#i don't even know but I'm at work feeling like shit

[endearng]

Loner to lover

Pairing: young!Spencer Reid x professor!reader Summary: Running away from your problems is said to be irresponsible, but it just might lead you to where you need to be; to whom you must be with and, utterly, to the one you're supposed to be. WC: 10.1k Warnings: jealous spencer (a warning of its own) unspecified age gap; infidelity; smut in the form of soft and vulnerable sex between two virgins - (p in v), creamp*e (sorry), softdom!spencer, dacryphilia if you squint. Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: I had to use the frightening 'L/N'. Sorry sorry sorry. Also I just know Spencer is a little shit when encouraged so... he's a bit insistent here............ anyways I love this do much and I hope you enjoy reading it as well. | Masterlist

Spencer remembers the time when you first met. The reason, happenstance and the enormous range of mixed feelings that it brought him.

Early twenties. Collecting BAs for fun. Dr. Spencer Reid thought of a social life second, third, fourth... whatever position behind his education. His responsibility and intelligence were mere details compared to his application to his studies, which was a trait that made him singular to every single one of the professors whose classes he chose to take. Quick and smart remarks, useful contributions, thought-provoking ideas, you name it; there wasn't a single good student expectation that Spencer couldn't meet. In the academic world, the young man was highly recommended and wanted by any and every superior who wanted a good insight on their research, and that was saying a lot — society's greatest minds would compete for that brilliant brain in hopes to have his attention and participation on their projects. Spencer Reid, to his colleagues, was a walking experiment: that guy was able to keep up with his classes, the research programs he was invited to be a part of (they were jealous of this particular information, because they had to almost literally fight their way into a internship) and, on his free time, he had the nerve to feed his curiosity and come up with even more ideas of his own.

A brilliant, lonely heart amidst a crowded sea of people who were mainly too focused on themselves to notice him, unless it was to compare themselves to the absolute success he was among the academic world.

Given his mild demeanor, it is no surprise that his professors would trust him anything and that he easily won their hearts over — he remembers attending dinners at their places when they were particularly close to him; Spencer was not a stranger to a safe proximity to his mentors, after all, they were his only friends. So, it was with a dreadful surprise that he received the news that his favorite professor and advisor, Dr. Brown, would retire. Immediately, Spencer thought, with a frown on his face, that nobody could replace him. Plus, it would be disencouraging to go to those classes with someone he didn’t even know. The news had dampened his mood, to say the least, and he was ready to protest.

"Don't worry, Reid," said Dr. Brown, kind eyes wrinkling in the corners as he smiled, sitting on his chair behind his huge desk, "Dr. L/N is a great person, in more ways than one. I'm sure you will be thrilled to work with her."

"I'm not sure. It takes me some time to get used to certain situations."

"I know, but I'm sure you've had to adapt to some unexpected events at some point," retorted the older man, psychologist mode in full swing, "This is no different. And, if I must say, not entirely unexpected. There's only so far a man can go without losing his mind.”

"I suppose so," Spencer muttered, feeling a bit selfish — it wasn't fair of him to put his thoughts before the older man's needs.

Dr. Brown looked at his pupil, who avoided eye contact for most of the time. The professor had taken an almost paternal liking to Spencer as they grew closer after the younger man stood behind in the classroom wanting to ask different and plenty of questions about the spectacle he had just watched, his first one. It was rare, for Mr. Brown, to have and hold a student's attention so uniquely, and it was as rare for Spencer to have someone explain things and welcome his curiosity so openly. Science had bonded them together — being men of science, they knew better than to argue with its effects.

"I was thinking, Spencer. If you're not so busy, you could keep leading the experiments in our lab, helping out our new professor." At that, Spencer's expression turned a bit sour, to which Mr. Brown chuckled, "Trust me, you'll have nothing to worry about. In fact, I think you two are greatly alike."

Spencer let nothing out but a hum of agreement, perking up slightly at that remark. He wanted to ask what the older man meant, but stopped himself, asking instead, "When does she get here?"

"I believe she is settling in her studio as we speak. You'll meet her tomorrow. I wish I could introduce the two of you, but, unfortunately, I leave at 3 a.m."

Exchanging goodbyes and wishes of a safe flight, Spencer left for his dorm, where he busied himself with the papers of the guest professor. Of course, he would not betray his ritual of researching the guest professor to know about their academic background, as well as their field of research, stylistics and projects to check if something would raise his spirits. It didn't matter that he wasn't pleased with the replacement.

Dr. L/N. You were, apparently, a great researcher for the Psycholinguistics area—a branch that made you known in fields such as Education, Criminology, Psychology, Linguistics, Communication... The list was endless. If he was honest, he felt a little baffled—and embarrassed—that he hadn't done any research on your contributions thus far. A mind like yours should get a recognition beyond any borders. Once he got a glimpse of your brain and what it could do, he was gone. Your resume was impeccable: you had studied in different institutions in countries, proficiency in multiple languages, uncountable papers and mentions of your name in studies in all the areas above.

He doesn't remember falling asleep or turning off his laptop. However, he remembers that, in dreams, he finds someone, but, strangely, he can't make up a face.

(...)

Walking through a bustling crowd of people always made you winded, the noise and the inevitable bumping too overwhelming for you to handle on top of being somewhere new. So, you preferred to sit and wait in a small, more secluded hall in the building that Dr. Brown said you would find his lab. After the morning rush, the corridors were filled by distant echoes of louder professors or students, which made you calmer; to think you weren't completely alone. Traveling to help out a friend was a much welcomed distraction from what you had left at home, something you weren't quite ready to access just yet. You could remember your shrink's voice as she said that, at times, it was useless to think so ahead of the future.

Unbeknownst to her, you agreed wholeheartedly. It was useless. The moment you could have done something for yourself was already lost, long gone, buried by endless hours of work and occupations to keep you from breaking a dam of lonely despair.

Speaking of the past, you slid your golden ring off your wedding finger, letting it fall inside your coat pocket as you made your way through the halls. Upon seeing a door with Dr. Brown's lab small logo on it, you cracked a small smile, remembering the story behind it: you and a bunch of other students trying to come up with a nice, thoughtful gift to encourage the guest professor's new interests. When you opened the door, you found a tall, thin man sitting by the computer desk, apparently engrossed until he heard the click of the lock, finding your eyes with equal parts startle and wonder, lips parted gently, surprise etched all over his pretty face.

The young man had innocent, almost bambi-like eyes. It was the first thing you had noticed about him. Staring at you, hazel eyes so expressive that you were sure he could speak through his glance alone.

After the initial surprise, you thought you knew who he was, having heard all about Dr. Brown’s new favorite student and mentee. Spencer Reid, who seemed to study for leisure, deeply intelligent and reliable. No wonder he was in the lab, settling everything so that he would be helpful. It was a faithfully vivid image, much like the one that had settled into your brain when your colleague had described who he was working with.

"Dr. L/N."

"Dr. Reid."

Your unison voices mingled in the air. You walked up to where he was, holding out a hand for him to shake. Dazedly, he stood up, taking your hands in his, which made you smile at him, appreciating his politeness. Spencer, on the other hand, felt frozen.

Whatever it was that he, at some point, imagined you would look like, it was nothing compared to the real thing. All your features seemed to be mathematically, precisely calculated to form one of the most beautiful and soft complexions he had ever laid his eyes upon. You spoke again, no longer blocked by his own voice, so gently that it was almost as if he was being physically touched by your voice. Your accent was not strong, but it was perceptible, something that he attributed to your multilingual abilities. "Sorry to barge in like that. It's nice to meet you. Dr. Brown told me a lot about you," you revealed, still smiling.

"It's okay. Nice to meet you too.” Tongue-tied. He felt illiterate, close to a woman who he was not supposed to have certain types of thoughts around. You breathed out a huff of amusement at his widened eyes.

There was a bit of an awkward silence when you both noticed that none of you had let go of the other's hand yet. With a clear of your throat and his fugitive glance, you both composed yourselves, retreating from your touch. "He said," you started with a chuckle, "and I quote, that you are now his eyes, ears, hands and brain in here. So, beforehand, I want to say that I truly appreciate your support and help." You said, politely, to which he smiled nervously with a shaky nod.

"It's no problem, really. Dr. Brown is one of the greatest here and it'd be naive of me to not accept his request."

You grinned, agreeing. "Yeah, he is a great man. Well, I believe you are more familiar with all the devices than I am." You said, motioning to the set-up behind him. "I do have these back at my university, but yours is a bit different from what I can see. I suppose they work the same way, but, to be honest, I don’t want to mess anything up."

Spencer blinked, scientist mode on full swing. "Yeah, yeah." He nodded, looking at her again. "You don't have to worry, I was just checking the last details before starting the experiments. Everything is already settled, but I can talk you through it if you want to conduct the experiment by yourself at some point.” He trailed. Curiously, he added, “If I may ask, what made you interested in this research?"

Your heart's happiness bursted into sparkles in your eyes as you smiled, glad that he asked you about it. You talked him through it, giving him specific details as he sat and listened like you were the most brilliant brain in the entire world. As you talked, he remembers feeling his lips twitching up in a small smile. Once you were done, encouraged by your honesty and heartfelt explanation, he revealed with a faint dust of pink on his cheeks, "I know. I, um, I searched and read some of your papers last night.”

"Really?" You asked, cordial.

"I try my best to get to know my professors' fields before meeting them. It's a way I found to keep my brain entertained and to get ready for what's coming next." He admitted softly, mentally patting himself on the back for not stuttering.

"That is a good approach. I must say I wish I had that kind of mindset when I was your age."

"It’s okay. You've been doing a great job."

Silence. Understanding from both parts.

"But... to answer your question, I have been really interested in working with language lately, more than usual, at least." You chuckled softly. Spencer couldn't stop his own grin at your enthusiasm, eager to hear your voice.

You agreed once he offered to show you how their device worked, sitting on the chair in front of it. Spencer motioned for you to go ahead and place your chin on the small stand. He took notice of your hands when you placed them on the desk, bitten nails and small, red spots on their edges. It concerned him, but he brushed it off, thinking it could have been a simple nervous habit, knowing he had no business asking or worrying about you. You were his professor, after all. "Whenever I lead this experiment with my students, they always tell me they feel like they are at the ophthalmologist."

Spencer chuckled. "Yeah. It does feel like it. You can't even move an inch."

You followed the instructions on the computer screen so that the device would follow your eye movements. It worked quickly, which made you pleasantly surprised and it was hard to hide it from your tone, "This is faster than any other I have tried before."

"Welcome to our university."

As you worked on the experiment, answering to the commands on the scream silently, the device following your orbs, Spencer took his time to study your features. Your hair was neatly up in a ponytail, dainty earrings adorning your ears that matched your gentle features. All your sharpness, if you had any, was in your eyes. An intense gaze that made him falter a bit, as if his brain had the need to stop for a second to store the sight of your gaze on him to remember it for good. Your movements were calm and collected, and, ironically, you looked rather young to be a doctor.

Once you had finished, you didn't pull away immediately from the device. The computer could no longer pinpoint where your eyes were, because then they were directed at Spencer instead glancing at him as if studying him, taking him in to remember his features like a quote that you knew by heart. As he turned to look at you, he started explaining how to save a volunteer's progress and, honestly, you were only half listening, focusing on his mild mannerisms, voice and use of language. You nodded here and there, absentmindedly storing that information. You two departed after exchanging some more information, mostly him guiding you through the campus, talking about each department and what was the fastest and best way to get to the building you were staying at.

Spencer remembers going home with renewed interest. He couldn't help but think about the way you portrayed yourself, the way you talked and moved, almost as if you were an ethereal being that was placed on Earth by an unfortunate mistake. Even though he had been unable to come up with a face for you last night as he read your thoughts, you had been an enchanting surprise. Unable to stop the thought, he gave it some indulgent room: you would, somehow, be a distraction. And he was crazy to get to know in which way.

A couple days went by without Spencer seeing you. You were quite busy yourself with the lectures you were planning and teaching. That morning, though, he had found you teaching Dr. Brown's previous class. It was surprising, and mildly irritating, to see that the class was the most crowded it had ever been. Taking a good look around and listening to a few comments that bothered him to no end, he found out the reason. Some of them wanted to simply see you. The thought was like being bathed in scorching water. He chose to sit in the front, because he thought, petulant, that you would know and remember his face and his face alone. As you entered the classroom and greeted the students with a warm good morning, you were pleasantly surprised to see Dr. Reid in the front row.

After neatly arranging your belongings on the desk, you started your class on the dot. “Hello, everyone. I am professor L/N and I am here to take over Dr. Brown's class.” You started, voice precisely clear. “Now, I understand that some of your colleagues might be running late for some reason. I don't mind if you are late at some point, but try not to make it a habit because it might disrupt our class. I do tend to start my lectures on the dot in respect to those who managed to get here on time. Today, we will talk about…”

You spoke gently, but you had your boundaries set and clear, which made Spencer squirm a bit. Seeing you so sure of yourself, so assertive, made something stir deep within him. Besides, the dumbstruck look of the many students gave him enough clue that he was not the only one feeling a little affected by you and your ways. As you went on and on about the topic, you gestured with your pretty hands, making smart remarks and cracking some light jokes that made everyone a lot less nervous around you. The new, pretty professor.

The topic, behavior, sounded redundant, at that point, because he had studied that subject over and over again, tiringly, exhaustingly, but there was just something about the way you spoke, about your mannerisms that he couldn't look away. You had a way with words, and he was fascinated by how you managed to make some more complex subjects so understandable to students, even if you sometimes drifted deeper into a certain concept, only to go back to them later. He couldn't even speak. The class was relieved while he was troubled.

“Huh, that's odd. Half of you are not in the roll.” You commented, turning the lights back on. “Is this correct?” You muttered to yourself, afraid that maybe you had the data of another class instead.

A girl suddenly spoke up, “Many of us are auditing.”

“Oh?” You wondered. “How many of you?”

Quickly calculating, Spencer bitterly noticed that about 70% percent of the class raised their hands. He wanted to think that it had to do with the fact that these people weren't around for Professor Brown. You smiled, warmly. It was a punch to the gut. “Well, I hope you enjoyed the lecture.

It was when the students slowly exited the class that he was able to reach you, gathering your papers and looking content. Sharply gentle eyes, impeccable posture and pristine clothes found his gaze and he found that he didn't want to look at anything else. He didn't seem to be ready to have that small heart attack every morning. He felt equal parts of embarrassment and a flutter on his belly. He approached you calmly, and as you greeted him, there was a warm look on your face. "Hi. Good morning, Dr. Reid.”

“You did a great job,” he blurted out, voice a bit strained. You only pretended you didn't notice. “Good morning.” He remembered to greet you back. Nice.

Your voice was low as you muttered a soft "thank you."

"Of course." He said, fiddling with the strap of his bag.

"I never asked... What is your field?” You inquired, curiously, grabbing your bag and walking side by side with him, exiting the room.

Spencer had that answer nearly tattooed on his brain. “I have PhDs in Chemistry, Engineering and Mathematics,” he started, nonchalantly, as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I also have a BA in Sociology and Philosophy. This is my third one, Psychology.”

“How old are you?” You blurted out, baffled.

“23. I, uh, I graduated from school at the age of 12.”

You stood there, speechless. Of course you knew that that was possible in some countries, but the casualness in his tone got to you more than his exceptional educational background. “That is… unreal.” You whispered. “You are so young and… and… You are still absorbed with learning.”

He chuckled, shrugging, delighted by your compliment. “Yeah, I guess… Not many people would make the same choices as I would.”

Your entire body froze, including your hidden hand, because his words had hit a particular spot within you. You gave him a nod, agreeing. “Well, it is still impressive.”

“I appreciate it.” He said, looking down and missing the slight dejection on your face. Nevertheless, his heart fluttered at the praise coming from you.

Shaking off the dark thoughts, you started again, “If I may ask, why did you switch from STEM to Humanities?” You asked, now mildly amused as he looked at you, taking the stairs with him to the office. Occasionally, your shoulders brushed.

“Curiosity.”

“Is that all?” You asked, puzzled.

“I was always surrounded with a wide access to books and overall knowledge. My mother was a Literature teacher.” He explained, a small smile gracing his face.

“That must have been nice. You must know a lot about the classics. They are my favorite kind of Literature.”

“They were good distractions, I guess… I wasn't, uh, the most popular kid growing up.” He trailed off.

“Me neither,” you said.

Spencer noticed that you walked with a hand on your pocket, but couldn't say anything about it, too much more focused on the way he seemed to be bathed in a newfound confidence around you. As you reached the office, he quickly placed his belongings on the leather couch by the door. With a low whine of disappointment, which caught your eye, he announced, “If you'll excuse me, I have to get a few books from the library.”

It was better than saying, hey, I was too distracted by you that I forgot that I also have responsibilities.

“Oh, sure. Go ahead. I'll be here.”

“Thanks.”

The door closed with a soft click, and you found yourself all alone again. Taking a look around, you busied yourself by analyzing your surroundings. There was a wall covered by huge, tall, dark shelves, cramped with books. The piece of furniture reached the roof with all sorts of technical literature. A small glass cabinet on the opposite wall showcased trinkets from all over the world, kids drawings and family pictures. A leather couch, cushions and an equally dark wooden desk adorned the room as well. A white light brightened the room, illuminating his titles, and a yellowish one lightened a painting on the wall, made by Dr. Brown's daughter, of the beach they visited frequently. It made you irrationally jealous. The reminder that other people had constant remnants of love was a stab to your chest, and you looked away from the bitter/sweet reminders.

Suddenly, your eyes got a glimpse of Spencer's belongings: technical books, a satchel bag, his coat and a small notebook. You wondered what he would write about in there, whether it was some sort of planner or he just thought out loud on those pages. You fought the urge to touch his stuff, deciding to sit on the couch after shrugging off your coat and laying it close to Spencer's things.

Still plagued by an annoying flicker of envy, you picked your ring, analyzing it with fierce focus between your fingers. The material, white gold, was supposed to adorn your hand for the rest of your life. The only personal thing about it was that it had been custom-made, by demand, just for you. A wedding band was supposed to hold, to be a souvenir of the deepest commitment of love. But as fate would have it, it had been nothing but an object. It held no meaning, since you and your husband easily slid it off when it was convenient.

There was a small date carved on the inside part of the ring. Neither you or Oliver wanted any stronger reminders of each other. To you, he was merely tolerable, and you struggled to feel anything but sorry for him. Despite the fact that you were helplessly coerced into marriage, you despised him for never having the guts of chasing a life, instead busying himself with living the fleeting pleasures that his parents' money provided him, spending his endless vacations overseas, sleeping around. A typical bohemian. A bon-vivant. The fact made you bitter. How does one possess every kind of mean and doesn't care to improve themselves as a person?

Inevitably, you were pulled into a strong stream of memories.

The sun filtered through the curtains, illuminating the dining room that held uncountable and expensive decorations. What caught your eye, though, is a much too long and large table with endless chairs. You remember thinking it was over the top, since neither you or Oliver would plan to have guests over. Swallowing your remarks, you smiled to your father and exchanged a look with your sister-in-law, not bothering to look at Oliver and therefore missing his awestruck look. It was the first time you were visiting the big house with its endless rooms, windows and useless areas. You ignored the subtle meaning of it: you were supposed to carry on your families’ names. The mason had been your parents’ gift, so you decided to stay quiet about it, not commenting on the tacky, outrageous muchness of things. You had learned the hard way not to fight back when it came to their decisions.

From a very young age, you were special. A charming, intelligent, quick-witted child who busied herself with studies and books who had a series of leisure time activities to go through during her free time. Hence, you grew up exceptional. You were always the center of attention somehow; being the first grandkid from both sides of your family granted you a few privileges, you held their entire focus, entertaining them with your particular and curious behavior during their gatherings. Whenever they showed up, your parents would remember some new ability for them to show you off. Playing the piano, chess, languages… You were always in the top of the class, in the best schools, surrounded by kids your age that belonged to the best families.

It was with a deep, heartbreaking sadness that you realized that you had their attention for your potential and everything you could add to their name. Nobody ever played with the first child.

Beautiful, graceful, wistful, clueless little you.

Your family’s connections and endless activities for you had been how you met Oliver in the first place. A smart, easy on the eyes boy who became a smooth talker as he grew older. You were friends from a very young age, but nothing more. You were always too caught up on working on yourself and your abilities in order to charm everyone that romance was something you couldn't even begin to fathom — it was nothing but a strange and distant feeling. You kept things platonic between you and him, spending time, mostly listening. Oliver would tell you all about his interests, and when the age came, he would tell you, rather technically, how his endeavors with other girls went.

You never thought of Oliver as more than a friend. In fact, his manners grew to annoy you, like a small barb in your shoe, if you were totally honest — not that you would dare to. You simply endured his existence, saving your reviles for yourself, because, growing up, you never knew what it was to freely express yourself. How lacking it was to grow up not knowing what it was to speak your mind freely without a strong reprimand of some sort.

Such painful dawnings had only taken place at the age of 20, when your parents and Oliver's had agreed to marry the both of you. Unable to fight back, you simply watched it happen. It was so damaging and traumatic that you could barely remember the times you had spent together, everything was just a big knot of confusing memories to which you felt more like an spectator than an actor. Over the course of the years, Oliver and you would make public appearances, but you had told him, on the first night after your marriage, that he was free to do whatever he wanted, as long as he didn't ruin your image. No. Not the one you had dedicated your entire life building.

Throughout the entire thing, your sister-in-law had been your anchor. A distant one, that sits in the bottom of the sea, as you navigated through your own life. Being too close to you was a sad reminder of your situation and she was aware of that. She had her friends and connections, unknowingly, check on you, though. She was all in for pretending her sad excuse of a brother didn't exist. Theresa and Oliver were polar opposites: a hard-working woman and a sluggish man.

Eventually, as you both moved through the world, engrossed in your true passions, Oliver had truly found someone. Someone you didn't bother learning the name of. Someone, you preferred to think, that didn't know about you and that if she did, she truly didn't care. The feeling was mutual. You, on the other hand, delved deeper into your studies, busying yourself to the fullest. It was nice, in a way, because that way, you were shielding yourself from the world and your inevitable, eternal struggle of a loveless life in the only way you knew how: through being someone.

It was far from a solution, but that's where it ended. It had been years since the last time you heard your name coming from someone else's lips. You didn't dream of it happening anytime soon. You didn't let it happen, anyway. Every advance was cut before it turned into expectations.

A small gasp erupting between your lips broke you out of your reverie when you heard the lock being harshly handled, which made you bolt straight to the door, dropping the ring on the floor. Opening it, you saw Spencer struggling to balance a huge pile of books and a tray with two cups of coffee. He thanked you softly when you offered to help him, your skin touching his briefly, jolts of something unknown coursing through both of your bodies. Pulling away, you placed the books on the desk, searching his eyes as he blushed like crazy.

“I got you coffee… I don't know how you take it, so I got it black with two sugars. There are many options these days, which can make choosing one a challenging decision, since there are undeniable and endless possibilities of you being allergic to some of the ingredients. Of course, there are also chances of cross-contamination. Now that I think about it, I should have probably gotten you tea. Oh, my God. Do you even drink coffee?” He finished, almost panting.

You stifled out a laugh. His ways were endearing. “It's okay, Dr. Reid. I'll drink it. I'm not allergic nor prefer tea over coffee. Okay?”

“Okay.” He said, puppy eyes finding yours again.

“Thank you, by the way. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He said, smiling softly.

It quickly turned into your go-to order.

—

Students came and went, and you made conversation with them, which made you all the more endearing for Spencer. You asked about their day, how they ended up there, and you looked genuinely interested in their answers. It could be a stretch, but Spencer felt that, much like himself, you wanted to make connections — but not the professional kind. You wanted to belong somewhere, from the way your eyes held an intimate and unwavering hint of sadness when you heard their answers, but none of them had the nerve to ask you back. It was expected, though, because no one would think of a professor as a friend. The entire time, you were being addressed as such or as Dr.. You couldn't blame them. That was who you were, too lost in that character to remember who you actually were. If you had been someone, that is.

As Spencer sat behind the computer, ready to access today's tests, you chatted with a freshman student. Glancing at the clock, the girl with excited mannerisms almost shrieked, “Oh, my God! Is it that late already?! I have to go to my piano class.”

“Sorry to hear that,” you said, sounding a bit deflated. “It was nice to meet you, Dana. I'm really happy you've helped us.”

“Anytime, professor! Bye!” She said, walking through the door and closing it behind her.

You turned to Spencer, a hint of longing in your expression. “Are you leaving as well?”

“Not yet. I want to go over our results for the day.”

“Oh!” You exclaimed, approaching him to lean by his side on the desk, supporting your weight on one arm as your other hand touched the back of his chair. He could smell your perfume, something uniquely different, aromatic and so fitting. “Does it compare results automatically?” You asked, turned to look at him.

“Unfortunately, no,” he muttered, unfocused, eyes scanning all over your face, focusing especially on your lips. “I have to do that myself, which is why I'll take longer to leave. If we leave this for the last minute, it'll be much more stressful.”

“Slow and steady it is, then.” You said, grinning. “I'll stay to help you.”

—

Spencer remembers when he started feeling a lot stronger about you.

You were in the office, decorating it as your own. Spencer took notice of your belongings, trying to catch a glimpse of everything that made you yourself. There were abundant novels in many different languages filling the tall shelves, some souvenirs from different parts of the world, your titles… The analytic part of his brain took notice of the lack of family pictures and overall personal items. It was achingly professional and distant, the way you were setting your space. He couldn't help but chime in, “Is that all you're putting up?”

With a lopsided grin, you tried to justify, sensing his intentions. “I don't like cluttering.”

He didn't answer, sensing that it might be sensitive unknown territory. You unboxed a wood chess board, placing it on one of the bottom shelves. He looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. “Just in case someone wants to play,” you said, as you forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

The next day, Spencer walked through the office door with a box in hands. He hid it between the sofa and the wall. As you arrived, you talked briefly about the research, which was now coming to an end. Flopping down on the floor, crisscrossed and barefoot, you sighed, smiling as he updated you. “You know, I don't think I've ever been happier.”

“Yeah?” He asked, curiously.

“It almost feels unreal, how kind life's been to me lately.” You revealed, voice trembling a bit with emotion.

“Somehow, that's hard to believe.”

“Is that so?” You asked, playfully. Spencer had to swallow before your mischievous smile. A new expression on your face that he found that he quite liked.

“I mean, look around. You have everything some people think it takes to be happy.”

“You're right. Some people. I don't.” You retorted with a dip of your chin.

“What would make you happy, then?” He inquired, eager to find out. To become it.

You breathed in, closing your eyes. “I'll let you know once I figure it out.”

Should he say it? Would it be indelicate? Insensitive? Too much? Too straightforwa— “You sound a little hopeless.”

“Maybe I am.” You said, almost shrugging. Like it's not a big deal.

“You shouldn't be.” He retorted, sitting down in front of you.

“What makes you so certain?”

“You're young.”

“If anything, that only feeds despair, to some extent.” You said, distantly.

Internal battle at full extent, once again. “You know… I… I have been keeping an eye on you.”

You tilt your head the slightest bit, gaze unwavering. “What do you mean?”

Spencer struggled to form coherent thoughts, to articulate his own ideas before blurting them out rather excitedly. “You seem so… different. It's almost like you're out of this world. It's fascinating, actually. You're very deep in your own little world. Even the way you speak tells something about loneliness. So well, eloquently—”

“Susan Sontag.”

He smiled, satisfied. “See? How would you remember a quote by heart if your mind was filled with some things else?”

Against your will, you agreed. “You're right, Dr. Reid.”

Silence. He stood up, walking to grab the box behind the couch. He came back and sat in front of you once again, but this time, his knee brushed yours and neither of you mentioned it. You welcomed the warmth. Spencer hid the one coloring his cheeks. “Call me Spencer.”

“What is that?”

“Flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“You need some life around here.”

You giggled, absolutely delighted when you saw the box, containing an orchid Lego set. Spencer fought against his every instinct to just pull you into his arms at the sound that twisted his insides instantaneously. It was the first time he had heard you laugh, a rich, funny sound that seemed to have erupted from your own soul. “Is this for me? Because, you know, this might be the best thing I've ever gotten.”

“Oh, really?” He asks, feigning sarcasm. “I could've sworn it was the original piece on your wall.”

“Thank you, Spencer.”

“You're welcome.”

Despite your position, your posture was as elegant as it had ever been. He placed the pieces between the two of you. Eventually and almost silently, like a personal prayer, he learned how to call you by your name upon your insistence. With a soft look in his eye, he relented. Everything about him seemed to tell you that he was there to help you build the set. That it was alright, because he was there.

You two stood up, one at a time, once you had finished the set. Standing by the window, you glanced at the pretty plastic orchids that now were placed on your desk, right next to your name, a funny little piece amidst such a formal environment. He followed you after a brief moment of doubt. “You know, Spencer,” you uttered and he thought he might be addicted to the chain of sounds that makes up his name falling from your lips as he watched them, mesmerized. “Thank you so much for this. It's a nice feeling. Like I have a friend.”

You both shared the intimacy of a glance with each other. You decided to elaborate, too shaken by the thought of your loneliness being palpable. “You're right… I've always been a bit on the lonely side.”

He was pleased to see so much honesty from your end, and happy to see something of himself in you. He swallowed, trying to control these thoughts and keeping his composure. “I think you're very easy to get along with.”

“That's the first time I hear that.”

Spencer couldn't help the wince that came with the stabbing pain he felt at your revelation. “It's true. I…” Who are these people? “I think you're very easy to like.”

You thanked him again, quietly, lowering your gaze to the space between the two of you. Seemingly under a spell that had been casted by the way you let your guard down, ignoring the nervous pit on his stomach and not taking the time to process the whirlwind of thoughts and feelings running through him. You stood so close, if he could just— “Looking from up here, all people look so tiny.”

“Considering the extent of the universe, we are pretty tiny.”

You snorted, shaking your head softly. “Proportion changes perspective, huh, Spencer?”

Losing control over his words, utterly lost, he continued, “I also… I find you pretty… pretty.”

Your eyes glanced up to meet his. Spencer tried to read your expression, desperate to see if you were surprised, disgusted, uncomfortable or if you welcomed his words. Instead, he found a hint of longing in your eyes that he couldn't begin to understand. “I… I don't know what to say.”

Compliments were a sensitive, unknown territory for you. You only knew what these were if you outdone yourself in whatever earned you attention. Sighing, you looked at him, almost guilty.

“Sorry, I… I shouldn't have said anything.” He cringes, avoiding your gaze.

“It… It wasn't.” Deep breath. “It's just that… you're…”

Were there words in the English language for these feelings?

“I know. I didn't… I don't expect you to say anything in return,” he says, almost dejectedly. The truth is out and he can't take it back. “I just wanted to come clean. And I think that it's not just looks that draw me to you.”

You stood there, speechless.

“You're not mad? Or… or offended?” He tries.

You looked at his widened, scared eyes. It made you want to soothe him — the instinct disconnecting your mouth from any sense of ethics or decency that ran through your brain. Taking another deep breath, scared to death, “I’m actually flattered. You're a very beautiful person, inside and out, but… but… I'm your professor, Spencer, and older than you.” You said, voice wavering slightly as you got to look into his eyes again.

“Somehow… when I think about you… neither of these seem to be a problem. I can't—not think about you.”

His words crafted a small crack. There would forever be a memory in your brain of the exact same moment when his words settled in. You fell to pieces, and as you did, you felt yourself losing control of your own actions, of your sense of ethics or principles. Before you thought it through, as you felt every sense of reason leaving your body, you tilted your head up, a silent, welcoming consent of his lessening distance. Spencer, who looked almost pained with so much want, let out tiny puffs of breath as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He couldn't believe you were seemingly taking a risk like that, but he found that he couldn’t and didn't want to hold back any longer. The young man, very carefully, cradled your cheeks, bravely holding your glance as he caressed the soft skin of your cheek with his thumb. Time stood still when you closed your eyes, slowly, and he tilted your chin up the slightest bit, angling you just the way he needed. The touch, the existence of you was so intense and overwhelming that it made him shiver, and he was failing to keep his hands from shaking. Following the stream of whispered truths, you added, “I want to give you something to truly think about. I need your permission.”

Softly, Spencer brushed his lips against yours as he closed his eyes. It was gentle, tentative, almost experimental. The touch, albeit subtle, calmed his every nerve, and his shoulders relaxed at the contact. A shaky exhale left his lips when you pulled him in, placing your hand on the nape of his neck, the feeling grounding and safe. When your lips interlock together, it's a moment of realization; he doesn't think that he wanted something so badly without even knowing what it actually was.

Your touch is tender, as if you were both afraid that harshness would steal one from the other, relishing in the moment and in the rush of sensations that were unknown to the both of you. Spencer was so afraid that you were going to pull away and run, but he just couldn't control himself as he slid his tongue into your mouth, basking in the small satisfied sound that you made, his hands gripping your waist. You, on the other hand, felt as if you had been pushed into a sea of hot, scalding water. No touch had ever made you feel like that, and your desperation had you now tightly gripping at his vest, trying to get him impossibly closer to you. Your bodies pressed against each other set a trail of fire between the two of you, and the kiss gradually became more urgent. Violent, even.

When you pull back, he doesn't let you go far, his face only inches away, barely registering that you actually needed to breathe so great was his need to feel you against him once more. Panting, you leaned your forehead against his, not ready to open your eyes and see his face. You'd be lost.

“At least now I have something proper to think about.”

Flustered at him using your own words against you, you couldn't meet his gaze. You tried to say something, but all the courage pumping through your veins seemed to have found a way out of your system, leaving you helpless, utterly defeated into silence. A small feeling of guilt started to grow inside you, and you were warring against it. You had just kissed a student in your workplace when you were trying to have a fresh start. Spencer, noticing your turmoil, was quick to engulf you in a hug. The action, so simple, worked like a balm to your nerves, and you allowed yourself to take a deep breath, inhaling his scent, which had just become your favorite. You didn't want to let him go, neither did you know if you would ever be able to.

Resting his chin on your shoulder, he cradles the back of your head. Under the sofa, lies a small, shiny object that was long forgotten due to both its irrelevance in your life and the first moment of genuine affection you've ever experienced.

—

You remember how it felt like to lose control of yourself.

It had been days since the secret kiss you shared with Spencer and it had been the last time you saw him. Your days were filled with endless phone calls with lawyers and Theresa, desperate to find yourself free from your doom excuse of a… marriage? It seemed offensive to even relate that word to whatever you had been forced upon doing. Your nights were spent by your bedroom window, watching as people came and went, noticing with heartbreak how distant you seemed to be from everyone. You were a stranger in many ways, but above all, you were a stranger to yourself. Every little manifestation of action or thought made you inevitably remember all the people and their behavior that shaped you into whatever you are today.

And then there was Spencer. Spencer, whose touch was making you feel constantly equal parts guilty and entranced. Spencer, who was spamming your email inbox, wondering where you were. Spencer, who was the only person you truly allowed yourself to think about. The sight of him haunted your nights and the ghost of his voice echoed inside your head when you were sitting around in the empty studio. It was supposed to be refreshing, really, how his mere existence made a new flicker of hope bloom in your chest that had been unknown thus far. It was bold to call it hope, but you preferred to do that because there was no other word, no other feeling that you knew well enough to associate it with the memory of him.

You had forgotten the sound of your voice. The only thing your apartment walls heard in the time span of three days and three nights had been the following string of words:

“Theresa, are you there? Can we talk?”

—

Spencer remembers how it felt to miss you like a lost puzzle piece.

It had been days and your silence was upsetting him like nothing ever had. Sick of replaying that moment over and over, he decided to find you instead. It was late at night as he walked your street after pondering whether he should or not confront you about your silence. There wasn't much to discuss. It was just a kiss — secretly, he was scared that you would argue so —, but the lack of news from you had him feeling on edge. A tall building, endless windows. On the fifth floor, he could make a figure staring out into the city, and he couldn't begin to explain where the strength came from to run up to where you were. There was only one apartment per floor, so he knocked impatiently on your door.

501.

Upon hearing the sound, you stared, a bit scared, at the door. Opening a small slit, you saw him and your entire body froze. You closed it immediately, fear etched into your features as if he was an impending threat. As if he could cause you any harm.

“Please,” he cried, resting his forehead on the door. He tried not to compare the stiffness of the object to the softness of your skin. A clear of his throat. “Please. Nobody's seen you for days. I… I haven't seen you in days.”

There was a minute of mortifying silence, but he decided to wait. What was another moment if he had waited for you for so long? Spencer let out another plea, this time, calling you by your name.

You let him in, but you couldn't meet his gaze. Nevertheless, he noticed your bloodshot eyes. Speaking your name softly, he inquired, worryingly, approaching you. “What happened to you?”

You took a small step back, straightening your posture once you realized how close he was getting to you. The action made your heart shatter. “Don't,” you pleaded, soft-spoken as ever.

“Look at me.” He croaked, pleadingly, timorous.

Reluctantly, you met his eyes. They were confused, questioning, and it was a first on his expression. You felt guilty for doing this to him. “I can't do this to you, Spencer. I can't.”

“Please… Talk to me. Don't shut me out.”

“We can't do this. I'm your professor, and, and…”

“Are you seriously pulling the professor card? I'm not one of those undergraduate students. I'm me. It's me. We've been so close and when I think something finally might happen, you disappeared. It wasn't fair.”

Each of his words were stabs in your already hanging by a thread heart. Rip the band-aid.

“I'm married.”

There was a moment of stunned silence from his end. You knew how cruel it was to use your formal marital state to avoid him from coming any closer, but you tried not to dwell on it. This was it. Spencer deserved better. And for the first time in your life, you couldn't be better. His silence made your stomach churn painfully, aware of the ache you were causing him, and desperate to be the one to soothe the damage you had done.

Spencer, on the other hand, stared at you blankly. Almost skeptically, even. You'd have analyzed it better if you weren't too busy with your own turmoil about him. “I don't see him anywhere,” he finally said, defiantly.

Surprise took over your features, and before you could form another painful remark, Spencer approached you decisively. “Where is him, huh?”

Cutting you off as you opened your mouth to speak, once again, he scowled. “Damn him. I would do anything just to have you around.”

The crack was now big enough that he could see all parts of you from where he stood. Right then, though, the glimpse he caught before you violently smashed your lips against his was enough to haunt him for a lifetime. Your gaze, so utterly tired yet determined, looking at him as if he was the only thing in your entire world — perhaps he was. The kiss was demanding, fueled by sheer animalistic hunger. You had been hungry your entire life, deprived of the simplest pleasures and there he was, ignoring all your lackness. You failed to think of a motive for his actions, but you decided that you utterly didn't care. To feel seen like that was enough of a reason for you.

His tongue pushed into your mouth, exploring every inch with a neediness that surprises even him. You gripped at his shirt's collar as his hands tangled in your hair, tightly, almost afraid you'd disappear. Neither of you recognized your own actions, everything was far too new for you to know how to act properly, losing yourself in each other, consumed by the unique, addicting taste of your kisses and the heat building between you. The sizzling, almost bothersome feeling in your core, combined with the intensity of his kiss left you feeling lightheaded. He pulls away, reluctantly, squeezing his eyes shut, as if refraining from doing something. You rest your forehead against his. Uneven breaths mingle together as you had your eyes on him, waiting for the final blow, when he would look back at you. “Let me in,” he croaked. “I wanna be yours.”

Don't.

“You deserve so much more than this. Than what I'm able to offer you,” you whisper in a ragged breath, closing your eyes, hands now softly holding his head.

“I'll take anything you are.”

You winced, a helpless crease finding its way between your brows. “You don't get it, do you? I can't. I can't do this to you. I don't know how to do this.”

He softened, hands never leaving your skin and eyes never leaving yours. “You don't have to know anything. I don't know it either. I just wanna be yours tonight.”

Silence.

“Is it because of him?”

You promptly retorted. “No. It's not because of him.”

“From now on, it's me.”

Spencer crashed his lips to yours, barely giving you time to let his words sink in. Seemingly trying to convey his emotions, his willingness to beg for you to let him in, his devotion to be yours in that moment. Brushing your fear of not getting him to stay, you gave in, too blinded by the sheer strength of the burning within you. Spencer kissed you deeper as you slid your tongue inside his mouth, ravishing and relishing in the taste of him. A small moan broke through you when he gripped your tighter, leading you to the nearest surface — conveniently, the bed. Spencer barely had time to take in his surroundings when he got there, too busy with you and the strong pull between the two of you, but his body unconsciously and seemingly knew exactly where to take yours.

You had now entered a land reserved for only the two of you. You looked at him, softly placing you on the bed, kissing all over you, as if you were something worth looking at, worth worshipping. The tears streamed down your face freely, and he kissed each of them as they bloomed again. “Let it all out. I'm here.”

Intertwining your fingers on the nape of his neck, adjusting so that he was between your legs, you looked at him intently while he lowered the straps of your cami top, eyes never leaving yours, lips caressing your collarbone gently. The action made you shiver, and you were under his trance, taking whatever he wanted to give you, signaling over and over that you allowed him to be yours, just like he asked to be. In hindsight, he was making you his.

Gingerly, you leaned up to reach his jawline, kissing and nipping at the soft skin, trying to find an outlet for all the overwhelming feelings and fire inside you. He moaned softly, basking in the feeling of being marked so gently, already satisfied with the mere thought that he would have something of yours to remember. It was when you were undoing his shirt, not so accidentally brushing your fingertips against his fiery skin that a wave of pleasure, embedded with a persistent feeling of guilt, crawled its way into your thoughts. You were like a helpless being caught between the fight of two violent ends, and you found that you loved it. You loved being at their mercy. You loved being at his mercy.

Quickly getting rid of your top, Spencer leaned even lower, brushing his skin against yours, which elicited a series of goosebumps to erupt on your skin. You clenched your hands after retreating them from his body, desperately trying to find something that could ground you instead of feeling everything all at once. He was overwhelming, and he had barely touched you. “I never knew I could feel like this,” you breathed out, unable to keep the truth from him any further when he skimmed his fingertips against your ribs, touching with the most desperate of delicacies.

Grinding against you, he whispered, rushed, “Do you feel how much I want you? I see you and I want you. Let me in.”

Spencer's words, albeit simple, were hitting many unreached places within you. Without breaking eye contact and a bit clumsily, you two got rid of the remnants of your clothes, baring yourselves to each other in more ways than one. Spencer, still accommodated between your legs, eased himself so easily into you, making you hold on tightly to his arms, you two both letting out strangled noises at the feeling. You, beneath him, around him, enveloping his length in the most pleasant wet warmth, sucking him in, gripping, squeezing, never letting him go. A broken sob erupted as he mumbled, “I missed you so much.”

You could barely find your voice, too lost in the sense of him on top of you. The taste, the sight, the smell of him inebriated you like no drug ever could. “Ah—I missed you too,” you whimpered. “You… have no idea.”

“Show me, then.”

Desperately, you pulled him in for another searing kiss, trying to convey how much his absence had made you feel, how guilty you felt by putting what it felt then like an unnecessary distance between the two of you. Trying to get closer, impossibly closer than you ever had been before. The sensations were shattering, and you found that you didn't want to be put together again. No, you were gladly ruined for the rest of your life. Scratches down his back, bites on his lower lip and an endless stream of whimpers left your lips complemented the exhilarating experience as he watched how you reacted to him.

Lowering your gaze to where your bodies met, you were met with an exquisite sight, how he pulled away just to shove his cock back inside you making you dizzy as he had his way with you. Following your line of sight, Spencer moaned as he saw the mess between you two, how his skin began to stick to yours as your arousal glimmered on his skin. Fully sheathed again, you cried out, “There's—mmmm—so much of you in me.”

“Will you remember me?” He asked, resuming his thrusts, violently shaken by your words. He wanted to give you all of him.

Struggling to speak, your entire body trembling with the force of his strokes, you stuttered, “I could never forget you.”

His hips halt their movements. He asks, pointedly, with a stark gaze that burned its memory into your very soul, "Say you'll remember," he whimpered with a small sigh. It was difficult to tell if it was from neediness, impatience, frustration or anything else.

It was not the time for semantics, but you smiled despite yourself as the tears started to to steadily roll down your cheeks, and you replied with a shaky breath, "I'll remember you forever."

Spencer pushed in again, swallowing the strangled moan that left your lips as he kissed you intensely and your tears kissed his cheek as well. Your bodies embraced one another, as if they needed each other to exist. The moon and the sea. You tried to hold on to him, hands curling against the skin of his back and legs circling around his waist. Spencer, on the other hand, had a desperate hold on your waist, which would probably lead to faint marks of his fingers. You found that you didn't care, the astounding feeling of him against you, so forcefully and simultaneously lovingly, could use all the memories to tell you later it had been real. That you had been yours as much as you had been his that night.

The pleasure building within you was new, almost scary given its force to shake everything inside. Spencer was equally reeling, trying to prolong the moment as much as he could, too caught up on the existence of you to let it go anytime soon. With a mewl of his name, you let go, pleasure coursing through your veins and spreading through your body like being bathed by the sultriness of your moment together. The fever reached your heart, and with tearful eyes, you watched him as he released inside of you, eyes dazedly searching yours and his lips singing your name like a prayer.

On top of you, in that place of sheer veneration, your bodies tangled together like an abstract painting. Neither you or him made mention to move, too content in the feeling of sticking to the other.

"I'm not leaving,” he muttered after a while, nuzzling your neck.

"Spencer..."

"I'm not leaving. You'll wake up in the morning and I'll be here.”

—

Tonight, you aren't watching strangers from the windows of your office nor from the ones in your studio apartment. Instead, you are walking home with Spencer, hand holding hand, a firm, fierce, steady grip that never faltered.

You now exist, hearing your name being called several times a day. And so does he, the one proudly uttering said name, whenever he gets the chance. A small, simple reminder that you belong together.

dividers by @cafekitsune <3

[captain-huggy-bear]

“I was really trying not to wake you” with kesselring if you feel like it!! 💛

He's just a big, giant clumsy giraffe. A handsome one though. Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

You're cosy, warm in the way you only get when you're wrapped up in blankets that have taken on your body heat overnight. Cheek pressed into your pillow, arms wrapped tight around it, in that stage of sleep where the smallest thing could wake you. On the edge between dreaming and awake.

It's the sound of crashing that first starts drawing you from your sleep, the sound of Michael tripping over a pair of shoes he'd left in the middle of the floor, body going flying and slamming into the corner of dresser. The pointed edge landing solidly in his thigh.

"Shit, fuck! Ow! Fuck," You become more lucid, eyes blinking open, bleary and tired, as you push yourself up on one arm. Michael's holding his leg where he ran into the corner of the dresser, tripping backwards over a pile of his clothes he'd dumped there last night saying he'd deal with it in the morning, arms pinwheeling before he manages to right himself. Heaving a big sigh and dragging a hand down his face. He has yet to notice that you are awake and staring at him in the dark, the alarm clock displays big red numbers declaring it to be 5am.

"Michael?" Your voice is sleepy, so tired and the guilt hits Michael instantly when he looks over to see you staring at him. You're holding yourself up by one arm, other hand rubbing at your eyes to wake yourself up further. He had planned to sneak out to morning skate without waking you, so you'd get to sleep a little longer, it being a Saturday.

"Shit."

"Mike, are you okay?" You're starting to get up, pushing yourself to a seated position and he knows that if he doesn't stop you you'll swing your legs around and get fully out of bed to check on him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good! Go back to sleep, honey" He's already advancing on you, nearly tripping over his shoes again. Hoping that by getting closer you'll stay in the bed, where you belong, because its 5am on a Saturday and you don't have work.

"Mikey?"

You watch him as he sits down on the edge of the bed next to you, large hands coming up to your shoulders to gently push you back down from your seated position.

"I..I was really trying not to wake you, sorry, baby, promise I'm good. Go back to sleep.” Michael pulls the covers back up over you, tucking you in as he tries to convince you to stay in bed, that it's not worth waking up with him before the sun has even risen.

"I can't if you're not here..." You hate falling asleep without Michael, roadies are particularly tough. You often struggle to fall asleep, tossing and turning and while you'll probably be fine right now, half-asleep as you are, you really don't want to go back to sleep without him.

"I've got morning skate, honey, I have to go...I'll be back in a few hours, promise." Michael's long fingers push your hair back behind your ear, stroking the hair by your temple slowly, gently. It's soothing enough that you can't help but close your eyes again, snuggling back into the pillows, the mattress, your bedding.

"You promise?" Your voice is already getting sleepy again and Michael can't help but smile at the way you snuggle back into your nest and he strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers, the motion repetitive and soothing.

"Promise, sweetheart. Go to sleep."

He stays there longer than he really should. Stroking your hair, your cheek, until he hears your breath even out, until he knows you're asleep again. Then he creeps away, this time avoiding each and every obstacle that had caused him to wake you in the first place until he reaches the door to your bedroom.

He can't help but stop in the doorway, chin turned over his shoulder to watch you one last time before he leaves even when he knows he'll see you in a few short hours.

Even that feels too long sometimes.

[hunkygreenbean]

We have more in common with Trump voters than Trump voters do with Trump.

Read that again. And again. Read that as many times as you need to until you understand it.

I'm from Appalachia, and its filled with Trump supporters. But these folks are far from the rich bougie archetype you're imagining; there are mfs in my hometown living in trailers, getting their eggs from the plywood chicken coop out in the back, who have to drive 20 mins into town to wash and dry their clothes, who still willingly voted for Trump despite the fact that his policies will directly hurt the working poor.

So many Leftists exist within their own bubble of other urban Leftists. As I'm now entering college in an urban area, it's jarring to hear how Leftists talk about working, poor, and rural folks who just so happened to vote for Trump. Like yeah, there are definitely racist assclowns in my hometown who like Trump because of how he plans to deal with Latinos and Blacks, but I'd say a good 80% of those who voted for Trump did so because they were genuinely convinced that he would make life better for them on an economic level.

When you've lived through generations of poverty, and some flashy New York con man comes through and promises that if he gets rid of the Woke, you'll finally get money, is a very enticing offer to many of his voters. These are human beings that are in desperate straights who do not have the privilege of knowing how the economic workings of America and the world work because they are too fucking busy working 3 jobs to enrich their minds through education. This could have easily been any one of us just by sheer chance. There's nothing ontologically different about an urban leftist and a rural Trump supporter except Leftists (supposedly) have set aside their kneejerk reactions and put in a little more work to fully comprehend how the world around them works. Any one of us could have and still can be radicalized. Leftism is not a linear, progressive path where you just keep becoming more and more leftist. You can backslide, fall off, whatever. Same with Trumpism. These people can change, just as you were changed.

And so many fucking Leftists, both irl and on this website, wet their panties at the thought of the rural working poor losing vital resources just so they can point and laugh at the dumb hick MAGAts. I get that we're in a political shitstorm right now, but those are still human beings who deserve healthcare, food, clean water. These people need help, not your derision. I dont give a flying rat's ass if you think these people are nothing more than the shit on your toilet paper, but you still need to advocate for their human rights as well.

The whole reason Trumpism thrives is because its a cult. Cults operate by making their members feel cut off from the rest of the world, by positing that the mainstream hates them. When a Trump supporter leaves the cult of Trumpism, they need to see that we do not hate them so that way they can begin to heal from their time in the cult as well as begin to get involved in efforts to rescue more people from said cult. Even if you do hate them, can you at least force a smile, at least tolerate them? Even if they don't go for leftism, can you at least be happy that they've finally seen the light?

you can be hurt, you can be mad, and you certainly don't have to forgive former Trump supporters. But the thing with solidarity is that you stand up for all working folks, all the poor folks, all the backwoods hillbilles. You don't have to love all the people who happen to share the same race/class/disability/gender/sexuality/sex that you have, but you can't really pick and choose when all of our asses are on the line.

like idk as someone who has been deeply, disablingly affected by trump’s policies, i am never going to understand people who get so up in arms about the idea of a former trump voter realizing they fucked up and wanting to join progressive spaces instead. polarization in this country is what gave us trump. i am never going to agree that perpetuating that polarization is the right move.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

second chance. l Frankie "Catfish" Morales

Summary: you broke up after a quarrel, now you've met again

Warnings: angst, mentioning drug addiction, crying, breakup, mentioned Santi, some fluff at the end

A/N: I had to clear my head. I'm not proud of it, but I had to write something. Be gentle. Thank you for being here and reading these scribbles.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist][Frankie Morales masterlist]

"Hi, you look good."

You didn't expect those words, but you knew that voice so well that your heart skipped a beat. A strange feeling filled your body, as if someone had suddenly stripped you of all your insides and left you empty. Even though the pub was filled with people, suddenly it was just you and him.

"Hi, Frankie." You replied, trying to keep your voice neutral. "You look good too."

A small smile appeared on his lips, he probably realized that it was just a polite greeting. A greeting for those who know each other. But you were more than that, right?

You didn't expect to meet him in this pub that evening. It was a strange assumption, because after all, you lived in the same city. However, when you break up with someone, and that breakup was like a hurricane and an earthquake in one, you don't usually try to meet them again soon.

And so it was with you and Frankie. Almost a year ago, maybe a little longer. And now he was standing in front of you. In a clean shirt and dark jeans, in a cap you knew so well. Brown eyes stared at you with the same attentiveness as before. He really looked good. Like he had a good night's sleep, eaten a few solid meals and... was clean.

"Do you come here often?" he asked, he noticed you looking around the crowd of people looking for someone with your eyes. "Um, are you here with someone?"

"With a friend." you replied. "Do you remember Sarah?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I remember. A girls' night out?"

"Something like that. But no, I don't come here often. I don't have much free time."

Frankie smiled, and a part of your brain woke up sending you a signal - you loved his smile so much.

"I always thought you worked too much." he said, winking at you.

"That's not it." you looked down and there was silence for a moment.

You felt embarrassed by his presence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. You had worked through all the bad feelings you had when you broke up, and you actually missed him a little. Did it make sense? You had broken your hearts, but you still missed him. Was it masochistic?

"I've been going to school for a while now. You know, I told you about it. Back in the day..."

Frankie's eyes widened with interest as he remembered what you were talking about. "No, shit! Really? That's great! You've wanted to do this for a long time, so good for you."

A warm feeling crept up the back of your neck, but you smiled widely. "Thank you."

Frankie bit his lip and nodded in appreciation. "I've always thought you were incredibly smart. So that's what's taking up so much of your time now? That and work?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I go days without a proper meal or... I'm sorry, that must bore you."

"No! Go on, darling."

The sweet nickname slipped out of his mouth naturally, and it was even more natural when he took your elbow and led you a little to the side so you could talk in peace. The smell of his cologne filled your nostrils, you knew it so well. Your body began to react with pleasant excitement to his presence.

"And what about you? How's life?" you asked.

Frankie adjusted his cap and let out a breath. "Good. Quite good." he replied. "I changed companies, and now I have really good conditions."

"That's great."

"Yeah, I think so too."

It was late when he got home, but he could feel something was wrong from the very beginning. All the lights were on, and the noises coming from the bedroom were rather unusual.

Damn it, you should be asleep already. He didn't feel like starting another row, and they filled these walls almost every day. However, he dragged himself down the hallway and gently pushed the door open.

Frankie didn't expect this. There was an open suitcase on the bed. He noticed a bundle of your clothes thrown into it in disarray. The drawers in the dresser and the wardrobe were open.

He cleared his throat and took a step, but at the same moment you came out of the bathroom carrying your cosmetics in your hands. You stood there paralyzed when you saw Frankie in the doorway.

Your eyes were swollen from crying, but there was something else in them. Anger and stubbornness, determination.

"What's going on?" he asked in a slightly hoarse voice.

You lifted your chin slightly. "What does this look like?" you asked as well, quickly approaching the bed and throwing your things into the suitcase. With a graceful movement you closed it "I'm leaving. It's over."

A cold shiver ran down his spine. He took a few more steps and put his hands on his hips watching you struggle with the latches.

"Come on..." Frankie began "It's late. Let's talk about this."

You didn't react. Something inside him boiled and he grabbed the handle of the suitcase, dragging it across the bed towards him.

"Leave it!" you hissed, catching it and holding it "I'm not joking, Frankie! I'm leaving! I've had enough!"

"What this time?" he replied a little too loudly "You're making a scene!"

Before the words left his mouth he already knew he had overdone it. Your eyes widened in a second.

You reached into your pants pocket and after a moment you threw something at him. The small bag bounced off his broad chest and fell silently to the carpet. He recognized it immediately.

"I found it in the car. You must have dropped it last time." you growled.

"It's not like that..."

"Bullshit!" Tears welled up in your eyes. "I've been hearing the same lies for months! I know exactly why you got fired! I wanted to help you, and you promised me you'd never... Ohhh!"

You grabbed the handle of your suitcase and pulled it to the ground, then headed for the door. You pushed past him without letting him grab your arm. Frankie had taken you to the edge. You'd been together for almost two years, and you really loved him. But his addiction was becoming more important than you. You asked, you wanted to help.

The therapist you found for him told you that Frankie had only been to see him three times before he stopped showing up at all. He told you that he went there regularly. Then there were the problems at work and he got fired, he started coming home later and later, and when you were looking for something that had fallen on the floor of your car and you found that damn bag - you already knew.

Your heart was breaking with every step, but you knew that Frankie needed shock therapy. You knew you couldn't...

"Frankie!"

You almost reached the door when you suddenly lost ground under your feet. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and Frankie lifted you up. You started kicking your legs.

"Let me go!" you screamed.

"You're not going anywhere! You can't!" he thundered, putting you down and turning to face him "You have to listen to me, it's not like that..."

"Shut up! You've been lying all this time! All this time!"

"Not when I said I loved you, hermosa."

"Oh! Cut this shit! This isn't love!" your face was full of rage, you wanted to hurt him, to stick a needle in him so hard that it would hurt him for a long time "You just needed someone to clean up the mess after you! Someone to pat you on the head and let you do all this! You needed a pussy you could fuck!"

There was silence. Frankie's hands were gripping your shoulders tightly, his eyes darkened.

"You know that's not true." he finally said.

"Yeah? And what of what you're saying is true? Nothing. Zero. I wanted to help you, but you don't care at all." you jerked away "Let me go, Frankie."

"You have to listen to me..."

"Let me go! Now!"

His fingers loosened and you slipped out of his hands. You grabbed your suitcase again and this time you reached the door.

"I love you." his resigned voice reached your ears.

"I'm not so sure about that anymore."

You took a sip of beer while listening to Frankie. He seemed excited about his new job, and the energy that flowed from him was simply positive. His hand would occasionally brush your arm or wrist as you both burst out laughing, his eyes looking at you with the tenderness you knew from the beginning of your acquaintance.

"I guess I'll have to go back now." You sighed, glancing at your phone. "I have classes tomorrow."

"Do you like it?" he asked, watching you text your friend back, informing her that you had to leave.

"What do you mean?" you looked up at him. Frankie shrugged.

"Your life. Now. Because it seems to me that you're different. More fulfilled? Happier?"

"I don't know, I haven't thought about it to be honest."

He nodded, his hand shyly finding yours. "Can I give you a lift home?"

You agreed. Maybe you shouldn't have, maybe it was a mistake. But Frankie had somehow found his way to your heart, and you didn't want to part ways with him yet.

"When you left..." he began as you drove through the empty streets towards your apartment "It hit me. Really hard."

You clenched your fingers, but you couldn't look in his direction. But Frankie clearly wanted to talk, maybe he had been waiting for this for a really long time and could finally get it all off his chest.

"I drank for three days. I don't remember much from that period. Santi showed up at my place and... He told me something I'll never forget."

You could barely recognize your own voice. "What did he say?"

Frankie cleared his throat. "He said it was all my fault. That I was dragging you down, and you were trying to keep us both afloat the whole time. He also said that if I wanted you back, that if I loved you at all, I should do something about it."

Something tightened your throat and your eyes stung from the tears that were seeping into your eyelids. The car turned, you were already close to your apartment.

"I went to therapy. Santi took me there twice a week. It was a terrible time. He had to take my phone because I wanted to call you every day. I don't know how I managed to get through it without you."

"But you did it." You dared to look at him, a weak smile appeared on his face. "I'm so proud of you, Frankie."

"Thank you."

The car stopped. Your journey ended, and you got out, feeling like your legs were almost giving out under you. You whispered a quiet "thank you" and "I'm glad I saw you, Frankie." and then feeling like your heart almost jumped out of your chest, you headed for the door.

"I still love you."

You closed your eyes. His voice was clear, determined. You stopped, feeling like you could fall apart at any moment.

"Frankie..." you whispered, but he wouldn't let you do more.

He was right behind you now, you could feel the heat radiating from him. Your body reacted to his closeness.

"I knew you'd be at this pub today."

You turned around and looked at him, surprised. Frankie seemed embarrassed, but he continued.

"I met Sarah a while ago. We talked..."

He noticed a small frown between your eyebrows, "She didn't tell me anything..."

Frankie shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged, "I begged her not to tell you. Listen, all this year you were the only thing that kept me alive. I wanted to be clean again, but I also wanted to be able to look you in the eye again. I'm sorry, hermosa... I'm sorry you went through all that with me. It was hell, and you tried so hard to save me."

You couldn't stop the tears that began to flow down your cheeks. You didn't even react when a warm hand touched your cheek and he wiped the tears away with his thumb.

"I still love you, hermosa." Frankie continued. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to stop. But I know I can't expect that from you, not after what I did."

"You hurt me, Frankie..." you sobbed, you saw the pain in his eyes, the same pain you still felt in your heart. "I wanted to save you, I wanted to save us... Maybe I wasn't strong enough?"

"No, it's not like that!" he shook his head, taking your face in both hands. "It wasn't a job for just one person. I understand that now. I'm sorry, I'm sorry I let you down so much."

You instinctively snuggled into his chest. Damn, you missed him so much this year. Almost every day you wondered what was happening to him, or you thought back to the times when everything was fine. There were days when you hated Frankie, when you resented yourself for always having him in your heart. But now you understood - you had to fall apart to understand what was truly important to you.

Frankie stroked your back, repeating silent apologies, and you felt as if all the tension that you had in your body was slowly leaving you.

"You okay?" he asked when you finally pulled away from him, wiping the last tears with your hand and probably completely smudging your mascara.

You nodded, "Yeah. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"Don't apologize, hermosa. You have nothing to apologize for."

There was silence for a moment. But it wasn't an uncomfortable silence, rather one where you were both trying to gather your thoughts. Finally, you were the first to speak.

"I'm so glad you managed to do all this. I'm really proud of you, Frankie. Now... Now your life will be different, better."

"You think so?" he asked, and you looked at him surprised. "I guess you didn't hear what I said earlier. I love you, and I don't know if I'll ever stop. But I know I can't force you to do anything. You listened to me, that's already a lot. Maybe that's all I deserve."

He must have already accepted it, except that he lost you, because before you could answer anything, he slowly moved towards his car. You watched him, feeling your heart pounding in your chest like crazy. You weren't even aware that you had opened your mouth, only the sound of your voice that cut through the silence brought you back to your senses.

"I'm finishing classes tomorrow after three. If you want to go for coffee, or..."

In an instant Frankie turned around "How about for lunch? You'll definitely be hungry, and you said you haven't been eating very well lately."

You smiled and nodded. "Lunch sounds good."

"Wonderful." He smiled too. That damn smile of his.

"So... Are we in touch?"

"Of course, hermosa."

With a slightly calmer heart you disappeared into the building, feeling that the smile didn't leave your face. 

Maybe a second chance really did exist? Maybe you too had a chance for a new beginning...

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[ssentimentals]

Hiii!! It is been a long time since i got here 🤧, I hope you are doing good. I saw the new request prompts and the number 47. Sickfic/caretaking has attracted my attention, so I was going to ask you if you could write a woozi x reader who has bad migraines and maybe it is mixed this time with back pain.

You can change it if it is too specific or do not do it if you don't feel like it!!

hiii angel, you should come here more often 💜 i am good, hope you're well too! i definitely can, thank you for requesting!

prompt: sickfic/caretaking

woozi could see it. you tried your best to hide it and he gotta give it to you - it took him few days to catch up. he hates how you go all out to help and support others, but don't let others do the same for you, always ignoring your problems because they are not 'big enough'. he knows that probability of you admitting you're in pain is as low as snow during summer, but he still tries: 'how are you feeling, babe?'

you look up from your laptop, your face illluminated by blue screen. you were grimacing few seconds earlier but now you're trying to smile at him: 'all good, just a bit tired.'

your lie falls flat. woozi is always careful, always tries not to voerstep and make you start lecturing him on whole 'i am independent and strong woman, i can take care of myself' thing but his patience snaps. without saying anything he comes closer and points at your laptop: 'save your work. save your work and close your laptop.'

you blink at him. 'what-'

'do it yourself before i take that laptop away and just turn it off without saving shit,' he bites, not caring that his tone is off. 'you work can wait, we need to stop your migraine first.' at this your eyes widen and woozi quirks an eyebrow at you: 'you hid those pills well, baby, but not well enough.'

you have nothing to say. those migraines started few days ago and yesterday they got so bad that your eyes dtarted watering against your will. add back pain on top of that and you turned into a one big exposed nerve and you knew that your boyfriend saw right through you and your attempts to hide it. lie that you're fine is on your tongue but you swallow it, following woozi to the bedroom. you don't like admitting but it feels nice to be taken care of, to have someone else fret over you. woozi is not very expressive, but you can feel all of his feelings even when he doesn't say much. right now you know that he's worried and annoyed at your for not saying anything, for example.

'we can try cold and hot packs on your neck, which one do you prefer?' he asks in a business tone. when you get under the covers, his hands instantly smooth the blanket and he fluffs the other pillow, making sure you're comfortable. 'i'll turn off the light, do you want lavender oil? i'm not giving you another pill, i'm sure you've taken plenty already.'

'cold pack,' you answer, grimacing when back echoes in pain once you fully lie down. 'and no oil for now, i think.'

woozi nods and quickly gets to work. in few minutes you have cold pack pressed to your neck, light turned off and window open. he places cup with a herbal tea nearby and gingerly lies down. woozi is not used to seeing you like this - his usually strong girl never looks this fragile. it pains and angers him; he reaches out to take your hand in his. 'never hide this from me,' he asks quietly with a slight tremor in his voice. 'i don't want you to suffer alone. i'm always here to help you.'

'it's just a migraine,' you whisper and a sudden pain that shoots from your neck straight to your head makes you gasp. 'oh god.'

'nothing is 'just' when it comes to you,' he mutters and leans closer, worried. 'is cold pack not helping? if it's very bad-'

'give it time,' you interrupt. 'ten minutes or so. we can change it to hot pack if this one won't work.' you open your eyes, squinting at him. 'i am sorry for not telling you sooner. i thought it'd go away. didn't want to bother you.'

'you never bother me,' he instantly says, scowling. 'stop thinking that. nothing about you is ever a bother. let me take care of you.'

you sigh and close your eyes. a bit later you feel cold lips pressed on your forehead. woozi kisses your forehead, tip of your nose, both of your cheeks. you smile and lips press on yours in a light kiss. 'try to sleep,' woozi whispers. 'i will change packs. rest, baby.'

'i love you,' you whisper back without opening your eyes. cold pack helps with the tension, easing the pain. 'thank you.'

'i love you more, my strong girl.' woozi kisses your forehead once more. 'now rest. i'll be right here when you wake up.'

putting his phone on 'do not disturb' woozi lies down next to you and carefully wraps one arm around you. he'll be right here for you even if you can't ask that out loud. he'll still be here.

a/n: hopefully you liked it!! - nini

request your own here

my other seventeen work is here

[greenxgloss]

MYG Boyfriend HCs

Just wanted to write a little something to welcome myself into the myg/bts side of the internet so here are little HCs (all important links and such will be at the bottom of this post along with a few important updates about my account)

Smut, please minors don't interact (18+)

Min Yoongi who is shy and introverted in public, but when the two of you are alone, he is playful and verbally and physically stims

His most common stim is chewing on your ear lobe or rubbing his lips with his thumb

Min Yoongi who gets you gifts and gives them to you without saying a word

sometimes he just - "here take this." avoiding your eyes and holding his hand out with the gift he got you

Min Yoongi who's love language is acts of service but doesn't make it obvious

"Baby, can you peel this pomagranat for me?" you'd ask him, holding out for him. He'd sigh really hard like he was annoyed and take it from you, and then about 20 minutes later, no less, he'd place a Tupperware of the perfectly peeled pomegranate in front of you and give you a rough kiss on the forehead before returning to whatever he was doing.

Min Yoongi wrote songs about you before you started dating. Before you even knew he liked you actually.

He never played them for you (or anyone) until he finally decided he was going to release them.

Min Yoongi, who again, without a word, will come up and cuddle you

He'll come up in complete silence, carefully take your phone out of your hands and put it away before crawling into your arms and holding you close

Min Yoongi, who prefers being little spoon.

He's exhausted really often after work and prefers to be held, craddled. "Just play with my hair a little," always had you cooing with the requests he'd make, wording them as if he thought he was asking for too much

Min Yoongi who always knows what you wants wether its food, clothes, the music you wanna play or even when you're too shy to make a move on him

Smut MYG boyfriend HCS

Min Yoongi who has an oral fixation therefore not only would he stim, touching, biting and licking his lips but when he's horny he'll do the same with yours especially if you have piercings

He likes eating you out, too. not even always because he wants to make you cum but because it gives his mouth something to do

He likes the way you taste and could lay for hours between your thighs

"Mmmggh baby, please. I'm so sensitive it hurts," you whined, squirming under him, but his arms would lock around your thighs tighter just before letting up and crawling up to do the same to your lips and kiss you for hours

Min Yoongi who likes biting you, gently and hard enough to leave a mark. This includes hickies, and he will bite anywhere

Min Yoongi who drags out foreplay, well, you weren't sure if he was dragging out foreplay or just teasing you.

he loves just peppering kisses everywhere and letting his hands roam wherever they wanted or playing with your tits, maybe sucking them

Min Yoongi, who preferred giving rather than receiving but some days was into your whole humiliation kink and would let it run wild

Min Yoongi can't do quickies. yoongi takes way too long to cum so its rare when you get him worked up enough to want a quickie

He prefers taking his time with you, working you up enough through multiple rounds to squirt or cry out of overwhelming pleasure

Min yoongi who is horny for you all the time

Min Yoongi, who takes his time to be thorough with aftercare

He jokes with you, cleans you up, makes sure you feel safe and comfortable and even makes you food after because he knows how hungry you get

Min Yoongi who mindlessly cups your tits in his sleep when he spoons you

so! i've decided to change around the theme of my account slowly but surely like instead of gifs and shit I'm doing this with pics I don't really know wtf to call this or what I'm going I just lowk miss editing my own covers and this from when I used to write on wattpad so here we go lmfao. please let me know if you guys want me to make separate masterlists for the people and characters I write for! again please look at my yoongi masterlist to see what that would look like. i plan on also writing for Gdragon and if you wanna be tagged in any future works fill out the taglist (which I've edited so if you've already filled it out you'll have to fill it out again)

➽ Taglist form ➽ Main Masterlist ➽ Yoongi Masterlist

[bingbongsupremacy]

Hey I saw your old post asking which fanfics you should do next. I know it didn’t win but could you please please please do “Tell Me You Love Me Again” with Eddie. Im in dire need of some good angst ❤️

Tell Me You Love Me Again

Sorry this took me so long to write! I have had some massive writer's block. Hopefully, this is okay!

Pairing: Rockstar!Eddie Munson x reader

Story Type: Angst

Warning: Y/N use, swearing, Eddie's a bit of a greedy ass ngl

Summary: You've been with Eddie since before he was famous. It used to be a loving relationship. As the years have passed, things have changed. Can you save the dying spark between you?

*Not Proof Read*

□□□□□□□

"Baby, you wanted to talk. Why are we just sitting here in silence?" Eddie asks with a grin. He casually flips through a music magazine, observing all of the new instruments for sale.

I take a deep breath. How do I even start this conversation? He's been so busy launching his band's new line of merch that I doubt this is a great time to talk about our relationship. Who knows when we'll have another opportunity? This is the first time I've been able to see him privately in weeks. I don't know how long I can keep harboring my frustrations.

"We do need to talk...here goes nothing." I sigh. "It's about our relationship."

Eddie pulls his eyes away from his magazine, his smile fading into a serious expression. "What about it?"

"I've been feeling very frustrated lately. I feel like you're never home, and I never get to see you anymore. I miss you." I reply honestly.

Eddie sets the magazine on top of the coffee table that separates us. "I know it's been busy lately, but it's great for us! Now I can take you anywhere you want to go. Name any place, and I can bring you there." Eddie's playful smile returns.

I let out a tired laugh. "Eddie, that's nice and all, but the problem is you don't have the time to take me anywhere I want to go. I just want you to dial it back a bit, please. Spend more time with me, and I'm sure Wayne would love it if you spent some time with him, too."

I'm not even sure if Eddie has time to call Wayne anymore. I might be the only one talking to him regularly.

"I spend plenty of time with Wayne." Eddie's expression is slightly offended.

"It's just the past year; you've rarely been back. Can't you take some time off? Cancel a few tour dates or reschedule some photoshoots?"

"I can't just abandon my career, Y/N. My band has worked so hard for this." Eddie argues. "It wouldn't be fair to the boys."

"What about what's fair to me, Eddie?" I let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm not asking you to abandon anything, Eddie. I just think you should prioritize our relationship a little more. We barely see each other anymore!" My heart pounds. "When you're not on tour, you're constantly doing promotional videos or photoshoots. We haven't gone on a date in almost a month."

My flurry of emotions has caused tears to prick the back of my eyes. Fuck, I can't cry right now.

Eddie's shoulders are tense. His usual animated and playful exterior is replaced with a frustrated and angry one. One I rarely see, especially not when talking to me.

"That's part of the job. I'm a fucking rockstar, Y/N. I can't exactly blow off the world tours and photoshoots. My label and manager expects me to get shit out quickly. You don't understand! The moment I stop making songs and producing new shit, the moment all of this, " He gestures around the room to all of his expensive nicknacks and furniture. "disappears. I'll become irrelevant. My band will become irrelevant. This is my life, Y/N. And you're going to need to learn to accept it."

My frown deepens. "Do you hear yourself? How can you not see how greedy you're becoming? What happened to just loving music? Loving the art of creating, no matter how many people heard. When did this all become about money?" I stand up from my spot on Eddie's couch, needing to put some distance between myself and the man. I avoid making eye contact with him, knowing if I do, I'll burst into tears.

This room suddenly feels so suffocating. "Is this really all you care about? How many shows you can sell out? How deep your pockets can get?"

"For fucks sake, Y/N." Eddie groans as he leans back against his recliner. His head hits the back of the seat, an annoyed expression flashing across his face. "You're being so fucking dramatic."

I shake my head. "This is not what I signed up for. You are not the man I signed up to be with."

Eddie stiffens. Hurt crosses his eyes. His face turns stoic as he looks me dead in the eye. A dark anger replaces his hurt. "Things change. People change. Obviously, I've changed. If you hate me so fucking much, why don't you get the fuck out and find someone new? Someone who better suits your lifestyle since you're not happy with me."

I freeze. My heart drops at his bitter words. He's never spoken to me like this before.

He's so different than the man I fell in love with all those years ago. Life seemed simpler in Hawkins. I'd work the night shift at The Hideout and he'd play with his band. I was able to see him regularly while he was still able to do what he loved. No massive world tours to separate us for months. No partying until early the next day. Just the two of us, supporting each other and doing what we loved.

I feel my cheeks heat from embarrassment and anger. He's right. He's changed, and it's obviously been for the worse. "You know what, you're right."

Eddie's eyes widen slightly in surprise, like he didn't think I'd agree.

"You don't want to work this out like an adult, so I'm going to leave. We're done, Eddie. I can't do this anymore. I deserve someone willing to set aside time for me. I shouldn't be the only one giving 100% to the relationship. I need someone who respects me and what I need. You can't give that to me." I grab my purse from the couch. I pause right before I reach the door. " Eddie, " I turn to look back at the man.

He doesn't meet my gaze. His eyes are trained on his locked hands. He looks like he's in disbelief.

"I hope you find what you're looking for. Just know that you'll never have enough money or fame to please yourself. Materialistic things can only bring you so much happiness. You'll suffer until you realize that. I just hope it isn't too late when you finally do."

With that, I leave the apartment. As soon as the door behind me clicks shut, the tears begin to fall. I lean against the wall near Eddie's door and wrap my arms around myself for some sort of support.

I wish he loved me enough to apologize. I wish he would come out here, tell me he was wrong, and that he was going to try to fix things.

I finally garner the strength to push away from Eddie's wall and make my way downstairs. With every step, I think of new things I wish Eddie would do.

When I take my last step out of the apartment building, disappointment settles in my chest as I realize none of my wishes came true.

Eddie's a rockstar. He'll never love me as much as he loves his lifestyle.

I was stupid to think he'd always be the man I fell in love with in Hawkins, Indiana.

[cum-a-calla]

I realized why I’m so damn horny…..I started my period 😭 bleeding like a bitch in heat, I need Roman or Benji to get me stoned and bend me in half to fill me up. I don’t even want kids but fuck do I need one of them to just cum in me multiple times throughout the day. They stay home with you and fuck you as they please. I just need them to manhandle me into position and distract me from the pain 🤡 (also many apologies for spamming you 🫣)

tbh you should actually keep spamming me, satan fuckin help me

i'm literally expecting my bleed today or tomorrow (i'm already a day late soooo i need it forcefucked out of my body actually)

Roman would not be kind. he'd be mean, hard, pounding you and sticking his fingers into you all day long. snapping at you when you're atill not fucking bleeding. or, conversely, when you finally are, he's annoyed every time you have a cramp or discomfort.

"god, you're really fuckin' taking time out of my day, you know that? needy fuckin' slut. can barely work while you look so goddamned miserable. c'mere - get the fuck over here. let's do this again. sit still, i'm only doing this so you can shut the fuck up. cumming helps cramps or some shit, right?"

and he just keeps fingering your cunt, rubbing your clit, going so far as to fuck you multiple times under the guise that he HAS to, like a chore. because your pain is annoying. it's not conducive to a productive work environment, don't you fucking know that? how is he supposed to do his job when you're having cramps and looking so fucking glum?

...

Benji, though... he's- fuck. he's in love. he notices blood on the sheets. he's immediately shrugging it off - "oh, fuck off, go get breakfast. wait - take my card. buy, like - go get some kinda... i dunno get some breakfast somewhere, takeout, whatever. go."

and when you come back he's all about it. smoking you out, rubbing your legs, your thighs, your tummy. making sure you eat, keeping you hydrated. ignoring his own hard dick the whole time until it feels right, and he's kissing all along your sore body, your tits, moaning between them. asking politely with his big, glazed puppy eyes before he dips his fingers under your pants to pet your red, slippery cunt. getting so excited he humps his hips into you, his cock aching.

laying a towel down so he can lean down and eat your pussy, blood and all. you're so shy. but he's so insistent, he's so fucking ready and desperate.

"please - c'mon, let me make you feel good, please. please."

petting his hair while he moans and licks and sucks and laps, sticking his fingers into you, curving them, moaning when you whine and cum. his lips red, facial hair slicked with your own blood. he looks like a fucking animal, but not in a predatory way. he looks like he's tasted something holy and precious and good, he's in love, god, his red-rimmed eyes may as well have cartoon hearts in the depths of those blown pupils. and he whines when he finally takes his cock out and begs to fuck your slick, pulsing pussy.

"can i - mmmh fuck can i please fuck you? yeah? wanna make you feel good. please." rutting against your thigh. "m-mommy, please? fuckin' - oh, god, please."

and he's not just gentle, he's thoughtful, fucking his cock deep, slow but not gentle. passionately. glancing down at his own slippery, red cock as it pounds in and out of your body. the way your aching tits bounce, your soft, gorgeous body underneath him. it's beautiful. it's gorgeous, religious, unbelievable. he can't last long, not like this, and once he's done shooting his cum in ropes up against your poor, sore cervix, he watches as he pulls out and turns your cunt just a little more pink, his spend mixing with all that blood. and god, if he keeps watching, he's gunna want to go again.

but first, a nap. this is gunna take all day.

[bellaxgiornata]

random jax thought that i must unleash:

a marilyn monroe ‘Happy Birthday Mr.President’ moment with jax?? i feel like that man would lose his mind tbh

Ohhh! Please unleash any and all Jax thoughts you have! And okay, I read this ask from you the other night and I've been thinking about it nonstop because it gave me another thought, so let me add another little layer onto this with a little headcanon of mine--singing happy birthday to Jax in lingerie.

HEAR ME OUT. I have a strangely strong belief that Jax has little experience being able to appreciate actual lingerie, not just a sexy bra and panties set. Think about it--the man never really did relationships after Tara left just after high school besides marrying Wendy. And Wendy probably spent her money on drugs and alcohol instead of legitimate lingerie because why the hell would she? I'm guessing most hangarounds at the clubhouse weren't dressed in lingerie beneath their clothes because it just doesn't seem logical (and that shit is expensive). Now, maybe some of the pornstars from Caracara could've had some sort of costume or something he'd enjoyed, but considering how we've seen them in 'the morning after' scenes in the show, I'm guessing they wouldn't really be wearing any lingerie, either. Most of Jax's sex is just spur of the moment, which just doesn't go hand in hand with dressing for it, you know?

So I'm throwing some headcanon thots on this out below the cut (clearly 18+ like everything on my blog). It's also an idea I want to explore in far more detail in my Jax fic All That I Can Give with my ex-prostitute!Reader who works at Diosa. Because I just want Jax to have some fun with lingerie, alright? I genuinely believe he hasn't had the pleasure of something so simple.

Jax is not the kind of guy who would make a big deal out of his birthday. In fact, he probably forgets it every year. And the guys at the clubhouse probably do, too. It comes and goes like every other damn day to him and he doesn't even think twice about it.

Except you do. Because you wouldn't forget his birthday. You've been planning an evening at home with him when he's finally done dealing with club business for over a week now. And maybe it's not some massive birthday party that you're throwing for him, and you don't have any expensive gift to give him, but you do have something you're wanting to do--surprise him with lingerie.

You're already dressed in it waiting in the bedroom when he comes home, a nervous excitement flooding you the moment you hear him cut the engine on his bike before you hear the front door open a minute later. And then you hear Jax's usual "Where you at, baby?" greeting you from down the hall before you call out from the bedroom.

The moment Jax sees you sitting on the end of the bed, legs crossed in the sexy number you have on with a cake in your lap, his entire demeanor shifts. The tension and exhaustion from his day just disappears from his body instantly and a devilish grin spreads across his mouth instead. His eyes slowly and openly rake over you in clear approval because "Goddamn, baby, where did this little thing come from?"

And when you tell him you bought it just for his birthday, making him sit down on the bed as you set the cake aside on the dresser--where, let's be real, it's going to be forgotten for quite awhile--Jax is practically salivating as his hands keep pawing at you. He's grabbing at your ass and your thighs, your breasts and your back. His eyes don't even know where the hell to focus, just continually roaming all over you as he thinks about how he wants to have you first in that damn thing.

But when you start singing happy birthday to him, sitting down in his lap on the bed, neither of you give a shit whether you can actually sing well or not. Jax is already half-hard, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he waits for you to finish--but he can't even manage that. You don't even get all the way through singing before he's spinning you on his lap to straddle him, his hands and mouth exploring every inch of you like it's the first time all over again.

You can damn well guarantee you won't be leaving the bedroom for the rest of the night. Jax is going to have you over and over in every goddamn position he can fold you into just so he can appreciate every angle of your body in that lingerie set. "Fuck, baby, you're not taking this off tonight. I'm gonna fucking ruin you in it."

[translatingpostsinfrench]

can you provide any more. uh. vocabularies gay en français? (tried to ask in french, but couldn't make heads or tails of how to structure questions haha)

you don't know how big is my smile is right now

1. the basics of gender, sexualities and romantic labels

tldr: its the same as in english but with a french accent. really, once you know how to say "sexual", "romantic" and "gender", you just add the prefix of your choice and voilà. to make it even easier, those words are VERY close to their english counterparts:

sexual = sexuel.le -> homosexuel.le, bisexuel.le...

romantic = romantique -> aromantique, panromantique...

gender = genre -> transgenre, bigenre...

but in the end, still like in english, we often shorten these words to their prefix alone "je suis bi", "il est aro"...

and if you wonder about labels don't follow this structure, i suggest you look it up for yourself, but there's still a 98% chance the term is The Same With a French Accent, some exemples :

gay = gay (i shit you not)

lesbian = lesbienne

sapphic = sapphique

achillean = achilléen

c'est vraiment aussi simple que ça :)

2. how to fuck this binary shit

if you're familiar with french, you probably know it's a gendered language, and maybe wonder how you can speak about yourself/other people who don't wish to be gendered as masc or fem. the answer is inclusive writing (écriture inclusive), which i actually already showed you above, see:

fem form : bisexuelle

masc form : bisexuel

inclusive form : bisexuel.le

works the same for gendered nouns:

fem form : musicienne

masc form : musicien

inclusive form : musicien.ne

in other cases (especially for words ending in -eux/-euse or -teur/-trice), inclusive form can be obtained my smashing up the fem and masc form :

as you can see, in most cases, you can obtain the inclusive form of a word by combining their masc and fem form and a "separator" . i chose to use a simple period, but a hyphen or median point ("·" <- this thing) and probably more* can also be used - edit after seeing comments : take note that the inclusive writing using a dot can sometimes fuck up screen readers and also be read as a website !

fem form : actrice

masc form : acteur

inclusive form : acteurice

*i need you to keep in mind

i am not a french teacher, just trying my best to explain a pretty complex mess so @ french speakers, if you see any mistake or something i missed please speak up.

inclusive writing is still being heavily debated, so it has no official guidelines, and tbh even i freestyle it whenever i'm too lazy to look up how i should write something. is "lea" the correct inclusive form for "le/la"? fuck if i know but i sure will use it because who even knows.

and ofc inclusive writing is not only useful for non binary people, but also a tool of feminism that allows to get rid of the "masculine wins" rule (= when writing plurals, if a single item/person in the group is masc, the entire group must be gendered as such)!

3. mmh pronpuns

again, if you know french, you know we have no equivalent to "they" as even the plural forms for "she" and "he" are gendered. so there goes your only option if you're uninterested in either of those : neopronouns, my beloveds.

the most common one (and the one you should use when unsure of a person's gender or paired with inclusive writing to fuck that "masculine wins" shit) : iel, iels for plural. some other neopronouns i saw include ael, ul, ol, ille, xel... but feel free to make your own up, this is what neopronouns are about anyway - btw les francophones je suis curieux.se, si vous utilisez d'autres pronoms que elle/il/iel, dites moi quoi !

4. important!

faggot = pédé (there are SO MANY synonyms but i'll just give you the most common)

dyke = gouine (alternatively : goudou)

tranny = travelot (trav for short)

[almostfoxglove]

I wish you would bless us by writing a lil drabble about Javi

You two dated but you got sent back to the states and he had to stay in Columbia. You go back after a year and pick up where you left off and it's sweet and lovely because so much happened to him in that year

✉️ I wish you would write...

HI HONEY BEE omg. okay. listen. you know how I feel about javi & angst but also javi & love so HEAR ME OUT HERE OKAY, JUST STICK WITH ME. I'm gonna have to pop this under a cut because I've never once in my life been concise.

let's say you're the same girl javier falls for first,

and you used to work at the us embassy, one floor below his desk. spent your days with your head down and no small number of nights waiting up after javier called, telling you he was on his way. you only ever got twenty minutes warning, tops. often less. sometimes you wondered if he'd called you from the car, like he'd taken off toward you apartment before remembering to tell you he was coming.

for a year, you fucked on and off as his job or interest allowed. for you it was the perfect, pressure-free release. for javier, it was torture. having you like that, taking you apart as you unraveled him, always plagued by this nag at the base of his skull, greedy and vicious, that wanted more. he thought you'd eventually ask him to stay the night, or ask him for coffee, breakfast, anything, but you never did.

then your dad got sick. or your mom? he doesn't know. all he knows is that one day he goes into work and on his casual, totally unrelated but necessary loop past your cubicle, you are gone. desk cleared off. that little photo frame of you and another girl—your sister, he always guessed—vanished. your coworker, when they catch him staring, says you had to leave. that someone is dying back home and you went back to be with them while you could.

he nods, maybe grunts, and is gone, a cigarette already lighting itself in the cup of his hand. swallowing the bitter scorn he briefly feels rising in his throat that you didn't tell him shit. didn't even bother to say goodbye.

because you didn't have to, he thinks. he sure as hell hasn't told you shit about his life back in the states. so why the fuck should he care? why does he?

he doesn't have any way to contact you, but javier knows himself. he wouldn't call even if he did.

a year later, you return to colombia and cross the concrete slab outside the embassy. in your absence, escobar has died and the cali cartel has risen like cerberus in his place. you steel yourself as you approach the pewter steps, hoping you might slip back into the routine of the job you left behind without any fanfare. you don't want to explain your absence—you want to pretend it never happened. you just want to do your job.

but javier is smoking on the steps, and he sees you coming. and though neither of you ever really acknowledged each other at work in all the time you slept together—not even passing hellos—you watch in mild horror as he drops the cigarette from his hand, crushes it under his polished shoe, and stomps down the steps in your direction.

he looks different. you've never seen him in a tie, let alone a whole suit. your steps slow as his legs scissor the distance, crossing the courtyard as if nothing at all exists beyond the two of you. your frown doesn't phase him, your halting. nor the half-baked "what the hell are you—" that you get out before he's made it to you and yanks you against his chest.

he reeks of smoke and nerves. the only time you've felt the iron-grip of his embrace this tight is during particularly vigorous fucks, and they always, always unlatched the moment you were both done.

and yet javier is hugging you, tightly. out here in the open, with other people milling about, sometimes turning their heads to catch a sidelong glance at the man who mumbles into your hair, "m'sorry" with a strange awe in their eyes, like he's some kind of celebrity.

his voice, though, carries none of that vanity. he sounds throttled, ruined, wrecked. it is the shock, you think, that has you allowing this display. that has your arms cautiously, loosely wrapping around his waist, too stunned to process anything but a single question: what the hell happened to him.

you don't know what he's apologizing for. you don't know what strange, alternate dimension you've found yourself in. "javi—" you whisper eventually, arms slacking as if to pull away, but javier's grip only crunches tighter around your frame.

you aren't sure why your heart skips over itself.

you aren't sure why a little part of you, dazed as it might be, likes that he won't let go.

"hermosa," he mumbles, his breath hot in your hair. "m'sorry."

[ghouljams]

I really appreciate you reblogging that post about how difficult it is to quit an addiction. I myself am currently struggling with a sugar/caffeine addiction, and I drink way too much coke cola (and if I can't get my hands on some, energy drinks). It's nice to be reminded that it's not just me who is constantly thinking about how good it would feel to have juuust a little more, even if I said I would stop. I've tried to quit it multiple times, and each failed attempt disheartens me greatly and makes me feel weak willed, even if I rationally know everyone battling an addiction has those moments.

Sugar addictions often aren't treated as seriously as the "scary" drugs or smoking, but it's just as damaging to your health and difficult to quit, especially when the human brain is hardwired to want sugary, fatty foods. I hope one day to be strong enough to resist those cravings and get my health back on track.

You can become addicted to anything that makes you feel good. People are getting addicted to AI chat bots for god's sake, it doesn't even have to be quality stuff as long as it gives you that rush of dopamine it can reel you in. Now, some things are better designed to addict you, drugs and alcohol, sugar and caffeine, but that doesn't mean you aren't still getting that good feeling. Even if you don't get it every time, even if you only get that hit the first time, humans will chase that first high for the rest of their lives. It's the reason people stay in abusive relationships, things will never be as good as they were at the start but there's this silent promise that they might be.

Anyone can become addicted to anything. And I'm not saying that to scare anyone, but more to make the point that no one is above addiction. Addiction is not a moral failing, or a weakness, it's a human survival tactic. We want the thing that makes us feel good, that keeps the loneliness at bay, that stops us from feeling bad things even if they do that by keeping us from feeling anything at all. Our brains want that dopamine shot, even when reasonably we know whatever is giving us that shot is bad for us.

Getting past an addiction is hard no matter what that addiction is. I try to tell people that they need to find something to redirect that craving towards. For one of my loved ones we're working on finding a painting class and a book club because they've realized that a lot of their relapsing comes from feeling lonely. For you, maybe having a chew fidget would help, or keeping fruit on hand, or (if you're like me) purging your house of all sugary snacks. I can't keep sugar in my house or I'll eat it, so I don't buy it. It sucks, I want it, but I know myself and I know that the best way to keep myself from doing something is to try and remove as much temptation as possible.

It's much harder for me to justify leaving my house to go get candy than it is for me to get up and get a chocolate from the pantry. Or if I really want a sweetie, I have to figure out making it myself. Which means I can try and figure out a healthier option to make. Idk it's a long road, and something like sugar/caffeine/alcohol is so ingrained in our society that it feels impossible to avoid.

I have a friend who used heroin (now clean, I'm so proud of her) and she always said the hardest part of recovery was giving a shit about herself. She said there was always going to be part of her that wanted to use, so she had to make the rest of her louder, had to find reasons to care enough not to go back to her old habits. She got a lot of tattoos during her recovery, reconnected with her mom.

Not to say that addicts don't care about themselves, or that you don't care about yourself, I always thought she meant it more in the way of a parent caring for a child. You know, you don't let kids do something just because they want to because you care about keeping them safe. In the same way you sort of have to parent yourself. Say you've got sugar at home even though you don't, promise you'll make yourself donuts and then quit as soon as you get home because you don't want to boil oil. Learn to make croissants and then never make them again because they're such a fucking hassle. idk

You're not weak because you have trouble telling yourself no, people generally have trouble with that. You're just a person trying to listen to your body. It's just too bad your body isn't always a great judge of what's good for it.

[theewokingdead]

Heaven Can Wait - Francisco "Catfish" Morales x f!Reader

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x f!Reader Summary: Frankie wakes up after a night of drinking to find himself in a strange woman's bed. As he grapples with his post-Colombia demons, the stranger beside him offers something unexpected: patience, understanding, and maybe even a reason to live. Word Count: 1.7k POV: 1st person (Frankie) Rating: Explicit Content: Substance abuse and addiction, loss/grief, strong language, sexual content, vomiting, happy ending (because Frankie deserves it) A/N: Inspired by Hozier’s “Work Song.”

Masterlist I stare into my nearly empty beer bottle, hoping it'll reveal answers to my mistakes, though I know it won't.

It's day three of this relentless bender. My hand shakes as I raise my drink, and I can't tell if it's the coke wearing off or the crushing weight of my reality. Tom is gone. My fiancé left. I've driven away everyone who once mattered to me. They’ve moved on. Yet here I am, caught in this destructive loop, questioning whether I want to break free or if this might be the time I don't wake up.

“You look like you could use some company.”

I blink through the haze and find a woman sliding onto the stool beside me. She’s smirking, a little amused, a little intrigued, but there’s something else behind her eyes. Recognition, maybe. Like she’s seen this type of misery before.

I scoff. My chest feels tight, like the weight of her gaze is pressing down on me. “Company doesn’t fix anything.”

“True… But it can distract,” she replies lightly, spinning the bottle in front of me.

Her offer lingers in the air like a half-remembered song, familiar yet out of reach. I glance at the bartender and wave him down. “Another for me. And one for the lady.”

The next thing I know, it's morning. There's a woman on top of me, asleep. A mixture of emotions swirls within me - an unexpected warmth mingled with uncertainty. I'm still inside her, and I can't tell if I'm more comforted or unsettled by the situation.

"Shit," I croak, my throat dry and voice raspy.

Her eyelids flutter open, revealing wide, startled eyes. "Oh… shit," she echoes, her voice barely above a whisper.

We lie there frozen as the weight of the moment sinks in.

My head pounds, my stomach churns, and the realization that I have absolutely no memory of how we got here slams into me like a truck.

"I’m going to be sick," I blurt.

"What…?"

I shove her off—gently, or at least as gently as a man about to puke can—and nearly face-plant off the bed before stumbling toward the bathroom. I barely make it before I drop to my knees and empty whatever’s left of my dignity into the toilet.

Between retches, I hear movement behind me—the rustling of sheets, then footsteps. The bathroom door opens with a creak, followed by the sound of water running. A cool washcloth is gently pressed against the back of my neck.

I flinch, surprised, but don’t push her away. The sensation is grounding, something solid in the middle of the nausea. I should be embarrassed. Hell, I am embarrassed. But she doesn’t say anything - just crouches beside me, her hand light on my back as I ride it out. Her calmness makes it a little less humiliating.

"Jesus," I mutter once I can breathe again, wiping my face with the damp cloth.

She snorts. "Not quite, but thanks."

I groan, pressing my forehead against the cold porcelain.

“You good?”

“Define good.”

She laughs softly. “Well, you're not dead, so… that's something.”

I snort weakly, flushing the toilet, washing away the evidence of my sins. When I sit back against the wall, I notice she’s slipped on a robe. At least she has the luxury of some damn decency.

She disappears for a moment, giving me time to look around the room, taking in how bare everything is. The walls are plain. The counter around the sink is mostly empty. It’s clear she’s still getting settled.

"Here," she says, returning with a towel and tossing it at me. "You might want to cover up. I mean, you’re not bad to look at, but…"

I blink, then glance down.

Right. Still naked.

Muttering a thanks, I wrap the towel around my waist. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with a smirk.

“Congrats on winning most awkward morning-after experience ever, by the way.”

Fuck. Me. I scrub a hand down my face.

“Thanks,” I say dryly, attempting a smile but failing miserably. “I’ll get a trophy to commemorate the occasion.”

She chuckles. “Please do. I’d love to see you display that on a bookshelf.”

I can’t help but crack a smile at her teasing - there’s something infectious about it. Maybe it’s the relief of not having to face this alone, or perhaps just the sheer absurdity of our situation. “I’m Frankie, by the way.”

She tells me her name, and it's just as pretty as I had imagined it would be. A surge of frustration hits me. How could I possibly forget something so beautiful, so sweet?

I guess that’s what happens when you drown your brain in alcohol and grief.

A pause settles between us. Not quite awkward, not quite comfortable. Just…something different.

Then it hits me. A flicker. A flash.

Low lamplight. The sound of her breathing against my ear. The way she moved - slow and gentle, like she actually cared. Like it wasn’t just sex, not just another body in a long line of bad decisions.

I thought it was a dream.

Even now, head splitting open, stomach still churning, I almost convince myself it was. That I didn’t pull her into me like she was the first thing in a long time that felt real. That I didn’t whisper the words that slipped past my lips, aching and raw, confessions I didn’t dare say out loud when sober. But in the haze of that dim room, it felt easy - like she could see the parts of me I tried so hard to hide.

“Listen, about last night-” I start, but she cuts me off with a raised hand.

“Let’s just take it one awkward moment at a time, okay?”

I nod.

"I should probably get dressed," I mumble, shifting uncomfortably on my knees. The towel slips a bit, and I grab it tighter, half-dreading the moment when I'll have to stand up and face whatever judgment lingers in her eyes.

“Or,” she suggests, “you could just take a second and breathe. We’ve all got our demons, Frankie.”

I look up at her. The amusement from earlier has faded; there’s something softer now, like she knows how fragile I am beneath this façade of bravado and bad choices.

“And we all deserve a fresh start.”

"A fresh start," I echo, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. It’s a phrase I’ve clung to in moments of desperation, yet it feels hollow now, like a promise long broken.

She raises an eyebrow, the smirk returning. “You don’t sound convinced.”

I meet her gaze, trying to decipher her. “Yeah, well… fresh starts are usually just a nicer way of saying you’ve messed up so badly you need to wipe the slate clean.”

“True,” she replies. “But sometimes it’s not about wiping the slate. It’s about what you choose to write next.” She extends a hand. “And you don’t always have to write it alone.”

I hesitate. Guilt gnaws at me. I want to tell her everything, to spill out all the secrets and shame I carry like stones in my pockets. I expect her to ask me about my life, my choices - what brought me to this point of self-destruction. Bu it doesn’t come. She doesn’t prod. She doesn’t ask a thing. Not about Tom. Not about what I’ve done. Not about why I’m trying so hard to drown myself in whiskey and coke. Everyone else has, but she just waits.

Something in her eyes pulls me in, a quiet strength that feels like an anchor amid my stormy chaos. I take her hand, tentative at first, and she helps me to my feet, steadying me as the world tilts slightly. Her grip is firm, warm, and for the first time in a long time, I feel something other than shame and regret.

---

Eighteen Months Later

"Fuck, baby," I groan, my grip tightening on her hips as I thrust deeper.

She gasps, back arching, fingers clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her body trembles around me, heat and silk drawing me in, making me lose myself in her.

"Frankie," she whimpers, breathless.

"I got you, babe," I murmur against her lips. "Always."

A few more thrusts and she’s breaking apart beneath me, and I follow, burying myself deep as I groan into her shoulder.

After, we lie tangled in sweat-damp sheets, her head resting on my chest. The room around us is warm, filled with picture frames holding memories we built together. On our bedside table sits a trophy she gave me as a small gag gift (no pun intended) my last birthday.

Suddenly, she gasps, throws the sheet around herself, and bolts for the bathroom.

I hear it - the unmistakable sound of vomiting.

Instantly, I’m up, pulling on my boxers before following her. Dropping behind her, I sweep her hair back, my hand rubbing slow circles on her back as she rides it out. It’s eerily familiar, but this time, something’s different.

"Well…" I smirk when she’s finished. "This is familiar."

She groans but leans into me. “Yeah, well, it’s a little different this time.” She wipes her mouth with a washcloth I hand her, looking both sheepish and exhausted.

I chuckle softly, tracing my fingers along her spine, the warmth of her skin radiating beneath my touch. "How so?" I ask, leaning close enough to catch the faint scent of vomit mixed with her floral shampoo.

"For one, I didn't wake up with some strange man inside me," she says with a playful smirk.

I chuckle. “As your husband,” I reply, raising an eyebrow with a teasing grin, "I’d be very concerned if you had.”

“Secondly, we actually planned for this,” she says, a hint of a smile breaking through her weariness. “I mean, not the throwing up part, but you know…”

I exhale slowly, the weight of her words settling over me. Planned. This isn’t just a temporary escape from our pasts - it’s the future we chose. The future we built.

I press my forehead against hers, my hands cradling her face as a slow, contented smile spreads across my lips.

A year and a half ago, I thought my story had already ended. That I was living on borrowed time, waiting for the inevitable crash. But here, in this moment, with her? I know now…

Heaven can wait.

Because I’ve already found mine.

[radioactive-earthshine]

Hi! Im sorry if this is a silly question but I was wondering if you know what the Flash diabetes thing is? I've seen it around occasionally but never found out if it was a canon one off thing or a fanon group theory because on one hand I can kinda see it making sense although it would probably have to be re-worked to fit a speedsters bodily profile (in terms of their hyper-metabolism and all) but then on the other hand I'm reminded of the times I've read YJ fanfic and out of nowhere Bart is taking ADHD medication and I'm like.. he would not be able to take ADHD meds and actually feel a difference for more than maybe 3 seconds as seen with general painkillers and medication when he had the knee surgery with nothing. I just can't help but feel like, in canon, neither of these theories/situations would be possible but then again fanon is meant to be fun,, not serious etc. How do you draw the line?

Hello!

I have NEVER heard of it phrased as "Flash diabetes" but looking over the meat of your question it appears this is more about their metabolism, so I am approaching this as a metabolism question rather than a blood-sugar question.

When it comes to speedsters and their metabolism in the comics, it is very inconsistent and it honestly depends on the writer and what would be most exciting or inconvenient the most in any given scenario.

On one hand, the prevailing canon is that speedsters heal FAST. Their metabolism is so high they can get over broken bones, lacerations, even gunshots very quickly. We even have instances of them getting over drugs very quickly or drugs just not impacting them the way they should, because they metabolize them too fast for them to work.

The biggest in-comic example of this is Bart's famous knee surgery in Teen Titans v.3 when they were unable to put him under ANY anesthetic because his metabolism would negate its effectiveness.

Teen Titans (2003) #3

(Side note, the amount of laws broken in this scene would have probably shut that entire hospital down, licensees would have been lost, and Cyborg probably should have done jail time or at least been kicked out of the tower because holy shit the ethics.)

Teen Titans (2003) #4

This scene is one of the more poignant and famous examples of speedster metabolism being a medical foil as much as it is an advantage in combat and it is extremely dramatic.

We also have a more recent example of drugs just not working properly on speedsters, from Bart yet again in more recent publication history.

Young Justice (2019) #16

Sedatives or maybe even some sort of anti-psychotics only stayed in Bart's systems for so long before they wore off well before they should have and he was able to just leave.

If these are pushed out of his system prematurely, then it is extremely unlikely any ADHD medication would work on him unless they were specially made for speedsters which is not outside of any realm of possibility in a comic.

However... because these are comics and because these sorts of foils are variable and depend on whoever is writing them we also have some evidence that certain things do work on speedsters... but in heightened ways such as caffeine which makes no sense and yet...

The Flash (2011) #3

Barry had an espresso and got so hopped up and jittery he lost control of his vibrating for a while and ended up through multiple floors. How caffeine works on them, and in extreme ways, but other drugs don't, is something maybe a biochemist can answer which I am not.

We also have decades of publication going back to the silver age of Barry and other speedsters interacting with drugs, poisons, alcohol and them not working or not working properly and the above examples are just those I knew I could cite easily because I think about them a lot.

So returning back to the question of if ADHD medication would work... I feel like again in the comics they wouldn't work how they are supposed to unless they are specialized because even the caffeine did not work how it is supposed to.

But again this is fanfic and fanon so anything is possible and with this particular subject it wouldn't be too outside of canon to have ADHD meds work. Again any writer could also explain them as special speedster-strength medication then it is good to go.

I hope this sort of answers your question?

This is for the comics and the comics alone, no other form of media.

[namgyunation]

Li, OH MY GOD, when I saw Roh Jae-won say that Nam-Gyu just wants to be loved, I literally almost passed out because THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT WE’VE BEEN SAYING. We called it! He’s not some cold, evil villain—he’s just an angry, hurt man who lashes out because he doesn’t know how else to cope. 🥹 When I heard that, I was YELLING 'I CAN FIX HIM, Y’ALL.' Like, my baby just wants love, and I swear, I will personally fight the writers if they keep trying to make him out to be the ‘villain’ when all he really wants is a little validation and stability.

Honestly, after hearing that interview, I feel like I need to reread everything we’ve analyzed about him because we were kind of on point. It makes me want to dig even deeper into his character, especially knowing that his actor sees him the same way we do. We always knew he wasn’t just some ‘born evil’ antagonist—it’s all in the little details. The way he laughs in the background when Player 007 gets scolded, how he’s all smiles with Thanos when they talk to Player 333 about losing money, the fact that his first instinct after the first game was to check on Thanos before even knowing about the drugs—like, if he was just using him, why would that be his reaction? That moment alone proves so much. I really think he admired Thanos, maybe even saw him as someone stronger, someone to follow. The way he clings to him feels less like manipulation and more like desperately seeking validation, like he doesn’t know how to navigate life without attaching himself to someone more confident than him.

And the food scene??? That moment alone disproves that says he’s emotionally cold. He literally bounces a little, smiles, and even thanks the guard in a really playful tone. That’s not someone who’s dead inside. That’s someone who still finds joy in little things, who still feels. He acts like someone who never had stability and is clinging onto any small comfort he can get (please tell me if I’m too biased and I might interpret this wrong). The fact that the writers might not even explore that in S3 is literally criminal.

Also, I finally got to read your last fic last night, and let me tell you, I was THRIVING <333. You captured everything so well, and I was eating up every moment. And I also saw you mentioning me in that reply to the anon about my fic idea—THANK YOU. <3 I was so happy reading that! Without any pressure at all, I cannot wait to see what you’re working on. I already know it’s going to be incredible. ☁️

P.S. I tried to attach a TikTok edit here but it showed an error😭 dunno if the message was sent but if you see two just so you know why💀(thank god I wrote this in my notes ahahaha)

HIIIII!!!! ☁️ <333

and RIGHTTT that interview made me so happy. i know that it's just a small detail, and it likely won't ever be expanded on in the show (i don't expect them to), but it makes me happy knowing that rjw gave us some sort of insight into who nam-gyu is as a person outside of the show and there's something to shut down the fact that ppl think he's completely heartless and insane and dgaf about other ppl. trying to keep my nam-gyu bias in check rn when i'm talking about him and not woobify him or try too hard to make him out to be deeper than he is bc i'm NOT trying to do that, even tho i'm really happy for rjw's statement supporting the way we viewed him lol! i acknowledge he's just a side character... he's just my fav </3

he most definitely is not the deepest character when compared to a lot of other characters, nor do i think he will be explored much in canon. but at the end of the day, we know that that's just a normal ass dude in a desperate situation with a lot of issues that wants to be cared for and loved just like any other person in the world

he's mean as fuck and difficult to be around, but he's not a heartless villain with no humanity. he's not a good person, either, by any means. he did and said a lot of horrible shit, but it's the games that drove him to kill. the drugs, the desperation, the fear.

no one in the games is there without having been pushed to the absolute edge first, to the point that they're willing to gamble their life away for the chance of relieving their debts. naturally, people that desperate are gonna do some horrible, desperate things.

like bruhh gi-hun's always talking about how the games prey on vulnerable ppl and change them, driving them to do things they likely would've never ever done in their life in the name of money and the promise of relief from whatever horrible shit was going on in their lives before </3

the whole point of the show is that the players, even the ones that kill—and even the guards—aren't villians (though obviously there's some gray area here, seeing the guards that were threatening no-eul. not gonna get into it but yk what i mean when i say the guards aren't all villains, just more desperate ppl dealing with their own shit), at least from what we see from no-eul's situation. the actual villains are the filthy rich VIPs who set up the games for entertainment and find enjoyment in watching desperate, working class ppl kill each other for money. they view these people as expendable and even bet on them for fun.

the players are all ordinary people put into a desperate situation where they genuinely believe that potentially dying in the pursuit of money is a better fate than whatever tf they got going on outside!!! obviously, nam-gyu was one of those ppl! NOT excusing his actions. he's not a good person, but he's still a person that did what he did because he was pushed to the edge and in a horrible situation, just like everyone else.

also with thanos, i made this post on how i viewed them, and i agree! their relationship really showed that nam-gyu's lowkey just a loser who wants validation, recognition, to be seen as cool, and a friend, lmao. makes sense with the fact that rjw thinks he's been disrespected his whole life and constantly feels the need to prove himself and feel 'special', but he can't do it. i could see him outside the games being a lonely loser riddled with insecurity, rather than the heartless monster or even 'serial killer' that i see ppl envisioning him to be

in the subtle ways he acts in the show: trying to come off as tougher, more confident, and more sure of himself than he really is, how insecure and easily bruised he is, and just how pathetic and desperate he is for a connection with thanos (someone who couldn't even get his name right or treat him with respect), it's clear that there's a little more to him than "the thanos-obsessed guy that did drugs and went crazy"

also yeah the food scene! and i wanna add and talk about the pentathlon scene, too. though the food scene was brief, i was like aw :) he is capable of being polite and like. fucking normal, lmao.

one of my favorite nam-gyu scenes (or just scene in general) was the montage where everyone was going and cheering for each other in the pentathlon!!!! i forget the specific interview, but hdh talked about that scene and how he really liked it since it was a nice break in the tense environment of the games and acted to show everyone's humanity.

for that moment, it's not the players competing against each other for money. they're all working together and cheering each other on. they WANT each other to win. even in-ho was cheering, and hdh said his emotions there were genuine.

i really liked this scene because everyoneee, even nam-gyu and thanos, was cheering and going crazy for the other players, despite the two of them being the clear antagonists among the group. it's such a small scene, but it's a nice little moment to remind you of everyone's humanity, even those that have done / will go on to do horrible things. that at the heart of it, these people don't want each other to die. they want the money that'll save them from their situation, which unfortunately, is attached to people dying for the VIPs' entertainment.

also including pics and indenting this shit bc i love it so much

in short, YAYYYYY nam-gyu!!!!! i'm taking the details we were given and running with them to craft my own backstory for him if we're not gonna be getting shit lmao

also i'm so glad you enjoyed my latest fic haha <3 i enjoyed writing something a little more lighthearted. and i'm slowly chipping away at your rq! i'm having a lot of fun with it so far :) i really hope i can get it done within this week!

and unfortunately the tiktok link didn't show up </3 maybe you can try sending it through my submission box?? i don't know how tf tumblr works when it comes to sending links, but it might work better there (i'll go fix my submission box after posting this, and hopefully it lets you)

edit: also little side note. idk if you've watched daily dose of sunshine, but rjw saying that if nam-gyu were to meet da-eun—the sweet nurse from the show—all he'd want is to be loved by her.... :/ that shit was kind of sweet i'm ngl, and bc it's rjw that said that, it's basically canon to me that he would fall in love with someone like her. my cross-franchise crackship now, idgafffffff!

[spiderlot]

I have a stupid season 2 misty imitating nat idea but I would lowkey get canceled..

Anyways here’s the idea!!

So the R! is Nat’s basically controversially young lover right? Met her in the rehab at the start and just made her better in a sense, was with her for everything. Instead of being at a Motel it’s this apartment and it’s all nice and the shit of season 1-2 goes down. Lottie’s group abducts Nat on a whim, and R finds them blah blah blah.

Nat gets killed just as she was finally better.

Everything goes as cannon. The funeral, R! attends but just in the background and avoids all that shit.

Then Misty goes through the box and gets the strap. Going through the imitation process of mourning, she ends up on R!’s doorstep, acting like Nat, looking like Nat, in a fit of loss, they sleep together.

It spirals, Misty continues to cheat on Walter and acting as Nat. Then the other YJs intervene or something idk.

Hope this isn’t shitty!!

you and misty always had tension... she was weirdly obsessive and jealous of nat and you. thinking about you and her kinda working together to try to find where nat is..

you don't even talk to the girls at the funeral. they don't come up to try and talk either. you leave immediately after her mom's speech, heading to that bar that nat told you she used to frequent in her younger years. you tell yourself you're finally gonna go through all of nat's shit and take it home with you tomorrow but the hangover is so nasty.. misty beats you to it.

you're sick and annoyed at whoever the hell is knocking on your door. you swear you can feel your head throb just as hard as they pound on it.

"i'm coming..." you mumble quietly, mentally preparing yourself to speak to another person that wasn't a bartender in days. you stop in front of the door as you spot the missing chunk from when lottie's cult broke in to kidnap nat. your stomach drops and your mouth waters. maybe you don't need to answer the door.

"i know you're home!" your stomach drops even more when you hear misty quigley's voice from outside. you find yourself opening the door immediately, whatever angry bullshit you were about to spew at her gone from your head in an instant when you spot it.

nat's jacket. on misty.

"it took you long enough." her voice is abnormally deep, and you feel a sense of familiarity in the way misty carries herself.

you don't know why you step aside to let her in, but you do. you swear you see a flash of nat's dark hair on her as she walks past. misty looks around at the apartment, walking around like she owns the place as she plops on the couch and awkwardly manspreads.

the walk over to the couch feels like an eternity. it almost feels like you're walking in place and misty's miles away. suddenly you're next to her and analyzing the smudged eyeliner on her face. nat's eyes flash in your mind and you grip the couch cushion.

"i was gonna go get her things." you say blankly, eyeing the half-empty bottle of nat's whiskey on the coffee table.

"oh, i already got a few things for you." her normal voice is back as she speaks, misty doing that classic misty move as she adjusts her glasses and sits up. "i mean, uh," she clears her throat and leans back, arm slung over the couch. "if you're ready for it."

the way she phrases it makes you look at her questionably, but you nod nonetheless. you want her jacket the most. you're a little uncomfortable at the fact that she's wearing nat's jacket. it should be you. you were nat's girlfriend. not misty. but at the same time, you find comfort in it. comfort in how you're not the only one mourning nat like this.

you eye the jacket again and suddenly get a huge whiff of nat's musk. fuck. it still smells like her. it's like she's in the room with you, and as you look at misty, you can't really tell who's who as you jump on her lap and stuff your face in the collar of the jacket. you inhale the scent and your body melts, relaxing into misty's body. as you sink down further, you feel something hard in between her legs. cautiously, you lean back up and look into misty's eyes.

before she can even explain herself, you grab her curly blonde hair and bring her in for a messy kiss.

-

i know she tries to be rough like how she imagined nat would've been (🤨🏳️‍🌈) but you both wrestle for dominance until you hold her down and ride her, moaning out nat's name. then you let her just take care of you :( you dont rly mention her trying to act like nat but she slowly starts being more Misty instead of imitating nat when she comes over to fuck.