeah, because you keep reminding me”, you mutter. 

“That’s better than giving you false hope, isn’t it? Wouldn’t that drive you insane?”

It would, but you don’t say it out loud. Doesn’t need to.

“I want to go home!” you say again, louder this time. 

“Saying it louder won’t make you better or me change my mind”, Dr Kry says. 

You sigh and press your palms to your eyes, trying to press the tears back into your eyes before they escape. You’ve been here for too long by now. You’ve been isolated for so incredibly long. ALl you want is to go home. You know no one, talk to no one beside him. The proper, sophisticated man who’s stiffer than a stick. Dr Kry sighs and moves closer. 

“I know that you’re disappointed”, he says and puts his large hand on your shoulder. “But this is for the best. “I don’t want you to get worse.”

“I hate these fucking tests! They hurt.”

“I know.”

He glances towards the white air purifier on the shelf beside the bed. The poisoned air purifier. He’s always making sure it’s not too much, not too little. Just the exact amount to keep you where he wants you — weak and vulnerable, dependent on him. 

“I know it’s hard”, he says encouragingly. “I know that you’re in pain, but you’re doing so good. You can always call for me if you need me, okay? I’m available all day and night for you.”

You press forward a smile, but can’t help but feel a wave of sadness wash over you. Why did this happen to you? Where did you go wrong to end up here? How could a sore throat get you bed bound in a hospital room? If only you knew. 

“Let’s get you tucked in again”, Dr Kry says and helps you lie down in bed. “You shouldn’t be putting to much pressure on your body.”

He pushes up your pillows, having you lie in a 45-degree angle. It helps you breathe at night. He always tucks the blanket close to your body, as if you were a butterfly in a cocoon. He gives you a small smile before standing up. 

“Please don’t go”, you whisper. “I don’t want to be left here.”

The man looks at you, studies you carefully before nodding and sitting back down. He wipes your lonely tear with his finger. He looks at his wet finger, thinking. 

“I feel helpless”, you admit. “I don’t think I’ll ever get well again.”

Little do you know that’s exactly what he wants. 

“It’s okay, Y/N”, he says. “I will take care of you. I will stay with you until you’re well again.”

He has to force back a smile. 

“I don’t want to do these anymore”, you say monotonously. 

“I know you don’t, but you have to”, Dr Kry says apologetically and moves closer to the bed on his rolling stool. “They’re important.”

“They hurt …”

“I know, but you’re doing so good, okay? I’m so proud of you.”

You give him a small, painful smile. 

“I’ll sit here until you fall asleep, don’t worry”, he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You close your eyes slowly. He fades out. 

He takes blood tests the following day. Needles, pain.

“Now, you need to take a nap”, he says and tucks you in. 

The daily afternoon nap. You hate it, but he insists. While you sleep, he’s out taking care of other patients that are not you. He hates it, hates wasting his time and skill on people that aren’t you. Those patients are one time patients that are there for surgeries, consultations or checkups. No long term patients that have to stay in the hospital. Everyone gets to leave after he meets them. Everyone but you. You stay. 

You keep your eyes closed until Dr Kry leaves the room. Quickly, you sit up and get out of bed. After all these fucking tests, you’re deserving of something else than the tasteless cardboard Dr Kry gets you. Just one brownie. Something that has sugar. And maybe some coffee for caffeine too. 

Quietly, you sneak out into the corridor. There’s something about these sterile passageways that makes the hair on your back stand on its end. Is it the dehumanized area or the fact that you’re never allowed here? Is it nerves or excitement? Whatever it is, you decide to speed up your steps and hurry towards the elevators before anyone sees you. They’ll tell him. Just as the doors are about to close, someone stops the doors. A boy dressed in a similar hospital gown as yourself forces his way into the elevator. He gives you a rushed, apologetic smile. 

“Sorry”, he says sheepishly. “I am in a hurry.”

“What happened to you?” you ask and smile halfly. 

“I escaped from the therapist. A real pain in my ass.”

You can’t help but giggle. The young man licks his lips and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Have you met her?” he asks. “The therapist?”

“No”, you say. 

You haven’t met anyone but your stiff and proper doctor. 

“Don’t”, the young man advices you and leans his back against the wall. “She’s mental. I honestly think she should be the one getting interrogated — not me.” He looks at you, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Do you meet others?” you ask. 

“In the lounge. Have you been there?”

You shake your head and lower your eyes. 

“Did you just arrive?” the man asks. 

You shake your head again. 

“How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

The elevator stops and the doors open at your floor. 

“Are you going to the cafeteria?” the man asks. 

“Yes”, you reply. 

“I’m coming with you. Maybe you can help me blend in.”

“Okay.”

The boy seems frantic, but happy. Running on adrenaline and excitement. Together, you walk through the hospital to the cafeteria and realize that you don’t have any money. Your shoulders fall. Did you come here for nothing? 

“Aren’t you going to order something?” the young man asks. 

“I don’t know”, you reply quietly. 

Before you have the time to come up with a lie why you can’t order anything, you recognise something in the corner of your eye. A blonde man dressed in a white robe. You feel your blood run cold. 

“What do we have here?” Dr Kry asks and you have a hard time reading his tone or facial expressions. “What do you think you are doing out of bed?”

He walks over to you and grabs your shoulder. You flinch. His grip is … tight. Painful. 

“You’re supposed to rest”, Dr Kry says shortly.

He looks at the young man. His eyes seem to go right through him. 

“Where are you supposed to be?” he asks. 

He doesn’t answer. Dr Kry gives him a cold gaze before grabbing your upper arm in a tight grip. He doesn’t say anything as he starts to pull you with him. His steps are quick, steady. Angry. 

“Doctor …”, you try.

He doesn’t answer. Dr Kry pushes you into the elevator and presses the button. He doesn't let go of your arm.

“Doctor, I’m sorry”, you say. 

He still doesn’t answer. You barely dare to look at him. There’s something about his face that scares you. It's stoic, unreadable. But he oozes anger. Like a dark cloud.

The elevator stops, the doors open. His tight grip remains as he drags you back into your room.

“Lay down”, he instructs shortly.

You do, too scared to disobey. Dr Kry walks past you, to the drawers by your bed. He rips out two leather bands that look like belts for dolls. Before you're aware of what he's doing, he's strapped one of your wrists to the bed railing.

“Wait, doctor-”, you blurt out.

“Be quiet.”

He locks your other wrist to the other railing. You tug at the restraints, and find them secure.

“Are they too tight?” Dr Kry asks, still with that short tone that sends icy needles down your spine.

“Doctor, what are you-?”

“Answer the question. Do they hurt?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He turns to his desk, ignoring you.

“Doctor, I'm sorry”, you say.

“You broke my trust”, he says without giving you any attention. “It's important, for your healing, that you do not deceive me. I need to be able to trust that you do as I say. How many times have you done this?”

“Only this time, I promise.”

He doesn't answer. You feel how your eyes fill with tears. Your body is in such a vulnerable state that your body betrays you. You didn't want to upset him, didn't want to put your own health at risk by doing this. 

“I'm sorry, doctor”, you sniffle. “I didn't mean to break your trust.”

He sighs and turns his head to look at you. His blue eyes soften and he rises from his chair, coming over to your bed. He can't stay mad at you, not when you're clearly dumb. You don't understand, he can't be mad at you for not understanding. He should — and is — mad at himself for not foreseeing these situations and making sure you don't do it.

“You know that I only want what's best for you, don't you?” he asks and wipes your tears with his hand.

“Yes”, you reply.

“In that case, I want you to never repeat this mistake. Mistakes are forgivable, but they should be minimized, do you understand that?”

“Yes. Do you forgive me?”

He has to force back a smile. You're so unbelievably cute.

“Yes, I do forgive you”, he says. 

“Can you take off the restraints?”

“No. I might forgive you, but I need you to know what happens once mistakes occur. This is the consequences that follow. If I can't trust you to be where I want you to be, I need to take precautions to make sure you are.”

You lower your gaze.

“Who was that, by the way?” he asks. “That young … man. Why did you speak to him?”

“I don't know, he took the same elevator as me.”

“I don't want you to speak with him again. If he's the one they're looking for, I don't want you getting influenced by his reckless ideas.”

“I don't get to speak to anyone, anyways.”

“And that's how it should be. We don't know why you're sick, and you shouldn't contaminate someone else.”

“What about you, then? You can get sick too.”

“I'm ready to take that risk.”

He's too nice, you think. All he wants is to take care of you and you put his selfless risks to hell when you decide to disobey him. How horrible of you.

“Now, you need to take that nap for real”, he says. “I will sit by my desk. If you need something you can just let me know.”

He walks back to his desk and sits down, starting to file some paperwork. You tug at the restraints. You're not going anywhere.

When you’ve fallen asleep, Dr Kry makes his way through the hospital. They’ve captured that young man and put him back into his room … and Dr Kry wants a talk with him. He opens the door quietly. The young lays in bed, sleeping. Dr Kry circles around him, taking a good look at him. Did you find him cute? Hot? Did you like talking to him? Did you think that he was better than him? Did you enjoy those ten minutes with him more than these months with Kry? Do you want to meet with him again? He glares at the sleeping man. Dr Kry walks over to the supply closet, an identical to the one in your room, and takes out one of the spare pillows. Silently, he walks over to the bed, lifts the pillow and presses it over the young man’s face. He widen his eyes, pulled out of his slumber. He screams against the pillow, his voice getting muffled in the fabric. 

“Normally, I’d make this easy for you”, Dr Kry grunts as the man starts to fight against him. “Out of pity, but you don’t deserve that mercy.”

He screams in confusion, fear. Dr Kry can make out words. What. No. Help. Stop.

“Just give in and give yourself that mercy”, Dr Kry continues. “If you continue to fight against me, you’ll be in more pain.”

The man cries. Dr Kry breaks out into a smile. 

“You’re going to die either way, you can choose to end it quicker.”

The young man doesn’t seem to get the memo. He continues to fight, cry, plead. He drinks it all in. The horror, the helplessness. The dear in headlight. He has seen the light in people’s eyes disappear multiple times during his job as a doctor. To see the moment someone becomes just a piece of flesh. He has never enjoyed it as much as now. The man stops moving. Dr Kry removes the pillow and takes a step back, looking at the lifeless body. He breathes out. Finally, he can calm down. 

And now, all he needs to do is to make sure he can not be traced back. 

He finds you sleeping soundly as he comes back to your room, wrists still locked to the sides of the bed. You make his heart ache. He sits down beside you, brushing his fingertips over your cheek. 

I control your life, my little one. You’re going to say with me and I’ll take every repercussion to make sure you don’t disappear. 

[estaticheart]

ᥫ᭡. THAT’S MY SISTER YOU BITCH

Summary: Despite Sarah and Rafe’s volatile relationship, that’s your sister.

Warnings: Violence, illusions to sex, swearing.

You had a great day so far. You'd woken up to Rafe in between your legs, waking you up in the best way possible before he made you both breakfast as you watched him from the island. Sometimes you just liked to ponder on how lucky you were to have a boyfriend like Rafe. To everyone else, you were far from lucky but you liked it that way- knowing only you got the real Rafe Cameron.

Now, you were on your way back from grocery shopping, planning to make Rafe a romantic meal when he arrived back from work. Blasting music from your car speakers, you were completely in the zone. Until you drove up to the City Hall, glancing ahead you saw Kelce's red truck, which you thought nothing of until you saw him and his idiotic friends surrounding John B and Sarah.

Alarmed, you pulled up next to the truck, gathering the attention of everyone. Despite being a kook yourself, you were far different from the rest of them. You didn't care about pogues, to you they were like anyone else, in fact often you preferred the pogues in the Outer Banks to the kooks. Rafe's circle exclusively consisted of kooks, meaning you often received a lot of respect from kooks even though you spent a lot of your time arguing with them. Rafe didn't mind it, you were his girlfriend and lover, so if you wanted to yell he wouldn't stop you.

"Problem?" You asked, slamming your car door shut behind you. Just as Sarah hit the ground. Immediately you rushed towards Sarah. Yeah, Rafe and Sarah had problems they needed to get past but to you, Sarah was still as important as she was 2 years ago. You were proud of her for finding her true love and true friends, and you always let her know that you would always be there for her. And this time was no exception. Putting two and two together, you saw Ruthie standing much closer to Sarah than the other kooks who looked at her in shock.

They all stood stunned at your arrival, to be honest, you were probably the worst possible person to show up at that exact moment. Everyone knew your opinions on the Pogues were far more empathetic than the other kooks. "No, no problem" Kelce muttered, beginning to pull Ruthie and the others back from Sarah and John B, to which they happily obliged. Not on your watch.

"Oh no, don't stop on my accord guys. Please whatever you were going to do next. Do it." Walking over to them, Ruthie stood stunned at your arrival. Since she started dating Topper, you got a lot of joy out of berating her, publically. For once, she didn't back down at your words. "She needs to watch herself. She pushed me first, it was self-defence." Ruthie said, glancing behind you to see John B pulling Sarah to her feet.

Snorting you replied, "Ruthie, I'm not Shoupe. Don't start pleading your case, I don't care." She stalled at your response, for a moment thinking that you were on her side for pushing Sarah before you pulled her back to reality. Walking closer to her, edgingly slow, you pressed, "You think you're all big and mighty for pushing Sarah? She's 19 Ruthie, you're what? 21? Don't you think you should play with someone your own size?"

Behind you, John B and Sarah smirked at the group. Unbeknownst to you, Sarah was pregnant and John B was far too occupied to make sure Sarah was okay than to pick a fight with Kelce and his goons today. But you happily would, and even better so because who was going to fight back against the kook princess? Definitely not these ones.

“Well?” You pushed, as you stood toe to toe with Ruthie. You were growing impatient, Rafe would have finished work by now meaning that soon he’d come looking for you- and you’d rather give Ruthie a good couple punches before Rafe showed up.

“Okay times up.” Before she could even think, your fist sent her backwards onto the floor, just how Sarah had been when when you arrived. Groaning, she lifted her hands to cover her nose, assumably bleeding- hopefully broken if Rafe’s self defence lessons had done some good. “Oh my god- I think you broke my nose. You bitch.” She shrieked, pulling her hands away to reveal blood beginning to pour from her nose.

Ruthie was nothing but a bully, a bully you’d had enough of tormenting the island. Your legs either side of her chest you crouched over her, “Don’t worry you still look just as bad as before.” You muttered as you flew your fist back into her face that she left unguarded. Idiot. Her screaming began again, as you moved off from her, deciding that your two punches had done enough damage. Wow, you’d really have to thank Rafe for those lessons.

“Just wait until Topper hears about this, he will deal with you.” One of the other kooks muttered from behind Kelce. “Yeah I’m sure Topper will be sure to deal with me.” You laughed, Topper wouldn’t touch a hair on your arm as long as you were dating Rafe- everyone knew that.

“You want to fuck with someone, not Sarah.” You spat at them, watching Ruthie sadly pull herself to her feet, with the help of no one. “That’s my sister you bitch. Now fuck off.” At your command, Kelce briskly walked back over to his truck, as the others followed just as fast, allowing you to turn back to John B and Sarah.

You were greeted to their smiling faces, both as grateful as each other. But you noticed, a twinge of emotion still lingering on Sarah’s face. Hearing you call her your sister in combination with her pregnancy hormones, was due to set her off to cry. Before she could get out any words, you spoke for her. “You are my sister regardless of whatever is going on between you and Rafe. You’re family.” Turning to John B, you continued, “That extends to you, hubby.” You winked looking down at the ring on his finger.

With a red blush covering their faces, they praised you in thank yous. “Don’t need to thank me for doing something I’ve been wanting to do for months.” Glancing back to see the red truck had disappeared.

“Now, you can thank me for warning you that Rafe will be here any minute and I’m not sure you want to see him.”

—————————

“Baby, please be more careful next time.” Rafe muttered, as he wrapped your knuckles in bandages. He was more than shocked to find you outside the city hall- alone- but with bloody knuckles. Only with the explanation, that you had an altercation with Ruthie, surprisingly over Sarah. He was confused to say the least, he wasn’t even aware that Ruthie had a problem with his little sister. But the more he thought about it, of course she did- Topper still hadn’t gotten over her.

“In fact, there will be no next time. Ever.” Kissing your knuckles, he pulled you onto his chest as he lied back on your shared king bed. Stroking your hair, he let his mind wonder. Should he have been there to protect Sarah? But they hadn’t had a good relationship in years, he couldn’t just suddenly start caring for her. He also couldn’t let you get into situations that could get you hurt over protecting Sarah.

You noticed his body still and you knew instantly his mind was wondering thinking about Sarah. Without moving your head from his chest you spoke, “Rafe. I love Sarah. I know you have a difficult relationship at the moment and whilst you can’t protect her I will.” Letting the silence sit between you for a moment, you decided to continue.

“She’s our only family, Rafe.” He didn’t move, but you both knew how right you were. She was all you had left. “I know baby, I know.” He whispered, laying a kiss on the top of your head, before he let his mind slip back into imagining how he can rectify this broken relationship with his sister.

[thef1diary]

Language Of Leaves | F. Colapinto

Summary: Franco begrudgingly agrees to watch your plants, but caring for them leads him to realize he’s growing just as attached to you.

warnings: fluff, a few spanish sentences - w translation (correct me if it’s wrong!)

wc: 3k

masterlist

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate or repost any of my work.

Franco had been wholly reluctant from the moment you asked him to take care of your plants. The request hadn’t even fully left your lips before he shook his head, immediately retreating a step, his hands raised as though warding off some ludicrous proposal.

“¿Estás loca?” (are you crazy?) he’d exclaimed, his brows furrowing in exaggerated disbelief. “You’re asking the wrong person here, I would kill your plants without even realizing. They don’t want me around, trust me.” He looked at the leafy green oasis you had so carefully tended to with a mix of apprehension and resignation, like the plants themselves were quietly mocking him from their pots.

But you knew Franco well, you knew that if you pressed just a little, his tough facade would soften. So, you laid it on thick, giving him that soft, pleading expression that he could never quite resist when it came to you. You looked at him with those big, hopeful eyes, layering in just a hint of sadness. “Franco, please. My plants will wither without someone to care for them. Leaving them alone for two whole weeks… it’d be like abandoning children.”

Your words seemed to strike a nerve. He hesitated, his gaze flicking back to the plants and then to you, a faint crack appearing in his armor. You could practically see the thought unfolding in his mind—imagining you returning home to drooping, lifeless plants, the beautiful greenery reduced to a shadow of what it had been. His resistance wavered.

And then you delivered the final blow: a tiny, almost-mournful pout. You knew it was his Achilles’ heel, the expression that always seemed to make him relent, no matter how absurd the request.

Franco sighed—a long, dramatic sigh, muttering under his breath as he glanced away, pretending as if he hadn’t already lost this battle. Finally, he held out his hand for the paper in yours, grumbling all the while, “fine. Solo por dos semanas.” (only for two weeks)

Franco took the paper with a resigned sigh, eyeing it skeptically as he skimmed the instructions. You had done your best to make it as straightforward as possible, keeping the notes to simple instructions for sunlight and water. Still, he seemed to regard even this minimal guidance as a daunting task, his brows furrowing with each line he read. You could practically see his mind racing, piecing together the responsibility you were trusting him with, and how high the stakes suddenly felt.

But since he had already agreed—thanks to that soft pout of yours he couldn’t resist—he knew it was too late to back out now. He folded the paper carefully and gave you a look, one last attempt to salvage his pride. “I’ll try my best, okay? But if you come back and a plant or two doesn’t make it, that’s not my fault.”

There was a slight smirk on his face, though, as if he was secretly determined to prove himself wrong, to come through for you.

You lean in and press a quick, warm kiss to his cheek, murmuring a soft, “thank you, Franco.” The gesture is small, but the effect is immediate. A flush rises to his cheeks, painting them a rosy pink that he tries to hide by looking away. He clears his throat, obviously flustered, and rubs the back of his neck as though the warmth spreading there might somehow disappear if he just ignores it.

He lets out a low cough, shifting his stance uncomfortably, and mutters, “Yeah, yeah… don’t mention it,” his voice gruff, but betrayed by the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Before you can say anything else, he gives a quick nod and ends the conversation right there, stuffing the paper in his pocket as though ready to make his escape before you see just how much your kiss affected him.

When you finally left for your trip, Franco lingered in the doorway of your apartment, taking in the quiet space that was now his responsibility. He moved to the middle of the room, staring down at the list you’d left him. The handwriting was familiar, your looping letters filling the space with gentle reminders and careful instructions, but it was the little doodles that captured his attention.

You’d sketched a happy monstera leaf next to its name, a tiny sun with a smiling face by the plants that needed more light, and even raindrops beside those that liked extra water. He found his fingers drifting over the paper, tracing each drawing, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Qué linda…” (how cute) he murmured before catching himself and pulling his hand back with a quick cough.

“They’re just plants, Franco,” he told himself under his breath, trying to brush off the warmth in his chest. Still, he couldn’t deny that the thought of you sitting down to make this list—carefully, as if you were entrusting him with a life-or-death mission—made him feel… something.

The first day was straightforward enough. He followed each instruction you’d left to the letter, checking off each plant on your list and measuring out water carefully. Some plants didn’t need watering every day, so he noted the days with reminders on his phone. He’d warned you he wasn’t the best plant sitter, after all, and the last thing he wanted was to accidentally prove himself right.

As each day passed, he found himself coming over more often than necessary. Even on days when only one or two plants needed watering, Franco would still make the trip, convincing himself it was “just in case.” What if something went wrong overnight? What if he’d missed something? He checked each plant like they were little patients, leaning close to inspect the soil.

By the fourth day, he was getting into a rhythm. He began with the smaller plants, crouching down to check the moisture in their soil. If it felt too dry, he gave them a splash of water; if it seemed damp, he left them alone.

But then he reached your monstera, the plant you considered your prized possession. He stilled, a strange sensation of dread creeping over him as he noticed the edges of the leaves starting to turn yellow, a slight droop to the usually vibrant foliage. His heart dropped.

“¡Mierda!” (shit) he muttered, kneeling down to inspect the damage. “No, no, no…” Panic crept into his chest as he pictured you coming home to find a mess of dying plants. He knew how much these plants meant to you; you tended to them with such devotion, treating each one like it was a beloved pet.

“No me hagas esto, por favor. ¿Qué te hice?” (Don’t do this to me, please. What did I do to you?) His fingers brushed over one of the yellowed edges, his brow furrowing as he searched for any clue. “I swear, I followed everything she wrote down,” he muttered, almost like he was trying to reassure the plant—and himself. He took out the list and reread the instructions for the monstera, scanning the page as if a hidden solution would suddenly appear.

The room fell silent, save for his own low muttering as he kept inspecting the monstera, turning the pot gently and studying each leaf like a doctor checking a patient’s pulse. “Okay, maybe it needs a little less water? Or more light?” He tried everything he could think of, even nudging the pot slightly closer to the window. “Dios mío,” (my god) he breathed, wiping a hand over his face. “She’s going to kill me if it wilts.”

But then he paused, remembering something else.

Franco looked around at your cozy, plant-filled home, feeling a mix of anxiety and determination. He remembered how you’re always doting on these plants, cradling each one gently as you water or trim leaves. He’d always found it amusing, the way you’d coo at it as if it were a pet, fingers lightly brushing over its leaves, calling it mi bebé, whispering reassurances in a soft voice, and he’s never missed the way your face lights up whenever one of them sprouts a new leaf or a flower bud.

Franco never understood it, thought it was just some odd habit. But now, facing the wilting monstera, he wondered if maybe it wasn’t as silly as he’d thought.

He cleared his throat, feeling utterly ridiculous. “Alright, monstruo,” he muttered, using a nickname he’d given the big, leafy plant.

“We’re gonna make this work, ¿sí? No más hojas amarillas, ¿entendido?” (Yes? No more yellow leaves, understood?) He felt silly, but if talking to them helped even a little, he was willing to try.

“She really loves you, ¿sabes? She’d hate to see you like this.” (you know) He reached out and gently touched one of the yellowing leaves, his hand lingering there, almost as if he were holding its hand.

He could picture you now, laughing at him for talking to a plant—to your plant—but he kept going anyway. “I’ll do better, okay? Whatever you need. More sun, less water, whatever it takes. Just… hang in there. Don’t make me break her heart.”

He sat back on his heels, staring at the monstera for a moment longer. He felt strangely connected to it, like he’d made a pact, a silent agreement between them.

In the days that followed, Franco grew more and more attached, unconsciously mimicking the little rituals he’d seen you do. He hummed softly under his breath as he watered, sometimes even pausing to glance at the list you’d left, your handwriting now familiar and endearing to him.

He no longer approached your plants like a checklist to get through. Instead, he slowed down, taking the time to touch each leaf and test the soil carefully with his fingers, just like he’d seen you do a hundred times.

When he came across your spider plant, a small and slightly finicky one that he’d once jokingly called “the diva” because of its stubborn leaves, he paused, lightly brushing his thumb over the thin, arching fronds. “You’re giving me more trouble than all the others combined, you know that?” he said, his voice softer than before, almost like he was confiding in it. “But I get it… you’re probably used to her touch, not mine.”

Each day, he began to greet them with a quiet “hola,” as if entering a room full of familiar faces. He knew the way you did it, how you’d walk in and give each plant a little greeting or a compliment. And now he found himself doing the same thing. “Looking good,” he’d mutter as he checked the moisture of your jade plant, nodding approvingly, even though it was just a plant in silence.

The last thing Franco expected was to miss you. But somewhere between fussing over your plants and memorizing every instruction you’d left behind, he started to notice the silence. Your laughter, your endless chatter about plant care, the way you’d smile as you talked about each one like it had a personality—all of it lingered in the empty spaces of your home, making it feel strangely hollow.

He never said it out loud, but as much as he protested, he enjoyed coming over, having coffee with you as you arranged your plants, rambling about which ones needed more light, which were delicate, and which were “just a little dramatic.” You’d look at him with that soft, knowing smile as he pretended not to care, and though he’d grumble about “too many plants,” he never left without sneaking one last look at your little green haven.

He wondered how you’d react if he managed to keep them all alive. A small part of him—a part he tried not to examine too closely—wanted to see your face light up when you saw the plants, thriving and green, as if he’d managed to preserve something precious to you.

Sitting there on your living room carpet, surrounded by all these green, leafy “babies” you’d entrusted to him, he realized he wasn’t just daydreaming about your reaction to the plants. He found himself wondering what it would be like to be here with you, to share these quiet mornings side by side, maybe with a cup of coffee and your gentle teasing. He imagined your hand on his arm, laughing at his sudden “attachment” to your beloved green haven, and he felt a pang of longing he couldn’t ignore.

Franco had always admired you, but these past two weeks had somehow made him feel closer to you, made him wonder what it would be like if he weren’t just a friend.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, he stopped seeing these plants as “yours” and started treating them like they were his responsibility too.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, your two-week trip came to an end. It was well past midnight when you let yourself in, leaving your suitcase by the door as you spotted a lit lamp in the otherwise dark apartment. You padded softly down the hall, stifling a yawn, but stopped in your tracks at the sight that awaited you.

There, in the middle of your living room, was Franco, sound asleep on the floor. His back was against the sofa, his head lolling to one side, and in his hands were two of your plants—your small, temperamental spider plant and your “drama queen” fern. Even in his sleep, he cradled them carefully, as if afraid one wrong move might damage them.

You couldn’t help but smile, taking in the sight of him nestled between your plants, his face softened in sleep, looking far more at peace than you’d ever seen him. You stepped a little closer, crouching down and noticed the smudges of soil on his hands and the slight disarray of the room, as if he’d gone through a nightly ritual of checking on each plant before dozing off right there on the floor.

As you reached out, your fingers barely grazing a stray curl from his forehead, he stirred, eyes fluttering open, his gaze meeting yours. His sleepy, unfocused eyes sharpened as he realized you were there, inches away, and a hint of surprise flickered in them.

“Ah… estás aquí,” (you’re here) he muttered as he realized he was still holding onto your plants.

A faint blush colored his cheeks as he placed them gently beside him, his fingers lingering on the leaves as if reluctant to let go.

You both remained close, his sleepy eyes meeting yours, and suddenly the room felt charged, every inch between you alive with an unspoken electricity. He didn’t move away, and neither did you. The silence was warm, thick with all the things you hadn’t yet said, every shared glance and lingering touch from before echoing in this small, tender space between you.

“I didn’t expect to find you like this,” you whispered, the words coming out softer than you intended.

He laughed lightly, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he leaned back, eyes not leaving yours. “I didn’t expect to get so… attached,” he admitted, his voice dropping, a hint of something more in his tone.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you raised an eyebrow, teasing. “To the plants or…?”

His gaze flickered down to the fern beside him for a moment, and then back to you, as if he could no longer resist the pull drawing you closer. “They were good company,” he murmured, his voice softer now, like he was confessing something he’d been holding back, “but… I meant you.”

Your smile softened, and before you could second-guess yourself, you had leaned in, bridging the last inches between you until your head was nestled gently against his chest. He shifted to hold you, his arms wrapping around you naturally, as if they’d been waiting for this moment. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek, steady but just a bit faster than usual, mirroring your own.

He tightened his hold around you, one hand settling at the small of your back while the other drifted upward, his fingers trailing gently along your spine. The touch was unhurried, almost reverent, as if he were savoring the simple act of holding you close.

You let yourself relax fully into his embrace, feeling the way his fingers seemed to map out a quiet symphony along your spine. There was a tenderness in his touch, a kind of reverence that made you feel like this moment was as meaningful to him as it was to you.

“Franco…” you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips as his gaze flicked to your lips, lingering in a way that made the room feel smaller, more intimate. His thumb brushed against your side, an almost absent-minded gesture, yet one that spoke volumes, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you with the tips of his fingers.

He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and for a heartbeat, the world outside faded, leaving only the soft rise and fall of his breath mingling with yours. His eyes closed briefly, like he was savoring the closeness, and when they opened, his gaze was deeper, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I missed you,” he murmured, his tone laced with a sincerity that sent a thrill through you, making you forget everything but the warmth of his presence.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “I missed you too,” you whispered, your thumb gently grazing his cheek.

Franco’s hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair as he tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss. The moment hung between you, suspended in time, gentle and full of unspoken promises.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile was warm, content. There was no rush, no need for words anymore. Just the quiet understanding between you, as if the silence said everything that needed to be said.

And in that silence, you both stayed, savoring the peace of finally being close in a way you hadn’t been before.

taglist: @blakebearsblog @arieslost @lilorose25 @jamieeboulos @cinderellawithashoe @spreadyourwings-my-smiling-angel

[reshinless]

hi!!! i hope ur doing well>< can u do kinich with a shy s/o but get reaaally freaky in bed?

art creds: @ sumi_noth on x

warnings: p in v sex, anal penetration, afab!reader (no specified gender), consent king kinich, freaky ass reader, handcuff usage, blindfold usage, dirty talk kind of, but mostly praise, oral(?, eating you out),

he didn't expect your interests to be... different from your actions, or at least in public. your shy grasps on his arm if ever you were anxious, or the habit of standing in front of you to intimidate

or the flushed expression that danced across your cheeks when he complimented you. it could be the arm that grasped your waist when he knew you were uncomfortable.

well, whatever it was, it was cute in its own way.

but looking at you and comparing to then—are you really the same person...? maybe you have a secret twin!

"n- nngh! kin— pleasef- I wan' it s'bad!" you whined, feeling him strike your insides for the umpteenth time. he really didn't mind but he could see how shaky your legs were.

"y'sure? you're trembling, baby." "mmn, need more, please?"

he simply tilted his head, you looked tired. he doesn't care too much about himself since his stamina sustains for very long. but yours didn't.

he swore this little thing of yours lasted a week each month. always telling him how bad you needed him with those pleading eyes. he couldn't say no, that'd be mean!

"whatever you want, sweetheart."

he'd give you the world if possible, but he cares for your safety, so he does end up not going through with your feralness in bed. no matter how cute your whining and begging might be- he doesn't want to take advantage of the fact that you want all of him more than just seven rounds.

one time you asked him to cuff you to the bed, and he asked more than just five times. you.. want him to use his elemental skill to tie you to the bed post? is that really safe?

well, he wouldn't complain too much, pulling on the vine line like a leash if he just decided on cuffing them behind you, or grasping your hair while you take him from behind.

as long as you're okay with it ('till he notices you're visibly tired). he learns to know your limits as well, no more how freaky you are. cause he isn't with you for the sake of sex, but for you yourself.

these moments with you were just a bonus. and in which he very much treasured. oh well, back to the blurb of him slamming you from behind.

he likes positions where he sees your face better. the one he usually sees hiding in the strands of your hair, or in the softness of your palms. he promises he doesn't have a corruption kink or whatever but damn he loved the way your expression would distort to something so naughty. fuck, he needed this as much as you did.

the sounds he long sought after for back when you both weren't even together yet, he didn't want to admit- but he did fantasize this. how the lewd mewls would spill like a river from the beauty and softness of your mouth.

he couldn't help but groan right into the shell of your ear. instinctively his mouth moves, to praise you of course.

"doin' s'fuckin well for me sweetheart, just keep taking me in like that yeah?"

you could feel yourself clench at the very end of his sentence. fuck you didn't know praise could feel this good, his movements matched with the quick, lusty grunts he let out.

even when he placed the blindfold onto your pretty head. he missed your pretty eyes, the way they'd look at him with a pleading look. he could barely see how your eyebrows furrowed.

that's alright, he liked how you seemed so vulnerable, not knowing where to place your hands, and you can't predict what he'd do, or where his touch would land next (which was your entrance)

placing his lips onto the soft folds, licking you up and down with tease. hearing you moan and sob, asking him to stop edging and get to the point, but he doesn't really like when you're being a little bratty.

"take what i give you, or i'll leave you like this, 'kay?"

and you couldn't do anything but nod. his cold words sent shivers down your spine, combined with the kitty licks to your clit, the coldness of his ungloved palms that spread your legs apart, squeezing them every now and then.

really loves the way you taste though, loves how addicting it can get. you're the only drug he'd ever take.

once he's done "punishing" you, he goes right back to being the sloppy eater he is. his mouth basically attached itself to your soppy entrance.

doesn't matter if you're cumming or not—he laps everything up like a homeless man who's got food for the first time in forever.

he doesn't know what it is- maybe it's the scent, or is it truly the taste? maybe it could be the way it looks? or maybe how it feels? he doesn't get why he wants your essence so bad, but whatever magic it has he hopes it'll last him lifetimes (or at least last you a good orgasm)

overall is just "whatever you want, my love" and makes sure you get the best out of it! :)

[heesimp]

how would hyung line be with a younger gf who was a virgin ? :p

• heeseung is the one most excited that his girlfriend’s a virgin. probably knew about it since before they started dating and has secretly wanted to take it for so long. will also try to coax you into having sex with him when he’s eating you out or fingering you but ultimately waits until you’re ready, and he’s so smug about it too.

you’ll probably ask him to take it slow and to not make it hurt but he just laughs in your ear and says something like, “I can’t promise that” which makes your pussy clench. teaches you how good sex can feel.

• jay is ever the respectful gentleman but won’t tell you he’s excited that he’s gonna be the one to take your virginity. he builds it up too (I don’t think he would make a huge thing out of it but when you tell him you’re ready, jay wants to make sure he draws out your pleasure for as long as possible.

would probably be praising you the entire time, especially if you whine so much. lots of “hang in there, okay?” and “you can do it, honey. my cock’s gotta make you feel really good.”

• I think jake is also somebody who’d try to keep his cool and help you through it, but his eagerness shows up somewhere between heeseung and jay. jake would kinda rush through foreplay and would not allow himself to cum unless it was inside you.

he pushes his cock inside of you a little too early and loves it when you yelp and try to reach out and touch him. “so cute taking my cock like that,” he’d say when you squirm around him.

• sunghoon I could see either very sweet and patient or very filthy. on one hand, he loves you so much that he never wants to make you feel like you need to give it up for him until you say you’re ready, and he’s going slow by prepping your pussy with him mouth and fingers before sliding into you. hoon would say things like “you’re everything” and “breathe for me, baby.”

on the other, sunghoon would get so hard every time he remembers you’re a virgin. the first time he ever got the chance to stick his dick in your pussy was like a wet dream. the sight of his cock disappearing into your pussy was too much. lots of “my cock was made for you” and “can’t believe you’re not a virgin anymore” as if to mock you while he slides his dick in and out of you.

[everywherea11thetime]

Cady girl

cadygirl! reader x lando norris

summary: you usually hated being a cady girl but a certain boy changed that

a/n: reallyyy super short fic that came into my mind like an hour ago. enjoy! xx

☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾

Being a cady girl wasn't fun most of the time, 18-year-old trust fund kids thought that they could say whatever they wanted to you and give you the lowest of low tips. But it did have its ups, like the pay or like when a cute guy would come up to you but it usually always ended in him showing no interest in you or secretly being a freak. Today was one of those times, let's just hope it goes well

A man had waved you down mentally rolling your eyes because he just gave off gross rich boy vibes but when he opened his mouth you were surprised to hear a “can I just have a coke and water please” and not “are you offering any other things that aren't on the menu” accompanied with a disgusting smirk and a peak up your skirt. You looked schocked for a bit but then hopped off to get his things. “Okay that will be 9.75” you said with a smile that hadn't crossed your face in a long time, it was a genuine and nice smile. His friend said something that you couldn't hear and the cute boy replied with a look down at his golf cart and and laughed “chat stop” “sorry huh” you asked. He looked up cheeks bright red “oh sorry I'm live streaming and my chat said that you were cute” you let out a knowing “ohhh, well tell them I said thank you” and started to climb back into your cart “its true ya know” you turned around and smiled “oh really” he put his head down while stuffing his hands in his pockets and nodded shyly “yea of course, your gorgeous” “thank you” you felt your cheeks warm up and started to drive away

2 hours later you were still thinking about the cute boy you served but tried pushing the thought away thinking you'd never see him again. Deep in your thoughts suddenly the sound of an engine catches your attention you turn around and see the cute boy from earlier. He walks up to you “Hey so you can totally tell me to go fuck off but could I get your number so maybe we could go on a date or something?” extending his phone out to you. God you never thought you would be excited that a golf boy was hitting on you “yea, of course, I’d love to!” you said as you typed your number into his phone “Thanks by the way I’m Lando” you smile “my names y/n” “cute name to match the cute face.” you laugh shyly as he starts to speak again “so what days do you have off, so we can hang out” “I only work on weekends and fridays, so any other day is good” he nods reassuringly “ok so how about coffee at the cafe like two blocks down on Monday?” you’d seen the coffee place and has been meaning to go get never ended up going through with it “yea actually I’d love that I’ve been meaning to go” “nice I’ve been meaning to go too! I’ll see you Friday, it’s a date” Lando said with a smile then walked away He was the cutest boy you’d ever seen. And from that moment on you knew you were doomed.

[insourcedmischief]

so what if I sucked his dick. his knuckles were split and bloody from defending my safety and my honour, what else was I supposed to do. He had hustled me away after my attackers were left senseless, sprawled in the alley where they'd managed to waylay me. He guided me through more dark alleys and through crowds lit with festival lights, until he opened a side door in a poorly lit street and pushed me into a one room apartment.

"Are you okay?" he asked calmly, moving to check me, looking for the blows he hadn't prevented fast enough, looking worried.

I was so turned on I could barely breathe. I dropped to my knees, looking up at him with pleading eyes as I rested my hand gently on his waistband. "Please?"

His breath caught, and he took a step back, but the door behind him forced him to stop. Gently biting his lower lip, he nodded, his eyes locked to mine.

Consent was all I needed. I untied his trousers quickly, rewarded with his hardening cock. I groaned and licked the head, my tongue circling it, chasing the flavor of dry skin, rewarded with a little bit of salty fluid as he hardened fully under my hand.

One of the blows had split my lip, and the coppery taste of blood mixed with the small drops of fluid I could extract from him to make me moan. The pain of the split lip was hardly worth mentioning, and certainly not worth slowing my efforts for.

"Do you like the pain?" he asked, and I nodded. I was too hardcore for many of my previous partners, but he stroked his thumb carefully to where my eye was darkening, his gaze sharp as he pressed gently, drawing another moan that vibrated from my throat and down his cock. "So good for me."

My eyes fluttered shut at the praise, working his cock like an orchestra musician with their instrument, trying to learn what made him sing - or, well, moan. He liked a lot of tongue, but he really enjoyed it when I opened my mouth and tried to take him as deeply as I could, my throat constricting around the head of his cock, my troublesome gag reflex just giving him more pleasure in this case.

He didn't guide me, letting me show him what I could do, and I was gratified when he groaned as he shot down my throat, his hand resting on the side of my face still. I pulled back slowly, cleaning him thoroughly with my tongue before I carefully tucked him back into his pants.

Before I would have stood, he moved his hand to cup my chin, and I looked up into his eyes. His thumb brushed over my swollen lips, and without thinking I opened my mouth and took his thumb inside my mouth, swirling my tongue around it.

"You're being so good for me. How should I reward you?" His leg pressed forward, between my thighs, and I groaned at the promise in his dark eyes.

so what if I sucked his dick. It was the best choice I could have made.

so what if I sucked his dick. his knuckles were split and bloody from defending my safety and my honour what else was I supposed to do

[gilbertscurls]

Hurt Again ➵ Matt Sturniolo

summary: matt gets hurt. again.

You rushed through the door, your heart pounding in your chest. Chris had called you, sounding panicked, but it was Matt’s name he’d dropped—Matt was hurt, again.

You found Matt in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, clutching his side with a blood-stained towel. His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed in discomfort, and even though he tried to act tough, you could see the pain etched on his face.

“Matt!” You dropped your bag and rushed to his side, panic clear in your voice. “You’re hurt? Why are you always hurt?”

Matt, trying to keep his usual cool exterior intact, looked up with a half-smirk. “It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad? You’re bleeding!” You grabbed the towel from him to check the wound, and sure enough, there was a nasty gash running along his ribcage. He winced but said nothing.

“What happened?” you demanded, voice tight with worry as you grabbed the first aid kit from the cabinet. “And don’t even try to tell me it was nothing.”

Matt sighed, leaning against the counter. “I was trying to fix the shelf in my room. It’s been loose for a while. Didn’t realize it was that loose, though. Came down with half my tools.”

You shook your head, your hands moving quickly to clean the wound. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You could’ve called for help, you know.”

“I didn’t think I’d need it,” he muttered, his tone defensive but softened by the pain.

You shot him a look, your eyes narrowing. “Of course you didn’t.”

The room fell into a tense silence as you worked, carefully cleaning the gash and applying pressure. Matt, as usual, was trying to act like it didn’t bother him, but you could see his jaw tighten every time you pressed down on the wound.

After a few moments, you sighed, your voice softer now. “Why is it always you, Matt? Why are you always hurt?”

Matt glanced down, his expression hard to read. He wasn’t great at opening up, even to you, but there was something in the way you asked that made him pause. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just unlucky.”

You looked up at him, frustration and concern warring in your expression. “Or maybe you’re too stubborn for your own good. You don’t always have to do everything by yourself, you know?”

He huffed, trying to shrug it off. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Your voice cracked slightly, the worry you’d been holding back leaking through. “You’re always hurt, Matt. Whether it’s stuff like this or keeping everything bottled up. You don’t let anyone help you.”

Matt met your gaze, and for once, his usual walls seemed to falter. “I’m not trying to be a hero. I just… I don’t want to be a burden.”

Your hands stilled for a moment as you processed his words. You’d known Matt long enough to understand that he wasn’t great at accepting help, but hearing him admit it—hearing the vulnerability in his voice—hit you harder than you expected.

“You’re not a burden,” you said softly, placing a bandage over the wound. “You never have been.”

Matt looked away, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I don’t know how to… let people in. Not like you do.”

You smiled, despite the situation. “I know. But maybe you could try? You don’t always have to be the tough guy. It’s okay to let people care about you.”

For a moment, Matt didn’t say anything, just stood there as you finished patching him up. When you were done, you stepped back, your eyes searching his face for some sign that he was listening.

Finally, he sighed, his defenses lowering. “I’ll try.”

You smiled, the warmth in your eyes chasing away the tension that had been building. “Good. Because the next time you try to take on the world by yourself and end up hurt, I’m going to kill you.”

Matt chuckled, wincing slightly as he adjusted his stance. “Deal.”

You stood there for a moment, the usual distance between you replaced by a quiet understanding. Matt wasn’t one to show his emotions easily, and you had always known that, but now—now, you felt like maybe you were finally starting to bridge that gap.

“You don’t have to keep getting hurt to prove you’re strong, you know,” you said softly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face.

Matt met your eyes, and for once, there was no smirk, no sarcastic comment. Just a quiet, genuine look that said more than his words ever could.

“I know,” he murmured. “And thanks… for always being there.”

You smiled, your heart swelling a little at his rare display of vulnerability. “Always.”

And maybe, just maybe, Matt would finally start letting you in.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove

[estaticheart]

ᥫ᭡. WAIT FOR YOUR LOVE

Summary: You find out about Sarah's pregnancy and so does someone else.

Warnings: literally nothing

A/n: thank you for anon for this idea!

JJ Maybank was a liability to most on this island, kook or pogue. If JJ found out about something at 10am, you best believe the whole island would know by noon. It wasn’t necessarily his fault, he had a big mouth that just happened to slip out information even if he didn’t mean to. Which is exactly how you found out about Sarah’s pregnancy.

Just as you were minding your business, sunbathing on the yacht, and waiting for Rafe to come back with some drinks on the hottest day of the year, you spotted JJ and Pope walking along the dock. Nosy as ever, you effortlessly shifted back from their view, curious to hear their conversation. Chances were it would be about Kie or their new treasure- but gossip was gossip.

“I just still can’t believe it, man. A kid? What the hell are we going to do?” Your jaw dropped at JJ’s words. A kid? JJ and Kie having a kid, was not something you expected to happen. You knew they definitely had something between them, but having a child was a big step to take. You grabbed your phone eager to tell Rafe, of course with strict instructions to slow his return to the yacht.

But as you began to type out a message Pope’s voice began, “We? It’s not our kid JJ, and as far as I’m concerned Sarah and John B are gonna be the best parents we know.”

Sarah and John B.

Your heart thudded in your chest, dropping your phone onto the couch cushions you resided on. You had only seen Sarah a few days ago as you defended her honour against Ruthie and her minions. She hadn’t looked pregnant at all but when you thought back you remembered seeing John B’s hands on her stomach, caressing. Oh my god, she is pregnant.

Your sister-in-law was pregnant, with a pogues baby, fuck me was Rafe about to lose his shit. But you? You were proud, it takes a lot of courage to decide to keep the baby and you knew Pope was right- they’d be the best parents ever.

Minutes later, Pope and JJ disappeared from the harbour and Rafe returned, arms full of all the drinks you like. “Hey baby, I didn’t know what you wanted so I got everything.” He laughed, attempting to place them all down on the table without dropping any. Your mind was far too busy to reply, so you stifled out a laugh. But of course, your boyfriend didn’t miss a thing. Frowning, he looked at you curled into a ball on the seats of the top deck.

“You okay?” He asked, concern coating his face as he took up his seat next to you. His arm around your shoulders settled some of the worry in your brain- but not all. “Yeah, I’m okay. Think the sun is just getting to me that’s all.” You attempted to joke, strategically pushing your body into your boyfriend’s embrace to avoid any more questioning. Convinced you were fine, Rafe stood up, “I’ll go get you some sunscreen. You need to stay protected.”

Protected. Your mind was catapulted back to Sarah. So as Rafe walked down to the deck below, you pulled out your phone again.

1:42pm

Just found some old pics of us as kids, you should come over and see them. We need to catch up Mrs Routledge!!

——————

"Oh my God." Sarah giggles, pointing at a picture of you and her in a swimming pool, with ice cream coating your wide grins. You quickly rifled through your collection of photos, acting as if you had miraculously found them as an excuse to have Sarah over. "We were so cute!" You giggled, as you flipped the photobook over to the next page to see a picture of you and Sarah holding a newborn Wheezie.

Your breath stalled for a moment, before you began to breathe normally again, hoping Sarah wouldn't notice. "Wow." She breathed out, tracing over Wheezie's face as her eyes glazed over with admiration. You weren't going to push Sarah to tell you but you wanted her to know that if she needed a handout, you were there. Deciding to push the limits, "I hope I have a baby as pretty as her." You said softly, smiling at Sarah as your eyes met hers.

She knew instantly that you knew. Your eyes were soft and wide, waiting for her to admit what you already knew. "You know, don't you." She whispered, her hands still hovering over the picture. You nodded, reaching over to take her shaking hands in yours.

For a moment you sat in silence, it wasn't awkward but peaceful. "I love you, Sarah. Whatever you, John B and the baby need I'm here." She nodded, eyes beginning to tear up. When you first started dating Rafe she was scared she would lose you to him, but you had been an anchor in her life, a big sister she never had. She knew she had the pogues support, but to have you behind her meant so much more.

"I'm scared." She feebly admitted, dragging her eyes down to your connected hands before continuing on. "What if they hate me or I'm a bad mom?" You shook your head adamantly, if there was one thing you knew for a fact it was that Sarah would be a good mother. "You could never be a bad mom. Remember when you were 7, I was older but had fallen and grazed my knee? I was a crybaby but even at 7 you knew how to clean it and put a bandage on. Those instincts don't leave you." By the end, your eyes were full of tears too. "Will you help me?" She muttered.

You nodded enthusiastically, "Of course. Sarah whatever you need I'll be here. You are my best friend before I'm Rafe's girlfriend. If you want me to go shopping with you I will. Or go to your appointments, I will. And if you want to keep this a secret, we can."

"Keep what a secret?" Rafe suddenly spoke, he wasn't in the room but you could hear him walking over to the lounge. Sarah's eyes enlarged in fear, you had promised her Rafe was out the whole day. Unbeknownst to you, he had finished his work in a hurry, eager to get back to you. You lunged over to the coffee table slamming the photobook shut, Rafe wasn't an idiot and you didn't want him putting him two and two together before Sarah was ready.

By the time he reached the lounge, you and Sarah had quickly wiped your eyes but it would be obvious to anyone what had happened. His eyes widened as he saw Sarah next to you on the couch. He obviously knew you two had a special connection and often went out whether it was for coffee or to the beach. But it had been ages since he had seen you two together in his house. "What's going on?" He asked, still unmoving from his position.

You glanced over at Sarah, who was staring at her brother. Normally, her eyes were full of hate and anger at Rafe but you noticed a new look in her eye. Full of emotion and sadness. You began to ramble a reason for Sarah's visit and also your 'secret', "Just some gossip with Pope and Cleo. You know they always made sense to me, Pope was always really quiet he needed someone more outspoken, you know? I think they really match, but there is just some stuff going on- but obviously, it's our secret can't just be telling anyone. Bu-"

Amid your rambling, Sarah spoke, "I'm pregnant Rafe." The air in the room warmed instantly to you, your shirt clinging to you as you waited anxiously for Rafe's next words. You hoped your boyfriend would sense that Sarah needed all the support she could get regardless of who it came from. You hoped for once he could see past his misguided anger at his little sister.

"What?" He finally muttered out, although it wasn't the response you hoped for it was better than the string of curse words you were expecting. Sarah waited for a brief second before nodding, moving her hands to let Rafe see her small- but visible- bump. Eyes full of emotion, he followed her motion. His baby sister. Pregnant. And despite them having mountains of unresolved trauma to work through, he felt an instinct to protect her baby, and weirdly of all, Sarah too. He finally moved from his frozen stance walking over to you both on the couch.

"Can I?" He asked gesturing at her stomach. Seemingly hesitant, Sarah waited a moment before nodding slowly her eyes never leaving Rafe's hands as he tentatively placed them on her bump. You watched on, trying not to cry at the sight of the two people you loved the most connecting once more. They had problems to solve and conversations to have but at this moment, it was like everything had fallen back into place. "It's only small," Sarah whispered, desperate to not disturb the peace. She had never seen her brother so quiet and attentive.

"I can't believe it. I'm lost for words." Their eyes met, both of the Cameron siblings thinking the same thing, everything would work itself out. But in the back of Rafe's mind lingered one thing, his own want and longing for a baby of his own.

[moonstruckme]

jilly x reader where the reader gets hypothermia

cw: symptoms of mild hypothermia, (implied?) freezing water, non-sexual nudity

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

James half carries you back to the cabin. This is partly because you’re shivering too hard to walk as quickly as you’d like, and partly because your legs simply won’t move the way you tell them to. Your wet lashes feel heavy with the ice crystals you imagine forming on them. 

He passes you off to Lily while he unlocks the front door. She rubs one hand uselessly over your arm through your soaked coat, using the other to unstick a frigid piece of hair from your face. 

They both help you inside. Set you down on the couch, and James makes a sound close to a laugh when you protest about getting wet on his mother’s cushions. 

“Start a fire, please?” Lily is all business, panic making her stern. Or maybe not stern so much as resolved. Her features are set, green eyes alternating between worried and determined, but her hands are characteristically gentle as they unzip your coat and pull you out of it one arm at a time. 

“Love?” 

You realize she’s been talking to you. “Hm?” 

Delicate brows pinch in either concern or relief. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” 

“Oh. Um.” Your chittering makes your words come out jolting and stilted. “Cold.” 

“Tired?” she asks. You put your arms up when she motions for you to, letting her lift your jumper over your head. The thought that you’re the only one getting undressed between your partners doesn’t occur to you; you only know that Lily seems urgent, and you trust her. 

“Ye—yeah.” 

“I think we have an electric blanket around here somewhere,” says James. He’s poking at a log in the fireplace, trying to provoke a bigger flame. “Get her closer to here, love.” 

“I’m still trying to get her out of her wet clothes. Can you help me?” 

James helps you to stand so Lily can tug your trousers off. They stick to your legs but crinkle oddly, stiff with ice. James kisses your temple and murmurs something you can’t quite make out. You feel guilty for ruining what was meant to be a fun afternoon of ice skating on the pond near James’ family cabin. You’ve never heard Lily shout like she did when the ice broke beneath you. 

They wrap you up in an electric blanket and put your hair up in a towel to get it off your neck, and you let James massage warmth into your fingers while Lily makes something warm for you to drink. 

“Jamie,” she calls from the kitchen, “do you all keep a thermometer here?” 

“Um, I’m not sure,” replies James. “If we did, it’d be in one of the drawers in the bathroom.” 

You hear your girlfriend whizz off in that direction. 

“How are you, angel?” James presses a couple of firm, warm kisses to your face, squeezing your hands. “Do you still feel tired?” 

“A little,” you admit. Your shivering has lessened, though. “Is it okay that we left our skates by the pond?” 

“What?” He gives a little laugh. “Yeah, it’s fine. That’s not really the top concern right now, you know?” 

You frown. It’s supposed to snow again tonight. “I don’t want them to get buried…” 

“I’ll go get them later,” James reassures you. He kisses your nose. “Don’t worry about that, lovebug. Just try to get warm, okay?” 

“I sort of feel like you guys are doing all the work for me.” 

James’ laughs as Lily comes to sit beside you. 

“Here, can you keep this in your mouth for me, please?” You nod, but when she slips the thermometer under your tongue she evidently makes a last-minute call to hold it herself instead. Lily’s thumb drags heavily over your cheek. You notice her bottom lip looks colored and bitten. 

“I think I’m okay…” you try to tell her, but stop when she shushes you gently. 

“That’s good, lovely, but don’t talk with this in your mouth.” She gives you a terse smile. 

James transfers both of your hands to one of his, using the other to squeeze her elbow consolingly. Both of your partners watch you intently as you wait. 

When Lily deems it's been long enough and looks at the thermometer, her posture slumps with relief. 

“Oh, it’s—that’s not so bad.” 

James grins, reading over her shoulder. “It must be coming up,” he says confidently. 

You offer your girlfriend a smile. “I told you, I think I’m fine.” 

Lily makes a soft, strangled sound, eyebrows pinching in the moment before she throws her arms around you. You see some of your own surprise reflected in James’ expression as you catch her, bringing her into the heated dome of your electric blanket with you.

“I didn’t know…I was really scared,” she confesses tearily, squeezing you around your neck. 

You rub her back in an attempt to reassure her. Behind her, James is doing the same. He gets his arms around the both of you, holding your shoulders through the blanket. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “We must be doing something right, yeah? Or she wouldn’t be getting better so quickly.” 

Lily exhales a shaky breath. “I am never, ever going ice skating again.” 

“Yes, you are,” you tell her fondly. 

“No. And you shouldn’t either! In fact, I hope our skates do get buried, and neither of you can ever find them.” 

You make a sound of protest, but James speaks over you, “Alright, lovely. We can let nature roll the dice tonight, if that’s what you want.” 

“But James—” 

“Angel, you weren’t witness to your own blue lips,” he tells you, rubbing your shoulder pacifyingly. “I think we’re permitted a bit of overreaction right now. I say bury the skates.” 

You give a little laugh. “You’re both taking this too far. We don’t have to use them, but there’s no reason to leave perfectly good skates out there in the snow.” 

“Mm, let’s say we return to that debate when you’re no longer shivering.” 

You all sit there for a while, holding each other while the fire crackles and warmth seeps into your fingertips. Lily’s hands are actually quite cold around your neck, but you refuse to tell her lest she spring away from you. When the kettle starts to whistle, she sniffs and pulls away anyways, wiping under her eyes. 

“I’ve got it,” says James, standing with a kiss to each of your heads. “What are we having?” 

“Hot chocolate.” She takes a breath, collecting herself. “She needs something with sugar. Thanks, Jamie.” 

You smile at her. “You’re so brilliant. How do you know that?” 

Lily’s lips tilt slightly in response. “I read it somewhere.” 

“So brilliant,” you repeat, kissing her softly on the lips. They’re noticeably warmer than yours, but you feel much more yourself than you had when you first got back to the cabin. “Thanks for helping me.” 

She makes a scoffing sort of noise. It doesn’t sound terribly derisive when it’s bent by fondness like this. Lily touches the backs of her fingers to your cheek, caressing. “You don’t have to thank us. Either of us,” she says. The tears have cleared from her eyes, leaving a raw caring in their wake. “We love you. A lot.” 

Your heart feels more than sufficiently warmed as you close the gap between you again. “I love you a lot, too.”

[werevampiwolf]

Also, some of us have inconsistent empathy. I have really low empathy for people and really high empathy for animals and inanimate objects, to the point that I am almost incapable of throwing things away, including things like cardboard boxes.

Also, PSA for everyone: empathy isn't the same thing as sympathy or caring about things. I care very much about other people, I just don't instinctively understand how they feel without them telling me. I barely understand what I'M feeling. If you're still unclear on the difference... have you ever watched a clip of someone getting hurt while doing something stupid, like whacking themselves in the balls, and you instinctively cringed because OW, then congratulations, you have empathy for other people.

I have enough experience, albeit second-hand because I don't have balls, to know that being hit in the balls is almost universally described as extremely painful. If you get whacked in the balls right in front of me, I'm going to ask if you're okay, because I have been told that it's painful and I care that you're in pain. That's sympathy.

"All autistics have low empathy" - This statement is wrong.

"Autistics having low empathy is a MYTH, we actually have HIGH empathy!" - This statement is ALSO wrong.

Autistics can have low empathy, they can have high empathy, they can have learned empathy. The myth would be that all autistics only experience one end of the empathy spectrum.

In spreading around misinformation that autistics actually have high empathy, you are disregarding the autistics who do have low empathy. And vice versa.

[vamptizm]

PRETTY LIKE A PRINCESS — p. bueckers

pairing : paige bueckers x fem!reader

synopsis : you’re having a bad day and paige asks to do your makeup for you

warnings : none

word count : 600 (very short sorry)

note : are u guys okay with the small writing size or should i change it to the regular one so that everyone can read it easily?

“Let me do your makeup.” You heard from her familiar voice from where u sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the large mirror that you had been too lazy to hang up yet.

You didn’t have to be anywhere. Quite the opposite. It was a stay at home day but you couldn’t help but want to do something nice for yourself. Doing your makeup wasn’t something solely reserved for outings, it was a form of expression and art to you— something that never failed to cheer you up when having a bad day. And that’s exactly what today was. A bad day.

It had started with you not getting enough sleep on your only day off of the week, while Paige peaceful slept beside you like a baby, the soft snores and her even breathing pattern almost taunting you as you rolled over for the umpteenth time.

Then it continued with your comfort character dying in—according to you— the most unnecessary way possible. It didn’t take much for your mood to sink, the slightest inconvenience was usually enough.

“You wanna do my makeup?” You repeated with a raised brow, almost as if unsure whether you had heard her right or not.

“Well, that’s what I just said, isn’t it?” The blonde grinned from her spot, back leaned against your bed frame and her arms behind her head, unintentionally flexing those arm muscles that pushed you closer to the edge of insanity daily.

You could perfectly see her from the reflection in the mirror, but still you craned your neck to shoot her a look. “Don’t get smart with me, Goldilocks. I’m not the one today.”

That had managed to emit a full chuckle from your girlfriend, arms falling back to her sides as she straightened up. “C’mon, baby, please. You don’t trust me?”

“Now you’re just making me sound bad.” You rolled your eyes with sigh, though not truly annoyed. If anything, the thought of it made you feel somewhat giddy. But you wouldn’t admit that. “Okay… fine.”

And that’s how you ended up sitting on the bed, cross-legged once again as you faced Paige. She started out by finishing the base that you had started, but before you knew it, you already felt her hands snaking around your hips, swiftly pulling you into her lap.

“Much better, baby.” She mumbled, a faint smirk on her face as she adjusted you on top of her.

All you could do was look down at the girl, silently watching as her warm hands left and found your face repeatedly. occasionally cradling it for longer than needed, gently tilting it to the side as if you’d break any moment. All that and more, had you fighting for dear life to bite back a smile.

“All done, baby.” Paige spoke again, finally breaking the comfortable silence between the two of you, her eyes gleaming in adoration and awe. Her hands instinctively found their way to your waist, holding you almost as if to steady you. “Pretty like a princess.”

Your heart warmed at her words, a rosy hue creeping onto your cheeks and you couldn’t help but eventually crack a smile at the girl. The affect she had on you, was anything short of healing and comforting. You tilted your head forward slightly, hands snaking up to delicately cup her face before you placed a soft, lingering kiss on her lips as she looked up at you.

A bright smile formed on her face, lighting her entire face up and you could’ve sworn that right then and there, you fell in love with Paige all over again, as if it had been the first time.