#he stayed with him that first night and then showed up in that brown jacket and grey shirt? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluemerakis · 2 months ago

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Recently finished Swayze’s ‘ghost’ and now I can’t stop thinking about post-Hell Dean, where the reader has his iconic brown leather jacket hanging in her room thinking she’s never gonna see him again but he shows up in her room (in a non creepy way as much as possible lol) and they fuuuuck like old times and she thinks she’s dreaming until she realises it’s actually him (or not lol) but the romanticism is screaming out to me, idk if it’s something you’d be interested in writing but omfg you’d write this so painfully well

ANON!! i LOVE LOVE LOVE this SO much! i’m so honoured that you’ve entrusted me with this idea—i had the time of my life writing this & went a lil wild with it LOL. thank you for your support and kind words, it means the world to me! i hope i did your request justice 🩵

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────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ sunshine ❞

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pairing ୨୧ dean winchester x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ s4 .ᐟ spoilers, established relationship, dramatic descriptions of grief, cussing, angst, sam being an adorable little angel, nip sucking, unprotected sex p in v, tooth-rotting fluff. lmk if I forgot any.ᐟ if there are typos, no there isn’t

synopsis ─ after dean had sealed the deal that warranted him a one-way ticket to hell, you had no hopes of ever seeing him again. you were overcome with a grief that felt inescapable, but with sam’s help, you’d managed to pull through the storm and enter clearer skies. just when you thought you’d have to navigate a new life without dean, against all odds, he makes an unexpected appearance.

word count ~ roughly 15k

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Four months.

The duration of your ongoing turmoil. The grim tally of his absence.

For four months, you’d been trapped in the stagnant bog of your grief. It had formed the very first night you’d lost him, seizing your mind like a rabid plague. It didn’t matter which way you attempted to swim, or how hard you paddled to try and stay afloat, there was no sure escape from its bottomless depth. It immobilised your existence, broke down your hope—scattered it like falling leaves to be lapped up by the famished surface and swallowed to the point of no return. It was lonely and suffocating, but you’d since given up on waiting for a lifeline to be cast from some land beyond your gloomy horizon, so sure that you’d isolated yourself from any soul kind enough to try.

Except for Sam.

Sam had tried to rescue you many times, but the lines he casted were always too battered—chewed up by the demons of his own grief. And you knew that if you grabbed onto it—where he stood barely clinging to the other end—it would snap and pull him right in. You couldn’t do that to him, so you’d surrendered to the bog entirely, allowing your grief to engulf you into its endless, bone-chilling nothingness. And each day, you sank further and further, like the dead weight of a stone, drifting down into the pits of your despair. Your living, breathing death.

A slow, agonising journey of digestion—your body, mind and soul disseminating into nothing.

Reaching rock bottom hadn’t taken long, not when you’d been left feeling so shallow by the robbery of your life’s meaning. And you’d laid there ever since, slowly deteriorating, slowly drowning. Over and over and over again. You could have said that you were losing every part of yourself, but you hadn’t been whole to begin with, not for a long time—not since losing him.

If he were here, he could have saved you from yourself. But he wasn’t. And you hated him for it.

You hated him. For striking a deal with the devil. For placing his life on the line without a second breath. For lying to you about it. For even thinking that nobody would notice the dead space left behind. There were certain days that tended to plunge that hateful knife—already engrossed in your heart—a little deeper. A day like this morning.

The day that marked the anniversary of Dean Winchester’s death.

On the first day without him, you’d spent your time trying to fight it—forced smiles, laughs of denial, stares that didn’t linger on any of his belongings for too long. But it was hard not to come face to face with his memory when the ghost of his existence seemed to prowl after you at every turn and every corner of the apartment. His favourite coffee mug with an infamous chip on the rim. The frozen, pasty pies he’d crammed the freezer full of. Six packs of canned beers stocked along the pantry’s top shelf. His discarded shoes. His sparse watch collection. The shampoo bottle he’d diluted to last a month longer.

And that damn leather jacket, which currently draped from the frame of your desk chair.

It hung there like a museum exhibit—the memory of Dean Winchester, frozen in time. The jacket he’d left behind on the day he’d slipped your life for good. You hadn’t once touched it. You couldn’t bring yourself to lay your fingers across the leather when there’d be no warmth radiating through its fabric to soothe you—couldn’t face the fact that it’d reflect the cold, empty truth of it all. So there it laid, collecting dust and slowly drowning beneath the suffocating, grey sea without a merciful hand to liberate it. It was a cruel parallel of your own withering state.

Every morning, your eyes would peel through a hollow sleep, and the first thing they’d settle on was that damn jacket. Every. Single. Time. As if you needed the constant recap on top of everything else. You could have mustered up the courage to move it some place else that’d finally warrant the motto out of sight, out of mind. But the naive fool that had created that saying failed miserably at accounting for the woes of the brain. Once scorched into memory, nothing would ever truly be forgotten. You’d remember regardless of where that jacket lay—a curse bound to your life, never to be broken.

Unless you broke first.

You shifted at the heart of your king-sized bed, your head sinking back into your plumy pillow as you gazed up at the ceiling. At anything but that jacket. Your limbs sprawled out between the cotton sheets, taking maximum advantage to voyage the sea of space left at your disposal. While a mattress this large and luxurious should’ve offered you a sense of comfortable freedom, you couldn’t help but mourn all the space—space that at one point, had been occupied by him.

The gentle, golden glare of dawn had begun its steady journey into the room, letting itself in almost shyly through the slits of your curtains. The meek sunbeams sliced through the dim atmosphere you’d found solice within, and you watched as dust particles began to waltz around one another through the bronzed air—as if they’d been cast into the centre of the ballroom. Around and around they swirled in perfect, mirrored harmony. You thought it looked a lot like a courting display—more mental imagery to emphasise your loneliness.

For a second, some faded image—a memory—flashed across your mind. Yourself and Dean, taking to the neglected dance floor of a bar nearing its closing time. A half-emptied beer bottle clutched in his one hand as his other linked with yours, serving as the leash that dragged your protesting form to its debut on the dance floor.

You’d never been too confident in your dancing skills, a fact you’d tried many times to disclose, but Dean had been insistent. Somewhere behind you, Sam had whooped from the comfort of the booth you’d both discarded, and when you’d glanced back at the younger Winchester, he had his beer-adorned hand raised into the air as a cheer. You’d scoffed with a heavy thanks for nothing.

When you’d turned back to Dean, he’d drawn up in his tracks without any prior warning, causing you to crash not-so-elegantly into his torso. Instinctively, your free palm had lurched forward to cradle his chest in a steadying motion, your chin tilting up to grace him with a stunned giggle.

The drink he’d throttled in his other hand sloshed with the jolt, foam tumbling over the nozzle’s edge like a provoked volcano’s tantrum. It slathered his fingers and trickled to the floor, adding fresh patterns to the aged, sticky blotches already scattered amidst the young night.

“Woah, easy there, tiger,” he’d laughed, but the hand that’d dragged you here released your fingers only to form a seductive curve at the small of your back. There, he’d pulled you in even closer, his lips closing in on you with the promise of a love-sick kiss. But instead, his jaw had dipped past your temple, lips grazing your cheekbone before hovering at your ear. “There’s nuff o’ me to go ‘round without you jumpin’ ship for the first spot,” he husked. You’d practically felt the grin spreading his lips.

You’d ducked your head away from his with a hearty huff. “Down, boy,” you’d scoffed, hands trailing up his chest to crown either shoulder with a natural ease. The touch had been smooth, magnetic. And maybe you two were like magnets, utterly obsessed with being intangible, and eager to keep on exploring every inch of one another with a shifting touch rather than be torn apart.

Dean’s eyes had lowered to the naughty line you’d drawn to his shoulders, the grin he’d taken up deepening enough to suction his cheeks into the dimples you’d come to adore. When he’d acquainted your eyes again, it was through a heavy-lidded stare that promised all sorts of activities to reciprocate your tantalising touch. “Oh, I’ll get down, alright,” he’d chuckled hoarsely, leaving the line open to interpretation as he brought his beer to his lips. He’d downed a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes not once straying from yours as he watched you mentally decipher his words.

“You know what? Enough of your games,” you’d laughed, hands slipping from his chest to forsake the dance floor before you’d have a chance to make it regret hosting you. You’d attempted to turn tail and flee, but Dean’s hand had found your wrist in a firm, yet gentle tug, and then you were held prisoner under those hypnotising eyes once more. Your lips had split to offer some final protest, but his own lips puckered into a shushing pout that had you clamping down on your tongue.

“Don’t say anythin’, just dance with me,” he’d instructed, and then the hand tethering you to him lifted, your arm following the motion like a chain effect. Against your will, you were spun around in an awkward, off-timed circle that deviated abominably from the background music. When you came to face him once more, his chest had rattled with a laugh a little too passionate for your liking. “That was adorable—like a toddler learnin’ she’s got the gears but don’t quite know which she’s shiftin’.”

Your cheeks had seared hot at that comment, free hand diving forward to shove his chest lightly. “Stop—I warned you!” You’d simpered.

“Hey!” He’d laughed, beer-occupied hand lifting in a gesture of innocence. “I’m only playin’! You’ll get the hang o’ it—I’ll teach ya. Watch.” Your hand lifted under his guidance as he executed his own spin—even more sprawled and ridiculous than yours had been. Your free hand had flown to cradle your mouth as a disbelieved chortle blared through, and as Dean came to face you once more, his brows were lifted in question. “Eh? I’m a natural, yeah?”

You’d giggled into your palm again before dropping your hand back to your side, lips pursing with amusement. “Let’s just say that I don’t think either of us should be teaching the other,” you’d huffed through a pained smile.

Dean lowered your joined hands to the space between you. “Well,” he’d begun, pulling you into his frame once more, like he just couldn’t get enough of your presence—like he wanted it to hog him. “Guess we just gotta. . . y’know, feel this one out together,” he’d murmured suggestively, eyes narrowing with cheek while he released your hand to settle into its natural hold at the small of your back.

You’d leaned your smirk-heavy lips closer to his with a content hum, your hands coming to wrap around his neck. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll follow if you lead.” He’d grinned approvingly at that, tugging you along to a slow and steady sway of the bodies, which you’d succumbed to and harmonised with in no time—much to your surprise.

“Sammy!” Dean had called to his younger brother, his eyes not once straying from yours as he presented his beer in the direction of the booth. “All yours for the takin’.” He’d paused to steal a glance at your beaming lips. “I got my own special o’ the night.”

You’d laughed at that, and Dean’s charm had grown all the more potent as he stretched out the dance between the two of you for what felt like a good couple of hours. In the background, the music in bad taste had blared on, ever so eager to cheapen the moment between the two of you, but you’d become so enthralled with one another that all else around you was drowned out, anyway.

Both his hands had selfishly hoarded your lower back, pressing you so far into him that you’d stumbled around his feet more times than you’d have liked to admit. But you’d remained steadied by the hands furled around his neck, and comforted by the gentle, reciprocated press of your foreheads, gazing into the sanctuary of one another’s eyes.

If you’d known then, in that moment, that Dean Winchester was going to die, you’d have held onto him a little longer—and probably never have let go. Even if it killed you, too.

With a heavy, rattled rise of your chest, you came back to your grim present, drawing in a long and shaky breath. You shifted between the sheets to roll onto your side, arm coming up beneath the underside of your pillow to cradle it like an emotional support teddy. You tuned your attention to your curtain-clad windows, and like a corpse, you continued to rot away within your coffin of a mattress, watching idly as the sun continued to announce its ascent.

It wasn’t long before warm golds drained into a paler shades that fully lit your room now—the official statement of a new day. But still, you didn’t stir. The curtains remained cast, the windows crammed closed as tightly as they’d been left about a week ago, and your soul feeling anything but renewed to tackle this heavy day head on.

Somewhere beyond your wall, footsteps thrummed lightly down the hallway. Now and again, you’d let yourself believe that they belonged to Dean, on his way to brew you both a morning cuppa—just to offer some pathetic, fleeting slither of comfort. But nothing—nobody could ever fill those shoes left behind. It hadn’t stopped Sam from trying, though.

Before Dean’s. . . disappearance, the brothers had stayed together in the larger room of your two-bedroom apartment—nothing like reliving the good old times, right? It didn’t much bother either one of them, given that Dean had slept in your bed on most nights, leaving the space feeling basically like Sam’s own. The dynamic between you all worked well, and it was practical for a hunter’s lifestyle. Costs were cut, perimeters familiarised and mapped out, and the shared company between you all was reliable. Trustworthy.

You’d become a blended family of some sort. You didn’t think there was any external force that could’ve torn you all apart. But you hadn’t accounted for an inside job. Hadn’t accounted for the weak link that was you.

After Dean’s death, you’d gone into a self-destructive spiral, eager to push anybody and everybody away while you feigned bravery. But Sam had clocked you like an open book, and it made him the hottest target of your impulsive ire.

You couldn’t stand looking at the younger Winchester, how he served as a constant reflection of your own grief—the grief you’d tried so hard to drown out. You knew you should have bonded with him over your shared loss, and the younger Winchester had tried everything to utilise that angle to be there for you, but it’d only made you push back harder. You half expected him to walk out after the first week, but you’d forgotten how deep-rooted stubborness ran within the Winchester bloodline.

Sam had continued to stick around. Why was beyond you. You could have argued that it was because he’d come to love you like a sister, but you couldn’t help the feeling that Dean had made him promise to look out for you, should he ever bite the dust. And it made you hate him more. Because if it were the latter, it meant that Dean had always intended to stay en route on the sacrificial pathway you’d tried countless times to swerve him from. And it meant that loving you hadn’t been reason enough for him to become sidetracked.

If only he’d held out a little longer and put off making that damned deal, you could have continued searching for a solution that didn’t end with either of the Winchesters’ deaths. But deep down, you knew that fate hadn’t written that ending down in any of her books. That continuing to skim page after page would have done nothing but waste minutes paid in blood. Deep down, you knew that Dean had no other choice, but it didn’t make you hate him any less for choosing it.

The faint clanking of utensils transcended the walls, indicating that Sam had worked himself into the kitchen. It was like a routine now. Every morning, the same time. You thought he might’ve craved some taste of control over his life by instilling this morning pattern he now followed so religiously.

You envied how well he seemed to hold himself together, despite it being his blood that had passed on. It made you feel invalidated in all your mourning. After all, if he could move on from the loss of his brother, whom he’d known all his life, why couldn’t you move on from a man you’d known for a pitiful number that paled in comparison?

As they so often did, your thoughts rampaged for a while longer, so eager to hold you captive between the sheets. But eventually, you felt the pit of neglect burrowed into your stomach gape wider, something that you couldn’t ignore any longer.

Your head turned to glimpse the plates you’d stacked atop the bedside table over the last few days. Almost all of them held meals that you’d scarcely picked at, meals Sam had cooked you, and they were starting to smell. It wasn’t doing much to help encourage the full return of your appetite. But still, you had to eat—something fresher, of course.

Eventually, you mustered up the courage to stir and shed the sheets, your week-old pyjamas falling limp around your frame as you shovelled your weight onto wilted legs. You stood for a moment, taking in this new pull of gravity, before angling yourself toward the door.

At the corner of your eye, it beckoned to you. You shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have given it the attention it so desperately craved, but how could you stand steadfast when you were crippled with the need to reminisce him during every waking moment? So you buckled, like you always did, and turned to glance over the waiting leather jacket.

It beamed a little brighter this time around, illuminated by the sun’s pale touch. It looked almost angelic, and you could have sworn that new life had been bestowed upon it—like a reincarnation. But no matter how long you stared, no body seemed to materialise between its hold to glorify that hope. Still no Dean Winchester to show for it.

So much for having faith.

With a barely audible scoff, you finally tore your gaze away and trudged toward your bedroom door. You reached for the handle, fingers hovering over the cool metal as you took a moment to think about what’d you say to Sam. Starting with an apology would probably be ideal, followed up by a looping string of thank yous for everything he’s done. You swallowed thickly before tightening your hold, the mechanism clicking open with a brash sound that cut through your senses. And then, like a ghost, you neglected your grave and slunk into the hallway.

When you traipsed into the open-plan apartment on light, reluctant feet, your eyes wandered over to the kitchen at the corner, where Sam had already made himself comfortable at the hot lip of the stove. His back was turned on you, but you caught the whisk of his arms as he executed an impressive flip of something within the skillet. It landed with a muffled thump, a result that had Sam hissing out a noise of satisfaction.

A shy, smoky ghost levitated above the Winchester, and it wasn’t long before the cracked kitchen window wafted a clue in your direction—the sweet tang of pancakes tickling your nose. Usually, it was a smell that had you inhaling a little deeper, like you couldn’t miss savouring even a scrap of its existence. Now, the smell roused nothing other than a faint reminder of just how much you didn’t crave breakfast. Or anything, for that matter. But still, duty called. More like your stomach would begin eating itself if you insisted on starving it for a day longer.

With a practiced breath of bravery, you picked your way past the living room sofas, your sock-clad feet scuffling across the floor with a severe lack of motivation. As you approached the kitchen island, you spotted a can of sweetened whipped cream—your favourite—and a bowl of berries straddling the plated, ever-growing stack of pancakes. It was the complete picture your stomach needed to enlist the first of its rumbling, but you hadn’t had much of a mental appetite for quite some time. The simple joy you’d once held for eating had been boiled down to the dull necessity of sustenance—you ate only because your body needed fuel. Anything more than that just wasn’t worth feeling.

And, truthfully, it was a baffling, new reality because there was a time you'd have nagged the boys to drive you halfway across the country to try some new cuisine you'd seen advertised across billboards. You’d scribble down the names of the niche diners and renowned restaurants in your trusty notebook to be reviewed on the trips back to the motels, heated debates unfolding as the brothers either vouched for or condemned your idea of a good meal. Now, the memories were so distant that you'd started to wonder whether they'd even existed. Whether that version of you still existed.

You brought up the rear of one of the kitchen chairs, moving a hand to cradle your protesting stomach while the other outstretched to retract the chair at the rim. The sudden, intrusive screech of wood against wood was enough to startle Sam into a growing awareness of his surroundings. He pivoted on his heels to face you, the pan making a reflexive dive in your direction in what was meant to be some pitiful means of a defence. The white of his eyes blared through, his tall frame ducking slightly as he assumed a defensive position.

Your composure didn’t falter as you slunk into the seat; his reaction wasn’t any surprise, not when you lead the adrenaline-laced life of a hunter forced to guard their six on a daily. And you doubted he’d expected any company after you’d basically stopped existing outside of your room these last couple of days—and at this early hour, no less.

What did surprise you, though, was that the pancake had managed to cling to the metal of the skillet in the midst of his jolt.

As Sam drank in your familiar form, his broad shoulders sagged visibly under his growing relaxation, the vice grip he’d unintentionally taken up around the pan’s handle now relenting an inch.

“Oh,” he stuttered out, a flustered half-chuckle diffusing his misplaced adrenaline. He slunk toward the island with his head slightly bowed, his gaze flickering between you and the pan. “Hey,” he murmured, his lips pursing shortly after the meek sound, as though he were afraid to let the wrong words slip. His caution wasn’t misplaced; you hadn’t exactly been kind to him these last few days.

It usually went that way around this time of the month. The days stepping up to the anniversary of Dean’s death tended to trip you right into the worst vision of yourself. You were more sullen than usual, losing patience over minuscule things, and sinking jaws of hostility into anybody who’d even attempted to offer hollow words of comfort.

Bobby had been the first to withdraw with some muttered crap of I’m too old for this shit. But Sam had always been too forgiving. He’d stuck around regardless of your temper, taking all the verbal beatings while he tended to your unspoken needs in ways that you couldn’t. You owed him so much more than you were capable of giving at this time.

You leaned onto the cool marble of the island, your hands coming forward in a timid fold as your lips flattened into a pathetic spectacle of a smile. “Hey, Sam,” you murmured, and for a second, the sound startled you. It was so dull, so lifeless—you’d even go so far as to say that it was so unlike you.

It was a stark contrast to the version of yourself the brothers had learnt to tolerate, maybe even appreciate—constant chatter and running commentary streaming live from the backseat of the impala. Dean had gone so far as to nickname you sunshine and rainbows, trailing after the twin storm clouds—the Winchesters—that seemed to thunder down on the unassuming world. But now, you felt like nothing more than the rolling, gloomy skies that paved way for everything wet, woeful and destructive. A weather so devastating that a show of a rainbow would be a mockery rather than a promise.

Sam returned your smile almost sheepishly, his head dipping to drink in the view of the counter. “You, uh. . . you sleep alright?” He asked, the pan coming forward to leer you over as he tipped the metal downwards and crowned the seasoned stack of pancakes with the fresh newcomer.

Your eyes lowered to the newest addition of the pancake pile, following the faint trails of heat that seemed to rise with a freedom and lightness you craved to feel. “Yeah,” you lied, your lower lip instantly pulled into a tense bite. “Yeah, I slept. . . fine.”

You knew that Sam wasn’t convinced, the moment of silence following after evidence of some tactic he might’ve been mentally reviewing to try and coax the truth from you. You began tracing a line along the patterns of the marble counter with your index finger, anticipating the awkward conversation to come.

“Come on, really?” He laughed softly, but the sound was gentle and sympathetic, not slathered with amusement or scorn. “‘Cause I didn’t,” he confessed.

You glanced up at him in surprise, your finger halting in its place. “Really?” You breathed out softly, instant relief crashing over you. Maybe Sam hadn’t recovered as much as you thought he had, and as unfortunate as that was, you couldn’t help but feel slightly comforted—less alone.

He tipped his head to the side in consensus, a wry scoff piercing his lips. “Honestly? Can’t remember the last time I did,” he said, eyes flickering up to glance you over briefly before he turned his back on you to discard the pan at the sink. He slid over to the stove, flicking buttons and shifting dishes before he was back at the island. “I mean, I sleep—but just. . . not very well.” He took up a spatula and began shovelling at the pancake stack. “One?” He asked intuitively.

“One’s perfect,” you said. You watched as he dragged the rim of the spatula down the building of pancakes, stopping somewhere around the middle floor before he slid the utensil inward. He shimmied out a hot and fluffy pick, placing it onto your plate rather gingerly before he nudged it in your direction. “Thanks, Sam,” you murmured, receiving it with a forced show of eagerness—you didn’t want your lack of an appetite to make things more personal than they already felt.

“Yeah, anytime,” he answered, sparing you a soft smile before he took to plating his own stack of three.

You held off on digging into your singular pancake, hands idling around the knife and fork bracketing your plate as you waited for the younger Winchester to cover up the remainder of the breakfast.

With a satisfied dusting of his palms, he finally pushed his own plate across the marble to slide in a distance beside yours before he made his way around the island. He pulled out the seat beside you and settled himself down with a heavy plop and an appreciative grunt—almost like an old man of some sorts.

He took up his cutlery and glanced over at you with a comforting smile. “Time to, uh. . . dig in, I guess,” he laughed lightly. “There’s whipped cream and berries if you’d like.” His chin jutted to the listed toppings, and then his knifed hand jolted into the air suddenly. “Oh, and there’s syrup, too. I’ll fetch it from the pantry.”

Without waiting for your response, he set down the cutlery and shifted back in his chair, but you turned your body a slither to face him before he could slip away as quickly as your nerve.

“Sam, wait,” you said, your hands straying from the table to bundle in your lap in an anxious toying of fingers.

He halted in place almost instantly, turning to face you with his brows quirked an inch—like your sudden unrest was news to him. But you knew he was only trying to be polite in playing his attentive part; he likely knew exactly what this was about. “Yeah?”

You drank in his softened eyes, and they held so much purity and innocence that it caused your heart to sag with a fresh, guilt-ridden heaviness. It tugged your head down to the view of your lap, your chest heaving with a shuddering inhale. “I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, your voice rattled by so much regret that it began to quiver.

At the edge of your vision, you saw Sam settle back into his seat, arms drawing onto the counter. “Hey,” he cooed gently. “It’s oka—”

“No, it’s not okay,” you cut in hastily. “I need to say this. I’m sorry for everything—for the way I acted. . . for the things I said—you didn’t deserve any of it, Sam.” You began picking at the skin of your nails. “I just, I have all this. . . anger inside of me. I’m angry at myself, and I’m angry at Dean—I’m angry at everything cause everything’s just so fucking unfair. And I know that it’s not an excuse, but I just. . . I figured. . . I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know,” you scoffed, but you braved face and lifted your head to face him once more. “But I do know that I am truly, deeply sorry.”

Sam’s head lowered to take in the view of his plate, his eyes darting about the porcelain. “Listen,” he eventually murmured, his mouth stuttering around air as he searched for the right words. Eventually, he settled on grace. “I get it, okay?” His chin lifted to gift you with a break you didn’t think you deserved. “All that anger inside of you. . . I’ve felt it before—more than I’d like to admit, actually,” he laughed dryly before his expression warped into something more solemn. “It eats you up inside. . . makes you say and do things you wouldn’t usually say or do. There are so many times I’ve gone down that road, but Dean—he’s always been there to pull me back, even if it was by the tip of my ear.” He laughed again, this time more genuine, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile of your own.

Sam’s head lowered again, his smile simmering away. “Anyway, I guess what I’m tryna say is that, I get it. I get why you said the things you did, and I’m not mad about it. For once, I don’t feel that anger anymore.”

Slowly, your fingers began to still their fidgeting as you listened to him talk, your chest cooperating by letting up on its rapid pace.

The younger winchester upturned his eyes to yours with a new ferocity. “I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you—and not just because I owe Dean that much, but because you’ve been there for me, too. So many times. Even at my. . .” He trailed off as he averted his gaze to the side, some unspoken shame breaching his conscious. You saw his Adam’s Apple bop under a heavy swallow before he turned back to you. “Even at my worst,” he continued. “So. . . don’t worry about it, really. I get it.”

For the first time in a long time, you found your eyes watering an emotion other than grief and heartbreak—something far lighter and rejuvenating. Love. Appreciation. Relief. You envied Sam’s ability to barrel through this cruel life so determined to pin him down, and you admired how each time, he seemed to emerge with a heart even larger than before. Even after all the rounds you’d emptied into his chest, he stood tall, still offering that hand you so desperately needed to pull you from your self-dug trenches.

Maybe, it was about time you finally took it.

The first tear slipped the keep of your eye, jettisoned from the ledge of your cheekbone to where it splattered across the marble top. Your hand flew to wipe the moisture away, an ugly sniff racking your chest. There was a clank of shifting metal before Sam’s hand came forward to brush your shoulder.

“Hey,” he cooed softly, and then you were carefully tugged into the side of his towering frame. “Come here,” he urged, and he was so gentle that it had you fully succumbing to his hold without a single reflexive need to resist. His arm snaked around your shoulder blades to hook around your arm as he drew you into a tight hug, your hands bundling further into your lap. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this. Together,” he added pointedly, a clear warning that he didn’t intend to let you get your lonely way again. You were okay with that.

Your lower lip began quivering with fresh emotion—guilt bouncing on the rim the heaviest. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” you reiterated.

Your felt his chin settle into the crown of your head, the vibration bouncing off your hair. “For what? Being human?” He laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we tend to be dicks from time to time, and I’d say hunters have more right than most to be a bigger one now and again.”

You laughed—actually laughed at that, the sound snotty and slightly gross, but real. Sam harmonised with his own throaty chuckle, the hand furled around your arm in a tight, reassuring grip relenting to rub comforting lines up and down the expanse.

“Now, enough of the pity party. Let’s finish these pancakes before they get cold, and then what do you say we pull out a couple of board games?” He gave you one last comforting squeeze before slowly releasing you from the hug.

You leaned away from him, centring your weight back over your own chair as you turned your head down to your plate with a thoughtful pout. “Okay,” you agreed, your chin ducking in tiny, accepting nods. You sniffed away the lingering tears, hand coming up to pat your eyes one last time for good measure. Then, your head swivelled to face him as you put on a weak smile. “Hey—think you’re smart enough to challenge me to a game of scrabble?”

Sam laughed as though your challenge was satire, but you frowned with slight offence, which sobered his smile into a look of confusion. “Wha—you’re serious?” He huffed, jaw gaped around disbelief.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” You exclaimed, your voice cracking around a light giggle—the first you’d uttered in a while. “I’m as smart as you are—we read the same books!”

His averted his gaze, head cocking to the side with a scoff before he glanced back at you in amusement. “Yeah, and after you gave your reports, I had to go back and reread every single one of those books to fill in information you left out,” he said pointedly.

You shook your head with light disbelief, a thin chuckle following after. “You know what? Let’s have that round, and if you win, you can bullshit my literacy skills all you like. Deal?” You outstretched your hand across the counter.

Sam’s gaze ducked to the gesture, his brows cocking on a look that you thought was a little too smug, before his hand reached to link with yours in an informal pact. “Deal,” he said through a scheming smirk.

You squeezed his hand lightly as a warning. “Wipe that douche-display off your lips, nothing’s set in stone.”

“Yeah, no, of course,” he replied nonchalantly, but when your hands unlinked, you saw the corner of his mouth hitch with some mental remark.

“All right, that’s it.” You took up your utensils while Sam glanced you over with slight surprise. You began digging into your pancake with a renewed sense, plopping the first piece into your mouth and taking on a ferocious chew. There was a brief wave of nausea at the food’s sudden intrusion before it quickly dissipated at the sweet taste, beckoning you back for another bite.

“You might wanna slow down there,” he laughed, hands tending to his own plate before they finally presented his first bite to his lips with far more poise.

“Uh uh,” you hummed through a mouthful, swallowing thickly before continuing. “I got a lot riding on this. You made it personal when you brought my ego into this. Sooner we’re done here, sooner I can beat you.”

Sam let out a disbelieved laugh, but didn’t argue any further as he began dissembling his own pancakes at a faster rate. Once you’d both lapped down the dough and licked the plates clean, you’d taken to washing up the dishes and wiping down the counters while Sam procured the board games that had long since collected dust. You’d taken the liberty of microwaving you both a bowl of popcorn and pouring glasses of soda while he set out the game within the living room. Then, you both settled down for the first round, snacks at the ready.

Sam had won, as he’d so smugly anticipated. But you weren’t so eager to be humiliated without a challenge, so for the rest of the day, you’d played out the game to a tally of the most wins. Hours seemed to pass like the impression of a second, the apartment growing dimmer and dimmer with each trailing retreat of the sun.

Eventually, you were both cast in a saturated bronze that poured in through the living room windows, illuminating the score page you’d scribbled up and further glorifying Sam’s final win. He took the game by far, and you were forced to acknowledge that maybe he was the smarter one of you both. Or at least the more apt thinker.

After that, you’d both powered through a movie of his choice, chowing down on some Chinese takeout he’d had delivered. And you emptied the carton down to the last noodle, appeasing the appetite you’d developed somewhere throughout the day. Already, you felt so much lighter—physically and mentally—and you knew that you owed it all to Sam and his perseverence. You couldn’t help but beam with some newfound appreciation for the younger Winchester.

Through the darkness, the tv screen emitted just enough light to illuminate Sam’s side profile. His eyes were glued to the screen, jaw circulating hasty chews as he practically inhaled his second bowl of popcorn. The sight made you shake your head with light amusement, and you watched him a little longer just for the sake of it.

“Hey, Sam?” You eventually called, which made him face you with a look of sudden concern.

His hand halted within his bowl. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For today—for everything.” You offered him a warm, appreciative smile. He’d given you something you desperately needed today—a distraction. From everything and most definitely from yourself. Debts like those didn’t feel possible to repay, but you’d try, regardless. As long as it took.

Sam took a moment to drink in your words, his features motionless before his brows furrowed like he’d made nothing of your gesture. “Yeah, no problem,” he answered, a smile to match yours following shortly after. You both turned your attention back to the screen, and for the rest of the movie, you sat in comfortable, popcorn-tinged silence.

Once the movie came to an end, you’d both chatted about anything and everything until the first person let a yawn slip—that person being you. After that, you’d both tidied up the space, folded the blankets and packed the games back into their keep. Then, you’d dipped into your room to gather your old dishes, discarding the food and washing up the plates. Sam had helped pack it all away.

Once the day’s chores were wrapped up, you’d both exchanged your nightly greetings before going your separate ways. Sam retreated back to his room, though not without snagging a thick book from the shared reading shelf. You’d briefly slipped into your own room to pull out a fresh set of pyjamas and a towel before dipping your toes into a much needed shower.

Once you felt you’d scrubbed off enough of your week-long rot, you’d slunk from the shower and back to your room to call it a day. When you clicked the door closed behind you, you hovered on the spot with a hearty sigh into the dim atmosphere. You took a moment to reflect on the day, and for once, it provoked a smile—not sadness, not anger, not grief—but a genuine smile. The relief after the storm.

You flicked on the light and dressed yourself into your fresh set of clothes, teeth brushed and hair secured back before you flicked the lights off and sank into your bed with a new type of exhaustion. A fulfilling one. It wasn’t long before sleep arrived to hurl you into vivid dreams, and not unlike other times, you dreamt of Dean.

Within your bed, he had you bare and sprawled out beneath his own nude figure, his lips wandering gentle, curious trails along the side of your jaw before dipping down the ledge to trawl the arch of your neck. His elbows propped him up on either side of your head as he took his time to lovingly brand you with his wet caress, your own hands combing blissful strokes through his hair.

You sank back into your pillow, lips parting with breathy mewls as he shifted his attention down to your breasts. He moved to cup one tenderly, tongue swirling a loop around the hardened bud, his strained moan sprawling into the mix of stimulation as you tightened your hold within his hair.

“Dean,” you exhaled weakly, for no reason other than to verbalise the unorthodox way he made you feel. Your teeth found your lower lip in a restrained nibble as he acknowledged your absent-minded praise with a gentle kneading of your breast—as if he sought to gorge on it to the point of total devouring.

You felt the blood flow vigorously to your chest, spurred onward by the suctioning of his lips, and it pooled at your nipple, causing it to throb within his hold. You let slip a soft noise of discomfort, your hand collapsing from his hair to gently push him back at the collarbone.

Dean’s head lifted to yours, a slight pant wafting from his glistening lips. “All good there, sunshine?” He murmured, hand slipping from your breast to run a light, reassuring finger across your cheek. He smudged away the moisture beading along your skin before settling his thumb in the divot of your chin.

“Too much,” you breathed through a dazed grin, hand coming up to gently wrap around his wrist. “You’re like a leech,” you added with a soft giggle.

His lips thinned in a proud smirk, encouraged by your tease rather than offended. “Damn right I am—have you tasted you? Freakin’ delicious,” he praised, smacking his lips in a dramatic show and tell. It made you giggle and release his wrist to pin his lips between your thumb and index finger, and you held them captive while he mumbled noises of protest. He looked so ridiculous, it warmed your heart.

“Stop that!” You laughed, your cheeks flushing hot at the silly sight of him.

Dean wiggled his lips between your grasp until he was able to wrap his lips around a finger, nibbling your skin tenderly so that you released a light squeal and pulled away from his famished lips. “Stop what?” He mocked lightheartedly, head lowering down to you as he followed after your retreating hand with a determined grin playing his lips.

Your hands flew to your chest in a pretence of helplessness, your giggles elevating to a heartier laugh as he pretended to chase after them. His teeth acquainted the air all around them with animated chomps, but made no good on the promise. Eventually, he gave up the hunt and pressed his lips to the side of your jaw, gradually tracing his way up to the soft curve of your cheek before he drew back an inch to gaze into your eyes.

“My sunshine,” he said softly, adoringly, leaning down to nuzzle the button of your nose with his own before he placed a soft kiss there.

Your heart trilled love-struck melodies around Dean’s proud declaration, the magnitude of your smile hoisting up the apples of your cheeks until your eyes were compressed into half-moons. “Say it again,” you murmured, palms drifting up to frame his face and thumbs twiddling to soothe the humps of his cheeks.

Your touch set Dean’s composure alight, his sultry stare softening into something more pure and needy. His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at you, as though you had captured his complete and undivided attention. You found yourself getting so wrapped up in their green depths that for a second, it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“You’re my sunshine,” he repeated in a voice so low and soft that it bordered a husky whisper, but the love imbued into those words carried through as clear as a shout. “I don’t care if that sounds like the title of a Jane Austen novel. You’ve got this. . . fire to you, the kind that nobody—nothin’ can gank. And you draw people into your orbit like they’d never stood a damn chance. Trust me, I sure as hell didn’t,” he laughed, both his hands coming up as a unit to brush back the hair framing your face. “And you’re warm. . .” He trailed off to place a kiss on your cheek, “—and radiant—” and then the other. “And my whole goddamn universe.”

You gazed at him as he pulled away from your proximity, his eyes brimming with love as he waited for your response. What you wanted to say was, “I knew you read Jane Austin in your free time!”, a harmless poke that would keep this tender moment elevated at meaningful heights. Then you’d both share a laugh, and melt into the night cocooned within each other’s warmth.

But deep down, something more solemn tugged at the strings of your heart—an unanswered question that slowly began to resurface despite your attempt to bury it time and time again. So instead, you said, “then how could you leave me?”

Dean’s face warped into a light frown, your question catching him off guard. For a few seconds, he did nothing but stare, his lips parting to search for an answer that you’d waited months to hear. But when he looked as though he might finally answer, no sound carried through to lay your suspense to rest. His mouth gaped and his lips moved, but they formed nonsensical words, and no matter how hard you tried to focus and decipher your most craved confession, it never came to you.

Then, the scene around you began to distort, the lights cutting out and the shapes of the room’s decor warping erratically. And when you blinked, Dean had disappeared entirely—his atoms scattered into the cosmos of your mind. You tried to call out to him, to summon him back to his rightful place beside you, but it seemed as though he were destined to be robbed from the palm of your hands—both in the waking world, and in the confines of your own mind.

And then you, in your entirety, were dissolved into a black abyss, the surroundings melting away like you’d imagined it all in a vivid episode of mania. For a moment, you floated around in a void, your mind slowly dissociating from the fantasies of its own creation. You heard nothing, saw nothing, but somehow, you felt a touch lingering upon your arm. It was warm, familiar, and even though no face materialised to claim it, you knew that it was Dean.

You prepared yourself to mourn the loss of it once you emerged into the waking world, but as your eyes fluttered open, your lids blinking frantically to clear your vision, the touch didn’t fade. If anything, it became more palpable, solid—real. And when you’d adjusted enough to the dawn haze shrouding your room, it wasn’t the image of the leather jacket that arrived first to taunt you.

It was Dean.

You blinked harder, more desperately, your heart rate skyrocketing as you attempted to rationalise whatever fucked up delusion your exhausted mind was currently displaying you. But his body didn’t vaporise into nothingness, and blinking didn’t seem to possess the same parlour trick of making the rabbit disappear, like it did in your dreams.

It was real.

There he sat, as stoic as a statue, at the edge of your mattress, and the hand you’d felt cupping your arm stroked up the curve of your shoulder to gently frame your neck. The contact sent a shiver up your spine, your lips falling open to expel a shaky breath.

It can’t be, you thought, your brows contracting in a puzzled frown. He’s dead—he’s in hell, he can’t be here.

Through the dawn gloom, you could make out the faintest stretch of his lips—an almost simper. “Good mornin’, Sunshine.” But you didn’t recognise the voice. It was low, gruff and abraded, like his vocal cords had been extracted and sent through the grinder before being forcibly shoved back into its compartment. And he sounded dull, the type of dull you’d come to embody in his absence. It was. . . anything but Dean Winchester.

Your lower lip began to quiver, your shoulder drawing into yourself as you shied away from his touch. “This isn’t real,” you choked out, hastily collecting yourself onto your elbows as you sought to put some distance between you two. “You’re not real!” You exclaimed in rising volume, which had the impersonator stretching out both his hands in a steadying motion.

“You’ll wake Sammy,” he whispered urgently—a harsh sound that came across as more of a scold.

You frowned as you inched yourself a fraction across the mattress, eager to reach the end opposite to where he sat. “Who are you?” You demanded in a tone more regulated, your hand subtly reaching behind you to grab ahold of the salt container you kept on the bedside table like a framed picture.

Dean’s eyes seemed to follow your not-so-subtle play with dry amusement. “It’s me,” he insisted gruffly, his hands coming to settle on his knees—and one of them bounced with unspoken thoughts. It was a habit you’d come to recognise since knowing him, and it did a fraction of a favour in vouching for his authenticity. “It’s Dean,” he continued, eyes straying from your hands to settle onto your face.

“No,” you refused, and behind you, your fingers grabbed ahold of the salt. “Dean Winchester died—four months ago,” you explained in a low, but no less stern voice. “So I’m going to ask you again—who are you?”

His nostrils seemed to flare with dwindling patience, his eyes flickering off to the side. “Man, paranoia’s one son o’a bitch,” he scoffed under his breath before turning to face you again. “Listen, I know you’re not gonna believe me. And I also know that you’re about to baptise me with a shit ton o’ salt to barbecue the livin’ crap outta whatever demon you think’s got his hand stuck up my ass.” He began reaching into his shirt pocket. “Now, as much as I’d love to swallow a mouthful of killer blood pressu—” his words were cut short as you tossed a handful of salt in his direction, the mound not shying away from taking a bold dip in his mouth.

The assault dealt no physical damage to his body, but it did earn a passionate look of annoyance from Dean, whose jaw slowly circumducted as his tongue began shovelling the salty hell from his mouth. You scrutinised him for a few seconds longer, not so eager to let down your guard because of one passed test.

“You’re not a demon?” You asked more than stated.

His jaw fell limp at your question, a slow blink accentuating his displeasure. “Clearly not,” he said lowly, the words slurred by his unwillingness to taste the salt with proper pronunciation.

He leaned forward, hand reaching for the box of tissues sitting atop the beside table, and yanked a few free. He brought it up to his lips, where he spat furiously to cleanse his mouth. After a rough clearing of his throat, he bundled up the tissues, tossed it onto the table and glanced over at you once more. “Listen, I’ve already been through all the tests back at Bobby’s. I was goin’ to pull out the phone and get him on the line to clear me before you decided I needed some seasonin’,” he said flatly.

You watched him suspiciously, your brow quirking in disbelief. “Fine,” you said tensely, but offered nothing further.

Dean frowned lightly, his eyes doing a brief and clueless sweep of the room as though he expected you to offer more clarity. He settled his attention back onto you, his chin lifting slightly as he uttered a cautious, “okay.” He began reaching into his pocket once more, the movement deliberately slowed. “Just gonna reach for the phone, alright? So hands off the fuckin’ salt,” he said, eyes flickering between you and the container. “Please,” he added gruffly, and then his had retracted with the phone.

You prowled after his every move like a predator, but despite your weariness, you still lowered the salt an inch. You watched as he flicked open the phone, thumb gliding across the keypad as he pulled up Bobby’s number. Then, he lifted the phone to his ear, eyes trained on you with equal caution as he waited for the line to connect him to the opposite end.

You heard the static click, and a voice blared through shortly after—Bobby’s voice. The sound soothed your heart by a slither.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted, passing his tongue along his lower lip. “Listen, I, uh. . . I need ya to do that thing I told you I’d need—you know, vouchin’ for me and all.” On the other end of the line, Bobby uttered a few, incomprehensible words. “Yeah,” Dean laughed weakly. “Yeah. . . she threw me with the salt. Just like you said.” His eyes flickered to you with subtle amusement before Bobby said something else. Then, he was handing you the phone.

You narrowed your eyes in skepticism before your free hand reached for the phone, so careful not to graze his skin as you retrieved it from his fingers. Dean seemed to notice the rejection, and his mouth gaped slightly with the hurt it evoked. You pushed aside the image, but didn’t stray from his face as you brought the phone up to your ear.

“Hello?” You called into the line.

“Hey, kid, it’s me,” Bobby’s static voice answered. “Listen, I know you’re goin’ through one helluva mind-fuck right ‘bout now. . . but it’s ‘im, kid. It’s Dean.” He trailed into silence after those words, providing an interval he expected you’d fill with some sort of taken aback reaction. But all you could do was choke on your stunned silence, your heart beginning to ram at your chest harder than it’d ever managed before. “Kid? Y’still there?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed all-knowingly as he watched you in patient silence. His hand shifted from his lap an inch, like he yearned to reach out to you and offer some reassurance, but you both knew it’d do little to soothe you in this current predicament—the mental debate of whether or not the man you loved was really back.

Eventually, your body hosted a response, but it wasn’t one you’d preferred to have at this instant. A tear clotted along your one eye, bundling up until it was heavy enough to slip over the edge. Dean’s expression visibly softened, his jaw clenching with the knowledge that he couldn’t exactly pull you into a tight embrace—not just yet, anyway.

Your lips loosened, a rattled breath breaking through. “I saw his body, Bobby,” you pushed out in a quiver. Another tear lined the opposite cheek. “I watched you and Sam dig that fucking hole. . . and I watched you roll his lifeless, rotting corpse over the edge before cementing him under six fucking feet of dirt.”

The phone line hissed and crackled with the silent air on Bobby’s side. You almost thought he’d given up the ruse that you were so determined to believe you’d gotten caught up in, but then his voice blared through—the most tender and sympathetic you’ve ever heard it.

“I know you’re confused,” he began. “Hell, this shit had me believin’ that my family’s history of Alzheimer’s had finally kicked the bucket out from under me. But I did all the tests, and I interrogated him over and over again. I gave him hell, kid, but in the end, it’s really him. Y’know I wouldn’t have even thought ‘bout lettin’ him get close to ya if I weren’t certain o’ it. So if ya can’t trust ‘im just yet, then trust me. I give ya my word.”

Your fingers gripped the phone a little tighter, if only to still the trembling of your hand, and you gave a large sniff as you processed his words. Your eyes still bore into Dean, as though it would keep him pinned to the spot should he think about making a run for it.

You shifted the phone against your ear an inch, taking your lower lip into a tense bite before you spoke again. “Okay,” you breathed softly. “I trust you, Bobby.”

From Bobby’s end, shuffling noises chafed your ear like sand-paper. “Alright, kid, I’ll leave the two o’ ya to it. Good luck,” he said, and then the line terminated with a beep. The call’s ending tune reached Dean’s ear, where he shifted on the mattress almost anxiously while he waited for your decision.

“So, uh,” he began, his lips stuttering on the right words as his head buckled to face the hands he’d crossed in his lap. His palms rubbed tense lines—like the scheming motion of a fly—before he glanced back up at you. “We good?” He settled on. You saw the subtle desperation in the clench of his jaw. He craved the pardon only you could give him.

Slowly, you lowered the phone from your ear, flipping it closed as your chest rattled with another, shaky breath. Your eyes began to water once more, and this time, it didn’t hold back. In a second, you were hurling yourself across the mattress, arms flailing through the air to wrap around his neck with a desperation that could have body-slammed him to the floor.

“Woah,” he steadied in a laugh that sounded all too relieved.

Your chest crashed into Dean’s, and his hands were hasty to return your hug as he wrapped himself around your waist. There, he completed the embrace, pulling you against him so tightly that it started to pinch the meat of your skin through your shirt. But you didn’t care if his grip left behind a bruise—you’d consider it a physical reminder of just how real this all was.

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, all the pent up emotions you’d come to harbour over these last few months finally liberated from your clutch. The tears began to roll without practiced regulation, and you found yourself yielding all control. Because being around Dean always had you feeling safe enough to do so, and your body had utilised its muscle-memory to re-establish that foundation. To rebuild the home that his death had wrecked.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whispered against the stubbled skin of his neck, the sound heavy and cracked.

His palm stroked slow, comforting circles across your lower back, his own face buried against the slope of your shoulder. You felt his warm breath waft over your skin as he spoke. “Me too,” he pushed out tensely. Shakily. There were very few moments that you’d ever heard that tone on him. “I didn’t think I was ever comin’ back,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you, or Sammy—hell, even Bobby, again. But I’m not complainin’,” he added hastily. “Shit, I’ll never complain ‘bout anythin’ e’er again. I got everythin’ I need right here.”

He shifted against you, torso pulling back as though he couldn’t wait a second longer to peer into your eyes. You leaned yourself back in rhythm, your cheeks blown red with your overwhelmed state and your eyes still glistening with fresh tears. You kept your hands looped around his neck, fingers still clutching his phone, and your heart was seized by a new fist of pain as you saw Dean’s bloodshot eyes pave way for his own, sparse—but undeniably real—tears.

His hands settled at your hips, fingers subconsciously squeezing at the meat as he did a mental walkthrough of his own emotions. “I missed you so goddamn much,” he whispered, his lower lip trembling now. “God, all I could think ‘bout down there, every second of every miserable day, was you—how much I needed you. How much I missed you.” His chest jolted with a forced, but much needed exhale to steady his next words. “And how much I love you.”

You choked on your breath at that final confession, words that—up until now—had never directly admitted. You couldn’t help but huff a slight breath of disbelief, a weak grin beaming through as your eyes softened with a warmth that made you feel whole again. Dean, himself, looked slightly stunned at his declaration, his eyes widening mildly as he drank in your reaction. But as you gazed at him, there was no undertone of regret or shame mingling with his features. There was only what looked like relief, if the slight quirking of his lips and the soft sigh that followed after was any indication.

Maybe, it was relief attributed to the fact that he’d finally started to unpack—and put words to—some of his more complex emotions. It made you feel so much closer to him.

Without sparing it another thought, you blurted your own reciprocation. “I love you too, Dean.”

He smiled tenderly at that, and neither one of you moved as you shared an intense stare that circulated all sorts of emotion—love, adoration, and desire. Then, as though some unspoken agreement had been exchanged, you dove down to meet his lips in a fierce kiss, the phone you’d been clutching dropping to some surface beyond your current care.

Dean’s hands trailed up the expanse of your back as he returned your kiss hungrily, his lips feuding with yours for an advantage of the play. He wasted no time sliding his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm palms massaging a determined, upward trajectory until he gained enough leverage to tug it over your head.

The kiss broke off momentarily as your arms flew up in an eager gesture to shed your layers, your chest heaving with the exertion. He managed to successfully tug the shirt over your head, the neckline the last to go and leaving behind an impression as it briefly snagged onto your hair. When he gave it one last freeing tug, your hair tie came loose amidst the commotion, your hair cascading across your bare torso in fresh, yet slightly damp strands.

Dean came forward to press two distinct kisses against your lips—hasty, but a bold statement in itself—before he leaned back to roll his shoulders and discard his own clothing. Your hands flew to his chest in aid, fingers sliding beneath the isles of his unbuttoned shirt to push it over the slopes of his shoulders. His hands twisted behind himself to pluck each sleeve from his arms with practiced speed, discarding it some place behind him before he was tugging his snugly-fitting tee over his head.

Instantly, your attention lowered down his toned torso, the glorified sight of him causing your core to pulse with desire. You didn’t get to exploit his image for long before he hogged your view with another, fierce tumble of the lips, his hands grabbing at your waist like he’d needed to remember what you felt like. Your tongues found one another with an ease that felt like its fates were tied, swirling about in a seductive dance to the death. Your hands settled at his neck, gently rubbing and kneading the skin as you allowed yourself to melt into his devouring.

When your palms wandered further down the contoured muscle of his broad shoulders, you felt the skin of his left bicep raise in a questionable pattern. The contact over that area made Dean wince into your mouth, and then he withdrew from the kiss with a feral pant, eyes shifting from an insatiable hunger to a more vulnerable uncertainty. It was enough of a reaction to tear your gaze away from him and steal a glance at the mood-killing discovery. But you almost wished you hadn’t stumbled upon it because the sight of a raised, red handprint seared into the flesh of his forearm made your eyes widen in horror.

“Dean—” you breathed, overcome with the instinctive need to trace your hand over the anomaly, but his shoulder withdrew from your curious touch, which called your attention back to him. “What happened?” You asked softly.

He shook his head lightly, taking a moment to acknowledge the marking with a newfound solemness. His chin dipped down for a second, a broken, incomplete noise dangling from his lips. You knew then, that whatever grim reminder had been imbued into this branding was something too fresh to confront at this time, so you made the silent decision not to probe him about it any further.

You moved to cradle his face, tilting it up to you. His expression looked defeated, his eyes sagging with a heavy fatigue. You didn’t doubt that hell had had its tolls—if anything, you were surprised that he’d come out of it in one piece. Physically, at least. Whatever mental deconstruction he’d undergone during his time there was knowledge beyond your grasp, and a conversation for another time. Hell had already taken enough from the both of you; you wouldn’t let it have this moment, too.

“If you want to stop, just say the word,” you told him gently, offering a hearty smile. “We can just lay here and cud—“

“No,” he answered, the hands at your waist tightening with new resolve. “We’re gonna cuddle, alright, but after we’ve had our overdue fun,” he said, a newfound smirk creeping through his evident exhaustion. “I’ve waited too damn long for this day—hell if I pass it up in a blink.”

You loved it when he took charge this way. Your teeth peered through your lips in an exhilarated grin, and then, you let out a yelp of excitement as he pushed you back onto the mattress, his frame following closely in a controlled hover as he positioned himself on top of you. His lips came crashing down onto yours, the heated dynamic between the two of you returning full-forced, as though it’d never been interrupted in the first place.

Your hands wandered messy lines up and down his neck, occasionally dipping down to glide over the curve of his pecks. The heat in your core began to build with every second you spent tumbled within the skilled warmth of his lips, his hands adding fuel to the fire with the way they staggered along your exposed torso to grace any and every inch of your skin.

He pulled away to drag his moist lower lip up your cheek, pressing a kiss to your temple before he whispered into your ear. “I need to feel you. I need to have all o’ you,” he breathed, and then he pulled away as quickly as he’d arrived, leaning back onto his knees as his fingers found firm grip at your shorts.

He tugged the material down mercilessly, pulling your underwear along with it, and you lifted your legs with a giddy laugh to allow him all the access he needed to yank it free. He tossed it to the other end of the room, his hands flying to undo his belt and jeans while his fixated you with focused eyes—like he was silently entertaining all the things he’d like to do to you.

He shed his boots at the foot of the bed to terminate his undressing, and your eyes immediately lowered to the bowing length of his manhood. It felt cheap—ogling him this way, but something about the sight felt so validating that you couldn’t help but stare. Maybe it was knowing that the mere sight of you was enough to spur him on in this manner, and god, you needed him just as much as he evidently needed you.

Your core throbbed more impatiently now, your built-up arousal taking the first of its leave through the slit of your folds. You were tempted to call out to him, to utter the first, desperate words of beckoning, but Dean seemed to clock your needs almost instantly. He leaned back down to you with a charming smirk, one hand propping himself up at the side of your waist while his other took ahold of his manhood.

“Ready, sunshine?” He murmured—low and rough and slightly dazed with his own suffocating arousal.

Your core seemed to answer before you did, the area beaming hot at the mere sound of his voice. You pushed out a needy hum, and Dean wasted no time in sliding his tip between your folds. He breached through your slicked entrance with ease, his head tilting back an inch and his eyes fluttering closed as he pushed out a gruff moan. He sank himself further into you, his length conforming to your walls in perfect unity. Instinctively, your legs propped to give him better access, and the action drew him in even further.

“Fuck,” he murmured lowly, his head then tilting forward as he gathered himself and fully leaned himself down to you. He placed a kiss onto your lips for good measure, both arms scooping beneath yours in a sure grip. His fists balled at either side of your head, and you wrapped your own arms around his neck.

“I need you, Dean,” you cooed into his ear, and he left slip a breathy sound of acknowledgment before he drilled the first thrust into you.

You both harmonised with noises of pleasure, your nails digging into the nape of his neck as his hips began swaying at a faster pace. He leaned his forehead down against yours, lips parted as he fought to steady the feral breaths of pleasure heaving his chest.

Your eyes stuttered closed as his thrusts deepened and deepened, curving against your walls and gliding to meet your sweet spot at just the right angle. Your head burrowed back into your pillow, your lips gaping with a loud moan. It made Dean lower himself onto your lips, taking them between his in a soft, chiding nibble. You breathed into him erratically, releasing noises that gradually became more and more slurred until you became a hot, panting mess.

His own control seemed to slip from his grasp as he began to grunt and whimper against your cheek, his head eventually falling past yours to graze your ear with just the right verbal performance to add to the contractions of that growing ache within.

His thrusts became firmer—but not brutal. They were passionate and needy all at once, but still laced with a sort of caution that only deep admiration could warrant. He gave a few more firm thirsts, both of you heaving against one another with the approach of your climax. Then, with a final jerk of his hips, the knot that had tethered you to one another came undone in a cascading warmth.

You felt it seep from your entrance, and for a second, Dean didn’t stir from atop you. He remained hovered over you, the point of his nose brushing your cheek methodically as he attempted to replenish his lungs and recover from his own bliss.

“Jesus,” he remarked, an impressed chuckle tickling your ear. “All this time apart, and still it doesn’t feel like I ever slipped your spell.”

You released your own breathless chuckle. “I’m usually opposed to captivity of any sort, but in this case, thank god for that.”

Finally, Dean withdrew from inside of you, collapsing to side of the mattress nearest to the door—his space. Rightfully occupied at last. He reached over to pluck some tissues from the nightstand before turning back to you, fumbling the tissue between his fingers before he began dabbing at the moisture along your forehead.

He gazed at you through loving eyes, so soft and vast that it made your heart throb—like you were falling in love all over again. Dean seemed to notice the lovesick look on your face because he smiled with an expression to match. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, and you puckered your own to receive it eagerly. And then he shifted momentarily to clean you down below.

When he came back up to you, he flicked the used tissues off to the side, and then instantly, you were pulled against his chest in a tight embrace. The skin-on-skin contact soothed you, your body relaxing almost instantly within his firm hold—a type of pressure therapy that only worked because it was him. It felt so safe and natural, so you melted further into him, and the hand he’d cupped around the back of your hair began to massage a soothing pattern into your scalp.

Everything about this moment was enough to lull you into a much needed state of relaxation, your body finally unwinding after months of being held together at the threads. Your eyes drifted close, your breathing deepening with the newfound peace.

“You know,” Dean said suddenly, beckoning to your senses. Your eyes remained closed, but you hummed softly to acknowledge him. “Down there, time works differently.” That piqued your interest enough to part you eyes in narrow slits. “You said I’ve been gone for four months? Well, for me, it’s been forty years.”

Your eyes widened fully now, your lips split with some bewildered gasp. “Dean,” you sympathised softly, hand moving from its place at his chest to stroke along his cheek. “I’m so sorry—that sounds awful.”

He shifted to place a kiss on the first part of your palm he could reach. “It ain’t your fault,” he assured you thinly, his eyes bowing under his own exhaustion—as if the mere recollection drained him. “If anythin’, you got me through it. I don’t have to tell you just how shitty things are down in Satan’s basement,” he laughed, but you knew there was no real humour behind it, only pain. “But you. . . just thinkin’ o’ you. . . rememberin’ what I’ve gotta fight for, it kept me sane. Strong.”

You smiled weakly, his words evoking a mixture of warmth and guilt all at once. You appreciated that you’d been able offer him some sort of comfort in your mere memory, but at the same time, you wished he hadn’t needed it to begin with.

Hell was no place for a good man like him.

“Well, you’re back now,” you offered softly, your hands shifting to wrap around his torso in a hug. His own arms wrapped around your upper back, pulling you so tightly against him that you thought your beings might finally form a physical union to mirror the spiritual tying of your souls.

“And I’m here to stay,” he finished in a faint murmur, the words—the promise—hot against the crown of your head.

Those words lingered in your mind as you eventually drifted into a sleep, the steady sound of his breathing the last thing you needed to loosen your grip on reality. Darkness came to claim you, and this time, you welcomed it eagerly.

When you roused into the waking world, your room was fully lit with the tell of noon. The finding was indication enough that you’d stolen the sleep of a lifetime, and there was no lingering heaviness perched on your lids this time around. It filled you with a sense of satisfaction, and you blinked a few times to ground your bleary senses.

When you stirred against the sheets, you heaved a deep breath, your lungs expanding around a newfound sense of inner peace. Instinctively, your arm reached across the mattress to claim the touch of man you loved, but where you expected to feel the warmth of his skin, you felt nothing but the cool, empty space of the comforters.

With a jolt, you sat yourself up, head swivelling about the room with a sense of panic. Dean was nowhere to be found. Your mind instantly began reeling with endless possibilities, your breathing elevating with a growing sense of panic—had you imagined it all? Had he ever been here to begin with? Had you finally snapped and gone insane?

But when you took a moment to lower your head and drink in your frame, you found yourself to be as bare as when you’d fallen asleep. You shifted to the edge of the mattress, feeling some slither of relief that your clothes were where you’d left them—discarded about the room in ruthless bundles. And then, out of instinct, your eyes wandered over to your desk chair, where you expected to greet the leather jacket that had become a pivotal part of your morning routine.

Only, your heart lurched when the chair glared back at you with a bare rim—the jacket nowhere in sight.

Beyond the walls, mingled laughter brightened the atmosphere. The sound made you slip from the mattress almost instantly, where you darted about the room to gather your scattered pyjamas in a hurry before slipping it over your frame. You dashed toward the bedroom door, twisting the handle with anticipation before you practically hurled yourself into the hallway.

When you entered into the open-plan living room, you found that Dean and Sam were weaving rather chaotic ant trails around the kitchen’s floor, each brother tending to steaming dishes that you were too far away to appreciate in detail. But you weren’t paying much attention to it, anyway. You were far too focused on watching Dean, as though you’d had to solidify the mental image of his presence—to believe that he was really here, and here to stay. And the best part of it all is that he was wearing the leather jacket you’d thought would never come to crown another set of shoulders again. It was the last image you needed to place the final puzzle piece in your heart—no, you felt truly fulfilled.

Some part of you had thought—just for a second—that your reunion had been a figment of your imagination. But now, you could breathe a little easier knowing that Dean had truly returned, rooted in flesh as he drifted about the kitchen with an extra skip in his step.

Just then, he spun on his heels to nick something off the counter, his head lifting in your direction as he finally noticed your loitering figure. “Second g’mornin’ to you, sunshine,” he called to you, birthing a cheeky smirk. He flashed a quick glance at Sam before turning back to you. “In case you were wonderin’, Sammy here’s all caught up,” he said. “So let’s skip the big, mushy family reunion and get movin’ on those damn tacos. I’m starvin’”.

“Tacos?” You echoed with a light laugh.

Sam appeared at his big brother’s side, beaming so brightly, it was almost blinding. “We’re having tacos for lunch. Everything’s basically finished,” he piped in, casting a pleading glance in your direction. “Would you mind helping me plate it?”

Your heart settled as you drank the both of them in. This was the life you’d come to miss so dearly, and you couldn’t help but smile appreciatively. You jerked your chin in Dean’s direction. “Why don’t you make him do it?” You teased, padding your way over to the kitchen island.

“Call it a family discount,” Dean chuckled smugly, rounding the counter to draw up at your side. “Or, y’know, the breakin’ free from hell card.”

You shook your head lightly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Isn’t it a little too soon?” You scoffed.

“You let me worry ‘bout my own shit,” he replied, gracing you with a charming wink.

You didn’t offer anything further as you turned your attention down to the prepped toppings spread out across the counter—mince, lettuce, guacamole, chilli sauce, salsa, cheese and the taco shells themselves. You reached for the empty plates and began topping each one with the hollow taco shells, moving to fill the first one with the toppings.

Dean snuck up behind you, his hands finding grip at your waist while his chin came to rest atop your shoulder. His lips grazed your ear. “Thank you for lookin’ after my jacket,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ this old thing again.”

You smile at his words, hands shifting to stuff the taco with the next pick of toppings. “My reason for keeping it was more selfish than that,” you admitted. “I just couldn’t bear to move it. It would’ve felt too final.”

He hummed a noise of understanding, a soft kiss gracing the side of your neck. “The only thing that’s final is that I’m back,” he said. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that anymore, alright?”

“I know,” you murmured, and Dean squeezed you in a light hug, but continued to keep you tucked within his hold as you finished stuffing the taco. You lifted it over your shoulder, carefully guiding it toward his lips.

He released an approving noise before leaning forward to accept your offering in a gluttonous chomp, his lips practically smothering your fingers as though it were deemed part of the meal. You giggled at the feeling, taco fragments scattering across your shoulder as he chewed the food intently.

“How does it taste?” You asked him, turning your head to get a better view of his expression.

His eyes did a roll of appreciation, his cheeks swelled with the large bite. He hummed a string of approval, coupled with a content, repeating nod. Once he gave a hearty swallow, he cleared his throat in satisfaction.

“Tastes like sunshine.”

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a/n ─ can you tell i had the time of my life writing this?? can you tell?? anon i love your mind so so much please never stop your special creativity. i will be tending to my other requests soon, and i encourage you all to keep on sending them through. i appreciate you ALL and your lovely ideas, as well as the support and trust you have in me to flesh out your fantasies 🫶 now, it’s literally almost 4 am as i publish this so nighty night beautiful people!

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @floralscented

want to be apart of the taglist for any future jensen ackles works?

other works ─ supernatural masterlist

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awordsmith · 3 months ago

Text

if we had known 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you and Spencer are best friends, and have never crossed that line because you're in love with him and he's in love with JJ–or so you think.

katcember

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s7 category: angst content warnings: proofed! right person wrong time(?), unrequited love, false depiction of therapy (really just the quickness and no evaluation), past to present, depression, broken to mending friendship, jealousy, envy, Spencer's addiction, lots of crying (prepare yourself), personal growth, reid with care word count: 9.4k a/n: it made me cry. a lot. enjoy!

Wind had been blowing through your hair, you had worn a long-sleeve and yet it was still cold–it was December, the constant downpour should've made you think twice before you'd left, but it hadn't, and you were freezing. Maybe you should have brought a jacket, that would have been ideal, but you were running late, and you were never late, so you had been rushing.

You remembered the clouds darkening that night, you weren't afraid of the dark, apparently, as Spencer had mentioned, but of the things that could be lurking. Hotch was staying late, per usual, and the others had already gone home for the night, so Spencer had offered to walk you to your car.

He was nice like that, which is why you'd considered him your best friend. You hadn't had many outside of the BAU, some acquaintances at best–and though you had been incredibly close to the other members on your team, Spencer was different. You had always supposed it was due to the fact that you were the closest in age.

He had been 26 at the time, and you were just a year younger. That was the year you had joined the team, at the ripe age of 25, whereas he had been with the team for 4 years prior to you. He was the youngest known member to join the Bureau, and working with him, you were able to see why.

He was incredible in almost everything he did, you loved listening to him rant, it was mesmerizing the way someone could be so passionate about so many different and unrelated things, the way he knew so much about nothing and everything. You'd known it was mainly his eidetic memory, but it had still been fascinating. You couldn't help the way you'd analyze the way he spoke nor could you fail to notice the other team members energy toward his rambling. It annoyed you a little, but you had been new and hadn't wanted to say anything.

In your own way though, you'd been able to show him you cared, "go on," you'd murmur in a low voice, a small smile grazing your lips. He used to look at you contemplative. The first time you'd said it, you'd almost wished you could take it right back. The others had looked at you like you might have been mad, and maybe at some point you were; if it were maddening to want to listen to someone speak, then you would've concluded that, yes, you were indeed mad.

"Thank you," you'd said as you got to your car, spinning on your heels, smiling up at him.

"Any time," he had chirped, hands in his pockets, "hey, there's this showing, it's in Italian and there are no subtitles, but I can whisper you the translations, if you...wanted to go..." he'd scratched the back of his head, it was the first time he'd invited you out. It wasn't a date, you'd known this because you'd heard him ask the others about it before, most of the time he was shut down and you'd had to cover your snickers because as sad as it was, it had also always been somewhat funny, their responses and expressions–and the way Spencer never look disappointed, but rather confused and sometimes even expectant.

"I'd love to-o-o," you'd shivered, grabbing your arm and rubbing it up and down.

"Oh, are you cold?" He'd frowned, concerned. He'd pulled his satchel off and had sat it atop your car's trunk. He'd shrugged of his sweater, it was his favorite at the time, the brown, plaid one. He'd worn it more than he spoke, which was saying something, you remembered smiling at the thought as he'd handed it over to you.

You were stunned, you had never dated anyone before, so this treatment hadn't been normal for you. Though with Spencer, things always seemed to be everything but ordinary.

He had grabbed your bag as you'd slipped into his sweater, dainty as it had been, it did the job. It smelled like him, like too-sweet coffee and paper, or maybe that was old books, it could've been both, he never was seen without one or the other.

"Thank you," you'd smiled up at him, taking your bag back, watching as he'd pulled his satchel back over his shoulder. The wind picked up again, but his sweater kept you warm, "again."

He'd nodded, "as I said, any time, it looks better on you anyway," you'd returned his nod, suppressing the grin that would have no doubt escaped you if didn't know Spencer was Spencer, if you were strangers, perhaps.

"So, the movie, where do you want to meet?"

He'd grabbed the strap of his satchel, eyebrows raised in slight disbelief, "you–want to go? Really?"

"Yep," you'd nodded, eyes lighting up, "I have a personal translator, not many people can say that. I'm special," you'd said dramatically, but pride had slipped through, and you were sure he'd noticed it, even if he'd omitted to say anything.

He'd snorted, "I don't come free."

That was the moment you'd known, that no matter how hard you'd try detaching your heart, losing him would hurt–it'd hurt in ways you'd kept yourself from imagining. Coming to this conclusion, making up your mind hadn't been all that hard, it was simple–really; you would just never lose him.

That same year, Spencer had been kidnapped by an unsub, who'd later be identified as Tobias Hankel. Words couldn't express how angry you were at JJ. You'd lashed out when you'd found out he was missing, Morgan had to hold you back from, from that point you had lost all control of your emotions and it was the first time you hadn't been scared to lose your job. You had been terrified of what he was going through, you hadn't even a clue as to where he was or if he was still alive. But he has to be, you remembered thinking.

It had almost drove you to complete depression, thoughts of uncovering his body in the most gruesome way, thoughts of him being a body and not Spencer, the genius who could ramble on and on about almost anything, who'd given you his sweater when you were cold, who'd whispered translations into your ear–it was unthinkable, and to this day it still brought you to tears when you thought about it.

When the live videos of him began popping up on the screens in the living room, Hotch had ordered you to stay in another room.

He'd noticed the way you'd began to look at Reid, how you watched him speak and encourage him to do it more often around you. He'd never say it out loud because he knew you and Spencer were both adults and would never cross that boundary, but he just couldn't bring himself to let you see Spencer like that. Gideon seemed to agree.

You'd been angry at him, of course–you were angry at the world. It's how he'd feel if something like that ever happened to Haley or Jack, he hadn't blamed you, but he had still needed you to be at your best, and you had already been deteriorating with the knowledge of Spencer's kidnapping, seeing those videos–him in that state–it would have ultimately broke you, and you were so young; he hadn't known then, if he could have pulled you back from that.

Finding Spencer alive was the only thing that saved you from a catastrophic end. You would have brought down the door with you bare hands had it not been for Hotch kicking it down for you. When you found he wasn't there, you'd run out, passed the other's shouting, "they have to be on foot, they can't be far."

Gun out, you were the first to approach, some part of your mind had taken over and you'd realized doing this by yourself wasn't rational nor professional, even if it was Spencer. He had been right there, so close, and yet so far. "I'm moving in," you'd told Gideon and Hotch, when they'd finally caught up.

No one said anything as you'd moved forward, guns trained on whatever might have been in front of you. It'd been dark, you'd had your flashlight above your gun when a shot rang through, you'd screamed and had ran towards it. The rest of the team followed close behind. Spencer had been leaning over Tobias, mumbling to him.

Hotch had stepped in front of you to help Spencer get to his feet as you'd stopped to watch, unable to physically move forward. Tears sprang in your eyes as the team began asking if he was alright. When Hotch had confirmed this, he'd glanced at you and frowned, turning back to Spencer for a brief moment to pat him on the back before walking away. Spencer had turned to you–or at least you thought he had. JJ had moved forward to your side hesitantly, but Spencer instantly captured her in a hug.

Your heart dropped and you felt some type of way, though you hadn't wanted to admit it to yourself at the time, there'd been a strong distaste for JJ in that moment, strong and yet it hadn't just been anger, it had been envy. You'd known it was envy because jealousy stemmed from something you had, and you did not have Spencer the way JJ did.

"I am so sorry," she'd said, and guilt had ran up your spine. How could you have felt such a terrible way toward her when she'd probably been punishing and blaming herself for everything he'd been going through? The worst part however, was that though you may have been closer to Spencer than anyone else on the team, he'd always have that bond with JJ; she'd known him first–and that was something you couldn't compete with.

When they'd pulled away, he'd glanced at Gideon and smiled painfully, but then his eyes had turned on you, and a nervousness that hadn't been there before spread across you like fire in a forest.

"Hey," he'd mumbled.

"Shut up," you'd wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his chest. He had smelled horrible, alcohol and another scent you wouldn't recognize until later.

He'd chuckled and you had heard the aching in it as he'd wrapped an arm around you, the other had gone to your hair, smoothing it downward, "I didn't say anything."

"What did I say," you'd pulled away, eyes red and rimmed, tear streaks smudged slightly on his dirty shirt.

He'd gave you one of those impeccable smiles, the ones he'd come to find could always get him out of trouble with you, you hated it, but despite yourself it still worked. He'd lifted his head then, to someone behind you, it was Morgan, his own eyes looking just as haunted.

Morgan had followed Gideon toward the cars after a shared silence. You'd helped Spencer limp back to the car, "you can put your full weight on me, I can handle it," you'd said, huffing.

He'd snorted and winced right after, "I know, you can handle anything." You'd smiled to yourself, then had frowned when Spencer stopped moving suddenly. You'd slid your eyes across his face, afraid he'd had some internal wound, one he couldn't mentally feel, but then his eyes–serious and captivating–stopped your wondering, and his voice had trembled when he'd whispered, "thank you."

Your throat had went dry and the rawness that'd laced your tone said everything and nothing at all, "any time."

He'd gotten addicted, anyone with half a brain could've seen it. You'd wanted to mention it, you'd wanted to bring it up, you just hadn't known how. Everyone on the team had seemed to want to ignore it, or, like you they'd had no idea how to bring it up without triggering him.

But you would. Your movie nights had ceased, after he'd been released from the hospital, you'd wanted him to take it easy, you'd never once thought that would've been the result. What the hell had happened? What had you not seen? What in this tragic world had he'd been going through on those live videos?

You had kept biting your tongue, but eventually, it had got to a point where you just couldn't stand to see him like that nor could you stand to sit idly by like the others and pretend like nothing was wrong.

Unannounced, you'd shown up at his place, should you have been there? You didn't think to care, a knock, then two. As you'd gone in for the third, audible rustling had come from the other side of the door. You had frozen, hands glued to your side like a cheerleader at default. His face when he'd opened the door looked horrible, he'd probably been just been asleep, it was a Sunday after all, a once in a lifetime Sunday where you hadn't been called in, a miracle, really; were it not for that Sunday, you just might have chickened out.

"Hey," you'd smiled, rubbing your hand over your arm nervously. "How–are you feeling?"

You hadn't bee able to see half of his body as he'd been leaning halfway out the door. You'd been to his apartment a few times prior, sometimes to pick him up, sometimes you'd binge movies and shows, but you'd never stayed the night. With how close you were, you were both careful not to cross that boundary–well, it had mostly been you.

You not wanting to make him uncomfortable, you not wanting to accidentally give yourself away by mumbling something in your sleep; you not wanting him to notice it in your eyes on an evening when you were half awake–and he would have, you had absolutely no doubt that he would have.

"I'm okay," his voice was thick, it had been 1 in the afternoon and you hadn't been one to judge, especially when it came to him, especially when you'd considered what he had survived–but it had still clung to you like a shadow, a dark, looming shadow. "What are you doing here?"

Your friend–your best friend–had been in trouble, he hadn't even looked like your friend anymore, he'd been a shell of himself, and if you had been anything, you'd been determined. You'd frowned and pushed your way into his house, "you've been distant," you'd moved your eyes around the space, nose crinkling at the odor, his apartment had been trashed. Cups of noodles had been on every surface, some even on the floor between his couch and coffee table. Blankets scattered the floor and you could remember seeing clothing on the floor in the hall that led all the way to his room. Your chest had squeezed in pain for him.

"Yeah, I've been meaning to," he'd motioned around and had cleared his throat.

"Oh, Spencer," your eyes had softened as he'd shut the door behind him, "I don't know what you've been going through, but I know it's been hard on you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he'd audibly gulped and had cast his eyes to the floor, having the decency to look a little ashamed.

"Spencer," you'd walked toward him, voice startlingly clear. His eyes had glanced up for a second, then quickly back to the floor. "Spencer," you'd said again, pulling on his wrists, "why haven't you come to me? I know you're hurting, please let me help you."

"Why?" His tone had been clear indifference, his eyes narrowed slightly and when he'd looked at you his face was distrusting.

That was the first time you'd felt a physical crack in your heart. You had never–never–seen him this way, in all the months you'd grown to know him, to appreciate and respect him, never once had he looked at you that way.

"Because you're my friend," you'd pleaded, tears welling up in your eyes.

He'd snatched his arms from you and had turned around with swiftness he'd only ever used in the field, "I think it's time you go."

"Spencer?" You'd called, your voice quiet.

He said nothing as he'd stepped out of your way and had reopened his door, waiting patiently for your exit.

You'd done so, but not without a plan forming in your head. The next day, Monday, you had woken up extra early, gotten ready, and had headed for Spencer's. You hadn't let a single word of his deter you from banging on his door until he'd answered–pushing away the guilt of waking up his neighbors–that day you'd forced him to give you a copy of his house keys.

The day after that, you'd gotten up early again, and using the copy of his house key, had silently slipped into his apartment and hauled him out of bed. You'd took his groaning and shouting and every insult he'd thrown your way under his breath, he didn't mean it, you knew, so you'd always thrown them away as soon as they'd leave his mouth–but sometimes, they'd find you at night when you were in bed and you'd cry yourself to sleep, then you'd get up and go through it all over again for his sake, all for him–but maybe...maybe just a little bit had been selfishly for you.

Hating yourself for knowing that had it been anyone else, you probably would have given up that first day, but it hadn't been anyone else, and you hadn't given up on him. Even if you'd known he was in love with JJ at the time, you wouldn't have done anything differently, because you didn't want to lose him–you couldn't; you had promised yourself.

The following weekend, you'd asked Gideon to let you stay home from the case you and the team had been working on, alluding to the fact it had something to do with Spencer, which thankfully got to him.

While Spencer was away with the team–you'd hoped they would watch out for him, you had to have faith that they had cared enough to do at least that much–you cleaned his apartment. You'd bought materials specifically to tackle the mold threatening to grow. You'd searched up–a lot of what you now knew on how to clean an apartment that had been dormant for a couple months–on the computer in the nearby library. Leave it to Spencer to always make you feel young.

You'd begun with the things you could pick up, separating dirty laundry from garbage via trash bags. The space had garnered a foul smell which you'd noted that first Sunday you'd popped up out of nowhere, but it had eluded your mind when Spencer had asked you why. You'd thought on that moment multiple times, why? Why? You'd sometimes felt like screaming when you were alone, how could he have asked such a stupid question? Of all the things that must have been floating through his thick skull he'd settled on "why"–you'd taken a breath, calming yourself. He couldn't help it, he hadn't expected anyone to care so he acted as if no one did. You hadn't meant to profile him at the time, it had just happened, and if you'd been honest, you hadn't felt sorry. It had been one of your biggest motivators–to show him that someone did in fact care.

Eventually, he'd begun to expect you each morning, and maybe it was a little selfish on his part–maybe–but he'd begun to lean on you, turn to you...a lot more than he should have. At first he'd rationalized it, you'd been persistent, who was he to stop you?

Within a month he'd begun seeing a therapist, he hadn't wanted to take time off of work and admit himself into a facility, doing that had–and still–scared him more than his addiction, it would have meant admitting he was unstable, unable, and that just–well it hadn't been an option.

He'd gotten his life somewhat on track again, thanks to you, it had all been you. He had treated you horribly and you had still cared, had still helped him–admitting himself into an institution not only scared him because of his past, but because the thought of not being able to see you at work everyday, and outside of work whenever he'd wanted was too much to bear, he knew he would have possibly gone mad–and he hadn't wanted to think about what that had meant.

You'd never seen a drunk Spencer before then, the air was chilly, and you'd just left the bar, thanking God Hotch hadn't been there, or he no doubt would have ripped into you for allowing Spencer to drink as much as he did.

Before then, the only thing you'd thought he drank more than he could handle was coffee. Morgan had taken Penelope home–you'd gotten used to their relationship as fast as Spencer read novels. Rossi and Emily had stayed home as well, reasons: unknown.

JJ hadn't been able to make it, she'd gone on a date with Will, she'd grown on you after Spencer had gotten better, but you'd still had a bone to pick with her and the rest of the team for allowing Spencer's addiction to get a bad as he did.

You'd kept your opinions and feelings to yourself because Spencer never brought it up, but there'd been times–you'd recall them sometimes right before you'd close your eyes at night–times where he'd asked for help in complete roundabout ways. But he'd said them in a room full of profilers, so there was no way he'd said them on accident or without meaning.

"Woa–ho," you'd laughed, grabbing onto his arm to keep him upright. "I am never letting you drink that much again."

"Wha–what?" He'd whined, "why? What did I do?"

You'd heaved a heavy sigh, but had laughed when he'd stopped, turned to you with squinted eyes, and poked your forehead.

Turning back away, he'd found you were on a bridge that overlooked a shallow river, the lampposts that had glowed that night lit up the dark, working together with the stars to allow you to see.

You'd followed him to the hangar and watched as he'd leaned over the railing, his elbows had b raced against the cold metal. You'd leaned your back on the railing beside him, head tilted upward toward the stars as his tilted down toward the water. "I think I love her," he'd whispered, but when you'd caught it–and you had caught it, your heart sank.

"...love her?"

"Yeah," he'd paused, "JJ."

JJ.

Crack went your heart. You'd blinked away tears and gulped. How were you suppose to respond? How would a normal friend respond? What would Penelope or Dereck say? Hell, even Hotch would've been a better person for him to say this to–but he hadn't known that.

You'd swallowed your pain, "oh..."

"I don't know what to do," he'd continued, "she's my best friend..." and she has a husband, and she has a kid on the way, and I thought I was your best friend and I love you... Thoughts ran through your head at godspeed, but you'd stayed silent because you were sure–no, more than sure, you knew for absolute certainty your voice would have given you away within seconds. Spencer had been drunk, but you hadn't been thinking about him, no it was you. If you'd heard your own voice, even for just a second, you would have lost it.

A break down had not been on your list of things to do that night, but there you were, balling your eyes out like a lovesick teenager the instant you'd stepped into you apartment. You hadn't been able to stop it, it wouldn't have been healthy, anyway, and if you had kept it inside, you would have chanced being profiled by the best, and it wouldn't have been hard to connect the dots.

You'd been pretty sure Spencer had not remembered a single thing from the moment you had left the bar. He'd called you the morning after with a massive hangover and as much as you had wanted to avoid him, he'd been your best friend and it wouldn't have been fair to him, especially if he'd had no idea what you were feeling–and how could he?

You'd hid it so well you hadn't even been able to believe it yourself. How to move on, how to get ride of these thoughts that had seemed to plague you every night? You buried it the only way you could; you wrote it out in a journal, everything, every last bit, it had been easier than saying it out loud to a therapist and even yourself.

Every time you'd felt the sudden urge to cry, every time you saw his gaze linger on her or they spoke alone, it hurt you, it hurt you a lot more than you'd ever thought it could.

It'd been a year, a year of suppressed feelings, of envy, of keeping quiet just so you could hold onto what you have left of him because if there was even a small chance JJ had given him any thought–yes she was married, yes, she had a child, and yes they were coworkers–you were pretty sure Spencer would take it.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Spencer plopped down on the chair beside yours. You were using it to hold documents as you'd been cleaning out your desk, but you'd stopped using for some time now, and you'd meant to take it back to the meeting room you'd stole it from when–briefly–you recalled that night Spencer had gotten a little too drunk.

You slammed the notebook shut way too fast to go unnoticed by him and as you lifted your head to meet his, his eyes snagged on the small brown, leather-bound book. "Nothing, why–what's going on?"

His eyes narrowed bit and when he lifted them back up to meet yours, you stilled. "Nothing..." he dragged out, "just wanted to see if you were busy tonight."

"Nope, completely free," you chirped.

He pressed his lips together, careful to keep his eyes on you. If he didn't, you would've profiled the notebook piqued his curiosity, and if he was going to snoop, he could't give you any reason to hide it.

Now, Spencer never would have done it if it hadn't been you. You had your secrets, sure, but he had talked to you about his mother, he had introduced you to his mother. You hadn't been around when the team first met her, and Spencer had desperately wanted you to, had wanted her to know you.

He'd taken you after he'd gotten clean, and you had been perfect just as you always were. You'd told him about your family too, where you'd grown up, what it was like for you in school, in university, you had practically shared life stories, so the fact that you were keeping something from him–it just–it didn't sit right.

It would keep him up at night and he knew it and–yes, it was an invasion of privacy and it was your right and yet he could not find it in himself to–for a lack of better words...care.

It was nearing his birthday, you hadn't mentioned it yet, but he knew you were planning something, perhaps that was what you'd been writing about, and if it was, well, then there was no harm no foul. You'd be pissed, of course, but you'd forgive him...eventually. You always did when he prodded at you, he'd use the smile you never seemed be able to say no to.

That smile, you were sure God had crafted it just for you because every time you saw it you just melted. Your knees would go weak or you'd get butterflies in your stomach, somersaults, or you'd just feel sick–you didn't know which was worse.

Some days your body would be affected physically and there would be no other explanation except the way you were feeling that day. Except the way you'd cry into your pillows, whenever the pain was too much, you found yourself ignoring the wold around you.

It was growing–had been for a while–you were planning to cancel on Spencer, which wouldn't be out of the norm for you these days, which was most likely one of the reasons he'd invited you out today, because you'd cancelled on your movie night last Saturday and the Tuesday before that, you'd cancelled your babysitting at Hotch's with him.

He was probably worried something had happened to you and you knew it was't fair, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. His birthday was coming up and you wanted to do something for him, something special, you both loved October, you more than him because it was his birth month as well as spooky season, but as the days passed, you couldn't stand to see his face without feeling your heart ache.

You tried reading, throwing yourself into work, anything and everything to get your mind off of him, but nothing stuck. You were being consumed by your thoughts, your unrequited love, you needed a rush, maybe then you'd be able to close your eyes and breath without smelling his cologne and seeing his stupid, pouting smile.

October 12th, Spencer's birthday, he was turning 30 this year, and you still hadn't wrapped your head around what to do. You'd walked into the office, Penelope running past you, calling for you to follow. You weren't normally late, but the past year of suppression had taken its toll on you; you didn't think you'd ever been in a worser state than you were in now.

You listened over the case, but you weren't really listening, you were debating whether or not to tell Hotch, when someone latched their arms onto your shoulders and shook you.

You glanced around the circular table, meeting each pair of eyes with more shame than the last, "I'm sorry," you said, rubbing your eyes.

Hotch stared at you for a moment, silently analyzing your appearance, Spencer opened his mouth to speak, perhaps on your behalf, you couldn't really tell, but Hotch beat him to it when he stood abruptly and said, "follow me, the rest of you continue." You ignored Spencer's concern as you followed your boss to a private space.

Your eyes locked on something behind him as you waited for him to speak, and when he did, you weren't surprised at what he had to say, "what's going on with you?"

Six years, six years you had been with the Bureau, six years you had worked with Hotch and Spencer and Morgan and JJ and Garcia. Six years and for a brief, but sure moment, you'd thought about asking for a transfer.

"Don't do that," Hotch pulled your attention to his face, "don't ignore me."

Your frown deepened, "I'm not–

"First stage, denial," he tilted his head down when you averted your eyes so as to keep the contact, "but you're not in denial, nor are you angry, I've seen you write in that book of yours for half a year, but it's not enough anymore, you must've just hit stage four–"

"I thought we didn't profile each other," he'd hit a nerve and you both knew it.

He sighed, and murmured your name, it wasn't until you found his eyes again that he asked, "who are you mourning?"

You seized up, tightening your face. It was overwhelming and scary just how accurate Hotch was. A moment passed between you two, Hotch's brows furrowed in confusion and you–body, mind, face, and soul–frozen in terror.

The sound of the door opening knocked you both out of your trance. It was Spencer, Hotch caught the twitch your left eye gave when you perceived who the intruder was. Recognition lit up his face, but then he was just as confused again. You and Spencer seemed to be as you always had been–no, something must have changed, for you at least. Spencer seemed oblivious, or he had been for the better part of whatever you'd been going through.

He was now between a rock and a very hard place, what could he honestly do? This had nothing to do with him–but he had failed a team member once, and now that same team member seemed to be at the pinnacle of the distress of another one. What was he to do? What was the best course of action? He had no information, well, he knew you were in love with Spencer, that wasn't much of a deduction, the whole team practically knew–all but Spencer of course. If it was rejection–no that just didn't fit with Spencer's upbeat attitude, whatever had happened clearly wasn't recent.

"Hotch," Spencer spoke, pulling his attention away from his thoughts if only for a moment, "do you mind if we..."

Oh. The team lead thought, perhaps Spencer had found out already? Then he had everything under control? So, should he leave it alone? Ignore it? That seemed to be what he did best, he grimaced at the guilty thought and glanced at you, now just a bit relaxed. "Sure, but be quick."

He stopped himself from saying more and took up refuge in the room with the rest, pretending like he didn't notice their questioning eyes. This time, of all times, the best thing he could truly do for his team members–was absolutely nothing.

Spencer stood silently, hands stuffed in his pockets as he stared at you with unrelenting eyes. He was analyzing you just as Hotch had been, but with better, knowing eyes.

He did–in fact–sneak a peak at your journal, more so toward your latest entry. It shocked him–to his core, it shocked him. He had to put it down when he'd read the first paragraph. Being able to read 20,000 words per minute, he'd thought he'd be done within seconds, he'd thought he would have been able to read the entire thing, actually, before you got back from the restroom.

It had been the first time in a long time he'd been wrong about something, wrong about himself.

He'd read it over again after a few second of sitting in your chair, too stunned to come up with coherent thoughts. He'd thought he surely must have read it wrong, he must've been tired, he couldn't have read what he'd thought he'd read.

But sure enough, the words were still there, emboldened and burning in his head. He'd flipped back to the first entry, you'd been documenting for a few months now and it physically pained him to read it. How could he have not known? How could he have been so incredibly blind? How could he call himself a genius and not have profiled that his best friend was in love with him? That she was hurting from it, because–all because–

"You know then," her voice tugged at something in him. His face contorted into pain-stricken grief. You contained a small urge to laugh, it would have been dry anyway, and you were tired, but you shoved it down, away.

"Yeah," his voice was raw, like he'd been crying and maybe he had, maybe some part of him felt sorry for you so he had cried. Pity, it disgusted you, it made you disgusted at yourself.

You nodded, your lips forming a thin line, "I'm sorry," you got out before you shut you eyes on instinct to keep the tears from spilling out. You turned around to hide hide yourself, he already knew, you had to keep some emblem of your dignity.

You began walking away when you recalled, for some reason, his birthday, and you turned back around, walking back up to him with tears streaking down your face. Tears in his own eyes threatened to break loose at any moment. You truly were sorry that you had put him though all of this, but that's not why he was crying.

He was angry at himself and hurt for you. He didn't know how he could have been so incredibly stupid. That's all he could think of, all his mind–his heart–would let him think clearly; how stupid he was.

He watched as you stepped forward, as sad and detached as you seemed, your walk was graceful, as if you were a ghost floating down the hall. He tensed slightly, as you brought your hands forward, he'd take it, he deserved to be slapped after all–hell, he would probably slap himself later on when he was alone because of how unintelligent, how thickheaded, and witless he'd been.

He didn't even close his eyes, he was ready for it, but you didn't slap him. You pulled his face down and pushed yours forward. You kissed the side of his cheek and whispered, "happy birthday, Spencer."

Shock wrapped itself around his brain, he felt like a robot as you pulled away and turned. Pieces fell as you walked away because shattered was your heart.

He should have followed you, he should have, he knew he should have, but he had been scared. He still was, and the more time went on–the longer he stopped seeing you–that fear grew. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what was terrifying him, but he had a few guesses.

He didn't want to lose your friendship: he'd been so close to you for so long, he turned to you for everything and he'd expected you to do the same. There were moments, he'd knew there were, when he'd catch himself analyzing he curve of your figure when you'd fallen asleep on his ouch or yours. His eyes would sometimes trace the lines that made up your face, the dip at the top of your lips, the way they'd press together when you were contemplative or worried. He didn't want to lose those moments, moments that he really shouldn't have had, moments that he considered his and his alone.

He'd never been in this situation before and if he wasn't careful, he'd mess it up: Spencer'd had crushes before, he'd even had a girlfriend once, briefly, but compared to you? They had been fun, exciting even, you–you were dangerous. When those girls had entered his life, he knew they'd eventually leave and he didn't mind that. That's why he'd kept all those moments to himself, why he never told Morgan or Penelope or even Emily. The things he'd done just so he could keep you, of course he knew it wasn't rational. You'd eventually find a boyfriend and settle down and maybe that boyfriend would someday become a husband. He had always ignored the bile that built up whenever he thought about it, about losing you–because he wouldn't be giving you away, how could he if you were never his to begin with?

A week turned into a month and before he knew it, December was here, it had surprised him so much so, he thought surely a car must have hit him when he hadn't been looking.

The team noticed it, the deterioration. It was visible in both his physique and his mind. He couldn't focus on any of the cases they'd been given. It started off small, with his mind wandering, but as time went on, it became less and less easy to focus him again.

Hotch had emailed you professionally, explaining how you could take as much time as you'd needed and when you were ready to come back, the team would be waiting. Then he'd texted you unprofessionally and told you if there was anything you needed, he was one text or one phone call away.

You'd spent the past few weeks going to therapy. As soon as you'd left the office, you'd sat in your car for a while, contemplative. You'd started driving and your subconscious brought you to a personal health center. You had forced yourself out of the car and through the front doors, tears fell down as you entered. There were a few people in the waiting room, not including the receptionist.

"I–was wondering," you half said and half sniffled, "if you had any walk-ins."

They had one, but you'd have to wait for about an hour, and you did. You spoke to a woman, thankfully, it was easier for you to let out all your faults, all the times you'd cried, all the times you had felt you were a horrible human being, all because of one person, but then again this obsession wasn't at all on Spencer.

And it wasn't all on you either, your therapist, whom you called your saving grace from time to time, explained that because you had built up all of your emotions, and there had been a number of them, you kind of just broke. Which was on parr with the way you'd been feeling.

She'd asked to see the notebook you kept, but you had left the thing in the drawer of your office, you'd cursed yourself. You had no idea how much Spencer had read, but he must have read it because there was no other way he'd known exactly how you were feeling, and if there was any chance he'd go back to read any more–that was if he hadn't read the entire thing already–well, you'd wanted to prevent that.

"What are you feeling?" The therapist had asked, "would you rather write it down?" She'd slid over her notepad and pen.

You'd taken it willingly and had stared at the blank space for a moment, and then–all at once–conversations and small gestures and intimate moments flooded your system, it had been 9 in the morning, and the curtains had been closed and the regular light turned off; a lamp and candle directly across form each other had been the only things to keep the room from complete darkness.

The words left your mind faster than you could write, but you did and when you filled a page, you'd flipped it over, no longer crying, but focussed, and when you were done, you'd taken a breath. You had ignored the uncomfortable feeling of the therapist analyzing you, it was her job as it was yours, yet you'd still felt yourself shift under her gaze.

"Can I see?" She'd asked and you'd handed over the paper and pen, though hesitantly.

And it took her breath away, just as you had known it would, as it had no doubt took Spencer's.

It was almost a year's worth of grieving, and yet you had not idea what you were even thinking about. How could you mourn something that wasn't dead? It's not dead because it was never alive. You'd thought.

Unrequited love. One of the most painful types of love, yet when it came to Spencer–there was something more. You'd told her, "it's not just that," she'd nodded, encouraging you to continue and her patient eyes reached something in your heart, and just barely, you felt it mend.

You saw her the next day with an appointment, and they you a few days later, you saw her again. You grew accustomed to seeing her twice a week, and you'd even grown acquainted with some of the staff, the receptionist especially. They had multiple therapists who specialized in different areas, yours, thankfully, focussed on personal growth.

The weather transformed before you eyes and before you knew it, it was the first of December. You'd stepped out of your house and took in the fresh air, it was one of the firsts in a long time that you had felt truly okay, that you didn't feel like the world would come crashing down around you, and better, that you didn't wish for it to happen anymore.

You'd texted Hotch two days ago, you hadn't known if he was on a case or not, but it had been Saturday and your hope peaked through. Throughout the rest of October and all of November, the team had messaged you multiple times, checking in to see if you were okay. You didn't have the energy to respond at the time, but a few weeks after seeing your therapist, you'd texted each and every one of them, save for one geeky genius.

You had notably not received any messages from Spencer, and it used to send a dull ache through you, but now it only made you swallow. You missed him, missed his company, but not seeing him was a step forward, your therapist had said you needed time and space away from him particularly, and you knew she was right. Your subconscious had been telling you the same thing for weeks before Spencer read your journal.

Thankfully, Hotch wasn't on a case, and he did pick up, when you'd told him to come over, he knew something was up, for better or worse, he didn't know, but you were speaking again, and to him no less. You'd asked if he could bring Jack, you had a lot of apologizing to do to the little guy for cancelling on him.

Hotch had alluded in messages that Jack asked about you whenever a babysitter that wasn't you came over, though he never outright wrote that the kid missed you because he'd known it wasn't fair to you. You were thankful, but you still felt guilty.

That day, you'd turned on The Magic School Bus for Jack and kept a careful eye on him while you and Hotch sat at your kitchen stools and spoke quietly in the background. "How is he?" You'd asked, trying to start the conversation light.

"He's fine," Hotch had replied, "...he misses you." He didn't say 'you and Spencer', which told you he knew.

How? It was Hotch, of course he knew.

"How are you?"

You'd turned your head back to him, a small, but sad smile falling over your face. "Better."

He'd nodded, tight-lipped, "good."

"I want to come back to work," he'd let out a breath and were it not for his eyes, you would have never known he'd felt relieved.

His mouth quirked upward slightly, and a crooked grin–a rare sight from Aaron Hotchner, indeed–filled the no longer anxious silence.

Your first day back at work, a Monday, December 3rd. It was tense at first, and you thought you might tuck tail and run when you saw Spencer, but you didn't, if anything you felt lighter. Maybe now, you could mend your friendship, that's what your therapist had said was the best course of action if you wanted to still be friends with him, though you didn't have much of a choice, you worked with the man.

You didn't avoid him, and the team at first, wondered what you had spent the last few weeks doing. Hotch had returned to your house Sunday to give you an eval, and you had passed with average colors, but he had cleared you. That was all that mattered.

Spencer didn't know what to make of your abrupt return, he hadn't been expecting it and for some reason he felt Hotch was punishing him...slightly. He thought you'd go back to avoiding him, but you didn't. You didn't seek him out like you used to, but you no longer evaded his questions or averted your eyes when he spoke to you.

He felt the wight in his chest lessen, and as time went on you were slowly falling back into your normal routine, but you still loved him, despite yourself, and he still loved JJ, and you came to accept that. If this was as close as you could be to him, you were okay.

And who knows? Maybe as time went by, you'd be able to move on. Your heart warmed and gently, you felt it mend again. Quietly, but efficiently, your heart was righting itself.

A week went by, and then two. You were talking with Hotch in his office about what Jack wanted for Christmas, and he was asking if you'd wanted to take Jack to see Santa with him. The others had already agreed to go, Spencer included, it was quite obvious the kid looked up to him; it still sent a flutter through your body, beginning at your toes, till it hit you head and you felt dazed. Spencer would be an amazing father, whoever he married–and he would...marry one day, you were sure of that–would be the luckiest person on earth–and his kids, well, they'd be blessed by angels.

"Oh shit," you stopped, frowning at the looming darkness that greeted you at the exit of the Bureau.

A snort came from behind you, "yeah, I thought you'd say that." Spencer sighed, halting beside you. You tilted your head upward, your small smile adjacent to his. "I guess some things never change."

You huffed a laugh, smacking him in the chest, "whatever, come on my knight and shining armor."

Hotch watched from his office window as Spencer followed you out to the carpark, like he had all those years ago, and briefly, he wondered if Spencer was going to tell you now. He clicked his tongue, remembering the not so pleasant discussion he and the team had with him concerning you after your return.

They had more or so laid into him, Hotch, though, kept his comments to himself, knowing he didn't have the power to control the actions of others, but maybe, just maybe, fate did. He didn't believe in ghosts, but Rossi talked about them sometimes, and even he had to admit, the setting before him was a little too coincidental.

You waddled to your car like a penguin, making Spencer laugh, you loved his laugh, you always would. "So," he stopped at your car, leaning against it with those doe eyes–a gift to him and perhaps a curse to you.

"So?" You raised a brow, unlocking your car and shrugging your bag into the driver seat.

"There's this showing..." he cleared his throat, "it's uhm," he chuckled nervously, feeling his palms sweat, somehow the universe had known. It must have, he was a logical person, a scientific one, and being one he knew scientists had not yet debunked the theory of fate, normal people called them "happy coincidences" and/or "happy accidents". They were two different words, but both phrases held the same meaning.

"What language is it this time?" You sighed, but you were teasing.

"It–uh, it's in Italian," he cleared his throat and your heart boomed.

"Oh," you nodded, "sure I'd love to go."

He would have said 'really?', but it was you, and you had been so agreeable these past weeks, He was hopeful, but nervous because what if you did say no? What if he said the wrong thing without knowing it and you left again? He couldn't' loose you, not this time.

It was now or never and he knew it, the entire team had coerced him to a dinner where they half ate and half lectured him the entirety they were there.

"It's so obvious," Emily had sighed.

"Look pretty boy, I'm not one to butt into other people's business, but seriously..." Morgan had shaken his head.

And where Morgan stopped, Rossi had picked up, "did you lose your brain over night?" He'd poked Spencer's head, muttering something in Italian, but Spencer knew Italian, and he had to agree, yes, he was ignorant.

JJ, Spencer sighed when he thought about what JJ had said, "If you love her, Spence," she'd also reached out to grab his hand, holding it down on the table, "then she deserves to know."

"She's my best friend," he had squeaked out.

"Oh, sweetie," Penelope had watched him with sad eyes and a sad smile to match, "we know."

"Spencer?" You raised a brow, an awkward smile perfecting the confused expression you wore.

"Sorry," he muttered, "just..."

"Yeah...what-t?" You shivered and began rubbing your arm to warm yourself up.

"Your cold?" He couldn't believe it, but unlike that time years ago, he wasn't waring a sweater. In fact, he wondered if you still had that one. It was his favorite at the time, but when you'd tried giving it back, he'd insisted you keep it.

At the time he'd excused it as being a germaphobe, but now, he thought it might've been something more. When his eyes shifted to yours, your heart–you could swear it stopped beating. His eyes had softened and he was looking at you with something you couldn't coherently explain.

"When did you know you loved me?"

You took a step back, the question hitting you like the cold wind slapping across your face. "I–"

"I think for me, it was after I got better, after you helped me get clean. Well, at least that's when I started taking into account my off behavior." He rambled a little.

"What?" Your breath hitched, how could he spring this on you so suddenly? How–how–"what?"

He paused, eyes finding yours again, disbelief and maybe anger? He expected as much, he was telling you this after all you'd been going through, but the thing he couldn't understand was why. Why did you think there was no possibility that he could like you back? Why–if you had loved him for so long–did it just–a year ago–start breaking your heart?

He called your name and took a step forward, "what gave you the impression, that I didn't love you back?" If he had know–only if he had known you'd been going through this, that he'd been breaking your heart–that you loved him...

You turned away, tears–God you were so tired of crying. "You said–that night you were blackout drunk on the bridge, that you loved her." You took a shuttering breath, twisting your body to look at him again–knowing this was more than likely going to ruin your friendship for good. "You called her your best. Friend. Spencer...and I," you motioned toward yourself, "I knew I would never compare and I had kept my feelings hidden for so long that I didn't even know what I was feeling–"

"Whoa, what?" He held up a hand, "what–what are you talking about?" His eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, recalling a memory, he had alway thought he'd been dreaming whenever it came to them.

Over the weeks after, it had come back to him in sections, as he'd pieced together the parts one by one, he had come to the conclusion that he must have dreamt it up because–because JJ wasn't there that night. She had some plans with Will, or something, he couldn't really remember.

It had to be a dream, because he couldn't have confessed his love for you to JJ–she wasn't at the bar that night–but if what you were saying was true–no it didn't–it didn't–and then it smacked him in the face.

"I–" he closed his eyes, laughing almost hysterically, "I was talking about you." His voice cracked and he shook his head, running his hands over his face. He couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe it.

"What–" you sniffled, "what are you talking about?"

He caught his breath, tears falling down his cheek as his face crumbled and he wiped them away, loathing himself more than he ever had before, "I thought–" his breathing was heavy now and you could hear the straining–the thickness strangled together as he forced it out, "I thought you were JJ."

Step, you took a step, and then another until you stood in front of your best friend. The sound echoed across the dark, silent lot, though the wind was picking up again. The cheek you'd slapped burned red, Spencer looked like an owl–a deer caught in headlights, if you will–face turned to the side, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock.

Slowly, he let his head drift back toward you, you were already waiting for his eyes to find yours. You wanted to hit him some more, to take your pent up frustration out on him, but you only had energy for a single slap tonight. A slap, and a kiss.

You pulled him down by his collar, your eyes closing upon impact. He tasted of coffee and smelled like olde books and leather, like you knew he always did. If only you had known, but you couldn't change the past, you could only move forward.

"So, where do you wanna meet?" You asked him when you pulled away. He blinked, and you smirked, eyes narrowing slightly, "for the showing."

His eyes lit up and he pulled you closer, wrapping his long arms around your torso, breathing you in like you just might disappear before his eyes if he didn't.

You giggled as his breath tickled your skin, tears long forgotten, and your heart full as it once had been.

a/n: if you're a writer, don't proof read your angst fics

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #katcember #written by katherine #fluff #angst #if we had known

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letsbangts · 3 months ago

Text

thank you || jjk

⤷ summary: when you express your appreciation for the man you married

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader

⟶ word count: 1.4k

⟶ genre: fluff, married couple au, established relationship au

⟶ content: husband!jk, fratboy!jk briefly mentioned, sweetheart kook that could cause cavities

⟶ warnings: none just pure fluff

↬ a/n: so this is inspired by you may want to marry my husband. hope you enjoy! :) as always hope you enjoy & let me know what you think! angel xoxo

masterlist ˚.⋆˚.⋆˚.⋆ join my taglist

I have been married to the most extraordinary man for four years. I am planning on many more (a plan that has been in effect since our first date seven years ago and will continue to be). And for that, I feel I should express my gratitude.

Thank you.

Honestly, I do not know what I am thankful for, for everything, I guess? For him always being there, for him staying by my side. For loving and treating me exactly how I have always wanted a man to.

Now, you may wonder who this gentleman is, and I am so happy to tell you, Jeon Jungkook.

He was an easy man to fall in love with. I did it in one day.

Let us take a trip down memory lane, shall we? Seven years ago, a young lady struggling with dealing with college and her part-time job gets dragged out by her best friend (I guess I should be thanking her too) attends a year-end party at a frat house one late evening. About an hour later, she bumps into a boy who spills his drink on himself, though all he can do is say to her with the brightest smile: You okay there, Clumsy?

And when she looks up at his face, she realizes that this is no douche frat boy with beer on his shirt, but an unbelievably attractive high-spirited young man. She shyly replies: Yeah, I'm okay. That is when what was supposed to be quick party banter with a stranger turned into a night of great conversation and a polite walk home. That then turned into sweet exchanges of subtle flirtatious texts and small phone calls that had this young lady thinking: Uh-oh, there is something loveable about this person.

As the couple enjoyed many hangouts during the beginning of summer (by the end of the summer, I knew I wanted to marry him) amidst the ever-growing flirting, they finally acknowledged their immense attraction. Then the hangouts turn into dates when that lovely young man finally asks her out. That is when they would have officially kicked off their step from subtle flirting to very blatant obvious flirting—the beginning of a couple that would only continue their journey together.

So that was the start of us.

I am a bit biased, but I will create a list based on my experience of coexisting with him for about 2,556 days on the reasons I am thankful for him and thus love him. The following list of attributes is in no particular order because everything about him is so important to me.

Starting with the basics: His blindingly contagious smile, his gorgeous body filled with pure joy and positivity (and muscle), his adorable fluffy hair that falls over his forehead to match his striking brown eyes, and his effortlessly breathtaking passionate singing, of course.

He always knows how I am feeling and how to match his mood to whatever one I am in. He can read my face with just a simple glance. I have always appreciated how he adjusts his mood to fit my own. If I am in the dumps and his spirits are up, he brings them down to comfort me; even if he is down in the dumps, he lifts his spirits to keep a smile on my face. And for that:

Thank you.

If I could list just one of the things that made me fall in love with him from day one and still makes my heart flutter to this day, it would be his little acts that are natural for him, which shows how much of a gentleman he is. From always opening doors for me, making sure I walk on the inner side of the sidewalk, giving me his jacket to wear, or carrying me into the bed when I fall asleep on the couch. He may not know how much I appreciate the little things, but those little things always remind me I sincerely have the best man out there.

Silently suffering with the things I put him through that he may not want to do. Sitting through the cliché chick flicks, trailing behind me in the store as I look at three different tops that he says all look great on me but always end up picking the one he can tell I want more, or even giving up his personal space and all feeling in his right arm because he knows I sleep much better entangled with him.

That brings me to something he may not know that I know about him. He holds in a lot more than he leads on. The song he tells me he is struggling to perfect but tells me it is only a little bit of writer's block. Yet I can see in his eyes that it stresses him much more than he says. Yet he is always quick to change topics with a:

How could you have gotten prettier while I was gone?

So tell me about your day. Did anything interesting happen today?

If I did not know him so well, I could have easily missed these things, but I have come to learn about the kind of person he is. He is the type of person who always puts others before himself. He leads himself to take on the role of making sure others around him are okay. He already knows he does not have to hide his worries from me, but Jungkook still always tries to keep the minor worries to himself because he believes they are things I will excessively stress over on his behalf. (and he is right, I would, what can I say I love the guy)

We have come to know each other so well over the years, huh?

When looking for a dreamy, last-minute adventure, he is my man. He always comes with me on random just-cause trips, be it a road trip to the countryside for a break from the city or a train ride to the sea to walk by the shore.

Thank you.

If it is still unclear, here is the kind of man Jeon Jungkook is: He surprised me on my first day at my new job with flowers because he knew how nervous I was. He is a man who is always up early and goes out to surprise me every Sunday morning by putting a different kind of flower on my nightstand with a love note. A man that comes out from the minimart or gas station and says: Hold out your hand. And, voilà, a plastic ring he got from a gumball machine (had that been his proposal, my answer would have been yes).

I am sure you understand what I am trying to say by now, and he already knows how crazy I am about him. Wait! Did I mention that he is incredibly handsome? I will never get tired of looking at his handsome face.

If I am making him sound like a prince and our relationship sounds like a fairy tale, that is not too far off. I consider his proposal one for the books: Ever since you stumbled into my life, quite literally. I have never been able to picture being without you. Will you marry me, Clumsy?

Jungkook, I was serious about what I told you in our vows:

I always want more time with you, Jungkook. I want more time with the guy who takes me to get ice cream in the winter. I want more time sipping beer in bed with my drinking buddy. Although I desire our time together to be endless, we cannot live forever. But as long as I am alive, as long as I am a person on this planet, I will continue to follow you wherever the road takes us. So let us walk it together, alright?

Your dependability and loyalty are the qualities that show you are the most extraordinary husband, the most extraordinary man, and will be the most remarkable father one day. I know you will lead our future family into a lifetime of happiness because that is where you have been leading mine for seven years. I know you will continue to do so.

I will wrap this up because I can go on and on about how you are the most genuine, non-self-oriented gift I could have received. So, thank you for being you. I hope for the day that I get to tell our children about the kind of man their father is, the man Jeon Jungkook is, and about the love story I am honoured to be a part of.

(P.S. That day I mentioned will be coming in approximately nine months!)

With all my love, Clumsy xo

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ghostgirl-22 · 18 days ago

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If you saw me post this and accidentally delete the ask and everything, no you didn’t 😭

But yeah anon. Patrick would do anything for him. Make a mess of him before his first hook up with the prettiest girl in school. Just because he feels like it, just because he can. Because Art’s his best friend. His.

He’s an amazing friend.

CW: 18+ NSFW

——-

“Is it okay?” Art asks. He’s dressed up so nice in one of Patrick’s smaller sweaters, its cloudy blue like his eyes. He’s got on fitted black jeans, and a brown leather jacket. He looks so good, smells so good, like black cherry and tobacco, this expensive cologne that he only wears when he thinks he might get laid.

He’s visibly nervous. Chewing incessantly on spearmint gum. Always nervous about his first time with a new girl. Patrick doesn’t know why, if he was a pretty girl he’d be wet the moment Art turned that shy little smile in his direction. He doesn’t need to dress up, pretty boy. He got Kennedy Sawyer’s attention in sweatpants and a t-shirt while he was arguing with Patrick over final fantasy play styles at breakfast.

But that’s not important. What’s important is Patrick just wants to help. Art is his best friend after all. He sits up on his bed, dropping his game controller. “Come ‘ere,” he says. Art checks his hair in the mirror for the third time and then approaches Patrick, eyes dilated, nerves making him run his sweaty palms awkwardly over his jeans. That’s when it catches Patrick’s eye. He teases his finger tips up Art’s thighs up to the bulge along his hip, it’s not obvious but Patrick knows him so well, knows how he tries to hide it, but Patrick can tell that he’s hard. “I can’t calm down,” Art admits quietly.

“You wanna know my secret?” Patrick asks, gripping at either side of his unzipped jacket and pulling him closer. “Like how I stay cool when I’m out with a beautiful girl?”

Art looks hopeful that Patrick’s about to tell him the secret to life. “How?”

Patrick tugs Art a little bit closer so he’s got a leg on either side of one of Patrick’s thighs. “I like to rub one out first… just to help my nerves.”

“I um—really?” Art studies him, trying to decide whether Patrick means it or if he's full of shit. “No fucking way,” he decides, followed by that stupid pretty smile of his, the one that makes Patrick want to get on his knees.

“I’m so serious,” that smile is contagious even when Arts annoyed. Patrick keeps his grip on Art’s jacket to hold him in place. “It helps, I promise. Especially if she’s really pretty, like Kennedy is. Plus it helps so I don’t finish too fast when we…” he looks up at Art's pretty blue eyes, letting him fill in the blank.

He’s chewing again. Anxious. He definitely has that “too fast” issue. He gets so excited. Patrick still touches himself remembering the night Art asked him, red faced and shy to please show him how to French kiss. Not even two minutes with Patrick’s tongue in his mouth and he’d already cum in his pants and got so embarrassed he nearly cried. Doesn’t even get how gorgeous he is.

Oh. Patrick just wants to help him. Wants to help him so bad. He’s his best friend after all. Patrick can just imagine Art, soft and sweet and so gentle with her. Fucking into her, losing it too fast and promising he can do it again. Tears of shame in his eyes. God, Patrick kinda wants to be her.

“I guess I should…” Art says quietly, bringing Patrick back from his thoughts. His expression thoughtful, his tongue, eager as he plays with his gum in his mouth.

“I mean… what could it hurt?” Patrick shrugs, grabbing at Arts belt buckle.

“Um…” Art blinks, confused. He’s so smart but stupid about some things. He gets with the program fast enough, once Patrick’s got his hands on him. God, he’s hard. So fucking hard he’s already leaking into his boxers, can’t calm down. Let’s Patrick pull him onto his lap as his breathing picks up. “Patrick, no, it’s late. ‘m gonna be late,” he sounds a little panicky, but he’s gripping at Patrick’s biceps as they both look down at his lap, Patrick’s hand working inside his boxers.

“No, it’s okay, I promise,” Patrick whispers. Not sure what he’s promising, he’s already lost the plot. Art smells so good. Patrick always wonders if he tastes as good as he smells in this cologne. He licks a stripe up the side of his throat, kisses his way up to Art's lips. Petal soft and minty, Art opens up right away. His mouth heated and… oh so wet. He scoots closer, his neatly ironed shirt getting wrinkled because he’s pressed up against Patrick’s body. His fingers tangled in Patrick’s hair. The kiss getting sloppier, sticky gum sliding back and forth between them. He’s chaos. So good at keeping it all in until he can’t.

If Patrick wasn’t hard from the moment Art got back to the room to get ready for his little date he’d be gone by now. Patrick is dizzy, swallowing on Art’s helpless little gasps, the kinda kissing that can make Art come untouched. But Patrick wants to touch him, bucks his hips up so Art can feel him. It’s not too long before Art is just mouthing him, no technique no nothing, just opened mouth moaning against Patrick’s lips. Patrick’s heart is racing, the blood pounding in his ears. He’s on the brink.

“Tell me what you wanna do to her?” Patrick mutters hot, against his lips, hand gripping tighter, moving faster. You’ve been so patient for two months. So good… I bet you can’t wait to fuck into her wet dripping cunt…”

“God Patrick…I want it so bad,” He whines. “I wanna— wanna fuck— fuck—”

“Yeah?” Patrick coaxes, as if any of this is coherent.

“God Patrick, Patrick,” it’s all he can manage before spilling it everywhere, heated sticky pearls of white all over that neatly pressed blue shirt and black jeans. The image of it makes Patrick lose it, breathless in his pants. They’re both sitting there, catching their breaths. A soft sheen of sweat visible on Art’s forehead, his skin mildly flushed.

”Fuck,” Art whispers after a minute. “My…my clothes.”

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, leaning back on the bed, letting the mess on his palm spread onto his sheets. “Shoulda done it before you got dressed probably…”

Art takes a deep breath and pushes himself up to his feet, while simultaneously trying to straighten himself out. Patrick watches him, mildly amused. “I have to change… do you um… do you have another shirt?”

”I mean… I think what you were wearing is perfect. God. It really brings out your eyes.”

”Well I can’t wear it now, and I’m already late, god I’m supposed to meet her out front in ten minutes. We’re gonna miss the movie and the next show is not till 8 and we won’t make dinner before curfew and Ms. Henderson will be sitting outside the girls dorm and—” He’s started talking so fast he’s getting pitchy.

“Hey I got a crazy idea,” Patrick interrupts and Art stares at him, so pathetically frustrated but also covered in jizz. It almost makes Patrick laugh but he stops himself. “This is supposed to be special, right? Why don’t you wait till tomorrow night? You can wash everything and you know… we can do it before you get dressed next time.”

”No we are not doing that again,” Art says determinedly, because he’s so sated and in his right mind.

“Well you can then,” Patrick shrugs, smirking.

Art rolls his eyes and goes to pick up his phone from the charger to text her the change of plans. Patrick goes into the bathroom to clean up a bit.

“I’m gonna be hungry, should we order pizza?” Art calls from the room.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, smiling to himself in the mirror. “Definitely.”

#challengers fic #challengers smut #artrick #art x patrick #patrick zweig smut #art donaldson smut

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marvelwitchergilmore · 3 days ago

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A Helping Hand

Summary: Tyler Owens x fe!Reader -> The times Tyler has helped you without a second thought and without question.

Disclaimer: continued descriptions of painful periods, the four times Tyler had helped you with them. Fluff with a potential for a little steam, unnamed kinda shitty boyfriend at the beginning, happy ending. Not Proof Read.

You always kinda figured that was how it was meant to be. Sure, it would be nice if he helped once in a while. But if he didn’t want to deal with it, then that was okay, right? He was still a good man. Still cared for you. Still made you happy.

He just didn’t…know what to do when you were in pain. He didn’t know what he was meant to do when your uterus started to prepare itself for a baby that you were both not having and were not ready for even if you were.

Periods, like for most women you’d met, were painful. Dull aches that never wanted to end, cramps that would creep up your back and down your legs, enough blood being lost that more often than not sent your blood sugars down and your iron levels even lower.

Some days you didn’t exactly feel like getting out of bed and the ‘light exercise’ the doctor had prescribed you just sounded like complete and utter hell. You were just thankful that, despite the dangers of your job, most of the time you got to choose whether or not you wanted to stay in the van with Javi or Dexter and Dani, or go out into the actual tornado.

But that didn’t mean the pain stopped.

“Hey, come on, you’re gonna miss it. Dexter found some cells and-” Tyler stopped in his tracks as he burst into your room.

You lay in the middle of your bed, your feet on the floor at the end. Your hand pressed as hard as they could into your lower stomach. Your eyes were shut tight and you just looked…uncomfortable.

“Hey, you okay?”

You just nodded a little. The thought of talking in that moment felt like too much energy.

“You don’t look it. Are you feeling okay?” A moment later, the back of Tyler’s hand was feeling your forehead. “You’ve got a little temperature. Are you sure-”

“I’m coming onto my period, Tyler.”

“Oh, shit. Right now?”

“Not right this second. But…soon.” Then you stopped talking, feeling the pain shoot down your sides somehow both sharp and dull.

“You know, you can sit this one out. Want me to bring you back anything? Tampons? Pads? Ice cream?”

You opened your eyes and looked at Tyler. You’d never met a guy brave enough to even think of the word Tampon.

“You don’t have to-”

Tyler shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. What do you need?”

You somehow managed to talk through the shock. “P-pads. The night ones. With wings.”

Then from outside the door, Boone ran past yelling for you and Tyler to hurry up.

“Text me a list. Whatever you need.” Tyler smiled at you before leaning down and kissing your cheek. “You rest up.”

“Okay.”

And watching Tyler leave through the door, pulling the cowboy hat onto his head, something hit you. Tyler was the first guy to not freak out about you having a period. Granted, he drove into tornadoes for a living and did have women on his team but…he was the first to never…freak out.

And that part of him only started to show itself even more. Or, maybe, it was a part of him you truly started to notice.

After getting back from the chase, Tyler knocked on your door before entering. He was holding a large brown paper bag. “I bring supplies. Four packs of night-time pads with wings. As well as actual wings.” Tyler smiled as he pulled out a small box of barbecue chicken wings. “Also grabbed you some pain medication, couple of different snacks; some salty, some sweet. I didn’t know what you’d fancy. Uh, oh. And, as promised,” Tyler pulled the final thing out of the bag. “Ice cream.”

You smiled up at him from where you were sitting on the bed. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. But, thank you.”

“What’s your pain like? It eased any?”

You made a face. “A little, but not by much.”

“You got a hot water bottle?”

From under your jacket, you showed him. “Freshly made.”

“Good.”

“Hey, Ty? Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why doesn’t this freak you out?”

Tyler looked at you as he packed some of the spare items back into the bag so they were out of the way. “What? You having a period?”

You nodded.

“Sweetheart, a man is not a man if he gets freaked out over something like this. He’s a boy if he does.”

You just stared at him. You knew that, of course. There had been plenty of sleepover conversations about it when you were younger. But you were yet to find anyone of the male human species who didn’t get freaked out over it.

And that wasn’t the only time Tyler helped you out when you were on your period.

Not too long after that first interaction, you’d broken up with your boyfriend. There had been plenty of other factors that went into the break-up, but the period thing had been the final nail in the coffin.

Six months later, you and Tyler had been on a four day road trip. You were both heading to one of the Universities to give a talk on meteorology. However, two days into the road trip, Tyler had stopped at a gas station to fill his tank up.

Meanwhile, you disappeared into the bathroom and finally let yourself cry.

For the last two hours in the truck, your insides had been screaming at you. For a while, it had felt like they were clawing at your insides, trying to escape. The aching across your lower back meant that no matter how or where you moved, it fucking killed you. Until finally you were hunched over the sink, your eyes closed, breathing as deeply as you could to shake away the jittering in your blood.

You didn’t know how long you’d been in that position, but it must have been a while because Tyler eventually knocked on the door.

“Y/n, you okay in there?”

The gas station was in the middle of nowhere so you knew he wasn’t knocking because you’d caused a line to wait outside.

“I’m fine.” You hoped he didn’t hear the break in your voice. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

There was a short beat of silence. “Sweetheart, open the door.”

It took you a minute before you plucked up enough courage to move and open the door. And Tyler entered quietly.

“Take it easy.” Tyler stood behind you, his hands softly coming to your hips. “What number are you at?”

“Like a…” The shaking in your voice didn’t go unnoticed by Tyler. “Nine?”

Tyler nodded. “Is it okay if I try something? It might help.”

You just nodded. Nothing could make it worse.

So, carefully, Tyler lifted your shirt from your shorts before pressing his hands to the bare skin on your back. You were both completely silent whilst he concentrated on the movement of his hands. They were warm, which was one bonus. With continuous movements and a firm pressure, Tyler started to carefully massage your lower back, hips and abdomen.

As he reached around your front, you managed to stand up straight and lean against him a little. The pain was still dull and still there, but it was no longer as intense.

“What number we at now, Sweetheart?” Tyler asked, his voice deep and directly at the shell of your ear as his hands remained in the waistband of your shorts, applying soft pressure to your lower half.

“Maybe three.”

Tyler smiled and kissed your temple. “Good. Think you can walk back to the truck with me?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

By the time the next chasing season came around, you were having yet another period but thankfully the pain hadn’t been as bad as your previous ones. And it had come on time. Not suddenly early, not incredibly late.

Your app had predicted it, and your period had followed suit. But, again, that didn’t mean the pain stopped completely.

You had a little more energy than usual and the feelings you got where you wanted to murder every person who got on your nerves was gone. In its place was the kind of cramps every male doctor had told you about growing up. The ‘mild’ kind.

It was as you were listening to one of Kate’s stories about when her and Javi were chasing with her last team – Javi had walked out of his motel room without any pants on and had given the owner quite the surprise for five in the morning – that Tyler had stepped over the log you were sat on and handed you a cup of ginger tea. You gave him a quiet smile, which he returned, before he sat beside you with a cup of his own.

You knew he hated the stuff, but he still drank it anyway.

And when he walked you to your room, kissing you on your cheek to say goodnight, you found a fresh hot water bottle on your bed with a small, handwritten note. “To help.”

You couldn’t help but smile.

Ever since the first time he’d helped you, he’d done things like that. Hot water bottles, fresh tea. He’d even surprised you once when Lily came running back to the diner bathroom stall, handing you a pad that apparently was from the kit Tyler kept in his truck.

But the biggest surprise came one evening when you were sitting in the barn, alone, trying your best to calm yourself down as you completed the final logs of test data.

If he hadn’t spoken, you would have known it was him by the slight scuff of his boots on the barn floor.

“Here you are. I’ve got something for you.”

Then on the table, he presented you with a pack of popcorn, a bar of chocolate and a small selection of sour sweets. The same combo he always brought you when-

“How did you know?”

Tyler gave you a slight smile as he sat down beside your desk. “You snapped at Dexter.”

You cringed at the memory. You had apologised profusely immediately afterwards and Dexter had accepted it. But that didn’t stop you from feeling bad.

“I know. I’m really, really sorry-”

Tyler just chuckled a little. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve already been forgiven.”

You just gave a shy smile and tried to turn back to the work in front of you.

��When was the last time you had a shower?”

Your neck almost snapped in half as you looked at Tyler. “What?”

“Not for that reason.” Tyler quickly replied. “But you’re stressed. Showers have been proven to ease tension. Something you are currently riddled with.”

“Who says I’m riddled with tension?”

Tyler just smiled and stood up. “Come on. Work can wait.”

“Who says I’m riddled-”

“You do.” Tyler told you as he led you by your shoulder out of the barn but not before turning the desk lamp off. “Your eyebrows are practically being knitted together at that desk. Come on.”

Ten minutes later, Tyler had led you into the house and pushed you in the direction of the bathroom. After five minutes of standing under the hot water, you felt your shoulders finally relax. Twenty minutes after that, your hair was washed and you didn’t hate the world as much as you did before Tyler came and found you in the barn.

“Where are the others?”

“In town. Kate dragged them to another line dancing night.”

“Why didn’t you go with them? You love to dance.”

Tyler smiled over his shoulder at you as he moved things around the stove. “I do but tonight I wanted to have a quiet night. Also gives me a chance to try out a new recipe without Dani’s judgement.”

Sitting down at the kitchen table, you and Tyler shared a meal before you helped him wash up before eventually finding yourself lying on the sofa, your legs stretched out as far as they would go.

A few minutes later, Tyler’s fingers graced your head, lightly pushing the drying strands of hair from your face before he handed you a hot water bottle.

“To help.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, scoot.”

Pushing you over a little, Tyler lay down on the sofa beside you before scooping his hand under your waist until his arms were practically hugging your middle. With your head on his chest, you let out a content sigh as his hand snuck up the back of your shirt and rested on your lower back.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.”

There was a small beat of silence between you both as you lay with your head on his chest, his heartbeat not too far from your ear. Then you asked him a question you’d wanted to know the answer to for a while.

“Tyler?”

He hummed, the gravel of his voice rumbling into his chest.

“Why do you do this?”

He opened his eyes and looked at you. “Do what?”

“Help me…that way that you do. I’ve never had to ask, you’ve never once turned green at the thought of my bedsheets having blood on them.” You chuckled a little at the thought, but it was true. Some mornings, especially when the pain had been at its worst a few days before, your bedsheets would be away and already being washed.

The only way you knew it was Tyler was because you’d left the bathroom sooner than he’d expected so you caught him walking back in with fresh sheets.

“You’ve always helped me. Why?”

Tyler thought about it for a moment. He already knew why. Even before you’d joined the team, he’d kept an emergency supply kit in the van, but when you started travelling with him, he started to keep it in his truck along with your favourite snacks and drinks.

You were one of his best friends. The amount of surprise tornadoes you’d both been caught in, just the two of you on a roadtrip…they were shocking enough to bring you both closer together. He cared about you and seeing you go through the pain you did; if there was anything he could do to help ease it, he would.

But most of all…but most of all…

“You spent every day helping all of us. Without asking and without a second thought. Even when you’ve gone through all of this before, you’ll find a way to push through it and still show up. You deserve to be helped, too. And I’ll keep showing up and helping you, no matter how easy or great your pain is.”

Looking at Tyler, you could have cried.

You’d had relationships in the past - romantic and platonic – and not once had someone been as caring or loving as Tyler.

“You really mean that,” you said, not entirely sure if you were asking it as a question or saying it as a statement. But Tyler answered anyway.

“Of course I do. Sweetheart. I love you.”

Looking at him, hearing those words fall from his lips so effortlessly, seeing that light sparkle in his eyes as he did so…you knew there was more than one meaning to his three little words. And you smiled.

Softly, your hand graced his cheek and your thumb caressed his skin. His head turned a little, leaning into you before he finally pressed a kiss to your palm. Then, holding your wrist in a gentle grip, he turned back to you.

It was in the unspoken silence that Tyler leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. His hand at your back pulled you closer to him as your hand that rested on his face reached around his neck and pulled him closer.

And somewhere in the comfortable silence afterwards, you found the words you’d been dying to let out.

“I love you, too.”

#tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you #tyler owens fic #twisters 2024 #twisters #twisters fanfic #glen powell #glen powell tyler owens #tornado wranglers #cowboy scientist #fluff #painful period descriptions but Tyler helps with the pain #established platonic relationship #falling in love #tyler owens glen powell #glen powell twisters #tyler owens twisters #twisters cowboy

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pandapetals · 4 months ago

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Leather Jacket

logan howlett x fem!reader - established relationship, cute, romantic, logan being soft, no y/n used, no reader description

Logan gives you his leather jacket.

prompt idea from @Silverskyeline from their logan promptober: #18-leather jacket

Logan cared about you deeply, though he wasn’t the type of guy to express it with grand declarations or flowery words. He didn’t know how to be soft or romantic in the conventional sense, but that didn’t matter. For you, it was the little things—the small, thoughtful gestures he made without even realizing how much they meant to you—that lit up your world.

He could always tell when he’d done something that struck a chord with you. He might not have been great with words, but he’d gotten damn good at reading you.

Like that time he’d spent hours scouring the city, searching every used bookstore until he finally found a copy of that old novel you’d mentioned offhand one night. You hadn’t even expected him to remember it, let alone track it down. Yet he’d come home late that night, and handed it to you right before bed, his gruff voice mumbling something about “figured you might want this.” You’d stared at the worn book in disbelief, your eyes wide with surprise before they filled with tears.

Logan had just stood there, a little awkward, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “It’s just a book, darlin’,” he’d muttered, but when you smiled up at him, your eyes shining, he couldn’t help the small, pleased smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

That was the thing about Logan—he didn’t try to be romantic. He just was, in his own rugged, understated way. Whether it was hunting down that book for you or staying up late to fix your broken faucet without saying a word, it was in those quiet moments that he showed you just how much he cared.

Perhaps the most telling gesture was when he gave you his favorite leather jacket.

It was an old, worn, brown leather jacket that fit him perfectly, molded to his body in a way only years of wear could achieve. He didn’t remember exactly where he’d gotten it from, but it had been with him for a long time, through many fights and hard times. It was as much a part of him as his claws, as the deep lines etched into his face. He’d worn it the first time he met you, too—scruffy, brooding, leaning against the bar with a cigar hanging from his lips, the jacket slung over his broad shoulders like it was made for him.

He always figured the jacket had a certain kind of luck to it. After all, it brought you into his life.

So when he handed it over to you one chilly night without so much as a word, just draping it over your shoulders when you shivered on the way back to his motorcycle, it felt like more than just a way to keep you warm. It felt like a piece of him he was giving to you.

“Logan, I’m fine,” you had protested lightly, your hands automatically reaching to adjust the jacket on your shoulders.

He shrugged, giving you that familiar, nonchalant look. “Keep it. Looks better on you anyway,” he said, though you could see the faintest flicker of something softer in his eyes.

You hugged the jacket around you, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and faint traces of his cologne. It was warm, comforting—so him. You didn’t even try to give it back after that. It had become yours, just like he had.

The first time you wore it out in public, Logan couldn’t take his eyes off you. It was subtle, of course—he wasn’t the type to make a scene—but every time you caught him sneaking glances, you could feel the pride radiating off him. He liked seeing you in his jacket, liked knowing that everyone who saw you would know exactly who you belonged to. There was no possessiveness in it, no need to control you or keep you close out of jealousy. Logan wasn’t like that with you.

He wanted to share everything with you, even the things that meant the most to him. And that jacket? That was a piece of his history, of who he was. But more importantly, it was a part of his present—a part of you.

He would never say it outright—he wasn’t the type to get all sentimental—but he felt it every time you threw the jacket on before heading out the door. His chest tightened with something he didn’t quite know how to name. Something like love.

#fluff #logan howlett #wolverine #logan howlett x you #x men wolverine #x men logan #logan x reader #james logan howlett #marvel #mcu #leather jacket #hugh jackman #x men origins wolverine #x men #x men movies #logantober #flufftober

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insomniaccorner · 18 days ago

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Batfam on Valentine's Day

Bruce Wayne

Tries to act like Valentine's Day isn’t a big deal but always pulls off something extravagant last minute.

Prefers quiet, intimate moments over flashy events—like a candlelit dinner at home or a rooftop date overlooking Gotham.

Writes heartfelt letters that he struggles to deliver, so Alfred sneaks them into his partner’s things.

If his partner teases him about being romantic, he’ll just smirk and say, “I don’t need one day to show you how I feel.”

Dick Grayson

Goes all out—flowers, chocolates, dinner, and probably a choreographed dance if his partner asks for it.

Loves playful, flirty dates, like roller skating, amusement parks, or even dancing in the Batcave.

Sends a bunch of ridiculous text messages leading up to the date, full of heart emojis and bad puns.

If his partner doesn’t like big celebrations, he’s totally happy just cuddling and watching rom-coms.

Jason Todd

Acts like he doesn’t care but actually puts a lot of thought into his gift—probably something personal, like a book he annotated or a rare vinyl record.

Not big on public displays of affection but will hold his partner’s hand under the table or wrap an arm around them absentmindedly.

If his partner likes action, he’ll take them on a date that includes shooting practice, a motorcycle ride, or some rooftop parkour.

Ends the night by cooking a homemade meal (better than expected) and reading with his partner in comfortable silence.

Tim Drake

Completely forgets it's Valentine's Day until the last second. Scrambles to put something together but somehow pulls it off.

Workaholic tendencies mean his partner might have to drag him away from a case to celebrate.

Prefers thoughtful gifts over grand gestures—like a playlist of songs that remind him of them or a handwritten note tucked into their stuff.

His idea of a perfect Valentine’s date? Staying up late with takeout, gaming, or watching sci-fi movies with his partner curled up next to him.

Damian Wayne

Initially dismisses Valentine’s Day as “commercialized nonsense” but secretly gets his partner a handmade gift.

If his partner is artistic, he’ll paint or sketch something for them (and act like it’s no big deal).

Gets flustered if they try to be affectionate in public but secretly loves it in private.

His idea of a date is something active—sparring together, horseback riding, or visiting an art exhibit he thinks they’ll appreciate.

Barbara Gordon

Likes a balance between romance and practicality—maybe dinner at a cozy spot, followed by a late-night city patrol.

Probably hacks her partner’s devices to send them cute (and slightly embarrassing) Valentine’s messages.

If her partner is into books, she’ll gift them a first edition of something they love.

Makes sure every Batcomputer screen in the cave displays a heart-filled message just to mess with the others.

Cassandra Cain

Not big on words, but shows love through small, meaningful actions—like fixing her partner’s favorite snack or holding their hand.

Loves quiet, peaceful dates—maybe a rooftop picnic where they just enjoy each other’s presence.

Might write something sweet but struggle to say it, so she just hands her partner a note and looks away.

If her partner gets cold, she’ll silently wrap them in her own jacket and pretend it’s no big deal.

Stephanie Brown

Goes all-in on cheesy, fun Valentine’s traditions—heart-shaped pancakes, silly gifts, and matching sweaters.

Leaves random love notes and doodles in her partner’s stuff leading up to the day.

Loves spontaneous adventures, so expect a road trip or a scavenger hunt through Gotham.

Would 100% try to sneak into a fancy restaurant without a reservation, just for the thrill.

#batfam x reader #bruce wayne #jason todd #damian wayne #tim drake #dick grayson #headcanon #batfam

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usoinked · 10 days ago

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♥️Your Girl♥️ (Manipulative! Zilla Fatu X Slightly!Obsessive Black Reader)

CW: Jealousy, Rough Sex (it’s a LOT going on), Choking, Dirty Talk, Toxic (man this is really hitting close to home😗), Cheating (Is It Really Though?), Manipulation, Multiple Orgasms, Gaslighting, Unprotected P in V

Word Count: 5.7k+

Carry me off the stage

I can't do this anymore

Been gone for three years

Is that enough for you, boy?

Carry me to my bed

Paint my toe nails blue

Tell me all about the things

That you and I will never do

That’s what it felt like. You and Zilla did so many things together, he carried you around in the bedroom, stayed near you in public, bought you flowers and gifts….but he didn’t put anything on that. There wasn’t a label between the two of you at all. You wished there was so bad, he’d been near you, close to you, and even inside of you so it wasn’t fair. Anywhere he went, you were right there but with the way he acted in public, it was like you were his assistant more than anything. In private, he catered to you like you were his world but in public, he stayed near you, but never held your hand. You didn’t notice it too much at first because you were so caught up in the love and affection he showed you in the bedroom everytime you two were caught between the sheets but overtime…the more you two kept seeing each other, you started to become obsessed with wanting more of that attention…more of it than just in the bedroom. You didn’t want to just have his attention in the bedroom, you didn’t want him giving his attention to other bitches or entertaining them, you wanted him to claim you. You wanted to to be his girl.

I wish I was your girl

I wish I was your girl, oh

I wish I was your girl

I wish I was your girl, oh

It had been three years since that night at the roller rink, but every time you closed your eyes, the memory still felt fresh. The flashing lights, the smooth roll of the skates beneath your feet, and the electric buzz of the music that made everything feel alive. Zilla’s presence had been magnetic, pulling you in with that cocky smile and the way his eyes seemed to trace every curve of your body, even when he wasn’t looking directly at you. But back then, it was a spark, something casual. A vibe that felt like it could grow into something—only it never did.

You’d been feeling yourself that night. It was Skate & Sip night at Cascadia, and you had every intention of gliding through the rink like you owned it. You were in a tight white tank top that stopped just above your belly button, showing off a hint of skin. The ripped jean jacket you wore added a laid-back, cool vibe to your outfit, while your ripped jeans hugged your curves and heightened the outline of your ass just right. A soft peek of your lacy pink panties flirted with the edges of your jeans, adding a little edge to your look. Your box braids, all sleek and golden, flowed down to your hips, their edges adorned with small golden beads that clinked gently as you skated.

You hadn’t even noticed your lip gloss had a slight strawberry flavor that lingered on your lips, a secret taste you knew no one else could experience. But it was your brown skates with the orange wheels that sealed the deal. The pop of color matched the subtle hint of pink peeking out from your jeans, bringing the whole look together. A cherry-flavored lollipop was tucked in your mouth, its sweet tanginess adding flavor to the air around you as you glided around the rink.

Your feet moved in sync with the music, twisting and turning with ease, skating backwards, forwards, even throwing in a twirl for fun. You were lost in your own world, the rhythm of the night pulling you deeper into the moment until—bam. You crashed into someone hard, the impact sending you straight to the floor with a yelp, your ass hitting the hard surface. The lollipop almost flew out of your mouth, but before you could even register the sting, a voice pulled you from your haze.

“Oh damn, you ight?” He said immediately extending his tatted covered hand as an offer to help you up.

You looked up, and for a split second, you forgot you were on the floor. Staring down at you was a man whose presence was overwhelming even in this busy rink. His dark black mullet with red tips at the ends in the back, the short strands that sat over his forehead, the sides of his hair faded neatly, and his tattoos peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his shirt completed the art piece standing in front of you. And then you saw it: the “Z” on his neck. You’d never seen anyone wear their name like that before or even an initial. Bold. Unapologetic.

He reached down a hand to help you up, and you couldn’t help but take it, gripping his arm with a steady pull as you stood to your feet. “Damn, that was a hard ass fall,” you laughed, brushing yourself off.

“No problem, ma. Be careful next time though,” he said, voice low, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He wasn’t worried about the fall…too much, his attention was more so directed to you.

You couldn’t stop staring at the “Z” tattoo on his neck. You hadn’t been into tattoos much before, but on him, it felt like part of his essence. Letting go of his hand, you took the lollipop out of your mouth for a split second, the red tinge left behind on your tongue. “Your tattoo… what’s that Z for?” you asked, curiosity slipping past the edge of your lips.

His eyebrow arched slightly, amusement in his gaze. “Zilla. That’s my name.”

“Y/N,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips as popped the lollipop back into your mouth, the cherry flavor a sweet distraction from how intimidating he looked.

And then, as if the universe decided it was time to turn the night up a notch, “Pony” by Ginuwine began blarring through the speakers. The entire rink seemed to move with the beat. The lights dimmed and spun, and the air grew slightly thick around you both.

“You tryna dance wimme?” you asked, stepping closer, the flirtation in your voice smooth as honey. “Maybe I can be more careful this time.”

Zilla chuckled softly, that low rumble making you feel like you were right there, close enough to hear his heartbeat. “You something else, ma,” he said, a smirk forming. “I ain’t mad at it.”

Without another word, he took your hand, his rough fingers grazing over your skin as your fingers intertwined. The touch sent a shiver through your spine, and before you could even think, the two of you were rolling onto the rink floor, your skates gliding smoothly as the music wrapped around you. His arms, inked and strong, found their place around your waist, pulling you in close. You spun on the wheels, laughing, lost in the rhythm, your heart racing as his body pressed closer.

For that moment, everything felt right. Perfect. But it was only a moment.

Back in the present, you sat in your room, your hands subconsciously wrapped around your waist, imagining the warmth of Zilla’s arms again. The memory of his touch lingered, but it wasn’t the same. You weren’t just thinking of the moments when it was just the two of you in that bedroom, where his attention was all yours. You wanted more than that. You wanted him in the world outside those four walls.

But the reality was clear. You weren’t his girl. You weren’t anything. He’d been close to you in ways no one else had been, but when it came to the world beyond those sheets, you were invisible. To him, you were nothing more than an accessory, a companion on his arm, one of the many women he had in his section at his kickbacks or hostings, never anything to claim.

You wanted him to claim you.

You wanted that title.

You needed him to show the world that you were his, not just in those quiet, intimate moments but out there, where everyone could see. You didn’t want to be someone’s secret anymore.

You longed for more than just being his assistant. You wanted to be his girl.

And no matter how many times you told yourself it wasn’t enough, the truth was that you were getting tired of waiting for him to take that next step. But something deep down, your conscious told you that would never happen because there was something else. There was someone else. You weren’t the type to just accuse someone out of the blue but that made the most sense. All of the signs pointed to him having…another girl. Someone who wasn’t you. The ache in your chest, the way your blood boiled at the thought, and the expression on your face said everything, it didn’t matter that you weren’t together. It’s what he did, how he made you feel, and the touch of his tongue across your body that made you cringe at the idea of him doing that to someone who wasn’t you.

As if the Universe heard your pleas, your phone rung and those feelings almost immediately came to a stop for just a second because of the name you saw across the screen. It was rather pathetic, this man who you weren’t even with had you in a chokehold because of how attractive he was outside and inside the sheets. “Zilla🥀” was all you could read before your hands glided across the sheets toward the device. With the click of a button, your soft but stern voice echoed through the other end. “Hello?”

“What’s good witchu ma? Whatchu doin’ tonight?”

“You. If you come over here, you know what time I’m on already.”

The phone was still pressed to your ear, and you could feel your pulse racing with every second that passed. Zilla’s voice, usually so smooth and easygoing, now felt grating, like nails on a chalkboard. The mix of frustration and something else—disappointment, maybe—twisted in your stomach. You’d had enough of his games, it had been three years of manipulation, crying, doubts, and private activities.

“What’s good with you, ma? Whatchu doin’ tonight?” Zilla’s voice came through, casual, like it hadn’t been weeks of him acting like you didn’t matter in public. He was more busy bowling, basking in attention, flashing those grills that beamed everytime he opened his mouth, and paying you no type of mind unless he needed something.

You paused, taking a breath. Trying to calm the rising tension inside you, but it was impossible. His words were too light. Too carefree. Like he didn’t know what was wrong with you, like he really didn’t care. It hurt but you knew you missed him. You wanted him to come over, mess up those once perfect satin sheets, tell you everything you wanted to hear and make you forget everything you feel now for the next 24 to 48 hours at least. Have you in a wide range of emotions from crying to crashing out, only to still be under him when he came back.

“You, if you come over” you said, trying to sound indifferent, but there was a tightness in your voice you couldn’t hide. “You know what type of time I’m on.”

He laughed lightly. “Oh yeah? What type of time is that?” His teased.

“Don’t play wimme,” your voice was a bit more stern, the sound you heard on the other end caused you to bite your lip. “I miss you fucking me into these sheets, the ones you like so much. But you playin’ too much. You out here having me looking dumb as fuck f’real.”

The line went silent for a second, and you could practically hear him shifting to sit up and that was never a good sign, it meant y’all were probably bout to have another argument but you it wasn’t nothing new so who cared.

“What you talkin’ bout now? Everytime we talk about sex, you start this whining shit. You already know I gotchu, so whatchu trippin for?” The toxicity that came from his tone was evident but you still wasn’t backing down because you were pissed. Sexually frustrated too but overall pissed that he could have his way but you couldn’t have yours. Niggas these days, irritating as fuck. “Nah nigga, ain’t no you got me. You got me in the sheets and after that in public, you don’t got shit. Why the fuck am I around you and it’s looking like you got another situation goin’ on?”

“Even if I did have a situation, why it matter? Bruh I met you in a skatin’ rink with your ass out, licking a lollipop. What else you thought we was finna be?”

“And? This ass that you like getting thrown back on you when we in the bedroom though! I love you, I want you to have my babies, I want to keep you close to me” you mocked. That’s all you kept saying the whole time we fucked nigga and you think you can just write me off cuz of a whatever situation you got going on. Fuck your situation, I want you and you deadass playin’ wimme.”

As Zilla went to respond, the girl he had beside him stirred. Her 40 inch buss down moved to the side along head as her brown and gold acrylics gripped the pillow. Her voice was low and groggy, but you heard it on the other end. “Bae, who you on the phone wit?” She said cutting him off and if only you seen the look on his face. You didn’t give him the opportunity to say shit before you hung up, grabbed your purse and made your way to the kitchen to grip your keys. Your acrylic nail tips clawed their way into your skin, that’s how tight your grip was. You put your phone in your purse and slid into your Black Range Rover before pulling out of the driveway. Oh you tryna play nigga. Bet. You knew where he lived because he’d trusted you with his address before but you also knew that no more talking on the phone was needed because this nigga really had the wrong one.

Going 10 over the speed limit, you booked it down the highway going having around 10 exits to get through just before you made it to his house. Technically he didn’t live that far which is even more reason why that nigga should’ve known better than to let you hear another bitch on the phone.

After zooming through 10 exits but still making sure to mind stop lights despite your anger, you pulled into his driveway and quickly got out of the car slamming your door in the process, keys in one hand and phone in the other as you approached the door. You knocked, hard four times not caring if you might’ve been interrupting whatever him and that other girl got going on. Not getting an answer the first time, you knocked again. Only this time the door swung open after almost a few moments later, Zilla standing on the other side in a black graphic t shirt, some shorts and red and black high top dunks. “What the hell is you doin’ here?” He yelled, his voice being above a whisper but obviously where he wasn’t tryna let the other girl know you were here.

You barged past him into the house looking around as you heard the door close behind you. “Don’t play wimme, asking me dumbass questions and shit” you mumbled as you looked around before going upstairs looking into the guest rooms before looking into his room seeing no one there. “Man where the fuck is she at bruh? Bae?! You out here with a whole fucking girlfriend and you having me out here looking crazy! That’s why yo friends out here looking at me sideways and shit! Where she at?”

“They looking at you sideways because of this shit right here! You be trippin! She ain’t here! I told her to leave cause I knew you was finna pull up on this weird shit!”

“Nigga ain’t no weird shit! I’m not stupid! You out here playin’ with me! You got a whole girlfriend!”

“That’s not even my fucking girlfriend! She a girl I’m dealin’ with but what that gotta do witchu? Me and you not together Y/N!”

Your tongue hit the inside of your cheek as you smiled and scoffed before opening his closet door looking around and going into his bathroom looking around before attempting to leave the room before he grabbed you. “Bruh you need to chill, ain’t nobody here!”

“Man move! Move out my way bruh! I said move!”

“And I said no! The fuck is wrong witchu girl! You crazy as fuck coming in here thinking you own shit! This ain’t yo house, take yo ass home!”

“No! So you can bring that bitch back in here! What? You tellin’ her all the things you tell me? Hm? I’m not no game you can play nigga, you thought I wasn’t finna pull up while you got another fucking girl in your bed! On my phone, playing in my face Z!”

“Bruh why it matter though?! We ain’t together! So why you keep bringing that shit up?! This that whining shit I’m talkin’ bout!”

“Because you ain’t shit!” Tears streamed down your face as your voice became sore and slightly hoarse from yelling. “You ain’t shit nigga. You know I want that fucking title…I wanna be your girl and you playing wimme bruh. It’s been 3 years! I can’t stand when you do that shit cuz you know what the fuck you doin’”, as pathetic as some people might’ve seen it, you liked…no loved Zilla. Despite the attention only being in the bedroom, he made you feel special while he did it. Like you were the only girl in the world that mattered to him. He never specifically said he wasn’t looking for nothing serious, his actions might’ve showed he was fooling around but your heart wanted something much more with him. Your brain told you plenty of times to get the hell away from him because you’d never be what you wanted but your heart made you stay right there.

He stayed quiet for a moment, but you could tell he was far from done as he stepped toward you, his jaw clenching once before his eyes locked with yours. His voice was softer but still stern, “I ain’t shit, but you still finna be under me begging me to let you have this though. You crashin’ out and doing all this shit over a title but how I make you feel though?” He said before taking his tatted hand and putting it under your chin. “You doin’ all this crashing out over somebody that ain’t even my girlfriend. You looking crazy ma.” He paused examining your tears. “But I like that on you.”

He was ruining you. Your eyes were red and puffy with tears, your lips were swollen from how emotional you were, your throat was sore from yelling and you couldn’t stand the words that were coming out of his mouth. But he was right, y’all could fight, argue, and literally stop seeing each other over something big or small and you’d still be right back under him. Because he had that type of hold on you. He was like a drug you were addicted to, could take a break but couldn’t stop completely.

“I hate you bruh” you said as you looked at him with more tears still streaming down your face but you knew you didn’t mean it and he knew it too. “Nah you don’t, if you did you wouldn’t be here right now. If you really mean it, leave right now.”

But you couldn’t. Your body wouldn’t let you and you knew you didn’t want to walk out that door. The smug look on his face irritated you and it showed, your brows furrowed and the corners of your lips curled into a slight frown. That was the look you had always gave him, right before y’all were back where you started. Again. When his lips touched yours, you reciprocated and yours melted right back onto his. Your body was addicted to his tongue, his touch, and it was like the words he spat didn’t matter. The arguing, the cursing, the fighting, you both could take it out on each other. His back could be covered in scratches and you could be left breathless and shaking in his sheets or yours repeating the cycle over and over again.

That’s what this came with. A gasp escaped your lips the moment you felt his tatted hand grip your breasts, allowing his tongue to slip over yours prompting you both to enter a heated tongue battle. As you felt your anger start to let go, your arms wrapped themselves around his neck, your nails sliding over his mullet in the back before massaging his scalp lightly. A satisfied grin made its way onto his lips before he led your body to his bed and you felt your back collide with the already disheveled covers. The familiar scent of him, his house, and the fact that you were over covers that belonged to him with him on top of you, only solidified your feelings for the man above you.

Your brown and golden nails gripped onto his shirt, the tension and dire need between you both being crystal clear as you found yourself squirming under him already. It was pathetic how easy he could get you like this but you didn’t have the energy or the sense to care in this moment. You both were like animals, aggressively taking off each other’s clothes while still trying to simultaneously keep your hands glued to each other. Each time you both let each other go, it felt like cruel and unusual punishment. His back was almost half way covered in tattoos, but that “SAMOA” part had you hooked the most. It kept you staring every time he turned around, but the naked part under it that had nothing on it is where your nails put new marks at every single time.

As he pulled away from the kiss, the words that left his lips had you made your heart skip a beat because you knew he was serious, always kept his word behind these four walls. “You ain’t done whinin’ yet, cuz now I’m really finna give you somethin’ to whine about”and with that his head got lower and lower as both his hands cupped your breasts, your hard nipples being in between his fingers. The rise and fall of your chest was slow yet it got quicker with anticipation just before his tongue slid over your folds, your nails raking through his scalp as you gave him a silent plea to continue. Your body was getting hotter and hotter by the second, the friction of his tongue against your outer and inner folds, around your clit, and the opening of your vaginal walls was enough to send your head back in bliss as moans escaped your lips. The harder you pressed down on his scalp, the harder he went, his hands left your breasts and slowly slid down to your legs gripping them firmly, your knees were raised up temporarily with your feet on the bed, that was until he decided he didn’t want that anymore and pushed your legs beside your head and gave you the best cunninlingus of your life. Your legs trembled as the unholy sounds of slurping and licking had your brain completely numb. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly as you felt your release approaching quickly with the way his tongue moved around. His moans mixed with yours, sending vibrations to your pussy and that only made your moans grow louder from how much pleasure it was causing. “Z…I-I’m gonna c-cum!” Your hips slightly raised, your flexibility playing a key role in attempting to add more friction to the pleasurable situation. Your ragged breaths, trembling legs, the opening of your pussy becoming a home for his tongue and the eye contact he gave you the moment you said that sent you over the edge as you released all over his tongue unable to hold back at all. Your bottom lip found its way behind your top set of teeth as you begged for him to continue loving that overstimulation and he happily obliged.

“Oh m-my fucking g-god, yes!” You moaned out as he kept going, feeling two of his fingers slowly enter you and began pumping in and out slowly…at first. But this time, his tongue was giving attention to your clit while his tatted hands were making your entire world turn upside down from how sensitive you had been from just creaming all over his face. The faster his fingers went, the more stimulation you felt on your clit which caused your legs to shake around him. It got so bad you began to whimper and beg as your walls clenched around his fingers and your pussy was a dripping mess.

He groaned against your wetness as his fingers curled causing your toes to curl and your head to collapse further into the cotton pillows around your head. Your nails dug further into his scalp as you felt the knot in your core tighten, the tension being just on the brink of release, just until his fingers curled again and that was all it took. Your mind went completely blank, as your hands let go of his scalp and quickly gripped his black sheets beneath you, causing a variety of crescents to form in every direction. You were on the brink of tears as your chest rose and fell rapidly as you felt your legs slowly fall to the sides of the man above you.

You couldn’t even respond for a moment when he called for you, it was only when he pulled you up toward him did you come to before looking into his eyes a moment. Dammit. His lips were so wet and he looked so smug still, but that was just an added bonus to his attractiveness. The way it was your aftermath, he had around his lips and chin made you hooked even more before you wrapped your arms around him and slowly licked some of your aftermath away before giving him the most sloppiest yet passionate make out session. Your nails were around the back of his neck, the red part of his mullet hitting against them every once in a while due to the shift of your bodies during this intense session. His tongue collided with yours as if earlier had never even happened because he was getting exactly what he wanted right now but so were you.

The make out session got more and more heated before you found yourself under him again for a moment until he pulled away and crawled over you getting behind you as you turned to your side quickly getting the memo. But a quick position change wasn’t going to stop anything, because you two were right back at it again. One of his hands wrapped around your face, two being under your chin and two being just right under your bottom lip, the other one giving slow and gentle strokes around your ass for a few moments before retracting it and wrapping it around his dick. He began to stroke it back and forth as both your tongue and his were colliding with one another.

As you felt him position himself at your entrance and his tip rub against your folds, your lips curled in satisfaction. But it was when he pushed into you that the real fun started, he was thicker and you could tell with all of the shit you pulled earlier that he was about to be rougher. And he was, your wetness was more than enough lube, making it easier for him to slip in and out of you whenever he wanted. His hips connected against yours before he slowly pulled back and slammed into you again. The grunt that left his lips as his bottom lip curled under his top grill was such a sexy sound that would live in your mind forever. Your soft moans soon turned into more loud and breathless ones the moment you felt your ass practically being grabbed and forced back onto his dick creating that slight recoil each time. “See what happens when you just say whatchu want ma” he grunted out before commenting again. “Squeezing my shit f’real girl” he moaned out before thrusting forward once more. His dick was massaging your insides and your walls were caving in on it because of how good it was.

You looked at him with a smug look as your walls clenched around him even more. “Oh you tryna be cute huh?” He said before his hand made its way to your neck and tightened, his dick rushing into you once more going even deeper causing you to let out a loud moan and a few curse words to accompany them. You enjoyed it when he made you regret doing something, you could be mad at him for a while but when it came to this….his dick and his words were the only thing on your mind. The feeling of your insides being stretched by the girth between his legs had your brain on autopilot and your eyes welling up with tears after a while.

A loud moan escaped your lips as the sound of his hand coming in contact with your ass, echoed throughout the room. “What I tell you? Huh? Told yo ass I was finna give you something to whine about didn’t I?” He said while pounding you from the back. He knew how much you like for him to talk you through it, how much you loved to be degraded, and he loved how much he made you cry from it. Tears streamed down your face from pleasure, the tip of his dick hitting your cervix with every thrust as he made a mess of you underneath him. By this point your pussy was even wetter than it was during the foreplay from earlier and your g spot was aching to be touched but he was purposely missing it. He knew exactly where it was, he just wasn’t hitting it until he felt like it. “Ion hear you talkin, ma” he growled out before getting a whimper from you in response. “Y-Yes!” was all you managed to get out before you felt his hand tighten around your throat again slightly as if he was taking ownership of your entire body using his own, causing your eyes to roll back in pure pleasure.

“Look at chu, dicked out huh?” He said before suddenly hitting your g spot causing your body to jolt and your legs to tremble from the suddenl location change as your pussy started dripping again. Even during sex he still teased you, called you out, and made sure you would remember everything. “S-Shit!” You cursed as your eyes came to and you looked up at him before sticking two of your fingers in your mouth before slowly pulling them back out, your fingers being covered in saliva before touching your clit again and rubbing it in sync with the thrusts he was giving you. The stimulation you longed for was happening right this second and you didn’t want it to stop for anything. “I’m gonna f-fucking cum again, I want you to cum inside m-me. Uh huh” you pleaded while looking up at him with doe eyes, knowing in the bedroom he’d do anything you asked him to do. He slowly let go of your neck before shoving two of his fingers into your mouth which you sucked on happily as tears streamed down your face from him hitting your g spot over and over again despite the fact that you were already a dripping mess. A white cock ring formed at your entrance, making a perfect circle each time his dick moved in and out of you. You could stay in this exact position for hours if it called for it, one of your legs over the other, with him behind you slamming in and out of you with one hand on your ass and the other in your mouth rocking your world completely.

His fingers vibrated as you let out moans on his fingers before your eyes rolled back once more feeling the knot inside of your core come undone as you bucked your hips against your own fingers. The sight of your hips slightly raising, how in complete bliss you were, and the fact that his fingers were in your mouth sent him over the edge too. His thrusts became more sloppy as he let out a drawn out moan, releasing his load inside of you causing you to let out a soft moan of satisfaction as you made eye contact with him. The moment he pulled his fingers out of your mouth, his lips crashed onto yours as you both had a sloppy post sex make out session before slowly pulling away from each other.

“You crazy man.”

“Stop playin’ in my face and I won’t have to be. But if it gets me this, I’ll be the craziest person in the world.”

“You gotta stop doin’ that shit f’real though. I like it on you, but you be takin’ shit too far.”

“Boy bye, and you still gon’ fuck me like you own it. You had a girl callin’ you bae yet telling me you want me to have your babies. I meant what I said, I wanna be your girl.”

“You think you can handle that ma?”

You bit your lip getting slightly more cocky before pulling away from him and gently straddling him, crawling on top of him slowly. “The real question is, can you handle me?” You whispered into his ear before licking the side of his face and kissing him deeply again.

He kissed back before both his hands gripped both sides of your ass. Before the make out session got a little too heated, he pulled back with a smirk on his face. “I’m bout to handle you again ight.”

Whew…lord ꨄ

A/N: This took me so long to finish…damn plus this song has been on repeat so I had to finish this👏🏽

Taglist: @luvrgirl4roman @luvrsluxe @empressdede @mselenalovebug @punksyeet @uceyliyahh @binnieaddict @sheaabuttaababyy

Divider Credits: @fairytopea

#SoundCloud #wwe #fanfic #18+ mdni #smut #black reader #zilla fatu smut #zilla fatu x reader #zilla fatu

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berriweb · 2 years ago

Note

Hello, how are you doing? If it’s alright with you, may I request pavitr, miles e-42 and 1016 and Hobie headcanons where their s/o doesn’t contact them for a week and the boys haven’t seen their s/o during that period and no one knows where they went (so pretty much went of the grid) and then one day the reader shows up and turns out, they have become the permanent host for Venom as they are completely compatible with one another and the reader apologies to the boys for not contacting them cause they were scared and had to deal with the whole symbiote thing and Venom didn’t trust the boys

╰┈➤ ❝ i have your best interests in mind ❞

: ̗̀➛ ft. pavitr prabhakar, hobie brown, earth-1610! miles, earth-42! miles

: ̗̀➛ synopsis. reader goes missing after becoming a host for venom and the boys are unaware of this

: ̗̀➛ a/n. okay so im actually madly in love with idea?? many kisses to you for this request anon, hope it’s worth the wait

— PAVITR PRABHAKAR

There would absolutely nothing more devastating to Pavitr than the worry he had when you initially disappeared

He’s a super affectionate boyfriend meaning you two would likely hang 24/7 and if you’re not together then he’s always texting you or randomly calling to check up on you

So from the start when you aren’t at home for him to walk you to school and then don’t show up at school he’s caught off guard, surely you would’ve let him know if you had other plans or were sick like you always did?

He’ll text you that morning asking if everything’s okay and where you’re at, and by noon when he doesn’t get a response he slowly starts losing it

Probably checks his phone every 2 minutes, turns it off and on to see if it’s messed up and he just hadn’t received your message, etc.

By the evening he’s contacted all of your friends and family to see if they knew where you were. When it becomes apparent that none of them know where you’ve gone either is when he starts officially freaking out

Files a missing person’s report that evening and spends the rest of the night swinging around Mumbattan looking around for any sign of your face, to no avail

It only gets worse the next few days, he starts slipping up and focusing more on finding you than any Spider-Man work he normally would’ve been doing, hoping every time that he’ll catch even a glimpse of you

It wasn’t until nearly a week later that he finally got answers, having just finished up helping a woman who’d gotten mugged when he notices someone in a familiar shirt ducking into a nearby alley

The same shirt you were wearing the last time he saw you

There weren’t enough words to describe the relief that washed over Pavitr when he rushed for the alley and saw your face just as you turned your back to the road.

“Y/N!”

That relief turns into confusion when he notices how hard you jump at the sound of your own name, as well as he notices the hood from your jacket pulled over your face as if you were trying to stay hidden. When you turn to look at him, the fear in your eyes makes him stop in his tracks, and luckily so because you throw your hands up before the spider can get any closer

“Get back!”

Pavitr doesn’t understand your vagueness at first when you apologize for going M.I.A but still seem hesitant to come back with him

Until you offer to explain but only after he promises not to freak out when you show, not tell

He agrees, but doesn’t wrap his head around it until your body is suddenly engulfed in a sea of black (tentacles? liquid? he couldn’t tell) and your face is covered by rows of sharp, menacing teeth containing a slimy, and slightly unnerving, tongue and jagged white eyes

Despite the warning he still gets initially defensive, and seeing that was enough for the monster who took over you to loudly vocalize their concerns

“I told you he could not be trusted.”

For a moment it seemed like the being and you must’ve been arguing, but he could only hear it’s side of the conversation, and from the sounds of it the monster was the reason you’d gone missing

As fast as it had appeared, the demon disappeared you were standing in it’s place again. He relaxed, and you finally explained to him why you hadn’t gone back

Pavitr still seems a bit freaked out at the thought of another being living in your body, but after the initial worry he seems to be less on guard about the whole ordeal

Pavitr rushes to pull you into a hug before you could even get out your last word, tight enough to make you pat his back to try to tap out after the first few seconds. “Pav…”

He acts like he doesn’t hear you at first, but the second time you call his name he reluctantly pulls away, but only enough for you to breathe properly, and gets sheepish.

“Sorry, I just really missed you.”

Pav assures you that you have nothing to worry about and as long as your new parasite doesn’t cause any trouble he can manage, but makes you promise to never leave him worrying like that for so long again

— HOBIE BROWN

It would take him a while longer to realize something was wrong like Pav did

There have been times where the two of you haven’t talked for days due to him being off doing Soider-Man work or you just having your own life keeping you busy so not talking for a small period of time isn’t completely abnormal

The only difference? You’d always tell each other before it happened

On day one Hobie didn’t take much note of it when he came over by your place to visit after a long night fighting as Spider-Man. You’d probably been out running errands or out with friends, nothing worth stressing himself out over

Hobie wasn’t a fan of texting and calling as he preferred seeing you in person, so his phone mostly went unused unless it was an emergency

The next day Hobie decided to drop by in the evening to hang out with you in his free time, yet when he tried knocking the lack of an answer gave him the unknown feeling of something being wrong

When he resorted to the normal route (that being climbing in through your window) Hobie was surprised to be left standing on the side of the building because the window was locked

He didn’t understand the random change of heart when you almost always left it open for him to enter if he ever dropped by as Spider-Man

Hobie picked the lock and managed to slip in regardless, but the signs showing that you hadn’t been in your apartment in a while were starting to make him suspicious. All of the belongings you’d normally take with you when you left your home were still in the home, that much he realized after finally trying to call you, only to hear your phone buzzing in the room, fishing around and finding it still plugged into the wall under your sheets

You hadn’t even taken your phone?

That’s when he started to worry

With no way to contact you, Hobie chose to spend the rest of that day and the following night lounging around your place, hoping to see you walk in and explain that you’d been in a rush and give some reasonable explanation as to why you disappeared

But you don’t

He doesn’t want to entertain the thought that something bad could’ve happened to you, and even more so, he doesn’t want to believe it could’ve been related to someone finding out your relation to Spider-Man

Hobie resorts to asking around and doing his own investigating to figure out what happened to you (which mostly involved him interrogating any criminal or villain he encountered while out as Spider-Man, but that was besides the point)

He also abandons his home entirely and spends his time at your place instead in the off chance that you’ll show up

Which ends up being exactly what happens

With his feet kicked up on the arm of the couch and his head half-hanging off of the other end, Hobie found himself mindless strumming at the strings of his guitar to fill the silence that’d overtaken the room. His eyes were glued to the clock silently ticking that you’d hung up above the door to your bedroom, showing just how far into the night it was.

It’d been days since he’d seen you, and with no way to reach you and no leads on where you could’ve gone, he was running out of options to consider aside from sitting around hoping you’d return one day. He hated that option.

In the middle of running over every possibility for your disappearance in his mind, the sound of a lock clicking pulled him out of his head and his head snapped towards the door. His heart stopped for a moment, yet his hope that you’d finally come home was demolished the moment the door opened.

Hobie jumped up before he could think, guitar long forgotten, as instead of seeing you walk in, he witnessed a large (at least 7 feet) monster seemingly completely made out of black goop and baring razor sharp teeth come barreling through the door. It’s movements were calculated but it made a mess the moment it entered the door, slamming the door so hard there was an audible sound of wood splitting from the doorframe.

“I need food! Do you expect me to starve?! I can’t survive on stolen chocolate!”

Hobie had crawled up the wall and crouched from an upper corner in the room, silently wishing he’d brought his suit with him, but in no way could he have predicted this. He watched as the monster stomped around the room, seemingly throwing a fit as it argued with itself. It ran into a shelf and knocked over all of the trinkets on it, whether or not that was intentional or not. Just as he readied himself to attack was when the being turned and it’s head shot up, only then noticing the stranger who’d been watching the entire encounter.

In the blink of an eye he’d shot webs that connected to both of the monsters arms, limiting it’s movements and lunging forwards, kicking it to the ground. Unluckily for him, he couldn’t use the element of surprise twice, but the conversation that followed as he jumped to avoid it smashing him with it’s fists was more alarming than anything else.

“What about him, can I at least eat this one?”

Hobie was seconds away from flinging the monster into the wall when the black ooze started to melt away, and his movements came to a screeching halt when he realized it was your face under the mass.

To say he was surprised would’ve been a heavy understatement

“Tell me I’m dreaming.”

He was, in fact, not dreaming

He immediately backed off upon realizing what he was about to start fighting was his s/o, but demanded an explanation before he lost his mind trying to come up with one himself

When you explained how you’d become a host for the symbiote and why you were so afraid and couldn’t come see him, his reaction was more collected than you were expected even considering his calm personality, but he did proceed to lightly scold you for not coming to him in the first place while understanding why you would’ve been scared to do so

When he finds out about how Venom didn’t trust him, Hobie offers to make a deal to keep the symbiote in line and keep you from having issues dealing with the being not liking your boyfriend

What exactly was the deal? Hobie let’s Venom eat all of the corrupt government officials he ends up defeating, that way everyone’s happy

— EARTH-1610! MILES MORALES

Poor Miles would be going through it

He’s not as clingy as Pav but he does get worried since you guys talk nearly every day, so just like him, when you didn’t show up to class he was beyond worried

He’d try to call and ask if something was up since you two had plans for later that day, but no answer. Alongside that, no one else has seen you around either

When he calls your family and they voice their concerns about you not coming back home the day prior is when his nerves get the better of him

Miles is a smart boy so one of the first things he does is immediately go to his dad to file a missing person’s report

Alongside that, he’s questioning any and everyone he comes in contact with about whether or not they’d seen you around

As he clapped his hands together to mock wiping dust from his palms, Miles searches for his phone that he always seems to pull out of his suit from no where (because seriously, where does he have room to hold it?), ignoring the angry curses from the bank robber he’d webbed to the outside of the building.

“Yeah yeah yeah, that’s nice and all…” he mutters while typing away on his phone, which only seemed to anger the criminal anymore, evident by the vein popping in his forehead and the increase in words that definitely weren’t meant for children.

As the police sirens grew louder and the citizens who’d previously been the gunman’s hostages stood around anxiously, some attempting to get the heroes attention to ask for photos, Miles held up the phone to the man’s face and zoomed in.

“You seen this person around lately?”

It takes a week for him to finally find you (one of the worst weeks of his life), albeit it wasn’t you he was looking for initially

After being stopped in the street by an old woman complaining that she’d seen a monster lurking around the abandoned building near her apartment home and heard weird noises coming from it, Miles had gone to investigate in order to come back and happily report that there was nothing for her to worry about

Unfortunately for Miles, however, he was completely wrong, as when he crawled into the run down storage center through the roof, he caught a full view of a gigantic, inky black creature crunching on what was once the full body of a man

He would’ve been more concerned over the fact that there was a man-eating monster lurking the streets of Brooklyn had he not focused on taking down the monster first, but just as he dropped down from the ceiling is when it became aware of its presence and what he assumed was the creatures skin started to peel away until you were left standing in its place

The mask prevented you from seeing his full expression, but the way the eyes widened was enough to show his mixture of shock and confusion

Miles could only stand there, baffled as he listened to you explain your situation and how you’d become their new host. When he got a chance to speak, the first thing he brought up was how he’d technically just watched his s/o eat a man alive, only for you to reassure him that it was the only person you’d ever eaten and that he was a really bad criminal you’d had eyes on for days

It was hard for him to make sense of it and while he didn’t exactly enjoy the thought of you having to eat people to survive now, Miles will admit that as long as you aren’t devouring the innocent he can manage

“So…does this make you like- a zombie or something?”

You tried (and failed) to resist the urge to roll your eyes at his comment as the two of you sat atop the roof of the old building, watching the city. “Miles.”

“I’m just saying, Venom eat brains,” he raised one hand, “zombies eat brains,” he raised his other, then pushed the two together, “you’re kind of like a zombie. You come become a hero like me! Maybe keep the ‘eating heads’ part on the down low, though. I can even come up with a cool zombie name for you! We could be a team.”

“One, I am not a zombie, and two, what’s wrong with the name Venom?”

“It’s fine I guess, not nearly as cool as a zombie name would be though-” he stopped when your hand suddenly shot up before his reflexes could kick in and smacked him in the mouth. “-hey!”

“Sorry! That was Venom.”

Miles made a face at you, but you knew it was more or less directed at the symbiote.

“Venom said that’s a terrible idea and you’re an idiot.”

That’s not what I said.

“-in more vulgar words that I’m not going to repeat.”

He raised his hands defensively. “That’s a genius idea! Would you rather be named after brains or chocolate or something instead? Chocolate and spiders don’t go together at all.”

“Neither do zombies and spiders.”

“Point taken.”

“…”

“…what about Spider-Zom-”

“Miles.”

“Alright alright, Venom it is.”

— EARTH-42! MILES MORALES

Miles would get straight trying to find you the second he realized it’s been hours since he’s seen you and no one else has a clue where you’ve gone too

He’s not the type to be too overbearing but he is really overprotective considering you’re associated with him and the type of danger he gets himself involved in, so making sure you’re always is a number one priority for him and when he has no idea what you’re up to for a long enough period of time he gets worried

Especially considering the amount of crime in the city, for all he knows anything could’ve happened to you and if he finds out that something did and he wasn’t there to protect you he’d be devastated

Immediately let’s Uncle Aaron know to keep an eye out and that most of his Prowler business would be put on hold until he finds you because you’re more important than any vigilante work

The longer you’re gone, the more anxious he becomes and while he might not show it most of the ones he’s close to will be able to tell that something’s up

“Cálmate, Miles. The more you sit around stressing yourself out the harder you’re being on yourself for no reason. I’m sure they’ll show up any day now.”

Miles tried to take his mother’s words to heart, but knowing that you could be out there anywhere in pain or worse because of him leaves him no room to relax.

“No puedo, mamí. I have to know that they’re okay.”

His worries were starting to manifest physically, the tightness in between his brows, constant bouncing of his leg and the tapping of his fingers on any surface he could reach being clear signs of it. He was sure he’d checked his phone nearly a hundred times in the last hour alone, waiting for a call from you saying you were okay or a text from Uncle Aaron letting him know he’d found you. Something, anything. It was the fourth night in a row he’d spent up all night, completely abandoning his bed when he realized he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

His mother leaned down and placed a hand over his own to stop him from the finger tapping he hadn’t realized he’d picked up again, turning over his phone to lay it flat on his desk.

“And it’s my job to make sure you’re okay. Get some rest, I’m sure if we get any updates it won’t be in the middle of the night.”

He looked her in the eye for a moment, but any attempt to disagree was futile as he knew he couldn’t argue against her.

“Okay, fine, I’ll get some sleep.”

“¿Juras?”

“Lo juro.”

With a kiss on the cheek she left him to his own devices in his room, but as soon as the door shut and he was sure he’d heard her footsteps retreated back to her room, Miles grabbed his claws and mask and headed straight for the fire escape.

All attempts at trying to find you were futile, and while he refused to lose hope Miles was beginning to assume the worst

He never wanted to entertain the thought that you could’ve died or worse, but thankfully for him that worry was squashed when in the middle of yet another restless night, Miles suddenly heard tapping coming from his window

The one clawed glove he always kept on him was the first thing Miles reached for when he heard the initial taps on his window, but as he slowly approached the window, he paused with the glove half on when meeting your gaze as your head poked over from the edge of the windowsill.

With a mixture of confusion and surprise, he rushed to unlock and open the window, watching in awe as you climbed through, rising to your feet. He looks out the window, taking note of the fact that there’s absolutely no way you could’ve climbed up given that there was nothing to climb on and his window was far from the ground.

When you look at each other a long moment filled with silence follows, and he can’t help but notice if you’re studying his looks or judging them.

“You look tired.”

Possibly both?

“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to wake you, I shouldn’t have come.”

He seems to snap out of it as soon as you start heading back for the window, reaching out to grab you by the arm.

“Wait! Stay.”

Miles would have loads and loads of questions to ask you, starting with “are you okay?” and ending with “why did you disappear on me? i was worried sick!”

Listening to you explain how you’d become a permanent host for the symbiote was almost just as hard to comprehend as when you showed it off and allowed Venom to momentarily take over you

He’d unconsciously move back without realizing it, but you retreated back to your normal self moments after just for the sake of not freaking him out

It’d take a moment to process, but when you’d show signs of guilt and mentioned leaving again and understanding if he didn’t want to be associated with you he’d stopped you again

“You really won’t mind?”

Shaking his head, Miles pulled you in for an embrace, nose pressed into the top of your head for a moment before a placed a kiss on your forehead.

“You come as a package deal now, right? I don’t really have a choice of not being cool with the whole Venom thing, no way I’m leaving you. Somos tu y yo.”

When he pulled back he noticed you make a funny face and muttered a quick no, only for a moment, and wondered what was wrong.

“It’s nothing, Venom just asked if they could eat you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I mean, I guess that means they think you’re tasty so probably good, take it as a compliment.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

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too-much-tma-stuff · 9 months ago

Text

Double Date (part 6.5)

Better late then never here's the mentioned double date between Harley and Ivey, and Hyena and Hood. It's unedited so please point out any errors you find.

Previous | Masterpost | Next

They really should have expected this when Harley had mentioned Jason and Danny joining her and Pam for a double date. Of course Harley would forget to actually plan, and would just show up, dressed to the nines with Pam on her arm yelling about an event at Penguin's club.

"Come on! we're going to be late for karaoke!" Harley yelled before she processed that Hood had ducked to hide his face and Hyena had a gun trained on them, his mouth stretched too wide in a snarl. "Oh, oops," She said sheepishly as Pam sighed and shook her head.

"Harley, did you forget to tell them we were coming?" Pam questioned with fond exasperation.

"No she did not," Jason said, returning with his helmet on and offering Danny his muzzle. Danny shrugged and took it though he didn't put it on right away. "She mentioned a double date when she brought Danny the flowers but we hadn't heard anything since."

"Oh shoot I'm sorry guys! I got so excited I guess I made the plan in my head! I could have sworn I'd asked," Harley apologized, pouting at the two of them. "Can we still go out though? I really want to do the Karaoke night, I was really looking forward to going with both of you."

Jason glanced at Danny, who glanced back at him, first uncertainly, then when Jason shrugged indicating he didn't mind, with puppydog eyes. Danny wanted to go. Jason sighed. "Fine, get out and give us 20 minutes to get ready and then we can go."

Harley cheered and Danny grinned, scrambling off to their bedroom to grab their clothes. Danny decided on a pair of leather pants and a shirt just sheer enough that his scars weren't obvious, and a more casual cloth facemask with a pattern of bared fangs. It covered his mouth and nose but he could slip a straw under it to have a drink, and it wouldn't muffle his voice too much when they sang.

Jason chose black pants, a red shirt, a brown leather jacket with plenty of concealed weapons, and a wide domino mask. He also took a minute to colour the white streak in his hair black so he'd be less distinctive, insisting Danny did the same, once he'd finished his eyeliner. Danny groaned about it but did it anyway.

"Okay, we're ready to go?" Jason asked, checking Danny out. He sure as hell looked ready for a night out on the town, he looked so fucking good with eyeliner, and those tight black black leather pants... No, Jason couldn't focus on that!

Danny, who smiled with his eyes and nodded eagerly, grabbing Jason's hand and dragging him towards the door. "We're ready to go!" He cheered as soon as he spotted Harley, who immediately cheered as well and lunged forward to hug Danny tightly as he laughed.

"Good now let's go! We're already late!" Harley babbled, dragging Danny towards the door as Pam and Jason followed at a more languid pace.

"And who's fault is that Harls?" Pam chided gently. "You need to learn how to communicate plans like this with people."

"I know, but I really thought I had," Harley said with a pout as she continued to drag Hyena out of the building and into a car they all piled into, Jason insisted on driving Eben though it wasn't his car because he couldn't imagine Harley was a good driver. Pam laughed and said she wasn't while Harley pouted, Jason drove.

They arrived at the iceberg lounge with no trouble. IDs weren't needed to enter, just being recognized as one of Gotham's rogues and since right now Hood and Hyena were practically royalty they were welcomed with open arms. Penguin even got them a last minute table and comped their first bottle, he knew it would pay to stay on the good side of Gotham's new power couple after all. Harley chugged her first glass of bubbly and took off to put her name down for the song she wanted.

"She's not a half bad singer," Pam assured them as she sipped her own glass of champagne more slowly. "Are either of you going to sing?"

Jason glanced over at Danny, who seemed to be hesitating, looking uncertain. Jason shifted closer and wrapped an arm around his boyfriend's waist. "Do it if you want to, I'll go up with you," he encouraged and Danny relaxed a bit.

Danny turned a little to whisper into Jason's ear. "I don't really sing, I'm good at it but since I'm a banshee my voice can be powerful. I've always been worried that singing will have, I don't know, do something?" He said like a question.

"Has it ever done anything?" Jason asked and Danny hesitated before shaking his head.

"No, not unless I scream," Danny admitted reluctantly.

"Alright, then we'll give it a try," Jason assured, kissing the side of Danny’s head before taking a sip of his drink.

Danny nodded and grabbed a straw, slipping it into the drink so he could sip it. Pam topped up their drinks when they were half empty.

"So what song do you think you want to do? Harley'll probably drag me up to do a duet. I always say I won't but she gets me with those puppy-dog eyes," she chuckled fondly, clearly not actually upset about that.

"Oh I know the feeling," Jason agreed, shaking his head.

"I have excellent puppydog eyes," Danny chirped, snuggling closer. Jason rolled his eyes behind his mask.

"I bet he does," Pam laughed softly, amused by the two of them.

"What song should we do? Do you think they have Come With Me Now? We've sung that one together before? Or Vicious, No no! We should do Zombie Love!" Danny suggested sounding excited, though that might just be two glasses of champagne in a body unused to managing alcohol. As long as Danny’s ghostly abilities didn't clear toxins as quickly as physical injuries.

"They can find whatever you want," Pam promised with a snicker. "Pangoo wants to be on both your good sides really bad."

Jason snorted, leaning back against the booth with a crooked and cocky grin. "He knows what my rules are, everyone does, follow them and we'll be fine," he said with a careless little wave.

"Oh don't tell him that!" Harley said, popping out of nowhere and making Jason and Danny jump. "It's so fun watching him scramble," she snickered, flopping down next to Pam, wrapping her arms around Pam's neck. "Come sing with meee," she pleaded as Pam poured her another drink.

"Harley you promised you wouldn't make me this time," Pam chided her without any heat. She didn't actually mind it seemed.

"We'll go first and you can talk her into it," Danny cackled, grabbing Jason's hand and dragging him up and over to the sign-in desk.

They signed up to do Zombie Love because they both thought it was funny. It wasn’t a traditional duet or anything but they could sing it together, that seemed to make Danny feel better too. His voice was beautiful, and he kept his distance from the mic so it wouldn't be too loud because he had very powerful lungs. He seemed more interested in practically grinding on Jason anyway, who was just trying very hard not to blush and potentially taint his fearsome reputation by blushing at his boyfriend's antics.

Harley was whooping and wolf whistling at them excitedly before the song ended and Danny dragged Jason back off the stage laughing breathlessly. He seemed thrilled as he pressed himself against Jason purring under the cover of the music and nuzzling against his neck.

"Hyena we're in public," Jason half joked with his hands gripping Danny's hips too tightly.

"No one's going to say anything, they're scared of us," Danny murmured into Jason's ear making him shiver.

"Hey lovebirds! We supported you while you sang!" Harley accused them, bouncing over to practically pry the two of them apart.

Danny let go while laughing, smiling at Harley with his eyes. "So did you two decide what you're going to sing?" He questioned, raising his eyebrows.

"Ya! We're going to do Promiscuous Girl," Harley yipped, Ivy just smiling at her indulgently.

"Then of course we'll cheer you on! But then we're going to dance!" Danny insisted with a wicked glint in his eye that nearly had Jason swooning. Oh he was absolutely going to be pent up and suffering by the end of the night. They should do things like this more often.

Harley and Ivy's duet was pretty good, Pam kept Harley from going too off key and they were clearly having fun. Jason decided to be more stoic about his support, nodding his head to the beat and letting Danny howl and whistle for the both of them. They both clapped when they finished and Harley bounced off the stage again with Pam close in tow.

Danny grabbed Jason and dragged him to the dance floor, and Jason wondered how he could be so graceful and confident in a fight and so fucking lost on the dance floor. He was too aware of his body, and the eyes that were on him and didn't fully know how to behave. Thankfully Danny made sure that didn't last long as he dragged Jason into dancing with him. Jason was content to be essentially a prop and watch as Danny moved with more sensual grace than he had any right to be, flowing with the music in a way that was almost hypnotic.

Jason only became aware that other people thought so too when Harley cut in demanding to dance with Danny as well! Jason chuckled and relinquished Danny to her, going to sit back at their table with Pam. Only then did he notice all the people staring at Danny, the little ring of watchers they'd acquired.

"Is he part siren or something?" Ivy teased him as Jason drank a glass of.. something probably too quickly.

"Something like that," Jason agreed vaguely. "Why are the Gotham City Sirens recruiting?"

"No, but the Birds of Prey might be," Ivy said, smirking at him.

"Hey, no planning to steal my boyfriend," Hood joked, his eyes drawn back to Danny and Harley dancing together. It was... something, they were both completely unaware of the eyes on them, confident and at home in their bodies and sexuality. It was quite the show, and Jason was just glad he was the one Danny would be coming home with.

"Can we borrow him at least?" She asked playfully.

"Weelll I suppose if he agrees to it I can't be too mad," Jason relented, hesitation only for show. They would be good friends to Hyena he was sure.

"Good, now let's just enjoy the night, and how fucking sexy our partners are." Pam said, raising her glass to Jason in a toast, which he returned, clinking his glass against hers.

#dc x dp #fanfiction #jason todd #dead on main #danny phantom #my writing #Hyena!Danny AU #poison ivy #pamela isley #harley quinn #harley x ivy

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fanfics-i-find-here · 1 month ago

Text

Do I Know You? Part 9

Synopsis: You get kidnapped. It’s Red Hood’s Fault. He doesn’t save you.

Note: alrighty, the votes for a darker chapter won at about 60%, which I am lowkey grateful for because I had half this chapter already written and I did not want to rewrite it. This does have themes of kidnapping, sexual assault, violence, gore, and death. Everything, aside from the kidnapping, are in the cut areas with ---- as a separator. Also for the sake of the plot, we are going to see a divide between Red Hood and Reader and it’ll all start from this chapter forward.

Warnings: Kidnapping, Sexual Assault, Violence, Gore, Death

Masterlist

A month passes by quickly, mild late fall turns into an ice cold winter. While you had been irked when Red Hood called you a tourist, he had been right. Jason planned multiple trips all across the city to see things you hadn’t in the three years you had been there. Astounding gothic architecture, beautiful museums, and picturesque sunrises on the bay. Every week he would take you to do at least one thing but there still hadn’t been a conversation about whether or not these were dates. You didn’t want to ask for fear of embarrassing yourself.

You had to mentally replace your jar with something bigger when you noticed Red Hood was missing his signature leather jacket the next time you saw him—Jason’s brown jacket resting against the back of your couch. You hated how your mind drew similarities and coincidences between them, but you just couldn’t, you wouldn't believe they were the same person. Jason treated you kind of like a princess. He was always prepared with whatever you needed with kind words and a handsome grin. Red Hood was the opposite, haphazardly showing up and quickly disappearing, a wicked smirk on his lips as he teased you about one thing or another. They just could not be the same person. Red Hood had his jacket back after you had returned Jason his. You ignored it.

In the attempts to distract your over-imagination, you would take up some spare shifts at Jackie’s. As winter drew in the sun started going down sooner, meaning you ended up walking in the dark quite a bit. Today was the first time you stayed til closing. Walking home at 10 o'clock at night in Gotham City probably wasn’t your best plan.

It’s a short walk! You had argued with yourself. You should call Jason, another part of you offered. It’s fine, nothing bad will happen, the ignorant part of you said. And you listened to her like an idiot. You were about a block from your apartment when you heard footsteps following you. A number of regrets run through your head at the sight of another person across the street walking at the same pace. You pick up speed and then abruptly stop as someone else steps out of an alley in front of you. You pull your purse off your shoulder. You were bound to get mugged eventually.

“Listen, man, you can just have it. I don’t need it.” You say offering up the bag.

A coarse laugh escapes the man in front of you, “we’re not here for the bag, sweetheart”

You feel a disgusted shiver shake down your spine. Sweetheart was Jason’s pet name for you and to hear it come out of someone else’s mouth and with such a crude tone made you want to throw up. The implication of his words filter through your mind and the bile does begin to grow in your throat. Panic rises in your mind as you try to remember what you're supposed to do. Scream something, but what was it? Any self-defense videos you have seen escape your mind. What do you do? What do you do? Instinct takes over and you turn around to run, unsuccessfully. You run right into someone, and they grab you by the collar of your jacket. You wack haphazardly at their arms, dropping your bag. They don’t even shift so you kick. You hear a grunt of pain, but your victory is short-lived when they suddenly shove you back against a building. Your back aches at the impact but you're going to go down fighting. You push off that wall with balled fists but you’re harshly pushed back against the wall. The back of your head flairs up in pain and your world goes black.

Jason was a little disappointed when he got to your apartment that evening. In the months that he’s been coming around you always had your window unlocked during your designated time slot. Not this time. You’ve locked him out and he didn’t know why. He peeked in the window as best he could. Strange. You kept fairy lights in your living room, and he noticed that they were always on when he came around. It gave a nice comforting glow to the space. They were not on right now. It could be that you were sleeping but something felt… wrong.

Please don’t hate me for this, he thinks as he starts to slowly break open the lock on the window. Your silent alarm would go off and your phone would start to ding so it should wake you. Maybe this is just a good test of that janky alarm system he got from Roy. The window popped open easier than he would have liked but he had better skills than most casual burglars. He opens the window and steps into the living room, listening. Not a sound.

She’s just sleeping, he tells himself, she’s fine. He creeps to your open bedroom door and finds your bed perfectly made, no sign of you. A rock of worry hits Jason square in the chest. He’s quick to search the rest of your apartment like he would find you hiding in a closet. Where is she?

Jason doesn’t hesitate to start a search. You rarely go anywhere unless you're with him so you must be working, or you were. It was nearly midnight, there was no way Jackie’s was open. He’s out your window and following along your usual route, scanning for any sign of you. He thinks you would have known better than to walk in the dark, that you would at least call Jason, so you were on the phone with someone. He would have come and picked you up or something. You could not have been that stupid. He nearly misses it in his rush to get to Jackie’s hoping beyond hope that you were still there but pushed up against a building he sees something. It could be nothing. The streets here aren’t exactly trash-free but he stops to check it out anyways. He stoops to pick it up and his heart drops to his stomach. It was a bag. It was your bag. Where were you?

That was the exact question you were asking yourself when you woke up. It smelled musty and gross. Your head was pounding, and a continuous ache throbbed from your back. It took you a moment to remember what happened. You go through a quick body checkup. Head? Hurting. Back? Also hurting. Wrists? Burning from the tight rope. A flash of gratitude runs through your body when you find nothing else hurts. They hadn’t done anything to you other than kidnapping. You finally make the painful effort of opening your eyes. You wince and squint despite the dim setting you're in. You’re in some kind of warehouse. You think you might hear the ocean but that could just be whooshing in your ears. It takes you a moment before your eyes adjust and you notice a man watching you. He’s short and fat, in a fancier suit than you think is necessary for the setting. A monocle sits over one of his eyes.

“Finally awake? I’m sorry for the unpleasantries,” He says voice a nasally thing, “I usually try to treat my guests with more class than this.” He steps more into the light in a strange waddle.

“But I had to make sure my men got you before your boyfriend showed up.” Your brain glitches at his words. Boyfriend? You don’t have a boyfriend.

“Now we can talk in peace.” He continues with a grin, and you wish he would stop, teeth slightly sharp and rotting, “Now I need you to tell me where his hideouts are.”

You’re quiet, trying to take in all the information you can through the pain in your head.

“What?” is all you can muster.

“Don’t make us do this the hard way, girl. I just want information on your boyfriend, then I’ll let you go.” He grins at you again and you don’t think he's going to let you go.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” He cackles in a strange clattering way that you think you would laugh at in different circumstances.

“You sure about that. Think harder. You two have been spending an awful lot of time together.” He offers. Only one thought filters through your head. Jason.

You realize in a span of ten seconds that you don’t know some important things about Jason, like what he does for a job. Have you been hanging out with a criminal? Wait, he’s still not your boyfriend.

“He’s not my boyfriend. Actually, I don’t even know that we're dating.” You admit and then you continue, mouth getting ahead of your mind, “I mean we’ve definitely been on something you would call a date, but you could also call it a hangout between friends. We just never talked about it, and I think it might be too late to talk about it. What if he doesn’t see me like that? Like he wants us to just be friends but then it'll be awkward because now he knows that I don’t think of him as just a friend. That would be terrible. I don’t want to lose him. He's so nice to me.”

Throughout your rant the man's face drops from his proud grin to an irritated look.

“Quiet, girl!” he snaps, and you shut your mouth, “Where is he hiding out?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know where he lives but he doesn’t know where I live either so it's okay.”

“But he does know where you live.” A look of confusion crosses your face, “He’s been coming into your window.” The man offers and your face grows even more confused. Maybe it’s the headache but you're not sure you're talking about the same person.

“Who are we talking about?” you finally ask.

“Red Hood! We’re talking about Red Hood, girl. Now tell me where his safe houses are.” He says exasperated, waddling closer.

“I don’t know, honestly.” You lean back in the chair you’re tied to. “He’s definitely not my boyfriend. I don’t even know who he really is, he just eats my food.”

You notice how cold it is, your jacket missing, as the man stares at you with a disgusted grimace.

“Please I don’t know anything just let me go.” It’s a last plea because you're pretty sure you're going to die tonight but at least you can say you tried. Apparently, he takes your word for it.

“You're dumber than you look, girl. Walking around at night alone, feeding a vigilante. Shame for a pretty face like yours to go to waste.” He waddles over to a door and knocks on it. The man from earlier appears in the doorway.

“She’s knows nothing, you twat. Do what you want with her but make sure she’s with the fishes before the night’s over.” At his words, your panic from earlier in the night returns. You start to squirm trying to tug yourself free and ignore the painful aches of your body. The stubby man leaves, and you're stuck with the man of your nightmares.

-----Sexual assault, gore, and death coming up-----

A wolfish smirk appears on his lips as he pulls out a knife. You want to scream and cry and throw up. But most of all you want to live. You think about Jason and how he was supposed to take you to the oldest ice cream parlor in Gotham. You have to live. Survive. You repeat the mantra in your head as the man moves behind to cut the rope. Survive. Survive. You have to survive. The moment the rope loosens you’re out of the chair scrambling to the still-open door. You hear the man make a shocked sound. You run down a hallway and pause just for a moment as the hallway splits. It was just a moment, but it was too long. The man crashes into you pushing you up against the wall. A yelp escapes you, the ever-present pain in your body erupting. He turns you around and you gag at the predatory smile he wears.

“They always run.” He says and you feel him start to grope you with his hand not holding the knife. A sob of despair breeches your throat and then your mantra returns to your mind. Survive. Survive. You have to survive. You were not going to die like this, and you were not going to let him touch you like this either. You press your head into the wall as far as you can ignore the pain of it and jerk your head forward. A new pain blooms across the bridge of your nose but the man groans and trips backward on his own feet. Spots dance in your eyes but you hear the clatter of the knife from his hold. Survive. Survive. You spot the knife on the ground and dive for it. Your fingers wrap around it just as the man wraps his hand around your ankle and yanks. Your knuckles scratch on concrete but you maintain your hold on the knife.

“You little bitch” his grip moves up your calf and you follow your instincts. You turn and stab blindly with the knife. A scream erupts from him, but you don’t let your mind think beyond survive, survive. You stab madly. It takes you a moment before you realize he’s not moving anymore. Your eyes are blurry. You hadn’t noticed you started crying. Your throat feels sore, like you had been screaming. Your eyes clear for just a moment to see what’s left of the man's chest. You turn quickly fighting another gag. Survive, survive. You had to get out of here. Your hand tightens on the knife, and you ignore the warm, slick sensation now in between your fingers. You move quickly jogging down the hallway as you look for a way out. You don’t hear anyone else in the building. You make it to a large open area and see a door.

Please be a way out. You walk as you feel your adrenaline drop. The pain in your body returns tenfold. You keep reminding yourself that you are not safe yet. That you have to get out. You remind yourself why. Your ice cream with Jason, Darla was going to bring her granddaughter for you to meet, along with a lineup of things that you wanted to do. You had to live. You feel a hand on your shoulder and your adrenalin spikes again. Your grip tightens on the knife, and you turn and swing it. Your wrist is caught in a solid grip before it can impact anything. Not like this. You scream as you try to pull away from whoever was holding you. Your body drops hoping the dead weight will make them let go. You feel yourself sob with exhaustion as you continue to fight. Then you hear your name repeated a few times until it becomes clearer to ringing ears. Slightly robotic in nature, your blurry eyes finally make out a shiny red shape.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you. Your safe” he repeats over and over again. Red Hood. A sob of relief escapes you and your body sags against him, all the fight gone in a matter of seconds. You find no comfort in pressing your face to his chest, cold hard armor the only thing greeting you.

Jason had been a flurry of commotion once he had found your purse. He called Barbara, not even checking for a private line (the whole family had unintentionally listened in), and begged her to find you. She already knew your usual route (of course) and she threaded through the camera in the area. You had left Jackie’s around 10 o’clock and she was able to follow you for about a block from your apartment before you vanished. She couldn’t find anything suspicious in the area. She asked Jason if your phone had been in the bag. Luckily it wasn’t. While Jason had impatiently paced waiting for Oracle to do her work, Steph hopped into the conversation.

“She’ll be okay, Red Hood. We’ll find her.”

Jason had only offered a scoff at the comment to hide the fear he felt.

“Keep us posted. We’re ready to help if you need it.” Jason was shocked to hear Bruce’s voice over the coms. Despite the tense relationship with his father, Jason feels a sense of calm knowing his family was as ready to save you as he was.

Barbara had pinged your phone only a few miles north of where he was, over by the docks on the river. An old, abandoned warehouse district. She said that you or at least your phone wasn’t moving, and he was quick to head in that direction. She reminded him that the entire family was on call in case he needed help before he silenced his coms. He followed none of his years of trained procedures for something like this. Didn’t check the outside for anybody lurking and didn’t get a scan of the building to know how many people there would be. He just needed to find you. If you were hurt or worse. He didn’t know what he would do with himself. He heard the sound of a vehicle leaving and quickly found a broken window. He slipped in and found himself in what could only be the “offices” of whatever the warehouse used to be. He pulls out his guns ready for a fight and slowly follows one of the hallways. Instead of a fight, Jason is shocked to find a dead man. The chest ripped open; from a knife Jason decides. Whoever did this didn’t have much thought in it. Blood splattered across the wall. Jason only hoped that whoever did this hadn’t gotten to you.

He continues on the path he was on and quickly finds he’s following the blood trail from the body. Random drops of blood on the floor, likely dripping from the knife, held down not up. Whoever had it wasn’t planning on using it on the current path. He keeps going and then pauses before coming to a doorway. There was someone, breathing heavily and moving away from the doorway. He leans around it and sees someone slowly moving across the open floor of the warehouse. He can see the knife hanging in their hand. He takes his time creeping closer to them when he recognizes their shirt. You’d worn it when Jason had taken you to the art museum in downtown Gotham. You practically glowed in the dimming rays of sunset when you left the museum. It was you. You were alive and you were okay. Following his instincts he settles a hand on your shoulder. There was no hesitation as you suddenly swung the knife at him. He finds your eyes wild and watery as he easily catches your wrist. You scream and cry and try to pull away from him. His heart breaks and he’s quick to try and calm you. He wishes he could take off the helmet but he’s pretty sure that if he let go of your arm you would stab him.

“You're okay, everything is all right. You're safe now.” He speaks his words as calmly as he can with the helmet, words he wishes he had heard in moments of panic like this. Your sobbing slows to a blubber as you collapse against him. He hears the knife you were holding drop to the ground and he lets go of your wrist and holds you until your breathing slows to a less panicked pace. His hands leave you for just a moment as he pulls off his helmet. He drops it to the ground and his hands settle on your back and head. You wince but don’t make a sound aside from quiet sniffling. His hand gently moves from the back of your head to your cheek as he gently coaxes you from his chest. His heart breaks when he sees your face. There’s blood running out of your nose and you're still crying.

“Did they hurt you? Is anything broken?” He asks concerned. You don’t respond, just stare at him. He tugs you away from him, but your hands cling to the sleeves of his jacket. He scans over your body and finds a lot of blood. You don’t seem limp or woozy only in shock. But that was a lot of blood. His eyes drop to the blood-covered knife then to your bloody hands gripping his sleeves like your life depends on it. He thinks about the mutilated man in the hallway and connects the dots. The deep, dark part of Jason that he had been trying to bury for years crept up as a sense of pride surfaced in his chest. You killed that guy. He probably tried to do something to you, and you killed, you fought. He was proud of you for it.

That pride disappears as he looks at your face. There’s blood splattered across your face and an empty look in your eyes that makes him worry. You’re in shock. He understands what that can do to a person and he hates that it’s happened to you. His arm slides over your shoulder and he slowly coaxes you to stand and keep walking to the door. He speaks softly, “We should get you out of here, okay? Nothing bad is going to happen anymore. You're okay.”

---End of warnings area---

You’re still shaking as he pulls you outside. You barely become conscious of how cold you are. The sticky wetness on your skin only makes it that much colder. You feel warm fabric cover your shoulders and then Red Hood is holding your face. You feel something move across your skin, scratchy and rough. He talks as he rubs gently, first your face, then your hands. His words are muffled, and you feel like you're underwater and you just want to sleep. Your eyes leave him for a moment when you see flashes of red and blue. Your mind comes back into focus as you hear him say, “-have to leave, okay?”

“What?” You ask and you see a flash of relief move over his features.

“I have to leave. The police are almost here. Commissioner Gordon will make sure you get home safe, okay?” He says slowly though he shifts away from you slightly. Panic curls in your throat again.

“Please, don’t leave.” You choke out as your hands tighten on him. “Don’t leave me alone.” You plead. Your eyes water and you feel so sick of crying. He comes closer again and your nails dig harshly into his arms.

“I have to go. The police aren’t friendly with me, and I don’t want you to get hurt more than you already are. I’ll be watching, okay? I just won't be right here.” He tries to placate you but you're not listening.

“don’t leave me, please. Please don’t leave me here” you repeat. You can see the hesitation on his face but still pries your hands off of him.

“You going to be okay. I’ll be watching.” He repeats as he steps out of your hold. You weep and pull the jacket he’d placed on you tighter around yourself. You blink and he’s gone.

Moments later a few police cars pull up followed by an ambulance. A woman gently guides you over to the ambulance where an EMT does a thorough check of you. You barely respond, heart heavy with he left me. You have a shock blanket wrapped around you. You sit on the back bumper of the ambulance as you watch police officers move in and out of the building. Evidently, the docks just outside the warehouse had been a known drop site of bodies connected to the Penguin, the man that had questioned you, but they never had any evidence. An older man with a bushy mustache sat next to you for a minute before he finally spoke to you.

“I’m Commissioner Gordon. I’d like to get your statement.” You turn your head to glance at him. You think you're supposed to know the name but you can't remember why at the moment.

“You were taken as part of a human trafficking job and caused some problems, so Penguin had you brought here to be dumped.” He continues and your brows furrow. “Penguin came to oversee the matter, and you saw him, correct?” you nod hesitantly at the only question he’s asked you. “Penguin left and Ted Jackson, known rapist and murderer, started to drag you out to the docks. Red Hood intervened and killed Jackson.” You open your mouth to correct him, but he puts up his hand. “Jackson had no weapons on his body but was severely mutilated,” the knot of bile surges in your throat again, “The state of his body would leave the perpetrated in jail, despite the state of Jackson’s criminal record. Red Hood is already wanted on multiple accounts of murder. You’re a victim, Miss, not a criminal.” You realize that the commissioner is telling you what your official statement is. “You were present at the killing, that’s why you're covered in blood.” You glance down at your shaky hands, only light streaks of blood left. “Red Hood killed Jackson and brought you out here and left before the police arrived. Do you agree that this statement is true and correct as best you can?”

You stare at him and the commissioner tips his head at you meaningfully.

“Yes,” you finally say. The commissioner nods contently.

“The paramedics say you have a mild concussion and bruising to your nose. Overall, you’ll be alright. Do you have someone we can call to take you home?”

“Jason,” you say before you can think about it.

“You have a last name?” he asks as he stands.

“I…” you stammer.

“It’s okay. I'll have someone find a number. I'm going to go talk through some things with the officers. If you need anything else, I’ll be over there.” You follow the line of pointing to a cluster of cops and nod. As he leaves, he pulls out his phone. You think you hear him say Babs, but your mind brushes the strange name to the side.

Additional Note: after a few read throughs myself I realized how heavy on descriptions this chapter was with not a lot of dialogue. Sorry about that. Since this was the first time I’ve written something dark, I would love any critiques or comments on things I did good or bad at, please. No Pressure though. Thank you for reading and the next chapter is a lot of intimate comfort, so I can’t wait to finish that one up.

Tag List: @little-miss-naill, @nikilolo787, @joonunivrs, @uzxotic, @qardasngan, @stormz369, @g4bbi3xx, @iwatobiswimbros, @the-lonely-flute, @elz-xo, @gone-batty-fics, @princessesgarden, @notfckincreative, @love-theangel, @feyres-fireheart, @tetsuroubaby, @mrskreideprinzessin, @moonluna1215

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #do i know you?#kandywrites #fanfics-i-find-here

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darylbae · 9 months ago

Note

i have been dying to read a fic where daryl has not yet confessed his feelings for the reader, and this is based around the group just arriving in alexandria and one of the people there start flirting with the reader, so daryl gets jealous and confesses?

if only you knew — daryl dixon🩰

in which a flirty encounter pushes daryl to confess some long-time feelings for you

note: i am loving the requests im getting, keep them coming!! <3

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

If there was anyone you'd been close to since the end of the world, it was Daryl. As strange as that may seem, considering just how opposite you were, and how rude he was at first. You'd taken a liking to him, and had realized his rudeness was only a wall.

Daryl was definitely one to show he cares instead of saying it, but with you it was rather different. When he'd realized his feelings for you, he'd stopped talking to you entirely. He'd give you a nod here and there, help you if you needed help, side with you if he thought you were right. But found himself avoiding you, to conceal his feelings. It hurt you, but you kept it to yourself. Losing Daryl, who you'd considered a close friend, felt like a kick in the teeth. But you got on with it. When the prison fell, you were separated, and even as you'd all reunited, old Daryl would've squeezed you into him and patted your head, something he did because of your height difference. But you got nothing more than a nod and a wave. When you were all shivering in the barn, old Daryl would've given you his jacket and sat beside you. But he seemed more content sat in the corner fiddling with his fingers.

Unbeknownst to you, his eyes were on you the entire night. He didn't sleep, to protect the group, but his gaze was fixated upon you. He watched your frame as you slept, using your arms as a pillow, your hair falling into your face. If only you knew.

Shortly after, you had found Alexandria. Well, this Aaron guy had led you here. Beautiful suburban homes lines up next to each other, the community looked like it hadn't been left. Like the state of the world hadn't applied here. The supposed leader, Deanna, had asked you all to put your weapons into a trolley, to be taken to the weapons cache. People had unwillingly given up their weapons, even Daryl and his beloved crossbow. You looked around at the Alexandrian's, who all looked happy, blissful, ignorant to what was outside these walls. You envied them. You'd caught the eye of a rather tall man, brown hair similar to that of syrup, a sweet smile as your eyes met his. When the group had broken off, he'd approached you. "Hi, I'm Spencer." He greeted you, walking beside you slowly as your group had trailed off to the homes you were allowed to stay in. "Hey, Y/N." You introduced yourself, shaking the hand he'd extended out to you. "My mom is excited to have you all here, all she wants is our community to grow stronger." He explained. "You're all tough son's of bitches." You laughed, accepting the compliment. "Well, thank you."

Daryl was only a few steps ahead of you, and he wanted an arrow through his head. He could hear this Spencer guy talking to you, his tone dripping with lust. Daryl couldn't really blame the guy, you were hot. And more than that, you were sweet, nice, caring. He wanted that for himself, he didn't want to watch someone else get it. "If you're okay with it, tomorrow, I'd like to show you around. In fact, my mom is having a housewarming party that she's going to invite you all to. I could accompany you to that." Spencer suggested, and you felt a little suffocated. You weren't used to people being all over you like this, even before the world fell apart. "Almost sounds like the old world." You joked. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You were quick to get inside, dumping your bag along with everyone else's in the living room. You were all sharing a home tonight, which would be fun, to say the least. The day had ended, the night sky coming out and you had been sat by one of the windows. Watching the sunset, watching your group in the reflection, watching the moody archer glance your way every so often. You didn't think you were going to sleep tonight.

Daryl was too wound up to sleep right now, instead he was sat in his makeshift bed, jealously bubbling up inside him. How could you let Spencer talk to you like that? He was so obviously flirting. Who wouldn't? Daryl would kill for a chance. So he stared straight ahead, sulking about this Spencer guy. You had looked over at Daryl, the only other person awake, and waited for him to look back at you. And when he did, the butterflies all came back. He hadn't done as much as nod your way in a long time. He'd stopped being so friendly, and it killed you everyday thinking about it.

"Dar," you whispered, and your voice trickled into his eat like a pot of sweet honey, "can we talk?" "What about?" You gestured to the porch, standing up and trailing over to the front door to let yourself out. Daryl was shortly behind you, his heart beating ten to a dozen at the mere thought of being alone with you. It hadn't been just the two of you for a long time. "What's th'matter?" He asked, folding his arms and leaning against on of the porch pillars. "Why don't you talk to me anymore?" You asked, your heart sinking at the confrontation. "I feel like on the farm, you just... stopped being my friend." Daryl felt moronic. It was never about not being your friend. If only you knew. Daryl fought with himself in his own brain, debating on whether tonight was the night. It had been eating away at him, every time he saw you, and today with Spencer, it had pushed him over the limit. Meanwhile, you took the long pause as Daryl being dumbfounded. It took all of you to not walk inside and leave him out here to freeze and think about it. "S'a long story," Daryl mumbled. "Good thing I have time." You countered, sitting down on one of the porch steps and hugging your legs. Daryl had joined you, his shoulder touching yours and he almost went insane at the connection of your skin with his. He sighed deeply, and you were growing impatient. You just wanted an answer. "I can't be around ya." He admitted, and you could feel your heart cracking in your chest. "What? Why?" You were on the verge of tears now, concealing your glossy eyes with your hair. "I can't be around ya because I love ya." His voice was a bit louder, which to most was a normal speaking volume. "Every time I look at ya, I jus' want to tell ya but I couldn't. I care about ya too much to let it ruin what we had." "But it did!" You exclaimed. "It did ruin it, Daryl. You stopped talking to me, you stopping being around me. Like my existence was not good enough for you." Daryl grabbed your hands, and you instinctively turned to face him. "You're more than good enough. You're too good f'me. I love ya enough to know you need better." "What's better, Daryl? Who's better?" You countered, raking your fingers through your hair. He came up short, there was no answer. "Why are you always so bad about yourself? As if you don't care deeply about your people, as if you don't go above and beyond for us all." You explained. "Daryl, I love you. I have for a while." "I couldn't take the thought of you and Spencer today, or you and anyone else. It's selfish, but I want ya." Daryl confessed, and your cheeks were wet with tears. You were filled with anxiety every day about what you'd done to push Daryl away. It felt like relief to know the truth. "I don't want Spencer, or anyone," you spoke, squeezing his big hand with both of yours, "I've only wanted you Daryl. Since the start." "Y'sure?" "As sure as I've ever been."

#inbox 💌#daryl dixion imagine #daryl x female reader #daryl fanfiction #daryl x reader #daryl dixon #the walking dead daryl #daryl x you #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon incorrect quotes #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon blurb #daryl dixon imagine #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon smut #twd daryl #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead daryl dixon

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dearsnow · 1 year ago

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WE’RE BORN AT NIGHT

- in which you hold johnny cade like water, or, christ, you hold him like a knife (you’re worried that your touch brings up unpleasant memories for your boyfriend, but he feels differently. johnny cade x gn!reader, angst -> fluff but still bittersweet bc there’s nothing you can really do but hold him, yes this is based off of who we are by hozier because i am a heathen for the irish man).

word count: 1,022

a/n - my first johnny piece and the first piece that i’ve done in actual months 🥹 this is likely not my comeback though and i’m sorry for that 😭 i will always write and i will probably post most of it, but life has been rocky for me lately and my available free time reflects that. in any case, i hope you enjoy my short return (there will inevitably be more as i work things out), and plsss talk to me about the outsiders and literally anything else because i will most definitely love to hear it.

It’s not often that Johnny Cade comes knocking at your door, despite the fact that he’s been your boyfriend for three months now. He never wants to put you out, he says, but when he shows up with a black eye and hand-shaped bruises on his arm, you usher him inside as quickly as you can.

“What happened?” You murmur, eyes scanning over his injuries.

“Just my old man again.” He hesitates. There’s a sharp edge to his words, like they cut his mouth just to say. “Look, I shouldn’t have come.”

You cut him off, tone brimming with concern. If he doesn’t feel safe with you, with staying at your house when his is dangerous, then you need to try harder to keep his quiet heart intact. “You can always come.”

“I know. I mean, the gang’s all out at a party ‘n I guess I just didn’t know where else to go.” He shifts his stance uncomfortably as you hand him two bags of frozen vegetables. “As much as you say you want me here, I know there are some places where I ain’t welcome.”

You would kill his parents if you could. Fuck, you would send them straight to Hell without a second thought. Anyone that truly knew what was going on in that house would. All you can do, though, is take care of him as well as you’re able to.

“I promise, you’re welcome. More than anyone or anything else. I need you here, when things are rough and when they aren’t. Tell me you’ll come when you can.” You speak.

He looks so beautiful in this light, despite everything. You love him so badly that your heart aches from just the movements of his sad brown eyes. “I will.”

“Good.” You smooth down the collar of his jacket, making careful, delicate movements. You fear that if you go a hair too close, he will shatter like the glass bottles thrown at him. “Let’s go to my room, okay? My parents won’t be home until later. We can get you some rest.”

There’s a small part of Johnny that detests himself for holding you back. You could be doing greater things than pressing a wet rag to his forehead, and yet, you stay. You always stay. No matter how horrible the situation, you stay with a pinky linked around his and a warmth so hopeful he thinks he might implode every time he feels it.

You pull your thick blankets over him, uncaring of his grease and the slightly grungy clothes rubbing against your bedsheets. If he needs you, and god, does he look it, you will always be there.

You’re facing him in bed, hands outstretched to card through his hair, but they don’t make contact. His eyes are lightly closed. You wish you could just touch him, hold his hands between your fingers and warm your feet against his calves. There’s some sort of unbreakable barrier between you when you feel that your every movement could send him spiraling into memories of an unkind fist. And yet, an unconscious twitch sends your leg just a centimeter forward to touch his. If you think real, real hard about it, you might have felt him jolt.

“I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable, Johnny.” You whisper, shifting your legs so they’re no longer against him. “I’m real sorry. I know sometimes you don’t like that kind of stuff.”

“No.” He starts, opening his eyes. The rasp in his voice makes your heart sting like a bee’s last breath. “I like it, I mean, I think I do.” His gaze turns towards yours again, brimming with a kind of beautiful emotion, and his fingers move towards your sleeve. “It kinda… it tells me a bit that fingers ain’t always gonna ball up in fists and a palm against my cheek don’t have to hurt.” He breathes. You stare at him. He likes it? Lord, he likes it, and you like it, and you will die if you cannot swathe your entire body around him like you’re trying to keep him together. “‘S like you hold me like water, or, I dunno, a knife. Real gentle and secure n’ such.”

You travel the distance between you, tenderly wrapping your arms around his midsection. He pulls you closer, and suddenly, you feel complete.

If he was being honest, Johnny thinks you saved him. His whole life, he chased and chased the peace that evaded him every second of every day. Like a dog, kicked and dark-eyed, he put his nose to the ground and simply smelled the greater things on the horizon. They were out of reach to him, the silence just barely kissing the tip of his head before dancing so far away he couldn’t reach it if he sprinted. But you, God, you gave him everything he could ever want.

When merciful you came waltzing into his life, he thought nothing could ever be quite so horrible again. You have a forgiving hand and a quiet smile, laced with words that tickle his cheeks rather than grinding him into the earth. When he can reach out to you, gripping your warm arm like a lifeline, everything makes sense. He wouldn’t give that up for the world. He drinks in the affection you give him like sand in a bone-dry desert, and the thought that you could ever be worried about how much you love sets his heart ablaze.

“I’m glad.” You whisper. He can feel your breath against his shirt, and it makes him shiver in a pleasant way. “I love you.“

His breath hitches, heart picking up its pace, as he gently buries his warming face into the top of your head. “I love you too. And… and if you’re here, I want to be here forever.”

He squeezes you just a little bit, just enough to let you know that he never wants to let you go.

“Then I’m never leaving.” You smile. He smiles back, and for the first time that night, he thinks that he might be able to do more than just survive.

#solar eclipse.#johnny cade x reader #johnny cade #johnny cade headcanons #the outsiders #the outsiders fanfiction #the outsiders fandom #the outsiders x reader #the outsiders hcs #fanfic #angst #fluff

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onceuponaoneshotfanfic · 6 days ago

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Just Promise You Won't Forget We Had It All

I'm Bright Baby Blue, Falling Into You

Chelsea!Roy Kent x Coach's Daughter!Reader

2.9k words

Warnings: Language, no Ted Lasso characters except for Roy, extremely protective father, angst and pining, fluff

Tears welled in your eyes as you stood on the pavement next to your dad’s car, loaded down with all of the things that would fill your room at school. Your mum was rummaging around the boot of the car, quadruple checking that you’d packed enough sweaters for the fall term. Your brother loitered nearby, impatient for you to leave so he could run back inside and get back to the computer game he had been forced to walk away from so he could say goodbye to you; he’d already given you a hug and tolerated a kiss to the top of his head, but your mum insisted he stay until you and your father drove off.

The night before- your last night in London- Roy had invited you out; he wanted to take you to a ridiculously expensive dinner to celebrate your new term, and his quip about having dessert at his place went straight between your legs. But of course, your father decided your last night before taking off to school should be spent at home, just the family. This was, of course, after he made a big show of cutting back that tree outside your window, claiming he’d been meaning to cut down the branch Roy typically used to sneak in. So, despite your mother’s best efforts to persuade your father to let you out after a painfully quiet family dinner, you were taking off to Southampton without getting to say goodbye to Roy Kent.

You were nothing short of completely miserable.

“Let’s get on the road, then,” your father called cheerily as he climbed in on the driver’s side. “Bet you can’t wait to get back, eh?”

The words caught in your throat. No. For the first time, you didn't want to head back to school, away from home and Chelsea and summer and Roy Kent. Away from holding his hand and running through the garden gate in the moonlight, away from him clamboring up that tree and through your open window just to lay in your bed until the sunrise, away from the smiles and winks he’d sneak to you during training, away from late-night drives and kisses in the front seat of his car, away from his laughter and his kisses and his hands and his jokes and the summer you spent by his side.

Before you could formulate a satisfying answer that didn’t betray the absolute agony that had made a home in your chest, a familiar car pulled up behind your father’s. It had barely come to a stop when the driver’s side door opened and Roy stepped out, his own crumpled face matching the expression you had been wearing all day. Without so much as a glance in your father- or anyone else’s- direction, he rushed over to you, taking you in his arms and hugging you close.

“You came,” was all you could manage to choke out as you squeezed him back, fingers clutching his leather jacket.

He nodded, face buried in your hair. “Fucking ’course I did,” he assured you. “Had to make sure you didn’t forget the mix cd.”

A snort flew out of your mouth as you laughed through the tears that had finally begun to fall. “It’s in my backpack,” you promised him. You pulled back, beaming through your tears, memorizing the sight of his brown eyes shining at you. “And I’ll be playing it while I unpack.”

“Good, good.” Roy’s hands rested firmly on your hips, not paying any mind to your family’s eyes on you. “Fuck, I’m gonna miss you, princess.”

“Be a good boy while I’m gone, Kent.” You pulled him back to you, holding him tight so you could whisper in his ear, “Don’t you dare prove him right.”

His breath tickled your skin as he let out a shallow chuckle. “Never. And you don’t let those uni lads steal my girl, alright?”

“Never,” you echoed.

It was far too soon when Roy gave one last squeeze and released you, his own eyes bright with tears that he blinked back rapidly. But you were rewarded with a kiss to your lips, the kind of kiss you knew you’d be thinking back on often in the days to come. To hell with your dad, you thought as you pressed yourself against Roy and tasted that sweet affection. To hell with anyone that’s not Roy Kent.

At least Roy had the good sense to eventually let you go, offering you that lopsided smile that had engraved itself on your heart. “Princess,” he murmured, something in his face changing. His eyes rapidly roamed your face, the cogs in his head turning. His voice was more gentle than you’d ever heard, just above a whisper. “Listen, I-”

Honk!

Your father leaned out his window, frown etched sharply on his features. Rather than bark at you the way he'd been doing lately, he simply furrowed his brow, a silent command to get in the car. Or more likely to get away from Roy Kent.

A groan slipped past your lips as you ducked your head in embarrassment. Leave it to your father to interrupt whatever important- probably romantic- thing Roy wanted to tell you.

But Roy was completely unbothered. He just let out a tiny huff of a chuckle and kissed your forehead. “Alright, get going,” he sighed gruffly, wiping away the tears that still steamed down your warm cheek. “Can’t miss me if you don’t leave.” He offered you that cocky grin you loved and a wink that made your heart skip a beat.

“Bye, Roy,” you murmured before taking a step back, a step away from him and towards Southampton and fall term.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said firmly, loud enough for your father to hear, the first time you'd ever seen him truly defiant in front of his manager. “Fucking promise.”

With a tiny nod, you walked over to the passenger door, where your mother waited with a gentle smile and open arms. She hugged you tight and let out a soft chuckle. “You’re in for a hell of a car ride,” she warned you.

“I bet,” you muttered. But then you glanced over your shoulder, back at Roy, who offered your brother a small fist bump before turning his gaze back to you. “But it’s worth it.”

The moment you were alone in your room, you fished that mix CD out of the front pocket of your backpack. Doing your best to forget the stony way your father had helped you unload your things and the way he glared at the Chelsea poster he’d spotted in one of your boxes, you quickly plugged in your CD player and hit play, eager to hear the mix you had promised Roy you wouldn't listen to until you were back at school.

I think you’re so mean, I think we should try

I think I could need this in my life

As you sat on your bed, you remembered the first song from that night in Roy’s car, from the night he asked you to be his girlfriend. In your mind, it was kind of “your” song with him. Maybe it was because of the way Roy had held you in the front seat of his car while it played in the background, maybe it was something in the desperate lyrics. But damn, it made your eyes sting as you listened, reminding you of how much you already missed Roy.

Deciding you needed to move about and be productive before you turned the afternoon into sitting and pining, you shot up off the bed and began to unpack your things, relieved to have something to focus on that wasn’t wishing the handsome footballer was there with you.

At last, you dove into the box with the poster that had so offended your father. You unrolled it, smiling at the familiar sight of the men clad in bright blue. Of course, your eyes found that gorgeous bearded face, the one you’d spent hours staring at on this piece of paper. Reminding yourself that this same man was yours, you grabbed some tacks and pinned the poster on the wall above your bed; you knew Roy would take the mickey out of you about its placement, just like you knew your father would be red in the face at the sight of Roy’s picture on your wall. But you simply couldn't bring yourself to care.

“Oh, you’re a football fan?” A friendly face filled your doorway, eyeing your poster with interest. “I prefer Arsenal myself, hope that’s not too much of a problem. My boyfriend likes Chelsea, if that earns me any points.” The girl stuck out her hand, which you shook eagerly. “Jessica.”

You offered your name and a smile, already liking the obviously chatty girl you’d be sharing the room with; there was an ease about her that was hard to resist.

Her eyes returned to your poster. “So who’s your favorite player? Let me guess, that absolute dish Roy Kent?” she teased affably.

Your cheeks burned red; well, she was going to find out sooner or later. “He actually is.” You coughed into your hand before adding, “He’s… also my boyfriend.”

When she realized you weren't joking, her mouth formed a surprised, open-mouthed smile as her eyes lit up with realization. “Oh!” Further realization brought a furrow to her brow. “Oh gosh, that means your dad-”

“Coaches Chelsea,” you finished for her with an awkward chuckle. “Yup, that's me.”

“Wow. Okay.” She let out a sharp breath. “You’ve had quite the summer then, haven’t you? I mean, with your dad finding out about your relationship through a press-” She stopped herself, wincing. “You probably don’t like talking about that, do you?”

Wearing your own grimace, you shook your head. “Not particularly,” you admitted.

Jessica offered an apologetic grin. “I’m making a shit first impression, aren’t I?” She shook out her shoulders and stuck her hand out. “Let’s try again. Hi, I’m Jessica, and I know nothing about stranger’s private lives.”

You couldn’t help but giggle and shake her hand. “Nice to meet you, my dad coaches a professional football club, and I spent my summer sneaking around with his star midfielder.”

“Well,” Jessica finally mused as she released your hand, “maybe if you tell your dad you’re sharing a room with an Arsenal fan, he’ll get over the whole 'secretly dating Roy Kent' thing.”

Jessica’s smile was contagious, drawing out one of your own. Even if you were miserable- over your dad’s continued iciness, over missing Roy- at least you could take solace in the fact that you’d made a new friend.

Angela had stopped by to see how you’d settled in and to introduce herself to your new roommate; much to your relief, the two seemed to really hit it off, so much so that Jessica suggested the three of you grab a pint to celebrate the new term and new friends. A perfect idea, you all agreed.

The three of you made your way down to your favorite pub with ease, much more familiar with the trek to get there than you would ever admit to your parents. The walk was all giggles and gabbing and waving at familiar faces that passed by, with a heaping of teasing about your summer with Roy Kent.

“I still can’t believe you finally nabbed him!” Angela gushed as the three of you settled at a table with pints in hand. She turned to Jessica, as if they’d known each other forever, rather than less than an hour. “This one has been in love with Roy Kent since he first came to Chelsea. Honestly, it’s been a little pathetic to watch.”

Blushing furiously, you kicked your best friend under the table with a playful scoff. “Pathetic!” you echoed, your outrage loud enough to cause the couple at the table behind you to turn and look.

Angela nodded, clearly unfazed by your annoyance. “Oh, absolutely. You’ve been insufferable to watch.” With a wicked sparkle in her eyes, she straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. She batted her lashes and pushed out her chest flirtatiously, raising her voice several pitches. “Oh hi, Kent! Great match today, you were brilliant.” She let out an obnoxiously girlish giggle, the kind you had never giggled in your life, thank you very much. “Are you heading to the changing room? Need some help in the showers?”

Before you could give your friend a piece of your mind- with the help of some swear words that would make even Roy and the lads at Chelsea blush- your mobile rang in your purse. Settling for a dirty look in Angela’s direction, you fished it out and held it up to your ear, too annoyed to bother looking at the name that flashed on the screen.

“‘lo?” you huffed, wondering what you'd forgotten; surely it was your mum asking if she should mail some overlooked items or just wait until you come home and get it yourself.

A deep chuckle hit your ear. “Don't tell me school’s already shit then?”

Your entire body softened as you closed your eyes, picturing that smirk you knew Roy was sporting. “Hey,” you breathed, in a voice suspiciously close to the impression Angela had just been doing. “Sorry, just thought you'd be my mum.”

“Oi, you better answer the phone nicely when she calls,” he teased. “She invited me in for tea and a slice of cake after you and your dad left.”

Disbelief echoed in your laugh. “Did she really?”

Yes, you could just picture it. Your father speeding off, leaving behind a cloud of annoyance and disapproval, along with your embarrassment. Your brother, scurrying back inside to get back to the video games and crisps your parents had made him set aside. And your mother, amiable as ever, turning to Roy Kent with a soft smile and a simple “Fancy a tea?”

“I only stayed for a little bit,” Roy explained, thrilling your heart with the idea that he’d accepted the invitation. “Had a meeting with my fucking publicist. But your mum was lovely.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t think anyone’s mum has ever invited me to tea, actually. It was nice.” The pause on his end was thoughtful. “She said I seem to make you quite happy.”

The girls were going to give you such a hard time about the dopey smile you wore. “You do,” you assured him, eyes trained on the pint in front of you, the bubbles reminding you of the joy that fizzed in your chest whenever you heard Roy’s voice. “Quite happy indeed.”

“Glad to hear it.” There was another pause on his end, a heavier one now. “I just wanted to tell you… I fucking miss you already.” He cleared his throat, reminding you of the early days of your romance, when he’d put up that dour front, the one that protected him and his heart and his feelings.

“I miss you too,” you whispered, knowing your friends could hear the sentimental words and would definitely razz you for it. “Thank you again, for coming to say goodbye.”

Roy's voice lightened significantly, probably thanks to your soft tone. “Of course.” He cleared his throat, a much less tense cough this time. “Should let you go enjoy your mates. I'll call you tomorrow, alright, princess?”

I'll call you tomorrow.

In the back of your mind, you had been quite unsure about what your relationship would look like, with Roy back in London and you in Southampton. If you were being honest, you'd refused to entertain the thought too much. Some small part of you had worried that Roy would start to lose interest, that you'd begin to fade from his mind and this romance would begin to fizzle.

But Roy's firm promise began to squash down every one of those fears.

“I'll talk to you tomorrow, Roy,” you murmured, resisting the urge to kick Angela under the table when you caught sight of the teasing kissy face she was making.

Before you could hang up, Roy's voice was in your ear again. “Hey, princess?”

“Yeah?”

“I…” He hesitated, a brief moment of quiet that froze the breath in your lungs. “I fucking adore you. You know that, right?”

Your heart- no your entire body- trembled at his words. Sure, you’d had boyfriends and other fellas confess their feelings- even confessing their love- but something about Roy Kent telling you he adored you felt different. Like he was saying something heavier than the sweet words he murmured into the phone, something that burrowed into your chest and settled there contentedly.

Realizing Roy was waiting for your response, you closed your eyes and whispered, “I adore you too, Roy.”

The bashful breath he exhaled was barely noticeable, but damn it was adorable. “Have a good night babe. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Kent.”

Once your mobile was tucked back into your purse, you allowed yourself to look at your friends, whose sharklike smiles were almost sharp enough to burst your love bubble.

Almost.

“Go on,” you groaned good-naturedly, not actually all that mad to be teased about getting a phone call from Roy Kent. “Give me your worst.”

The rest of your night was spent giggling over pints, allowing your friends to do their best impressions of both you and Roy, a smidge grateful when they turned to discussing upcoming classes and their own summer adventures. But, in the back of your mind, your imagination kept wandering to that gruff voice that you had to admit- you already missed.

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