#because i start out trying to write one thing and then end up writing another

[torussoulmate]

                                        ೯⠀⁺ Mr. Perfectly Fine ᰋ

glimpse !     celebrity gojo x afab, "ordinary" reader ⟢ modern au ⟢ oneshot

warnings !     contains angst, depression, eating disorder, self-harm, and insomnia. proceed with caution, MDNI.

notes !     word count is 2.6k. i recommend listening to Mr. Perfectly Fine by Taylor Swift throughout reading the whole thing! enjoy <3

Mr. "Perfect Face" That is who your boyfriend, Gojo Satoru, is. The embodiment of perfection. Snow-white hair that shimmered under any light, sapphire eyes that gleamed like they held constellations, a nose carved by a sculptor, lips tainted baby pink and always glossy. His body: tall, lean, but muscular in a way that made even his co-models self-conscious. God, he is perfect. Too perfect.

Mr. "Here to stay" That is what he said when he asked you to be his. You, a nobody, an ordinary woman with no fame, no pedigree, were chosen by him. The golden boy of the acting and modelling world. He found you. He wanted you. He stayed with you.

Mr. "Looked me in the eye and told me you would never go away" It was not like you had history with him. You were just another fan at a crowded meet-and-greet, one face among thousands. But somehow, you caught his attention. He looked in your eyes like he already knew you. When it was your turn, he signed your postcard, writing his number and a note, 'Meet me backstage, beautiful,' along with his signature. He smiled at you like you were his secret from the start, leaving you feeling not just starstruck but chosen when you left the venue.

Everything was right, Mr. "I've been waitin' for you all my life" It started with late-night texts. Then phone calls. Then stolen moments in trailers, quiet cafés, private rooftops. He snuck away from filming his scenes and photoshoots just to see you. Then, he eventually kissed you, softly and reverently. Suddenly, you were his. His secret. His non-celebrity girlfriend the world was desperate to identify.

Mr. "Every single day until the end, I will be by your side" He said that night he proposed. You wore no makeup, had not even washed your hair, but he knelt in his penthouse (you moved into) and offered you the world. A diamond and a promise. You became his hidden fiancée, and people even went out of their way to try and identify you when the news came out.

But that was when I got to know Mr. "Change of heart" You felt the shift long before he said anything. The good morning texts stopped. The kisses faded. He always looked tired or distracted, or somewhere else entirely. Your wedding plans sat untouched. The 'I love you's' stopped, and when you would say it, he only smiled.

Mr. "Leaves me all alone," I fall apart It was a Friday night, two months before the wedding. He comes home, eyes dull, voice distant. He took back the ring. Told you it wasn't working, told you he could not see you fitting into his world. The weight of hiding you became too much. Every time he had to film a kiss scene or hold a co-model's ass, he felt smothered by your presence even in its absence. You begged him to stay, swore you would never complain again, and promised you would adapt. He said he did not want you to, and that he truly fell out of love. You fell apart.

It takes everything in me just to get up each day Sleep became impossible. Food nauseated you. The shower felt like punishment. You took a leave from work, lay in bed for days, even weeks. Socialising with anyone felt like a drag. You went back to your apartment, now that he had kicked you out of his penthouse, and it smelled like silence and rot.

But it's wonderful to see you're okay He was not crumbling. He smiled in interviews. Starred in movies. Posed on the cover of magazines. On your late-night walks, so you may rot somewhere else, you would walk by billboards of his face that is perfect and untouched, and you would have to sit down somewhere because your lungs refused to keep working.

Hello, Mr. "Perfectly fine" He chuckled in interviews when they asked about the breakup. "I've moved on," he said, like your love was a temporary scratch on his polished life.

How's your heart after breakin' mine? You wanted to scream. While he was out there picking co-stars to star with for his next movie, attires for his next photoshoot, you were picking up the pieces of a future that would never exist.

Mr. "Always at the right place at the right time," baby The universe mocked you by placing him in your path again. The coffee shop where you had your first date. You did not recognise him at first as he wore those dark, circular glasses he always wore, a mask, and a cap to hide his striking snow-hair. But his voice when he said your name was unmistakable.

Hello, Mr. "Casually cruel" You tried to ignore him and leave, but he gently caught your wrist. His voice was soft, concerned, "Have you been eating?" he asked like he had not wrecked you, "Have you been taking care of yourself?" Like he had not built and burned you in the same breath.

Mr. "Everything revolves around you" You pulled away, cold and changed. "That's none of your business," you said harsher than intended, and it struck him. You were not soft anymore, at least, not for him. You walked out before he could see the tears.

I've been Miss Misery since your goodbye You were. Everything you were disappeared the day he let you go. You did not know how to live without him.

And you're Mr. "Perfectly fine" He kept rising. Higher. Happier. Untouched.

Mr. "Never told me why," Except he did, and you wished he had not. Would that have hurt less?

Mr. "Never had to see me cry" He never saw the nights you screamed into your pillow with tears. The mornings you could not rise. The cuts you hid. The food you forced down and ended up vomiting.

Mr. "Insincere apology, so he doesn't look like the bad guy" Two weeks after that encounter at the coffee shop, he texted you from a new number since you blocked the one you remember. He sent a "I'm sorry if you're not taking yourself or eating properly because of me. Please change that," then he sent money and food. You sent it back without a word.

He goes about his day, forgets he ever even heard my name He did not text anymore after that. He went back to what was mundane for him. Acting, photoshoots, interviews, and get-togethers for celebrities. You became a ghost in his world, but he haunted every inch of yours.

Well, I thought you might be different than the rest, I guess you're all the same You believed he would be different. The way he talked to you, kissed you, spent time with you, and made love to you. It was all so different until it wasn't. Until he was just another heartbreak wrapped around a pretty face and a good start.

Because I hear he's got his arm 'round a brand new girl The co-star. The one everyone had shipped him with. Dating rumours about them spread quickly, and neither of them denied it. Just six months later, and their chemistry is undeniable. The timing? Unbearable.

I've been pickin' up my heart, he's been pickin' up her She was the girl you wished to be, the girl you wish he had dated and proposed to instead. She fit the mould, you did not, and people celebrated their pairing like you never existed.

And I never got past what you put me through Bad turned into worse, worse turned into the worst since those dating rumours spread. You lost your job because you either were not performing well or showing up. Food nauseated you always, so you developed an eating disorder. Sleep was so impossible that insomnia grew in you. Showering once every week became a miracle. You kept yourself behind your apartment's door so much that you lost your friends. The way you cut yourself had more fervour. You did not want to exist anymore.

But it's wonderful to see that it never phased you He lived,

Hello, Mr. "Perfectly fine" while you bled.

How's your heart after breakin' mine? In tack. Yours? In ashes.

Mr. "Always at the right place at the right time," baby A year and a few months later, you ran into him again. The same café. The same place of tragedy.

Hello, Mr. "Casually cruel" This time, he did not allow you to ignore, leave, or push him away, not when you looked worse than the last time he saw you. He dragged you to his car with his unyielding grip on his wrist and noticed the way you winced at it. Eventually, he saw the scars you have done on yourself, previously hidden underneath the sleeves of your hoodie. He paused, devastated.

Mr. "Everything revolves around you" You snap. "Everything must always go your way, doesn't it?" you cry and yell at him, "Can you not read the room? I don't want to see you, talk to you, or any of that shit!"

I've been Miss Misery since your goodbye Your anger dies down, but your sobs grow, "You're killing me here."

And you're Mr. "Perfectly fine" "While you're living life, it's unfair." He stayed silent, but you saw guilt carve into his flawless face.

So dignified in your well-pressed suit "I can't even get myself to shower every day, but you, you're always dressed up for something."

So strategised, all the eyes on you "I don't even talk to anyone anymore, but you, you're out there, so out there."

Sashay your way to your seat "I can't even get up and eat something."

It's the best seat in the best room "I lost my job, I'm running out of money..."

Oh, he's so smug, Mr. "Always wins" "...but you, I'm sure you just keep getting richer every day."

So far above me in every sense "How do you do it, Satoru? How are you so happy? So alive?"

So far above feelin' anything "All while I'm in an endless loop of dying and crying."

And it's really such a shame "Shame on me, that I can't forget us. While you? It's like we never existed, like I never existed to you."

It's such a shame "Shame on me for loving someone who never looked back."

'Cause I was Miss "Here to stay" You were gonna continue talking—sobbing your words out—but he finally spoke.

"That's not true. Fuck, that's not true," he says your name, his voice so tender it made your sobs pause.

"I loved you, so, so much. I loved us, so, so much. I wanted to marry you, so, so badly."

"Why didn't you?" you sniff, heartbroken all over again with his words.

"Let me finish," he says as he struggles to keep his tears in check, like this is the first time he has ever let his feelings register since he left you.

"I cried too. I lost my appetite too, maybe not as bad as yours, but I did. I struggled to wake up and keep going with my job every day, to keep plastering that fake smile everywhere—that fake joy. Every time I touched Suzu," Suzu is the co-star he has dating rumours with, "or another co-star, I felt like I was cheating on you."

"I want you back, us back, so badly," your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment, you stopped crying.

"But how can I go back to us when I truly don't feel our spark anymore? How can I go back to you when I can't feel that burning love for you anymore? When I can't see a future with you anymore," you begin to sob again, and he adds the cherry on top," Sure, I am a mess without you—I'm barely making it out alive with this stupid facade—but that doesn't mean I can not be a mess with you."

"You could have tried fixing that with me before you left, you know. You could have told me, communicated—" violent sobs took over you, so violent that he had to embrace you.

His embrace felt like home, but that home did not welcome you any longer. He says your name like it is glass, "I know. I'm sorry. I truly am."

Now I'm Miss "Gonna be alright someday" Months passed. That conversation left both of you on a thread, on a cliff. As if neither of you deserved closure from each other.

But healing started. Living without him for the first time started. Slowly. You fell asleep, even if it's fleeting. Food barely nauseated you, and you ate at least one meal a day. You showered two to three times a week instead of once. You applied for jobs. You started talking to people again. You thought about your cutter but avoided it.

And someday, maybe you'll miss me Six months later, you were sleeping and eating well. You showered every day and got a job. You regained your old friends and gained new ones. You threw your cutter away.

And Satoru? He seemed okay, at least on the outside. But he had been replaying every word he said, reflecting on whether they were actually true. Then, it started to feel untrue. Like his feelings all along were a scam.

But by then, you'll be Mr. "Too late" Three years later and you have managed to heal almost completely. You've managed to open your heart to a new guy.

And Satoru? He texted for the first time since that conversation, saying he wanted coffee at that coffee shop. You were strong enough—healed enough—to say yes.

He thought you were single; technically, you are since you were not officially dating the guy, so you did not correct him.

Goodbye, Mr. "Perfectly fine" So, another year later, he was devastated when he found out you were taken. Devastated that he thought by taking it slow, he was repairing everything, healing the two of you, so that in time, you two would be in a relationship again.

How's your heart after breakin' mine? His heart broke like never before when he reached out to you again, discovering you are engaged, another year later. He hoped by this time, you would have broken up with your partner, that it was his time to take you back, his time to make you his again, his time to make everything right. Was he too late?

Mr. "Always at the right place at the right time," baby Just two months before your wedding, you saw him again, at the same coffee shop. It broke him further to know that your fiancé did not cancel your wedding at this point, like he did. Still, he wanted to see you in that wedding dress, see what could have been his, see you for the last time. So, he asked to be invited to your wedding. Shocked you are, you said yes. He is, in fact, too late.

Goodbye, Mr. "Casually cruel" It was so cruel, seeing you walk down the aisle when he is not the man at the altar.

Mr. Everything revolves around you So cruel when his everything said her vows to her everything, and it was not him.

I've been Miss Misery for the last time So cruel that the tables have turned, that he is Mr. Misery and you are Ms. Perfectly fine.

And you're Mr. "Perfectly fine" You are so perfect, so fine—beautiful—even if you kissed your husband, that is not him.

You're perfectly fine You are, indeed, and he is not. Not when he left after that gut-wrenching kiss. He did not even say goodbye when he intended to because it hurt that much.

Mr. "Looked me in the eye and told me you would never go away" He should have looked you in the eye the night he left you and never gone away, no matter the mess he was. He only realised it now: that if he never left, he would fall in love with you again, feel that spark with you again, want to marry you again.

You said you'd never go away And you never did, at least not in his head and heart. But he let you go, and that is a heartbreak he will carry until his grave.

i know i'm supposed to be working on Stillness to Ripples' chapter one but i got distracted..... reblogs, likes, and comments appreciated <3

lazy write, so if there are any mistakes i apologise, but do not repost, reupload, translate, use for AI (ex, character.ai), or plagiarise in any other way.

                              ೯⠀⁺ © torussoulmate on tumblr ᰋ

[cheol-e-kat]

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. 𝐜.𝐬𝐜

pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader

word count: 3.0K

genre: fluff, magical realism, dreams more than dreams,

summary: seungcheol keeps seeing advertisements for an art show around the city - all the paintings seem to be of him, but he’s never posed for an artist and he barely exists on social media - at first his friends tease him but the more he sees the paintings, the more he knows he needs to meet the artist and find out why they keep painting him

warnings: explicit language

a/n: this fic is literally an idea i had over a year ago and finally i got inspired yayyyy and yesss...it's not the end ... just the first part - anywayyyy

⋆˙⟡♡ 𝒌𝒂𝒕

You woke up from another dream with a long sigh, and stared at the ceiling. How long could you keep dreaming of the same face, you wondered. 

It would be one thing if you knew who he was, but you hadn’t a clue. And it had been months. Months of dreaming about soft, pink lips and big, expressive eyes with painfully long lashes. 

At first there were weeks of writing in your journal about a man you had never met and the details of his face: his eyes and lips, the shape of his jaw and the way his bangs always seem to fall in his face. 

You felt like you had this strange intimate view of him. You could easily recognize him in the real world, if you were to ever see him. But your hopes weren’t high.

Even if you sometimes stopped in cafes to watch people because maybe you would catch a glimpse of him. 

It was bad enough that you had been writing about him, but then you started sketching him, thinking that maybe you just needed to get him out of your brain and onto paper. But that had just morphed into putting your ‘dream’ boy onto canvas. You were a painter after all. 

And every painting simply brought him to life that much more. His eyes became brighter and thoughtful, and his face was layered with emotions you didn’t remember from your dreams. He seemed to be coming to life through every painting. 

You had a collection at this point - face after face after face. All versions of the same man - every emotion possible. 

Sometimes he looked happy, but other days his eyes had a way of almost seeming to stare at you, and no matter what expression was on his face, his eyes told you he was carrying a huge mental weight. 

You sometimes stepped back and stared for long stretches of time, trying to place him. Surely that’s all dreams were filled with, people and places you knew, even if you had only seen them in passing. 

You were convinced that you had at least met him, or bumped into him on the train platform, maybe? There had to be some tangible connection. 

Some random person on the street who had lodged in your brain. 

But the longer it went on, the more it felt like something else. You weren’t certain what exactly, but something besides a passing glance at someone as you furtively crammed yourself into a train car or grabbed a hot tea on a random afternoon. 

Some mornings you woke up feeling as those you had practically been next to him somewhere else. You could swear the ghost of his warmth clung to your skin and hair. If you closed your eyes fast enough, you could almost put yourself back wherever you had been. You could almost feel him again, hear his gentle breathing. 

And then there were mornings when you longed to return to whatever dream it was rather than face the day. In a strange way, you felt more and more connected to this man in your dreams. Especially when you stared at certain works. 

You were sure you almost heard something like echoes from certain paintings. Maybe they were thoughts or chatter around him in his real life. But they were tiny things that came to you, usually softly. Soft whispers, like someone murmuring under their breath. 

You were oddly sure that he was a living person who you could run into at almost any moment. 

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“Holy shit, man,” Mingyu gasped and pulled Seungcheol’s shirt sleeve, jerking him back to stand on the sidewalk where Mingyu was staring at an advertisement. 

They had been out drinking, and Seungcheol wasn’t perfectly steady on his feet, “Bro, what’s the holdup?” he glanced back at his friend, wondering why they weren’t crossing the street. 

Mingyu pointed at the advertisement, “Dude, it’s YOU,” Mingyu pushed Seungcheol towards the advertisement for some art show. “Let me take a photo of you next to it,” he demanded, shoving Seungcheol into place. 

Mingyu was already in photographer mode, and Seungcheol wasn’t in the mood to argue over five seconds of his life being spent next to an advert in the rain. 

Seungcheol sighed but stood still while his idiot friend took a photo of him with some random ad. 

“Dude, you blinked,” Mingyu mumbled in annoyance. 

Seungcheol shrugged starting to cross the street again, but Mingyu grabbed his shoulder and hauled him back again. 

“Seriously, it’s freakishly like you, let me get a good photo,” he was demanding and whiny all at once.

Seungcheol groaned. “Okay, fine, fine,” he muttered as he got back in position. He tried to look sober and less desperate to be at home and in bed. He let Mingyu snap several photos and waited until he seemed happy before even attempting to step away this time. 

When he felt his phone vibrate and checked to see the photo of himself in the gc, he assumed he was free to move again. 

“See, I told you, it’s you to a tee, like down to the scowl even,” Mingyu said as he pushed his own phone into Seungcheol’s face, pointing at the zoomed in version. 

Seungcheol finally nodded, admitting that there was a resemblance. But he certainly didn’t think it was some huge meaningful thing. Mingyu was just being Mingyu, overly exuberant over something no one else would have even noticed. 

He was just glad when they split up and he could get home without any more complications. He managed to stumble through the door and pass out on the sofa. 

He had no idea that his phone was exploding with messages as he slipped into a comfortable sleep. 

Even drunk, he knew he would have the dreams he liked. The ones he had been having for the last few months that made him look forward to sleeping more than normal. 

It wasn’t just that he was tired or exhausted, it was like slipping into this perfect moment that he couldn’t place, and he couldn’t experience it when he was awake. The sweet softness of his dreams was too good. 

He almost craved them - the dreams that made feel warm and content. 

He had no idea why he suddenly started having them, but he was glad he had. 

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

[photo attached]

[shua]

holy shit that’s more than ‘similar’ gyu 

[hannie]

fuckkk its like cheol in an alternate world damnnn 

[shua]

i feel like you mean replica ??

[hosh]

@ cheol ur posing for art whaTT sounds like lies 

[wooz]

that i have to agree with @ hosh is annoying, but agreed 😒 who thinks its gyu using some photoshop or smth

[gyu]

tf am i catching strays for?? i just found the insanity and shared

[hannie]

i think i know what i mean @ shua so stfu - alternate universe cheol

[shua]

@ gyu is this fr tho

[gyu]

dude yea fuck […]

it’s at the corner of wabash and fifth go look for yourself […]

and btw you dicks i found like 6 others [photos attached]

[wooz]

fuckkk this is funny and scary

[vern]

is it me or is he kinda hot in these

[shua]

@ vern he’s hot look at the one with the ribbon or whatever def heard jeonghan gasp when he scrolled

[hannie]

i didn’t gasp - i don’t gasp you twit

[wooz]

@ shua so he choked on air

[hannie]

i know your apartment code space boy

[gyu]

anyway back to the topic before there’s a murder inquiry […]

crazy  thing is there’s like even more and the artist says “i paint what comes to me in my dreams”

[hosh]

:OOOOOO spooky fr

[gyu]

def spooky where’s @ dk to hold me hehe

[hosh]

ohh ohh there’s a coffee place next to it let’s all go get photos with art cheol before he wakes up 

[dk]

me hold you? the other way round me thinks bro legit goosebumps at all of these […]

they’re so good to btw how does someone know how he looks even tho??

[cheol]

tf i’m awake @ hosh

[shua]

shhhhhhshhh we aren’t chatting to you dear

[cheol]

it’s the gc!!

[hannie]

right roght go to the one without him hdhsjsksjsjsjs

[hosh]

ok ok we all go to see the spooky paintings and hope that it isn’t irl horror situation just some poor person with @ cheol stuck in their poor brain

[cheol]

hate u all 

[hannie]

so cute 🤏 […]

we all have to go see these right??

[gyu]

tickets aren’t bad? who’s down 

[multiple users typing...]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Seungcheol had woken up briefly when his phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Even barely opening his eyes to read the texts, he knew his friends were up to something. There would probably be a million messages when he woke up.  

And probably a bunch of details about the artist if he knew Mingyu. 

Even falling back to sleep, he did wonder for a moment how a painting even resembled him. He wasn’t on anything - no social media, no photos posted or tagged or anything remotely like that. He hated having accounts, and he’d banned his friends from tagging him. 

He sighed and turned over, curling into the couch and hopefully returning to his dreams. 

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

You were watching your paintings be removed from packing cases. The gallery staff were - they left something to be desired in their handling of things. But the show had sold out. And there were several bids on some of the larger pieces already. 

There was a planned layout for walking through the paintings.

And you had decided the theme would be loosely based on ‘signs of love’.

Things like Eros shooting arrows into a flaming heart like some demented form of target practice. 

And there were actual myths at play too - your “muse” as Hades offering the viewer a pomegranate that would of course trap them with him to be his lover for all times. 

Him paused on a winding, dangerous path, eyes closed, hand on his heart, attempting not to look back and lose his love forever. 

These were the things you had been looking up recently because you had succumbed to the idea that you were meant to meet this person in some weird cosmic way. 

He was your muse purely through some means you couldn’t identify. Some long planned connection created by the universe that you couldn’t parse out. 

You had even looked up things about past lives and how some people believed that souls could be bound together and were always meant to find one another in their next lives.

That idea…you may have lost your mind a bit when you painted with it in mind. The painting was semi-nude, his entire body wrapped strategically in a red ribbon of fate that tied him to someone just out of view and out of his grasp. He had a painful, longing look on his face as he stared off the edge of the canvas into nothingness, looking for his soul mate who was supposedly on the other end of his tether. Hopefully, they were looking for him as well. 

His form and profile were beautiful though. It was almost effortless at this point - you could paint him, sketch him, whatever without even thinking. 

You doodled his eyes and lips in the corners or notebooks or on napkins in cafes while you chatted with people. His profile littered scraps of paper near your desk, all drawn while you researched fables and read poetry like a lovesick middle-schooler. 

One that you especially liked was being held to your fridge with a magnet shaped like a wiener dog. Très chic. Obviously. 

No matter because to your mind, the symbolism throughout the collection was fairly good, especially in the triptychs, particularly, you thought, in your version of him as Venus, appearing in all his glory. One of the biggest differences being that you had swapped the wind god out for various dream gods, since they brought him to you, melding them into a single style of your own. 

You were actually rather pleased with to it. 

There were many that were simply based on different eras, different time periods, since maybe you knew him in another life, but always coming back to some overall symbol of love being included. 

And a few truly reflected your dreams. How your dreams had felt lately. 

Your dreams had become more intense. You felt raw when you woke up - every part of you seemed on high alert. It felt like you were surfacing from underwater after having been there for too long, gasping for air, clutching your bedding, staring around and seeing nothing somehow.

You had seen and felt even more of him. You had no idea what it meant that every night your dreams felt more and more solid, like you had simply shifted without waking to some other place. It had made you frantic to paint everything that popped into your mind. 

There were still stacks of paintings in your studio that you hadn’t brought along, judging some too hastily done to be included. Or simply off theme. Or the paint still wet. 

And now you were finally watching them be installed. Your agent had already asked who your model was and where you had found him. You had simply shrugged and called it ‘fate’. 

It was maybe a blithe answer. But it was true in a way. 

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Seungcheol had started to get weirdly nervous the week before the gallery show opening.

He had no clue why. 

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that even just seeing the paintings alone was too much. He had gone through them alone, and they were frighteningly like him. 

His expressions and gestures were all captured. But somehow it felt like whoever it was had caught more than just how he looked and moved. It was like they had reached into him and pulled out parts of him for each painting. 

It was unnerving. And it felt too real. Especially since the artist was apparently super private and had no socials. 

Just like him. 

It didn’t matter how many searches he did, he couldn’t even figure out if the name they signed was real or basically their version of ‘Banksy’.

No photo. No bio beyond the college the artist graduated from and various accolades, which he had really had to dig for - that hadn’t been an easy item to find. It was from a years old version of an art gallery’s website. 

He couldn’t fathom how someone who seemed to know him so well could be so anonymous and simultaneously fairly famous for what they created. How was there no photo? No insta account? Nothing? He marveled at that as much as it scared him. 

It meant that even going to the show, he wouldn’t know if he saw the artist or not. He would have no clue. 

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

[hannie]

he has to come 

[shua]

he says it’s too weird

[incoming call]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

“Come on, don’t you want to see them at least?” Jeonghan asked. 

“I have seen them,” Seungcheol said quietly. He was lying across his bed, talking into Joshua’s phone. He knew his friends wanted him to go. But he couldn’t shake off his nervousness. 

It felt too - he wasn’t even sure how to explain it. 

“I thought you said they don’t even look that much like you?” Jeonghan tried. 

“I lied,” Seungcheol retorted quickly, bluntly. 

Jeonghan hummed softly. “Don’t you at least want to know then? Who the artist is? Why you?”

Seungcheol sighed. “No - it,” he groaned, “does it even matter?”

“I think so - I would want to know.”

“That’s you though, I don’t want to know,” he huffed, “someone with nothing about themselves on their website? They’ll know me though won’t they?” He asked, starting to feel his stomach knot uncomfortably at the idea. 

“They say it’s from ‘dreams’, so maybe they have no clue who you are either”—

Seungcheol shook his head, cutting in. “They have to know me,” he whispered. “They’re all too much like they - it’s like someone sat next to me and painted me - it’s too…too strange,” he trailed off, starting to feel frustrated with the conversation. 

He listened to Jeonghan humming again like he understood everything Seungcheol was saying but was still preparing some other way to try to convince him. 

He bit his lower lip gently, waiting. He knew his friend. He wouldn’t give up. 

Jeonghan sighed. “I’ll come by to get Joshua then - we’ll send you photos,” he said finally. 

Seungcheol’s brow knitted in confusion. He hadn’t expected the conversation to end that way. For Jeonghan, it was fairly abrupt. Seungcheol had expected at least a few more rounds of back and forth. 

He shrugged, though, and gave the phone back to Joshua. 

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

[shua]

giving in so soon?

[hannie]

he hates missing out […]

just get ready and leave when i’m there […]

he’ll show up 

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Seungcheol watched Joshua leave and locked the door behind him. He got a few texts confirming that he “really” wasn’t coming. 

He got even more texts when his friends were at the gallery. 

How amazing the paintings were in person. How they really captured Seungcheol - everything about him, apparently. Even the fact that he had a small mole on his palm. 

His nervousness had slowly started to morph into something else as he read his friends’ messages. 

He was missing out.  He was missing out on the moment, on the experience. 

He found himself getting dressed. He knew what everyone else wore, so he wasted some time in his closet before he found what he wanted - a balance of something understated but noticeable too. ‘Singular’ was the word Jeonghan had used earlier in the week when he tried to help Seungcheol pick something. 

He knew when he found it. 

And he was quick to leave once he had. For all he knew, the opening was over. He had the address but not the exact event details. 

a/n: tbd ^^

⋆˙⟡♡ 𝒌𝒂𝒕

seungcheol master list & main master list & tag list

𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 ^^

𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

angst - [ a ] || fluff - [ f ] || smut - [ s ]

teasers: all but break your heart |୨୧| tonight tonight |୨୧| cold fire (cheol only - attorney au)

drabbles: co-worker & spanking [ s ] | gamer boy [ s ] | professor one [ s ] | valentine's day [ f ] | 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝚌.𝚜𝚌 [ s ] | the unknown sender + nudes ones [ s ] #kat_drabbles

oneshots: profound, not sudden [ f ] || bisou bisou request #001 [ s ] ||

series: obvious affection [ pt. 1 f ] [ pt. 2 f & s ] |୨୧| 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ] |୨୧| 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇. 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊 [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ] |୨୧| 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 [ master list ] [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ] [ pt. 3 f & s ] [ pt. 4 f ]

seungcheol bingo [ all s] : knotting + marking | professor (prof. choi, pt. 1) | monster | spanking (neighbor seungcheol) | big dick + hate sex | forced masturbastion (prof. choi, pt ii) | voyeurism + punishment | coffee shop au + forbidden relationship (never let you go pt. 1) | bodyguard + drunk confession | anon sex + hair pulling + mask wearing (all up to you part i) | big dick!cheol + hate sex (choose your own adventure) | sexual frustration + ex sex |

omegaverse (a/b/o): alpha seungcheol [pt. 1] [pt. 2] || never let you go [master list] [part 1 f & s] [part 2 f ] ||

[tag list] ☁︎ @syluslittlecrows [e] ☁︎ @gyuguys [e] ☁︎ @tinyelfperson [e] ☁︎ @unlikelysublimekryptonite [e] ☁︎ @livelaughloveseventeen [e] ☁︎ @codeinebelle [e] ☁︎ @ateez-atiny380 [e] ☁︎ @mingcouper [e] ☁︎ @hanniebub [e] ☁︎ @perfectiondazesworld [e] ☁︎ @scoupshawty [e] ☁︎ @peachytokki [e] ☁︎ @coupsbestleader [e] ☁︎ @fleurloovin [e] ☁︎ @babybae-shisui [e] ☁︎ @asyre [e] ☁︎ @dcrlingyou [e] ☁︎ @yeosayang [e] ☁︎ @nanabananananabatman ☁︎ @aaronwarners69thwife [e] ☁︎ @yoongznme [e] ☁︎ @gyuhao365 [e] ☁︎ @jeonghnie [e] ☁︎ @armycarat2612 [e] ☁︎ @shuas-winnie30 [e] ☁︎ @famouspoetrydinosaur [e] ☁︎ @ateezaddict24 [e] ☁︎

☁︎ @haik-chu [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @gigglensnort [e - one/multi/priv] ☁︎ @thepoopdokyeomtouched [e - multi/priv] ☁︎ @stupendouschildnerd [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @tokitosun [e - one/multi ] ☁︎

☁︎ @living0livia [ c.sc - e ] ☁︎ @angelarin [c.sc - one/multi] ☁︎

☁︎ @aaronwarners69thwife [e + wips] ☁︎ @daisymbin [e + wips] ☁︎ @babilou-pov [e + wips] ☁︎ @igetcarriedawaywithyou [c.sc - e + wips] ☁︎ @keyrecsfics [ e + one/multi & wips] ☁︎

[beastyeastfreak]

sooo,,, if your open to requests,,, can we get some yandere Shadow Milk

If you'd prefer something more specific,,, SM's a fucking freak (/pos) over Y/N to the point even his minions are a bit concerned for Y/N's well being. Meanwhile Y/N is equally as obsessed with "their shadow" and matches Shadow Milks freak perfectly. They just happen to seem "normal" on a surface level so nobody imiditaly realizes how both of them are unhinged

(idk that was the first thing that came to mind, I crave shadow milk content lmao)

Ooooo i like this i kinda went a little off prompt though because i had some fun ideas

Cw and tags: Stalking(mutually done so), obsessive behaviour, yandere behavior, reader is a shy type thats also a yandere, reader uses spells/is a magic cookie or something similar, implied murder / wanting to murder.

🃏 - Creeping behind the shadow of the sun lurked a beast of deceit. Watching over his souljam as a wolf watched a flock of sheep. But as he kept his eye upon the holder, he was drawn to another. A cookie that ensnared the beast, one he had equal if not more interest in. He knew he had to make them his, he knew that they would want to be his too.

🃏 - You were to join Pure Vanilla on his expedition to beast yeast, but three days before your departure you had your nose in books in a grand library deep into the night. You were drawn into a dark hall of bookshelves by the sound of something falling. You end up finding a book with no cover. Reading this book was simultaneously your worst and best decision, it would change the trajectory of your life forever. Inside was detailed myths, tales and legends of one Virtue of Knowledge turned Beast of Deceit. Upon seeing the flipped souljam your mind screamed to tell pure vanilla of your finding, but then when that voice calmed you stopped. For some reason, your mind quieted, and you stared at the page you left on and your thoughts then shifted to “maybe i should read a little more before i tell him…” Thus began reading an entire hefty book in one night and day, no sleep just continuous intaking of knowledge and a thirst for more.

🃏 - You were obsessed, ten pages in and you already had notes started. You weren’t sure if this was an autobiography but it felt so intimately wrote and painted this beast with such worship you couldn’t help but nod along. You weren’t a liar, you weren’t evil and yet you had found yourself utterly infatuated with someone who only wanted to spread misinformation and harm others. There were small segments where he was quoted directly, or where his own writing / stories were added and each time you found yourself sinking further into his words. You examined each stroke of the brush with, frankly creepy, observation. You finished the book the next day around the afternoon, the only thing on your mind? You couldn’t wait to go to beast yeast.

🃏 - You brought the book with you in secret, you had lots of questions and hopefully when Pure Vanilla sorted this out you’d get answers, maybe this beast would even grant you his friendship but you knew it was wishful thinking. You defended your team with all your might, these spores were strong but you were determined. Though as you trekked deeper, it felt like you were being watched, it felt like someone had eyes on you. Even stranger, it seemed like just about everything was trying to get that book out of your bag or get someone to see it. But you were far too possessive of it, if someone knew you bore such information they’d take it! You had to keep it for yourself.

🃏 - Your team is taken in by the Faeries who give the tale of the five beasts, you had heard Shadow Milks tales but not the overarching story. You gazed upon the striking beauty of the Faeries kingdom, and yet this all just felt like the prelude to something more grand. In the footnotes of the book, strangely in different handwriting, it read that Shadow Milk Cookie, referred to as simply ‘master’, would rise from his prison and usher forth endless deceit and entertainment alongside his peers. It took little time for you to finally gaze upon the silver tree he was in. While the others spoke of fear of their return, you stood in silence, one hand on your bag feeling the outline of the book. Your eyes searched where the shiny bark had torn, where they had nearly broke free if not for White Lily cookies vines. You stare into that darkness, and for a moment you swear on the witches two mismatched eyes stare back.

🃏 - Your quietness was interpreted as shyness, you were prone to linger away from crowds so when you wouldn’t speak or stared too long, Pure Vanilla would vouch for you. There was a certain calmness surrounding the group, they were in search of White Lily’s memories but you found yourself watching shadows and searching for eyes. Sometimes as you walked your shadow seemed to shift and change, you swore it did, you swore and yet when you looked directly at it it was yours, who else’s would it be?

🃏 - Words were whispered in your ear beneath another’s speech or when it became quiet. Claws that were not truly there wrapped around your throat and over your eyes and sickeningly sweet lies and deadly promises dripped into your head. Words you couldn’t exactly make out but you understood anyway, someone was watching you, he was quite eager to meet you too.

🃏 - Your group then awakened White Lily, and soon after the silver tree began to fail. Its ancient bindings were no more, no amount of magic would fix it. Discord had spread wildly, the once orderly kingdom now reduced to a circus. The king had relayed his power to the jester to their dismay, but you were over the moon. Shadow milk wasn’t like how he was in the writing, he was better. Unfortunately your team was beginning to hold you back, you wanted to clap at his shows and smile at his jokes but your teams eyes were on you as they were on his.

🃏 - “It feels like his attention has been on you for some time, Y/N…” Pure Vanilla says to you in a moment of relative peace. You had hardly noticed, it felt the same. You begin to realize it felt the same because he had been watching you this entire time, you fluster at the idea. Pure vanilla would continue to warn you and stay closer to you than he normally would, then the next encounter he was near solely looking at you. “I need a volunteer.. lets see, oh how about my biggest fan!” He says and a spotlight is cast upon you, you were brought on stage with strings, held next to him like a puppet. The game he was playing didn’t matter, nor did your friends protests. Your mind had melted as you watched him talk to the crowd, one hand on your beg resting on the side opposite to him. He knew, you knew he knew and that only fueled your interest in him more. His grip was harsh, you begin to understand that perhaps his other half’s closeness to you had caused that. Was it jealousy? You hoped so, you yearned for his attention in that way. After what felt like seconds of staring at him the game was over, you were snatched from his grip and questioned if you were ok. You could only nod, you needed to be that close again.

🃏 - He’d continue to try and reel you in, but soon it was the final round, everyone strung up like puppets. Of course, despite his upper hand, White lily, now guardian of the seal, had bound him to the silver tree once more. Though his ominous warning was evidence enough that you’d be staying in the faerie kingdom much longer. You were giddy at the thought of staying around his presence more, your excitement overwrote your sudden dislike towards the others for casting him away again when you were getting so close! You almost considered stealing their souljams to open it up again but knew it’d be foolish. The thought of saving him and getting rewarded was almost too tempting…

🃏 - You were given a room, Pure vanilla came to tend to your wounds but was surprised at your lack of which. Still, he sat with you and tried to comfort you, you were probably terrified in his eyes, you played along just to get him to leave. Soon night fell, you began to dream then vision came to you. A spire standing tall above the already mighty trees. “You thirst deeply for my knowledge, little fool, lying to your dear friends for me! Im so honored~” his voice whispers from behind you, directly in your ear. Your sight becomes completely dark, now in a black void. You see your room now, you’re standing but your motions aren’t your own. “It can be just us when i get that thief out of the way… all you have to do is obey me,” He whispers further, your hands have strings attached so tight your dough darkens and yet theres no pain. “You dont even want to say no! My, its almost like you’re begging for me to scoop you up and lock you away like a princess in a tower!” You open a map gifted to you by a faerie upon asking for it and begin to mark a path. You try to respond but nothing you say is cohesive, he giggles. The laughter echoes as you begin to awaken in your bed.

🃏 - You don’t need further command, you jump out of bed and get dressed. The mere thought of getting an inkling of Shadow Milks presence was enough. You knew that just leaving in the middle of the night wouldn’t work though. So you make it seem as if you had been taken, ruffling the sheets, spilling a small bit of jam and leaving some of your items. You sneak away and embark on your journey, traversing beast yeast. You were fueled by the thought of seeing him again, feeling him pull you close or feeding you more ideas. You wanted to be enveloped, you wanted to know everything about him and him to know everything about you.

🃏 - Your obsessive knowledge and map created whilst sleep-walking guided you to the spire, by now the sun was poking above the horizon. There was a clear border of the beast’s territory and surrounding wilds. The leaves were cooler in hue, the plant life looked like that of the imagery in his stories, roses littered the white tile path. You followed eagerly, nothing truly mattered anymore you just wanted to appease this shadow mocking your movements, this puppeteer tightening his strings around you when you got too close to another cookie. You wanted those eyes in the shadows to watch you add another note to an already well analyzed book.

🃏 - You dont get a chance to enter the tower, you hear the sound of movement around the spire where the roses grew denser. Curiously, you hug the side of wall and watch from behind a pillar. It was him! He was floating in the field of tangled thorny vines. He plucked a vibrant rose, who was it for? Dread or perhaps jealousy bubbled in your soul. “Did your mother ever tell you its rude to spy?” A voice says behind you, you notice your shadow isn’t yours again. Its his silhouette, you briefly look back at the shadow milk in the field but instead he is not floating right in your face with a smug look. You flinch back, he smiles. “You know, for once I’m shocked! You actually followed me! I was worried i’d have to get extreme in convincing that pure fool to let go of you, but you came on your own. Good choice!” He says floating around you like a fish swimming gracefully, almost flaunting the rose he picked. You were eyeing it, he grinned further. “Ohohoh! You look ready to tear someone to shreds! Don’t worry, it’s for you,” he says and places it in your hand. His hands now around yours, the thorns were clipped so when he squeezed your hands it didn’t hurt. He had a dark look on his face, it wasn’t like how you’ve seen before. “I think i’ll enjoy seeing your face for a long, long time, and i’ll be the only one to see it… sound familiar?” He says and pulls the book from your bag. You fluster further, cheeks burning. The mix of fantasizing about his potential actions and the shock of him pulling out your notes mixed quickly. “Im antsy to see what you said about me~,” he giggles deviously. Instead of standing shocked you replied matching his tone, “i think you’ll enjoy what i have to say about you.” He’s now smiling widely, “then let’s not waste any time!” He says and opens a portal, dragging you in.

Meanwhile on an unseen balcony nearby

🃏 - Black sapphire leans against the railing, at first incredibly amused at the sight. It was humorous to see his master trying to flirt, or scare them. Then you started to look like you were into it… He wasn’t expecting that, you seemed quite nice! His mind devolving into mild surprise, then finally a whole slurry of emotions. “That was… erm… are we going to have to deal with that everyday now?” He turns to Candy Apple cookie standing stiffly, disgust, sadness and rage written on her face. She exited without saying a word, running back into the spire probably to her room to plot.

[monstersflashlight]

I know this is the monster fucking blog but can you do wholesome monster loving with the Tree Hole Debacle?

Like the reader bringing a picnic to the nature spirit?

A/N: You can find part 1 here, part 2 here, and part 3 (patreon exclusive) here. This is just very fluffy and soft and the furthest for horny ever, but I really enjoyed writing it, hope y’all enjoy reading it!

Forest entity: Picnics and situationships

Forest entity x fem!reader || sfw

Every time you’ve come to the forest, it’s with a secret intention.

Well, maybe not so secret because he always finds you and ends up giving you so much pleasure that you spend days in a dazed fog of post orgasm bliss. Let’s say it’s a secret intention for plot’s sake. Isn’t that what the cool kids say nowadays? Making bad choices… for the plot? Maybe you’re too old for that.

Anyway, you feel really bad because he always brings you pleasure but you don’t even try to befriend him. It must be lonely to live all alone in the forest. Or maybe it wasn’t, but how can you know? It’s not like you ever tried to talk to him when he was fucking you senseless… Okay, you weren’t the only one to blame for that- but you wanted to remedy it.

So here you are, parking your car and grabbing a basket full of food and a big plaid blanket. You take the compass out and follow it until you find yourself in a clearing. You know he should be around here, but you try to act nonchalant as you set your blanket on the ground and prepare your little basket with food.

It takes him less than five minutes to show up, emerging from the forest as his vines move around his body, giving him a kind of godly aura that makes your pussy tingly. Down girl, you remind yourself, we aren’t here for that.

“What are you doing here, human?” He asks. You can’t answer before he’s continuing. “The forest doesn’t want any offerings. I thought you’d be done after last time.” If you didn’t know better you’d say he’s smug about it. Truth be told, he can be smug about it. The things he did to you? Yeah, you still think about them every time you touch yourself.

“I- I didn’t come for that. I’m here to… To have a picnic,” you let out, which is technically correct. You try not to blush too hard, your whole body shivering at the intensity of his stare.

“In my forest?” He says, tilting his head to the side. You nod. “Why?”

“I just wanted to,” you lie.

He catches you instantly, making you feel even more embarrassed. “Lie. Try again.”

“I like nature,” another lie.

“Lie. Try again,” he repeats, almost as if he’s amused.

“Ugh. Okay. I just… I felt bad for always coming here to get fucked and I thought… I thought maybe we could spend some time together.”

“Why?” He asks, again.

“Why not?” You fire back, sounding like a five year old and wanting to stick your tongue out at him.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you just need to go back to your house and stop thinking a literal forest entity has some kind of hurt feelings over fucking you dumb. You’re about to get up and gather everything to run away as fast as possible, but he stops you with one of his vines. He approaches you very carefully, as if he’s trying not to scare you away. His beauty feels forbidden in this light, and you almost have to look away as he sits in front of you, not on the blanket, but close enough.

He doesn’t say much, he doesn’t eat anything, but he seems to enjoy watching you talk and eat some of the snacks you brought. He looks curious as you tell him stuff about your life, so you go in deeper details, telling him about your day, your job, your friends… He never stops looking interested, and he even blooms some flowers when you say something particularly amusing to him.

It’s… really nice.

Like a gentleman, or more like a gentle-entity, he walks you to your car when the light starts to fade. He claims it’s because humans have poor vision (which is true), but you want to think it’s because he wants to spend a little more time with you.

Your suspicions are confirmed when he stops in front of your car. “I like to spend more time with you, human. I won’t be opposed to do it again. I’ll be waiting,” he says before disappearing into the forest again.

Well, shit.

Did you just get yourself into a situationship?

[jesncin]

we need to talk about dc pride 2025-

PURELY from a consumer perspective!! I'm not writing this in an antagonistic way just because I'm part of the DC Pride fanzine (which I'm very proud of, you should check it out)- I just really want to talk about it and I feel I'm entitled to an opinion as gay book king of 2025 so HERE WE GO

To catch you up to speed, the DC Pride specials are usually anthologies with a handful of short stories highlighting and celebrating DC's canonically queer characters, with an all queer creative team (as is tradition). They're ordinarily self contained stories. This year though it looks like they tried to be more ambitious- and the stories are all connected to a bigger plot. In my humble opinion this was a huge mistake.

It's the nature of anthologies to have hit and miss stories! You've got a huge pool of creatives and some of those writing styles or stories aren't going to vibe with you. But that's no biggie, because you can just hop onto the next story and start fresh. It's what I've come to enjoy about anthologies! And I found this an accessible way to learn about DC's queer characters through these short stories.

BUT THAT'S NOT THE CASE FOR THIS YEAR'S SPECIAL. The overarching plot that all the Pride stories are under follow a magic plot where all queer characters across universes are trapped in a fantasy world (where they supposedly have all their desires granted) and need to snap out of it to get back into the real world. A character named Ethan Rivera, a trans man who served in the war, is usually the one to snap people out of it. This Pride Special serves as a backdoor-pilot style origin story for Ethan.

The story serves as a spiritual sequel to Alan Scott's recent solo comic. Years ago, Alan and his ex carved a heart onto this wall in a gay bar, unknowingly imbuing it with magic. In modern times, the wall and the bar its in are going to be turned into a parking lot, another gay monument lost to history. Suddenly it's doing some cosmic horror stuff where every queer character is sucked into a fantasy and regroup there.

(this dialogue is so....uh trite and on the nose I'm sorry afasdf)

This might seem like a new fun way to shake the Pride specials up- you get an overarching plot and everyone gets to interact with each other. There's a main character to help follow you through the action, theoretically giving you the opportunity to explore more depth in conflict than your usual short self contained Pride story, etc.

But no. It did the opposite for me. The overarching plot put some serious constrains on the writers, forcing them to essentially write the same plot over and over again.

Character is in a fantasy, something is off, Ethan snaps them out of it, and they all end up in a "home base of operations" where they get exposition dumped and caught up to speed with the magic shenanigans happening.

Interesting at first but very quickly overstays its welcome!! I couldn't escape the loop. I wasn't granted the freedom of a fresh start to read a new story, it was the same plot. Again and again and again.

I can sense some writers really trying with the limits they're given. Vita Ayala's The Question segment was among the stronger stories! And I felt a sense of this character's personality and history way more than the others.

Other characters weren't so lucky. Connor Hawke has been done so dirty this year. Not only was he whitewashed in a Pride illustration (that accompanies this collection), with half his face covered to add insult to injury- but he got a meager 2 pages of backstory before being cast to the side. And the writing was among the worst of the collection. Tragic.

(these panels summarize all these stories' plots. Just the same thing rinse and repeat)

Lowkey hate that the ace character's "celebration" this year is getting smooched on and then cast aside for a bigger plot. Justice for Connor.

Quick roundup of stories I want to talk about- sorry if I don't include your fav! This was just such a repetitive read that they all sort of melt together in my mind.

Any Apollo and Midnighter fan can go in more detail over how these complex morally grey characters get watered down to being sanitized Pride ads every year, so I'm going to review this on just the basic storytelling level. The premise is that the fantasy these two husbands are stuck in is a tongue-in-cheek respectable sitcom. "vigilante justice" is "legalized" but whenever someone violently threatens the gay couple, Midnighter can't really kill them. They turn into confetti.

I can sense this is trying to poke fun at respectability and censorship but it lands flat for me. Why are there people threatening them with slurs and guns if it's an escapist paradise? I've never seen a cute sitcom have that. It doesn't help that this idyllic fantasy is literally a desire for Apollo. That the reason they're stuck there is that one of them actually likes it there. If they went a more WandaVision route where they were stuck in a censored reality where they can't boink and have to dress as respectable sweater-wearing neighborhood gay dads, this could've poked fun at the company's own problems with softening edgy queer characters. Just a fascinating case study of attempting rebellion within a company.

Quick note for Harley's story. It basically says that all her modern motivations boil down to wanting a girlfriend. If that isn't a summation for how these characters lose all depth after being canonized as queer I don't know what is.

We need to talk about the Blue Snowman story. Or what I like to call, "this year's contender for "Pride is a Party""

Summarized perfectly by Dizzy on twitter as

The Blue Snowman's fantasy is that they're outed by Wonder Woman when she uses the Lasso of Truth on them. Forced to come to terms with their fluid gender identity, they imagine being graciously accepted and defended by the world against Wonder Woman, with her labeled as "Not An Ally". (we'll talk about how Wondie's canonically queer later in the conclusion)

I get that it's a joke, that the Blue Snowman is self deprecating, insecure, while also being egotistical enough to frame Xanthe Zhou as an "unimportant trans person"- who is inspired by the Blue Snowman to be queer. But it's not funny. And reads like a conservative "the gays are so fragile" comic. Again, this is presented to us as the Blue Snowman's secret desire. Much like the Apollo and Midnighter one, any commentary it's trying to make doesn't land.

Xanthe and Blue Snowman only "reconcile" in a quiet sequence of panels where Blue Snowman begrudgingly holds Xanthe's hand. The one time this comic decides to shut up, it does this. Justice for Xanthe because they barely get stories outside of these DC specials, and the one time they return it's to be insulted and barely apologized to.

The Blue Snowman story is the most trans focused narrative out of the entire collection this year (outside of Ethan exposition dumping his origin story). And this is what we got.

In between everyone's stories, we see Ethan in a dreamscape fantasy realm that is very beautifully rendered! Props to A.L. Kaplan!!

Even though I visually love these pages, I did find them disruptive to the flow of stories. It didn't help that Ethan sort of intrudes on everyone's stories to snap them out of their fantasies- I just found it all annoying to read. I couldn't really get into each character because they were mandated to follow a specific structure. In the end I still don't have a grasp of who Ethan is as a character either, despite all that screen time.

Ethan just tells us his origin, we don't experience it with him. He explains to us how he feels about everything. He is entirely a tell not show character.

He'll even explain what the metaphors represent to the reader. "Because it feels as though everything I've done since then has involved a transition of some kind. It's like I'm always transitioning. Like this place." "It's a beautiful tribute Alan. And look what you started! These carvings, this wall...it's like a monument. it represents everything you and so many others were feeling." This is real dialogue. He literally tells us what the wall represents like we're too foolish to know.

The dialogue in general was a pain to read. Everyone sounded like a Joss Whedon character. They'd say the most obvious on the nose thing, in a weak attempt to hide it as quirky charisma. It was not working.

(just because you lampshade your writing by showing characters being bored of exposition doesn't mean it's suddenly good writing!!)

It got exhausting to read hope speech after hope speech of characters talking in corporate prideisms that I found myself wanting to skim through the pages because I felt I wasn't learning anything new. And when I say these characters yap, I mean they YAP.

Godspeed to the letterer team because what the heck!!

All this text and for what? More cosmic red lantern magical nonsense.

Anyway the interconnected story ends abruptly. After yelling at the cosmic image of Alan's ex, Ethan returns to the graffiti wall in the gay bar with all the other queer characters transported back to where they came from. And the ending is...surprisingly passive about its conclusion.

There's a strange resignation to the characters. Despite being literal superheroes who have attachment to this gay bar and graffiti wall that houses generations of queer expression, they just kind of give up on saving a queer historical monument. They don't even try.

This is all lamp shaded under a "the fight never ends" speech from Alan. But like, again- y'all didn't try. You didn't fight for the place. You are just telling me that you are. "It's always been that way, and it always will be. That's what we get right? That and the privilege of hoping that, because of what we do, the next generation and the next may get more." A bit of an oxymoron to say it's always the same and hope the next generation will get it better.

I understand what this collection is going for. Deeper, interconnected conflict for its queer characters that you wouldn't normally get in its typical anthology format. It's even trying to end in a more somber note. They don't save the gay bar and its graffiti wall. They move on.

But it's lacking nuance in its garbled hope speech by the end. I understand that "It gets better" can become an irritating platitude to hear when historically, we know it doesn't always get better for marginalized people. I think if the story ended with "Things don't always get better. It can get worse if we're not careful, that's why we have to keep fighting." And show your characters being active instead of just accepting queer erasure when it happens, that could be really resonant with the current political climate. Instead we get this passive resignation. Anti-hope disguised in hope speeches.

Quick review of the Jenny Blake auto bio in the end. It's cute, though I have some thoughts. Inevitably when these collections feature an auto bio comic, they feel more authentic because they're about a real person.

I do find it ironic that Blake starts this comic by saying "just as no two human beings are exactly alike...no two lgbtqia+ stories are exactly alike" when it's featured in an anthology about queer characters experiencing the same "I'm in a fake fantasy, whoa time to wake up into the real world! What going on? Someone exposition dump me please" story over and over and over again. I had lost a lot of my patience by the time I made it to the end of this collection. And this felt like a punch in the face in the funniest way. Amazing lack of self awareness.

I have a nitpick for this later part though. Blake says "Evil reared its ugly head, and my country descended into cruelty and madness. Playing it safe was no longer an option. I needed to represent as my true self. I would not hide in the closet waiting for the bigots and transphobes to come find me!"

It's very cloying in its delivery. But I take issue with framing closeted people as shameful cowards who won't live their truth. Just "waiting for bigots to come find them". If things are hard for you in Texas (or anywhere for that matter) as a trans person, being in the closet doesn't make you any less queer. You're just protecting yourself the way Superman does when he's being Clark Kent.

NOW FOR BIG CONCLUSION FEELINGS

The DC Pride anthologies are always interesting to me for the wrong reasons. I'm fascinated by them like it's performance art. They're an annual celebration of the company's queer characters and staff. But they're also Pride ads. Sometimes there's little gems in the collection, but for the most part its watered down and corporate. I love dissecting all the ways they represent respectability, assimilation and the struggle between art and commerce.

This collection's existence is proof- evidence if you will- that queer writers don't always make great queer stories. Because they're human beings.

So this year's collection showing ambition to break away from the celebration-style writing to be more interconnected and somber, but still managing to feel corporate is a case study that my brain can't stop chewing on. Despite its deviance from the norm, it still follows DC's limitations with queer rep.

DC has so many more queer characters than those that show up in their Pride specials. And they even have huge mainline queer characters that mysteriously never show up in Pride.

Remember how the Blue Snowman comic joked about Wonder Woman not being an ally? Well. She's not. Because Diana's a canonically queer character. But DC doesn't market her that way. To the general audience, DC wants you to believe that Nubia is the queer Themysciran, the queer member of wonderfam. Despite Wonder Woman being a queer headline Trinity member, DC wants you to remember that Diana is for the boys. So they can't have her in the Pride anthologies.

Same with Selina Kyle, she may be Catwoman, she may have kissed a woman, but she's for the boys. So both her and Diana have a magical restraining order from the Pride Specials. A Lasso of Lies if you will. Catman can be here, though. Allies like Nightwing can be featured too.

Bi representation in DC is very bi-nary (pun intended). When Harley Quinn was canonized as bi, she's written like a lesbian character. Modern Harley solely hits it up with women, and has no feelings for men. Even in this collection she's being creeped on by a dude and has to reject his advances as she chases her girlfriend. It's as though DC resigned and said "fine, Harley's for the girls".

When Tim Drake came out as bi, he's virtually been written as a gay man. All his previous relationships with women are written off and discarded. Highlighting his gay relationship as the true relationship.

When Jon Kent came out as bi, he never says the word "bi". And is written to be a gay character. Yeah he's in dramatic love triangle right now, but we can't have our biggest multi-flag wearing mascot cheat and feel complex about this. That would be a bad bi stereotype! We can't have that.

The luckiest we get is bi characters like John Constantine. Who flirts constantly with men- but only has deep, character-defining romantic relationships with women. That's as good as it gets. He'll get bi jokes tossed at him though. We can't have everything.

That's only one out of the many ways corporate mingling messes with these characters. How it stops them from being truly transgressive. Because this Pride Special, for all its ambitions, just has the same foundational problems of the collection's usual offerings.

Only this time, in my opinion, there was no standout or good story. Because they were all the same story. They were forced to be. Which is deeply ironic for a Pride special.

[hellfirebarnes]

Slow-Burns Part 7

@crowleythesexydemon

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6

I split this up in several, shorter parts because I know the feeling when you want to read a fic but don't have the time or energy to get through a 10k+ words one. Also if you hate my writing you can just read part 1 and then leave it. Win-win I guess?

Anyway, this is set after Thunderbolts so if you haven't seen it - spoilers I guess? It absolutely does not follow canon, but yeah better to be safe than sorry.

Summary: Bucky has fallen. Hopelessly. And the only thing more hopeless is his team trying to help him get to the end of this slow-burn.

Bucky x fem!SHIELD!reader

1.3K Words

Fluff, ''normal'' violence and descriptions of injuries. For sure out of character stuff, but I am who I am. Your appearence is barely desribed what I can remember, I think your hair and a couple types what clothes you're wearing?

You're referred to as ''Agent'' and ''Sunshine'' in a desperate attempt from me to not use Y/N.

Let me know if there's anything else I should warn about.

Otherwise, enjoy :)

Bucky entered the kitchen like it was enemy territory. He had a mission. A plan. A mental flowchart.

Step One: Talk to you. Like a normal person.

Step Two: Make you laugh. Naturally.

Step Three: Try not to die of mortification.

He found you exactly where he knew you’d be - sitting on the counter, legs swinging, cradling a cup of coffee, and arguing with John over who should’ve made breakfast.

“I made coffee,” John was saying.

“That’s not food,” you replied. “That’s a coping mechanism.”

Bob was hovering near your knees, head resting on his arms on the counter like a golden retriever who needed constant emotional validation. Alexei stood near the fridge humming something suspiciously like a wedding march.

Bucky cleared his throat.

You looked up immediately, eyes lighting up. “Hey! You’re up early.”

“Thought I’d make pancakes,” he said. Casual. Like a completely chill person who didn’t spend last night writing your name in a notebook like a high schooler with a crush.

Yelena, passing through, stopped mid-step.

John blinked. “You?”

Bob gasped. “That’s so romantic.”

You looked at him, surprised. “You don’t have to do that.”

Bucky gave a tight smile. “I want to.”

He grabbed the mixing bowl before anyone could say anything else, hands already shaking slightly. You slid off the counter to help, bumping your shoulder against his as you reached for the flour.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” you said.

“I don’t. Much. Learning.” He glanced at you - close, warm, smiling. He was definitely going to burn these pancakes.

Twenty minutes later the pancakes were… edible. Mostly.

You laughed after biting into one. “You added cinnamon?”

“I read it softens the taste.”

“I like it.”

Alexei smacked Bucky on the back. “He’s cooking for you! This is phase one! Courtship begins!”

“Alexei,” Bucky said through gritted teeth.

“He’s starting the ritual!” Alexei declared to the room like a town crier.

John groaned into his coffee. “I can’t be here for this.”

“I live for this,” Yelena said, smirking.

Bob practically sparkled. “You’re courting her like a storybook prince! That’s so pure.”

Bucky was going to need another war to hide in.

But then you leaned in closer and whispered, “Don’t let them scare you off. This is really sweet, Bucky.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Just nodded, ears burning.

Later that day, the team had scattered to their usual haunts. You sat on the floor near the couch, surrounded by polaroids and a sketchbook. You were humming to yourself, completely at ease.

Bucky stood in the doorway for several seconds before Ava passed by and bumped his shoulder. “You survived step one.”

“I almost choked on cinnamon batter.”

“Still counts.”

He hesitated, then moved into the room and sat on the floor across from you.

You glanced up. “Hey again.”

“Whatcha working on?” he asked, leaning closer.

“Just sorting through the mess. Trying to figure out which of these deserve wall space.” You lifted a polaroid of you and Yelena caught mid-laugh, flour on your faces. “This one’s a strong contender.”

He spotted one of him and Bob crammed into frame, Bob holding up peace signs while Bucky looked halfway to escaping. With you in the middle - beaming.

“You should put that one up,” he said, pointing to it.

You laughed. “You think?”

He nodded. “You look happy in it.”

You looked at him, just a moment too long. “So do you.”

And for one terrifying, beautiful second, he felt like a guy who might actually deserve a moment like this.

Alexei was hiding behind a plant, whispering:  

“Mission Update: The Boy has made Contact. He has Initiated Pancakes. We are Go for Operation: Barnes Gets the Girl. I repeat—Go.”

Ava, who was walking by, stopped and looked at him. “Alexei, you’re talking into a fork.”

“It’s a metaphor.”

It had taken days. He’d mentally rehearsed it during missions, in the shower, in quiet elevator rides. Hell, he’d even gone back to that stupid notebook, where Operation: Court Sunshine now had a small constellation of checkmarks beside things like:

• “Make her laugh” ✅

• “Don’t combust while making pancakes” ✅

• “Speak actual words” (working on it)

Now it was time for the next terrifying step.

Step 4: Ask her out. Alone. For real. Like a grown man.

He found you finishing up a cooldown stretch, flushed from sparring with Ava, hair pulled back, eyes bright with victory.

“Hey,” he said, trying not to sound like a nervous wreck.

You beamed. “Hey, you missed it - Ava nearly threw me through the wall.”

“I’m sure the wall deserved it.”

You laughed. Victory.

Encouraged, he cleared his throat. “So, uh. I was thinking. Maybe we could-” He coughed. “You know... Go somewhere.”

Your head tilted. “Like a mission?”

“No-no, not a mission. Like a… not-mission.”

“…A recon?” you guessed.

He blinked. “Not really...more like… I was thinking we could check out that new place downtown. The café. You mentioned it. The one with the plants?”

“Oh!” your face lit up. “That place looks so cute!”

He nodded, nerves clawing at him. “So. Maybe this weekend?”

“Totally! I’ll tell the others!”

He froze. “Wait - others?”

Too late.

Saturday Bucky stood beside you outside the greenhouse-style café with a polite, quiet smile and the sinking feeling of a man who had just asked someone out on a date - but instead accidentally created a social event.

Because walking toward you were all of them.

Bob waved enthusiastically from a block away.

Yelena had sunglasses and iced coffee already in hand. “Who decided brunch? I love brunch.”

John looked at Bucky with unfiltered judgment. “This was your idea?”

Alexei was dressed like a suburban dad on vacation, arms wide. “It’s a beautiful day for love!”

You looked delighted. “This is gonna be so fun.”

Bucky wanted the ground to swallow him.

Inside the café, Bucky sat squished between a hanging fern and Bob, who had somehow already convinced you to sit beside him and was telling you an enthusiastic story about a stray cat he’d met that morning. Yelena was stealing sips of your drink. John kept playing with the salt shaker like it might explode. Alexei was… filming something?

Every time Bucky opened his mouth to say something to you, someone else got there first.

“So then I told the cat, ‘You deserve love too!’” Bob was saying.

You giggled.

Bucky tried again. “So, about this-”

“Oh! Look at this cake!” you gasped, turning to Yelena. “We have to try that.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair. He was two inches from a potted monstera and one emotional breakdown from giving up entirely.

“Honestly,” John muttered, “this is painful.”

Bucky shot him a look. “What is?”

“You. This.” He gestured broadly. “You tried to ask her out and now we’re all here. Like emotional bodyguards.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“She doesn’t know it was supposed to be a date, does she?”

“No,” Bucky grumbled.

Alexei plopped down across from them, slapping a muffin onto Bucky’s plate. “This is good for the heart! Resistance builds character. Fight for her!”

“I was trying not to make it a fight,” Bucky muttered.

Alexei winked. “That was your first mistake.”

The group had splintered a bit as they walked back, with Bob bouncing between every conversation and John loudly arguing with a pigeon about sidewalk ownership. You slowed your pace next to Bucky, sipping the last of your coffee.

“Thanks for suggesting that,” you said. “It was nice. Really chaotic, but nice.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, watching you smile. “It was… something.”

You glanced up at him. “You okay?”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “I will be.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. Just bumped your shoulder gently against his. You walked a little closer after that.

And even though Bucky had failed spectacularly at asking you out - he still wrote “Step 4.5: Try again” in his notebook that night.

[spikesbunny]

can u draw law (finally) hooking up w/ his long-time ally/acquintance but didnt know reader was mtf and just stares at the dick for a while then carries or smth

+ an: i was torn between making law experienced or unexperienced, so i went with my personal favorite (virgin law)!! also apologies, i know i said i write mtf reader, but dicks are not my specialty </3

minors DNI!

trafalgar law had his eyes on you. ever since you stepped onto his ship 10 years ago, offering to be his nurse.

there was something about you, so appealing. maybe your style? the way your hair cascaded over your shoulders? the piercings you had lining your face?

maybe it was your voice. sweet, alluring.

it was gross. the way he felt about you, sitting in his room, jerking himself off to fucking anatomical diagrams of female reproductive organs. he was a doctor, for fucks sake! and your captain!! this was unprofessional on the highest level.

never had law ever been this pathetic over a crewmate. you probably didn't even want him!!! sure, you were sweeter to him than the others on the crew, but you probably just wanted to warm up to your captain. and that sent blood flowing to the wrong places.

fortunately, it was another late night, and you were long gone. hopefully asleep, safe and sound. he hoped you were. he couldn't afford to loose you - not only as a dear friend, but also because he was disgustingly infatuated with you.

law was confident he knew everything about you - or at least, most. not only was he your best friend, but a doctor too. he could solve any problem you had.

minus the fact he gets a hard-on every time he ends up checking your wounds after a battle.

his heart jumps into his throat as footsteps make their way down the hallway, coming towards his office. he sighs, brushing a hand over his face, making a (weak) attempt to focus back on his paperwork and stop fucking day dreaming.

"who is it?" he calls, his tone stern. until he sees you in his doorway. "shit... hey... can't sleep?"

"somethin like that." you coo, making your way over to him. "law, you know its late... get some sleep." you whisper to him, and in that minute he knows he's a goner. his dick twitches to life, and he shifts uncomfortably in the seat.

"it needs to get done."

"lemme stay here then" you ask, settling yourself down onto his lap without a warning. he swallows a moan, nodding, trying to remain nonchalant as he works away.

law's facade fails when you shift your hips, earning a whimper. you turn back, meeting his eyes. "law.. you good??"

law looses it. he can't, he can't lie to you, can't ignore the way his heart pangs when he sees you. "can i eat you out?" he ask.

your face flushes. out of both lust and embarrassment. this is gonna be hard to break to him

"law uhm... no."

"huh?" he pauses, before looking guilty. "shit, im sorry.... hope this didnt make things weir-"

"no, not no you can't, but literally you can't. i wasn't born a girl." you confess."

he blinks. "ohhh... can i suck your dick then?" he ask.

you chuckle, amused by his boldness.

"sure. why not." he sighs, shaky hands moving to set you atop his desk, hands making quick work of your bottoms. he pulls off your pretty panties - a cute touch, he thinks to himself - swallowing at the sight of your dick.

"fuck... uhm... how do i suck dick?" he ask.

right. he was a virgin. "oh, right. uhm..." you grab his face, bringing him down. you press your tip to his lips, watching him slowly take it in. you sigh breathily, giving him a soft 'good'. "use some tongue, and if ya can't fit it all, use yer hands."

he nods around you, slowly lowering his head down, messy and uncoordinated with his movements, slowly starting to gain confidence.

sure, he wasn't the best. but it was the fact he was the one giving you head that made it feel so good. your hand wraps around his hair, pressing him further down, tip hitting his throat and earning a soft whine from his lips.

law whimpers and moans around you, dick twitching and ready to cum just from pleasing you. sure, it wasn't what he had imagined, but fuck, he would kill for this to be a reoccurring thing.

"so close" you groan, pushing him down further, before spilling hot seed down his throat.

law eagerly swallows, pulling off and licking his lips. "w-was that good?" he whispers, eyes teary and meeting yours, seeking your approval.

you nod, bringing him up to kiss his lips. "mhm. perfect."

"now... what should i teach ya next?"

©2025 spikesbunny- please do not repost/translate my works on other media sites ♡

[mystxmomo]

hi hiii

so. what if. iiii. enabled u to be autistic on the internet again :3c

i wanna hear your thoughts on eilistraee and vhaerauns relationship! the nitty gritty, the dynamics, how they think of each other vs how they act, and how thats changed over time+how its reflected in their church

im ADORING all your posts on it if i could id print them out and eat them 🫶

Okay. So this is officially the third part of my "I need to go crazy on some character analysis" Saga. My analysis on Vhaeraun is Here, and my analysis on Eilistraee is Here. I recommend, if you're stumbling across this post in the wild as tumblr tends to do, reading those two first so that you have an idea of how I see these two characters and where the basis of my argument for their characterization comes from. If I need to reference something from either post, I'll quote it here. But y'know. Need be said.

Okay so.

I believe this post is going to the most subjective of mine. I am going to try and pull up canon screenshots from War of the Spider Queen, The Lady Penitent, and Evermeet, but unlike how you kind of get told directly how the drow gods behave and hold themselves and a lot of things end up getting built on them, I would argue so many hands have touched DnD and so many interpretations of their relationship have sprung up over the books that it's hard to give a truly simplified "This is how they see one another."

Water is wet statement, relationships are complicated.

Anyway. Given what my thesis is, I am going to be talking a fair bit about abusive family dynamics in this one as well. My goal for this (and any character relationship I do, really) if to try and keep it very fair. I think a of people make the mistake when talking about Eilistraee and Vhaeraun's relationship of picking a side. Like this idea of one of them being right and one of them being wrong and needing to "Fix" the other. And I don't think that's true at all. I think to be able to understand why they feel the way they do about one another and why their relationship is the way it is, you need to respect both of their characters individually.

(Granted, I think this should be true of any relationship you're writing for in fiction. If I can preach for a second, I think even if you don't like a character, you have to be able to respect the character to properly portray them.)

Final note before I get into this. Everyone thank @abracadav-r again for being on screenshot duty. The posts wouldn't get done nearly as fast without them, they know exactly where to find these little moments.

So. That all said. Lets get into it.

I've made a smaller joke post about what I think their dynamic is like before here. But now that you're giving me the opportunity to do so, I will go indepth about it. Yes.

I'm kinda of the opinion that Eilistraee is more incorrect about Vhaeraun than Vhaeraun is incorrect about Eilistraee (But also that this is the result of DND Canon not being entirely fair to Vhaeraun.)

Let's get the discussion about my thesis about the Elven Pantheon being an analogy for an Abusive family on a divine scale out of the way first, because it's something I've mentioned a few time's, but only every really shorthanded. And I think here, in the discussion about relations, is a GREAT place to start and actually explore that.

Now. I should probably start by saying, I don't think this was intended by DnD. Like, I think when they were originally making this lore, it was the intention to just make a justifiable evil worth killing. DND came out of a time of the romantic fantasy, the very Tolkien and Fairytale esc ideas of good and evil and have this classic hero's journey power fantasy ideal to it. Other people have gone into depth about that origin with far better sourcing and dissection than I can ever hope to, but basically: DnD is absolutely (as all art is) a product of it's time and of the community it stemmed from.

However, I personally think those themes and ideas are a little outdated, and a modern audience (myself being the modern audience) tends to be more enthralled by very nuanced interpretations of good and evil, and find indepth character driven narratives more engaging. And I think that for what this mythos has become over the course of it's 60+ years of evolution, you can reinterpret the narrative to be a fascinating depiction of a mythos that echo's the abusive family structure.

Copying and Pasting from my Eilistraee Essay:

It is of my opinion that, when you look at the Eilistrae-Vhaeraun Dynamic and how they were treated by Lolth and Corellon, you're looking at a classic Golden Child/Scrape Goat dynamic. This is important to mention here because I do think that's important context within how Eilistraee (the person) see's and understands the world, and where her mind is at when it comes to the perception of her sense of self. To VASTLY oversimplify about how emotionally abusive family structures work by a lot, when you look at emotionally abusive families with siblings, you tend to find a pattern where one child ends up getting the bulk of the favoritism and affection (The golden child), while the other takes the bulk of the abuse and tends to take a of blame and is seen as being deserving of the abuse (The scrapegoat.) I'll get a little bit more into the specifics of what that means for their relationship in a later post.[*] Now. Calling her the Golden Child, but I don't think being the Golden Child is strictly a good thing. In a lot of ways, I think a lot of golden children end up very emotionally stilted, and I think you kind of see that in Eilistraee. She HAS to be the perfect one. And she's had this expectation to be The Good One placed on her shoulders since she was young. Golden Children are often blinded to the abuse their siblings face because they themselves are not subjected to the same kind of abuse.

[*] And well. It's that later post!

In emotionally abusive families, siblings tend to be pitted against eachother, either unintentionally as a result of the Golden Child being the subject of a parents time, attention, resources, and affection, or as a purposeful attempt on the part of a parent to put divides in a family. In the real life world, it is more often the first. I think a lot of people think Abusers are more like Lolth where there's an intentional "I looked at you and from the day you were born decided to make your life hell."

But I would argue the tricky thing about abusive family structures (Especially with parent-child situations), is that more often then not, the abusers love the idea of the person they're abusing. To them, what they're doing is love. It is very rare that an abuser is this knowing evil schemer that actively sits and thinks to themself that "That's my least favorite child, they don't deserve my attention."

(Though, as a small side tangent not immediately related to the fictional character, you might see this logic manifest more in the way finances are weaponized in abuse, especially see in America where college is more expensive and therefore often used as a control tactic. IE; My wonderful son wants to go into STEM, why would I waste money by giving it to my son who wants to do art college. Because people get comically evil about money.)

Instead, emotional abuse is often more insidious. It's... I'm going to put the blame on everything that goes wrong on my son (Who I left in the hands of his physically abusive mother to have his arm constantly bent behind his back by her) I can't bring myself to believe that my daughter would ever want to scheme against me. YOU could have been good once, but you're evil because you're not happy, you're too moody, you're too violent. I'm not even going to give you the chance or the environment to grow, because it's just in your nature to be evil, and because you are evil because you were born evil that all that goes wrong is your fault.

You know. That kind of logic.

So. Eilistraee was Corellon's Golden Child. She was the free spirited happy one. She was the one that loved to hunt and dance. She was the good one.

(But often, when a scrape goat leaves the family, the golden child becomes the new target.

Y'know. Like..

Corellon gave up on the idea of trying to turn his son Vhaeraun to abandon his ways. He vowed to kill Vhaeraun if he ever tried to hurt his sister. Nevertheless, the Masked Lord did threaten the Dark Maiden's life, without known action against him on Corellon's part.

Corellon's servant Solars claimed that, with this act, Eilistraee had exhausted her purpose, because the willing had been saved, and the unwilling cast down as a necessary sacrifice.

The in-story context for this being honestly worse and kind of containing bad racial implications:

“Her soul was destroyed,” Felarathael said solemnly. “But before she died, she saved many. She cleansed the taint from hundreds of drow who might otherwise have been condemned.” “But the rest!” Lashrael wailed. “Thousands! Hundreds of thousands! No hope of redemption for them, with Eilistraee gone. Condemned to darkness and despair, forevermore!” “Another necessary sacrifice,” Felarathael said without a trace of emotion. “Else the game would have been lost.”

This, to me, is the framework of Vhaeraun and Eilistraee's relationship.

Likewise, the Masked Lord nurtures an abiding hatred of Eilistraee. The Dark Maiden always held Corellon's favor more than her hateful brother, and she thwarted Vhaeraun's early efforts to bring all the Ilythiiri (southern, dark-skinned elves) under his sway, enabling Lolth and Ghaunadaur to make great inroads among those who would become the drow.

I'm under the impression that Eilistraee doesn't know Vhaeraun. She has this idea of who he is in her head seemingly both based on the what their father thought of him, and as a result of being an outsider looking at the things he did at the hand of his mother. (And again, let's be clear and establish in this post. That wasn't WHOLLY Lolth. Vhaeraun did play his part. But I don't think Eilistraee see's that, I think she strictly see's an eager climb for power) And then she makes a lot of assumptions about his motivations based on the idea of him she's made in her head that reaffirm that idea.

On the other hand, I think Vhaeraun understands exactly the kind of person his sister is, because it's really not that hard to understand who Eilistraee is. She really does just mean well. While I consider her to be a lot more guarded and lonely then people tend to give her credit for, I don't think she's being insincere with her wants and wishes and you don't have to doubt what her intentions are. Instead, the ways that I think Vhaeraun is often wrong about how well she can handle herself and how strong her allies are by 4e, and what that could mean for drow as a whole. Because he's so willing to discredit her as a threat, he doesn't pay attention to her, and because he doesn't pay attention to her I don't think he realized she'd gotten friendly to people like... Mysta the goddess of magic.

And being realistic, even if he had known, I don't think he understands the weight of her being friendly TO people like Mystra because he himself only ever makes allies, not friends amongst gods.

Now. The reason I capped that whole screenshot above is actually because it contains a very interesting bit of framework that I think proves this. Even back in the 2e source books, the phrasing of these things matters. If it was a matter of Vhaeraun thinking that something was the case, they would have mentioned it. However, the specific way that it's set up in that passage is: "It's not that Vhaeraun thinks Eilistraee's involvement in circumventing his climb to power allowed Lolth and Ghaunadaur to gain power. Her involvement DID allow Lolth and Ghaunadaur to gain power."

And I don't think she's aware of that. But Vhaeraun is.

To further this, we're to copy/paste a passage from Sacrifice of the Widow. Now. This is from the perspective of a Vhaeraun worshiper, and it holds as much bias as Eilistraee's priestesses have towards him. But. Because it correlates with metatextual information we have from all the way back in 1998, I'm inclined to say it's not a full dishonesty, just a biased truth.

The dance might have been beautiful, had it not been a violation of the sacred order. Had Eilistraee not interfered, Vhaeraun might have united all of the darkelves under a single deity millennia ago, but Eilistraee had proved as greedy as Lolth and had stolen the females away from the Masked Lord’s worship. She’d taught them to exclude males from her circle, to subjugate and revile them instead. Vhaeraun’s followers had learned a bitter lesson. Females could not be trusted.

Compare this to how Eilistraee speaks of Vhaeraun's influence in Evermeet: Island of the Elves.

Like... Eilistaee. There are bigger threats out there than your brother But. She's so blinded by her history with him that she can only ever see her brothers influence is a bloodstain on the land.

As I mentioned in my other post, I think Eilistraee is a biased narrator in this scene. I don't think Vhaeraun wants his sister to die for the crime of existing. I think his feelings on his sister are way more complicated than his feelings on either of his parents. And we know when Vhaeraun explicitly wants someone dead, because the text would have told us that.

...

So, to understand Vhaeraun and Eilistraee's relationship, I do think we need to talk about The Masked Lady.

Given how much of DnD is oral tradition and people building on concepts that the games give to us, I think people feel more comfortable engaging with some of these things through the wiki and building off of the idea of the ideas they get from the wiki without searching out the original source. And to be clear, this isn't like, judgement for doing that. Nevermind that the IP is older than I am twice over, that a lot of old blog posts are only acceptable through niche internet archive links, and that a lot the source books are neither applicable to 5e or still within print. I'M personally guilty of doing it all of the time.

Instead, the point I'm making is because of how the realms is set up and how people engage with DND, not a lot of people know when plot point comes from a source book, a blog post, a prose book, an official magazine, when something was fan-submitted and made canon, or Ed Greens personal twitter/discord. They all kind of merge together to create a collective canon. I think, as a result, a lot of people end up engaging with these concepts with the same amount of abstraction. But the thing about The Masked Lady is that they're like. A book character. This isn't just a concept that was placed out into world abstractly, they're a fully fleshed out character within The Lady Penitent.

This is important to us and our purposes of engaging with these characters on a more transformative level rather than at a dnd table. Being a character, we can look at how they behave and what the actual intent of their portrayal was. And I want to show you a few things, because I have an argument I would like to make given that portrayal.

==

A voice called to them: a voice that was neither male nor female, but both. A moment later, it became a pool of utter silence. Then song, then silence. Opposites, twined together, yet somehow harmonious. Side by side, the awarenesses that were Kâras and Valdar drifted to the place where the song-silence was coming from. It caught them like leaves and swirled them up toward itself. They drifted in front of an enormous face. Moonlight bathed the face’s upper half in shining radiance; the lower half was shadowed in utter blackness. A glint of blue danced across eyes the color of moonstones. Masked Lord, Kâras asked. Is it you? A feminine laugh rustled the mask. Masked … Lady? he ventured. The chuckle deepened, became male. Hands moved to the blackness that was the deity’s mask. Fingers gripped its edges. Kâras tensed, and felt the eager anticipation of the awareness that was Valdar. The mask lifted. Kâras wept. So did Valdar—and as he did, Kâras saw into the other Nightshadow’s heart. The emotions that had prompted their tears were as different as moonlight from shadow.

==

“Masked Lord,” Kâras prayed. “Is it your will the breach be opened? Have you—” He hesitated, then forced himself to say it. “Have you allied yourself with the Ancient One?” This time, the god answered. Not in words, but in the distant peal of a hunting horn. That alone wouldn’t have convinced Kâras; it might have been one of the priestesses, signaling the others. But as the horn sounded, a rectangle of darkness with two eyeholes appeared in the air a short distance away, within the tunnel leading to the ruined temple. The bottom of this “mask” fluttered, as if the mouth behind it were lending its breath to the hunting horn’s peal. Dots of angry red blazed where the eyes would have been. That decided it. Kâras wouldn’t run. He’d fight.

==

===

My argument about The Masked Lady is this: Despite taking a lot of Eilistraee's visage and Churches Iconograpy, When you look at how The Masked Lady behaves in practice I would argue that this isn't actually strictly Eilistraee. The Masked Lady feels like a new character that is both Vhaeraun and Eilistraee..... but also Neither Vhaeraun and Eilistraee. In that strictly esoteric kind of way, by merging their aspects together they've created a new god made of their parts.

And on one hand, you can read some of this as Eilistraee Masquerading as her brother to try and get his church to work with hers, but on an authorial level? I don't know if that was the intent. For one, I don't actually think Eilistraee is good at being manipulative, she's too well intentioned. She'd have fallen apart under the weight of that lie.

Granted, I do think with both of them being in there Eilistraee is more "in control." Vhaeraun is absolutely ""Dead"" in at least some ways. The piece he puts down representing himself is destroyed in the Sava game, Eilistraee ends up with his mask, and Lolth is able to show off his corpse in the astral plane.

But even all of that aside, I'm tapping in both Ed Greenwood's thoughts for this and something from Faiths & Avatars.

(I'm going to copy this summary from the FR wiki page on dead powers because, as always, it's quite good at summarization. But as always, I've double checked Faiths & Avatars to be sure)

Sometimes, the memory and personality of a deity was separated from their power and true form at the moment of their death, typically by the interaction of the magical turbulence of their death with the magic of a powerful relic or artifact into the same area. In such cases, the deity remained awake but imprisoned, in a sense, though vastly uncomfortable with their much-reduced state.

As such, I think during The Masked Lady era, three things were true simultaneously.

There was a part of Vhaeraun that was dead. That's the part of him on the astral plane. And even that part of him seemed to hold mild consciousness. But I also think a part of him was trapped by Mystra in a dream, and another part of him existed simultaneously within his sister creating a new entity as The Masked Lady, in the same way that Eilistraee seemed to both exist as herself AND The Masked Lady separate from herself as she's playing the Sava game. Because these are gods. Their existence does not exist in singularity.

But. Why does this matter to Vhaeraun and Eilistraee's relationship. Why do I think this is an important talking point for them.

Because I think the fact that they exist together implies a level of respect and understanding towards one another. This is not how this would have happened if they truly hated one another. What happened with Vhaeraun and Eilistraee seems closer to what happened with Zandilar the Dancer and Bast (Absorbed and became Sharess) or (Sehanine Moonbow, Aerdrie Faenya, and Hanali Celanil) > (Came together to become Angharradh and notedly, can separate to spent time apart as times have changed.)

This feels like. Notedly different, compared to what happened with (for example) Ulutiu and Auril, where he got entirely subsumed by her.

For a moment, they were one god. And they could have only synergized as one if they understood eachothers intentions well enough to agree to be one.

==

It's worth noting before I get into this section. Both the idea that Vhaeraun didn't actually die and was put in ⋆ ˚｡⋆⊹❇Mystra's Dream Prison <3 ❇⊹⋆ ˚｡⋆ and that upon returning to life he started working with Eilistraee are not actually ""canon"" to 5e. They are, like many things, Ed Green-ism's that a lot of people (myself included, because I do actually think he's an incredibly creative person with good character building ideas) take as canon. Despite taking it as canon, I think it's worth mentioning that there is no official source material to pull from for these ideas, because unlike the masked lady, these two ideas exist as concepts to be built off of rather than media to be examined.

We can only logic and reason what happened between them and how it's changed their relationship using everything else we have.

Posted from the FR wiki:

"The Grand History of the Realms explicitly says that Vhaeraun's assassination attempt failed and Eilistraee killed him. However, Ed Greenwood suggests that Eilistraee didn't actually kill her brother. The Dark Maiden defeated Vhaeraun with the indirect help of her ally Mystra, as the Weave frustrated the Masked Lord's magic while enhancing Eilistraee's. The goddess temporarily took her brother's portfolio, and trapped his sentience in the Weave, where it was enfolded in a dream by Mystra. The Lady of Mysteries did this to ensure that the two drow siblings would survive the cataclysm that she knew was coming—the Spellplague—in which she would be "killed" to renew the Weave and magic would go wild. After Mystra and the Weave were completely restored in 1487 DR, the goddess of magic could finally give Eilistraee her own lost power and do the same with Vhaeraun, after having awakened him from his dream."

It was one of Ed Greenwood's ideas to have the two deities reach a reciprocal understanding, and to make the personal enmity between them was no more. More to read here

So here's my take on this situation.

I think a lot of people like to paint the "Mystra and Eilistraee put Vhaeraun in Dream Prison" Situation in a very limited light. In the same way Eilistraee tends to get romanticized as a wholly good and Vhaeraun demonized as a firm evil, it tends to get boiled down to the idea that Mystra and Eilistraee managed to convince him to be "Less Evil."

But, I don't know. To accept the Mystra/Eilistraee tag team as something wholly good, you have to also accept the sentiment of Vhaeraun as someone who is evil and needed "fixed," and I don't think that's ever been the case. As I think my multitude of arguments have implied, I have never been under the impression he's an actual evil.

As such, it's always felt little bitter-sweet to me. I think it's more impactful if they just managed to rub off on eachother due to their time spent together as one. I think it was especially a turning point for Eilistraee, given how many changes came to the structure of her church as a result of that merger. She understands why he uses the tactics he does, she understands that what he's doing is coming from a place of (what I would argue) is sincere love for the drow as a whole, and I think she got a little bit more of a nuanced understanding of the uhh Sexism. I also like to think she understood his experiences more, and that his love doesn't come through the same lens as hers.

Likewise, I think Vhaeraun came out of that understanding that he was stretching himself thin. I think that he learned that he NEEDS to be able to rely on others, he NEEDS to start trusting the outside world more. While he's more accepting of drow as they are now, I think his goal has always been to put them back in power to the extent that they were when he had worship from the Ilythiiri. But, thats not the world they live in anymore. Even if he did pull all the drow from the underdark, they could not and would not manage to be that. I think he comes out of The Masked Lady era understanding that to get the drow away from his mother and to coexist is stability in itself. They don't need to rule to be powerful, they just need to coexist.

You know. It's choosing to forgive. We can't change what we were, but we can start this relationship over and grow something new from it. And sometimes, that might be enough.

....

And ALSO I think they had to start getting along, because it really didn't take their churches THAT long to start meshing together when they fused as the masked lady.

At the word “died,” the priestess glanced down at the male. The cleric didn’t look good; his eyes had fully rolled back in his head and his skin was turning gray. Halisstra reached out and lifted the priestess’s chin, forcing her to look away. “It’s only a weak venom,” she lied. “You have plenty of time to heal him. Plenty of time, still.” “Yes,” the priestess repeated softly. “Plenty of time.” Her eyes reminded Halisstra of another priestess who’d succumbed to Halisstra’s bae’qeshel magic, years ago. Seyll had stared just as trustingly into Halisstra’s eyes a heartbeat before Halisstra plunged a sword into her. And yet Seyll had told Halisstra, as she lay dying, that no one was beyond redemption—not even Halisstra. She’d been wrong. This priestess had a wide mouth and creases at the sides of her eyes that could only have come from frequent laughter. The frown of confusion looked out of place on her forehead. The slight bulge of her stomach hinted she might be carrying a child. Halisstra hated her.

Come on guys, The Masked Lady hadn't even existed for half a decade and there was already pregnancies. We don't know what their churches are like 100+ years out. But, for as much as Ed emphasizes the infighting of the churches (And I have no doubt in my heart there ARE factions who refuse to mesh, that's canon to the text) we are inevitably met with 1-2 generations where the combined churches are all that they knew. Vhaeraun and Eilistraee had to work together, because I think as much as they're their own people with thoughts and opinions and experiences, they are also a reflection of their worshipers.

==

I think, to summarize what I think Vhaeraun and Eilistraee's relationship is like in a few paragraphs

With the way their relationships are described, I think Eilistraee was the golden child and Vhaeraun was the scrapegoat in the earlier parts of their childhood. They become reflections of the parent that favors them, because those were the parents that acted as their main influence. Eilistraee saw Vhaeraun as a reflection of her mothers evil, and Vhaeraun saw Eilistraee as undeserving of the favoritism their father gave her.

This view of eachother was cemented when she followed him to Toril. She saw him and his power as an evil and bloodstain, unhelped when he exiled her (probably out of spite and due to the grudge he had as a result of the earlier years). As such, she worked to undermine the influence he had. And when that allowed their mother and Ghaunadaur to take hold, it was the same kind of evil to her.

Her enabling them to take that power worsened the grudge Vhaeraun had of her, because he knows he isn't the same kind of evil as Lolth or Ghaunadaur, and them having that power worsened things for everyone.

This grudge between them kept itself in the legacy of their churches, all the way until The Masked Lady Era. The Masked Lady era was one where they actually managed to come together for a similar goal. It was the first time they were truly about to understand eachothers motivations, experiences, and perspectives, and the first time that divide between them and their communities truly lessened.

And when they finally came out...? I mean. That's going to change anyone. I think not only their relationship changed, but they sort of managed to change eachother a little.

I don't know. I think their relationship is complicated and messy and such a product of their parents influence on them. There is no forgiving Lolth, and there really shouldn't be forgiving Corellon (though, dnd might disagree with me on that.) But I think theirs one that could eventually heal. Out of all of the relationships in the Dark Seladrine, theirs feels the closest to being one that can be refounded on equal ground and with respect towards one another, especially as drow return to the surface and find more acceptance (even outside of their communities.) Because they are to me, two sides of the same coin.

[neallo]

going to try a new writing technique / strategy tonight i think. being very mysterious here but i will report how it goes <3

[crystalkitty1220]

Man I wonder where the leader of the fear realm could've gone, it's alMOST LIKE NEVIN HAS AN

[theflyingfeeling]

fanfic rambling in the tags, nothing interesting really, just me talking to myself lol, okay to ignore or read as you please ✨

[marvelstoriesepic]

In too deep

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡

Part Two

Masterlist

You are bleeding.

The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.

The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.

Your breath is shallow.

The bleeding won’t stop.

With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.

You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.

A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.

Bucky is still in his bedroom.

Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.

That’s how it’s always been.

He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.

He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.

But you still keep running. Every time.

The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.

You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.

You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.

But fuck, it hurts.

You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.

You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.

The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.

Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.

And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.

Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.

You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.

You press your hands to the cool porcelain.

One more breath.

Then another.

Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.

Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.

It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.

Bucky is always nice.

You were friends first, after all.

Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.

Things had been easy, light, and simple.

You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.

Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.

It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.

You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.

You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.

Because there was no stopping from then on.

You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.

But you keep coming back when he calls.

He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.

But today was different.

He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.

He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.

His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.

There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.

His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.

He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.

He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.

He fucked you like it’s you he craved.

He fucked you like it was making him blind.

It did.

Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.

He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.

Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.

But it wasn’t today.

Because the pain only grew.

The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.

You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.

Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.

You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.

You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.

It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.

You know you should have said something.

You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.

But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.

So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.

And you let him.

Because you didn’t want to ruin this.

Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?

So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.

You still don’t stop bleeding.

It’s not your period.

You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.

But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.

But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.

There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.

So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.

And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.

God, you hate this.

Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.

But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.

You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.

You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.

A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.

“Hey, you alright in there?”

Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.

“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.

You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.

Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.

But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.

Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”

Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”

There is a beat of silence.

The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.

“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”

It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.

“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”

It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.

And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.

His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.

“Are you hurt?”

Your breath stays caught in your throat.

“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.

“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”

You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.

You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.

“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”

The door handle rattles.

“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”

You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.

“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.

The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”

You don’t move. Your knees are weak.

“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.

You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.

But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”

You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.

“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”

The door handle tugs again.

“I need to see you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.

“Bucky-”

“Please.”

That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.

“Buck, I need a second, okay?”

You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.

Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.

“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.

You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.

The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.

You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.

Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.

You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.

On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.

His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”

“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.

Bucky’s breath shudders out.

You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.

Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.

“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”

Your legs give out.

It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.

The impact rattles the whole thing.

A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.

“Alright, I'm coming in.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.

The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.

Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.

His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.

“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.

Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.

“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.

But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.

He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.

His eyes are on you.

And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.

His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.

He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.

The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.

You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.

Bucky’s jaw is tight.

You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.

Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.

“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.

His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.

Then he stills.

His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.

His gaze drops.

The storm behind his eyes turns feral.

You know what he is seeing.

You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.

The blood.

A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.

For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.

You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.

But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.

Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.

“Bucky-”

“Hush.”

It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.

“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”

You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”

“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”

His grip on you is firm, but not rough.

His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.

Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.

His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.

He is shaking.

A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.

It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.

You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.

Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.

“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.

His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?

But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.

Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.

He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.

With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.

You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.

And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.

You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.

You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.

But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.

None of it seems to matter.

Only you.

He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.

Then he takes off.

You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.

And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.

But the thing is, he is already making this worse.

Not in the way he thinks.

Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.

Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.

He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.

And this hurts so much more.

It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.

But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.

He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.

His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.

His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.

His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.

Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.

Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.

His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.

It feels like he is bleeding grief.

And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.

Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.

But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.

This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.

And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.

His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.

And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.

He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.

His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.

“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”

You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.

Bucky waits.

And again, that makes it worse.

Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.

He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.

You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.

His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”

You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”

Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.

A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.

His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.

He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.

He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.

“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”

You can’t look at him.

You want to. But you can’t.

Because he is too much.

Because he is everything.

Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.

There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.

Bucky moves instantly.

He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.

His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.

“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.

His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

His thumb catches a tear.

His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.

“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.

His forehead almost touches yours.

“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin’-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.

He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.

“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”

You choke on your next breath.

Your mind blanks.

He shakes his head, like he hates himself.

“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”

You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.

Words are lost on you.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.

His voice lowers. Softens.

“But I can’t do this anymore.”

His fingers tighten.

“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”

His voice splinters.

You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.

Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.

“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.

Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide.

He looks broken.

His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.

You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.

Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.

“You thought I wanted you to leave?”

The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.

“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.

“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”

His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.

“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”

You feel everything crack open inside you.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.

“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.

Bucky’s face contorts in pain.

“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”

Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You had it all wrong.

And so did he.

You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.

You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.

“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.

With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.

His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.

You shake your head, but he won’t have it.

“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”

His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.

“You’re stayin’ right here.”

You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.

And Bucky melts.

Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.

He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.

His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.

“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.

Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.

You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.

Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.

His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.

“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.

Bucky gives you a warning look.

“It only hurts a little.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.

“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”

His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.

He is looking at you like you are everything.

“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”

“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”

You sigh.

“Bucky-”

“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”

Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.

Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”

He doesn’t even let you finish.

He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.

And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.

His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.

You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.

But you try to.

Because you want to.

“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”

- J.S. Park

Part Two

[hedgehog-moss]

I need to confess something—my last post presented a deceptively idyllic vision of my hike in the snow. I only posted photos from the tranquil walk home at dusk and neglected to mention that I (once again) got lost in a featureless expanse of snow and briefly became convinced I would never find the road again and would have to dig a little den like an Arctic fox to spend the night.

You see, there's this place where Pandolf really loves to go for a walk on snowy days—it's on top of this plateau here:

^ see the fence in the middle, that curves to the left? Nothing bad can happen as long as you follow it. There are lots of landmarks in this direction, like trees, more fences, and a couple of houses.

In the other direction, however, lies The Nothing.

Here's a photo of Pandolf (eagerly) standing near the edge of The Nothing:

Characteristics of The Nothing: it is vast, and white, and becomes more and more featureless the farther you go into it—

—and Pandolf really, really loves it.

Even when he falls into a surprise hole where the snow is suddenly three times as deep (another characteristic of The Nothing), he'll just push himself out in one great powerful jump and keep frolicking.

Or he'll remain in the spot where the snow is deeper and try his best to bury his entire self into it.

He sometimes gets crazy eyes in The Nothing.

We always start this walk with such good resolutions.

We're definitely staying close to the fence this time! With all the lovely landmarks on the left!

And then, inevitably,

Further notes from my studies: • The Nothing has some small plants and rocks, but using them as landmarks is foolish, as they will eventually disappear. • No matter how many foot-, paw-, and dog-headprints you leave and how deep they are, they will disappear before you are able to retrace your steps, probably because The Nothing is always so windy.

Pandolf thinks this is a great characteristic of The Nothing, as it means he never runs out of immaculate snow to dive into.

The wind and the resulting snow mist are the really treacherous things about this place. These photos were taken in roughly the same spot, a couple of hours apart. In the first one, the fence on the left is clearly visible; in the second one, it has started to melt into The Nothing.

There's always a moment when I end up standing in the middle of, well, nothing, with indistinguishable whiteness in every direction, under my feet, above my head, left, right, and I start thinking about writing poignant farewell messages in my Notes app for my family to find at some point in the future.

One last interesting thing about The Nothing is the way Pandolf reacts when I finally find my bearings again and start walking faster, determined to get back to the safety of the road before it gets dark.

Pandolf then just

It's very different than the playful, energetic way in which he normally buries his head in the snow. This second type of burying is clearly a form of protest—if I continue walking away Pan will reluctantly follow me for 20 or so metres, then flatten himself to the ground again, in the same despondent way.

Hypothesis #1: He is trying to play dead like a possum, hoping I will go "well, I can't lug a dead dog all the way home, I'd better leave him here." And then he'll stay with The Nothing forever.

Hypothesis #2: He is trying to lay as flat as possible so as to become all but invisible against the snow. It's unclear if he knows he is the wrong colour for this.

Hypothesis #3: He is trying to commune with The Nothing, burying words of devotion and friendship deep into the snow and promising to return soon.

Conclusion: I'm sorry, I know that's a very long post, but seeing as each of these photos depicts perfect felicity on Earth, I find it hard to delete any. I also like how I intended this post to be about my long disoriented trek through the snow, wondering if I was going to find the fence or the road again before dark—and then I got distracted by how happy Pandolf was. Which is exactly how I end up getting lost in The Nothing every single time!!

[ilovolderman]

Friday Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You end up sitting next to Bucky in a casual team dinner.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, flirting, light language, water war (because who can resist a splash battle?)

A/N: this is part 4 of "You Said What?", just some fluff in a universe where you and Bucky secretly date. It can be read on its own and doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3. im loving writing about these two so thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It’s one of those rare nights at the compound, no missions, no briefings, no surprise alien invasions. Just a Friday. Just dinner. And, somehow, Steve decided it’d be nice if the whole team ate together like one big weird family.

The long table is already half full when you show up a few minutes late, sliding into the only empty seat left, next to Bucky, obviously by coincidence. Totally random. Totally not planned. Totally a miracle.

“Hey,” you murmur, your knee bumping his under the table. You don’t move it.

“Hey,” he says back, low and warm, like it’s just for you. His knee nudges yours in return, the tiniest pressure that somehow makes your chest feel full.

Dinner is loud. Sam’s in the middle of a dramatic story involving a rooftop and a rogue pizza slice, gesturing so wildly he nearly knocks over his drink twice. Wanda is laughing so hard she’s wheezing. Clint and Natasha are arguing about spice levels in the curry. Tony ordered five different desserts “just in case,” and even Vision looks mildly amused.

It’s chaotic. It’s weirdly cozy. And it’s perfect.

Meanwhile, Bucky quietly slides the breadbasket your way before you even ask. Passes you a napkin when you drop yours. Leans over and murmurs a dumb joke under his breath just to make you laugh. And when you both reach for the same dish, your fingers brush—and linger. Neither of you moves.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all night.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, biting your lip.

“Like what?” he asks, faking innocence.

“Like you’re thinking about kissing me at a table full of Avengers.”

He leans in, voice low. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your breath catches. You blink, trying not to let it show. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t kick you under this table.”

“I’d still kiss you.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirks. “Yeah. But I’m your problem.”

You’re in the middle of pretending to care about Steve and Nat’s back-and-forth on training strategies when your phone buzzes in your lap.

[bucky]: come to the kitchen. 5 mins. say you forgot the hot sauce.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning. He sees it and smiles with just one side of his mouth.

A few minutes later, you slide your chair back, muttering something about needing Sriracha. No one blinks. They're all too busy arguing over which dessert to try first.

You slip into the kitchen.

And there he is. Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes already on you. Like he wasn’t just sitting beside you five minutes ago.

“I’m starting to think I’m more addicted to seeing you than caffeine,” he says, that soft smile tugging at his lips.

You walk right into his arms. He smells like clean laundry and something you can’t place—something that’s just him.

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“Tell that to Sam,” he mutters. “He said I’ve been grumpy all week. I was just missing this.”

His fingers brush your cheek, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw. You lean up and kiss him—quick, soft, sweet. The kind of kiss that says I wish we had more time.

And then you steal another.

And another.

He groans, resting his forehead against yours. “Okay. One more, and then I’m walking back in there like nothing happened.”

You smirk. “You have lipstick on your mouth.”

“Dammit.”

When you both return, the table’s still buzzing, still full of warmth and noise and people who feel like home. Bucky catches your eye as you pass him the dessert like it’s nothing.

But you know. And he knows. And your heart is doing somersaults when Bucky leans in again.

“You’ve got whipped cream on your lip.”

You freeze. Glance at him, wary. “Do I?”

He nods solemnly and you wipe your mouth with a napkin. “Better?”

He tilts his head, eyes sparkling. “Not really. Might need to check later.”

You kick him under the table.

Dinner winds down slowly, plates are half-empty, dessert is more whipped cream than anything else, and everyone’s full in that way that makes you too lazy to move.

Tony’s talking about building a pizza oven on the roof. Clint is inexplicably napping in his chair. Wanda’s stealing bites off Sam’s plate while pretending not to. And you?

Your face hurts from smiling, your stomach’s full, but you still offer to clean up.

“I’ll do the dishes,” you say, already sliding your chair back.

A second later, Bucky glances your way. “I’ll help.”

“Seriously?” Sam teases. “Since when do you volunteer?”

“Since now,” Bucky says coolly, already following you into the kitchen.

You roll your eyes, but your heart is racing.

The kitchen is quieter than the dining room, where the others are still laughing, picking at desserts, arguing over who cheated in charades last week. In here, it’s just you, the soft clink of dishes, and Bucky—close behind you.

You roll up your sleeves and start running the water, pretending your hands aren’t slightly shaking. “You don’t actually have to help, you know.”

“I know,” he says, leaning a hip against the counter beside you. “But I want to.”

You glance at him sidelong. “You hate doing dishes.”

He shrugs. “I’ve done worse.”

You snort, handing him a dish towel. The two of you fall into a rhythm quiet, easy. You wash, he dries. Occasionally your arms brush, and each time it’s like a tiny electric pulse zips up your spine. You tell yourself not to overthink it. You fail.

“You were quiet at dinner,” you say, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn bit of lasagna like it personally offended you. “Well. Except for all the flirting.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is low. “I like watching everyone like that. Laughing. Being...normal.” He pauses. “I like watching you.”

You freeze, dish half-submerged in sudsy water. Slowly, you turn to look at him. “That supposed to be smooth?”

He grins, shameless. “Did it work?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because he’s looking at you again—that way he does, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and worse, that he means every bit of it. Your heart is somewhere in your throat.

“Bucky,” you say, unsure what comes next.

But then he sets the dish towel down. Steps a little closer. And when you don’t move he reaches up and brushes a wet strand of hair from your cheek.

“You gonna kick me under the sink,” he murmurs, “or are you finally gonna let me kiss you?”

Your breath catches. “There are at least three Avengers in earshot.”

“Then I’ll be quick.”

And he is. But somehow it still feels slow, like the whole world holds its breath for you, just for this. It’s not desperate. It’s not showy. It’s just real. When he pulls back, you blink up at him, dazed. “You call that quick?”

He grins, a little smug. “Told you I’ve done worse.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “You missed a spot,” you say, tossing him a still-dripping plate.

He catches it one-handed, totally unfazed. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You bump your hip into his, reaching for a fresh towel. “I tolerate it.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “You know, I kinda like this.”

“The dishes?”

“No. This.” He gestures between you. “You. Me. Elbow-deep in soap. Feels… nice.”

You reach over and flick a bubble at him.

He blinks, deadpan. “Did you just—”

You do it again, giggling. He retaliates by flicking water at your face. You shriek. He laughs.

“What, you can handle HYDRA but not a splash of water?” he teases.

You grab the sprayer.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I dare.”

There’s a short-lived, extremely wet battle that ends with Bucky shielding himself with a dish towel and you both breathless from laughter, leaning against the counter like you’ve run a marathon.

“I think we’re officially banned from post-dinner cleanup now,” you say, still giggling.

“Worth it.”

There’s a pause. He looks at you, hair a little damp, cheeks pink from laughing. And then he leans in again, just because he can. Just because you’re both still smiling.

When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Think we can sneak off to dry off somewhere quieter?”

You grin. “Only if you promise not to start a water war in the hallway.”

“No promises.” But you link your pinky with his anyway.

And that’s when it happens. A very deliberate throat-clear from the doorway. You both freeze like guilty teenagers. Natasha’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one brow raised like she’s watching a soap opera. “You two done playing splashy-splash, or should I get you floaties?”

Bucky groans softly, his head thudding against the cabinet door behind him. You try to hide behind the dish towel. It doesn’t work.

Natasha steps further into the room, clearly savoring this. “Didn’t know dishwashing came with a swim option.”

“We were just—” you start.

“—cleaning,” Bucky finishes, not even trying to sound convincing.

“Mhm,” Natasha hums, giving you both the kind of look that could peel paint. “You know, for two people trying so hard to look casual, you’re not very good at it.”

Before you can respond, there’s a loud clink from the doorway. Steve steps in, completely unbothered. Holding a slice of pie on a plate like it’s the most important thing in the world.

 “Is everything okay here?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she shoots you one last look, a knowing glint in her eye. “Alright, alright. Carry on with your... dishes.” She turns, heading toward the door, but not before adding with a teasing smile, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Steve watches her leave, clearly lost in his pie-induced bliss. “What’s her deal?”

You and Bucky exchange an amused look before Bucky mutters, “You really don’t want to know.”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, probably not.”

And just like that, the moment passes. Natasha's suspicion lingers in the air for only a second longer before Steve’s back to his pie, you’re back to drying dishes, and Bucky’s smile is a little too smug for anyone’s good.

next part

[mrsholmesreid]

EVERY FIRST, YOURS | spencer reid x reader

summary: you and spencer reid have been going out for a few weeks. he's taking things very slow, and you find his pace comforting and his awkwardness endearing. as your relationship grows more heated, you come to find that he was completely inexperienced before meeting you. you feel honored to be his first, to be the one he learns love from.

pairing: spencer reid x reader (no pronouns but reader has female anatomy)

word count: 9,05k

content warnings: fluff x smut, virgin!spencer, oral sex (reader receiving), unprotected penetrative sex, aftercare.

author's note: i tried to portray spencer's inexperience in a way that's more realistic—despite him reading a lot and knowing everything about most things—and that followed his character's personality but that was still enjoyable to read. i hope you love reading this as much as i loved writing it! let me know what you think :)

You and Spencer had been going out for a few weeks. After reaching for the same book at a bookstore, the two of you started talking—and it didn’t take very long before you planned a date. He chose a nice restaurant, picked you up, brought you flowers, and did every other gentleman attitude in the book. By the end of it, you were sure he was going to make a move—kiss you, touch you, maybe even try to get you to go home with him—but he did none of that. As he dropped you off at your place at a reasonable hour, he gave you a gentle, respectful hug, and thanked you for an amazing time with the promise of calling you back again soon. And unlike most other guys, he kept it.

You thought he was the sweetest guy you’d ever met.

It was only by your third date that he tried to kiss you. The routine remained—picking you up, taking you to a nice place (this time it had been a museum, where he risked to hold your hand—and you let him), and then, finally, driving you home.

When you reached your doorstep, it was a little later than usual because both of you wanted to stay for a short lecture they were having at the museum. His eyes glimmered under the dim lighting of your porch, and in a quiet moment that followed after a string of warm laughter about the night’s events, he asked if he could kiss you.

You’d never had anyone ask you that before. Guys would usually just take the hint and lean in all at once. But for some reason, the care in his eyes, the way he rubbed his hands ever so slightly against his slacks—as if trying to dry off a thin layer of nervous sweat without you noticing—endeared you deeply. Your heart warmed at the way his eyes stared at you. His pupils wide, taking you in and eagerly waiting for an answer.

“Please?”

The word sounded more like a whimper coming from his lips. You were so deep in your thoughts about how adorable he looked when asking you that question, that you forgot to actually agree to it. You didn’t just want to kiss him. You wanted to scream, jump in his arms, kiss him all over, invite him inside, and give yourself completely to this charming man. But you didn’t.

It was clear by how nervous he seemed that he had planned every second of every date he had taken you on—including this very moment—and you wanted to let him do it. You wanted to play along, to let him win the little game he had in his mind. You knew he had probably rehearsed that line a thousand times before actually saying it to you. “May I kiss you?” You could almost picture him saying it to the mirror. So, you allowed him to set the pace.

“Yes,” you smiled softly, taking a small step closer.

The kiss that followed wasn’t exactly what you were expecting, but in a way, it couldn’t have been better. His breath hitched, and you could see the exact moment his brain short-circuited after hearing your breathy one-worded answer. He took another step in your direction, closing the distance between you but not quite letting your bodies touch just yet. He took a deep breath, and very slowly, pressed a brush of a kiss against your lips.

It barely lasted more than three seconds, but to you, it was an eternity. You never thought such a chaste peck could make that many fireworks go off inside your head. 

You didn’t know it then, but the fireworks in his head were much brighter than yours; for that had been his first kiss ever.

After that, he simply pulled back with the biggest, silliest smile you’d ever seen. He looked like a child that had just been given a puppy. Or even the puppy itself.

His flushed cheeks said everything he couldn’t, and after exchanging goodnights, he went back to his car, leaving you just as flustered and happy as him.

What had he done to you? You felt like a teenager in love for the first time. But whatever it was, you couldn’t help but crave more of it.

For the next couple of dates, he followed that same script—but now, with a goodnight kiss at the end of it. You kept letting him set the pace, enjoying how adorable he looked whenever the time to kiss you came. Even his behavior in the moments leading up to it would change. He’d get more talkative on the drive back to your place, and you could swear you even saw him unconsciously skipping after closing the car door for you before taking you home one time. You loved his silly smiles, and they brought up a bunch of your own.

But as the dates kept going, his kisses evolved.

The first time he changed it, was after he had taken you to an amusement park. You were both exhilarated after the adrenalin-fueled evening when you reached your doorstep, and as if on instinct, he pulled you in with his hands cradling your face as he kissed you for a lot longer than three seconds. 

He hadn’t done that yet, and he seemed just as surprised as you by his own, unexpected action. The way his fingers naturally threaded through your hair to bring you closer, how his lips pressed more purposefully against yours—your heart nearly stopped.

He pulled back slowly, his hands slipping shyly from your cheeks, and he looked like the floor could swallow him whole with embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry…” He stammered, but you could tell that, deep down, he really wasn’t.

“Don’t apologize,” you smiled and couldn’t help yourself, tentatively stealing another peck. You didn’t even try to hide how much you’d loved the fact that he had lost himself in the kiss.

His blush deepened at your stolen peck, but you didn’t press him further than that.

“So… we’re okay?” He asked timidly. 

“Yeah… we’re okay,” you replied, your grin widening.

After that night, his kisses only grew deeper.

On the following date, he allowed his lips to move ever so slightly against yours, making your entire body shiver.

By the next one, he flicked his tongue over your lower lip, hesitantly begging for entry—which you granted him in a heartbeat.

His movements were shy and almost experimental at first, but not long after, the routine chaste goodnight kisses were replaced by his hands on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as your tongues danced together. You didn’t realize it then, but you were teaching him how to kiss.

You were starting to wonder when he’d want more. Your make out sessions were becoming more heated with each date; to the point that, one night, he even pressed you lightly against the wall. The desire between you was growing undeniably evident—both figuratively and literally.

You’d been waiting for the night when he’d ask to come inside—find an excuse to actually cross the front door limit you’d been teetering over, go into your house, and take things further. But he didn’t.

You were patient, though. You could tell he was very careful with everything you did together, and not only did you respect that, but you were thankful for it. You thought you might actually benefit from having someone be a little more controlled than you in a relationship for once. Ever so used to guys jumping to conclusions and skipping important steps, Spencer’s pace was a comforting change of scenery.

But then it finally came.

You were leaving the restaurant, his hand hovering over your lower back as he guided you back to his car like he always did. Everything was going exactly the same, following the usual script perfectly. The next steps were clear: he’d drive you home, you’d make out by your doorstep, then he’d say goodnight and leave you a blushing, butterfly-filled mess.

Until things took a different turn.

“You know,” he broke the comfortable silence, sliding his hand against yours and interlocking your fingers as you walked. You could feel how warm his hand was, and the slight dampness on it indicated he was a little nervous. “I finished setting up that new shelf I was telling you about,” he mentioned, seemingly casually. 

“Oh, did you? You actually figured out where all the nails went?” You teased him lightly.

He let out a soft chuckle, “Yeah, I did. And now I’ve finally organized my books. This time I arranged them by author and theme,” he added, his tone proud.

“It must look beautiful,” you said in all honesty, not realizing the actual weight of your words until he let out:

“Do you wanna see it?” His voice trembled slightly and you could see right through him. That wasn’t an innocent invitation.

Your heart skipped a beat. He wanted you to see it? Like, actually see it, in person, alone with him in his apartment?

You raised your eyebrows, your face a mix of shock and ecstasy. The time had finally come.

“Y-you mean…?” You stuttered, not wanting to jump to conclusions despite the sheer obviousness in his gaze.

“We could go to my place—I mean, stop at my place, before I drop you home,” his nerves were evident by the way he stumbled over his words, trying to play it cool. “Would you like that?” He asked, sounding eager for your answer.

Of course you’d like that. You’d been waiting for that moment for weeks. But still, given how slow he’d been taking things, you needed to make sure that was what he wanted.

“Yes, yes I would, but… Are you sure?” You asked as the two of you stopped by his car, his hand pausing on the passenger’s seat door handle.

His gaze met yours, deep and meaningful. “I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t sure.”

“Okay,” you nodded, the air between you thick with tension and understanding. “I’d love to see your new shelf, Spence.”

He smiled, a soft and genuine curve of his lips, as he opened the car door for you.

The drive to his apartment was quieter than your usual drives. It was like the both of you felt the weight of what was about to happen.

As he pulled over and guided you up to his place, you could tell he was nervous by how he constantly asked if you were feeling uncomfortable, cold, or tired. He was adorable like that, the true concern for your well-being evident in his actions.

“Make yourself at home,” he said as the two of you stepped inside. His apartment wasn’t too big, the perfect balance between having enough room and being cozy. It was warm and welcoming, the faint smell of books and coffee filling your nostrils.

“Thank you,” you replied. You watched as he carefully slipped off his shoes, so you did the same. “You have a really nice place, it’s very… you.”

“Thanks… Everybody says that,” he blushed. “Here, let me take this,” his hands gently slid over your coat, helping you remove it and hung it by the door. You gave him a soft smile, the thick atmosphere slowly fading into something more comfortable. You loved this about him, how he always felt safe, like home.

“So where’s this famous shelf?” You teased, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

“Follow me,” he said, offering you his hand—which you took without hesitation.

Spencer gently guided you further inside the apartment, showing you to the living room. The warm lighting casted soft shadows on the walls, giving the apartment a homey feel. There was a shelf filled to the brim on one side, but you could tell those weren’t all of his books, though. There were a few piled up next to the couch, which was large and comfy with pillows scattered all over it, and some more on the coffee table.

“Is this it?” You asked, pointing at the shelf as you stepped closer to it.

“The one and only,” he grinned, standing next to you with his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“You did a really good job putting this up, it seems very… sturdy,” you said, running your hands gently on the shelf, as if studying it closely.

He smiled proudly. “Yeah, it took me a while. Hey, look through whatever you want, okay? I’m just gonna go grab a glass of water, do you want some?” He offered. As you turned to face him directly, you noticed his flushed cheeks and awkward demeanor. He was clearly nervous about having you here, like he was afraid of disappointing you, desperate to impress you.

You gave him a soft, reassuring smile, before politely declining, “I’m good, thanks. I’ll be right here checking out your beautiful collection,” you said, watching him leave while wiping his hands on his slacks like he always did when he was nervous.

You let out a soft chuckle, biting your lip as you thought about how lucky you were to be the one causing those adorable reactions on that man. Ever the methodic genius, Spencer kept surprising you every time you met by how comfortable he was growing around you. Still, watching him get flustered over the smallest details warmed your heart and filled your stomach with butterflies.

Running your fingers carefully over the spines of his books, you studied the titles but could barely register any of them. Your heart stammered against your chest, the idea of being there with him, alone in his apartment, was both exhilarating and terrifying. Despite the nerves, you didn't feel too bad, because you knew he was just as nervous as you. You could almost picture him pacing the kitchen, taking deep breaths and trying to calm his racing mind. And that mere thought had you smiling like a teenager in love.

You liked Spencer—you really liked him. And you didn’t want to mess any of it up. It had been long since you’d last felt anything remotely similar to what you felt for Spencer. Despite the two of you having not yet discussed the details of your relationship, you already considered him your boyfriend, and you desperately wanted to keep him around long enough to find out if he considered himself your boyfriend as well. And tonight was going to be a big step for the both of you.

Suddenly, you felt his hands sliding across your arms, gently encircling you with his own. Your entire body shivered, your skin feeling like it was on fire.

“You’re back,” you muttered, your voice strained with the surge of desire that coursed through you.

“Mhm. Did you miss me?” He hummed and whispered against the shell of your ear, pulling you back against his chest, your soft curves fitting perfectly against him. It was an unexpected move, but not at all unwelcome. His arms trembled slightly over you, as if he was terrified of your reactions, as if his heart was doing cartwheels in his chest—just like yours.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you joked, resting back against him with a smile playing on your lips. His closeness was both intoxicating and calming, and it took every bit of your strength to keep yourself in check. “But I did. Just a little bit, though,” you whispered.

“Just a little bit, huh?” He teased softly, his breath warm against your neck, making a shiver run down your spine with each of his words. “Well, good to know, because I missed you too.” He admitted sweetly, the words going straight to your core. Even though you were both only joking, only teasing each other for fun, the idea of him thinking about you made your skin tingle.

“Just a little bit?” You asked quietly, continuing the back and forth banter as your fingers intertwined with his.

“Mhm, no, I missed you a whole lot,” he muttered, his lips pressing a trail of soft kisses on your shoulder, going all the way up to your neck. Those words alone almost had you undone. You could feel his cheeks burning as he pressed them against your skin, the mere shift in temperature enough to make you wish you could see the shade of pink coloring over them.

“You’re blushing, aren’t you?”

“No…” He lied, his cheeks feeling even warmer against you.

With a swift motion, you turned around to face him, a surge of confidence taking over you. You wanted him, and you knew he wanted you too. His arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “Liar!” You teased with a giggle, finding the redness on his cheeks absolutely endearing.

“Shut up,” he muttered, looking away with a shy smile as he pulled you closer.

“Look at me, pretty boy,” you tilted his chin with your finger so he was facing you. His eyes timidly met yours, his pupils dilating immediately at the sight. “You’re cute,” you teased, and his blush deepened.

“You’re beautiful,” he muttered, one of his hands sliding up from your waist to cup your cheek, his thumb lightly tracing patterns on your skin.

You tilted your head to the side, completely surrendered to the man before you; a soft, lovesick smile on your lips. When you noticed his eyes flickering down to your mouth, then back to your eyes, you already knew what was coming.

“M-may I kiss you?” He whispered. Even after everything, even after all the times you two made out passionately at your doorstep, he still made sure you gave permission. There was something about the tone in his voice when he asked that, the pleading shine in his eyes that betrayed the true desire in his chest. Everything about him charmed you.

“You really think I'd say no to that?” You smiled, leaning a little closer, your lips just a breath away from his.

He smiled shyly, as if he were unable to contain his own reactions. “Just checking in. I can barely believe you even let me have you like this,” he admitted, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Well, now you know,” you added. “I always want to kiss you.”

He pulled back slowly, his eyes widened with excitement meeting your gaze before he gently brought his lips to yours. The kiss was slow at first, tentative and hesitant. Like you both knew what it was forecasting.

His hands slowly cupped your face, as if he was holding the most precious thing in the world. As the kiss deepened, one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, threading through your hair to pull your mouth closer to his. Meanwhile, his free hand sneaked down your side, resting on your hip to bring you flush against him.

Your tongue slipped past his lips, tangling with his in a dance that grew hotter by the second. You could feel your heartbeat racing pressed against his chest, the rhythm mixing with his own. Your hands went from his neck to his lower back, dragging down his shirt until your fingers reached the hem, sneaking underneath the fabric to meet the warmth of his skin.

He let out a soft gasp into your mouth as your fingers trailed along the skin of his lower back, a shiver running down his spine. You smiled against his lips, enjoying how easily you could elicit reactions from him. Feeling your smile, Spencer tugged you even closer, kissing you even harder.

You turned to putty in his arms. The heat of the moment urged you on, making you slowly back him toward the couch until the back of his knees hit the soft material. Your hands went to his shoulders, gently guiding him down, your lips not leaving each other’s not even for a second. As he sat on the couch, you didn’t waste any time before climbing right on his lap.

His hands immediately met your waist, pulling your body closer until you were sitting directly on top of him. Desire shot up your body like electric shocks when you felt the evidence of his arousal nudging insistently against your clothed core. You pressed down gently, causing a spark of friction that nearly drew both of you insane.

Spencer groaned into your mouth, pulling back to rest his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. “We’ve never been this far,” he muttered, your breaths mingling in the small space between your faces.

“Do you want to stop?” You asked, trailing kisses on his jawline, all the way down to his neck. Your lips attached to the sensitive skin below his ear, unable to resist the need to suck and bite him softly.

“God, no,” he let out in a heartbeat, the earnestness in his voice enough to urge you further. You sucked a little harder on his neck, your tongue soothing the skin right after, making a soft moan escape his lips—the sound going straight to your core. “Damnit, that feels so good,” he muttered, making you smile against his skin.

You continued kissing down his neck to his collarbone, your mouth eager to find new spots that made him gasp. His hands slid down your hips to your backside, gently kneading the soft skin, the motion making you gasp and freeze on his neck for a second. You could feel your underwear grow damper, as well as his pants twitching underneath you.

“I-I’m sorry, should I have not? I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked first…” He muttered as you froze, his hands shaking as they hesitantly left your ass.

“No, no, that’s not it,” you quickly replied, guiding his hands back to where they were. “I liked it, I really did,” you smiled down at him, enjoying the sight of his slightly tousled hair and flushed skin. “You can touch wherever you want,”

“W-wherever I want?” He stammered, barely believing your words. His cheeks turned bright red. “A-are you sure?”

“Wherever you want, baby,” you whispered against his ear, drawing a satisfied sigh from him.

“E-even here?” He asked, the sound of you calling him ‘baby’ going straight to his groin as he gently spread your ass cheeks apart, kneading the flesh. Your head fell to his shoulder, your hips rolling against his as your body grew warmer with pleasure.

“Even there,” you gasped, your hands running down his chest reverently. 

“What about here?” He asked, his hands sneaking up to your ribcage, his thumbs tracing the underside of your breasts. 

“T-there too, baby,” you muttered as his palms slid further up until he was cupping your bosoms. His hands gently squeezed them, thumbs brushing against your hardened nipples over the thin fabric of your shirt and bra.

“I like that,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss your neck as he played with your breasts.

“What, touching me?” You asked, completely focused on the feel of his hands on you, his body pressed underneath yours, and his lips on your skin.

“Well, that too,” he said, squeezing your breasts a little tighter. “But I meant you calling me ‘baby’.”

“Mhm, did you now, baby?” You teased, whispering in his ear.

The soft sound that escaped his lips was almost like a whimper. “Y-yeah, yeah I like that.”

“Good,” you murmured, your tone sultry against the shell of his ear. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you further down on him. Slowly, you began grinding your hips on his, unable to ignore the hardness that pressed against you. You could notice the hitch in his breath as the friction between your bodies took over your minds.

“Is this okay?” You asked as you continued rolling your hips.

“I-It’s more than okay,” he stuttered, his eyes wide as he stared up at you, his grip tightening on your hips as he guided your deliberate movements.

You grinned, leaning in to kiss him again. He complied in a heartbeat, his lips parting to allow your tongue inside.

The heat between you grew exponentially. It was happening, it was really happening. You were grinding down, basically dry humping Spencer Reid as he kissed you like a man starved. It felt like a dream come true.

The desire between you was getting harder to ignore. It was obvious what this was leading to, the tent in his pants and how you rubbed against it were nothing near innocent. But you didn’t want to be the one to take the first step. You didn’t want to seem too eager or to make him feel like you were pushing something on him—but god only knew how badly you needed him.

Then he pulled away, gasping for air, his skin flush.

“I want you,” he admitted. “I want to take you to my bedroom.”

You could tell he was nervous, that admitting this to you was probably one of the hardest things he ever had to say. You smiled, wanting him to know it was okay and he could trust you. You wanted him to know that you wanted him too.

“I’d like that,” you said, kissing his cheek. “I’d like that a lot, actually.”

“Really?” His face brightened, his hand coming to cup your cheek.

“Yes, really,” you smiled. “Only if you’re sure about it, though.” You brought your hand to his face as well, losing yourself in the sight of him asking you this.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he nodded quickly, almost desperately. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

“Really?” You blushed.

He nodded, blushing as well. “Yeah, I've… I've actually been picturing tonight from the very beginning.”

Your entire body shivered. “Me too,” you admitted quietly.

“Really?” He asked, his eyes wide with disbelief and something warmer—desire, admiration, love…?

“Yes, really,” you chuckled softly. “I actually thought it would happen sooner,”

“Oh,” he let out. “Did you want it to have happened sooner?” You could almost feel the insecurity in his tone.

“No, no, that’s not it,” you quickly added. “It’s just… Most guys would’ve tried to do this earlier, you know? But… I’m glad you didn’t,” you smiled softly, reaching up to caress his hair.

He melted into your touch, his face relaxing at your words. “I didn’t want to rush things with you. You mean a lot to me,” he smiled, his eyes wide staring up at you.

“You mean a lot to me too,” you replied, leaning down to kiss him.

His lips met yours softly, the both of you drowning in the sensations. The heat between you was still very present, so it didn’t take long before he was helping you off his lap and guiding you to his bedroom, the kiss not breaking for a second.

He kicked the door shut behind you carefully, gently backing you toward his bed. As the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, he slowly pushed you down onto it, crawling on top of you.

His body hovered above yours as you made out, hands exploring each other’s bodies with reverence. You could tell he wasn’t very used to this, his limbs trembled slightly against you as if he was overthinking his every action.

His knees gently spread your legs apart so he could fit his body between them, which you easily allowed. His hips pressed down against yours, your arms enveloping him and dragging him closer to you. His kisses grew even more heated, lips trailing down your jawline to your neck as he ground down against you. 

The way you gasped, the soft moans that spilled from your throat, everything overwhelmed him in the best way possible. He loved how responsive you were, how you showed him with every breath you let out how badly you needed him, just like he needed you.

His face left the crook of your neck to stare down at you, hands paused by the hem of your shirt. Silently asking for permission, his gaze met yours to find your desires mirrored in each other. No words were needed, his fingers gently tugging your shirt upwards until it was tossed across the room. His own shirt followed soon after.

Your chests pressed together snuggly as Spencer found his way back to your neck, his lips sucking gently on the sensitive skin below your ear. His hands sneaked down your back, fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra.

“Need any help?” You chuckled quietly, not in a mocking tone, but rather raw endearment for his gentle ministrations. 

“Yes, please,” he blushed softly. You reached behind your back undoing your bra with practiced ease. The straps fell loosely off your shoulders, the cups still covering your breasts.

“May I?” Spencer asked, his fingers stilling on the straps. You nodded, helping him as he slid off the garment.

His eyes widened noticeably at the sight of your bare chest as he tossed your bra away. “You’re breathtaking,” he muttered in complete awe of you, his fingers kneading the soft flesh with worshipping care.

Before you could respond, his face bent down to latch on one of your nipples, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud as he sucked it into his mouth, a satisfied sigh escaping his throat as he felt it harden between his lips. You let out a low moan, your hands trailing down his back, tracing slow patterns that made his skin tingle.

His free hand played with your other breast, making sure he was lavishing attention to both mounds as he switched between sucking and squeezing each side. He was lost in the taste of you, nursing as if he’d been hungry for you for months.

Your chest rose and fell with your ragged breaths, pleasure overtaking you. His hips didn’t falter their grinding, the evidence of his desire causing a mindblowing friction between you. 

Your hands shyly sneaked down his back, hooking on the waistband of his pants. As your fingers trailed lightly under the fabric of his boxers, he hitched against your chest, letting go of your nipples to look up at you.

“May I take these off?” You asked quietly.

He nodded eagerly, his hands reaching down to help you as he unzipped his pants with a clumsiness that neared desperation. His pants were on the floor in no time, the thin grey fabric of his boxers doing little to conceal the hard line of his arousal.

The sight nearly drove you mad, your hands reaching down to your own pants, hips lifting off the bed to pull it off.

Spencer’s hands met your waistband in no time, helping you remove your pants. Each inch of your bare skin being revealed made his heartbeat rise a little more, the weight of the moment pounding against his chest. He needed you like he never needed anything else before in his life.

You gently pulled him back up, your lips catching his in a searing kiss. Your bare chests pressed together, the warmth of his skin seeping through yours as your kisses deepened. Spencer continued grinding against you, the only barrier left between your sexes being the thin fabric of both of your underwear.

Your sight was blinded by a haze of desire. You wanted him, you needed him to take you, you needed to feel him deep inside you. Not able to contain yourself, you reached down to hook your fingers on the waistband of his boxers—being careful not to overwhelm him, but also not wanting to wait any longer.

He let out a soft gasp into your mouth, pulling back from the kiss to rest his forehead against yours as he caught his breath.

“Sorry, too much?” You whispered, your fingers stilling around his hips.

“No, no, it’s not that, it’s just… I should probably tell you something,” he muttered, a blush creeping up his already flushed neck.

“What is it? You know you can tell me anything,” you murmured softly, your tone sweet and understanding, but laced with a tinge of concern.

“I… I haven’t exactly… I mean, I haven’t really… this is kind of my…” he stammered, struggling to put his thoughts into words, but you understood what he meant immediately.

“...Your first time?” You finished for him. He nodded shyly, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “This is your first time, Spence?” You confirmed, your hands sliding up his back, your touch filled with affection.

“Yes… I’ve never… done this with anyone before. I actually hadn’t done anything with anyone before you,” he admitted quietly.

“Wait, you mean… nothing at all?” You asked, a little bit in disbelief. He nodded, making your heartbeat quicken. “Spencer, was I… was I your first kiss?” You asked, your eyes searching his, your expression unreadable.

“Yes… you were my first kiss, my first… everything,” he whispered. “Do you think I’m pathetic? It’s okay, you can be honest, I’ll understand…”

“No,” you interrupted. “I could never think that.”

His eyes lit up, finally running back up to meet yours. “Really?” He murmured, unsure if he wanted to hear your real answer or a made up lie to avoid hurting his feelings.

“Yes, really. I think you're so sweet, Spence, I could never think anything less of you. And the fact that I was your first kiss, your first… everything, is so special to me. I couldn’t be happier that you let me be the person who showed you this side of life,” you smiled warmly, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. “The only thing I wish had gone differently is that you’d have told me earlier. If I had known, I would’ve been gentler, kinder, more understanding…”

“But you were all of those things,” he muttered, his eyes soft staring down at you. “You were the best person I could think of to do all of this. You’re the first person who’s ever made me feel like this, like… I could take all the love you can give me and still crave more.”

Your gaze softened, your chest warm at his admission. “I’m so glad you trust me. You make me feel that way too,”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss on your lips. It was chaste, but meaningful. When he pulled back, his eyes met yours with renewed desire, but this time, they were filled with something warmer, something more understanding than pure lust. None of you dared to name it then, but that single look you two exchanged was the first seed of love starting to bloom between you.

“I want you,” he muttered.

“I want you too,” you replied.

Your lips crashed together again, hungrier this time. Your tongues tangled in a sensual dance, the fire between you heating up once more as your fingers found their way back to the waistband of his boxers. But this time, he helped you tug them off.

As soon as the garment was tossed across the room, his hands reached down for your panties, fingers hooking on their sides as you lifted your hips to help him slide them off your legs. Once you were both bare, his body settled between your legs, the skin-on-skin contact bringing your connection to a whole new level of intimacy and pleasure.

Your senses were heightened by each brush of his skin on yours, the warmth between your legs growing wetter with each movement. His hands kneaded your skin—the moans that escaped both of your throats filled the room as his fingers worked on finding your sensitive spots while grinding down against you, his bare length sliding between your folds and bringing both of you to the brink of giving into the fire burning between you.

You wanted his first time to be perfect. You wanted to give him the best experience possible, to be there for him all the way—much unlike most people’s first times. You noticed how sloppy and unthought through were his actions, you could tell he was moving on pure instinct and response observation. He seemed acutely aware of each of your actions, each of the sounds you made; following the path that led to them like he was tethered to your gasps and the arching of your back.

“I want to taste you,” he whispered, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Are you sure?” You blinked up at him as he rolled his hips slowly, his erection sliding lazily against your thigh.

“I’m sure,” he nodded. “I’ve read a lot about it online—about all of this, really. I think I have a pretty good idea of how things are supposed to go,” he explained proudly.

“Well, that’s great baby, but practice is very different from theory,” you said softly, caressing the back of his neck.

“Oh trust me, I know. None of this is like anything I expected, but… I want to learn… If you’ll let me…?” He trailed off, his gaze flicking down to your core then back to your eyes.

“Of course I’ll let you,” you smiled. “I’ll guide you through it if you need me to. But please, don’t do anything you don’t want just to please me, okay? I’m here for you, I want tonight to be a good memory,” you said, your tone dropping an octave and becoming more serious.

“I know,” he nodded, nuzzling his nose on your cheek. “Trust me, I want this very much. Maybe even more than you, probably even more than you,” he admitted, making you blush.

“Suit yourself, then,” you smiled, your body already thrumming with the thought of having him between your legs.

Slowly, he began trailing hot, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down your body. He lavished attention to your breasts, ribs, stomach, then finally began moving up your inner thighs. His hands gently scooped them up, placing them over his shoulders as his lips trailed dangerously closer to where you needed them.

His fingers spread your wet folds, revealing the flush, wet skin underneath. His breath hitched, and almost as if worshipping you, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your most sensitive spot.

He hummed against you, enjoying the taste and feel of your intimacy like nothing he’d ever felt. His lips closed around the sensitive bud, sucking it into his mouth as his tongue darted out to taste you. You moaned softly, your hands threading through his hair as your thighs threatened to close around his head. His hands carefully pried your legs apart, holding you open for him to feast on you with abandon. 

You could tell the rational side of him was slowly fading away, like he was giving into the moment without overthinking things he might've read online. He carefully tried to insert his middle finger in you, missing the spot a couple times before he finally managed to slide it in. You smiled, looking down at him.

The sight of him between your legs, hair tousled between your fingers, eyes shut as he lost himself in the act of pleasuring you—all of it drew you closer to the edge. He moved his fingers sloppily, and you let him explore. Something about his eagerness to learn and the way he seemed overwhelmed by his pleasure heightened your own.

Then he slid another finger in you, making a come hither motion until he felt a rougher patch. The way your hips bucked when he rubbed it told him everything he needed to know.

He continued thrusting his fingers, trying to hit that spot every time as his tongue lapped hungrily over your clit, following the direction your hand guided his head to. 

“Fuck, that's it, Spencer… that's it, please don't stop…” You whimpered, your legs trembling on his shoulders as you felt your release building. 

He looked up at you through hooded eyes, your words urging him on. He continued eating you out, groaning against you as he found pleasure in the act of pleasuring you. As if on pure instinct, his hips began thrusting against the bed, grinding his erection on the mattress, seeking some sort of friction to relieve the pleasure he felt. It was all overwhelming to him, he never expected to feel this much pleasure by going down on someone else.

He could feel you clenching down on his fingers, your walls beginning to flutter around him. He moaned, the sound vibrating against your core, heightening the pleasure you felt.

He had to force himself to stop grinding on the mattress, or else he'd be finishing too soon. Determined to bring you over the edge, he kept going, his eyes fixed on you as he ate you out.

“Are you close?” He asked, taking a break to breathe, though his fingers didn't falter.

“Yeah… please don't stop…” You moaned, already bringing his face back down onto you, trying to hold onto the feeling for as long as possible.

He understood what you needed, bending down to continue lapping at you, set on prolonging your release as much as possible. Overtaken by the pleasure, he sped up, trying to get you there faster.

“No, no, Spence, don't speed up!” You begged, your vision blurring with the impending orgasm.

“Sorry, I'm sorry,” he muttered, going back to the former pace until he felt you shaking in his arms.

It was official: Spencer Reid had made someone come.

You moaned his name, legs spasming around his face as he lapped down your release. His fingers gently withdrew from you, his lips kissing your thighs as you came down from your high.

“Did you… did you really just…?” He asked still in disbelief, looking up at you starry eyed.

“Yeah… I did,” you breathed out, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your release.

“I… I made you come?” He smiled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he slowly crawled back up your body.

“You sure did,” you grinned, wrapping your arms around him. “Thank you, that was… amazing,” you said, kissing his cheek.

“Was it really? I've never felt anything remotely similar to this in my entire life, it was… beautiful. I've never seen anything more beautiful than you letting go like that,” he admitted, his pupils wide and his lips tugging on a silly, lovesick grin.

“You did a really good job, baby,” you held him close, your body starting to recover from the aftermath.

“Are you sure? What about in the end when I sped up?” He asked, his tone dripping with insecurity but also curiosity to learn.

“Oh, don't worry about it, you're a fast learner,” you giggled softly. “It's just that, when I'm getting closer to release, it means you're doing something really right—so don't change it unless I ask you to,” you explained, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.

“Duly noted,” he smiled. “I'll remember that.”

Then he leaned down to kiss you, his forearms caging around your head as your lips met. You could taste yourself faintly in his mouth, and as his body lowered closer to yours, you felt a droplet of something wet fall on your stomach.

Looking down, you realized what it was, a blush creeping up your cheeks. He followed your gaze, noticing what was happening as well, his face hiding in the crook of your neck. You could see how his length throbbed, standing proudly and dripping on your stomach. 

“Uhm… I'm sorry about that, it's just that I…” he stammered, struggling to find less embarrassing words than ‘I'm so hard for you I could come from a single touch of yours.’

“It's fine,” you reassured him, cupping his cheek. “If you want to, I could return the favor or… or we could try something new…” You whispered.

His entire body shivered at your words, his eyes shutting as he tried to control his body's reactions. “As much as I'd love for you to return the favor, I don't think I can… last much longer if you do,” he blushed. “But trust me, if you let me, I'll hold you to that offer.”

You chuckled softly, placing a soft kiss on his lips. “Your call, baby. We can try whatever you want, whenever you want it,” you added, peppering light kisses down his neck.

A smile creeped up his lips as you kissed him. “I want… you. I want to take you now, if you'll let me,” he swallowed hard, nervousness battling with excitement in his chest.

“I'm all yours, sweetheart,” you murmured against the shell of his ear, making his entire body shiver.

“O-okay, then I should… I should grab a c—uhm, protection, I mean…” He stumbled over his words, quickly standing from the bed and looking through his nightstand’s drawer.

You chuckled softly from the bed, watching him nervously looking for the tiny box and pulling a wrapper from inside. “Got it,” he said, claiming his find with a satisfied smile.

“You know… We could go without it if we wanted to,” your eyes glimmered with mischief.

“A-are you serious?” He stuttered, unsure, but not appalled as he sat back on the edge of the bed.

“I mean… We're both clean, aren't we? And I'm on birth control… But it's up to you,” you blushed as the words left your lips, but you couldn't help yourself.

“Y-you’d let me? For real?” He blinked, still in disbelief.

“Yeah,” you smiled.”Would you like that?”

“Yes,” he nodded eagerly, not missing a second. He tossed the condom back in the drawer and climbed back on the bed, his body caging yours against the mattress. “Are you completely sure, though?” He asked again, his body trembling with excitement, his hands running up and down your sides.

“I'm sure, baby,” you smiled, leaning in to kiss him. 

He kissed you fiercely, his tongue delving deep into your mouth as his lips moved hungrily against yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling his hips down against yours.

You moaned at the feeling of his hardness pressing down on you, your hips bucking up to meet his. The movement from your hips elicited a guttural groan from him, his length grinding desperately between your glistening folds.

“I think… I think I'm ready,” he muttered, your breaths mingling as he pulled back from the kiss.

“Do you need help, baby? I can take over,” you suggested, noticing how nervous he was.

“No, no, that's fine I… I wanna try. But I'm glad to know you're willing,” he smiled, his hand moving down to grip his base.

“Of course,” you smiled back, your eyes rolling back as he rubbed the tip of his erection across your slit. 

“Fuck, that feels so good,” he shivered, letting out a curse.

You chuckled softly. “Language,” you teased.

“Sorry,” his cheeks turned pink as he began trying to nudge himself inside you.

You let him explore a little, noticing he was trying to fit it in, but struggled. You wanted to let him try, to let him have the feeling that he had some sort of control over this situation, so you didn't interfere.

“Shit, sorry, I'm just… it's just slippery…” He mumbled more to himself as he continued pushing, unsure whether he should use more of his hand or his hips. 

“It's okay, baby, may I help?” You asked softly, not wanting to embarrass him.

“Yes, please,” he blushed, letting his hand fall to the side.

You reached between you bodies, grabbing him and positioning him right at your entrance, nudging the tip in slightly.

“There you go,” you muttered. “Now you just thrust forward,” you explained. “It might slip again, but it's normal, okay?” You told him softly.

“Yeah, okay, thanks,” he nodded, overwhelmed by the sensation of your grip on his tip. “Are you ready?”

You nodded, letting him know it was time. He leaned back down, slowly easing himself inside you with a roll of his hips, until he was entirely sheathed within your heat.

He let his forehead rest against yours, your ragged breaths mingling together as the two of you adjusted to the sensation.

“How do you feel?” You asked quietly, looking up at him.

“So… so good…” He muttered, his hips shifting slightly. “It's so tight and… warm… I love it,” he admitted, slowly beginning to move.

You watched his face closely, admiring how his features changed with each of his thrusts, betraying the pleasure he felt. His rhythm was messy, his legs struggling to find the right ways to support his body as his hips surged forward again and again. 

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms supporting his body above yours as he continued moving. He groaned against your ear, the sounds mixed with low moans and soft whimpers as he made love to you.

“Am I doing this right? Does this feel good to you?” He mumbled, trying to angle his moves but accidentally slipping out, quickly sliding in again. “Sorry about that,” he whispered, one of his hands coming up to fondle your breasts. 

“It feels so good, baby, don't worry…” you moaned softly, your legs wrapping around his back to bring him closer. “Keep going, just like that, fuck… You're doing so good…” 

Your words urged him on, his hips moving faster against you. You gasped, the feeling of having him inside you almost too much. You loved watching him learn, how his uneven thrusts slowly became a little less messy, how he whispered ‘sorry’ whenever he accidentally slipped out… Everything about it endeared you.

You'd never had sex like this. So messy, and yet it was perfect. You felt the emotion with every thrust, every moan, every sloppy kiss he left on your neck. 

You noticed how his thrusts became even sloppier, how his grunts grew deeper and how his body tensed.

“Baby, I'm… fuck…” He groaned, his hips faltering for a moment before they continued thrusting forward. “...I'm close. Like, very close.”

“That’s it… Don't stop, keep going…” You whispered, your hands caressing his back as you leaned in to kiss his neck. “You can let go, let yourself feel good,” you whispered to him.

No further words were needed. With a deep, guttural groan, he pushed himself as deeply as he possibly could inside you, letting the pleasure take over him as he filled you up with his release.

“Spencer!” You moaned aloud, wrapping yourself around him as your second orgasm rippled through you. Your legs trembled around his waist, his body crashing down on top of you.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't pull out, I made a mess…” he mumbled against the skin of your neck.

“No, no, baby, it's okay… I don't mind it in the slightest,” you muttered to him, your hand caressing his back. “How do you feel?”

“Amazing. Beyond words can express,” he replied, rolling off you so he was on his back next to you. You turned to face him, laying on your side.

“I'm so happy to have been your first,” you whisper, snuggling against his side.

“Me too… You were perfect, absolutely… Wow…” he gasped, catching his breath as he wrapped his arm around your waist to keep you close. “Hey, did you…?” He asked, frowning slightly as he looked down at you, still soft with the aftermath.

“What? Finish?”

He nodded, a blush creeping up his cheeks. You hummed in agreement, nodding eagerly with a smile.

“Really?” He asked again, his eyes widening slightly at your response. “Again?”

“Yeah, again,” you blushed.

“Oh my—you’re amazing,” he muttered, wrapping his arms tightly around you and leaning down to kiss your forehead.

You giggled softly, burying your face on his chest. “We should probably get cleaned up,” you said, feeling his release coating your inner thighs.

“Right—yes, sorry, aftercare,” He said, quickly hopping off the bed to grab a warm washcloth in the bathroom. 

He came back, sitting at the edge of the bed as he cleaned you up reverently. You watched in complete awe of him, enchanted by the earnest care he poured in his every touch.

“There you go,” he whispered, tossing the washcloth as he climbed back on the bed to cuddle you. 

“Thank you,” you said, letting yourself be enveloped by his arms.

“That was the bare minimum,” he muttered against your hair, breathing in your scent. “You know, we should do this again sometime,” he let out quietly.

You chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in your chests that were pressed together. “Of course we're doing it again, that's what boyfriends do to their—” you stopped yourself after realizing what you'd said.

“Wait, wait. What did you call me?” He froze, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“B-boyfriend…?” You hesitated, unsure about how he'd take it.

“So I'm really your boyfriend?” His smile widened.

“Well, I know we haven't talked directly about this before, but I've kinda been thinking about it, and—”

“Of course I'm your boyfriend! Oh thank god, I was starting to worry I was reading into things…” He sighed, relieved.

“Really? Oh good, I was so afraid too, you were being so careful with everything,” you sighed as well.

“You had nothing to be afraid of, did you really think I'd ask to have sex with you if I wasn't in love?” He let out as if it were obvious, barely realizing what he'd just said before you interrupted:

“You're in love with me?”

“Oh my—I mean, well, it's not that I'm…” He stammered, unable to cover up his slipup.

“Spencer, shut up,” you said, silencing him with a searing kiss. Startled, he kissed you back, his hands finding the back of your neck to pull you closer. “I'm in love with you too,” you whispered as you broke the kiss. 

The silly smile that spread across his face almost had you undone again. “Should I take that as a yes?” He murmured.

“A yes to what?”

“A yes to us doing this again?” He nudged you playfully.

You let out a warm chuckle, “Yes, Spencer. We're definitely doing this again.”

“Yes!” He celebrated, pulling you in even closer as he buried his face in your hair, your bare bodies tangled together impossibly under the covers. “I love being in love with you,” he whispered softly.

“I love being in love with you too,” you whispered back.

author's note 2: thank you for reading this all the way!! let me know what you think of this, and tell me if you'd like a part 2!! i may have ideas 👀

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[rindreamery]

to be loved is to be seen.

the little things that the blue lock men do for you as their way of saying, "i love you." featuring: itoshi rin, itoshi sae, michael kaiser, oliver aiku ─ content: fluff

note. spreading down bad bllk men agenda 🫦 finals is this week, so that means i will not be able to write at all for 3-4 days, so i just wanted to pop this out rlly quickly (event fics will be written as soon as i wrap up this sem, PROMISE)

itoshi rin picks out the things you don't like in your food.

not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but rin has a folder in his notes app about you— things you like, things you dislike, and every little thing you’ve mentioned to him in passing. he wants to know every little detail about you, to write it down and memorize it until the knowledge becomes stuck in the back of his head. to the point that it becomes like common sense to him (if there were ever a pop quiz on facts about you, he would pass with flying colors.) at the end of every date, or every time he hangs out with you, he’ll update his notes with another little thing he’d learned. you will never catch him admitting it out loud, but it definitely shows in how he treats you.

there is one thing he’d memorized about you, by now, though. it’s written in bold, italicized, and underlined in his notes: you hate mushrooms. 

rin catches himself looking at the ingredients of certain meals whenever the two of you would eat at a new restaurant, or order food from an unfamiliar place. it’s not that he’s necessarily a picky eater because, frankly, he really doesn’t care. but he wants you to enjoy it, he wants you to be able to eat without stressing about having to pick it out. his eyes are always scanning through the print, actively checking if mushrooms are one of the ingredients listed. 

but, there are times when the ingredients aren’t listed, and there are times when you end up ordering something with mushrooms in it. 

he may be dense in certain aspects, but it’s hard for him to miss the disappointed look on your face. the way your expression falls ever so slightly, and your smile falters for half a second. before you could dig in, before you could even put yourself through five minutes of digging through the food— he’s swiftly grabbing it from you. 

truthfully, he does it without thinking. he’s acting on his thoughts before he could even process what he’s doing. rin tries to fight the blush that threatens to form on his cheeks, the way the heat crawls up his neck and to his face at the realization of what he’d done, and he fails. but he’s committed to the act now, and he’s not going to give it back to you until he’s done what he needed to do.

he tries to ignore the somewhat perplexed look on your face, and the way you watch him closely as his fingers make quick work of moving the mushrooms from your plate to his. (he tries to sneak in some of your favorite food from his plate to yours, but he’s not slick, and you definitely notice.)

“here,” he says, pushing the plate closer to you after a few minutes. “you can eat it now.”

he sees you glance at the plate, and then back up at him— he looks away as you beam at him with a grateful smile, trying to ignore his ever-increasing heart rate. 

itoshi sae remembers the small details about your routine.

it is almost guaranteed that sae will wake up before you do. his alarm is set to go off at the crack of dawn, right as the sun starts to peek through the horizon, and he's starting his day while you're still in deep sleep. there’s a set routine that he follows, to a tee: wake up (and then contemplate staying in bed, just to cuddle with you a little longer), stretch, do morning yoga, and then go on a jog. it’s something he’d been doing for years, and he has never gone out of his way to add anything new to his routine— that is, until one morning. 

at first, it started with a random thought. as he was getting ready to leave the house, to go for his morning jog, he had unsystematically decided to set out your favorite mug and go-to morning snack. 

sae didn’t think it would be that significant to you, and he, initially, had no plans of doing it again. he simply had extra time to spare, and he knew that making your morning drink was always the first part to your routine, so he decided to get the first step out of the way for you.

truly, he wasn’t planning to make a habit out of this. but then, you told him, “that was a sweet way to start off my morning,” with that sleepy, morning smile of yours. he tries to not pay attention to the way his heart softens at the sight, and the realization that that had made him happy. yet now, he does it every time.

from then on, his alarm was always set to go off two minutes earlier. it’s rewarding, in his opinion, to come home to you— sitting at the dining table, messy hair and still in your pajamas, eyes half-lidded from sleep, with a smile on your face as you take a sip from the mug. and then you greet him with a thank you and a kiss, without fail, even when he tries to lightly guide you away because he’s sweaty.

it never works, because he folds the second you tell him, “g’morning. i missed you.” and he finds himself adding another part to his schedule. 

before sae’s even aware of it, much of his daily habits had been molded to fit with yours. 

on days where he’s far from home, in another country, he finds that his morning just never feels right without you. it feels weird not having to set out your favorite mug, and it feels even weirder not having you there to smother him in kisses. his routine had always determined his mood, and without you, he’s extra sour. 

“i miss you,” he ends up texting you. (that, too, becomes part of his routine when he’s far from you.)

michael kaiser has all your subtle behaviors memorized.

if kaiser were to be asked to name one annoying habit of yours, it would be the fact that you, sometimes, say things that contradict how you truly feel. he calls you pesky, he tells you that he’ll take your word for it and not read too deeply into whatever you’re saying— but, in a way, he’s contradicting himself too by saying that. he’ll always read into it; he’ll always analyze you, gaze narrowed, and watching for every subtle sign in your body language. he knows you, all too well. 

but there’s one thing you always say, one contradictory statement that you always make, that he’d memorized at this point. “it’s okay, i’m not cold,” even when you visibly are.

it irks him to no end. he doesn’t understand why you would say that even when there are goosebumps scattered all over your skin, when you have your arms wrapped around yourself, and you’re visibly trembling. he can practically see the bones under your skin, rattling, making some comical, cartoony noise in his head. you know that he can see you, and yet, you still lie to him.

and, at times, he does this on purpose— he puts the air conditioning in the car on full blast, all vents pointed at you, just to see how far you’re willing to go. and every time, it’s always the same, with the same answer.

kaiser isn’t completely cruel, however. he’s tucked one of his spare hoodies (your favorite, actually) into the backseat, existing purely for your use. first, he’ll scoff at you, roll his eyes, and let you suffer for a few more minutes. but eventually, the guilt will catch up to him, and he’ll constantly be glancing at you through his periphery, shaking and looking absolutely miserable in your seat.

he’ll think to himself for a second, as if contemplating whether he’ll actually help you out (he always does, he does not want you to actually suffer). and then, he’ll internally sigh, before speaking up. “stupid,” he mutters under his breath. “i have a spare hoodie in the back, take it.”

it’s almost laughable, the way you quickly turn your body around to reach for the backseat, visibly seeking warmth. he sees the look of pure joy in your eyes when you realize that it’s your favorite, and he smiles to himself.

“you’re the best,” you always tell him, as you pull the fabric over your head, and he's content. 

he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t reprimand you— he lets you do this, every single time.

oliver aiku is always willing to listen to you ramble.

it doesn’t matter if aiku’s had an exceptionally long day, it doesn’t matter if he feels as if he’s on the verge of succumbing to sleep— he will always make time for you. he will never pass up a chance to call you, to listen to you talk about whatever you want, whenever you want. you could talk for hours, going on and on about something that he doesn’t quite understand, and not a single complaint will slip past his lips. then again, he thinks to himself, why would he complain? hearing your voice is the best part of any day, good or bad. and every night, he finds himself waiting by his phone, waiting for your contact to appear on his screen.

he finds no shame at the speed in which he accepts your call, which is immediately, nor does he try to mask the anticipation in his voice.

and if he were to look into a mirror at that exact moment, he would also see the lovesick smile that had started to tug on the corners of his lips. you can’t see him, but he’s sure you can hear it in his voice. the way it softens, the way it loses its rough edges and lightens up ever so slightly, when he greets you. you probably know he’s grinning from ear-to-ear. (he doesn’t think he is, but when it comes to you, he’s completely transparent.)

it doesn’t take long before you’re divulging into another one of your endless tangents. but aiku’s attention remains undivided, only for you. he sits on the other side of the phone, silently, only responding when you want him to. it doesn’t matter if his own thoughts are clouded with exhaustion, his mind racing with the weight of the day—when you call, everything else fades into nothingness.

“did you know that venus is an evening star for 263 days out of the year?” he can hear the excitement in your voice, he can practically see the sparkle in your eyes, even without seeing you. it’s been three hours, and he’s sure that he should’ve been in bed one hour ago. but you’re still as energetic as ever, so he fights the way his body craves for sleep. he locks his jaw, and bites back a yawn, and listens. “and then, the fact that it disappears from the sky for 50 days, before returning as a morning star?”

there’s silence on your end, and aiku takes that as his cue to talk. “no,” he responds, and there’s an amused lilt in his tone. “i didn’t, actually. you should tell me more.” and you do. 

one look at the clock to his side tells him that, at this point, he won’t be getting enough sleep. he’s sure he’s going to be exhausted when he wakes up in the morning— though, he doesn’t really care, and he’s sure he won’t regret it. he’ll let you ramble about the stars for as long as you want, even when the stars themselves start to fade into the morning sky. 

© rindreamery, 2024