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aureatelys · 3 days ago

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as soft as the rain, pretty as a vine

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c.: 6k a/n: inspired by that one gifset of hotch desperately needing some moisturizer on his neck im so sorry. also my first time writing hotch's pov, pls be gentle. c.w.: fluff! friends to lovers, kinda sunshine/girly!reader, mutual pining, alcohol mention, author pretending like they know about skincare, hotch is whipped and touch starved af, no y/n

summary:

You think Hotch needs to take better care of himself. Hotch doesn't know what to think. Or, 5 times you teach Hotch about skincare more than he wants to and 1 time he teaches you.

read below or ao3 here

one.

When Hotch first walks into the conference room ready to go over a new case, there’s something different that he can’t quite put his finger on.

Words dying in his throat, he sweeps his eyes over the entire room and doesn’t see anything significantly out of place. Then he’s passing over everyone’s faces, mentally keeping a note on how exhausted most of them are looking, and then landing on you.

Having only joined a couple of months ago, you were still fairly new to the team. However, with your sunny disposition and eagerness to learn, you blended right in. Hotch had watched in amusement as you were able to keep up with Reid’s ramblings, Morgan’s flirting, and Garcia’s antics. You were insightful, able to give new perspectives that Hotch would never have even considered, patient with victims and their families, and Hotch admired you for that.

Today, however, you look considerably suspicious as you give him a sheepish smile and a little wave. “Morning, Hotch,” you say, eyes sparkling, followed by a round of greetings from the rest of the team.

“Morning.” And then he spots a machine on the table near the wall, shaped and designed like a cat and spouting off what looks like steam at a steady and continuous rate.

Now that he’s noticed it, he realizes the conference room feels significantly stickier, the sudden humidity a stark contrast to the dry winter air outside. He can sense the slight congestion he’s been waking up to the past several months gradually disappearing.

“It’s a humidifier,” you explain after spotting the slightly confused expression Hotch was wearing, as if he’s never seen one before. To be fair, he doesn’t think he’s seen one in years as Haley was usually the one who dug it out of storage when Jack wasn’t feeling well. “I brought it from home, I thought it was a little dry in here. Is that okay?”

“I hope so, I was worried about getting a nosebleed the other day.”

“It’s good to have it around during this time of year, Hotch. Did you hear Anderson coughing this morning?”

“It’s also beneficial to have one on while you sleep, both with the white noise and being able to clear your sinuses and breathe easier with its optimal humidity levels.”

Truthfully, Hotch doesn’t care and he’s sure there isn’t some ridiculous regulation about not allowing a small humidifier, especially when Garcia has two space heaters in her office that you’ve had to ask to borrow at least twice a week.

However, the way you’re glancing up at him now from your spot at the round table, eyes wide and fluffy pink scarf wrapped around you because you apparently run colder than the rest of the team, Hotch would probably let you get away with anything.

He immediately sets that thought aside, not wanting to dwell on exactly what that means right now. He takes the only empty seat left that just happened to be right next to you, making sure to keep a respectable distance. “It’s fine. Just make sure to turn it off and empty it before we go.”

You give him a blinding smile that momentarily distracts him from the bubbling humidifier and the clouds of mist that are nearly falling into his face. “Sure thing. Did you know that it can also help with dry skin? So technically, we’re just taking care of our bodies if they ask why we need it.”

Although it makes sense now that he thinks about it, Hotch didn’t know that. He also doesn’t remember the last time he put on lotion or moisturizer, no matter how dry his hands felt.

Just then, Garcia wobbles in with her yellow heels and coffee mug, immediately launching into the brutal details of the case and where the team will be headed out to for the next couple of days.

When Hotch gets up to grab his go-bag from the office, he tries to ignore how it feels like he can breathe a little bit easier.

two.

“God, it’s freezing in here.”

Hotch glances up from his laptop mid-report to witness you taking the seat next to his with a resounding oof. You’re wrapped up in a blanket that you had brought from home that has somehow taken permanent residence on the jet, shivering despite the heater being on full blast. The corner of it lands on his knee, soft and warm.

The team had just finished a case in rural Montana, surrounded by mountains of snow and the wilderness. You had remembered to pack warmly at least, as Hotch had witnessed you struggling to take off the several layers of sweaters every time you arrived at the precinct. He remembers frowning in the car on the way to apprehend the unsub as you shivered in the passenger seat, having had to wear only a layer or two due to the bulky Kevlar vest and needing to be quick on your feet.

“It’ll warm up here in a second,” Hotch says, already wracking around his brain to see if there was another blanket hidden in a compartment somewhere. “A cup of tea will probably help.”

You slouch down further in your seat, cocooning yourself even further under the thick blanket. “I don’t want to get up.”

Hotch is almost tempted to lock his computer and get up to make you that cup of tea himself, however he glances around the cabin and notices several knowing pairs of eyes on him. He doesn’t have to be a profiler to know what the rest of the team thinks—that he’s gone soft on you.

You with your fuzzy blue blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cape and the thick socks that you put in your bag specifically for the plane ride home. He knows he’s not imagining the lingering glances you throw at Hotch or the way you occasionally stay late as an excuse to bother him in his office.

And he doesn’t necessarily mind. There’s a strange, innate pull that tugs in his stomach when it comes to you, causing him to watch you more carefully and seeking out your presence at almost every opportunity. The sheer grip of panic on his heart when you were shot after taking down an unsub by yourself and without backup several months ago had Hotch re-evaluating everything he knew about himself.

He’s aware of the possible repercussions, which is exactly why Hotch has learned to be patient when it comes to you, who has threatened him to forgo his patience altogether with every bubbly laugh he can hear from his office or knock of your shoulders against his in the conference room.

So he doesn’t get up to make you that cup of tea despite knowing how you take it with a splash of milk and two sugars, and instead turns back to finish the action report.

It’s only several minutes later when he notices you rummaging around in your bag out of the corner of his eye before you pull out a small and colorful lotion bottle with a triumphant noise. You pop the cap open and slather some on your hands before you’re turning to face Hotch again, the novel that Reid recommended to you untouched on the table. “Do you want some?”

The bottle in your hand looks somewhat familiar, most likely something he’s passed by at the store or on your desk, but Hotch balks at the pink flowers painted all over the bottle. He’s lucky the undoubtedly suffocating smell hasn’t hit him yet. “I’m fine, thanks.”

But you don’t put the lotion back in your bag, instead shifting in your seat until you’re fully facing him. Your blanket is nearly draped over Hotch’s thigh. “Are you sure? You know, it’s really important to make sure your hands are moisturized, especially with how cold it is here.”

He doesn’t know why you’re so adamant about this, peering up at him with bright and eager eyes and the open lotion bottle poised over his hands. He’s never liked putting on lotion, or any kind of creams, as it always made his hands feel uncomfortably greasy. He would eventually wash it off anyway.

He turns his attention back to his laptop, yet wordlessly puts a hand out towards your direction.

He thinks you’re going to pour a generous dollop and let him rub his own hands together, but instead, he nearly jumps in his seat when you’re grabbing onto his hand with both of yours and slathering whatever’s leftover on your hands into his palms and the back of his hands.

Your hands are cold, even moreso than his, but the sharp tingle that runs up his arm at your touch causes something warm to bloom in his chest.

“I didn’t want to waste it,” you respond to the confusion on his face. You’re thorough; making sure to slather the cream in between his fingers and even down to his wrists. He senses the sneaking glances the rest of the team are throwing his way, maybe even smug, but he’s painstakingly distracted by the way your hands look in his, the way he can feel both of your hands gradually warming up.

And then you’re pulling away, and Hotch suddenly misses your tender touch.

Like he expected, his palms suddenly feel gross, unpleasantly slippery like he has oil all over them. He wants to rub his palms on his pants or go wash his hands, but your watchful eyes stop him.

And then it hits him— the sudden scent of you, floral with some hints of vanilla, overwhelming his senses. It’s undeniably the same scent as your perfume, the one that seems to linger every time you stride past him at the office or when you’re leaning over Hotch to laugh at something Morgan said. Now, it causes him to sharply inhale, chest feeling unnervingly tight as he unconsciously marks it to his memory.

You’re still watching him with an expectant smile, bottle stored away in your bag for you to pull out again after you’ve gotten up to use the restroom and used the cheap hand soap that you’ve repeatedly complained about before. You look unfazed, as if your simple touch hasn’t sent Hotch’s brain reeling.

“It’s nice,” Hotch manages to say, voice only slightly strained. The smell is not as strong as he expected, but it’s still doing strange things to his heart more than he’d like to admit.

If possible, your smile widens. “Just nice?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite my signature scent.”

You hum and turn away, picking up your book despite Hotch knowing you’re not going to read a single page of it today, the spine already creased from where you’ve been laying it face down multiple times over the past month. “No, your signature scent already fits you.”

Hotch says nothing, not entirely sure how to respond to that, but your attention is already caught by the game of cards Reid and Emily are playing several seats away. You immediately set your novel down and scramble up and out of your seat to be their enthusiastic audience, leaving a trail of vanilla behind you.

Hotch immediately misses the warmth of your blanket.

three.

“What are you looking for now?”

You’ve been digging through your bag, your pink personal one that’s almost as big as your go bag, for the past five minutes. Hotch can hear the various items clinking around and the crinkling of multiple old receipt papers as you curse under your breath. He frowns, tempted to encourage you to clean out your bag if only to make packing more convenient for you. He couldn’t count the number of times you’ve exclaimed on the jet that you had forgotten something.

The team had gotten called to another small rural town in North Dakota for an unsub that’s been killing during the protective guise of blizzards, which is why Hotch was driving so painstakingly slow that Morgan would’ve surely had an aneurysm if he was in the same car. Despite the roads having already been salted, there was still a concerning amount of ice on the roads that had Hotch sitting ramrod straight in his seat and gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were nearly turning white.

Luckily, it was only you and Hotch in the car, heater on full blast. You’re wearing at least three sweaters today with your coat draped over your legs and haven’t even complained once about it being too cold, citing how you’ve never seen this much snow before in your life. Hotch found it all extremely endearing watching you nearly jump in your seat at how the evergreen trees looked covered in snow. Like a Christmas movie, you had said.

“Found it!” You pull out a travel sized bottle of sunscreen, hurriedly twisting the cap open to squeeze and draw lines down three fingers.

Hotch glances at you out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed in confusion at your strange method. “Sunscreen? Are we going to the beach?”

“God, I hope not. I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit.” You roll your eyes while slathering the cream on your forehead, cheeks, down your neck, and even strangely over your ears before rubbing the rest on the back of your hands.

Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Hotch clears his throat. “I didn’t expect you to be so invested in your skin health.”

“It’s called skincare, Hotch,” you tease, screwing the cap back on but suspiciously leaving it out on your lap. “And it’s important to take care of your skin. Did you know that snow reflects UV rays, so even during winter you should put on sunscreen?”

Hotch chuckles before he could stop himself. “You’re starting to sound like Reid.”

“Did you want some?” You’re twisting your body again to face Hotch, eyes sparkling despite it being horribly dreary and cloudy outside.

The only times Hotch has worn sunscreen was during especially hot summer days when he took Jack to the park or to go swimming. He’s seen you apply sunscreen in the office even when it was raining outside and the sun wasn’t forecasted to come out that day. He’s grown to learn not to ask questions.

“I’m okay, thanks.” The answer’s immediate, partly because he doesn’t need sunscreen and partly because he is concentrating on not crashing into a ditch.

“Come on, Hotch, it’s good for you!” He knows this is exactly the same thing you said on the jet several weeks ago, and since then, every time you’re putting on lotion and he’s somewhere in the near vicinity, you’re already squeezing some on his hands before he could respectfully decline. Luckily, you haven’t tried to apply it for him again.

You’re incredibly stubborn and Hotch wonders if you’re persuading the rest of the team to invest in expensive and fruity-smelling creams in an effort to have everyone properly take care of their bodies like you are with him.

“Alright.” And then he’s pulling his foot off the gas pedal just a bit to compensate for the distraction of having to put his hand out, desperately hoping you’re not going to lean over to apply it to his own face.

You luckily don’t squeal in excitement like he expected, just silently squirting the cream into careful and meticulous lines on his three fingers. Hotch can tell it’s definitely more of an expensive brand than what he was used to during the summer—lightweight and smelling like nothing.

Hotch carefully slathers it onto his face, starting at his forehead, down his nose, and then out to his cheeks and his chin. There’s still quite a lot left on his fingers and he remembers how you made sure to spread some on your neck, so Hotch does the same thing. However, he is definitely not going to put some on his ears.

Satisfied, you put the sunscreen away and twist as best as you could underneath your thick layers to put your bag in the backseat, because the floor of the car was too wet from the snow from your shoes.

“Happy?” Hotch’s face inexplicably feels greasier than he would like, but it’s not as bad as the vanilla-scented lotion or the cheap sunscreen laying forgotten in his closet. It’s already absorbed into his skin and when he rubs a hand along his jaw, he realizes that it must have had some moisturizer in it as well because his face feels softer than he was used to.

“Ecstatic,” you say, turning your face towards the window to hide the wide grin spreading across your face.

four.

The fourth time Hotch learns about skincare from you was completely and utterly by accident.

It had been a long and brutal couple of days chasing a serial in Tennessee, one that had nearly as much technological experience as Garcia. He had been two steps ahead of them until tonight, when they had finally caught a break and caught him before he could take any more women to hold hostage.

The all-consuming relief was palpable during dinner at the hotel restaurant despite the underlying knowledge that the same thing was going to happen next week. Conversation flowed, drinks were had, and Hotch was adamantly ignoring the fleeting looks you were throwing his way across the table.

Hotch and you had been dancing around each other for months, tension so tangible that the rest of the team were starting to feel uncomfortable. He’s been able to brush off Dave’s sly remarks in the privacy of his office, Morgan and Emily’s raised eyebrows tossed in his direction at every interaction he had with you, and Garcia’s elbow jabs at every possible second when you were in the room.

It's been frustrating for him, to say the least. He can’t tell them that he can’t make that choice for you, that he’s too conscious to not cross any of those professional boundaries himself. If that means that Hotch has to wait for several more months for you to make the first move, if that even happens, then so be it.

When Hotch watches the way you throw your head back in laughter at something Dave says at dinner, eyes bright and face slightly flushed from the wine, he thinks he’d be willing to wait as long as you wanted.

After being nearly kicked out of the restaurant from being too rowdy and Hotch hinting at being able to take the rest of tomorrow off once they fly back in town early, the team quietly shuffles back to their respective rooms. He knows there’s about a 50/50 chance that most of them will sneak out to a nearby bar in ten minutes, but at least he warned them ahead of time.

“Night, Hotch,” you had said, giving him a little smile and wave before your door across the hallway clicked shut.

Something warm settled in Hotch’s chest at that, so he did the most reasonable thing to cope with the unfamiliar and turned the TV on to a random news channel. With the volume on low and his laptop and files laid out on the rickety table, he got to work.

Several hours pass like that as he throws himself into the fine print, going over everyone’s action reports from last week and shuffling through old crime photos to make sure everything matched. It was a familiar process, and almost concerning with how much comfort he’s found in it—the scratch of his pen, the drone of the city several floors down, and the growing smudge of ink on his hand from his thoughts running faster than he could write.

When he gets to your report and notices it’s missing several key points of the case, as well as your loopy signature, he frowns.

The immediate thought that comes to mind would be to just put the file aside and move onto the other one. It wasn’t as if the report was due this second and he knows there were plenty of others that required more immediate attention.

The other thought that emerges, almost reluctantly, was that Hotch could easily go across the hallway and ask you to take a look at it and finish the report rather than waiting for the following morning on the jet when the rest of the team was undoubtedly going to be hungover. Prentiss was most certainly going to be cranky and demand everyone to be quiet because the hum of the jet was already grating enough. He’d just be doing the team a favor.

That’s what Hotch tells himself as he stands up from the low desk, neck and back aching, and makes his way out his room and to yours across the hall.

He briefly pauses, straining his ears as if he could hear anything through the door and over the erratic thumping of his own heart. Hotch is suddenly aware that you may be sleeping, or even out with the rest of the ladies to a sleazy bar, and he’s about to turn back around with defeat weighing heavy on his shoulders when he hears the click of the bathroom door open and your humming, faint even through the thick wooden door.

Feeling confident that he’s not disturbing you and something else Hotch can’t name at the fact that he’s going to be seeing you in the privacy of your hotel room, he raps twice against the door.

“Just a second!” And then the door swings open.

Hotch’s attention is immediately caught by the fluffy headband you’re wearing, light pink and with a comically large bow in the center. You’ve clearly just gotten out of the shower, the scent of your body wash infiltrating Hotch’s senses and causing him to tighten his grip on the files he forgot he was holding in the first place.

You’re wearing a matching set of light blue pajamas, short and clinging to your body in a way that has Hotch immediately tearing his gaze away and back to your bare face. Your lips are glossy, slicker than normal, there’s a drop of water slowly trailing down the side of your neck, and a dab of cream on your cheek that you seem to have not noticed.

“Hotch?” you ask, confused, before letting out a squeak and crossing your arms over your chest in an effort to hide your modesty. Hotch ignores the fact that it just makes everything worse. “Is everything okay? Don’t tell me there’s a case.”

The droplet of water has disappeared underneath the collar of your shirt and the scent of vanilla nearly suffocates him. “No case. Just needed to get your final touches and signature on this report.”

He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strained to you as it does to him as he remembers why he was standing in your hotel doorway in the first place, the files in his hand suddenly weighing like a ton.

You don’t seem to notice anything wrong, if anything, a slow smile spreads across your face that has Hotch’s stomach flipping.

You look radiant, the intimacy of being near you in your pajamas when you were clearly in the middle of your nighttime routine not going unnoticed. He peers over the top of your head to notice your go bag on your bed, clothes and your personal laptop strewn all over the comforter, and the TV being tuned to what you’d call an “entertaining yet trashy show.”

“You’re still working even though you’re the one who suggested having an early night? It’s late.”

Hotch blinks at you because what else would he have done if not attempt to catch up on the seemingly never-ending pile of papers and reports? “You’re still up late too.”

You roll your eyes. “I was just about to go to bed before you knocked, so technically I have better work-life boundaries than you.”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”

You study him—still wearing his suit sans the jacket, tie only slightly loosened and sleeves rolled up his forearms. He hadn’t even bothered to put his shoes back on, comfortable enough with the hotel’s reputation to be in his room and take the two steps across the carpeted hallway in his socks.

“As long as you make it fast.” And then you’re stepping aside and opening the door further, the sweetness of the vanilla nearly pulling Hotch in.

Except he’s somehow distracted by the dollop of cream still on your cheek, right underneath your eye. Witnessing first-hand the twinkling of your eyes as you glance up at him and the way your pink headband has your hair pushed back, baring the most of your face he’s ever seen, has him sidetracked.

“You have a little…” He motions to his own face, hoping that you will take the hint.

And you don’t, not exactly, because of course you don’t. You immediately swipe at your face but on the wrong cheek and stare down at your hand when you don’t catch anything. “What?”

Hotch is a problem-solver, meticulous, and always thinks things through. That’s his job, to always be two steps ahead of anyone and everyone. So he’s not sure how or why he’s suddenly reaching a hand out to swipe at the cream on your face with his thumb, his touch lingering on the warmth of your cheek.

Whatever Hotch was going to say dies in his throat at the very audible hitch of your breath, the way your eyes widen at his close proximity. Your skin is smooth, softer than anything he’s ever felt, and he ignores the way you’re staring into him as he pulls back and absentmindedly rubs the moisturizer in the palm of his other hand. If he tries hard enough, the cream on his own skin nearly replicates the feeling of yours.

He's about to clear his throat to apologize, maybe even mention something about how the report can technically wait until tomorrow and turn right on his heel back into his room to ignore the adamant weight pressing down on his chest, when your expression changes.

Something almost akin to smugness tugs at the corners of your lips, the shininess inexplicably different and more distracting than your usual lipstick. Your bright eyes dance with amusement before your arms fall from where they were crossed on your chest to your sides.

“You know, I’m wearing a lip mask right now if you want some of that too.”

“Excuse me?”

If possible, your grin widens, causing Hotch to internally deny that he was suddenly feeling breathless. “I use a lip mask every night. They just make them look so kissable, right?”

Something in Hotch snaps, because if that wasn’t a clear invitation, he doesn’t know what is.

When he finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him, you’re slowly backing up until you’re pressed up against the nearest wall with that infuriating grin on your face.

You’re playing with him, you’ve been playing with him, but he doesn’t care and can’t even think about that when you’re peering up at him with soft eyes.

When Hotch brings a hand up to cradle your cheek, he thinks his stomach nearly twists itself into a knot at the immediate way you lean into him and the way your eyes flutter shut.

When he finally kisses you, he can smell the sweetness of the raspberry lip mask before he tastes it, seamlessly blending in with your vanilla body wash and making him feel more drunk than he’s felt in a long time.

You place your hands on his chest, your warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, and something about touching him has you unconsciously parting your lips to deepen the kiss, causing the smell of raspberry to become stronger.

Hotch can immediately feel the stickiness of your mask on his mouth, and he’s tempted to pull away at the unfamiliarity of something on his lips, but then you’re sighing into him and his hands are suddenly on your waist where the bottom of your pajama top has barely lifted. The warmth of your skin was intoxicating.

You have to be the first one to break the kiss, and when Hotch opens his eyes, you’re staring at him, your smirk having morphed into a smile of disbelief. His eyes flit to the almost imperceptible smear of gloss at the corner of your mouth.

“You have a little…” You trail off, your eyes drifting to his own lips, your smile doing nothing to calm the erratic rhythm Hotch’s heart has taken.

Hotch wonders how much you had put on yourself because the amount that he can feel on his lips makes him immediately want to swipe at his mouth. But that would mean having to take his hands off of you and he doesn’t think he has the willpower for that.

Instead, he rubs his lips together in an effort to spread the tackiness equally over his lips before he says “I like it, but I don’t think I got enough.”

You huff a laugh at that, your fingers tightening from where they’re gripping the lapels of his dress shirt. “I think I can help you with that.”

five.

“Are you okay in there?”

“Just five more minutes, I promise!”

That’s what you had said ten minutes ago. It’s not like Hotch is impatient per se, just content that you had agreed to sleep over again after another late date night and there wasn’t a looming case coming up.

You had only slept over one other time when the team had gotten back from a case late and Hotch wasn’t going to let you drive yourself home when you could barely keep yourself standing. You had dozed off the entire car ride home, head leaning against the window which caused Hotch to adamantly avoid all the potholes and tight turns, and yet you still managed to do your skincare routine in his ensuite bathroom before coming to bed.

After that night in your hotel room, you’ve become bolder. You’re now sitting next to Hotch on the jet, you make your way up to his office when there were still plenty of people milling about in the bullpen, and the way you peer up at him through your eyelashes during case briefings has him itching for a cold shower.

Neither have you said anything to the rest of the team, but at this point, Hotch doesn’t think he has to with the way both Dave and Morgan have patted him on the back the day after you laughed at something Emily had said and leaned against him, leaving his shoulder thrumming from your warmth for the next hour.

Another five minutes pass and Hotch can still hear the clinking of your serums as you rummage through your cosmetics bag. He silently sets aside his phone to get up from his extremely comfortable spot in the bed to pad his way over to the bathroom.

The sight that greets him has Hotch’s stomach plummeting all over again.

You’re sporting that same headband with the pink bow again, however this time, you’re wearing one of his old academy shirts that had mysteriously gone missing from his dresser several weeks ago. You’re freshly showered and you’re holding onto some kind of strangely shaped metallic instrument that you’re scraping over your cheekbones and then down your neck. The way it drags over your skin has Hotch cringing sympathetically.

You immediately spot him, meeting his gaze through the mirror, and the way your eyes immediately light up has a small smile forming on Hotch’s face before he can help it. “Hey you.”

“Hey.” Hotch leans against the doorway, content to watch the clearly practiced movements of you rubbing your skin with this strange contraption. “It’s been over five minutes.”

You pout. “Sorry, I’ve been holding this off all week and I need to do it tonight.”

Hotch was sure that “need” was a strong word, but he doesn’t question it. He stopped questioning your thorough skincare routine months ago.

And then you turn to him, something mischievous tugging at your glossy lips. “Wanna try it?”

Apprehension thuds in his chest, but he takes a step forward into the glow of the bathroom anyway. “And what is it exactly?”

Detecting your hesitation a mile away, you give him a warm smile as you hold it up to him. “It’s called a gua sha. It’s supposed to help with blood flow and getting rid of toxins and all that.”

Hotch may not be a beauty or skincare expert, but he has doubts that this piece of metal can actually do all of those things. To be fair, he’s had quite a few doubts about most of the items you use and not so subtly make him try.

The delight painted clear on your face though has Hotch tucking those thoughts away. He’s sure he has no right to question one’s own method on how to relax.

“Okay.”

You immediately muffle a squeal and turn to grab some other serum you left out on the sink, a light gold swimming around in the bottle.

“I’ll only do half of your face, I promise.” You squeeze some of the mysterious liquid on your hands and reach up to pat the left side of his face.

It’s thicker than your usual products, most likely some kind of oil that smells like roses, but the heat from your hand and your close proximity has Hotch feeling inexplicably warm all over.

“Okay, now you just use this side to run up your cheekbone like this.” You demonstrate for him and he adamantly makes note of the light pressure you’re using. “And then you run it down your face and down your neck.”

When he attempts to copy your movements with the warm metal, he doesn’t notice any difference in how his skin feels or the blood flow in his face, but you’re studying him so closely that Hotch is tempted to say he does.

It’s a strange sensation, but honestly it doesn’t feel any different than if he used his own fingers to rub up against his cheekbone or jawline.

When he puts the piece of metal back in your open palm, you’re nearly teeming with excitement. “So, what do you think?”

He pauses. “I don’t think it’s for me, sweetheart.”

You pout but he can tell that you’re not offended. “Boo. Fine, I’ll meet you in bed, handsome.”

Hotch is about to turn back to go to bed before he remembers the thick oil covering half of his face, evenly dispersed but still uncomfortable and will surely stain his pillowcase. He attempts to discreetly wipe at it with his hand as best as he can before quickly rubbing it off on your arm and escaping.

The screech you let out echoes in his bathroom as you try to swat at him and narrowly miss, and the way he feels heat tinge at the tip of his ears is better than any metallic contraption’s claim to improve blood flow.

On his days off, Hotch much prefers spending as much time as he can at home, either with Jack, you, or, more recently, both. Even if Hotch technically sees you every day in the bullpen, you at work is much different than the you at home.

Or at least, he likes to think there’s a difference as you drag him to the grocery store during what was possibly the quietest afternoon he’s had in several months.

I just have to pick up a couple of things, you had said as you buckle your seatbelt in the passenger side. We’ll be back home in a jiffy.

Never mind the fact that the word home coming from your lips has Hotch’s mind reeling. You’ve been seeing each other for several months now and he’s almost sure that you haven’t stepped foot in your own apartment for at least a month. You’ve taken up half of his dresser, most of his closet space, and the entirety of the counter space in the bathroom with your multi-colored serums and skincare tools that don’t work no matter what you claim.

He follows you around the store, dutifully pushing the grocery cart, as you mentally go through your checklist on all the toiletries you’re almost out of. Which is why he finds himself in the cosmetics aisle when you exclaim “Oh, I forgot about tomatoes for taco Tuesday!” and scamper off before he could say there were plenty of tomatoes from last time in the fridge because Jack has suddenly decided he doesn’t like them anymore.

He's content to wait, maybe check his emails on his phone, when he spots the familiar label of his face wash out of the corner of his eye.

It’s a brand that Haley had recommended for him when they were in college and Hotch knew absolutely nothing about skincare then, so he just continued buying it. He’s gone through countless bottles over the years, having used it nearly every day, yet Hotch finds himself frowning as he stares at the bright orange bottle.

The large bold letters advertise the cleanser being able to effectively combat oiliness, but Hotch distinctly remembers you offhandedly mentioning how lucky he was to have dry skin and not a combination like you.

Honestly, he had no idea, but it would make sense with how you were constantly slathering him in lotions and creams any chance you got.

He browses through the available cleansers, keeping an eye out for those that treat dry skin, when you sidle up next to him with a bag of tomatoes that were undoubtedly not going to get eaten. He can hear the hesitation in your voice when you ask “What are you doing?”

“Looking for something different.”

“Oh yeah? I knew I was wearing you down, Hotchner. Soon, you’re going to be begging me to take you to Sephora.” You’re joking but Hotch can detect the underlying seriousness in your voice.

He continues as if he didn’t hear you. “I’ve been using the wrong face wash for my skin so I’m looking for a different one. I probably haven’t been doing my skin any favors all these years.”

A pause. And then, incredulously, you say “Who taught you that?”

Finding one that was a good size and affordable enough to try, Hotch grabs it and throws it into the cart. When he meets your eyes, you’re staring up at him with a disbelieving smile.

“You did.” And it’s true—Hotch would’ve never thought about the long-term benefits of having a humidifier in the bedroom or the importance of sunscreen everyday if it weren’t for you. Taking care of your appearance was clearly important to you, which meant it was now important to him.

You stare at him, lips parted as if you’re at a loss for words. Your skin is glowing even under the harsh fluorescent grocery store lighting. “You’re such a sweet talker, you know that?”

You toss the tomatoes in the cart, making him wince, and loop your arm through his to tug him along the aisle. You smell sugary sweet with maybe a hint of his cologne from where you had slept in one of his old shirts last night. Hotch remembers how he had felt lightheaded, fondness flooding his chest, when he woke to you laying on his chest this morning. He tugs you closer into his side.

“Does this mean that you’ll try that new light therapy mask that I bought?”

“One step at a time, honey.”

taglist <3 @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x reader fluff #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fanfic #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #mine #aaron hotchner

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rafesbuzzcutseason · 13 hours ago

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chasing city lights

chapter 21 - done with you

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

cw: language, alcohol, mentions of drugs

please listen to ghost of you by 5sos for this chapter and done with you by omar apollo!!

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

the second stage of heartbreak, anger.

and that is all you felt when you woke up that morning. pure burning hatred for rafe cameron.

the sadness had drained you. completely. you had spent the last few weeks drowning in it, letting it consume you, break you, rip you apart. but now?

the sadness was gone.

replaced by rage.

it was a slow burn at first, simmering beneath your skin as you stared at your reflection in the mirror. puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks, a hollow expression. you barely recognised yourself.

and all of it, every single ounce of it, was because of him.

rafe fucking cameron.

the boy you had given everything to. the boy who had held your heart in his hands, only to toss it aside like it was nothing. like you were nothing.

you thought back to that picture, the way he kissed her, held her, touched her like you hadn’t just spent months loving him, like you hadn’t bared your entire soul to him.

your hands clenched into fists at your sides, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. had it always been this easy for him? had he been waiting for an excuse to move on? had he ever even loved you at all?

the anger flared in your chest, hot and suffocating.

fine.

if rafe could move on, so could you.

you weren’t going to sit here and waste another second crying over a boy who clearly never lost a night of sleep over you.

no more tears.

you took a shower and pulled your shit together, getting yourself all dolled up to finally feel pretty again. put together.

you weren’t doing this for him. this wasn’t about making rafe jealous or proving something to anyone.

this was for you.

because for the first time in weeks, you were done feeling small. done feeling broken. done letting him have this much control over you when he wasn’t even around.

you refused to let him be the only one who got to move on.

if he thought releasing that song would win you back in some way, he was so, so wrong.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

a/n: giggling because when my ex girlfriend broke up with me when i hit the anger stage i posted a hot story with done with you playing and boy did i eat

taglist: @hoefordrewstarkey @marleymarleymarleymarley @bee-43 @cherryhoneybabe @skye-44 @drewrry @drewrry @yesterdaysproblemm @dylsdaily @rafeysworldim19 @valyrianflower @kaiparkerwifes@judesgfirl@4urvalidation@chillgal135 @drewstarkeyslover@yesshewrites1@amterasuu@babykhloutofthisworld@blushmimi @moonywhisp3rs @rafeysworldim19 @marleymarleymarleymarley@sabrina-carpenter-stan-account@vcnillafairy@bambii1i @sammyrenae68 @kittenjujusblog @bambii1i @thesunflowersociety @wtfdudesblog @voidangxls @jjmaybankmylovee @munsoncultedits @emmiesummers @darlingstarkey @sassyvillaintrophy @pogueprincesa @stylestarkey @sodapopwaldor

#chasing city lights #smau #obx #outer banks #rafe cameron #boyfriend rafe #obxsmau #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx

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bloomzone · 1 day ago

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📕 𝟓𝟎-𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞

March 1st ! If you’ve been slacking, if your study habits have been messy, or if finals are creeping up way too fast this is it. I did a 20-day productivity challenge before, but now, with finals staring me down and less than 90 days to go, I need to actually get my flip together.For the next 50 days, I’m locking in. This isn’t about aesthetic study sessions or fake productivity or like those 10s filming study routine 💁🏻‍♀️ . It’s about deep focus, real progress, and making sure you n i walk into finals prepared, not panicked.

before we start! what are the ..

🔴 Things You Need to Avoid

When you’re pushing yourself to study, it’s easy to fall into traps that make the process feel harder than it needs to be. One of the biggest things to avoid is procrastination. It’s tempting to delay tasks and distract yourself with less important things, but the truth is, the longer you wait, the more overwhelming it becomes. Putting things off only builds stress and leaves you with less time to focus on what truly matters.Another major pitfall is burnout. While it might feel like working non-stop is the key to success, the reality is that exhaustion doesn’t lead to productivity. If you push yourself too hard without breaks or balance, you’ll find your focus slipping, and your energy drained. Instead, aim for deep, focused study periods with scheduled rest to recharge. The key is working smart, not just hard.u also NEED to stay away from passive studying. Reading over your notes without actively engaging with the material might feel like you’re making progress, but it’s not enough. True learning happens when you interact with the content whether that’s through active recall, practicing problems, or teaching the concept to someone else. It’s about getting the information out of your head, not just in.And then there’s multitasking, which can be deceiving. You might think that juggling multiple tasks or subjects at once is a sign of productivity, but in reality, it dilutes your focus. Instead, concentrate on one subject at a time and give it your full attention. By focusing deeply, you’ll achieve better results in less time.Finally, avoid over-planning. It’s easy to get stuck in an endless loop of scheduling and rearranging without actually doing the work. While having a plan is crucial, it’s more important to take action. Don’t get paralyzed by perfection; start moving forward, and adapt as you go.

💡 What You Need to Succeed

Success in a challenge like this comes down to preparation, mindset, and consistency. First and foremost, you need to set yourself up for success by organizing everything you need. Having your books, notebooks, and study tools ready at your desk isn’t just about being prepared—it’s a psychological trigger that helps you get into the right mindset. When you see your space ready for work, it subconsciously tells your brain that it’s time to focus.But it’s not just about the materials. Your environment matters. A cluttered space can lead to a cluttered mind, so make sure you have a clean, quiet place to study. This is where you’ll spend most of your time, so make it a space that supports your work rather than distracts you. Even something as simple as proper lighting and a comfortable chair can make a huge difference in your ability to focus.It’s also essential to have the right tools. Flashcards, sticky notes, mind maps, or even physical planners whatever helps you engage with the material actively is what you should have at hand. You don’t need to follow a one-size-fits-all strategy, but it’s about finding what works best for you. What will make the material stick? What will make you more engaged and less likely to zone out?Consistency is key, too. This isn’t a sprint y'all u need to commit to a study schedule that’s manageable and realistic. Establish a routine that you can stick to every day thats what my teachers say everyday whether it’s an hour in the morning or a few hours in the evening. Building consistency will help you develop the discipline needed to push through tough moments, especially when motivation runs low.Finally, don’t forget about your energy. Sleep, food, and overall well-being are the foundation of any successful study routine. Without proper rest, your brain can’t absorb or retain information. Make sure you’re getting enough sleep to let your brain recharge and consolidate what you’ve learned. Likewise, pay attention to your body when you're well-rested and nourished, you’ll feel more alert, focused, and motivated. Let's cb !

📕 𝟓𝟎-𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧

( starting March 1 – May 9)

0️⃣1️⃣ Week 1: System Reset & Strategy (March 1-7)

🔹 List everything you need to study before finals.

🔹 Identify weak areas & high-priority topics.

🔹 Create an adaptable study plan (structured but flexible).

🔹 Set non-negotiable study hours per day (📚 2< hours).

🔹 Organize notes & resources so you’re not scrambling later.

🔹 Test different study environments & methods to maximize focus.

0️⃣2️⃣ Week 2: Deep Focus & Active Recall (March 8-14)

🔹 No passive studying (no just reading or highlighting).

🔹 Prioritize active recall (practice papers, Q&A, teaching concepts).

🔹 Use visual memory aids (mind maps, charts, bullet points).

🔹 Track distractions & eliminate what kills your focus.

🔹 Keep a focus log: What breaks your concentration? Fix it.

0️⃣3️⃣ Week 3: Technical Subjects and theory based subjects (March 15-21)

📜 Literature, history , philosophy... and theory-based subjects:

➖ Read critically, summarize, and debate ideas (not just memorize).

➖ Work on structured arguments & analysis for essays.

📈 Math ... problem-solving subjects:

➖ Use timed practice to simulate exam pressure.

➖ Write key formulas & rules on flashcards.

➖ Break down problems into step-by-step solutions.

🔹 Study difficult subjects when your energy is highest.

0️⃣4️⃣ Week 4: Writing & Expression (March 22-28)

🔹 Summarize topics in your own words every day.

🔹 Create one-page cheat sheets for major topics. (for revision nothing else 💁🏻‍♀️)

🔹 Write mock essays & structured answers (practice depth).

🔹 Focus on clarity & argument-building (make your writing strong).

🔹 Challenge: Can you explain this concept in 3 sentences?

0️⃣5️⃣ Week 5: Self-Testing & Performance Check (March 29-April 4)

🔹 Take full practice tests under exam conditions.

🔹 Time yourself: Work on speed & accuracy.

🔹 Identify weak spots and revisit them.

🔹 Grade your own work harshly—improve where needed.

🔹 Find patterns in mistakes and create strategies to fix them.

0️⃣6️⃣ Week 6: Memory & Retention (April 5-11)

🔹 Daily mini-revision of past weeks’ topics (keep everything fresh).

🔹 Use mnemonics, stories, & memory associations.

🔹 Sleep optimization for memory consolidation (good sleep = better recall).

🔹 Try retrieval practice before checking notes.

🔹 Apply concepts in real-life situations (where possible).

0️⃣7️⃣ Week 7: Peak Productivity & Stamina (April 12-18)

🔹 Push study hours (without burnout).

🔹 Use study sprints: 2-3 intense sessions per day.

🔹 Reduce fake productivity (low-value tasks don’t count).

🔹 Prioritize high-impact topics.

🔹 Simulate exam pressure—train yourself to think fast under stress.

0️⃣8️⃣ Week 8: Advanced Questioning & Strategy (April 19-25)

🔹 Study past exam patterns : what do they repeat?

🔹 Learn what examiners actually want in answers.

🔹 Debate answers with yourself or others (argue both sides).

🔹 Find alternative explanations for complex topics.

🔹 Challenge: What’s the hardest question you could get? Be ready.

0️⃣9️⃣ Week 9: Mastery & Confidence (April 26-May 2)

🔹 Final review: Focus only on weak spots.

🔹 80/20 Rule: What 20% of topics will help the most?

🔹 Do “last-minute style” studying—but without panic.

🔹 Take simulated exams with time limits (test performance).

🔹 Train your brain to stay confident under pressure.

🔟 Week 10: Exam-Specific Prep (May 3-May 9)

🔹 Prioritize final polishing, NOT cramming.

🔹 Review summaries, key formulas, & essay structures.

🔹 Optimize sleep & energy (don’t mess this up now).

🔹 Have a "cheat sheet" in your mind for each subject.

🔹 Last 3 days: Light review, no stress, trust your prep.

last tip !

There will be moments when u feel like giving up, when the material seems overwhelming or the effort too much. That’s when your mindset needs to kick in. The difference between success and failure isn’t about natural talent or born smart it’s about your ability to keep going when things get tough I'm talking about the material not burnout out .The truth is, hard work, perseverance, and adaptability are what lead to success not innate ability.Think of each week as a building block, each day as a step forward. Every time you study, you’re not just learning the material you’re evolving. You’re becoming more disciplined, more capable, and more confident. Even on the days when you feel like you’ve made little progress, remind yourself that you’re making small, consistent strides. These small changes compound over time

good luck !

@bloomzone

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nitadllyss · 2 days ago

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Cutness agression ɞ

Hyunjin x reader

Genre: Fluff, Headcanon, Extremely Sweet!

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

Hyunjin has a serious problem with cute aggression, especially when it comes to you.

• For example, in the mornings

"Good morninggg" you said without opening your eyes, still half asleep, smiling when you woke up feeling Hyunjin hugging you.

"AHH, HOW CAN YOU BE SO CUTE?!" Hyunjin felt like the luckiest person in the world for having you as the first thing he saw when he woke up. He cupped your cheeks in his hands and started showering you with kisses all over your face.

"Hyunjin, wait" you said between laughs, trying to pretend you were annoyed.

"Why?" Five kisses on your right cheek. "How can you be that...?" Another three kisses on your left cheek. "Freaking gorgeous." Lots and lots of sweet kisses on your lips.

When he finally let you go, you were dazed from the overwhelming amount of aggressive affection he had just given you.

"You’re so weird..." you gave him a look, but the smile on your lips betrayed you.

• Or at breakfast

You were eating together while watching a drama.

You were so focused on how the characters were fighting over the female lead, dipping your cookies in milk without even looking and bringing them to your mouth, surprised by the plot twist.

Hyunjin felt like he was going to die from love.

He started making whiny noises, making you look at him immediately.

"Babe, what’s wrong?" you asked, concerned.

"I’m going to cry because you’re so cute" he laughed while trying to continue his fake crying act.

You rolled your eyes.

"I literally didn’t do anything..." you said, not understanding his reaction.

"That’s why I want to cry! How can you look so cute doing literally nothing? I hatelove you so much."

Before you could escape, he hugged you from behind, holding you tightly while kissing your neck.

• Also, when you smile

That day, Hyunjin had brought you flowers without reason. When he gave them to you, you thanked him and smiled.

Big mistake.

"HYUNJIN, ARE YOU CRAZY?" you ran for your life. Hyunjin had just whispered, "I’m going to bite your cheeks off." What was wrong with him??

"Come on, please! I need to vent. You can’t smile that cutely and expect me not to want to bite your cheeks" he pouted while following you. He caught up to you.

"Hyunjin, what the hell…?" You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was so in love it was starting to get weird.

Then he began to gently bite your cheeks, leaving sweet kisses on them afterward.

• Let’s not forget when you wear his hoodie

After taking a shower, you went for the coziest outfit you could find to stay at home. That warm hoodie of Hyunjin’s looked so inviting, so you put it on.

"Are you trying to kill me...?" he murmured with wide, deer-like eyes, mouth slightly open, looking you up and down.

"Huh?" you looked at him confused.

You blinked, and he was already messing up your hair.

"AHGGG!! You look so cute. Keep all my clothes if you want" he genuinely looked like he was about to explode.

At first, you fought him off, but in the end, you just gave up.

• When you sleep

Hyunjin got home late from work, exhausted and missing you. He opened the door and nearly cried from love.

You were sleeping on the couch, hugging a Jiniret, your mouth slightly open, your lashes pointing down, a little drool at the corner of your lips, your hair beautifully messy.

If it weren’t for the fact that you’d kill him for waking you up, he would have already been on top of you, hugging you and not letting go.

He doesn’t know how, but he restrained himself. He just took a picture and set it as his wallpaper.

• But when you’re doing nothing, that’s his favorite

You were watching TikTok on the couch when, out of nowhere, you felt Hyunjin’s weight crushing you.

"AABSSBSBAHJABABAHAJABABW" he babbled nonsense and started biting your arm.

"Bro, wtf?" you looked at him amused. "Can you explain what’s happening now?" you raised an eyebrow.

"BSBSNDBANZ" he responded, then began kissing your face desperately.

"I just hope you don’t have rabies…"

( There are thousands of situations like this, but it would be an infinite post)

•When you’re cooking and he comes up behind you, trapping you and leaving you no way to escape while hugging you.

•When he sees you doing your makeup and can’t resist kissing your lips carelessly, just because your lipstick made him fall in love and he needs to have that pink from YOUR lips.

•When you come out of the shower and he grabs your cheeks for at least 10 minutes, making your face turn red.

•When you sneeze and he swears you’re a kitten. When you wrinkle your nose, he probably fainted.

•Etc.

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

English is not my first language, so if you see a mistake, please let me know. 🙏🏻

I'm just a girl in love with Hyunjin and his cute aggression attacks. 😭🫠

#skz #skz x reader #stray kids #skz drabbles #skz fluff #skz imagines #skz stay #fluff #hyunjin fluff #hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin headcanons #hwang hyunjin x reader #skz headcanons #cutness agression #jiniret

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girlkisser13 · 2 days ago

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being married to toji fushiguro would include

• toji is fiercely protective of you, even if he doesn’t always express it. he doesn’t hover or ask if you’re okay every five minutes, but he notices when something’s off and is always there to back you up.

• he doesn’t say "i love you" often, but his actions speak louder than words— shielding you from harm or making sure you’re always safe, especially when the dangers of his life as a former assassin creep in. still, he’d maintain his space, valuing his independence but always watching out for you.

• he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t put up with nonsense, so when it comes to household matters, he’s straightforward.

• if there’s a problem, he deals with it quickly, often in a practical manner. that said, he’d also likely appreciate the quiet comfort of being at home with you, especially after a long day of dealing with the outside world.

• while toji doesn’t come across as soft, there are moments when he shows his care in small ways— maybe brushing your hair out of your face or sharing a fleeting but tender look when you’re alone.

• he’s not one for big romantic gestures, but when he does something for you, it’s meaningful, like getting you your favorite drink or taking care of things when you’re overwhelmed.

• he may not always have a lot to say, but if you’re going through something difficult, toji is there for you. he’d stay silent, listening without judgment, and give you a quiet, reassuring presence.

• his support might not be verbal, but his actions would show that he’s there for the long haul, no matter what.

• if you two had kids, toji would be a hands-on (we are ignoring the fact that he is canonically an absent father), though unconventional, father.

• he’ll play it cool, acting like he’s not that interested, but you’ll catch him watching baby videos on his phone when he thinks you’re not looking.

• he’d teach them about survival, how to fight, and how to protect what’s theirs, all while being the solid, reliable figure they need, even if he doesn’t know how to express it all the time.

• toji’s not great with emotions, but he’ll secretly adore his kids, and you’ll know it by the way he keeps an eye on them from a distance or his subtle ways of making sure they have what they need, even when he won’t say it out loud.

• the trust between you two would be solid. toji would expect you to be honest with him, and he’d give you the same respect. you wouldn’t need to speak all the time to understand each other; there’d be a deep, unspoken connection, even in the moments of silence.

• don’t expect anything overly sweet or cheesy. toji’s idea of romance might involve getting you something practical, like new clothes for a dangerous mission or fixing something around the house.

• but those small acts of care would mean more to you than any grand gesture.

• life with toji is a rollercoaster of questionable financial choices.

• his idea of a budget is more of a vague suggestion. you could go to bed with a full savings account, and by morning, he’s bought a motorcycle, a new set of knives (because he deserves them), and a ridiculously expensive set of rare steaks— because, apparently, that’s how you live life.

• he will ALWAYS justify impulse buys with, "it was on sale."

• toji is very independent, and while he might not ask for help, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t need it. if something breaks or goes wrong around the house, he’ll absolutely try to fix it himself first— no matter how unqualified he is for the job.

• broken sink? he’ll attempt to fix it with duct tape and some questionable youtube tutorials. the worst part? he’s usually successful… in a very "that’ll work for now" way.

• he doesn’t exactly plan grand romantic gestures, but when he does do something sweet, it’s always unexpected.

• like that time he brought home your favorite food when you didn’t ask for it, or when you were having a rough day, and he somehow found the exact book you were looking for, even though you didn’t mention it. it’s not always flashy, but it’s the little things that show he’s paying attention.

• also, this man is WAYY too confident.

• he’s usually pretty calm, but when he’s certain about something— whether it’s a decision, a plan, or a random idea— good luck trying to change his mind.

• he’ll insist he’s right, even if he’s 99% sure he’s not, and he’ll have a smug look on his face while doing it. it’s an annoying habit, but somehow, he pulls it off.

• toji’s idea of date night involves grabbing takeout and binge-watching random action movies, preferably while he’s armed with snacks he’s "borrowed" from the convenience store.

• he’s surprisingly a pretty good cook (when he takes his time).

• it’s usually something straightforward— steak, grilled chicken, or ramen— but when he actually tries, it’s surprisingly tasty. the best part? he’ll act like it’s no big deal, even though you know he’s secretly proud of himself for not burning anything.

• toji is your scary dog privilege.

• he exudes an aura of danger, which makes you feel untouchable. not that he tries to look intimidating, but it’s hard not to notice when people start treating you both with a certain amount of caution just because he’s around.

• whether it’s the way he moves, the way he talks, or just the fact that people know better than to cross him, you’ll get used to the unspoken respect (or fear) that follows him.

• he’s not the type to smother you with affection, but he has his ways of showing he cares. whether it’s leaving a random "you good?" text, adjusting your coat when he notices you’re cold, or letting you take the last slice of pizza (even though he’s definitely eyeing it).

• while toji is pretty sharp when it comes to violence or strategy, he’s totally lost when it comes to social situations or subtle hints.

• you’ll find yourself frequently having to explain things multiple times because he either didn’t catch your tone or completely misinterpreted the situation.

• if you try to drop hints, he’ll stare at you blankly, and then you’ll have to go into full detail before he understands what you’re saying. it’s frustrating, but also kind of endearing, considering how smart he is in other areas.

• although he’ll never openly say it, in those quiet moments when he watches you sleep or shares a rare smile, you know you’re his soft spot. toji fushiguro has made you his world, and his devotion to you speaks louder than words ever could. <33

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s-4pphics · 2 days ago

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cw; fratadjacent!ellie, mentions of prescription drugs and dealing, literally just for ‘23 tlou tumblr nostalgia

attempt 747388282 of getting outta my block. barely edited bc i havent slept

How the hell do you introduce yourself to a dealer?

Initiating convos with a stranger with a hey, do you sell addies, seems a little rude for regular common folk, but do dealers actually care about introduction etiquette? Highly doubtful, but you despise assuming shit about people, much due to the fact that your brain has a deadly latching tendency, remembering everything it shouldn’t and forgetting everything you should remember.

Dealers are driven by the dollar, aren’t they? Just like everyone else. Show the money, get the candy… or something? You doubt Mel would put you in harm's way.

You came to your roommate in the middle of a breakdown: self-soothed through a panic attack with snot dripping down your nose and thoughts scattered like they always are. Always. Your brain never listens to reason and it’s torture. She held you while you cried and cursed the medical industry, all while your brain shattered to pieces, attempting to find solace in Mel’s softened whisper.

I have this friend…

And of course, your brain never forgets. Your prescription is forever to blame for your shortcomings. Every unfinished essay, failed test, failed class — mindless scrolling — it’s all due to your lack of… candy. Brain candy. It’s fucked up how terribly you need it to get through school. If you don’t pop one at six in the morning everyday, every plan you make goes down the drain and into the sewers.

Pharmacies are supposed to always have their shit together. Customers come in, grab their beans, and they dip for a month before doing it all over again. Visits are dandy until they aren’t, apparently. Out of all people, why did they have to fuck up yours? A year of going to the same location with the same pharmacist and they suddenly misplace the only jewels that keep your head on your neck.

Sure, you could sue or commit arson to that entire building, but you decided spending the last bit of your free time bribing the go-to drug lord of campus would be much more beneficial. And less… endangering.

Mel is close with drug dealers — a surprising fact to discover about your soft-toned friend. Ellie Williams is one of them, and she’s expecting your arrival, according to Mel. The texts between you and this faceless stranger were brief, aloof — quite business-like despite the topic of conversation. You only hear about her from the sidelines or your roommate, and everyone seems to have a consensus opinion.

Evidently, she fucking sucks. And fucks. Literally and figuratively. Good for her? You don’t give a shit. She agreed to give you a month's supply of Dextro for fifteen bucks. Fuck the gossip and the pharmacy.

That gets you knocking. It takes fourteen seconds for the door to open, and you're instantly hit with the wall of Mary. Jane, in particular, and she’s covered in red lights.

The testy drug head doesn’t fit everybody’s description; her face is almost too sweet for her body. She’s literally wearing Spiderman PJs. What kinda dealer has freckles and rosy cheeks? Her eyes remind you of a deer’s despite the pink tint. Can deers even get high?

One of the first things Ellie does is take in your Patrick Star slippers. Her grin is slight as she eyes them.

“Huh.”

“… Hey.”

“Hello.”

You hate silence more than anything in the world. It’s so fucking awkward in this hallway.

“Name?”

… Maybe intros are necessary? “Oh. Uh. I’m Mel’s friend. I’m guessing y’all know each other? I’m—“

The a-ha she makes is very innocuous. This is the beast everyone always talks about? “My dex pickup, right?”

You jokingly shrug, “in the flesh.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You… you, too.”

It’s silent again. Being shot in the face would be less painful than standing here.

Soon, but not nearly enough, Ellie digs into her pocket to retrieve a very familiar looking orange bottle. It almost looks like yours minus the white sticker with your name and dosage. Just plain orange. And filled a hefty amount. A little over halfway.

“Uh,” you stumble around in your jean pocket like an idiot. When you come up empty handed, you dig around in your back pocket. Then your other front, then your other back.

Where the fuck is your twenty?

“Uh… um…”

You check your bra and your shoulder bag and your sock, all while Ellie stares at you like you’re a walrus on stilts.

“I’m… I dunno where my…”

“Short?”

Flames burst beneath your cheeks. Too fucking short. If you were in a mafia film, you’d be strung up in front of Ellie’s door as a warning for loose pocketers.

But Ellie’s not in the fucking mafia. She looks like she’s about to laugh. Before you can drown her in apologies, she hands you the clattering jar.

“… Wh—“

“No offense, but… I think you needa fill.”

This has to be a test. Ellie’s going to slice your hand clean off your wrist when you reach for your vice… Your prescription, you mean. Not vice—

“You want ‘em or not?”

Impatient as fuck — very on brand. Just as your palm eagerly closes around the bottle, a shock of electricity pops from Ellie’s hand to yours. She flinches but you don’t. The horrifying screams from the little fuckers in your hand are too distracting.

“Do I owe you?”

She ponders for a second. Eyes you with curiosity. Snickers down at your slippers.

“It’s cool. Just tell me if they work.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Do I really have to explain the hierarchy to you?”

“What do you think?”

Ellie pins you with a playful glare, “I bought from someone new.”

That doesn’t mean shit to you, so why are you attempting to make conversation? “Is that why you stocked me up?”

“Sure.”

“Are they laced?”

She shrugs, “maybe.”

That should induce fear… It never comes. You anticipate focusing too much to care. If you die, you die.

This convo fucking sucks. And now it’s quiet because how the fuck are you supposed to respond to you potentially OD-ing? Your brain’s cranking but, just like every other time, you come up empty handed.

“You can go now.”

You try not to be bothered by her dismissing you. You shouldn’t be bothered by anything — she did you a favor. Ellie must really like your fucking slippers. She’s spoken to Patrick more than you this entire time.

“… Thanks.”

“No sweat. Get home safe.”

Her door closes. Your chest opens. You convince yourself it’s with gratitude, and not at all due to the weird attraction you felt for that drugged-out freakazoid.

#fratadjacent!ellie #ellie williams #ellie tlou #ellie williams headcanons #ellie the last of us #ellie williams tlou #lesbian #ellie williams au #ellie williams x reader

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inbabylontheywept · 10 hours ago

Note

I went to summer camp as a kid. Six times, actually. I have many fond memories, and even more terrible ones. Here's one that's a mixture of both.

To set the stage, I had just spent the night in the infirmary due to a big fight I had with almost my entire tent. They never wanted to sleep, and were always obnoxiously loud with a lantern dubbed "the sun" that let me see movement around me with my eyes closed from the shadows passing over it. I was sleep-deprived, overstimulated, autistic-but-unaware-of-that, and twelve years old, and I already disliked these girls because they talked shit about me behind my back and took advantage of naivety. This unfortunate combination lead to a blowout meltdown in which I said some things I regret, so the counselors decided it'd be best if I spent some time away.

Now, this had the unforeseen consequence of putting me in a place with less supervision. This place also had some strange bugs. They were small, about the size of my pinky fingernail. Most of their bodies were in their tails, which curved downwards like a reverse scorpion. They were black and white, sort of striped, with six legs and no wings. Their fangs were very thin, but long, extending out from their faces like brownish parentheses. They had a propensity to bite.

Perhaps you can see where this is going.

While messing around with these bugs, I noticed that when they bit, they didn't just chomp and leave. They sunk their fangs in and they kept them there for a long time. Naturally, I decided to see what would happen if I let them, nay, encouraged them to bite me, as an experiment. When would they extricate their incisors from my flesh? Would my reaction to the bites vary depending on the amount of time each bite lasted?

I let these bugs bite me four times, once for about 13 minutes, once for about 5 minutes, once for about 1 minute, and once for 45 seconds (I didn't have a watch, so these are estimates). Then, I forged a peaceful resolution with my tentmates and we went to watch the beginning of Color War.

Except, turns out it's stupid to let unidentified insects taste your blood. The bites swelled up huge. I got chills. My stomach hurt intensely. My counselor took me back to the infirmary to get them checked out.

Needless to say, this was not easy to explain to the nurse on duty ("WHY" "For science!"). His first thought was we needed to figure out what bit me. If only it were that simple.

We combed through the databases for insects in the state. We expanded our search to arachnids, even, although it certainly wasn't one. I drew a little mock-up on a Post-It to show him. There was not a single match. To this day, I have no idea what it was that I let bite me. I was given orders to come back tomorrow to get them checked by a doctor, and also return every morning and night for a week to put warm compresses and medicinal ointments on the bites, and a strong directive to never do anything like that again, with a side of "What the hell were you thinking????"

A couple of months later, after camp, I went to my friend's bar mitzvah. The woman in the row behind me tapped my shoulder. She asked me how the bug bites were. It was the doctor from the infirmary.

-- @dr-robert-chase-apologist

That was a beautiful ending. I have a similar story, but less gruesome than letting bugs bite me. My family used to go up to trips to the Mogollon Mountains two or three times a year. The woods were where my dad always felt the most at peace.

My dad used that time to hike through the trees. And I grew into that eventually, but when I was very little, I felt a particular kinship to the small things of this world. Worms and beetles and woodlice and those peculiar Arizona grasshopers with wings the size of jellybeans and tummies the size of my thumb.

And on one trip, there was an incredible number of these beautiful, fuzzy caterpillars. Picture below.

I went a little crazy about them. They were fluffy, and they were had pretty colors, and they had the cutest, softest, stubbiest little suction cup feets that I'd ever seen. Watching them climb up stalks of grass or over fallen branches was enchanting.

So I caught, like, twenty of them, and most got put in a little terrarium where I could watch them do cute caterpillar things. Mostly eat fresh pine needles and wriggle gregariously. But some I kept out just to play with. I'd put them on my palm, and I'd watch them crawl all the way up to my neck, then I'd move them somewhere else. They tickled, and I was charmed to be their jungle gym.

But apparently, those little hairs break off like fiberglass, and they have some kind of venom on them, so I had these strange, wriggling, almost tattoo like rashes all over my arms up to my neck. Very embarrassing to explain to my parents.

There was an entomologist on the street that I grew up on named Freddie. And he wasn't just a bug expert, he was specifically a caterpillar expert. He had a garden in his backyard that was specifically tailored for butterflies, he'd always draw in clouds of Monarchs during their migration. My parents asked him about the mysterious itchy caterpillars, and he said they were lophocampa ingens, and that I was lucky that I didn't inhale those hairs. They can stick inside your throat and make it swell closed. Scary little bastards.

I'd still see them after that, but never in such numbers. And while I appreciated them, I always tried to keep a few feet of distance. Just to be safe.

(Also, just wanted to clarify that I didn't remember the name for 20 years, I googled "irticating caterpillar Mogollon", and saw the picture. It wasn't until I read the caption that I was like oh yeaaaaah, that's what he called them. But it was one of those memories I could never have pulled at will.)

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bu3ck3r · 2 days ago

Text

wrapped in you

paige bueckers x reader

summary: you’re having an off day and paige is the sweetest and cheers you up

You weren’t sure when the heaviness settled in your chest, but it had been there all day—pressing down, making everything feel dull and overwhelming. It wasn’t one specific thing, but a mix of small disappointments, stress, and exhaustion stacking up until it felt like you were sinking.

And no matter how much you tried to hide it, Paige noticed.

She always did.

It started in the morning when she caught you staring off into space at breakfast, your spoon lazily stirring your cereal until it went soggy. Then at lunch, when you barely touched your food, only offering a half-hearted smile when she asked if you were okay.

By the time you were curled up on the couch in the afternoon, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, she had seen enough.

Paige plopped down next to you, resting her chin on your shoulder. “Alright, what’s up?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

Paige poked your side gently. “You’ve been in a funk all day. Talk to me.”

You sighed, shrugging. “It’s nothing.”

Paige wasn’t buying it. “Baby, you can’t fool me.”

You chewed your lip, debating whether to just brush it off again. But the way Paige was looking at you—soft but serious, like she wasn’t going to let this go—made it hard to keep up the act.

“I just feel… off,” you admitted finally. “Like everything is too much, and I don’t even know why.”

Paige was quiet for a moment before shifting closer, putting your legs on her thighs. She reached for your hand, running her thumb over your knuckles in slow, comforting strokes.

“That’s okay,” she said softly. “You don’t have to explain it if you don’t know how. But you don’t have to deal with it alone either.”

Something in your chest loosened slightly. Paige always had a way of making you feel understood, even when you didn’t understand yourself.

But the heaviness was still there, lingering like a storm cloud.

Paige studied you for a beat before standing up abruptly.

“Okay, we’re fixing this,” she declared.

You frowned, confused. “Fixing what?”

“Your mood,” she said matter-of-factly. “Stay right there. I have a plan.”

Before you could protest, she disappeared into the bedroom, leaving you sitting there, bewildered. A few minutes later, she returned, her arms full—blankets, her hoodie, a bag of your favorite snacks, and even her laptop balanced precariously on top.

You couldn’t help but smile a little. “What are you doing?”

“I want to cheer up my favorite person ,” she announced proudly. She draped the hoodie over your lap first. “Put this on.”

You rolled your eyes but slipped the oversized hoodie over your head anyway. It smelled like her—like fresh laundry and vanilla, warm and familiar.

Paige grinned when she saw you relax slightly. She threw a blanket over both of you, pulling you close so you were practically in her lap. “No escaping. You’re officially trapped.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously good at making you feel better? Yeah, I know,” she said smugly.

You rolled your eyes, but Paige caught the way your lips twitched into the tiniest smile.

She handed you a bag of your favorite chips before opening her laptop. “We can watch a movie, or I can show you funny TikToks, or we can talk about something completely random. Your choice.”

You hesitated before murmuring, “Can we just stay like this for a bit?”

Paige’s expression softened. “Of course.”

She wrapped her arms around you, holding you close as you rested your head against her shoulder. She didn’t try to force you to talk or pretend everything was fine. She just stayed there, warm and steady, letting you take whatever comfort you needed.

After a few minutes, she started absentmindedly running her fingers through your hair. “You know,” she mused, “whenever I have a bad day—like when my shots aren’t falling, or I feel like I’m not doing enough—I try to remind myself of the good things. The little things that make everything worth it.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious. “Like what?”

Paige smiled, her fingers still tracing soothing patterns in your hair. “Like how my dad always texts me before every game. Or how the team hypes each other up even on our worst days. Or…” She paused, her smile turning softer. “Or how you always wait up for me, even when you’re tired. And how you steal my hoodies but somehow make them look better than I do.”

You let out a quiet laugh, your chest feeling just a little lighter.

Paige nudged you playfully. “See? Smiling already. My plan is working.”

“You’re something else i swear” you murmured.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot,” she said dramatically. Then, in a softer voice, “But seriously… I love you. And I’m always gonna be here, even when you’re feeling off.”

Your throat tightened—not with sadness this time, but with gratitude. Paige didn’t need grand gestures or fancy words to make you feel loved. She just knew you. Understood you. And that was enough.

You squeezed her hand. “I love you too.”

Paige grinned. “I know.”

You groaned, nudging her. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before turning her laptop screen toward you. “Alright, since you didn’t pick a distraction, I’m putting on a rom-com, and you have to deal with it.”

You shook your head but didn’t protest. Paige hit play, and soon enough, the movie was filling the room with cheesy dialogue and over-the-top romance.

But your focus wasn’t on the screen. It was on Paige—the way she absentmindedly played with your fingers, the way she laughed at all the dumb jokes, the way she kept sneaking glances at you like she was making sure you were okay.

And somehow, without you even realizing it, the heaviness that had weighed you down all day didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

It didn’t fix everything. But sitting there, wrapped up in Paige’s warmth, her heartbeat steady against your ear, you realized something important.

Even on the hardest days, you weren’t alone.

And that was enough.

@melpthatsme hope u like it!

#paige bueckers #uconn huskies #paige x reader #fiction #fluff

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isaadore · 2 days ago

Text

OFF THE RECORD JACK HUGHES

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎pairing jack hughes x pr manager!reader

SUMMARY being jack’s pr manager was supposed to be a stepping stone in your career, not a constant exercise in crisis management. jack was talented, charismatic, and an absolute menace when it came to following media protocol. every press conference felt like a battle, every interview a test of patience. and somehow, amidst the chaos, he had made it his personal mission to get under your skin. but the real problem? you weren’t sure you minded it as much as you should. word count 0.6k

warnings fluff, flirting, workplace romance, failed attempt at enemies to lovers

note requested by my #1 (@cyberhughes) for my 1k celebration, thanks for requesting bbg 🔥🔥 but idk why i put enemies to lovers as a trope, i can't even write it properly, so hope this meets ur expectations 😜

JH86 MASTERLIST EVENT MASTERLIST

JACK WAS A PR nightmare. Not because he was reckless or controversial, no, that would have been easy to handle. The problem was that he simply didn’t care. Media obligations were an inconvenience, interviews were a form of torture, and following a script? Not a chance. He made that abundantly clear the first time you tried prepping him before a post-game conference.

“Jack, just stick to the key points,” you said, pacing in front of him while he leaned back in his locker room stall. “Emphasize the team’s effort, don’t overpromise about injuries, and for the love of God, don’t chirp the reporter again.”

He smirked. “What? You don’t think they deserve it?”

“That’s not the point.” You exhaled, pressing your fingers to your temples. “The point is to keep things smooth and professional. Just, please try, okay?”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll be good.”

That promise lasted exactly two questions into the presser before he decided to call out a reporter for always betting against the Devils. You barely suppressed a groan as you worked on damage control, sending out an apologetic statement before Jack even finished his last answer. When he walked off, he gave you a smug little glance, and you swore he enjoyed making your life difficult.

“You love the attention, don’t you?” you muttered as you walked side by side back to the locker room.

Jack shrugged. “Nah, I just like seeing you all worked up.”

Your fingers tightened around your phone. “You’re insufferable.”

He grinned. “And you’re fun when you’re mad.”

It had been like this since the day you got hired. Every interaction was a push and pull, him testing your patience, you trying (and failing) to keep him in line. But somewhere between the bickering and the exasperation, there were moments that felt dangerously close to something else. The way his eyes lingered when you weren’t looking. The way your pulse jumped when he leaned in too close under the guise of making a joke. The way your stomach flipped every time his teasing turned just a little too soft.

It all came to a head after an especially heated argument over his latest social media post, a photo with a caption that was ambiguous enough to spark trade rumours. Your phone had been blowing up all morning with calls from reporters, and fans in a frenzy over the idea that he might be leaving New Jersey.

“Jack, what the hell were you thinking?” you snapped, storming into the locker room before the morning skate.

He turned from where he was taping his stick, completely unbothered. “Relax. People overreact to everything.”

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to steady your frustration. “That’s exactly why you have to be careful. You’re not just some kid on Instagram anymore. Every word, every post, it matters.”

Jack stood, stepping closer. “What if I just like getting a reaction out of you?”

Your breath caught. It was the way he said it, not with the usual cocky smirk, but with something quieter. More intent. You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was. Of the heat rolling off him, the sharpness of his gaze.

“You really love making my job impossible, don’t you?” you said, voice softer than you meant.

Jack’s lips quirked, but there was something different in his expression now. Something serious. “I think you like it.”

You should have walked away. Should have reminded him that you were his PR manager and that this was strictly professional. But when he leaned in, when his voice dropped just enough to make your pulse stutter, you realized something horrible.

He might be right.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ JH86 MASTERLIST ✷ EVENT MASTERLIST

#jack hughes x reader #jack hughes #nhl x reader #nhl fanfic #nhl imagine #jack hughes x you #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes angst #nhl x you #nhl fic #nhl #hockey #✷ tastes like sugar #✷ isaadore

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ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral · 1 day ago

Text

Hello everyone! Here's a new au for you all! Don't worry, I'm still going to be doing a part 3 for the Disir au, but this is something for you all while you wait! Enjoy! :D

This au takes place in a modern setting where Merlin has been waiting for Arthur for over 1500 years. Merlin believes that Arthur will rise directly from the lake, as Kilgharrah led him to believe, but in actuality, Arthur, Gwen, and all the knights were reincarnated and born into new lives without any memory of their past lives.

In this modern setting, Arthur's reincarnation, Arthur Penn, works for a top-secret task force in MI6, known as the Knights. The Knights are tasked with monitoring and hunting down dangerous otherworldly or supernatural threats.

The Knights task force was successful for many years, up until one fateful mission. The team was exploring a cave with high levels of strange radiation, which usually indicated strong supernatural forces. While they didn’t encounter anything in the cave, agent Lance DuLac got separated from the group somehow and was missing for several hours before they found him sitting in front of some crystals, seemingly entranced.

While he was physically fine, Lance was never quite the same afterwards, having strange dreams or speaking in an unknown language at random. Since one of their best agents was left near-insane and they didn't even find anything, that mission was deemed a disaster, which led to the Knights getting disbanded by their superiors.

After the Knights were disbanded, Arthur was put on several solo missions, hunting down supernatural creatures, but he eventually got a new mission.

MI6 had been following and observing an entity known as Emrys for decades, ever since the 1930’s, when reports of an “immortal man” first reached intelligence agencies.

Ever since Emrys's immortality and presence through history was confirmed, MI6 always had someone trailing him and documenting his actions. However, he had never shown any real threat to humanity despite his estimated power level sitting at that of a god’s. In fact, the only documented case of any sort of power from that they had observed in their 90 years of tailing him was during WWII, when a bomb was dropped over his little cottage and he made it disappear with a wave of his hand.

Over the years, the post of watching Emrys had become the most laid-back and least threatening job in the entire supernatural department of MI6. After all, he had never hurt anyone in the entire time that they had watched him, so all an agent had to do was keep their distance and they’d be fine. Hell, it was practically a 9 to 5 job. It was, as far as jobs within the supernatural department went, extremely boring.

Which made agent Arthur Penn extremely overqualified for the post. Unfortunately, agent Gwaine Greene, who had been assigned to Emrys post in the years following the Knights’ disbandment, had been running his mouth to their superiors that Arthur was too high strung and throwing himself into one dangerous mission after the next and needed a lighter mission to cool down. And, even more unfortunately, their superiors had listened to that loudmouth.

So now Arthur was being assigned to watch an old man for an unspecified amount of time. Yay, this was exactly what he hoped his career as an agent at MI6 would look like. Agent coordinator Gwen Smith gave him his debrief, showing him the extensive file that MI6 had on Emrys, his abilities, his routine, and his alternate appearances, because apparently this bloke could change his age as well.

So, Arthur begins his new assignment with a generally bad attitude, but he still performs his duties. Arthur tails Emrys, during which time Emrys mostly sticks to the routine that Gwen had showed him: walking around a nearby lake every morning, then going into town for lunch and to chat with locals about mundane things like the weather, going back home, reading and writing and cooking and cleaning, and then going to bed. Rinse and repeat.

However, as the weeks go by, Arthur notices something… strange. All the previous agents who had post had reported that, even if he knew they were trailing him, Emrys never really paid them much attention. A passing glance or a knowing smile perhaps, but never anything overt. A few years ago, one agent even made the bold move of having a drink next to Emrys in a pub, and Emrys had only asked him if he was "off the clock". If Emrys was upset about being followed, he certainly didn't show it.

So this? This had never happened to any of the other agents watching Emrys before.

A few weeks into his new post, Emrys had started… staring at Arthur. The stares were accompanies by an unnerving feeling, like Arthur was an insect pinned against a microscope. Like Emrys was looking into Arthur very soul and judging him for something.

The feeling of being watched by Emrys made the hairs of the back of Arthur's neck rise, just like whenever he was facing down monsters that looked like they crawled out of humanity's worst nightmares. He was the one supposed to do the watching, not the other way around!

After only three days of Emrys's petrifying stares, Arthur decided to go back to headquarters and give them an update. If Emrys's behavior had changed so suddenly, it might be a sign that the entity was planning something bigger, and they needed to be prepared for anything the immortal could throw their way.

Arthur's paranoia at being watched must have really gotten to him over the past few days though, because for the entire trip back to London, he swore he could see glimpses of Emrys out of the corner of his eyes. But every time he whirled around to see if Emrys truly was following him, there was nothing there. Besides, Emrys had never once left that little town by the lake in over 90 years. Why would he leave now?

Arthur arrived back at headquarters by the end of the day, and he quickly arranged a meeting with his superiors. If Emrys was plotting something, the entire supernatural division had to go on high alert.

About halfway through through the meeting, however, the lights started to flicker and the entire building started to shake, as if a massive earthquake was happening. Everyone sprang into action, weapons in hand and ready for any attack, but Arthur's eyes went wide with panic. He knew, somehow, what- or who- was behind this.

Sure enough, a guard burst into the room a couple second later, yelling about how Emrys was in the lobby making demands and shaking the earth with his anger.

Arthur and his bosses ran out to the lobby and were met with a horrible sight: Emrys standing at their front door with the guards' weapons disintegrating before they could even take aim at him.

"I will not ask you again. Where is he?"

Emrys's voice was more impatient than furious, but the threat of his power was more than enough to send a shover down everyone's spine, Arthur's most of all. Because while his superiors and fellow agents were frantically whispering to each other, trying to figure out who Emrys could be referring to, Arthur knew. There was only one mortal Emrys had shown any interest in over the past 90 years, after all.

"He's after me." The whispering of the agents around Arthur ceased as a horrified hush fell over the group. "I don't know why, but he's looking for me."

The agents around him shared a look, which slowly morphed from terrified to determined.

"Then we have to make sure he doesn't get to you," Gwaine said, uncharacteristically solemn. "Whatever reason he wants you for, it can't be good for anyone."

The other agents around them nodded and murmured in agreement, even as their voices were quickly drowned out by the rumbling of the building around them and the sounds of gunfire and screams behind them.

Suddenly, Lance, who had been silent the entire time, cut in.

"I know a back way out of the building. I can sneak Arthur through the back and escape to a safehouse, somewhere Emrys can't find us."

"No, absolutely not. I won't run away and leave you all to fight-"

"Arthur." Gwen's voice cut off his denial. "For all we know, if he gets his hands on you, he could become even more dangerous. Please, if not for your sake, then for everyone's: don't let him get to you."

Arthur swallowed thickly, holding back tears. Lance looked at him, his face growing more and more panicked as the sounds of conflict grew closer and closer to their hiding spot.

"Alright, I'll go, but I expect to see all of you when I get back. You told me not to let him get ahold of me, but the same goes for all of you: no dying on me today, got it? Especially not to some ancient bloke."

His friends smiled and nodded at him, and Lance took his arm and started leading him through the building, running down narrow hallways and darkened corridors until they reached a small, hidden exit on the side of the building, disguised among the building's brick exterior. The two of them burst out of the building into the adjacent alleyway, out of breath from their frantic sprint.

"Alright, where to now? How do we get to this safehouse of yours?"

Lance turned to face Arthur, but there was something strange about him. His face looked oddly conflicted and... guilty?

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

"What? Lance, what are you-"

Arthur froze as a figure stepped into entrance to the alley, blocking the only escape route. Arthur's hands reached for his gun, but he froze as two burning golden eyes stared into his soul.

And then, the world around him went dark.

I hope you all enjoyed this au! To clarify, Lance was trapped in the crystal cave and saw his memories of his past life as Lancelot, which led to him seeking out Merlin and forming a plan with him to get Arthur assigned to Emrys watching post so that Merlin could take Arthur to the crystal cave and finally reunite with his king.

And, as always, thank you for reading through my ramblings! :D

#merlin #bbc merlin #merlin bbc #merthur #arthur pendragon #merlin au #merlin prompts #emrys

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bonnie-the-butcher · 3 days ago

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Rip Tide | Chapter XI

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.885 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Unsurprisingly, I can't keep things sweet for too long, so here's a weird chapter again. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

Kareem’s eyes nearly pop out of his head as he sees you stepping in. – Holy shit! You’re alive!

– It seems so. – You chuckle, watching him almost run towards you like he’s watching a statue come to life before his eyes.

– And you’re still employed?

– Mr. Cameron told me to come back, so I guess.

He laughs, a genuine blast of overjoyed disbelief. – I can’t believe it. – He takes your bag, setting it in the little locker where the kitchen staff is allowed to keep their things. – I was so sure that after that fight, they’d just kick you on the street, I was already mourning! Damn Routledge.

– It was that lamb. – You laugh, folding your sleeves and washing your hands. – It must have really been good.

– You bet your ass it was. – He’s already moving through the kitchen as you dry your hands, almost avoiding your gaze. – God, for your brother to punch Rafe right during family dinner and still somehow keep your job is crazy. – He hums, so casually, as if he was in the room when it happened. You raise an eyebrow. – Told you you were gonna be good luck.

He winks, still smiling, but you can’t help the little doubt that swirls in your mind. – Kareem?

– Yup?

– Where were you when it happened? I came to get Rafe some ice, and you were gone.

Kareem doesn’t turn around to look at you as he hums, but you can see the blush creeping up his ears as he stands there. – I uhm, I— He clears his throat. – I went home early.

– Your things were still here, though. – He stays quiet. – Kareem. Were you hiding?

It comes off in a chuckle, soft and airy, as you step closer to him. And he stands there, his back still facing you, his hands moving thoughtlessly, wringing his fingers, pretending to be busy. – Kareem?

– Okay, I was hiding, I didn’t want to lose my job too, okay? I’m sorry. – The genuine shame in his voice brings a laugh to your lips, and he looks at you, almost bashfully, as you bring a hand to rest between his shoulder blades. – Aren’t you mad at me for being a coward?

You laugh even more at that.

The thought of a 6’5’’ overly tattooed Pakistani man with a beard and a man bun cowering in some pantry while you put ice on Rafe Cameron’s face is so delightfully ridiculous you can’t even help your amusement. – Of course I’m not mad at you. This is your job, I don’t blame you for not wanting to get fired. And these people really are crazy.

– Right? – He exhales, wide-eyed like a child on christmas morning. – You saw how Rafe talked to me, right? This kid hates me! I don’t even know why.

– Hate to break it to you, Kay, but he probably doesn’t have a reason. Rich kids don’t need reasons to be menaces. – You pause, looking up at him with a conspiratorial smile. – I’m sure you know that, though. Mr. Highland Park.

He looks away, expression taught as the blush on his face reddens even further. – You googled it.

– Oh, I did. Richest suburb in the whole of Texas? That’s another level of blue blood.

He winces. – It’s not that bad.

– Oh, I’m sure it’s not bad at all. – You laugh, a twinge of guilt blooming in your chest as you realize just how much you’re enjoying this mockery. – You should see the dump I was born in. That's bad.

Kareem clears his throat, still a little pink around the ears, and turns back to the workstation like he can physically will the conversation away. – Look, can we— Let’s- Let’s talk about something else. Mr. Cameron’s breakfast.

You sigh, already rolling up your sleeves, but still laughing. – Of course. Can’t keep the king waiting.

Kareem narrows his eyes pointing at you with a cautious expression. – You’re laughing now, but you have no idea how specific this man is. – He mutters, completely serious.

– Of course, why wouldn’t someone micro-manage their breakfast, of all things?

– Focus! – He warns, ignoring your laughter. – One egg benedict.

Your eyes widen, all amusement going down the drain. – Jesus fucking Christ.

– I told you. Hollandaise. Bacon—crispy but not burnt, and just on one side, the fat can’t be too shriveled up either. Toast. Golden brown, but not too crunchy. He hates crumbs. – He rolls his eyes, already stressed. – And don’t even get me started on the—

The kitchen doors swing open before he can finish, and a sharp pair of heels clicks against the tile. Kareem’s face drops, rolling his eyes a second time, and he leans over the counter, almost hiding behind you as you stand there in awe. You barely have time to register the pinched look on the woman’s face before she snaps her fingers, walking around like she owns the place. – Kareem. Coffee. Now.

Kareem, who had been reaching for the eggs, stills mid-motion. His fingers flex slightly before he turns around, a forced politeness on his face that doesn’t even pretend to hide his irritation.. – Good morning to you too, Marion.

Marion.

Suddenly it’s clear— Kareem said it was a miracle that you managed to make it two hours in this kitchen before being assailed by the Wicked Witch (he did in fact call her that) and her powers of micro-management— Marion, the head housekeeper (or gate-keeper, as Kareem had also referred to her), stormed into the kitchen, 5’0” tall, and a force of nature all of her own.

You bite back a smile.

Marion doesn’t acknowledge him beyond a flick of her wrist, too preoccupied with shaking her head in exasperation. – You won’t believe the morning I’ve been having. – She doesn’t wait for an invitation before pulling out a chair and sitting, arms crossed over the marble like she’s just lifted the world with her bare hands. – Rafe refuses to get up. Again. Do you know how long his room has been a disaster? Since Wednesday. I sent the maids up, but he won’t let anyone in. The smell alone— She shudders. – I went in myself just now, and the brat nearly threw a pillow at me.

You reach for the coffee pot, taking a cup from the cabinet, but Kareem pulls it from your hand. – Don’t give her this. – He mumbles, frowning and huffing under his breath. – That’s much more than she deserves.

You chuckle, taking the acrylic cup he shoves into your hand with a smile.

Marion goes on. – Are you listening to me, boy?!

– Yes, Marion. – He groans. And then, lower, – I think the people on the other side of the island could listen. – You can’t even help the laughter as he goes on. – What I’m hearing is that you walked into his room uninvited, and you got mad when he reacted?

Marion gasps, scandalized. – Excuse me?

Kareem shrugs, playing innocent. – Just making sure I understand the situation.

Her lips press together into a thin, disapproving line. – He’s acting like a child, Kareem.

He looks over at you again. – Who’s gonna tell her?

You glance up briefly, watching as she smooths a perfectly manicured hand over her pristine blazer. It’s not lost on you that she sees herself as above everyone else here, despite technically being just another employee. It’s in the way she orders Kareem around like he’s a butler, the way she perches in that chair like she owns the kitchen.

– Mr. Cameron won’t be happy about this, – she continues, shaking her head. – Honestly, you should be grateful, you know. – She gestures vaguely at you, you’re almost surprised she’s even seeing you. – That Rafe hasn’t come after you. He always gets the pretty ones fired.

– Uhm, – Your brain almost short-circuits. Compliment? Insult? General comment? You’ll never know. – Thank… you?

Her eyes suddenly go wide, and she straightens up on the chair as you put the mug in front of her. – Are you the new chef?

– Yes. Uhm, Routledge, ma’am.

She sighs with something like disappointment, but not quite. For a moment she almost seems pleased, but then she starts frowning again. – Good. He was asking about you.

– Mr. Cameron? – She raises a brow, the corners of her lips downturned. – Ma’am.

The woman relaxes the slightest bit as you refer to her by the proper title, and looks away, taking the coffee without even looking at you. – Well, of course. Rafe Cameron. He wants you to bring him a piece of pie, or some such thing.

Kareem looks at you, his brows knit together, his lips twisted into a strange grin.

– Uhm, ok. Me? Specifically?

– Is your name Routledge?!

– Yes, ma’am.

– Obviously, then.

Your hands still, grip tightening just slightly on the handle.

Kareem chuckles, bitter and Marion sighs dramatically. – I swear, it’s like he’s punishing everyone. For what, I don’t even know. He just sulks in there all day. And do you know what’s worst of all?

You force your voice to stay steady. – No. What?

She leans forward, as if sharing some great, horrible secret. – He’s not even drinking.

That catches you off guard. You blink, lifting your gaze fully now. – What?

Marion nods gravely, like this is the biggest offense of all. – Not a sip. Not since Wednesday. Not even sneaking anything. He’s just lying there, doing absolutely nothing. It’s unnatural.

– Why would he be drinking? It’s nine AM.

Kareem and Marion both scoff at that, a sharp, short bout of genuinely mocking laughter. – You don’t come around here a lot, do you girl?

You don’t know what to make of that question. And they don’t clarify anything beyond that comment.

Kareem places a cup of coffee in your hand, that same strange smile on his face as he raises a brow, taking a sip of his own. – Tragic, huh?

Marion sighs, taking a delicate sip before clicking her tongue. – I don’t have time for this nonsense. Rose has a book club event, or some such thing she needs me to organize. – She stands, smoothing out invisible wrinkles on her blazer before giving you one last glance. – Good luck with this girl.

And with that, she’s gone, leaving only the sharp scent of her perfume behind.

The kitchen is silent for a beat.

Then Kareem lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head. – Charming, right?

– I feel like a whirlwind just waltzed right over me.

– She has that gift. – He grumbles.

You swallow, trying to blink whatever the hell that was away. You have work to do. – I should get started on that egg benedict.

– Oh no, no, no, my dear. You’re going up to Rafe’s and you're bringing him that pie. I don’t need him coming here and fucking up my schedule.

– C’mon!

– Nope. Get to it.

You frown, lingering in the kitchen for a moment longer than necessary, wiping the counter and cutting the pie slowly, like you’re trying to delay your own execution.

You stare at the plate. At the pie. That’s all this is. Just delivering a damn piece of pie. You don’t know why this feels like such a chore.

Kareem watches you, one brow raised, his grin teetering between amusement and sympathy. – I don’t wanna interrupt your lingering gaze or whatever, but you should go ahead.

– I’m just— You hesitate. – Should I even go up there?

Kareem snorts. – Didn’t you hear what I just told you? If you don’t, he’ll just come down here, and I don’t want him here.

– Thanks a lot, Kareem. Great camaraderie. What happened to “we average each other’s misery?” Isn’t that what partners are for?

– When it comes to Rafe, the misery is all yours. – He says, looking over his shoulder with a smile. – Don’t act like you’re walking to the gallows, Routledge. It’s not gonna be that bad, you know he likes you.

– Excuse me?

– Oh, come on. – He laughs. – Wasn’t he the one sitting on this counter asking you to kiss his little boo-boo better?

– You sneaky little bastard! – You gasp and narrow your eyes, bumping his shoulder as you take yet another cup from the cabinet, setting it under the espresso machine.

– I didn’t mean to hear all of it, okay? I was having a hard enough time trying not to laugh. – Kareem only laughs, sipping from your cup, a smile still clear as day on his face. – He was pathetic. Ward was right, I don’t know how you didn’t punch him. God, I don’t think I ever heard Rafe say please. And I’ve worked here for years!

– You’re hilarious.

– C’mon, that was a little funny.

You take the espresso and the pie, setting it on a tray. – I hope your eggs benedict break before you even take it out.

He bursts out laughing, holding the door open for you. – However will I recover from such cruelty? – You sigh, rolling your eyes at him. – If you don’t come back in ten minutes, I’m still not going to save you.

– I will literally kill you with my bare hands.

– Sure you will.

The walk to Rafe’s room is quieter than it should be. The house, for all its size and grandeur, seems eerily still. There’s no sound of maids bustling around, no chatter echoing down the halls—just the faintest murmur of waves in the distance, the occasional creak of old wood beneath your careful steps. The small tray feels heavier in your hands the closer you get.

But before you can even step foot on the second floor, a pair of cold blue eyes settle on you, squeezing slightly as that same strange smile you’ve come to know so well blooms on his face again. – Miss Routledge.

You swallow, nodding respectfully. – Good morning, Mr. Cameron.

– What are you doing? – He eyes the tray in your hands with a certain amusement, his low careful steps still creaking against the floorboards as he approaches. – Coffee?

– Yes, uhm, espresso, actually. Rafe asked me to bring the pie up for him, I thought he’d want something to drink too.

Ward laughs softly, taking the mug. – Attentive. – He grins, sipping carefully, his eyes boring into yours. – Rafe doesn’t appreciate a good cup of coffee. He only likes things sweet.

The last words lands between you, much heavier than they should

You’re not sure what to make of that sentence. So you just nod, waiting for him to dismiss you. But he doesn’t, not just yet. – I’m surprised he’s even up this early. Rafe usually doesn’t get up until midday. He’s been changing a lot these last few days.

– Never too late for a change of habit, I guess.

– Damn right. – He sets the cup, half-drunk, on the tray again, his face unreadable. – That espresso was perfect. Kareem always makes it too strong.

– I’ll tell him that.

– No need. – He hums. – Maybe you can start bringing me my breakfast too.

– If you want to, sir.

Ward smiles, taking a single step to the side to let you through.

You nod and smile, keeping your head down, but just as you’re a couple steps ahead, the tray balanced on your arm, hand hovering over Rafe’s door, he stops you again: – You and your brother had a talk after you got home?

You freeze for a moment, looking back to see him standing there, with that same look. You know that stance: Casual tone, detective eyes. He’s measuring you.

You breathe in deep, keeping your face still and your voice level. – Yes, sir.

– And what did you tell him?

– To stop meddling in my work life or get a job of his own.

He doesn’t allow much, but you can see his stance soften the slightest bit—You never got much approval as a kid, so you could always see it from a mile away— Ward nods, that same way he did when he was talking to you in the kitchen yesterday. – Good girl. – You bristle at the words, but don’t let it show. He makes a move to turn around, but his eyes remain on you. – Off you go.

You stop outside the door. Knocking once.

Silence.

A flicker of hesitation surges through you. You can feel Ward's eyes on your back, the way he lingers at the end of the hall, not even pretending to do something else.

It unnerves you.

You think about leaving the tray at the door and walking away, but you know how unprofessional that is, and you can’t afford to give bad impressions. Not with these people.

You don’t wait much longer before pushing the door open, stepping into a space that feels separate from the rest of the house, like it belongs to another world entirely. The air is heavy, stale, the curtains drawn, the light filtering in muted and dull. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, to pick out the details—clothes draped over furniture, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, the faint scent of salt and sweat and something unmistakably Rafe lingering in the air.

He lays at the edge of the bed, almost hanging off the corner, and though he breathes in and out heavily, nothing else escapes him as the bed creaks beneath his weight.

The sound sends you back to that phone call.

The sighing, the groans, the words.

You shudder, and swallow, approaching with quiet steps. Ward’s espresso trembles lightly but doesn’t spill as you lay the tray flat on your right hand, moving the things on his bedside with your left.

He shifts slightly at the sound of your footsteps, humming low in his throat. – Baby, – He whispers, content, a lazy smile on his face. – Knew you’d come.

You smile at him, setting the tray down on his nightstand. – You asked for pie. Marion said you threw a pillow at her.

He chuckles, nodding. – Mmm. – The sound stretches, and Rafe shifts again, finally turning his head to look at you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused in a way that makes you wonder if he’s half-asleep or just playing at it. – Had a dream about you.

– Did you? Was it a nightmare?

He laughs again, shaking his head, eyes drifting shut again as his hand trails down to his stomach, the motion lingering too long, too weirdly, that same strange smile on his face. – Was nice. Real nice.

There’s something vaguely suggestive in the way he says it, but it’s faint—just enough that your brain doesn’t fully process it before he’s tugging at your wrist, pulling you closer. – Sit.

You hesitate. – Rafe—

– I don’t feel so good. – His grip tightens just slightly, enough to make it clear he isn’t letting go until you comply. You sigh, lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed. He immediately leans into you, head pressing against your side, arms wrapping loosely around your waist. His body is warm—too warm. – Think I have a fever, – He mumbles, voice dipping into something almost pitiful. – Check for me?

He pulls you close before you can protest, pouting, almost pleading. You lift a hand to his forehead. His skin is warm, clammy, but not alarmingly so. He covers your hand with his own, holding it there before you can pull away.

– It's a good thing that the witch didn't send someone else. – He mutters, eyes flicking up to meet yours. – It'd be just like her to call Rose just to piss me off. – He groans, thumb stroking the back of your hand slowly. – Like she would do anything. I could be dying on this bed and it still wouldn't matter to them.

– Don't say that.

– It's the truth. – His eyes burn into yours. – These people don't care about me, baby.

– These people are your family, Rafe. Of course they care about you.

He scoffs, and his grip loosens just enough for him to shift again, this time sliding down until his head rests against your lap.

– Rafe, I have to—

– Just for a minute, baby. Please. – His sigh is soft, almost content, and he takes your hand, guiding it into his hair before you can react. – Touch me, – He murmurs. – Brush your fingers through my hair like you do. My head hurts so bad, baby. I barely slept tonight.

Your chest tightens.

Sometimes you wish you weren’t such a softie.

Your fingers twitch against his scalp, hesitating. This isn’t new. Rafe is always too much—too sharp, too reckless, too angry. And the way he switches around you, like this, like he’s someone else entirely, will never cease to give you whiplash. But he looks at you so pleadingly, so softly, those big blue eyes of his so pitiful you almost want to hold him, and you can’t say no.

He pulls at your hand, like you're a doll, like you exist for no other reason than to serve him. Still, you brush your fingers through his hair. Just once.

His breath hitches, that lazy smile softening into something quieter, something almost innocent. He shifts again, curling up against you, his fingers wrapping around the hem of your shirt. – Don’t stop, – He murmurs.

You roll your eyes but keep running your fingers through his hair, slow, rhythmic. – You do feel a little warm. What else are you feeling?

He hums, eyes slipping shut, the tension in his body melting away bit by bit. – My throat is scratchy. My head is pounding. My whole body feels like cement.

– You poor thing.

Rafe hums at your words, a soft, indulgent sound that makes your stomach twist. He shifts again, pressing his face further into your stomach, like he’s trying to burrow into you.

– I hate being sick, – He murmurs, voice turning smaller, almost pitiful. – Feels like I can’t do anything. Like I’m useless.

You sigh, fingers still threading through his hair, and you know—you know—this is exactly what he wants. That little flicker of sympathy, the way your touch has softened, how you haven’t pushed him away yet. He’s milking it. But damn him, he’s good at it.

– You’re not useless, – You murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. – You just need to rest.

Rafe makes another one of those pleased little sounds. His fingers curl around the hem of your shirt, barely gripping, just enough that you can feel the heat of them on your skin. – Stay a little longer?

You hesitate.

He tilts his head up slightly, blue eyes peering up at you, half-lidded and pleading, a perfect picture of vulnerability. – Just for a minute, baby, – He whispers. – Feels better when you’re here.

Your lips part, a retort forming on your tongue, but then he exhales, slow and steady, and you realize he’s not just playing anymore—he’s settling into you, like he could stay here forever.

You sigh, glancing at the untouched tray on his nightstand. – I’ll stay while you eat, – You say, keeping your voice firm. – But just for that. I have to work.

Rafe doesn’t argue. He just hums, pleased, nuzzling into you once more before finally —finally— pulling back. His movements are slow, languid, like he’s dragging himself out of some dream.

His eyes land on the tray, and the lazy smile flickers into something more satisfied. – You brought me coffee?

– You asked for pie. I figured you’d want something to go with it. – He smiles, reaching for the cup. – But, Rafe your—

He’s sipping before you can warn him, his eyes peeking at you from beyond the ceramic rim of the cup just like his dad did.

Rafe hums again, sitting up properly now. His hands find your waist for just a second as he puts the cup down, like he’s steadying himself—like he needs you to steady him—before he lets go, stretching with a groan. His shirt rides up slightly, the sharp lines of his stomach peeking out before he drops his arms and reaches for the tray. – It's still hot. – He smiles. You don’t let yourself linger on the irony. – You made this one, didn't you? Kareem always makes it way too strong. And he doesn’t put any sugar.

You can’t help the chuckle. – I’ll bring you some sugar next time.

He smiles, taking the plate and leaning it on his knee. You don’t miss the way his fingers tremble slightly as he picks up the fork. The way he glances at you, like he’s waiting for you to notice.

You sigh again, softer this time. – What?

– You could feed me. – He grins, almost hopeful.

You scoff. – You’re getting real spoiled, Rafe.

He laughs, all the happier as he watches you reach for the fork, slicing off a small piece of pie and holding it out. He just watches you, something unreadable in his gaze, before leaning forward and taking a bite.

Your breath catches for a second.

You don’t know why.

It’s nothing. Just Rafe being Rafe.

But the way he hums, like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, the way he holds your hand as he leans in, his lips barely brushing against the utensil before he pulls back—it feels like something else entirely.

– Good? – You ask, keeping your voice level.

He grins, still chewing. – So good, baby.

Of course he says it like that. You shake your head, handing him the fork. – Eat.

Rafe chuckles, but does as he’s told.

Your eyes catch his lips as he chews. His eyes are heavy, his smile is glad, but you see the familiar watercolor of black and blue forming on his skin, reaching for him before you can stop yourself.

Rafe doesn’t even flinch as your hands ghost over the bruise on his jaw. If anything, he leans into it.

– Does it hurt?

– It'll hurt a lot less after you kiss it. – Your face drops. You try and pull back your hand, but he holds it in place, laughing with a delight you will never understand. – I don’t know why you even bother to pretend you don’t like it. You kiss me every time I ask.

You scoff. – I never said I don’t like kissing you, Rafe. I just don't like kissing you when I’m at work. Which reminds me—

He pulls your hand a little harder now as you stand. Eyes wide and pleading. – No, no. C’mon, I'm sorry, okay? Don't go, baby, please.

– You don’t need to apologize. I'm not going because of anything you did, I just have to go because Kareem needs my help.

Rafe scoffs, pulling you tighter, and closer, until you’re close enough that he can lean his head on your waist and squeeze you in his arms. – Kareem is a bitch. – You make a noise of protest, trying to pull away, but he keeps you in place. – And that’s rich coming from you. The apology thing. For every ten words you say one of them is an apology.

– One in every ten? – You chuckle. – Pulling out the statistics now, huh? I didn’t know you were a mathematician.

Rafe laughs, the sound resounding against your skin as he presses his face closer to you. – I’m nothing if not a man of the sciences, baby.

– Whatever you say, Norman Osborn. – You thread your fingers through his hair again, soft, slow, just enough that you can feel him relax under your touch.

You shouldn’t like it.

The way he melts at whatever crumb of affection you give him.

The way he clings and pulls and holds like he can’t bear for you not to be touching him.

The way he sighs at every touch.

Because you’ve been here before. And it never ends well for you.

But still you let him hold you, stroking his hair. And when he pulls away, looking at you with those big expectant eyes, the question already on his lips, you kiss him before he can beg. You revel in the way he clings to you as you move your lips against his, gently, barely a whisper of a touch, afraid you’ll hurt him.

And for a moment, Rafe matches you.

He sighs, and his lips part, but he kisses you back just as softly, moving against you almost temptatively. His hands stay still, barely resting on your waist, letting you set the pace. He exhales a slow, content sigh through his nose, his fingers pressing into your sides just slightly, like he’s savoring the moment.

It feels nice.

Not too much, not too fast, just nice.

And maybe that’s why you don’t stop him when his hands start moving.

It’s gradual—so gradual that you barely register the shift. The way his grip tightens, how his fingers start grasping at you instead of just resting against your skin. The way his breathing picks up, shallow, uneven. Then his lips part again, and suddenly the kiss isn’t soft anymore.

Rafe’s hands settle under your ribs, pressing against you so tightly you can barely breathe. His mouth moves over yours more hungrily now, lips parting, head tilting, like he’s trying to consume you. A low, satisfied hum escapes him, his fingers dragging up your spine, tangling into your hair like he’s claiming you.

And God, the way he clings to you—it’s like he’s starving, like he’s been deprived of something.

His hand slides down, over your sides, around your hips, fingers gripping at your thigh, trying to pull you onto his lap.

So you pull away.

Rafe makes a wounded noise, low in his throat, chasing after your lips before his eyes even open. His hands won’t let go, his fingers flexing against you, as if he’s trying to coax you back into his arms.

– Rafe, – You breathe, voice steadier than you feel. – You're gonna hurt yourself.

His eyes blink open, already searching for another way to pull you back in. His lips are red parted, breath coming out fast, and the bruise looks darker, larger, enough that your heart skips a beat.

– Shit. – Rafe lets your hands flutter towards the discolored skin, he lets you touch him softly, staring at the way you frown with a breathless smile. – Jesus. Look at you. I'm so sorry.

– There you go again. – He chuckles, hands back at your waist, pulling you in again. – I’m fine baby, I’m not made out of glass. – He murmurs with a smile, but when you stop him, he looks up at you like you’ve just taken something vital away from him.

You look at the door, counting how much time you’ve already wasted. Rafe groans, his fingers tightening around your chin and pulling you back, like a petulant child who can’t bear not to be paid attention to. You laugh, smoothing back his hair. – I have to go.

– No you don’t. Lay down with me for a minute, c’mon. – He murmurs, his voice wrecked, like he’s the one suffering. – Kiss me again. Just—just one more time.

You shake your head, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. He just leans in again, lips barely ghosting over yours, voice dropping into something dangerously soft.

– Please?

– I’ll come back later.

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, but then he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow, lingering, his breath fanning against your skin. Another, just beneath your jaw. Then lower, nuzzling into the space where your neck meets your shoulder, lips barely brushing against the skin there.

You shudder, and he feels it. – Is this where you like it? – He murmurs, triumphant, like he finally got something he can use against you. He’s already leaning in to kiss you again when you push him away.

– You’ll have to find that out another time. – You exhale sharply, untangling his arms from around you before he can try to stop you, and taking the plate, the cup, the tray. – Try to sleep again, you’ll feel better.

– I’d feel a lot better if you weren’t abandoning me.

You laugh out loud, hiding behind your hand as you push him back down onto the pillow. – How could I be so cruel?

– This isn’t funny, okay? I’m being serious. I’m sick and you’re gonna leave me here, all alone? – He eyes you, disapproving. – What if I choke?

– You’re not gonna choke.

– You don’t know that.

– Yeah, I do. You’re not gonna choke, because, you’re gonna lay on your side— You pull at his shoulder softly, until he does as you say, watching you with that same disappointed look as you adjust his pillow. – there you go. Officially choke-proof. Get some sleep.

He’s quiet for a moment, letting you pat his shoulder and kiss his eye, letting you step away, but just as your hand hovers over the doorknob, he speaks again:

– Why were you with Barry earlier?

You don’t even know why you let yourself forget it. The way he looked at the two of you from his window, the way his eyes sharpened as you let Barry step away.

You knew he was gonna bring this up.

You knew he was gonna ambush you.

So you sigh, looking over your shoulder as your hand remains, steady, on the brass doorknob. – Can we talk about this later?

– I wanna talk about it now.

– Rafe—

– You slept at his place? – He cuts in, just the ghost of an edge on his voice. – Is that how much you hate your brother? That you would go to Barry's place just to avoid him? Even after what he did?

– I don’t hate my brother, and I didn’t sleep at Barry's place. He came to apologize, and he was too drunk to drive so he stayed over.

– He wasn’t too drunk to get over there. – He says, sharp, too sharp for someone who just a moment ago had been so drowsy. – He slept with you.

– He slept next to me.

Rafe scoffs, looking away, smiling bitterly at the ceiling. – I bet he tried. – He mumbles. – Did he take you to that bar, the one in the Cut with all those weird irish people?

– What are you talking about?

– You know that's where he goes to pick up girls, right? He wanted to sleep with you!

– I didn't sleep with him, and we didn't go to any bars. He was drunk. We talked and fell asleep, that’s all. Why do you even care about this?

Rafe’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans back on his elbows, looking at you like he’s thinking way too hard about something that should be simple.

And something in him shifts.

Slowly, he sits up again, walking towards you. His hand finds your wrist—not grabbing, just tracing his fingers over your pulse like he’s absentminded, like he’s bored.

– You really spent the whole night with him? – His voice is light, almost playful, but you can hear the edge underneath it.

You sigh. – Rafe—

– No, I just… – He tilts his head, watching you. – I guess I don’t get it.

– Get what?

His lips twitch like he’s about to grin, but he doesn’t, he looks bothered, like he has something bitter in his mouth. – How you weren’t bored out of your mind.

– What? – You roll your eyes, but before you can speak, his fingers tighten slightly around your wrist—not hard, just enough to keep you here.

– I mean, really, baby, c’mon. – He exhales, shaking his head like he feels bad for you. – Barry? – His lips curl like the name itself tastes bitter. – You know he’s not half as fun as me.

You almost laugh, shaking your head. – What are you even talking about?

– No, it’s fine, – He cuts in, like he’s just thinking out loud now. – Maybe you like being bored. Maybe that’s the problem.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

You’re actually perplexed.

There is no path in the road of rational thought that could ever lead to the conclusion he got to. You don’t know whether he’s mocking you or if the sickness actually got to his head.

Rafe sees it, feels it, and that’s when he really grins, but there’s no joy to it. He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Then he leans in, voice dropping lower. – That’s it, isn’t it? – His fingers trail up your arm now, slow, barely touching. – You're tired of me. That's it.

– What?

His face darkens, and he looks away, laughing bitterly.

– Rafe, that’s not—

He exhales sharply, looking away like he’s already heard enough. His fingers slip from your wrist, dragging down your arm like he’s letting you go. Letting you leave.

– Never mind, – He mutters.

The change is instant. The teasing, the smugness—it’s gone. Now he just looks… defeated.

You hesitate, shifting on your feet. – Rafe.

He shakes his head. – No, I get it, – he says, voice quieter now. – You don’t have to explain.

Your stomach twists. – Where did you even get that from—

– I just thought you liked being around me, – He cuts in, and fuck, his voice wavers just slightly, just enough to make something inside you crack. – But if you need space you could’ve just said so.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Because what are you supposed to say to that?

Rafe sighs again, rubbing his jaw. His fingers graze the bruise there, and for the first time since you walked in, he actually looks as tired as he claimed to be.

And suddenly, you feel awful.

– I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I'm not tired of you, Rafe. – You say, soft, reassuring. – You know that.

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. – Do I?

You frown, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. – Rafe.

He looks up at you then, and God, his eyes—wide, glassy, wounded.

You hate it.

You hate that he looks at you like that, like you’ve hurt him, like you’ve done something wrong.

So you sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed again, and putting the things on the nightstand just like before. – Don’t do this. – You murmur, smoothing your hand over his hair. He almost pulls away, but then he leans in, exhaling, like he can’t stop himself. – I'm not tired of you. I could never get tired of you. You're a person, Rafe. Not a toy.

Rafe doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you, his eyes widening again. Then, just as quickly as he pulled away, he shifts closer, tucking his head against your chest, arms wrapping around your waist, clinging. – Really?

His eyes are glassy, his voice cracks.

– Don’t play around, you know I’m serious. I’m not tired of you.

He burrows in closer, grasping, heaving. – God, yeah. Yeah. – He nods, rapidly, incessantly, the movement rough against your skin, like he’s breaking down. – Sometimes I forget. I’m sorry, baby. I keep forgetting.

– What? What are you talking about?

– That you’re not like them. – He sighs, and there’s so much relief, like you've lifted a weight off his shoulders. Like he can finally breathe. – That you’re good. That you’re not cruel. That you actually care about me.

– Rafe—

– You care about me. – He repeats. You no longer know whether he’s speaking to you or to himself, trying to get it through his brain. – You do, and you would never abandon me. You wouldn’t. Right?

His grip tightens around you, fingers pressing into your back like he’s afraid you’ll slip through them.

You hesitate. Because this—all of this—feels eerily familiar. But the way he’s looking at you now, wide-eyed and raw, makes it impossible to leave.

He’s backed you into a corner, and you have no choice but to open your arms.

– Of course not. – You murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him. – I wouldn’t, Rafe. We're in this together now, okay? You can't get rid of me now.

Rafe exhales, shuddering, pressing himself closer to you. Like you just saved him. Like you just fixed something inside him. – Yeah. – He nods again, rapidly, like he’s convincing himself now. – Yeah, I know, baby. I know you wouldn’t.

His fingers flex against your back, and for a second, he just holds you there, silent.

Then, quietly—soft, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear it—

– I don’t think I could take it.

Your stomach twists.

Because it’s too soon.

It's too much.

It's too fast.

But that’s normal, right? He's not used to it. To being cared for. To being looked after. To being heard. The way you met was so weird and intense and overwhelming for him. A brush against death, one that he's convinced himself you saved him from. How could he be anything other than too much? How could he feel ever “normal” about this?

You know you don’t.

You attached too fast, too deeply. You can’t even see him hurt without thinking he's dying all over again. So of course he's weird about it.

You're weird about it.

Right?

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because what do you say to that?

What do you say when he’s wrapped around you like this, when he’s breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him here?

You just let him hold you.

And when he sighs again, nuzzling deeper into your chest, you feel it—the way his body finally relaxes, the way his grip loosens just enough to let you breathe, the way he hums, content, satisfied.

Like he’s won.

Like he knew you’d stay all along.

You exhale, threading your fingers through his hair. – Just lay down, okay Rafe? Get some rest.

– I'm fine. – He sniffles, but he looks at you, and he looks shattered.

– Please. Lay down for me, can you do that?

He hums, already relaxing, already settling. But as you move to lay him down, adjusting him against the pillows, his arms only tighten around you. – Lay down with me.

He pleads.

Like he still thinks you might disappear.

Like he needs to hold you.

You sigh again, letting your hand run soothingly down his back. – Rafe.

– Just for a minute, baby. Then you can go. – Rafe whispers, pressing his face closer, his voice barely above a whisper when he finally speaks. – Just don’t get tired of me.

You swallow hard. – I won’t.

You lay down next to him, settling on the pillows.

His arms pull you closer.

Not gently, not like he’s worried about hurting you—desperately. Like he was just waiting for you to give in, like now that you have, he’s going to make sure you can’t take it back.

His face presses against your collarbone, breath warm against your skin. His hands—broad, steady, greedy—slide under your shirt, but it isn’t heated, like it was before, just needy. He spreads his palm flat against your back, holding you there like he needs to feel you.

Like he needs proof that you’re real.

And you exhale, letting your fingers drift through his hair again, slow, soothing.

Rafe hums, the sound low, content. Then—just barely, just enough for you to notice—this weird sound escapes him. A hum. Maybe a huff, maybe a sigh, but it sounds like a laugh.

Your fingers still for a second.

– …What?

– Nothing, baby. – He sniffs, his voice thick with exhaustion, but you feel his smile against your skin. – Just—you’re so fucking nice to me.

Rafe grins, you can feel his smile against the sliver of skin your shit allows, and his free hand comes up, to your collarbone, to your tattoo, burrowing closer.

You don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

Slowly, his breathing evens out. His grip on you stays tight—like even in sleep, he doesn’t trust you not to leave—but you feel his body fully relax against yours, the tension melting out of him.

You should leave.

You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you just lay there, fingers still threading through his hair, listening to his steady breathing, feeling the weight of him against you.

Because if he wakes up and you’re gone, what will he do?

Because if you leave, and he spirals again, and something happens—

No.

You don’t want to think about that.

So you stay.

Just for a little longer.

Just until you’re sure he’s really asleep.

You find yourself sneaking away from him as his breath weighs heavy. Taking the things from the nightstand like you're stealing. Fixing yourself in the mirror like you've done something wrong.

When you get to the door, you can’t help but look over your shoulder, making sure you’re safe, making sure he’s still asleep, like you used to do with your dad when he drank too much.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine, and you shake your head, as if to get the memory off of you, steps growing hasty as you climb down the steps, rushing to the kitchen.

The tray knocks softly against the counter, and you take the plates out thoughtlessly, running them under the sink, washing them obsessively, the stains on the plate, on the cup, on you, too risky to leave unattended.

– Hey! – Kareem’s voice echoes from behind you. You look over your shoulder. He’s disheveled, voice breathy. Way too surprised to see you. – Took you a while.

You focus on scrubbing, the foam of the espresso lingering on the ceramic. – Yeah, uhm. Rafe’s sick.

– Jesus. He didn’t puke on you, did he?

You pause, the perfect lie having just fallen on your lap. You stare at the sponge on your hand, unable to look Kareem in the eye. – Not on me. He was really sick though. Took me a while to get him to eat after that. Took me even longer to get him to sleep.

He laughs, but the sound is rushed. He’s shifting around on his feet. – You’re too nice, Routledge. I would’ve left him there. He would’ve choked on his own sick if it were up to me.

You shudder, shaking your head.

You’re back at Barry’s, laying on the ground, Rafe wretching as you hold him steady. You keep shaking your head until the image goes away. – Why are you doing that? Just put it in the dishwasher.

– Oh. – You look beside you, a perfectly good washer merely feet away. – I always forget people have those. I’m already halfway done.

– It’s okay, just leave it there. – There’s a noise behind you, steps. You look over, but Kareem interrupts your train of thought. – So! Uhm, you’ll never guess.

– What?

– Mr. Cameron came down here, when I was already one with the egg benedict, halfway through the hollandaise, with the bacon already on the skillet, and he told me he’s not gonna have any breakfast.

You chuckle, trying to pull yourself into the conversation. – How considerate of him.

– Right? Such a sweet man. – He takes the plate from the counter behind him, still lingering too close, like he’s blocking you, trying to keep you from running. You shake your head again. You’re acting paranoid. Kareem’s just being sweet. – Here you go. Left some for you, you look hungry.

– Feeding the orphans? I didn’t know you were charitable like that. – He chuckles, almost fooled by your normalcy. – What else do we have to do now, what are these people’s ridiculously specific breakfast orders?

– Uhm, none. Rose doesn’t eat breakfast, Sarah’s not here, Rafe’s already been fed and the only thing Wheezie ever eats is cereal, so we’re off the hook. We can just hang around, plan out the other meals and eat scraps like the dogs we are.

– Scraps are for the strays, my friend. Purebreds like you get full meals, especially in houses like this.

He raises a brow, unimpressed, unamused. – Ha-ha. Very funny.

– Thank you, comedy is my passion.

He shakes his head, and reaches for some paper, already getting you started on the prep. You’re glad for his practicality.

You let yourself sink into the routine.

Anything to keep your mind busy.

The hours pass in a blur of tasks—chopping, prepping, cleaning, planning, moving like you’re on autopilot. Your hands work faster than your thoughts, you like it that way. Every time you stop for too long, something creeps back in—the weight of Rafe’s arms around you, the way he sighed into your skin, the way he smiled against you.

So you don’t stop.

You joke with Kareem, toss out your sarcastic remarks, keep up the easy banter like it’s just another day. And he laughs, calls you a saint for dealing with Rafe every time he calls you up for something menial, rolls his eyes when you dodge his questions about why you took so long.

And for the most part, it works.

It works when you’re plating dishes, when you’re folding napkins, when you’re bickering with Kareem over the right way to season something.

It only falters in the quiet moments.

When you wipe down the counters and catch yourself scrubbing too hard, like you’re trying to wash something invisible off your hands. When you zone out in the pantry, staring at the shelves but not really seeing them. When you hear the faintest creak from upstairs and your stomach flips before you even realize what you’re reacting to.

But you shake it off. You force yourself to.

Before you know it, the day is gone.

The kitchen is clean, tomorrow’s meals are planned, and the only thing left is the quiet hum of the fridge and the last few scraps Kareem keeps picking at.

You exhale, leaning against the counter, forcing yourself to feel normal.

Because everything’s fine.

Right?

You leave Kareem again as he puts away the last of the shopping in its right, labeled place, and you drift back up to Rafe’s room, standing at the door, listening to his steady breathing, forcing yourself to feel at ease.

But you’re not.

You’re not as you close the door. You’re not as you climb down the steps. You’re not as you stand in the driveway, calling Barry for the second time as you wave goodbye to Kareem.

You’re once again staring out into the street, pondering whether to walk or call someone else when you hear a familiar rumble. In the distance, in the surprisingly dim light of the suburbs, you glimpse the red and yellow paint job of Barry’s— actually Rafe’s— bike.

He pulls over slowly, coming to a stop on the asphalt right before you, wearing a jacket you’ve never seen before, and no shoes.

– What’s up with you, Ghost Rider? Just come back from a rave or something? Whose clothes did you steal? – You’re chuckling to yourself, but your heart’s not in it, you’re still looking over your shoulder as you stand there, waiting for him to take off his helmet, for him to say something, do something. But he doesn’t. He stays there, hands clutching the handlebars, staring forward, without saying a word. – Bee? Jesus, what happened now? Are you okay?

You’re getting shifty. Something's wrong, you can feel it.

Your hand is shaking as you lay it on your best friend’s shoulder, silently pleading that he look at you, say something to you, just give you a sign that he’s alive. But he just turns away.

You hear a light scoff, the sound muddled under the heavy helmet.

– Barry, for fuck’s sakes, just say something, this ghostface act is freaking me out! – He laughs again, just as bitter. – Barry!

He flips the visor, looking back at you with nothing but scorn in his eyes. But these aren’t Barry’s eyes. These eyes are blue.

You step back, shaking more than you can hide. – Where—What— You keep mumbling, but the words don’t come out. You don’t even know what you want to say.

You want to run. You want to hide.

But when you step away again, this person’s hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, and he wrings you closer, nails digging into your arms. – Get off of me. Get off— You want to scream, but it comes out as a whisper. You’re backing up, your voice hoarse in your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears, and then your eyes catch it.

Right under the collar of his shirt, just underneath the collarbone. The same letters that are engraved into your skin. The same words in the same place.

He lets go of you, watching you stumble back so desperately you fall, seated, onto the grass, and only then does he take the helmet off.

You see his hair before you see his face. The mess of blonde strands that spill out from under the cushioned helmet. But not the usual mess, the mess you’d expect from JJ, the mess he gets whenever he wears a helmet.

It’s a very specific chaos. The sort he gets when he runs his hands through his hair so much he starts tearing it out.

– So it’s true, huh? – JJ’s voice is a blade, a blunt one, it beats you before it can cut. – When John B said it, I couldn’t believe it. I thought you’d never do that. You’d never be so fucking stupid.

– JJ—

– No. – He barely refrains from screaming it, looking away, his fingers clenched so tight around the plastic visor you see his knuckles pale. – You’re not gonna do this to me again! There’s nothing you can say to me right now. Nothing!

– Barry— Where— Your voice dies in your throat. You’re trembling. You don’t know why. You don’t know how, but you can’t stop it.

– Barry doesn’t fucking matter, get on the bike. – You try to swallow, you shake your head, but he doesn’t let you. He reaches forward, grabbing you by the arm again. – Get on the fucking bike right now!

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire

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gold-onthe-inside · 18 hours ago

Text

with love, from reid

who? spencer reid (s8) x blake!reader summary: after a case ruins spencer's carefully planned valentine's date, he does his best to make up for it. but all you needed was him. and all the gifts in the world are nothing compared to yours. word count: 3.3k based on: Valentine’s Day Request - Spencer and his partner are separated for Valentines Day (maybe he went to go visit his mom or he was on a special assignment like in Minimal Loss and a storm grounded flights) but he uses every method possible to give his partner the most amazing Valentines Day ever. a/n: i'm so sorry for sitting on this request forever, but inspiration struck today i guess. hope you like it anon.

Spencer’s not like other guys. It’s the mantra you have to keep using to keep your head on straight. But being cheated on by someone you had been about to marry changes your whole perspective on things. Makes it harder to trust, even the most angelic man you’ve ever met. You have to take a deep breath every time he gets a call from JJ or Penelope, have to remind yourself that there’s a valid reason for every missed date, every morning you wake up without him. Because it’s scary how much you like him, how often you think about him.

The scarce amount of time you both get makes the little moments more important, and he knows it. In his head, he’s been building it up, down to the cardigan he would wear on the 14th. He’s calculated the exact amount of time it takes to get from Quantico to your hospital, chosen a restaurant within walking distance — something right up your alley with exotic food and a quiet atmosphere. He knows how many footsteps it’ll take to get there, how many topics you can cover, all of it, down to miniscule details. The flower arrangements that would wait for you both. The menu he had memorised in his head, knowing exactly what you would order. The average time it would take for you both to finish eating while talking. The train back to his apartment, where your favourite movie would be waiting.

If only he could control this unsub the same way. But they were no closer to finding the unsub on the 13th as they were two days ago. He’d been putting off the call all day, staring at his phone until Alex had pointed it out, unravelling the first stitch of his sealed lips. The seam split and he told her everything — the date he’d planned, the flowers he’d bought in advance, the reservation that was waiting for you. He receives the pat on the knee he’d been expecting from Alex, the promise that you’d be understanding (who would know better than her, really?), and her stern voice telling him to call you.

You can hear the regret in his voice when he calls, the tired fatigue that makes you smile sympathetically. “Did you get home okay?” he asked, scuffing the back of his sneakers against the floor, standing right outside the precinct, stars glittering above him, much brighter in Tennessee than in DC. It’s a whole nother date on his bucket list — going star-gazing with you.

“Yeah, just now,” you replied, and he can see you in his mind’s eye, taking off your boots and neatly arranging them in your rack, keys in a clay dish that an 8 year old had made for you, the crick in your neck that he wants to massage for you. “How about you? Any closer to finding your strangler?”

“No,” he huffs, leaning against the railing. There’s a slight chill in the air, but he can’t feel it, not right now. He just wants to hear your voice. “But that’s not important — I just wanted to make sure you made it home safe.”

You huffed a small laugh, and he can hear you bustling around over the call, maybe changing into your pyjamas, or hunting for ingredients to make a quick dinner for one, and a frustrated ache builds behind his eyes. He wants to be there, with you, listening to old jazz music and making dinner and small talk. “I think I’m in less danger than the FBI agent hunting down a serial killer, honey.”

“You’re always in less danger than I am,” he grumbles, the beginnings of a smile playing at his lip. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back and picturing the dimly lit kitchen in your apartment, the scent of spices and the warmth of old vinyl records. “I miss you,” he confesses in a soft, almost broken tone.

He hears you pause, a palpable beat passing before you murmured, “I miss you too.”

“I wish I could be there,” he says. He wants to run a hand down your back, trace his knuckles over your cheek to feel the softness of your skin. “I had a whole night planned for us tonight.”

"I know, lovely," you murmured, leaning on the kitchen counter, phone pressed to your ear. "There'll be other nights."

He sighs. He hates having to cancel on you, especially now, when they’re already so rare. “Not like this one,” he mutters, and he knows you can probably tell by his tone that he’s pouting like a child.

“Why, because tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day?” you asked, talking while making a quick pasta.

He’s quiet for a second. Then — “Yes,” he admits in a near-whine. “It was going to be a special night.”

"Spence... Every day is Valentine's Day with you," you said, knowing exactly how cheesy you sound and running with it anyway.

Spencer’s just grateful you can’t see his face right now, because he knows he’s blushing a little, that he has an adorably smitten smile on his lips and he’s sure it would only embarrass him if you could see. “Sap,” he accuses lovingly.

"Said the man who collects ticket stubs of every movie we see," you retorted, grinning into the phone.

He sputters. “That’s — that’s — you’re not supposed to know about those,” he complained. “I keep those for myself, they’re a private collection for a reason.“

“Wow, what happened to what’s yours is mine?” you teased him, watching the pasta boil, and Christ, you felt like a lovestruck teenager right now, like those sickly sweet couples in Hallmark movies.

“That’s — there’s exceptions to that rule,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t you dare touch those. I’ve sorted them in chronological order, by the way — if one is out of place, I’ll know it was you messing around, looking over my things.”

You laughed into the phone, bright even with how tired you felt, because he brought it out of you, a glowing feeling in your chest that made the ache in your feet hurt a little less. It’s a sound that never fails to make his heart skip — the softest, most wonderful noise he’s ever heard. “I wish I was there,” he says again, his voice suddenly quiet and heavy with want.

"I know," you said quietly, watching the water grow cloudy as your pasta cooks. "But those women need you more than I do right now, Spence."

“Stop using logic on me,” he says, only half-joking, his expression serious even though you can’t see it. “I want to be selfish with you tonight.”

"Sweetheart, you don't have a selfish bone in your body," you replied affectionately.

“It’s not fair,” he complains, still playing the part of the pouting child in his mind, just whining and grumpy because he wants to be with you. “I was going to give you flowers, and take you out to dinner, and I was going to drive you home and kiss you so much—”

"We can still do that," you said, cutting him off before he could fill your head with ideas and then you could say goodbye to sleeping peacefully tonight.

“Not tomorrow,” he says. He’s almost definitely pouting right now, staring down at the pavement, his eyes dark under his lashes. “And it’s only Valentine’s once a year, I wanted it to be perfect.”

You fretted as you turned the gas off, putting off straining the pasta as you turned into the phone. “Why’s this so important to you, angel?” you asked softly.

It’s one of the things he loves about you — the gentleness with which you handle him, the way you ooze with care and curiosity instead of coddling concern. “This is our first Valentine’s,” he replies, slightly petulant. “And I wanted it to be good. Something you could look back on. I had it all planned out.”

Christ, you could cry with how much Spencer cared about you. You couldn’t remember anyone, boyfriend or not, who loved you this much. “You know it would’ve been perfect, regardless, right?” you asked gently. “You and me, that’s all I need. Even if it’s over a phone line.”

He’s quiet for a moment, just listening to you speak. “You deserve the best,” he says eventually. “You deserve flowers. And an elegant restaurant. And a movie. And a home cooked meal.” And me, he wants to add, but he doesn’t. “Not a phone call and the knowledge that your boyfriend is across the country.”

"Sweetheart, I get all of that from you even when it isn't Valentine's," you said, in that same gentle tone. "Besides, I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you were here when you could be catching a killer."

“Why do you have to be reasonable?” Spencer groaned, rubbing a hand over his face again because you’re being entirely too logical for him to fight with right now. “That’s not fair.”

You chuckled, crossing your arms and leaning on the counter. "We'll have a make-up date, I promise," you said. "Just how you planned it."

That seems to pacify him a little bit, because he lets out a soft sigh. “Okay,” he agrees, slightly begrudgingly. “But I’m in charge of planning. You don’t get a say in the matter.”

You fake a tsk, as if planning mattered at all to you. "Fine. Whatever you decide."

That makes a soft, contented sound form in his throat — one bordering on possessive. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and you can all but envision the smirk on his lips.

"Go find your killer," you chided him, grinning stupidly, but there's no bite in it.

He lets out an amused huff. “Yes ma’am,” he teases, before his tone softens again. “I miss you. I’ll try to come home as soon as I can, okay?”

"Okay," you replied. "Stay safe, please."

“I will,” he promises, because he knows how much the thought of him getting hurt scares you. “Don’t worry about me.”

You snorted quietly, like it was possibly to not worry about him on cases. "Bye."

“Bye,” he responds quietly, and he wishes he could kiss you goodbye, trace the line of your lips with his fingers and feel the pulse in your neck against his fingers. “Sweet dreams.”

"You too," you whispered before hanging up. Spencer stands there for another moment after the call ends, his phone still in his hand and his heart heavy, and he wonders if it’s possible for someone to actually ache from missing someone this much.

And then Morgan’s calling him inside with his newly minted nickname since dating you — ‘lover boy’ — to adjust the geographic profile and he’s unwillingly dragged back into the vortex that is his job. And he has to shove any thoughts of you to the back of his mind for the time being, the lingering ache at the edge of his chest a constant, nagging thing that he has to continuously push past to focus on the case.

The whole team is working hard to try and solve this, but progress is slow. Somewhere between analysing blood spatter patterns and doing his own research to figure out their unsub’s deal, he does his best to plan your make-up date, paranoid that someone would see him looking for places to take you and make his day worse. Eventually, tired of having to look over his shoulder, he bites the bullet and calls Garcia for help, even if it would no doubt get back to Morgan and the rest of the team.

And then he has to deal with Garcia’s excited squealing, her incessant questions about you both, her comments about how cute he is and how she needs to meet you. He keeps his head down and grits his teeth, because he knows she means no harm, and it’s a small price to suffer through just to have this night be perfect.

The first thing to arrive was a bouquet of tulips with your morning paper waiting outside your door, a pretty arrangement of red and pink that matched the outfit you were going to wear to work — the whole department had agreed to come in red, white, and pink colours — and you can’t stop smiling as you go to put in a vase with water.

He gets the picture texted to him in the middle of a briefing with Hotch and the team, barely able to restrain his smile as he checked his phone under the table.

You: They’re beautiful, thank you.

He’s oblivious to Morgan giving him an odd look as he texted you back:

Spencer: Only the best for the most beautiful girl in the world.

Spencer tucks his phone back into his pocket when the meeting ends, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Morgan. He knows he’s going to get bombarded with questions he doesn’t feel like answering, and for once he’s glad they have a case to work on so he can use that as an excuse not to interact with him.

The second arrival was a package sent to your office, because of course he had your shift schedule memorised, and you signed for it, grasping the brown paper package that was obviously a book back to your desk. There’s no reason for you to hide it, not in the sanctity of your own office, but it’s as if you’re back in school, your crush sending you a note that you unfurl under your desk, finding a hardbound copy of Persuasion, arguably your favourite Austen novel.

You do your best not to blush, picking up your phone to text him, chewing on your lip before flipping to the right chapter and sending him a direct quote.

You: There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.

Spencer’s in the middle of examining a body when you sent him the text. But as soon as he feels his phone vibrate, he pulls it out without a second thought, uncaring of the fact that Morgan and Rossi are looking his way. He has to hold back a smile because no, he won’t give Morgan any ammunition.

Spencer: You have my whole heart.

“You two are sickening, I hope you know that,” Morgan told him, a smirk on his lips.

Spencer’s head snaps up in alarm at the sound of his voice, and he quickly drops his phone in his pocket, face flushing. He’s silent for a minute, trying to regain his composure and come up with something to defend himself. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he replied weakly.

"Uh-huh," Rossi replied, masking a smile. "Can we look at the body now, or does your girlfriend have more input?" He wouldn’t be surprised if you did, to be honest, but he’d rather keep you out of this part of his world. He just shook his head, stepping closer to the slab.

Your last gift came in just as Valentine’s Day was about to come to an end, Spencer silently tracking into your apartment, 5 minutes away from midnight, cringing as he opened the bedroom door as quietly as possible. You’re asleep, your breathing soft and deep, the soft, soothing sound filling the room. He kneels by your side of the bed for a moment, just looking at you: all loose-limbed and relaxed, your face soft and sweet against the pillow. He can’t help the little smile that tugs the corner of his mouth up, and he wonders how he got so lucky. Softly, he reaches out, fingertips gentle as he brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

You flinched, startled awake, until you recognise Spencer's eyes blinking back at you. "Jesus Christ, you scared me," you breathed out. "You should have told me you were coming."

“I was trying to be quiet,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so only you would hear. His hand brushed the curve of your jaw, a soft, almost reverent motion. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You sink back into your pillows, shifting inside so he can sit on the edge. "I would have waited up for you if you'd called first," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hip right against your knee, his fingers still trailing along your face, then resting on your thigh over the covers. “I tried to get home earlier,” he said, and he sounded exhausted, the stress of the case weighing on him. “But the team was debating something. And then paperwork...”

"You don't have to explain," you said softly, shaking your head, making a mess of your hair.

He watches you, his gaze lingering on the mussed locks on your head, the sleepy bleariness to your eyes, the pinkness to your cheeks, and he feels a surge of longing so strong it borders on painful for a moment. He loves you like this — soft and sweet and rumpled with sleep, and he wants nothing more than to curl up next to you right here and now. “I hate being away from you for so long,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I missed you so much.”

"Should've caught your guy faster then," you said, shifting up to meet his lips with yours. "Happy Valentine's."

He returned your kiss, his fingers trailing up to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. “Happy Valentine’s,” he murmured against your lips, before he was kissing you again, harder this time, and you could tell he was tired by the urgency with which he held onto you.

"I realised something when you were away, you know," you murmured against his lips.

He pulled back slightly so he could look at you, his fingers still trailing along the back of your neck. “Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head to the side and studying your face with those sharp, intelligent eyes of his.

You nodded, looking at him with your own fond gaze. "I love you," you said softly. Plain and uncomplicated.

He had heard those words plenty of times in his life, but he’d never tire of hearing them from your lips. He felt his heart stutter in his chest, and he moved his hand to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Say it again?” he whispered.

"I love you," you repeated, your smile glowing in the dark, streetlights dancing over your ceiling.

He felt something in his chest settle at the words, at the reassurance that you really were here, and you were his. He leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your nose, the. corner of your mouth, then the underside of your jaw. “I love you,” he murmured against your skin. “God, I love you so much.”

Your arms winded around him, his face burying itself in your neck, pressing soft kisses to your skin, his arms wrapped around your waist. His hands slipped up under your sleep shirt, his touch warm and soft against your back, and he practically sunk into you, needing the closeness, needing to be surrounded by you.

"I know the day didn't go to plan," you murmured, "but this is the best Valentine's Day I've ever had."

His arms wrapped around you a little tighter, like he couldn’t get enough of having you pressed against him, and he pulled his head back from your neck so he could look at you properly. “Me too,” he said, then reconsidered. “Well, the whole day was hell, but this… this is perfect.”

"Yeah?" you asked, pecking his lips.

He chased your mouth, kissing you again, lingering on your lips for longer. “Yeah,” he replied softly. “Being with you is all I need.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x blake!reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine

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natsredbra · 2 days ago

Text

Velvet & vice

summary: You meet a girl at work. A bit more unconventional than most expect.

warnings: stripper!reader, customer!L, smut at the end, strip clubs obv, strap referred to as cock, alcohol (very benign)

a/n: big things are coming…..i actually loved this idea sm and i wasn’t sure if the person that sent it wanted a whole ass fic but i couldn’t resist the temptation guys. i hope you enjoy this cause there will definitely be a pt2

word count: 3-3.3k

The night was hazy as usual, a steaming dressing room in the backstage with a bunch of dancers getting ready. You yourself stared into a mirror as you applied glitter to your eyelid, a thousand thoughts running through your head. You were fairly new to all this, at least comparing to some of the other girls which sometimes proved to be catty and mean - not all of them though, not even most of them either. And for all it’s worth, you did make a friend! Jackie, was her name. Like you, she was looking for a job as a broke collage student, and she’d been in the game for a bit longer, kind of like your guiding light.

“You okay?” She asked, putting on some hairspray as she realized you were focusing on the mirror for a minute too long. “Did you eat?”

“No no, yeah, I did, I just kind of spaced out…just y’know - when your head does that weird thing and you just think a lot.” You said, tearing your eyes away from the mirror to look at her. She was zipping her light blue skimpy dress over the langerie she wore. Just as the rest of you, she looked gorgeous.

“Yeah babe, it’s called overthinking.” She said in a soothing, slightly sarcastic tone. “C’mon, you’re up next”

Oh shit.

You took one last glance at the mirror, making sure everything was up to par before emerging onto the stage, seeing the crowd awaiting you. It always gave you a rush, to feel so desired to be seen.

Clicking your platforms, you approached the pole, spinning around it while everyone cheered, some of the regulars you recognized chanting your name.

Halfway through the song - The Morning by The Weeknd, amongst the sweaty men you caught sight of a few girls, the tall brunette in the middle shyly eyeing you. It must’ve been her first time, you thought, she placed a few bills on the stage, 20s you presumed.

The little wink you gave her once you finished off sure was noticed, making her breath hitch. Sue you, okay? You barely get any girls here, especially ones this pretty.

The DJ collected all your tips as you got off the stage, passing Jackie who was next. It was now your turn to scower the area and get that money. You deserved it after all, dealing with the Wall Street drunk - type of men all day.

Shooting seductive smiles and making eye contact went a long way, especially when they slipped you extra just for letting a quick touch linger. You may have been relatively new, but you knew how to play them better then most. You knew how to make them feel like you gave them everything, not realizing that they left with nothing.

Waiting for anyone else to apporach again would be fruitless, and honestly by the looks of it unwelcome too. So you decided to have some overdue fun and went over to the booth where the brunette sat, greeting her friends as well.

Sure, they looked like they had money to spend with that Dom Perignon on ice resting on their table, but you were interested in something else, though you would never admit it.

As usual you made a show of your beautiful self, swaying your hips slowly as you made your way over. It was what you did best. The party lights worked in your favor, making you seem like you walked right out of a movie. Or heaven. Finally, you approached the group which consisted of two brunettes, one that was yours, you decided, and a ginger girl with who you assumed was her girlfriend, a beautiful mixed woman sitting next to her.

“Hello girls, anyone looking for a dance tonight?” You asked in a sultry tone, leaning your elbows on the table and making direct eye contact with the forementioned girl. She was illuminating, really, with the dark eyes and hair that draped over her shoulders, standing tall like the world owed her for existing and breathing. Just your type. Only a plus that she was loaded and would likely spend a fortune on you alone.

“C’mon Lot.” The redhead girl whispered to her, kicking her under the table. C’mon Lot, you thought to yourself too.

“Uh- yeah, okay, hell yeah.” The brunette said with determination as she stood up, you hooked your arm with hers as you led her towards the private room.

“I’ve uh- I’ve never been here before.” She said, breaking the silence between you.

“No? You seem like you know your way around.” You replied in a rasping tone, a low grin gracing your face as you pushed the padded red door open.

The girl seemed slightly flushed as she plopped down on the leather couch, looking up at you with her capturing brown eyes.

“What’s your name?” You asked as the song started playing, attempting casual conversation.

“Uh- Lottie.”

“Lottie.” You let the name roll off your tongue along with your hips against hers, your back inches away from her chest.

She couldn’t help but focus her gaze on the globe of your ass, doing her best not to jerk her body upwards as you worked your own. You were ethereal, she thought.

“What about you, what’s your name, angel?” Lottie asked in a hushed tone, her hands shaky as she slipped a bill into your glittery g-string.

“Y/N. I like angel though.” You replied with a small chuckle at the end

“Angel it is.”

It seemed a tad bit intimate, even to you. She wasn’t a pig, no. She would never touch you unless you begged her to, even though her eyes were undressing you on their own.

“So uh- this is what you do or- or you go to school or something?” She stammered, clearly flustered

“Yeah. I go to collage here.” You answered, swaying your hips to the rhythm

“Oh, me too! I haven’t seen you before though.” Lottie urged, subconsciously jerking her body towards yours.

“It’s a big school, honey.” You murmured into her ear, along with a swivel of your waist, making her eyes roll to the back of her head. “How was your day?”

“Uh - oh, uh kinda shitty. Dad’s a dick, so.” She replied. Yes, she stuttered because of you. Maybe it was the way you smelled, looked- or maybe it was the setting.

“M sorry Lot. But I’m sure you feel better now.” You honeyed, making sure to lock your eyes with hers once more.

Turning around to hover over her lap, your perfect looking boobs were right in her face, knocking all air out of her lungs. You moved like water, practiced and teasing, the lacy bra you wore giving away a hue of your pink nipples as you dropped to your knees between her legs.

“Song’s over, baby.” You reminded her with a small smirk.

All she could do was stare down at you with a lustful gaze until she realized the impact of your words, frantically nodding.

“Sorry, yeah, I should get back home anyway.” She stammered, extending a hand to help you get up.

You took it happily, intertwining your fingers with hers as you led her out, Jackie shooting a small smile your way as she prepared for her own client.

Turning to look at the girl beside you once more, her eyes were already tracing your figure.

“Come again, Lottie.” You said huskily, letting go of her.

“Wait- angel!” She yelled out, making you stop in your tracks.

The girl walked up to you again, standing face to face before slipping a - holy shit, 500$ bill into the strap of your bra.

“Make sure to keep track of it.” She whispered into your ear before walking off, back to her friends.

You stood there, stunned. It was good enough that you got a cute, respectful client but apparently she was loaded too? I mean yeah, obviously but- even more than you thought, actually. You definitely hoped she'd visit again.

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

Standing out the back with your black coat over your costume, you lit up a cigarette, leaning against the wall while exchanging a tipsy conversation with Jackie, talking smack about some of the clients.

Above you, there was a sign with the club's name reading 'Blacklight', ironically written and glowing in a fiery red.

"So! He pulls out like- a couple hundred and basically demands me to take off my bra! Like dude, you're not seeing my tits for anything under a thousand!" Jackie exclaimed laughing, to which you followed suit. "I did dance for a girl though. Doesn’t happen often."

"Yeah? Did I see her?" You asked, suddenly a bit more interested

"I think she was with that same crew as the hottie you had." Jackie said, narrowing her eyes in curiosity as she took a puff of her pink strawberry vape. "Shauna."

"Oh, cool...this was Lottie." You sassed, raising your brows, "Hottie indeed."

"Hm, okay...oh girl, your shift ended." Jackie asserted, checking her phone for the time

"Fuckin' finally. I'll go get dressed, see you tomorrow." You said in a bit of a rushed tone, stubbing the cigarette with your heel before going back inside.

“See ya.”

You got back to the ready room, greeting another dancer named Jade who was apparently getting ready to leave too. She was one of the nice girls as well, your other friend out here.

"Good game tonight?" She called out, looking up from the bag she was packing.

"Bit better then usual." You said in a flat voice, getting back into your day clothes. And you couldn't bother to take off your makeup - do it at home.

"Oh, great. Need a ride?" She asked, turning to look at you.

"No it's okay, I'll catch a cab. Thanks J." You replied, giving the girl a small smile

You remembered, before putting on your sweater, the generosity that rested in your bra. Pulling the bill out, before folding it you noticed something written on it. A phone number, signed Lottie. You pondered there a little before scrambling the paper along with the rest of your cash. While smiling to yourself just a little. It was like something you could only daydream of.

—————————————

Waking up in your apartment at around 3pm, you were groggy and a bit hungover. It had been a couple days since you’d met Lottie and since then, you weren’t able to stop thinking about her. Sure, you’d gotten phone numbers before but it was from creepy, middle aged guys promising to take you to a very good party to someone’s yacht. Hard pass.

Finally you collected your thoughts and got out of bed heading to the bathroom to take your hair rollers out, and maybe reflect on your thoughts. You were scheduled fairly late tonight, which already made you internally groan - still, it was better then working Mondays.

Now you did externally groan when you realized you were out of coffee, at the worst possible moment too. Okay, maybe not the worst- but still, you liked the dramatics.

This might actually be good, it made you get out of the house and walk all the way over to your local coffee shop. You’d been so slammed with school, you barely got out if it wasn’t for work, so you needed the fresh air and a small break.

Finally as you got there, placing your order and sitting at one of the tables. The familiar dim glow of the cafe washed over you as you made a mental note of the songs you’d want to play tonight, as well as planning to work the main floor. Your thoughts still lingered, on Lottie, that is. As tempting as it was, you weren’t gonna-

Okay, you pulled out the bill with her number, eyeing it for a moment before realizing how ridiculous it must’ve looked, staring at 500 bucks, so you quickly typed the number in.

Sure you’d always been told not to fuck around with anyone you meet at work, but this was definitely not the kind of person Jackie and Jade referred to, and anyway, you’re young! What’s a little-

“Hello?”

The voice called out, unmistakably Lottie. For a moment you were frozen in place, unsure of what to say. But you needed to say something.

“Hey. It’s Y/N, from the other night, I’m not sure if you remember.” You finally spoke.

“Oh…right, I wasn’t sure if you’d call.”

“Well, here I am. Calling.”

“Hm, calling…why?”

“I uh- I wanted to see if you planned on coming by again. Don’t get that many nice customers that tip well too.” You said in a low, teasing tone, practically hearing her smirk over the phone.

“Right. I mean, I might. Think you’ll make it worth my while?” She tried to appear smooth, but there was a noticeable tremble to her voice

“Of course I will.”

“Then I’ll see you, angel.” She sounded almost giddy

Maybe this whole thing was better than you expected it to be.

—————————————

The night in the club was as usual, teetering on the edge of being kind of fun and absolutely exhausting. It was a late Saturday night, the busiest time of the whole week, with only a few dancers available, just your luck.

At least the tips would be through the roof. Judging by the looks of it, some of these men could take care of your entire rent in just one night. Oh but how you had to work for it.

Lucky you however, you’d just finished your dance into a split when you spotted her. Standing confident as ever, in the front of the audience, Lottie.

Shooting you a sly grin, she walked away from the stage, blending into the deep sea of people in front of you. Quickly collecting all your money, you returned to the dressing room. Your mind went a thousand miles an hour, jumping at every thought and possibility. Really, you weren’t expecting her to return, or maybe you just didn’t wanna get your hopes up. Still you were surprised.

Returning back to the main floor, you spotted her sat at the bar. This time, she was alone, all yours.

“Hey, angel.” Lottie said as she saw you approaching, taking a sip of what you assumed was a cosmo.

“Hi, Lot. Nice to finally see you.” You replied with a bit of a teasing tone.

“Yeah uh- I wasn’t sure if I overstepped the other night. I know you must get creeps like that all the time.” She apologized, the slight grimace on her face softening once she saw your small smile.

As tough as she looked, she was a sweetheart really.

“Are you calling me angel to be cute, or did you forget my name?” You asked, sitting next to her.

“No! No, I remember your name, Y/N, right?” She scurried, obviously not realizing you were joking. But a nervous chuckle did leave her when she did. “You said you liked angel.”

“I did, yeah.”

“Anything for you?” The bartender, and your good friend and coworker asked you.

“I’ll have a martini. Extra dirty.” You said huskily before looking back at Lottie, all the sparkles on your eyes beaming at her. There was a clear implication to your words, one even she could pick up on. It was also a small joke.

“Hard to imagine you with a dirty martini dressed in that.” Lottie teased.

And yes, she was right. Tonight, you wore a very cliché pink babydoll that barely covered you up. In fact, if you walked outside in it you’d likely be arrested for public indecency. The type of outfit you’d imagine with a piña colada, maybe.

“I’m more than meets the eye, Lot. So, I’m assuming you were looking for a dance tonight?” You marveled sarcastically, earning a soft giggle from the girl.

“Actually, no. I- I wanted to see you.” She said, sipping her pink drink yet again.

“Well aren’t you sweet.” You honeyed, nipping at your own cocktail. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“Of course I would.”

“Then why come only after I called you?”

“I told you, I was worried I freaked you out or something…I’m really glad you called though.” Lottie asserted, physically restraining her eyes from raking all over your exposed, stunning form.

“Well I am too. You look nice tonight.” You said in a sweet tone. And you weren’t lying either.

Her makeup was pretty minimal, but she had put on a black, semi-tight dress that reached her mid thigh, showing off just enough cleavage to make you want more. It was as if you had a corny high school crush on the girl you met a few days ago, and judging by the way she acted, neither of you were opposed to it.

“I’m gonna ask you something, and you’re more than welcome to say no.” She said in a more serious manner

Fuck.

“Okay…”

“Would you like to…check out my place tonight?”

Bingo.

To understand you, you’d have to understand that you thought life was all about exciting, new experiences. Going home with a beautiful stranger being one of them. Maybe you didn’t know her last name, but you sure as hell were gonna find out the color of her underwear.

“…Sure.”

—————————————

The ride to her house completely went in and over your head as you stood by the front door, seeing her fumble with the keys while you traced her neck with slow, teasing kisses, pulling her back against your front.

Finally she swung the door open, shutting it behind you before picking you up with ease.

You crashed your lips against hers, securing your legs around her waist as she stumbled across the hall, carrying you to what you assumed was her bedroom.

She was strong, stronger than she looked, and was definitely playing into it when she tossed you onto the bed. Hovering over you, she pushed your shirt upwards while leaving a trail of kisses and spit on your jaw.

Her thigh found its way between yours, making you jolt your hips upwards, a movement she relished.

“You’re such a responsive girl, aren’t you?” Lottie called out above you, dragging the thigh up and down your center.

Earning a nod from you she continued her ministrations as she threw your top somewhere across the room. It felt like a fever dream, hooking up in a million dollar house with a girl who is just about your age. No time to be bitter about money though, not when her mouth is eagerly exploring every inch of your skin.

"Lottie please-" You coaxed out as she traced the waistband of your pants.

"Please what? Talk to me, angel." Lottie whispered, although she was already undoing your zipper.

"Please, just fuck me, take me." You stuttered.

Seconds after her soft hands traveled over your plushy, bare thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

Leaning in the taller girl kissed and nipped your tummy on her way down. Her touches were hurried and desperate, earning soft whines from you the more they went on. Finally facing your heat and seeing the wet patch on your panties, Lottie sucked in a sharp breath before hooking a finger into your underwear and moving it to the side. The first dip of her tongue into your folds was unmatched, at first slow and unsure. She was trying to figure you out, to see what movements make your breath hitch and your back arch.

Soon enough she found that one spongey spot, the friction on it making you mewl under her. Discarding your panties quickly, she pulled you further into her, throwing your legs over her shoulders and eating you as if you were her last fucking meal. Latching her lips onto your clit, her digits flew to your leaky hole, begging for entrance which you happily granted.

She moved inside you with practice and ease, hitting your g-spot over and over and over.

“Lottie - fuck, I’m gonna come.” You whimpered, not quite expecting her next course of action.

She pulled out, releasing your bud with a wet pop. The grin on her face grew when she saw your expression, needy and unsatisfied.

“I think you’re about ready for my cock, angel.” She said - it was her turn to be a tease.

Going back up, she pressed a searing kiss to your lips. It was quick and wet, just like your oh almost reached orgasm.

Soon enough she strapped up, hovering over you as the tip poked at your entrance. Jolting your hips, you tried to lure her in, at this point becoming completely mindless and putty in her hands.

Getting the signal, she finally slid into you, nice and easy. Watching your blissed out face made her own contort in pleasure, as if she could feel just what she was doing to you. Her hips moved slowly and deliberately, getting you used to the wonderful stretch she provided. Throwing your head back in a silent scream, Lottie picked up her pace, gripping your hips to keep you steady.

Jesus Christ, whoever said strippers fuck best was right. She took note of you under her, fucking back onto the length as if your life depended on it, letting out sweet, filthy pleas just for her.

Crouching down to kiss you, she whispered against your lips. “You look so fucking good baby. So beautiful.”

Her words only urged you on, making you let out desperate cries as the tip of the toy kissed your cervix simultaneously.

“Lottie I’m so close.” You warned again, though this time, it was encouraged.

“Come for me angel, go on.” Lottie whispered into your ear, her words finally pushing you over the edge and making you gush on her cock.

“God, you’re good.” She said, pulling out of you and collapsing next to your tired form.

Your chest heaved with the intensity of the encounter. Turning your head to look at her, you were met with a soft gaze and a smile. You had a hankering this would not be the last time you experience this girl.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets thoughts 💭#yellowjackets showtime #yj season 3 #yellowjackets x reader #lottie matthews thoughts 💭#lottie matthews x you #lottie matthews smut #lottie matthews x reader #lottie mathews x reader #lottie matthews #lottie yellowjackets

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peachglazewrites · 2 days ago

Note

i so so loved your “safe in your arms” fic with abby, it was so well written that i had to get off tumblr and scroll another app cause i didn’t want it to end, i read your bio abt how you are trying to write for other fandoms like arcane and i was wondering if you can do a similar version of “safe in your arms “ but with vi pls ???🙏🏻

𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 ₊⊹ 𝚟𝚒

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: vi/f!reader 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: smut (18+ mdni), use of words like cunt/pussy/tits, mild use of force, use of safeword, panic attacks 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: established relationship, angst, fluff, use of petnames (sweet thing, sweet girl, pretty girl, babe/baby), boob stuff (vi!receiving), fingering (r!receiving) 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘: no use of y/n, in canon world 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 7072k

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: Waking up in your girlfriend's arms, cooking breakfast, a little bit of kissing in the kitchen-- it's the perfect morning, until it's not.

a/n: thank you so much for your kind words and request!! I'm so excited to write for something outside of tlou, and hope I did Vi justice (though this is the first time I'm writing for her so please be kind orz)

I kept the timeline for this SUPER vague, but it is in the canon world of arcane! I also want to stress that even though a safeword is used, Vi was in no way being abusive or hurting reader! sometimes things just feel icky and people slip up.

I hope you enjoy ♡︎

̗̀➛ master list ̗̀➛ request your own here

Something being knocked over in the alley under your window, the window that never fully shuts no matter how much force you put behind it, startles you awake. The following sounds of children cackling and yelling at each other as they run away from the scene soothes your racing mind, your pounding heart.

The curtains pulled across the window sway slightly, fluttering in the lightest breeze that somehow makes it all the way down to your level of the Undercity. You follow the ripples in the fabric, blinking your bleary eyes that are still heavy from sleep.

Despite the open window, you can’t help but feel exceptionally warm under the covers. The air is always dense down here, humid and clinging, but the furnace that is your blankets is something else entirely.

You shift, kicking a foot out to catch the blanket to drag it off your body, but the arms slung around your middle tighten, pulling you back further into the heat.

Ah.

A small smile spreads across your lips as you begin to slowly turn around in the arms, strong hands now splayed across the line of your back. The face that was buried in your shoulder blades now moves to nuzzle between your breasts, warmth blooming through your shirt and onto your skin from her deep breaths. Past a shock of pink hair, side shaved down to a fuzzy dark magenta that sticks out at all angles are broad, naked shoulders—intricate tattoos, a network of gears, pistons and rolling steam working down her back. They shift and move as she pulls you closer, scrunching the material of your sleep shirt in her fists.

Soft snores vibrate against your sternum, and you do your best to stifle your giggle at the way it tickles your skin.

Vi. She must have snuck in late last night, off lending Caitlyn a hand or getting into trouble— or both at the same time. The dismantlement of Shimmer has been a lengthy and tense process, one that requires just as much physical intimidation as reams of paperwork and Council meetings. And despite the many protests-- mostly from her own mother-- the Kiramman heir has taken it upon herself to be just as involved in both ends of the process, dragging along the Zaunite she broke out of Stillwater with paperwork that she’d rather not discuss the legitimacy of.

That same Zaunite who runs ridiculously hot despite being nearly naked, and is snoring away in the softness of your chest.

Over Vi’s head you catch sight of her chest and hand wraps, haphazardly balled up on the bedside table, a trail of her other clothes leading from the slightly ajar doorway to the bed-- her striped pants, stolen jacket, her top.

You hum softly, brushing a hand through her hair to try and tame it. Vi sighs softly, sound muffled against your chest as she melts into your arms, arms relaxing slightly around your middle. It takes a little bit more coaxing, some more petting and a few kisses to the crown of her head before she settles back down, loosening her grip on your enough for you to begin the Sisyphean task that is unravelling yourself from her arms.

You take it slow, soothing her displeased grunts with more trailing kisses as you slip from her, replacing your body with your pillow. She latches onto it, burying her face into the material and relaxing at your familiar scent, throwing a leg across your side of the bed as she sighs into the mattress.

You crawl off the end of the bed, padding your way out of the room and slipping through the ajar door, having successfully completed the morning gauntlet.

In the hallway you yawn, rubbing at your crusted eyes on your way to the bathroom; a brief pitstop to freshen up, to wash your face and wake up a bit more before making your way out to the living room. You find yourself standing in the middle of the room, blinking as you look around, brain still catching up as you try and figure out what you’re going to do with your morning.

Your stomach decides for you, rumbling softly.

Breakfast. You’re going to make breakfast.

You pad into the kitchen, humming softly as you crouch down by the fridge, the cold rush of air chilling your bare legs. There’s not a whole lot inside, reaching the dwindling end of what you managed to buy with your pay. Running through what’s left, you figure you can make some kind of omelette, still having eggs, a couple of peppers, some cheese, and a parcel of meat that you hadn’t used just yet from the butchers. It wouldn’t be the fanciest meal in the world, but it’d be better than nothing.

You grab the hem of your shirt and hold it out, using it as a makeshift basket to collect all of your ingredients to transport them over to the counter. You have to rummage around a bit to find the pan you want to use, Vi having stored it away in a different spot when she did the dishes last, but you grab it and a couple of chopping boards and get right into cooking.

You listen to the noises of the city outside as you work, chopping up your ingredients, grating the cheese, mixing up the eggs. Omelettes are quick and easy, and you have the egg mixture bubbling in the pan in a matter of minutes.

Arms sliding around your waist from behind make you jump, the spatula in your hand nearly fumbling in your grip as you gasp. A warm chuckle is muffled against your shoulder, Vi pressing herself along your back.

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

You roll your eyes, hiding your smile as you lean back against her, into her arms. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you love it. I don’t see what the issue is,” she says, kissing along the exposed skin of your shoulder, the collar of your sleep shirt stretched out enough to slip down your arm, hanging loosely.

“Uh huh,” you drawl, tilting your head back to nose along her cheek. “Good morning.” You kiss just to the left of her lips, skin still warm from sleep.

Vi smiles, the scar on her top lip pinching the skin slightly, exposing a hint of teeth. She leans in, capturing your lips in a lingering kiss. “Morning, sweet thing.”

The pet-name sends a tingle down the back of your neck, a soft flush rising to your cheeks. It’s your favourite one out of the arsenal that she keeps for you, though you’d never tell her that. You’re pretty sure she knows, anyhow.

“What time did you get in last night?”

Vi shrugs, resting her cheek against your back. You bring a hand up, scratching lightly at the back of her head as she gently sways the two of you from side to side. “More like morning. I didn’t even check the time, but the sun was starting to rise when I crossed the bridge. Just wanted to get home to you and sleep.” She yawns, muffling it against your shoulder. “Your thing’s gonna burn.”

You jolt forwards, slipping out of Vi’s arms as she snickers, watching you take the lid off the pan to sprinkle the fillings into the omelette, using the spatula to carefully fold the egg over itself.

You give the cheese some time to melt, the peppers a moment to cook just a bit before shuffling the spatula under the omelette, plating it up. You place a tab of butter in the pan to oil it before turning to Vi.

Your girlfriend is leaning up against the counter, arms crossed over her chest as she looks at you. Her eyes are lowered, locked onto the flesh of your bare legs, though they flick up guiltily when you turn around.

Not that you’re much better, Vi having forgone a shirt like she usually does in the mornings; chest bare and unwrapped, modest but shiny piercings sitting pretty through each nipple. You swear she got them just to distract you, unable to help the way your eyes draw to them whenever they glint in the corner of your vision.

“Eyes are up here, babe.” She’s grinning, her embarrassed flush at getting caught ogling you still colouring her cheeks.

“You know, I think not wearing a shirt in the kitchen is a safety hazard,” you say, holding out the plate for her to take as you avert your gaze.

“Oh yeah?” She takes the plate, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek in thanks. “For you or for me?”

“For all parties,” you huff, amused.

Vi barks a laugh, pressing a hand to the counter behind her before hopping up, sitting herself along the edge. She places her warm plate next to her, gently back on the counter next to her thigh.

“Not gonna eat?” You ask as you turn around, the butter sizzling away in the pan. You pour the remaining egg mixture into the pan, placing the lid back on to let It cook.

“Wanna eat with you.” She kicks her legs, heels of her bare feet thumping softly against the drawers under her. “I feel like it’s been ages since we’ve had breakfast together.”

Warmth blooms in your chest, gooey and sweet as your heart squeezes. You can’t help but turn back to look at her, finding her already looking. Her smile widens when you make eye contact, sending you a cheeky little wink that has you giggling, shyly looking back down to the pan.

Vi has always had this kind of effect on you, able to make you melt and feel like a lovesick teenager again over a single look or a couple of sweet words. It comes almost effortlessly to her, like she doesn’t even have to think about it. It catches you off guard every time, and leaves you flustered and stuttering, unable to think of how to respond and get her back.

Not that you’re unable to. You’ve had your own fair share of moments where you’ve flustered the woman, though they’re usually because of actions rather than words. The first time you bought her flowers she had accepted them and then promptly left, saying she needed a minute. You were convinced she hated them, that you overstepped, but it turned out she’d never received flowers before and had left to hide how weepy it made her.

It makes you a little bit sad sometimes, when you think too hard about how these acts of kindness and romanticism that you don’t even think twice about catch her by surprise. Like she never would have expected you to buy her new wraps when her old ones were hanging on for dear life, or make the trek over the bridge to Piltover to drop her lunch that she forgot off to her in Caitlyn’s office— as if she’d never been treated in such a way before.

You turn and lean against the counter next to the stove, the warmth of the flame heating your side. “You’re cute.”

You catch her with that, pink springing up on the highs of her cheeks. She plays it off though-- plays it off well-- grinning over at you. “Says you.”

Another roll of your eyes, playful. “Just take the compliment, babe.”

“Or what?” A scarred eyebrow raises, challenging, body leaning back to balance on her arms that are propped behind her, strong hands splayed across the counter.

Shit, she looks good. Too good. And she knows it.

You fall right into her little trap, placing the spatula down next to the stove to walk over, slipping between her legs that she opens slightly wider to fit you. Her sweatpants (or were they yours?) are slung low over her hips, a trail of deep magenta hair disappearing past the waistband. You place your hands on her clothed knees, sliding them slowly up her thighs as you look at her.

The muscles jump under your touch, and she brings one of her arms to sling over your shoulder, hand cupping the back of your neck. “So now that you’re here, what’s your plan?”

You shrug, letting her pull you closer. “Didn’t think that far.”

Vi hums, her thumb brushing up and down the sensitive skin on the side of your neck. She zeroes in on the wave of goosebumps that roll over your skin at the touch, smirk widening.

“Are you open for suggestions?”

“Just kiss me already,” you murmur, pushing yourself up to press your lips to hers.

You can feel the shit-eating grin she has as she kisses you back, using the slight height advantage she has on you to take control, thumb still rubbing almost possessively along the side of your neck.

It’s lazy, slow, perfect for a morning like this.

You slide a hand up her hip, settling on the bare skin of her waist to feel the hard muscle underneath, the pocked skin from where people have fought dirtier than her; bringing knives to fights she flies into with her fists. She never complains, though, coming out winning nearly every time.

She feels so nice under your hands, familiar and warm, the smell of your shampoo that she never admits to stealing tickling your nose as you thread a hand into her hair, something crispy and burning—

You pull away, gasping, “The omelette--!”

Vi laughs as you rush back to the pan, fumbling with the lid as you grab the spatula, using it to peek under the egg. It’s a lot darker than you wanted it be, but not totally inedible. You dump the rest of the fillings into the overcooked egg and fold it over, not letting it cook for as long as the first, but just enough to warm up the inside before removing it from the pan.

Placing your plated up omelette next to Vi’s, you can see just how much more burned it is in comparison. The edges are crispy and the egg is a dark brown, rather than the nice golden colour that spreads evenly across your first attempt. With a sigh, you pick the plate up off the counter, only to have it taken out of your hands.

“What— Vi!” You watch as she balances the plate in one hand, shuffling her legs to grab two forks from the drawer underneath her. She holds one out to you, and you take it without thinking.

“Thanks, babe. Smells so good,” she groans, digging in before you can protest.

You huff, taking the plate closest to her and holding it up to your chest, stabbing at it with the fork.

“You didn’t have to take the burnt one,” you murmur around your food, holding a polite hand up to hide your mouth.

Vi shrugs, grinning over at you in response, chewed up egg peeking through her teeth. You groan in disgust, swallowing your own mouthful with a shudder.

“You’re so gross.”

“I love you?” Vi says, wiping across her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I love you too, I guess,” you sigh, unable to hide your fond smile. “You want any sauce?”

She nods, despite her omelette already being half gone. “Yes, please.”

You manage to find some sauce all the way in the back of the fridge, something yellow and spicy that Vi had tried to make herself after eating at Jericho’s one night. She’d taken over the whole kitchen trying to perfect it, sitting you down at the table to try each batch and get feedback.

She eventually gave up and just went to Jericho himself and bought a bottle.

You stand next to Vi as you eat, the two of you basking in the ambient sounds of the morning; forks scraping against plates, the hustle and bustle of the streets below. It’s nice, domestic.

Vi stacks your plates once you’re done, placing both of the forks on the top plate and sliding them off to the side, near the sink. She gently grabs one of your arms, pulling you back between her legs, throwing her arms over your shoulders.

“Thank you for breakfast.” She sighs, content and full. You place your hands back on her thighs, rubbing soothing circles into the muscles. “I need to wife you up already.”

You laugh, squeezing her thighs. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” She nods, tilting her head slightly to the side, enough for her hair to fall across her face, a teasing smirk playing at her lips. “You don’t think so?”

“My Violet, I love you dearly, but I am not being proposed to in our kitchen with sauce all over your tits.”

“Sauce on my—” She looks down, bringing a hand to her bare chest to wipe it clean.

There’s nothing there though, tits sauce-free, and you can’t help the snort that leaves you when she looks back up— her brows furrowed, lips pulled into an adorable frown.

“Got ya.”

Her frown morphs into a confused blink of her wide eyes, the cogs turning in her mind before her eyes narrow, lips shifting back into her signature smirk.

“You little shit.”

She pulls you in, squishing your cheeks together as she attacks you with a flurry of kisses all over your face and shoulders, every inch of skin she can get her lips on. You squirm in her grip, the both of you laughing as she locks her legs around your hips, keeping you in place.

Her kisses begin to concentrate more on the soft line of your neck, under your jaw and over your pulse-- your laughter dying down into breathless giggles, then a sharp gasp as she latches on, playfully nipping and sucking at the skin.

“Vi,” you sigh, your hands inching up her thighs as you melt into her grip, letting yourself be pulled closer.

“Hm?” she hums, smiling against your neck as she sooths the sharp sting of a bite with her hot tongue, a shudder running through your spine.

Her hands drift down your body, thumbing the hem of your sleep shirt before inching them up underneath the fabric, smoothing across your bare back. You can feel every scar and callous on her fingers— a fighter’s hands. You can’t get enough of them.

Vi kisses back up your jaw and steals your lips, a sigh tumbling from your mouth as she kisses you deeply.

Your hands slide higher up her thighs, gripping her hips to pull her close towards you, balancing her on the edge of the counter. She presses her chest flush against your own, and the feeling of the jewellery poking through your shirt, brushing along your tits makes you gasp into the kiss.

You can’t keep your hands still, running them up and over her defined torso, tracing the lines of her abdomen and relishing in the way they shift under your touch. Vi huffs as her tongue slides across yours, wet and warm, hand clasping around the back of your neck to tilt your head exactly how she wants it. And you let her.

Your hands inch up, fingers itching the higher they get until finally, you’re brushing your thumbs over her nipples, tugging and teasing on the jewellery.

She grunts and pulls back, bumping her forehead against your own. “Fuck, babe,” she breathes, eyes fluttering closed as you press just a bit harder, palms coming up to squeeze and grope at the soft flesh.

You press a soft kiss to the corner of her lips as you drag your palms down, beginning to roll and pinch at the hardening buds between forefinger and thumb. She hisses, the sound seeping from between her teeth as you kiss her chin, then just under her jaw, until you’re pressing kisses all the way down to her chest. Blunt fingernails dig into the fat of your hip the lower you go, stopping when you’re level with her chest.

Her body tenses under you, waiting expectantly, goosebumps raising along her skin at the feeling of your breath puffing over one of her tits. A soft sound, almost a whine leaves her, and you decide to be kind and finally take pity on her, replacing your rolling fingers with the hot flat of your tongue.

Vi groans, her head falling back to stare at the ceiling as you work her over, switching between slow drags of your tongue and teasing flicks. Her arms slip from your hips, one of them helping to keep her propped up, the other holding the back of your head to keep you against her chest.

“S’good,” she sighs, back arching to press her tits up into your mouth, and you bite gently around her areola, titanium clicking against your teeth.

Wrapping your lips around the swollen bud, you suck it into your mouth, running your tongue over it as your hand keeps working on her other breast. Vi’s hips shift underneath you, twitching up along your clothed stomach. You grin, soft flesh pressed against your lips, eyes flicking up to her face.

Her head drops back down, lips parted as heavier breaths leave her, chest heaving under the attention. She blinks her eyes open, that powder blue slowly being swallowed by the black of her pupil, the ones that widen even more as she catches you watching.

“Don’t f-fucking look at me like that,” she moans, hips thrusting a bit harder now. Her foot digs into the small of her back, pulling you close to give her something more solid to grind against. “Why are you so hot?”

You chuckle, the vibrations making her bite her lip and groan. You pull off with a lewd smack, smiling up at her with faux innocence. “Says you.”

Vi huffs, amused but also slightly frustrated that you stopped. “You stealing my lines, now? Thought—fuck—thought they were annoying.” Her hips are working at a steady, low roll now, and you can feel the heat of her through her sweats, rubbing against your stomach.

You shrug, flicking gently at the bar through her skin. “You’re just too fun to tease,” you say, pinching her to prove your point. “Easy to, I’d argue.”

Her reaction is immediate, her hips pausing, back straightening. “I am not easy,” she says, looking down at you with a hint of something in her blown out eyes-- disbelief, challenge.

You laugh, kissing the underside of her jaw. “Yeah?”

“Uh, yeah—” the words die off into a groan, another pinch to her tits. “That’s not fucking fair,” she sighs, bordering on a whine, tilting her head back to give you more room to kiss at her neck.

“All’s fair in love and war, or however that goes,” you murmur, nosing along where her pulse thumps under her skin before biting down—not enough to hurt or leave a mark, but enough for her to feel. You lave over the skin afterwards, tongue hot and heavy and wet along her skin.

A groan rumbles under your lips, and you’re too distracted by the feeling to notice the hand slipping down your body, the fingers that brush over your underwear until they’re cupping your cunt through the fabric. Your body tenses, and you can’t help the way you gasp against her skin as she presses two fingers up against your clit.

“Sorry,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice. Her fingers start swirling in light, loose circles, the friction of your underwear sending shocks right through your cunt. “You were saying?”

Your legs tremble slightly, a hand coming to grip her hip tightly as a means to steady yourself. “Now that’s unfair,” you gasp, hips rolling against her hand.

“’All’s fair in love and war’, I thought” she quips back, the circles tightening.

“Shut up—” A moan bubbles from the back of your throat, your forehead falling onto her chest. “Vi, fuck--”

“Scooch,” she murmurs, not quite commanding, chuckling as she unhooks her legs from your back.

You hesitate, not wanting to move too far from her hand, from the delicious grind she has going on your clit, but she starts to slide off the counter, so you take a step back, giving her room. Her hand continues to rub along your cunt, the other coming up to cup your jaw and you bring up into a kiss. She licks into your mouth, and you let her, hands falling to cling onto her biceps as you lean into her.

“It’s cute when you try and act all tough,” she sighs against your swollen lips, loving the way you feel as you melt against her.

Al you can do is whine, and though it’s embarrassing, and you know you’re just making yourself look more pathetic, you can’t seem to find it within you to care when she’s touching you like this. “Vi—”

She gives an amused chuckle, hand slipping away from your soaked underwear to grasp at the fat of your hip. She shushes your protests, pressing lingering kisses to your lips and cheeks as she slips behind you, using her grip on your hips to walk your forward. One of her hands slides up, across the small of your back and to the space between your shoulder blades, gently pushing you down against the counter.

“There you go,” she murmurs, rubbing your hip as your chest presses against the cold tiles, hand running up and down your spine soothingly.

You groan, melting against the counter under Vi’s strong hands, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. She shuffles up behind you, thigh nudging your own apart, giving her room to press right up against you.

“So fucking pretty.”

Her hand massages along your hip, shifting lower and lower until it’s sliding along your front, slipping back over the fabric of your underwear to rub at your clit again. Her pace is faster, focused, hand on your back pressing you tighter against the tile as your legs tremble slightly beneath you.

She pushes a moan from your lungs, loud as it reverberates around the kitchen, hips thrusting and pushing your ass back against her. Vi grunts at the pressure, at the way the roll of your hips against her fingers starts a grind against her cunt, still pulsing from when she was rubbing herself all over your stomach.

“Want this so bad, huh?” Her fingers slip away from your clit, puffy and so sensitive, trailing up to the hem of your underwear, teasingly dipping in. “You want it, sweet thing?”

You nod against the counter, lips slightly parted, cheeks sticking to the tile. “Baby, please,” you moan, pressing your hips back insistently against hers.

Vi groans, giving in and slipping her hand past the hem. Two fingers slide themselves over either side of your swollen clit, dragging down to where you’re clenching around nothing. She gathers up the arousal there, teasingly pressing against your sopping hole for just a second, then drags it back up to your throbbing clit, playing with it teasingly before picking up her pace again.

You buck against her, a strangled gasp piercing the air, the sound mingling with the slick sounds of your pussy and she swipes over your clit. Your hands come out to grip the edge of the counter, hips grinding down against her hand. “Fuck, Vi—Need you so f-fucking bad—” you moan, growing impatient, body burning with need.

“Need what, baby?” she asks, a little breathless. Her pace doesn’t let up, but she doesn’t give you more, either.

“For fucks—” you groan, hips snapping. “Vi, baby, please… need your fingers in me—” you gasp, cheeks burning hot as you beg her—bent over the kitchen counter and desperate for her to fuck you right here, right now.

She groans, relishing in the way that you buck against her, the way that you move as she grinds her cunt up against the soft flesh of your ass. She kisses across your back, over the cloth of your shirt.

“’Course, pretty girl.”

She reluctantly peels herself off of you, removing her hand from your underwear. You whine at the loss, pushing yourself back to feel her weight back against you, but you’re just met with a breathless chuckle and a pair of hands on your hips.

Her fingers hook into the elastic of your underwear, dragging them down the thick of your thighs, pulling them away from your weeping cunt. They fall by themselves after reaching your knees, slipping to the floor to tangle around your ankles, binding them together.

Vi presses back against you immediately, calloused hands dragging up the back of your spread thighs. “Look at you,” she sighs, a moan slipping past your lips as she ghosts over your cunt, dragging a single digit through your folds. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

“Vi…” Your legs tremble as you press back for more, trying to get a better angle. “Come on, don’t tease…”

You don’t need to see her to know she’s grinning, her finger lightly dragging over you again. She presses lightly against on your clit but doesn’t move, making you jolt at the shock it sends zipping through your veins.

“Violet,” you warn, voice clipped despite the need thrumming through you, your pussy twitching under her hand. You turn back to look at her, glowering over your shoulder.

Vi shifts against you, breath hitching at the use of her full name like that, the way you glare. “Just playing, baby,” she mumbles, and instead of doing something to alleviate the ache, to put you out of your misery, she just taps her finger against your clit, like some kind of fucked up morse code.

You squirm, legs shaking as a moan is ripped from you, the hot sparks that flash through you after each touch causing something to snap, your already thin patience crumbling away.

One of your hands leave the counter, slipping between your legs to grab Vi’s wrist, dragging her hand down to where you need her. You rut against her palm, a long, gasping whine echoing in the kitchen as you thump your head back against the counter.

“Oh fuck,” Vi moans, brain short circuiting as she watches you. “Holy shit.”

“Vi, please fuck me,” you beg, holding her hand tight against you.

She blinks, eyes unfocused and hazy as the scene unfolds in front of her. She takes a shuddering breath, coming back to herself as she finally moves. She grabs your arm-- and your other one to be sure—gripping your wrists in one hand and crossing them behind your back, pressing them down against your skin to lock them in place, effectively pinning you to the counter.

“So impatient,” Vi chuckles.

The two of you have played around like this before, her using her strength to pin you down as she fucks you. You love it, bucking and squirming under her, knowing that she’s got you exactly how she wants, and all you can do is lay there and take it.

But this is… wrong. This isn’t the grip you’re used to—the slightly loose hold around your forearms, wrists free to move and grab at her for stability, or to tap her to let you go if your mouth is full. This is rougher, pinning your wrists with a bit more weight behind it, your hands unable to do anything but clench into fists.

It’s almost too strong. You can’t move.

You would never ever think that Vi would want to hurt you, that she would ever touch you in a way that wasn’t filled with adoration and love—but this feels too much like the hold she uses on people that aren’t you. When she’s pinning them down after a fight, when she’s dealing with awful people who have done awful things.

Suddenly you feel too exposed, like you’ve been caught.

The counter digs harshly into the softness of your hips, cunt on full display to the air, wrists locked behind your back, and you feel like you can’t breathe.

“V-Vi—” you stutter, breathless, so soft. Too soft. “Vi I—”

“I know, baby,” she coos—but she doesn’t. In this very rare moment, she doesn’t know.

You swallow, squirming, but she doesn’t think anything of it.

You begin to panic, breaths leaving you fast and shallow, feeling like your lungs are pressed flat and deflated against the counter, like you can’t get any air into them.

“Violet—” you say louder, more desperate, a tinge of fear in your voice. “Vi—Red—Please, red--!”

She’s off you in an instant, hands up in the air by her face, a slight tremble to them as she stumbles away. What little air you could pull into your lungs leaves in one big rush, your arms dropping away from your back to your sides. Your legs tremble beneath you, the counter the only thing keeping you up as you slump against it, still unable to catch your breath.

Things are somewhat fuzzy around the edges, slow, the darkness behind your eyelids as you blink feeling like it lasts longer and longer each time.

You vaguely hear your name muffled from behind you, hesitant and laced with fear, concern. A head of pink hair rounds to the side of the counter, where you’re facing, Vi squatting down to be in your line of vision.

“Baby? You need to breathe in real deep for me, okay?” Her eyes are wide, roaming your face, hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach out but is thinking better of it.

It takes you a moment to register what she’s saying, to decipher it in your mind clouded with panic-- and then a few more moments to try. You take as deep of a breath as you can, sealing your lips to hold it.

“Good. You’re doing so good. Now breathe it out real slow, okay? Like this—” She lets out all of the breath in her lungs, out through slightly pursed lips as if she were blowing out a candle. She keeps those piercing eyes on your own, making sure you’re present and listening.

You nod, cheek still squished against the counter, pursing your lips and blowing out. It’s shaky, and you breathe out a bit faster than you should, but Vi just smiles, as reassuring as she can despite the clench of her heart, the fear thrumming through her veins.

“You’re perfect. Just keep going, alright?” She looks over your body, eyes flicking from point to point—the way your bare legs tremble, the underwear that pools at your feet, the clench of your hands against the counter by your side.

She cringes, gut twisting at the vulnerable position you’re in.

“Can I touch you? I just wanna get you dressed.” She watches you carefully, the way you pull in another breath, briefly nodding as you hold it.

She nods back, smile dropping the second she stands up again, slowly moving behind you. “Gonna touch your hip, okay?”

“Okay,” you manage to get out, the burning in your lungs easing just a bit.

Vi gently places a hand on your hip, stabilising you as she leans down, picking up your underwear from the floor and sliding it back up your legs. Your muscles tense the higher she gets up your thighs, and she can do nothing but mutter a series of ‘sorry, I know, I’m so sorry,’ as she settles them back on your hips. She pulls the hem of your shirt down to cover you, though it still doesn’t feel like enough.

Vi’s stepping out of her sweats before she knows it, leaving her in just her boxers. “Gonna put these on you, okay?” She crouches, scrunching up the pant leg and placing it near your foot. “Can you lift your foot for me?”

She helps you step into the sweats, hands brushing ever to lightly over your calves and hips as she pulls them up over you, covering your naked, trembling legs from the air.

“There you go. Did so well for me, baby,” she praises, rubbing soothing circles over your hip, over the fabric of the pants that she can’t even tell who they belong to.

“Vi…” you mumble, voice low, sounding so tired.

“I’ve got you,” she says, voice quiet. “Let’s get you off this counter, yeah? Can you stand?”

You shake your head, clenching and unclenching your hands around the edge of the counter. Your legs feel like jelly, like they’ll buckle underneath you if you try to rely on them to stand.

“That’s okay,” she reassures. “Can I pick you up, then?”

“Yes, please.”

Vi slowly peels you from the counter, gathering you in her arms as she lowers the two of you to the floor. She nestles you across her lap, tucking you up against her bare chest, letting you shift and press against her shoulder to bury yourself into her neck. Your breathing is steadier now, more stable, and the feeling of her bare skin against your frigid cheek helps to ground you further.

Vi’s head tilts down, lips pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. She just keeps you bundled there; strong arms wrapped around your aching limbs.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers into your skin, kissing it again. “Are you okay?”

You nod, picking up your arms to wrap around her neck, holding yourself impossibly closer. “Yeah.”

She lets out a breath, pulling away just enough to look down at you, eyes searching what she can see of your face. “What happened, sweet girl?”

You swallow, throat thick with lingering fear and a flurry of other emotions, mind still clouded with them. It takes you a moment to find your words. “I don’t know… You grabbed my wrists and I just—It was too—I don’t know.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Vi whispers, kissing you again. “Was I too rough?”

You can only shrug. “Kind of? Not in a way that hurt, but it was just… different. Not like how you normally hold me, but like— like I was bad. Like I did something wrong, and you caught me? I can’t explain it.”

Vi stills underneath you, muscles tensing as you speak. You peel your face away from her neck, from where you can hear the breath hitch in her throat. She’s already looking at you, blue eyes wide. She looks devastated.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t— Janna, you know I didn’t mean it, right?” She runs a hand through her hair, head thunking back against the cabinet behind her. “I’m not—I still did it. I can’t excuse that, but I would never do it on purpose. I—”

“Vi,” you murmur, one of your hands sliding from her neck to her jaw. “It’s okay.”

She swallows, the movement shifting under the skin of her neck. You try and guide her to look at you, but she resists.

“Violet.”

She stiffens, finally letting you move her head down to look at you, letting you see the way her lips are downturned, how her scarred brows are drawn tight, her nose crinkled as she holds back her emotions.

“You’re okay,” you reassure.

“I just—the idea of hurting you—”

“You didn’t hurt me,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “I promise. I just got scared.”

Her frown deepens, and you slide your other hand to cup the other side of her jaw, cradling her entire face. She relaxes down into it, letting her eyes flutter closed, the remnants of yesterday’s makeup smudging over her eyelids. You shift in her lap, bumping your forehead against her own.

You both sit there, breathing each other in, letting yourselves take a moment to calm down.

“I’m so sorry. Are you really okay?” Her voice is soft, hesitant in a way that tugs on your heart.

“I’m sure. Just wanna sit here with you. I can’t—I don’t want to move just yet.”

“Of course.”

Her eyes open, and up this close you can see everything swirling behind them, everything she’s keeping locked away-- the things she’ll think about when she can’t go to sleep tonight, mind combing through every second of the morning to find all the ways she failed you. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She leans in to kiss your cheek, then the other, then your forehead before letting you sink back against her.

You curl yourself up into her arms, drawing your legs up a bit higher against your chest. She slides a hand down to place it on your calf, rubbing soft circles into the muscle as she holds you there. Not having to keep your legs up, you allow yourself to relax, resting your head against her chest, over her heart that you can hear still hammering away in her chest.

“Can you sing for me?”

“Sing?” She asks, blinking down at you.

“The one you hum all the time,” you supply, thinking of how it starts. “Dear friend across the river…”

Vi pauses before nodding, hesitating out of nothing but pure shyness. She never sings openly-- not purposefully, anyways. You mostly catch her humming when she’s busy, concentrating too hard to realise she’s doing it. Sometimes you’ll hear her singing when she’s trying to sleep, like she’s trying to soothe herself.

She shifts in place underneath you, clearing her throat before softly starting to sing the words, voice quiet and warm. She doesn’t look it, but she has a beautiful voice, and you’d give anything to hear it more.

You let your eyes flutter closed, allowing the words and soft vibrations in her chest to soothe you—calming as her heart rate slows to a normal pace, the song working on her as it always does.

Dear friend across the river

My hands are cold and bare

Dear friend across the river

I'll take what you can spare

I ask of you a penny

My fortune, it will be

I ask you without envy

We raise no mighty towers

Our homes are built of stone

So come across the river

And find the world below

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ request your own here! . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

#vi x reader #vi arcane x reader #vi x f!reader #vi x fem reader #vi arcane smut #vi smut #vi x reader smut #vi arcane x reader smut #arcane x reader #writing requests #peachglazewrites #ao3 #reader insert #x reader

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kazumist · 12 hours ago

Text

SWEETLY BAKED WITH LOVE .ᐟ

✩ — in which zayne finds himself in a problem with his older patients relentlessly introducing and telling him about their daughters and granddaughters to him because he's single. what's a good way to shoo them off? perhaps wearing a keyring and fake dating your friend would do the trick!

✩ — includes: zayne x f!baker!reader. fluff. fake dating trope (not executed properly sorry i dont think i gave it justice), not much drama and confession scene is a bit boring imo :/, pace is a bit messy, based of that one part in the cdrama "the best thing", cw: food mentioned (baked sweets and wine), they're both idiots in love, wc: 7,166. i went insane Yes so what.

✩ — note: hi babes @koiukiy-o it's finally finished like can u believe it. i finished it in one fucking day initially but i woke up at 6am in the morning today (its around half past 7am by the time posting this) and added a bit more.

for zayne, being a young, famous, and favored doctor in akso hospital isn’t as pleasing as it sounds. only because the majority of his older patients try to match him up with their daughters with every given chance during their appointments scheduled with him.

at first, it wasn’t all that serious. zayne even initially thought that maybe elderlies these days have started to grow accustomed to sharing stories of their children—of their daughters, specifically, who are coincidentally in the same age range as him. perhaps it was a new thing; yeah, that was probably it.

until the introductions became more frequent.

ONE: AS SURPRISING AS A SUDDEN BLUEBERRY CHEESECAKE AT YOUR DOOR.

from a father whose daughter is a successful certified public accountant (CPA) to a mother whose daughter is currently a cardiology resident in a nearby hospital, the names and positions of these women have started to jumble in his head. all zayne could do is take a deep breath and smoothly deflect the questions of his patients regarding his current relationship status.

“dr. zayne, you know, i have this daughter..." here we go again. zayne tunes out whatever the old woman was saying, nodding every now and then to convince her that he was interested. the old woman’s daughter was something of a business owner, though it’s not like zayne is actually paying that much attention to the description his patient was giving him. his focus is solely on the results that are in his hands.

“do you have someone special in your life right now, dr. zayne?” zayne pauses; the shuffling of the lab reports in his hands stopped as he processed the question.

does he?

zayne doesn’t think that he does.

he has a few people that he cherishes in his life, yes. but does he think of himself settling down with someone by his side? well… not really—not yet, at least. zayne hasn’t given it that much thought himself. “before i answer that question, let’s discuss what your results have given us…” this method of zayne changing the subject works like a charm every time he does it. and with a blink of an eye, the old woman forgot her question and left after getting her new prescriptions from him.

zayne leans back on his chair, taking off his specs and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. he takes a deep breath, until his peace is interrupted by a knock at his door. the old woman should’ve been the last one; yvonne just came in and told him so not so long ago. he sits up right, fixing his posture as his professionalism starts to take over.

yet when the door creaks open to reveal you, zayne’s shoulders relax as he sits back once again.

maybe his peace wasn’t interrupted after all.

“what brings you here?” he asks you, eyeing you suspiciously as you’re obviously hiding something from him behind your back. “i come bearing gifts—one sweet little blueberry cheesecake from your favorite bakery! tadaaaa!” you say, revealing the little box to zayne and settling it on his desk, hoping he’d also envision the imaginary jazz hands you were doing before putting a plastic fork on top of it for him to use.

zayne has a sweet tooth and that’s practically common knowledge to you. and with you owning a bakery... well, let’s just say that the youngest heart surgeon in linkon city plays his favorites when it comes to shops that sell sweet pastries.

a smile cracks onto his face as he sees the box. gently removing the fork on top and opening the box, zayne inspects the blueberry cheesecake before him as if contemplating if he should eat it now or save it when he gets home. “you don’t have to eat it now, silly. i just wanted to drop it off before your work ends today,” you say.

“no, it’s alright. i’ll eat it now. the toppings could get ruined when i travel back home.”

as he starts taking a few bites, you propped your chin onto your palm and lean on it, staring at the sweet dessert that’s slowly being consumed right in front of you. “sooo, do you have someone in your life right now, dr. zayne?” you asked him, putting emphasis on the way you called him as a sign of mockery.

zayne deadpans at your question, suddenly stopping himself from getting another bite. his expression is clearly conveying a message to you wordlessly: are you being serious right now? but zayne just sighs and continues on getting another bite before replying. “how did you know about that?”

“i heard you two through the door. and when your last patient came out—she was a delight, by the way, greeting me so kindly—she suddenly asked me if i was your girlfriend! i obviously didn’t answer her properly and good thing yvonne came in to save the day and escort her out of the cardiology department.” you told him.

the sweetness of the small piece of blueberry glides across his senses as he listens to you. zayne finds himself sighing deeply for what seems like the nth today, twirling the fork in his hand as he thinks. he doesn’t like burdening this problem of his with you, especially when you have nothing to do with it. “seems like you’re thinking about a lot there. are your thoughts being consumed by the numerous names that got mentioned to you?” you teased.

“i beg your pardon?”

“i was only kidding! you looked so deep in thought there. is everything alright?”

zayne doesn’t know either. he doesn’t know how long he could keep deflecting and changing the topics when his patients try to pry into this part of his life. he has a soft spot for his patients, sure, and he’s satisfied with his job. though zayne didn’t know that he would be signing up for this when he became a cardiac surgeon.

“yes, my apologies. i seemed to have spaced out for a moment there.”

you glance over him, observing his mannerisms and his habits. whenever zayne twirls or plays with the item in his hand, it means he’s thinking. whenever he sits back on his chair, that means he’s relaxed. yet you never seen him space out—not until now, at least—and that’s what’s different.

odd.

but you didn’t push the topic further, as you’re well aware that zayne isn’t the type to express himself so freely. and as if a light bulb literally just gained it’s light inside your brain, the gears inside your head started turning as you suddenly got an idea. “i think i just got the greatest idea of my life.” you asked him.

“and what would that be?” he asks back. should i be scared? he thinks.

“you’ll see! just you wait and look forward to the next time i’ll drop by and visit.” you flash him a grin as zayne finishes the last bit of the blueberry cheesecake.

TWO: AS ENTICING AS SIX MACARONS SERVED RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU.

the next time you saw each other, you didn’t visit zayne. zayne visited you, striding towards you sitting behind the counter. today was a saturday. and during saturdays, you open your shop a bit later than your usual opening time during weekdays.

seeing the doctor visit your shop sometimes gives you a pinch of nostalgia coursing through you. you never would’ve expected to form a connection with a praised doctor in linkon in your life. but you don’t really have any regrets about it. you enjoy the surgeon’s company and he seems to enjoy yours.

“and what brings you here today, dr. zayne?” you say, greeting him as his eyes scan the pastries displayed before him. “please, refrain from the formalities. do you have anything new to recommend?” he replies.

your gaze follows his as you join him in looking for a pastry to offer. “hmm… oh! i know! you could taste test a new macaron flavor i’ve been trying. would you mind taking a seat while i got get them for you?” zayne nods before finding himself a seat and you take that as your cue to start running towards the kitchen located at the inner part of your establishment.

when you got out, you joined him at the two-seater table he decided on, sitting across from him. “lately, i’ve been indulging myself in making macarons, right? and i wanted a different flavor for a change so i paired two ingredients together! take a bite and guess what it is.” you said, pushing the box of macarons towards him.

zayne inspects the macarons in front of him, attempting to deduce the flavor. it has a light brown color, with the filling having a deeper shade of brown. could it be two types of chocolate? he thinks.

“staring at it will get you nowhere if you don’t actually taste it, you know.”

he snaps out of his thoughts at your words. he awkwardly coughs into his fist, avoiding your gaze. you stifled a laugh at him but zayne noticed it, feeling his ears grow hot. “ahem. pardon me for that. i’ll taste them now.” he says, grabbing a piece of the pastry. as soon as he takes a bite, the familiar taste of coffee beans (perhaps roasted?) and nutella washes over his tongue.

you were right; this was a different flavor that you don’t see often. “it’s delicious. were the coffee beans roasted? or were they grounded?” a small gasp escapes your lips at his question. “it was roasted, yeah! i’m surprised you noticed that; i didn’t think anyone would.”

“i felt the small chunks of the coffee beans as i chewed. and nutella as a filling balances the taste of the beans. i’d say it’s a good product to endorse.”

“really?”

zayne hums in agreement, finishing the macaron in his hand before grabbing another one from the box. “i recall that you haven’t told me your “idea” yet since the last time we saw each other.” he says, before taking another bite.

“oh! sorry about that; i keep forgetting to stop by akso hospital lately. but worry not—i didn’t forget about my idea!” you replied, fishing something out of your pocket. it was a keyring, though it wasn’t that obvious at first glance. “your idea is... a keyring?” he asks.

“wrong, the keyword is ring!” you say, grabbing his hand to check if it fits on his ring finger.

you seemed unaware of the effect of your actions, suddenly taking zayne by surprise by your sudden touch. he feels the cold metal wrap around the ring finger of his dominant hand. “look, it’s a perfect fit! just remember to always have it on, especially when you have appointments and surely those introductions would be gone, right?”

zayne inspects the keyring around his finger, flipping his hand as he takes it in. “i never would’ve expected that a keyring could act as a marriage ring.” he states. “m-marriage ring?!” you exclaimed. i never really thought of it as that. you thought, mentally sweatdropping. “is it not supposed to be?” zayne’s gaze at you shows obvious confusion. “well… i guess it could serve as that. i just thought of it as some fake promise ring that you could use at most.”

“the purpose is the same. i don’t think it matters what it stands for—the main purpose of this is to show my older patients that i’m taken, right?”

“yup! it’s nothing much, really, but i feel bad for what you have to endure when you have your appointments. do you think it would work?” you reply.

“we just have to play our cards right and then we’ll see.”

“mhm! wait—we?”

“yes, we. did i say something wrong?” there he goes again with the confused look.

“what do you mean… we?” this better not be what i’m thinking. you hoped, bracing yourself for whatever bomb he was about to drop.

but just as your luck to that runs out, zayne replies. “i thought we were both going to be wearing keyrings?” fuck, i knew it. you thought. inside your head, you can envision yourself on all fours, punching the ground as you also try to think of something—anything to reply with.

“but you’re the only one who has this... conflict. what use would it be if i also wore one?”

before zayne could even realize it, he already took a step and started sailing in dangerous, uncharted waters. “you told me a few times, including the time that you last visited, that my patients have wondered and asked if you were my significant other. wouldn’t it be more convincing if we were to uphold that sentiment?”

you swore you could feel your soul drain itself out of your body.

“so you want us to... fake date, basically? so we could stop your older patients from introducing their endless amount of daughters and granddaughters? did i get that right?” you ask again, just to be sure if what you’re hearing is actually right and real.

“yes, you’re quite spot-on.”

“you’re lucky that i have two keyrings by coincidence.”

well, it’s not like it’s going to be anything serious. and it’s also beneficial for me because they also pester me with their questions every time i visit. the offer is way a bit enticing for it’s own good—but everything should be fine.

with a soft sigh and one macaron left on the box (you and zayne were snacking on them as you had your discussion), you spoke again. “you’ve got yourself a deal. you better start wearing that keyring, dr. zayne.”

“i don’t think you should be calling me that when we’re supposed to portray ourselves like a couple.” he remarked.

you choke on your own saliva at his statement. “w-we’ll talk about the other details another day! how does the next time i visit—which i actually promise to do now—sound?” cursing yourself for stammering (but how could you not when he caught you so off guard?), you try your best not to embarrass yourself any further. “that sounds good.”

as the last macaron on the box you served gets consumed, you find yourself securing a peculiar deal with a certain heart surgeon.

THREE: AS SOUR AS A BITE OF STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE MELTING ON YOUR TONGUE.

staying true to your promise, you visited zayne a few days after his visit to your bakery. you had the same keyring wrapped around your ring finger, hoping to find zayne the same. “are you busy?”

he glances at you from his monitor and you notice that his shoulders relax again when he realizes it was you in the doorway. “what pastry do you have in store for me this time?” he asks you as you approach to have yourself a seat on the small couch.

“sadly there’s no pastry today; i accidentally forgot to grab one from the bakery’s fridge before i left but next time i’ll bring you some strawberry shortcake!”

“i’ll take note of that.”

zayne then continues to speak. “about where we stopped our discussion last time... would it be okay with you to completely drop with the formalities in general? you don’t have to call me dr. zayne, especially when we’re in the hospital.”

“what do i call you then?”

“zayne would be just fine. almost no one calls me that here.”

“zayne, huh… zayne, zayne… zayne.” you repeat his name to get yourself used to it. “alright then, doct—i mean, zayne.”

he nods at you in acknowledgement as you shift your gaze at his dominant hand. surely enough, you saw that keyring on his finger. “i see you’re wearing the keyring. did it work so far?” you ask him. “actually, yes, it did. the introductions lessened and i found myself at peace with most of my appointments today.”

“so my plan does work. huh, i never would’ve thought.” zayne takes this as an opportunity to reply. “how about you? did your keyring work?”

“not yet, i guess? when i arrived, yvonne told me that your appointments and checkups were done for the day. so i didn’t really encounter any of your patients today. maybe next time.”

zayne visited your bakery during the weekend again. although unfortunately, you weren’t there. one of your employees said that you were busy with an errand today so zayne just got a slice of yet another blueberry cheesecake on the go and quickly made his leave.

(he doesn’t see why he would stay when he isn’t sure of what time you’d return.)

the next time you and zayne saw each other, you had forgotten to bring the strawberry shortcake you told him back then. but what did happen is that you encountered a few familiar patients of zayne’s. they were all women who looked like they’re in their mid-sixties in a group of three. they were chatting nearby the entrance to zayne’s office when they spotted you.

and apparently, one of them recognized you.

“hello, dear. you’re the one who brings dr. zayne snacks, right? i remember seeing you here before.” she says, approaching you. “ah, yes! that would be me.” you let out a soft chuckle at her. “how kind of you to do so! are you perhaps his girlfriend?” another woman asks. the woman who approached you (who introduced herself as violet), shushes her friend. “don’t throw sudden questions at the lady! sorry about her, dear.”

the third woman in their group suddenly perks up and points at your hand. “look violet, her ring looks familiar... where have i seen it before, i wonder?” as soon as she said that, all three of the women’s attention was now all on your hand with the keyring on it.

“isn’t that like the ring on dr. zayne’s hand?”

there was then a moment of silence before they all realized what that question meant.

after escaping the clutches of their neverending queries (that you tried to answer as much as you could, and you never could’ve escaped without yvonne’s help of escorting them out), you finally got to knock on zayne’s office.

“come in.” his voice sounds muffled through the door.

once you settle down yourself inside, you let out a huge and relieved sigh. “was there a commotion outside? i heard multiple voices through the door, one of them being yours.” zayne asks.

“ah, well it turns out that your patients are really observant. did you know i had to make up some fake story on the spot of how we met?”

“is that so? do you mind telling me what this story is? they might ask about it the next time they come for a checkup.” he replies.

the actual story of how you and zayne met wasn’t really that far off from the one you told the small group of old ladies.

(it was dusk when you encountered zayne on the sidewalk; you accidentally bumped into him and he noticed you were seemingly in a rush. “oh my god, i’m so sorry! i wasn’t looking where i was running.” zayne waves his hand dismissively. “it’s alright, are you hurt?”

“not at all—” you checked the time with your wrist watch. “crap! uhm, excuse me, sir. do you know if there’s a flower shop nearby here? i’m in a terrible need of dried flowers at the moment.” you ask him.

zayne thought about it for a moment, trying to recall if there is one. he then tells you the directions to the flower shop he has seen in the area and you immediately thanked him. “thank you, thank you so much! feel free to drop by the cozy oven. my treat for helping me! thank you again, kind sir!” you say before running off in the direction he told you.

that was first time you met him and you were sure that was also the first time he met you.

but what if it isn’t?)

“oh, you know, i just told them some silly old cliche where i bumped into you while holding two bouquets of flowers and decided to treat you to some coffee as an apology. nothing that out of the ordinary, really.”

“noted. they’ll probably ask me about which bouquet it was next time.” this time it was his turn to let out a sigh.

“oh yeah! one of my staff members said you visited the bakery last weekend. sorry, i was busy that time. my friend ordered a cake for this event and i was also invited to it so i had to leave the job of handling the bakery to my employees.” you told him. “it’s alright, don’t fret.”

that day ended with zayne offering you a ride home.

the next few times you and zayne were together after that, you swear something was changing.

you never thought zayne could be the touchy type; he grabs ahold of your hand, going as far as interlocking your fingers together. hell, he even puts his hand on your waist when you’re walking in public.

you knew what you were getting into when you both agreed on that deal. but it’s just so... strange. scary, if you think about it.

how is he so good at this? no, more like—

why does it feel so real?

zayne is an attractive man, and that was certainly a fact. smart, rich, handsome, and well-mannered—he’s even soft spoken for goodness sake! that man has got it all, which is no wonder why some of his patients would want to set up their daughter with him. any woman would be lucky to experience what it’s like to be loved by him.

but is this what it feels like?

perhaps.

that was all you could say—after all, this is all just a fake setup so you both could shoo away his patients.

yet if it was all fake, why were your faces suddenly so close to one another right now? your lips were close to brushing against each other; one small nudge and you’d find out what it was like to kiss zayne.

the sudden phone ring echoing somewhere in the room snaps the both of you out of it.

as you both pull away out of surprise, zayne picks up the phone. “this is zayne speaking.” he says.

you just sat there on his couch, wondering many things.

it’s just a fake stunt. don’t get sidetracked, (y/n).

but why is it that whenever you remind yourself that it is fake, an uncertain pang hits your chest? you never could tell zayne this; he might think you suddenly have a heart condition and be concerned (and you wouldn’t be surprised because he is someone who is under cardiology).

this could be nothing. no, scratch that; it is nothing. zayne is an impossible man to reach, and he is only a friend to you.

nothing more, nothing less.

the next time you visited zayne at akso hospital, you finally had a slice of strawberry shortcake stored safely in a box for him.

you were still distracted by the time you two almost kissed, but you couldn’t let zayne know that for obvious reasons.

at this point in your fake dating plan, his patients are all convinced that you both are together, finding it cute and squealing in awe when you see each other in the hallway where his office is located. you were surprised at how well you and zayne were pulling this off.

“special delivery for dr. zayne?” you say, peeking through the door to check if he’s busy. “and what did i order this time?” he asks back. you take that as your cue to step inside. “one slice of a promised and long overdue strawberry shortcake!” you told him, setting down the small box and another plastic fork on top of the box.

“about time you remembered.” he says, taking the fork and opening the box. the familiar scent of strawberry shortcake then circulates around the two of you, which made zayne take a bite almost immediately. “are you planning on visiting the bakery this weekend?” you then ask him.

zayne swallows before he speaks. “i have thought about it, yes. and i was actually planning to ask you about your weekend plans today actually.”

“oh? why?”

“i was just wondering if you’d like to make plans with me since i’m usually off-duty during weekends.”

you become a bit awkward as soon as zayne says that. and zayne, being as observant as ever, obviously noticed it. “is there something wrong? it’s okay if you’re busy.” you waved your hands at him, “no, no! it’s not like that. well, kinda i guess? ugh, it’s just that…”

“i may or may not have agreed to go on a blind date this weekend.”

if zayne hadn’t listened that carefully, he would’ve missed it. but no, he caught every single word that slipped out of you. the sour taste of the sliced strawberry, along with the spongy texture of the cake, suddenly felt like sand in zayne’s mouth. and as ironic as that, he suddenly feels iffy as soon as you say that—like he was also sour. “is that so… that’s alright. you should enjoy your plans instead.”

“wait. you’re not mad?”

am i mad? zayne mentally asked himself. he doesn’t think he is, but he does somewhat feel disturbed by the idea of you going on a date with another man, and that doesn’t feel right to him either. “i’m not. why would i be mad?” a lie.

you stiffen at your seat, trying to come up with an explanation. that question just slipped off of your tongue; you didn’t mean to ask that. “well, uhm.. you know, because we’re in this fake dating thingy, i just thought it would be weird to you if i were to go see someone else and all that, yeah.”

“you said it yourself; this is all fake. so i’m not stopping you if you want to do that.”

ouch? why does his confirmation that it’s nothing serious get a kick to it? you thought. “really? okay then, thanks for letting me know.”

zayne couldn’t shake off the sourness of the strawberry from his tongue. and the thing is—the strawberries that you use for your products aren’t even that sour. it was more sweet than sour in the first place. so why? why can’t he get the sourness off?

why does he suddenly feel so bitter at the thought of you seeing someone else?

the rest of the hour felt a bit suffocating after that.

FOUR: AS BLAND AS MISSING THE DELECTABLE TASTE OF YOUR COMPANY.

when the weekend rolled around, zayne didn’t visit your bakery. he didn’t find a need to because you weren’t there. he wasn’t close to your staff and he doesn’t really want to get close to them. and zayne isn’t that close with a lot of people in general, so he decided to spend his weekend at home.

he thinks about the conversation he had with you when you brought up the topic of having a blind date scheduled today.

and he still feels sour about that. he doesn’t know why.

then he suddenly remembers the one time when he was so close to feeling your lips on his. zayne hoped that he wasn’t obvious but this moment had perhaps made him short circuit. your face was so close—he could take every little detail of your features with the distance.

but you just had to have this blind date today.

zayne feels even more sour after that.

he was a doctor, yes, but he obviously isn’t an expert in psychology or emotions. so as he unlocks his phone, he opens the web browser installed and types in the search bar.

now, jealousy was a foreign concept for zayne.

he stares blankly at the results his search shows him, a part of him refusing to believe that what he was feeling was jealousy and the rational part of him telling himself that if this isn’t it, what else could it be?

but another question puts him in a dilemma. why is he even jealous in the first place?

of course you can go see other people. he doesn’t have the right to be mad about that. zayne didn’t own you, and you didn’t own zayne. if he were in your position, you’d just let him go on that blind date.

yet the idea of you falling in love with another makes him uneasy.

oh.

zayne wasn’t stupid. he didn’t need to drown himself in any more thoughts on this matter to realize what was happening to him.

he was falling.

falling for you, to be specific.

and there’s nothing that could help him.

being forced into a blind date never goes well. and you swore that you'd strangle your friend who forced you into this in the first place.

“so, what do you do for a living?” your date asks before sipping from his glass of red wine. “oh, i’m a baker. i run a bakery, actually. it’s located nearby akso hospital.”

“is that so? what do you usually bake?”

“i bake all sorts of things! from cakes to macarons—“ you pause when you say macarons. you suddenly recall the day when you asked zayne to taste test your new macaron flavor. you cleared your throat to regain composure.

“sorry about that; something just came to mind. but like i said, i bake a whole lot of cakes and pastries. i like to experiment with new flavors, you see. what about you?”

“oh, i’m currently a resident at akso hospital actually!” the man before you says. “really? under which department?” you ask him. “cardiology. i always found the heart a fascinating thing to study.”

you tried to hold yourself back from choking on your wine. “c-cardiology, you say…?” hearing the term come out of your date’s mouth has something uncomfortable bubbling up inside of you. your mind finds itself drifting back to zayne—

what am i even thinking? get a grip (y/n)! you’re on a date for fuck’s sake!

“mhm. one of my mentors is really nice, a bit cold but i know he’s just really like that. his name is dr. zayne, by the way.” and as if the universe is mocking you right now, your date just had to say that his mentor was zayne of all people.

“i think i’ve heard of him once or twice, yeah. he’s a good heart surgeon, right?”

as time seemed to pass by, you could feel yourself feeling more distracted. when the waiter came to ask if you’d like any dessert, your mind immediately thought of zayne.

while looking through the dessert menu, you wondered if zayne would like what this restaurant is offering. what would zayne’s opinion be on this?

and your date continues to speak, the sole fact that he’s a resident under zayne, was enough to sidetrack your mind towards him.

zayne, zayne, zayne. this whole date has done nothing but remind you of the doctor.

by the time the date was over, you entered the door to your apartment complex (which is located above your bakery) and slid against the door as soon as you closed it.

removing your heels as you were on the floor, you let out a sigh. “what the fuck is going on with me tonight?” you asked no one in particular.

the date wasn’t even bad but nothing about it felt right for you. like there was something clearly wrong with the whole principle of you going on a blind date in the first place but you didn’t know what it was.

you try to recall what happened before the blind date happened, trying to see if something would have triggered your current state.

your recollection brings you to the time you told zayne about the blind date a few days ago.

something felt off about him when you dropped the bomb on him that time. it’s as if something shifted in the air when you revealed your plans for the weekend to him.

“oh, god. you have got to be kidding me.” you facepalmed when the realization dawned upon you.

your thoughts were running. how could’ve i been so stupid? it was written all over my face in the first place! i like zayne. holy shit i actually—

but it all stops there when you then realize what you just said.

you didn’t visit zayne after your blind date. and when he visits your bakery, you hide yourself from him in the kitchen (and you also told your employees to not spill a word about your actual whereabouts, making them form excuses on what you’re up to).

simply to say, you were avoiding zayne.

it scared you. you didn’t know what to do with your new feelings, especially when the whole fake dating thing was still ongoing for the both of you.

how can you keep faking it all up when everything just feels so real? when you couldn’t help but wonder if you’re still friends after everything you’ve done?

zayne: Are you going to visit today?

zayne: I miss getting my special delivery.

you stared at his message, trying to process it. why did he have to say it like that? what does he mean by that? you thought.

(y/n): sorry, i can’t.

(y/n): i need to prioritize some cake orders for now. maybe next time.

zayne: Oh, alright then.

you know full well that there most probably won’t be a next time. you’ll just keep denying and deflecting as much as you can—and as long as you can.

however, zayne knew you were avoiding him and he most definitely didn’t need to be a genius to notice that.

but he doesn’t know why. was it something that he did? were you alright? perhaps you haven’t been feeling well as of late. were you overworking yourself lately?

zayne thinks about the time you two almost kissed again. maybe he should’ve gone for it. maybe he shouldn’t have answered that goddamn phone call. maybe—

maybe he shouldn’t have let you go on that blind date.

your phone vibrates against the pocket of your apron. you pull it out to check the notification and go blank at the sender.

zayne: Have you been well?

zayne: We haven’t seen each other lately.

his clinic hours are not the same as of late. zayne got so used to you visiting him at akso—to seeing you in general—that it just feels... bland now that you’re not present.

zayne misses you. and he wonders if you miss him too.

FIVE: AS SWEET AS KNOWING THAT I WASN’T TOO LATE.

(before you bumped into zayne on the sidewalk, you two had actually met.

once in a cafe, and once in the grocery store... zayne had noticed that since you two lived in the same community, it was bound that you’d encounter each other a lot—although you don’t really seem to notice him.

when zayne met you in the grocery store, the first thing that he noticed about you was that your shopping cart was halfway filled with baking ingredients. there were at least three (or was it four?) dozen of eggs stacked, two packs of all-purpose flour, a small bottle of sprinkles (both the colorful and chocolate ones), and a whole lot more.

at first glance, any other person would ignore you. zayne would be one of them—he had no clue why he noticed you and your shopping cart. he was only in the aisle because it’s the way to where the bread was located.

that was the first time zayne sees you.

the second time he saw you, zayne encountered you in a cafe this time. weeks passed since he saw you while he was out for groceries and you had papers sprawled all over the small table in front of you. zayne didn’t really get a good look at them but he assumed that it was all sorts of cake design from the single glance he got to have.

wedding cakes, birthday cakes, anniversary cakes. there were a whole bunch of designs. perhaps you baked for a living.

again, at first glance, any other person would ignore you. and zayne would still be one of them—though would this become a lie because isn’t it strange that it has happened twice? not like there’s anything bad with noticing you. it’s just... out of his character, per se.

the third time zayne meets you, it was the time you also recall—the encounter on the sidewalk. now, what were the chances that zayne would meet you there that late afternoon? he didn’t know.

and with that small conversation between the two of you happening, zayne’s assumption was correct. the baking ingredients, the cake designs, and now you telling him to visit your bakery—

maybe he should visit the cozy oven during the weekend.)

around three weeks have passed since you started ignoring him. you were surprised at how well you were doing so far. not like it was hard doing so. the real challenge was to ignore his texts and make yourself reply late.

and when he visits the bakery, which is what’s going on right now.

it was almost nine in the evening when you finished closing up your bakery. you heard footsteps getting louder, signaling that someone is walking towards you.

“there you are.” you knew that voice anywhere.

“zayne? what are you doing here at this hour?” you ask him out of surprise. “well, a certain someone seems to be hiding from me, so i thought it was time to change my strategy and do a surprise attack. it looks like it worked.”

“ah. sorry about that... work has been a bit busy. you know?” you take in zayne’s appearance before you, eyes slightly widening at the keyring that is still on his finger.

(how ironic because you were also wearing yours at the moment. your excuse would be “it was out of pure habit.”)

“so busy that even when i visit you hide yourself from me?”

he got you there. “i—no, no! it’s just that—“ zayne cuts you off with another question. “did i do something wrong?”

“what?”

“you heard me. (y/n), did i do something wrong? i understand that you’ve been busy but something feels different. like there’s something more to it than just you being busy.” he then says. why does he have to be always so observant?

the guilt of your decisions as of late started to eat you up inside. “i… i don’t know.”

“you don’t know?” zayne asks again.

“i mean, it’s not like i literally don’t know but it’s just... did we even do the right thing? you know, fake date and all of that.”

zayne could feel the unease creeping up on him with your question. “the plan worked, did it not?”

“no, zayne. what i mean is that did we do the right thing with fake dating in the first place? because for the love of god, we almost kissed! and—and we’re both old enough to realize that friends don’t just... kiss.”

“is this about your blind date a few weeks ago?” you don’t know what he means by that. because you never met up again with that blind date, telling him that as much as it was nice to know him, you’re not really interested in giving romance a whirl for now.

you didn’t know what to answer to that. “so it is.” he then says. you wanted to say no, but no words came out of you. it was as if your lips felt like they were sewn closed. “i guess i was too late then.”

too late?

“wait—what do you mean too late?”

zayne’s look in his eyes confused you. you couldn’t decipher the emotions that were present in his gaze. “aren’t you still seeing your blind date nowadays?”

then it all made sense to you.

zayne thinks the reason you started avoiding him was probably because he thought you hit it off with your blind date. before you could answer his question, he speaks again. “to be honest with you, recently, especially during your absence, i have come to the realization that i like you, (y/n).”

wait. what?

too speechless to cut in, he continues. “i felt off when you first said that you agreed to that blind date of yours. i just brushed it off back then but later i realized that it was because i was jealous. i soon regretted not doing anything about it—and when you started ignoring me, i couldn’t help but think that maybe you didn’t want to visit me anymore in my office as a sign of respect to your new lover.” in other words, i missed you.

you try to process everything that he just came clean about. but there is only one highlight in everything he said—he likes you. zayne likes you.

and you like him too.

“first of all, i’m really sorry for ignoring you, zayne. i honestly only did it out of fear because i recently realized that i like you too.” zayne was about to speak up when you raised a hand to shush him. “let me finish first. i never met with my blind date again after our first meeting. i told him that i kindly told him that i didn’t want to try romance for now—though that was partially a lie because i only find myself wanting to try romance out with you.”

zayne also only got one highlight out of that—you like him too. that’s all that matters to him.

“so i wasn’t too late?” he then asks.

you take a few steps closer to him. “no, zayne. you’re just in time.” zayne’s hands find themselves on your waist. “then can i kiss you?” you shoot him a playful glare. “are you sure a phone call isn’t going to interrupt us this time?” you then say, arms wrapping themselves around his neck.

“i’m sure.”

“then you can.”

and without hesitation, zayne leans in to capture your lips with his. he could feel you smiling in the kiss, and zayne savors the faint taste of your lippie—not minding that it might have smudged on his lips now.

when you both pulled away, you couldn’t help but giggle. zayne’s lips were covered in some of your tinted lip gloss. you reach out a hand to smudge it away before pecking him a quick kiss to his nose and asking him, “do you want to come inside? i have a new macaron flavor for you to taste test.”

“is that so? what is it this time?” he replies, hands not leaving your waist.

“salted caramel! but not the ones that are sweet; i made sure that this one actually has a salty kick to it!”

zayne definitely has a sweet tooth.

yet there’s nothing more sweet than knowing that you like him too.

#( writings )#love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne #zayne x reader #zayne x you #l&ds zayne #zayne #x reader

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