#it's a little bit longer though be warned

[kiwriteswords]

Finer Things [Aaron Hotchner x High-Maintenance!Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 6k|| AN: Here we are! This took a little longer than expected, but I think I like how this one turned out!

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, canon-typical themes, high-maintenance reader, female reader, progression of relationship, simp!Hotch, feminine reader, Jack exists but is only briefly mentioned, BAU reader, materialistic reader, Garcia the helpful friend, flirty banter, mild language

Summary: You're a stylish...arguably high-maintenance BAU agent who unexpectedly falls for your straightforward and grounded partner, Aaron Hotchner. As you both tackle cases and life’s surprises, you learn to blend your love for the finer things with his practical approach, discovering a deep and enduring connection.

Hotch’s office door clicked softly as you knocked, barely audible over the hum of the precinct around you. The frame filled almost instantly with your form—pristine as always, from your flawlessly styled hair down to the heels that added an effortless grace to your every step.

“Got a minute?” you asked, your voice as smooth and composed as the latte you held in one hand, the steam still curling lazily up from the cup.

Hotch stepped aside, allowing you entrance. “Of course,” he said, though he knew his afternoon was already crammed with meetings and reports. For you, though, he made time—something the rest of the team had noticed and often teased him about. But what could he say? Aaron Hotchner, stoic and steadfast, had indeed developed a soft spot for you.

As you settled into the chair across from his desk, Hotch couldn’t help but admire the meticulous way you organized your space on the table. Your designer bag was set precisely to the right, not a strap out of place. He often wondered how someone so particular could thrive in the chaotic unpredictability of the BAU.

“So, what did you think of the profile?” you began, breaking into his thoughts. Your eyes were bright, lively—a stark contrast to his own, which often carried the weight of the job.

“It’s thorough. You have a knack for getting into the unsub’s head,” Hotch replied, his voice firm yet carrying a hint of warmth reserved mostly for you.

Your smile widened, pleased. “I do try,” you quipped, stirring your latte leisurely. “But I think it could use a bit more… je ne sais quoi, don’t you think?”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And what would you suggest?”

“Well,” you leaned forward, the light catching your earrings just so. “If I were him, I’d be more careful about where I left my clues. Too sloppy. Maybe he needs a lesson in organization from me.”

Hotch chuckled, the sound more natural than he intended. “I think he’d be horrified at the idea.”

“Good,” you grinned, sitting back with satisfaction. “Then he’d know how I feel about unorganized data.”

Moving to the round table, the rest of the team began to filter into the office for the briefing, and Morgan threw a teasing glance your way. “Looks like Hotch is getting his daily dose of high maintenance,” he commented, a playful smirk on his face.

Prentiss elbowed him lightly, smiling in your direction. “Leave them alone. If anyone can get Hotch to lighten up, it’s her.”

Hotch cleared his throat, signaling the start of the briefing, but he couldn’t deny the truth in their observations. You brought a lightness to his often too-heavy life, a splash of color to the monochrome routine.

As the meeting progressed, your contributions were not just insightful but infused with a vibrancy that lifted the somber mood typical of these sessions. Each time you spoke, Hotch found his attention drawn not just to your words but to the way you expressed them—with a confidence and a flair that was uniquely yours. When you directed a comment towards him, accompanied by a playful raise of your eyebrows, there was an underlying challenge there, as if you were coaxing him out from behind his well-constructed barriers.

Your laughter, light and unguarded, filled the room at one point when you poked fun at the unsub’s choice of hideouts, suggesting even you could find a better hiding place during your shopping trips. The team chuckled, and even Hotch’s lips twitched into a smile—your cheer infectious, your presence undeniably compelling.

As the team began to disperse, you lingered over your notes, your meticulous nature evident as you aligned your papers and recapped your pens with a precision that spoke of a deeper need for order—a trait Hotch could appreciate, perhaps because it mirrored his own.

Hotch watched you, the way the light caught the highlights in your hair and the meticulous care you took with even the smallest task. He remained in his seat, an internal debate raging within him. He was the Unit Chief, always in control, always composed. But around you, those walls he meticulously maintained seemed less formidable, more permeable.

Finally, he stood, his decision made, propelled by a force he hadn’t fully acknowledged until now. Approaching you, he noted the slight surprise in your movements as you looked up. His voice, when he spoke, was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something more, something deeper.

“Dinner tonight?” he asked, the invitation hanging between them, heavier than the casual manner he attempted to portray.

You paused, a pen still in your hand, and met his gaze. The flicker of surprise was quickly replaced by a slow-spreading smile that warmed your eyes. “Trying to keep up with my high standards, Hotch?” you teased, the challenge back in your voice, but this time it was laced with an unmistakable warmth.

“I think I’m ready to try,” Hotch replied, his voice low, honest. The corners of his mouth turned up in a rare, genuine smile that seemed to reach his eyes, softening the usual hardness there.

“Then it’s a date,” you declared, your voice light but carrying a weight that filled the room with a promise of something new, something thrilling.

As you gathered your belongings and left, your heels clicking assertively against the floor, Hotch watched you go, a sense of anticipation building within him. It was a feeling foreign yet exhilarating, stirring something within him that had lain dormant.

He realized then, as the distance grew between you, that what the team jokingly called his ‘weakness’ was perhaps his most profound revelation. In you, Aaron Hotchner found not just a challenge but a vibrant counterpart who could match his steps in life’s intricate dance. With you, the future seemed less daunting, more vivid—colored by the finer things, in every possible way.

Since that first dinner, a subtle shift had occurred in the dynamics between Hotch and you. What started as a casual outing evolved into a series of clandestine meetings, each encounter deepening the bond that was swiftly becoming an integral part of his daily life. The secrecy was necessary—not just for the sake of professionalism within the team but to preserve the unique world that had begun to flourish between the two of you.

Hotch found himself anticipating your texts, which often popped up on his phone with playful emojis and witty remarks about everything from case files to the peculiar habits of their local barista. You managed to make even the mundane seem amusing, and Hotch, ever the stoic leader, found his day brightening with each notification.

One evening, as Hotch returned home from a particularly grueling case, he found a small package at his doorstep. Inside was a high-end espresso machine—a gift from you, complete with a note: "For your home office, so you can enjoy a proper latte without braving the outside world. Think of me when you use it." It was both a luxurious gesture and so quintessentially you, blending high maintenance with thoughtful consideration.

Hotch couldn’t help but smile as he set up the machine in his kitchen. It wasn’t something he would have ever purchased for himself, but now, brewing a cup in the quiet of the morning, he found a new appreciation for the ritual. It reminded him of you—how you’d insist on the perfect temperature, the ideal foam-to-espresso ratio, details he’d once overlooked but now found endearing.

At work, these small infiltrations into his life were becoming more apparent. You had taken to adjusting the small things around him, straightening the papers on his desk, sometimes replacing his usual stark office supplies with items that had a bit more personality—a stapler in polished chrome, sleek and efficient like the espresso machine, or pens that wrote so smoothly he found excuses to handwrite notes he would typically type.

Hotch had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that your influence was a welcome one. It was as if you were slowly coloring in parts of his world that he hadn’t even realized were so monochrome. And when you both sat down at the round table, reviewing case files together, the subtle touches—the way your knee would gently brush against his, or how you’d share a quick, knowing look over a shared inside joke—added layers to their days that Hotch hadn’t anticipated but found he no longer wanted to go without.

One afternoon, caught in a rare moment of downtime, Hotch found himself at the local shopping center, standing before a display of designer ties. He remembered you commenting on how a splash of color could brighten his usual ensemble of dark suits and somber expressions. With a critical eye, he selected one that was a soft shade--something that would match your eyes, he thought, a private acknowledgment of the space you were coming to occupy in his life.

That evening, when he wore the tie, the team didn’t miss the change. “Look at Hotch, finally taking some fashion tips from the best,” Morgan teased, nudging you as you both arrived for the briefing.

You shot Hotch a playful wink, and he responded with a slight nod, a silent conversation passing between them. Yes, you were changing him, but perhaps, Hotch considered as he adjusted the new tie subtly, this change was not just inevitable but necessary.

For Aaron Hotchner, known for his rigor and restraint, the gentle invasion of your high-maintenance habits into his disciplined life was less a disruption and more a revelation. Each new preference, each shared secret, wove a richer tapestry into his days. And as he looked across the table at you, he realized with a clarity that surprised him, that these threads, once so foreign, were now essential to the fabric of his life.

The rarity of a day off was not something Hotch took lightly, especially with Jack away on a Boy Scout trip. He had considered a quiet day at home, perhaps catching up on some reading or simply enjoying the peace. However, as he was contemplating his solitary plans, you texted him about your own plans for the day—getting your nails done, a routine you indulged in every few weeks.

"I’m off to maintain my high standards," your message read, accompanied by a laughing emoji. "Care to join me for a change of scenery?"

The invitation was unexpected. The thought of spending his day off in a nail salon was not something Hotch would have ever considered before meeting you. Yet, the idea of accompanying you, of sharing in something that was a part of your routine, held an appeal he couldn’t deny.

"Sure, why not?" Hotch texted back, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he imagined your reaction.

At the salon, you greeted him with a bright smile and a quick peck on the cheek. "Never thought I’d see the day Aaron Hotchner steps into a nail salon willingly," you teased, leading him inside.

The salon was a buzz of activity, a stark contrast to the usual seriousness of his work environment. You introduced him to your nail technician, a friendly woman named Lisa who greeted him with a warmth that seemed to radiate throughout the room.

As Lisa started on your nails, you chatted animatedly about the colors and designs. Hotch found himself pulled into a conversation about the merits of various shades—a discussion he never thought he’d have, yet here he was, weighing in on whether 'Midnight Blue' was a better choice than 'Stormy Grey'.

"You know, you could get something done too. A manicure perhaps? It’s quite relaxing," you suggested, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, considering it. "What would the team think if I showed up with polished nails?"

"They’d think you’re embracing the finer things in life," you replied with a laugh. "But maybe just a clear coat. We wouldn’t want to give Morgan too much ammunition."

Surprisingly, Hotch agreed. As Lisa began to work on his nails, he found the experience unexpectedly soothing. The gentle handling, the focus on something so trivial yet intimate, was a stark departure from his day-to-day life.

"So, how does it feel to be pampered?" you asked, watching him with an amused expression.

"Strangely relaxing," Hotch admitted. "I can see the appeal."

As Lisa finished, you both sat under the nail dryers. Hotch looked over at you, taking in the relaxed ease of your posture, and the genuine smile on your face. It was these moments, he realized, that he cherished deeply—the simple pleasures shared, the barriers between professional and personal blurring into something beautifully ordinary.

"You know, I’m glad you invited me," Hotch said, his voice soft amid the hum of the salon. "It’s nice, sharing this part of your world."

You reached over, your hand finding his. "I’m glad you’re here, Aaron. It means more than you know."

As they left the salon, Hotch felt a lightness he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The day had been uneventful by most standards, yet for him, it was a precious insight into the everyday joys of the person who had unexpectedly become his closest confidant.

The team's discovery of his relationship with you was as inevitable as it was unintended. It began one morning when Garcia, ever observant, noticed the faintest of smiles on Hotch’s lips as he read a text from you. It was nothing overt, just the subtle lift of his mood, but it was enough to pique her interest.

“Spill it, Hotch. You’ve been smiling more these days,” Garcia prodded as they gathered in the briefing room, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp with curiosity.

Hotch, caught slightly off-guard, managed to maintain his composure. “It’s just been a good morning,” he replied smoothly, hoping his nonchalance would deflect further inquiry.

Garcia, however, was not so easily dissuaded. “Uh huh,” she hummed, giving him a knowing look but dropping the subject in the presence of the rest of the team.

The next clue came unintentionally from you during a case briefing. You were discussing a particularly challenging aspect of the case when you casually mentioned a small detail—a detail that Hotch had shared with you in confidence during one of your dinners together.

As you spoke, Reid’s head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing in that characteristic way when he was putting pieces together. “That’s an interesting observation,” he remarked, glancing between Hotch and you. “Not many would’ve caught that.”

Hotch met Reid’s gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Reid’s expression softened into a subtle smile, and he nodded slightly, turning his attention back to the files in front of him.

Morgan and JJ were the next to catch on. It happened in the field, during a tense moment when you instinctively reached for Hotch’s hand. It was a brief touch, meant to be reassuring, but Morgan and JJ caught the action from the corner of their eye.

Later, as they regrouped at the SUV, Morgan clapped Hotch on the shoulder. “You know you can tell us, right? We’re family here,” he said in a low voice, his look pointed but friendly.

Hotch simply nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “I know, Derek,” he said, grateful for the support he knew they would offer.

Prentiss figured it out during a late-night coffee run when she saw you both at a small cafe, your heads close together, laughing softly over shared stories. She didn’t approach, respecting your privacy, but the next day, her smile was a bit wider when she greeted you both.

“It’s good to see you happy, Hotch,” she said quietly as she passed by his office, her words meant only for him.

By the time Rossi found out, it seemed that most of the team had already accepted the new dynamic with characteristic adaptability. Rossi, ever the father figure, simply raised his glass to Hotch during their next team dinner, a silent toast that spoke volumes.

“You’ve got a good thing, Aaron. Don’t let the job get in the way,” Rossi advised later, when they were alone, his voice low and earnest.

Hotch appreciated the wisdom; knowing the balance between personal happiness and professional duty was a fine line to walk.

As the team gradually discovered the relationship, what surprised Hotch most was not the fact that they found out, but the ease with which they accepted it. Their teasing was gentle, their support unwavering, and in their acceptance, Hotch found not just confirmation of his feelings for you but also a deeper appreciation for the team he considered his second family.

In this newfound openness, Hotch realized that his relationship with you did not weaken his leadership; rather, it enriched the very fabric of his life, both at work and beyond. With each passing day, as you both navigate the complexities of a relationship built amidst the demands of the BAU, Hotch found himself not just accepting but embracing the vibrant color you brought into his once-monochrome world.

The integration of your meticulous routines into Hotch's daily life was gradual, almost imperceptible at first, until one day he found himself deeply enmeshed in the particulars of your high-maintenance habits. What began as playful observations soon became cherished moments of his day, each routine offering a glimpse into the meticulous and vibrant world you inhabited.

Every evening, as you both prepared for bed, Hotch would lean against the bathroom doorway, watching as you engaged in your elaborate skincare routine. The array of creams, serums, and tools was impressive, and he'd often raise an eyebrow in mock incredulity as you explained the purpose of each one.

“Do you really need all of this?” Hotch would ask, his tone light and teasing as you applied a night serum with precise, practiced motions.

“Absolutely,” you’d reply without missing a beat, your reflection in the mirror smiling back at him. “It’s about maintaining standards, Aaron. You of all people should understand that.”

“I thought we were just going to bed, not preparing for a photo shoot,” Hotch would retort, the corners of his lips twitching into a smile.

“It’s called preventive maintenance,” you’d say, tapping the side of your nose with a finger. “One day, you’ll thank me when we’re both ninety, and I still look seventy.”

Hotch couldn’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the soft notes of the evening. He had to admit, there was a certain peace in these nightly rituals, a tranquility that had seeped into the crevices of his once rigid routine.

Sometimes, you would catch him watching and pull him into the routine, applying a bit of moisturizer to his face with gentle, coaxing motions. “You’ll feel better,” you’d assure him, and he’d comply, not because he believed in the miraculous claims of the products but because it meant more moments shared with you.

On weekends, the rituals would extend to mornings. You’d take your time selecting an outfit, coordinating accessories and makeup with an artist’s eye for detail. Hotch would sit on the bed, coffee in hand, offering the occasional nod or hum of approval as you held up two nearly identical pairs of shoes, asking for his opinion.

“What do you think? The matte or the glossy?” you’d ask, holding them up for him to see.

“The matte,” Hotch would decide after a moment’s consideration. “It’s subtler.”

“Subtle,” you’d repeat, considering this. “I like it. Subtle but effective. Kind of like you.”

The routine wasn’t just about vanity or upkeep—it was a dance, a way of you expressing yourself and inviting him into your world. Hotch found himself missing these interactions whenever you were at your own apartment. The bathroom felt too empty, the mornings too quick and utilitarian. He missed the scent of your skincare products, the sound of your voice explaining the benefits of jasmine oil, or the way you’d ask his opinion on things he’d never considered before.

Even his morning routine had adapted; where once a quick shave sufficed, he now found himself opening your moisturizer, the scent a comforting reminder of you. It was a small concession to the routines you loved, a way of keeping you close even when miles apart.

Through these shared routines, Hotch learned more than just the importance of exfoliation or the difference between matte and glossy finishes. He learned the value of slowing down, of savoring the quiet moments together before the chaos of the day set in. Each ritual, each routine you shared, wove deeper connections between them, turning mundane moments into cherished memories and in doing so, seamlessly blending his life with yours.

With your birthday on the horizon, Hotch was well aware of the intricacies involved in selecting the perfect gift. Your independence and flair for purchasing exactly what you wanted, when you wanted, left little room for him to dazzle you with something unexpected. Yet, the desire to surprise and delight you was strong; he wanted to be the doting boyfriend who could still manage to sweep you off your feet.

One morning, as he was choosing a tie for work, you playfully suggested one that would "match beautifully with my purse—if I had the right shade." The comment was offhand, perhaps even forgetful of the collection you already owned, but it sparked an idea in Hotch's mind.

Later that day, armed with determination, Hotch sought out Garcia. He found her busy at her workstations, screens flickering with data.

"Garcia, could I get your help with something a bit more... personal?" Hotch began, hesitating slightly as he ventured into unfamiliar territory.

Garcia swiveled in her chair, her expression instantly shifting to one of eager attentiveness. "Of course, Hotch! What do you need? Secret admirer codes cracked? Background checks for mysterious suitors?" she quipped, her tone light.

"Actually, I need advice on buying a purse," Hotch admitted, and briefly explained the situation.

"A purse? Oh, for you know who?! This is going to be fun!" Garcia clapped her hands, her earlier levity shifting into focused enthusiasm. "Okay, first things first, we need something as unique and classy as she is. Let’s dive into the world of designer handbags."

Garcia guided him through various high-end brands, explaining the appeal of each. "These are timeless," she pointed out, scrolling through an array of sophisticated designs. "But knowing our girl, something with both function and a high fashion quotient would be ideal."

Hotch listened, absorbing details about textures, colors, and what each brand symbolized. They finally narrowed it down to a few choices, each one reflecting a different aspect of your personality and style.

"This one here," Garcia pointed at a sleek, modern satchel with minimalist design but luxurious detailing, "seems like it could be the perfect accessory for her. It’s stylish but not ostentatious, much like how she approaches her work and personal style."

"It looks great," Hotch agreed, imagining how it would look draped over your shoulder. He made a mental note of the bag and the brand, deciding to do a little more research before making the final purchase.

"Good luck, Hotch! She's going to love whatever you choose because it's from you," Garcia smiled warmly, giving him a thumbs-up as he thanked her and left.

Back at Hotch’s apartment, as you both moved through your evening routine, Hotch found opportunities to subtly probe for more of your preferences without giving away his intentions.

"So, if you were to splurge on something frivolous, what would it be?" Hotch asked casually as you were both settling down with a glass of wine.

"Frivolous?" you chuckled, giving him a playful look. "Isn’t everything I buy somewhat frivolous to you, Mr. Practicality?"

"Perhaps," Hotch conceded with a smile, "but indulge me."

"A purse," you said after a moment, a mischievous twinkle in your eye. "A really good, outrageously and stupidly expensive purse that makes me feel like a million bucks when I carry it."

"Sounds like a worthy investment," Hotch replied, his tone teasing but thoughtful. Your eyes met, and there was a spark of something that went beyond the casual banter—a shared understanding and appreciation for these little confessions.

Hotch tucked away every piece of information, each helping him build towards the moment he would present you with the perfect birthday gift. It was more than just a purse; it was a symbol of his attentiveness to your desires and his wish to celebrate everything you were.

But the birthday Hotch had planned for you was supposed to be special, a day to celebrate you in style, with every detail tailored to your liking. Instead, duty called in the form of a particularly tough case that dragged on much longer than anyone had anticipated. The hours turned into days, and by the time it was over, everyone was exhausted, physically and emotionally drained.

As the team began packing up, you sighed heavily, the weight of the last few days evident in your slumped shoulders. "I just want to go back to my apartment," you murmured. "I ran out of clothes, and I forgot half my skincare stuff in the rush out."

Hotch, who had been hoping to salvage what was left of the day, felt a twinge of disappointment. "You could grab what you need and come back to my place," he suggested, trying to keep his tone light, though concern etched his features. He’d go to your place if he could, but Jack was waiting for him. 

You shook your head, fatigue lining your face. "I'm just so tired, Aaron. Let’s just celebrate tomorrow, okay?" Your voice held a note of finality, but also a plea for understanding.

He knew he should let it go…give you the space you needed, but a part of him—the part that had been quietly contemplating a more significant step in your relationship—spoke up. "I was going to bring this up over dinner," Hotch began, his voice steady despite the chaos of the day, "but maybe this is the right moment. You and your... elaborate routines should just move in with me."

Your fatigue momentarily gave way to surprise. "Do you know what you’re getting into? My high maintenance might take over your space," you teased, a faint smile playing at your lips despite the exhaustion.

"Yes," Hotch said firmly, his gaze intense. "I know exactly what I’m getting into, and I love it. I miss it when you’re not there."

You looked at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, your smile grew, and the weariness seemed to lift slightly. "You really want me and my half a suitcase of skincare products moving in?"

"Every last bottle and brush," Hotch confirmed, his voice softening. "It’s part of who you are, and I want all of you every day. Not just on good days or birthdays, but every challenging and tiring day too."

Your eyes softened, and you stepped closer, leaning into him slightly. "Okay, but we’re getting a bigger bathroom cabinet," you stipulated, your tone light but sincere.

"It’s a deal," Hotch agreed, wrapping an arm around you. The case had taken much from you both, but at this moment, a new door was opening—a commitment that promised to blend your lives in ways beyond shared cases and briefings.

As you both headed back, the weight of the case still lingering, there was a new undercurrent of hope, of shared futures and bathroom cabinets, a testament to the resilience of your bond.

You decided to pick up a few essentials from your apartment and spend the night at Hotch's place--now your place, too, despite your tiredness. Hotch, feeling a mix of relief and excitement, drove you to your apartment, waiting as you gathered your things.

Inside, you moved efficiently, albeit with a tired grace, packing your cherished skincare products and several outfits. Hotch leaned against the doorway, watching as you filled a small suitcase with what seemed to him an elaborate array of potions and tools. Each item was carefully selected, a ritual that he found both fascinating and slightly amusing.

“You sure you’ve got enough there for just one night?” Hotch teased lightly, his eyes twinkling with humor.

You glanced over your shoulder, a playful smirk on your lips. “This is the streamlined version, believe it or not. You might have to rent the apartment next door.”

“I’ll consult the landlord tomorrow,” Hotch quipped, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile.

Back at his apartment, as you began setting out your skincare products in the bathroom, Hotch watched for a moment, his mind returning to the gift he’d carefully hidden away—something he hoped would make your day a little brighter after the tough case.

“Hey,” Hotch called softly, capturing your attention as you meticulously arranged your items. “I have something for you. I was saving it for a proper celebration, but I think tonight is as good a time as any.”

Your curiosity piqued, you followed him to the living room, where he retrieved a small, elegantly wrapped box from a drawer. Handing it to you, he watched as your eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and anticipation lighting up your features.

You unwrapped the box with a gentle precision, and as you lifted the lid and saw the purse—a beautiful, designer pocketbook that perfectly matched the sophisticated style you cherished—your expression transformed into one of sheer delight.

“Aaron, this is beautiful,” you breathed out, carefully pulling the purse from the box. You admired the craftsmanship, running your fingers over the smooth leather and the detailed stitching.

“It reminded me of you,” Hotch said, his voice sincere. “Elegant, practical, and incredibly stylish. Happy Birthday.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining not just from the beauty of the gift but from the thoughtfulness behind it. “I love it,” you said, stepping closer to wrap your arms around him in a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you; this is the best end to a rough day.”

Hotch held you close, his heart swelling with the joy of seeing you so happy. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you smile like that,” he murmured into your hair, feeling the weight of the case and the fatigue of the day finally begin to lift.

As you pulled back slightly, still holding the purse, you teased, “Does this mean I get a new purse for every rough case?”

“Birthdays,” Hotch corrected with a gentle smile, his gaze softening as he added, “You make it incredibly hard for me to spoil you more than I already wish to.”

You laughed, a sound that Hotch had come to cherish deeply. “I’ll try to be less self-sufficient in the future,” you quipped, clutching the new purse a little closer as if it were a treasured award.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about your independence,” Hotch replied earnestly. “It’s one of the many things I admire about you. But allow me the occasional indulgence of spoiling you, especially on days like today.”

The purse, an elegant and thoughtful gift, lay between you on the coffee table, symbolizing not just a celebration of your birthday but of the new phase in your relationship. The evening settled into a comfortable rhythm, the earlier tension from the case dissolving into the background as you both enjoyed the simple pleasure of each other’s company.

With the challenges of the case behind you and the warmth of your shared space around you, Hotch felt a profound sense of contentment. This was more than just a birthday celebration—it was a reaffirmation of your partnership, a testament to how deeply your lives had intertwined.

As you both relaxed into the sofa, the conversation drifted from light teasing to deeper, more introspective topics. Every so often, your hand would brush against the purse, a physical reminder of Hotch’s affection and attention to what brought you joy.

“Thank you, Aaron,” you said again, your voice lower, more reflective as the night wore on. “For understanding me, even when I think I don’t need anything.”

Hotch reached over, his hand finding yours, squeezing it gently. “You don’t need to thank me for that,” he murmured. “It’s just another part of our journey together. And I’m grateful for every step we take, side by side.”

The purse remained on the table, a beacon of new beginnings and mutual understanding, as you both shared the quiet comfort of knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns

[bisuhq]

five more minutes, please!

includes : (mouthwashing) anya, curly, daisuke, swansea.

summary : you fall asleep on them, will they have the heart to wake you?

warnings : gn! reader. curly carries reader around (trust, this man is a gym bro, no matter what he will be carrying your ass).

ANYA

You were helping Anya study for one of her upcoming exams, flashcards in hand and your head in her lap. "Correct~" You coo, eyelids growing heavy as you flip through the cards- each of which answered correctly by Anya. It isn't until she misses one that you find a small break for yourself. Eyes falling shut, Anya writes down notes furiously, clacking away at her laptop.

It's a nice moment, the ambience has your breathing slowly evening out until you've fallen asleep on her lap. "Okay, I won't miss that one next time," She mumbles, "What's the next-" She tenses up upon seeing your sleeping form. When did you fall asleep? She glances at the time on her computer and her eyes nearly bug out of her head- when did it get so late?!

Closing her laptop, Anya hesitantly begins to trace the curves of your face, a small smile forming on her lips. It wasn't rare to see you asleep before her, but it was still a moment she cherished. She wondered how long it would take for her legs to start to tingle from falling asleep, and she wonders if when that times come, will she be able to wake you?

Well, when you wake up, you're still on her lap at the dining table. Anya's head tilted back as she lets out soft snores, causing you to bite back some laughter. Of course she couldn't wake you, that would be like committing a grave sin!

CURLY

"I'm tired," You grumble, Curly in response just nods his head, muttering quiet 'i know, i know's as he tries not to speed home. "Will you carry me inside?" He glances over at you- and when he sees you're serious he chuckles.

"Yeah," He grins as he pulls into the driveway, "Just close your eyes, I'll get you." With a giddy grin, you close your eyes and await your knight in shining armor. He's quiet as he opens the car door, and even quieter as he picks you up and carries you inside your shared home. He goes so far as to carry you to the bed- but as he's about to put you down, he's notice you've already began to drool on his shoulder.

"Didn't realize I was so comfy," He teases, even though you can't hear. "Well, should I hold on to you a little longer?" Only your even breathing is heard. Indulging himself, he carries you for a little while longer wondering how you haven't woken up yet.

It's then, as you nuzzle into shoulder with a sweet smile, that Curly realizes he would never let you down again if he could help it. (After an hour his arms start to go a little numb so he finally puts you down bc he doesn't want to accidentally drop you)

DAISUKE

"Movie night!" Daisuke cheered, nearly spilling popcorn everywhere as he jumped over the couch to sit next to you, smiling from ear to ear. "Are you ready to be scared~" He wiggled his brows, selecting the movie you two were going to watch- a horror movie that just came out.

"Speak for yourself," You scoff, getting cozy under the blankets as Daisuke presses play on the movie. It's not even forty minutes into the movie before you start to yawn, your eyelids feeling heavy. The only time you really jump is when Daisuke yelps from some scary scene on the screen.

"This movie is pretty intense, isn't i-" Before he can finish his sentence, your head is hitting his shoulder. His eyes widen, thinking you're trying to scare him, but when he realizes you fell asleep he relaxes a bit. "Jeez, you're no fun..." He mumbles, shaking his head at you- how could fall asleep during movie night!? But... You did look rather cute... Nervously he glances away from your face.

Why did you have to look so damn cute? Daisuke glances back at your face, no longer paying attention to the movie. Your soft little snores makes his heart do more flips that the scary scenes on screen. "Hey... You really asleep?" He asks, waiting for a reply. When you don't respond (because you're asleep), he lets out a shaky breath. "I... I like you... Just so you know..." He whispers his confession to you, and when you don't react (because, again, you're sleeping), he turns back to the movie.

"Anyway, this is a dumb movie- you can pick the movie next time." He talks aloud, deciding to turn off the movie and (try to) fall asleep as well, unable to wake you up or move you off him.

SWANSEA

"I told you it was a dumb idea to take the train," Swansea grumbles as he boards the last train, which is late, with you. You roll your eyes as you listen to him continue to mumble out complaints. Finding a seat in an emptier section, Swansea finally stops yapping.

"Got that out of your system?" You ask, and it's his turn to roll his eyes. You snicker, resting your head against his shoulder. "At least admit you had fun today, won't you?" He sighs, glancing down at you.

"Yeah, I had fun." He says, albeit begrudgingly. With that, silence washes over you both. It's not long before the exhaustion of the fun day starts to hit you, and you think it'll be fine if you just close your eyes for a little bit- until you're skipping through dreamland. Swansea notices almost immediately that you've fallen asleep, and frowns.

"Seriously?" He tries to shake you awake, but you don't budge. Sighing, he awkwardly adjusts himself so that you're more comfortable. "Just don't blame me if ya wake up with a crick in the neck, 'kay?" He lets you sleep until it's your stop- he loves you, but not enough to let you sleep 'til the end of the line.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

[levisjinchuriki]

midnight - satoru gojo

summary: gojo's new year's resolution is to tell you how he feels, but people keep stealing you away before he gets a chance

warning: fluff, friends to lovers trope, gojo pining after you, a bit of a power dynamic, small amount of angst, kissing

gojo stands near the edge of the room, one hand gripping a glass of something amber and strong, though it’s been forgotten. his other hand rests in pocket, fingers twitching with restless energy. he’s satoru gojo—jujutsu high’s golden boy, the strongest sorcerer, the life of the party…and yet, tonight, he’s anything but.

his sharp blue eyes, usually so carefree and confident, are laser-focused on you standing across the room, leaning into a conversation with a group of his friends. 

you’ve always had this intense power over him, even when you weren’t trying. it’s in the way you move— completely unaware of how effortlessly you draw people in. it’s in the way you smile, disarming and genuine, making everyone in your orbit feel like they’re the only person who matters.

but for gojo, it’s your eyes that get him the most. the way you look at him commands his full attention, every time. you see him, really see him, in a way no one else does. and it makes everything else fade away.

you’ve caught him staring more than once tonight. each time, he sees that same knowing look in your eye, your lips quirking into a subtle smile that feels like a challenge. like you’re daring him to do something about the way he looks at you.

his grip tightens around the glass. gojo takes a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, but it’s no use. he’s starting to lose his mind. 

you’ve been stolen away from him at least five times tonight. first, it was yuji, grinning ear to ear as he swept you into an animated conversation. then geto had pulled you aside, his smooth charm keeping your attention longer than gojo liked. now, you’re surrounded by a group of people whose names gojo didn’t even bother to catch, their laughter mingling with yours in a way that makes his stomach twist in jealousy.

it’s maddening.

every time he musters up the courage to approach you, someone else beats him to it, pulling you away just before he can do the one thing he’s been too terrified to risk for years. every missed opportunity gnaws at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth that even his drink can’t wash away.

because satoru gojo is in love with you.

he always has been. from the moment you first smiled at him with that effortless warmth, he was all in. but fear—sharp, unfamiliar, and relentless—has kept him silent. the thought of losing you, of ruining the bond you’ve shared for years, has held him back, no matter how much it’s tortured him to watch you be with other people.

it ached to see you cry on his shoulder over an ex who didn’t deserve you. it hurt even more to hear himself giving you advice he wished he could follow—advice he wished he could prove to you himself. but through it all, he stayed the supportive best friend, locking his feelings away and pretending that watching you love someone else didn’t shatter him every time.

but tonight, gojo feels different. maybe it’s the champagne fizzing in his veins, making everything feel a little lighter. maybe it’s the delusional bravery that comes with every new year, the promise of new beginnings and the freedom to act on desires that have been bubbling under the surface. or maybe it’s the way you keep looking at him like that—like you’re waiting. like you already know.

his chest tightens as he lifts the glass to his lips, downing the drink in one long, burning swallow. he grimaces, but the rush of liquid courage steadies him momentarily.

enough is enough.

glass abandoned on a nearby table, gojo straightens, his towering frame cutting through the crowd with ease as he makes his way toward you. his pulse is pounding, his nerves are screaming, but his eyes stay locked on you, unwilling to let anyone else take you away this time.

“can i steal her for a sec?” gojo interrupts smoothly as he approaches the group. his tone is casual, but there’s an edge to it—a subtle claim that leaves no room for argument. his towering frame and commanding presence seal the deal as his hand presses against your back, guiding you away without giving the others a chance to respond.

you let him lead you, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you glance up at him. he feels the warmth of your gaze, the way it lingers, and it does little to calm the pounding of his pulse. 

“finally decided to come out of your corner, gojo?” you tease, your voice low and laced with amusement.

“i wasn’t in a corner” he lies. your raised brow and knowing grin let him know you’re not buying it for a second.

“right. and i wasn’t waiting all night for you to talk to me” you counter smoothly, the challenge in your tone making his stomach flip. the glint in your eye—mischievous and just a little smug—nearly crumbles him. he stammers for a moment, trying to form a response, but nothing coherent comes out.

“you’ve been avoiding me” your voice drops in volume as you step closer. the intimacy of the gesture steals the air from his lungs.

“i haven’t—”

“you have” your voice is firm, but still laced with that teasing edge that drives him insane. “you’ve been staring at me all night like you want something, and yet, here i am, talking to everyone but you”.

gojo swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. you’ve cornered him effortlessly, your words peeling away every excuse he might have used to deflect. the way your eyes hold his makes it impossible to look away.

you’ve been watching him just as closely as he’s been watching you, dissecting every glance, every subtle shift in his posture. you’ve caught him staring more times than you can count, and each time, the slight tilt of your head and that knowing look in your eye made it clear: you know.

you know exactly how much power you have over him.

and you’re enjoying it.

it’s infuriating, the way you have him so completely wrapped around your finger without even trying. but it’s also exhilarating. he’s satoru gojo—untouchable, powerful, confident. no one has ever left him flustered, never made him second-guess himself. but somehow, you’ve brought him to his knees without even trying.

“ten... nine...eight…” the crowd begins the countdown, but he barely hears it, drowned out by the pounding of his heart. now, as he stands before you, the room buzzing with energy and the countdown ticking dangerously close to zero, he knows he can’t wait any longer. the way you’re looking at him— like you’ve been waiting for him to finally catch up—sends a thrill racing through his veins. it’s the curve of your lips—that faint, maddeningly confident smile—that has him completely at your mercy.

there’s no time like the present. either he steps forward and starts the new year without regrets, or he lets the moment slip away and risks losing the person most special to him forever.

“three... two...”

he doesn’t wait for “one”. 

without another second of hesitation, gojo pulls you closer, one hand wrapped around your waist and the other cradling your face as though you’re something fragile and precious. his thumb brushes gently against your cheek as he leans in.

the kiss is everything he’s ever dreamed of and more—sweet, passionate, and filled with longing after years spent second-guessing and holding back. it’s not just a kiss; it’s an apology, a confession, a promise all wrapped into one moment.

your arms slide up instinctively, fingers threading into his undercut, pulling him impossibly closer. the gesture is possessive, grounding, and when you kiss him back with equal fervor, satoru knows he’s a goner.

you’re everything he’s ever wanted but was too scared to ruin. and now, with the taste of your lips on his, satoru is sure he’s addicted. he feels relieved, euphoric, and he wonders how he’s managed without this for so long.

when gojo finally pulls back, your foreheads rest against each other. you’re both breathless, chests rising and falling in unison. 

“took you long enough” you tease, your voice brimming with warmth. your thumb lightly grazes his bottom lip.

for all his usual confidence, there’s a vulnerability in the way he looks at you now. his normally playful eyes are earnest, his gaze searching yours as if afraid this moment might vanish, like a dream slipping through his fingers.

“yeah, well… i like to keep you on your toes” satoru quips with familiar cockiness.

the smirk on your lips a reminder of the truth: he’s in your hands. you’ve always been the one in control. but tonight, you let him have this moment, let him play at being the one holding the reins.

you hum, the sound low and pleased. the way you’re looking at him—with affection, amusement, and something he doesn’t dare name—has his heart racing. for a second, he wonders if his knees might give out entirely. 

“happy new year, gojo” you say. your fingers brush the nape of his neck.

“happy new year” he murmurs back, eyes fixed on yours as if he’s afraid to miss a single second of this.

then, before anyone can pull you away again, before the world outside this moment can intrude, he leans in, stealing another kiss. it’s slower this time, less hurried, but no less consuming. the intensity builds, unspoken feelings spilling over with every shared breath, every gentle press of his lips against yours.

it’s just him, you, and the undeniable connection you can no longer ignore.

when you finally part, both of you breathless, he lingers close, hand cradling your cheeks. there’s a softness in his gaze now, a vulnerability that’s rare for him, but is entirely genuine.

as the sound of cheers and laughter signals it’s time to celebrate with everyone, gojo laces his fingers with yours before leading you back toward the others. his grip is firm but gentle. he doesn’t let go, not even when you’re surrounded by the lively crowd.

instead, he gives your hand a squeeze, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. 

he’s determined—no one is going to steal you away again.

not tonight. not ever.

--

a/n: happy new year, everyone. this is my first fic of 2025!! one of my resolutions is to write more. please send some requests my way!! <3

creds: found on pinterest so i’m not sure who the creator is!

[cybrasigilism]

She’s Like Morphine (Player 380 x F!Reader)

content warnings: smut | winners love winning | fingering | cunnilingus | not proofread! | out of game AU | punk rocker! semi x f!reader

character: se-mi (player 380)

A/N: this was requested to me through my messages! i was already planning on writing for se-mi so it works out perfectly :) hope you guys enjoy!

thanks to @elixk1tten for the request!

MDNI! 18+ content ahead, reader discretion is advised

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

it was supposed to be a typical friday-night gig. the same old routine. se-mi had grown accustomed to seeing a pretty girl out in the crowd every now and then, but this time, this time it was different. she felt totally unprofessional because for the first time in her whole career of being a punk musician, she couldn’t take her eyes off of one person in the crowd in this dingy little dive bar…

and of course that person, was you.

you had caught se-mi’s eye from the moment she clocked you in the crowd after performing the first song. she no longer felt like she was performing just for the sake of it as usual in that moment, but she felt as though she had to impress you, specifically. like she was singing for you. she knew that she just had to get to you after the performance was done.

after the crowd of regulars dispersed from asking for photos and autographs with se-mi, she kept her eyes peeled for you amongst the many bar patrons. to many this would seem futile, as this dive bar was completely packed. but she had practically memorized your face the moment she got a good look at you out in the crowd. she had hoped that maybe you had stuck around, so she could have a chance to put a name to the face that stunned her.

lucky for her, you had indeed chosen to stick around. se-mi wasn’t the only one who was mystified with the person she saw that night, as that was exactly how you felt when she walked up to centre stage. you felt your cheeks grow hot when she looked at you, and you could tell she was looking right at you, it wasn’t a coincidence. you pretended not to notice as se-mi approached you, nervously trying to act as though you were staring into your drink and definitely not thinking the wholly inappropriate thoughts that you definitely were.

“so, did you enjoy the show?” she chuckled, causing you to jump in your seat a bit, you turned around swiftly and realized just how closely she was actually standing next to you. you stared blankly for a moment, trying to compose yourself, before she cocked her head and asked “you alright?”

“yeah! yeah, i’m okay.” you laughed nervously, fiddling with the hem of your shirt as you tried your best not to make too much eye contact. “yeah, i really loved the show.” se-mi smiled, and proceeded to ask if she could sit down, to which you quickly accepted. why wouldn’t you?

“what’s your name?” my, she was rather quick to start getting to know you, wasn’t she. you were so used to people trying to hit on you without at least getting your name first that her formality shocked you. “my name?” you echoed, earning another snicker from se-mi. “what, did you forget your own name or something?” she teased, you could feel your cheeks warm up again with embarrassment. “i’m sorry, it’s (Y/N).” you apologized, bowing your head slightly. “don’t do that, you don’t have anything to apologize for.” she said reassuringly. “i guess you’re used to assholes just coming onto you without a proper introduction, huh.”

you were dumbfounded by how well she was reading you, it’s not exactly like you had a poker face by any means but her accuracy was astounding. “how did you guess?” you rolled your eyes jokingly, taking a sip of your drink. se-mi looked you up and down before blatantly saying “well it’s pretty obvious given how gorgeous you are, i’m sure you’ve got fools tripping over themselves for you all the time.” you chuckled a bit, before tucking your hair behind your ear (a classic move i know), and thanking her. “you know, i don’t usually do this… but i was thinking something.” she started, leaning in a bit so you could hear her better. “how about you come backstage? i’d love to get to know you better, y’know, one on one.” she placed her hand on your thigh at saying the last bit, causing your temperature to spike tenfold, you were positive.

“really?” you stammered, trying not to explode at the contact she just closed between you two. “are you…are you even allowed to have me back there? i don’t have a backstage pass..” se-mi giggled and looked out into the crowd. “yeah usually that would be a problem,” she looked back at you, once more giving you the up-down, “but i think i can make an exception for you.”

⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰

of all the things you expected to happen tonight, being underneath a super hot, punk rocker with her knee between your legs was the very last thing you could have thought. it was a surprise you could even focus on thinking about how you got to this point when you had se-mi marking up your neck, biting softly every once and again. your eyes were practically glazed over as she slid her ringed hands up your shirt and beneath your bra, fingers playing with your nipples. you cried out at the cold sensation of her fingers over your breasts but at the same time you’ve never felt so good. she released herself from your neck and smirked down at you.

“you feeling good?” se-mi asked almost smugly as she toyed with the buttons on your shirt, attempting to break through to what she wanted underneath. you shook your head, barely being able to formulate a sentence before she pressed her knee into your crotch. “i’m gonna need words, baby.” something about her voice just drove you insane, as if in a trance you responded almost instantly. “god, yes.” you moaned out, grabbing at her shirt and pulling her in for a kiss. you could feel se-mi chuckle against your lips, before pulling back and taking off her own shirt. you don’t know why but the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath shocked you, but what she was about to do would shock you even further.

se-mi kissed down your torso all the way to the zipper of your jeans, to which she looked up at you as if waiting for an “okay”, which you gave. she then took the zipper in between her teeth and pulled all the way down, looking up at you all the while. you felt your core heat up as she unbuttoned your jeans and pulled them off, revealing a black, lacy pair of panties. she looked up at you with a smirk and a raised brow. “you were so hoping something like this would happen, weren’t you?” se-mi snickered. you blushed and turned away, but she only laughed before affixing your leg above her shoulder. “no fault there, i’m not about to judge someone for being prepared.”

you squeezed your eyes shut, too nervous to maintain eye contact as she pulled your panties to the side to reveal just how soaked she had gotten you. “shit, how quickly did you get like this?” she asked, practically forcing you to open your eyes. “i..um..” you were well beyond the point of speaking a full sentence now. “i dunno… just need you.” se-mi could feel how desperate you were for her, hell the evidence was literally right in front of her face, and she decided to get a taste of just exactly how much you needed her.

your back forcibly arched as she licked up your pussy, you could tell she wanted to take her time with you and god, you hoped she did. she drew moans and whimpers from you as she sucked on your clit, moaning while she did so herself. you took a handful of her black hair in your hand when she eventually inserted two fingers into your hole, still sucking and licking and your clit. her motions were slow and deliberate, she wanted you to feel every thrust as she pumped her fingers in and out of you.

“ ‘s too- too much.. ‘m gonna.. ‘m gonna…” you managed to utter through your whines, she released herself from your clit, fingers still working your pussy. “you’re gonna what, sweetheart?” she taunted, her motions growing quicker as tears formed in your eyes. “‘m so close, p—lease!” you cry out. feeling your walls clench around her fingers, she could definitely tell. “you’re gonna cum?” se-mi repeated, growing breathy herself. “yeah? then do it. cum for me.” she ordered, going back to sucking and licking your clit. you were practically seeing stars at this point, thoughts and sense be damned, all you could think about was how good se-mi was making you feel, and you did not want her stopping.

your legs began to shake and your grip on her hair had not loosened, you clenched down on her fingers once more before coming off the edge. se-mi’s pace finally slowed down and before you knew it, she had moved from your pussy to your lips, kissing you softly. you could taste yourself on her lips, but you were so far gone you certainly did not care. se-mi took in the state of you and chuckled, before putting her shirt back on and laying you across her lap.

“how about next time, you go down on me?” she suggested, combing her hands through your hair. you nodded, still in a daze. you couldn’t think of anything else but her.

se-mi was like a drug, she was your morphine.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

thanks for reading! and as usual advice and constructive criticism are always appreciated and requested, I’m constantly looking for ways to improve my writing :>

[wolvietxt]

𝓑UTTERFLIES, PART TWO.

pairing : bucky barnes x fem!reader warnings : fluff, kiss, that’s literally it i think summary : after much deliberation, bucky finally acts on his feelings for you wc : 1.2k a/n : part two to this fic💕

bucky had been avoiding the common areas of the tower for the past few days, ever since his conversation with wanda. her teasing words about him having a crush had burrowed deep into his mind, and every time he thought about seeing you, his heart raced and his palms grew clammy. but he couldn’t avoid you forever, not when you’d become such an integral part of his days.

so, when he found himself in the kitchen one morning, staring blankly at the coffee machine, he wasn’t entirely surprised to hear your voice behind him.

“good morning,” your cheerful tone was always comforting.

he turned, offering you a small smile. “morning,” he mumbled.

“you look like you could use some coffee,” you teased, gesturing to the empty mug in his hand.

“yeah, guess i’m not fully awake yet,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “what about you? you’re always so… chipper.”

“it’s caffeine,” you joked, flashing him a grin. “and maybe a little bit of just liking mornings.”

he couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him. “guess i’ll have to take your word for it.”

as the two of you stood there, the conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from your latest mission to the strange quirks of living in a tower full of superheroes. bucky found himself relaxing, the tension in his shoulders easing as you laughed at one of his rare jokes.

“you’re funny, you know that?” you said, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

“not sure anyone’s ever called me that before,” he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“well, i’m saying it now,” you said with a firm nod, your smile still beaming. “and i don’t lie about these things.”

bucky’s heart did a little flip at the sincerity in your voice. he wasn’t used to compliments, let alone ones that felt so genuine. 

from that day on, your interactions became more frequent. whether it was a shared meal in the kitchen or a brief exchange in the hallways, you always seemed to find a way to brighten his day. bucky, in turn, began to seek you out, drawn to the warmth you radiated.

one evening, you found yourselves in the common room again, this time watching a movie with the rest of the team. bucky had taken a seat on the far end of the couch, but you’d plopped down right next to him, a blanket draped over your lap.

“didn’t take you for a movie night kind of guy,” you whispered, leaning closer so only he could hear.

“i’m not, usually,” he admitted, his voice low. “but… this seemed like a good idea.”

“well, i’m glad you’re here,” you said, your smile soft and genuine.

as the movie played on, bucky found it harder to focus on the screen. his attention kept drifting to you - the way you laughed at the funny parts, the way your expression softened during the emotional scenes, tears brimming at your waterline. at one point, your hand accidentally brushed against his, and though you quickly pulled away with an apologetic smile, the brief contact sent his heart racing.

when the movie ended, you turned to him, your eyes bright. “what did you think?”

“it was… good,” he said, though he couldn’t have recalled a single plot point if his life depended on it.

“you’re such a liar,” you teased, nudging him lightly. “but that’s okay. next time, i’ll pick something you’ll actually like.”

next time. the words lingered in his mind long after you’d gone to bed. he wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, you’d become the highlight of his days. and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

over the next few weeks, bucky found himself growing more comfortable around you. your conversations became longer, your laughter more frequent. you had a way of drawing him out of his shell, of making him feel like the version of himself he’d almost forgotten.

one afternoon, the two of you were sitting on the tower’s balcony, a light breeze rustling through the air. you’d brought out a deck of cards, insisting on teaching him a game he’d never heard of.

“okay, so the goal is to get rid of all your cards,” you explained, shuffling the deck with practiced ease. “it’s kind of like uno, but with regular cards.”

“sounds complicated,” he said, his brow furrowing.

“nah, you’ll get the hang of it,” you assured him. “and if not, i’ll just keep winning.”

he smirked. “we’ll see about that.”

the game quickly devolved into playful banter, with you teasing him every time he made a mistake and him firing back with his own dry humor. by the time you’d declared yourself the winner for the third round in a row, you were both laughing so hard your sides hurt.

“okay, okay, you’re officially banned from shuffling,” you said, wiping a tear from your eye. “you’re too good at stacking the deck.”

“hey, don’t hate the player,” he replied, his grin widening.

as the laughter subsided, a comfortable silence settled over you. bucky found himself watching you, the way the sunlight caught in your hair, the way your lips curved into a soft smile even when you weren’t talking. his chest tightened with an unfamiliar but not unwelcome feeling.

“you know,” he said quietly, “you make this place a lot more bearable.”

you looked up, your eyes meeting his. “that’s funny,” you said, your voice just as soft. “i was going to say the same thing about you.”

the words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. bucky’s heart pounded in his chest as he searched your face for any sign of hesitation. but all he saw was warmth, an openness that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could take the leap.

“would it be okay if i…?” he trailed off, his gaze flickering to your lips.

you didn’t answer right away, but the way you leaned in, the way your breath hitched ever so slightly, was all the encouragement he needed. 

when his lips met yours, it was like the world fell away. the kiss was soft, tentative, as if he were afraid of breaking the moment. but as you responded, your hand coming up to rest against his cheek, he felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight.

when you finally pulled back, your eyes searched his, a shy smile playing on your lips. “so,” you said shyly, your voice barely above a whisper. “was that as scary as you thought it’d be?”

he chuckled, his forehead resting against yours. “not even close.”

“good,” you said, your fingers brushing lightly against his. “because i’ve been wanting you to do that for a while.”

“me too,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “i just didn’t know how.”

“well, you figured it out,” you said, your smile widening. “and for the record, you’re pretty good at this whole talking thing when you try.”

he laughed, a genuine, carefree sound that felt foreign yet wonderful. “guess i’ll have to keep practicing, then.”

“i’ll hold you to that,” you said, leaning in for another kiss.

this time, he didn’t hesitate. because for the first time in a long time, bucky felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

ᰔ bucky barnes : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid

@yvespecially, @hhiggs, @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts, @seasonofthenerd, @superlegend216

@withasideofmeg, @pvndomi, @flamin-hot-cheetos, @bbittenapples, @hazydespair

@aoi_targaryen, @person-005, @corvuscattus

more tags : @vicmc624, @starsmoonn, @daddyyy88, @illusionaryjourneys

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[wincore]

I faked my engagement for free cake samples and got sued after I ran away AIO | haechan

pairing: haechan x baker!reader

genre: comedy, fluff, rivals (?) to lovers (?)

warning(s): quite possibly you will be inflicted with cringe, shameless scamming, mild swearing, one (1) innuendo

words: 5.4k

song recs: santa doesn’t know you like i do by sabrina carpenter, too late for chocolate? by kana hanazawa, like a raspberry by 宇宙ネコ子, honey by kara

a/n: ty to my queens lana and cat for gassing up this dumpster fire i wrote in a caffeine haze while watching my bf die every 20 secs in ds3. the initial plot was going to be far longer and more fleshed out but i fear i'm past my prime ( ._. )" i still hope you guys have fun with this one!! i got to play around with hallmark comedy far more this time, so overall it was a fun time writing <3 happy new year, my lovely mooncakes!!

part of a nonsense christmas: reddit edition collab <3

r/AmITheAsshole

u/YeastMode6969 • 3h

I faked my engagement for free cake samples then got sued after I ran away. AIO?

I (24F, small bakery owner) faked my engagement to get free cake samples at my rival bakery but the employee said I needed my fiance to be there. I panicked and grabbed the first guy to come through the bakery door after me. Turns out he’s not just some random customer. To top it off, he was ridiculously attractive even though he pissed me off every two sentences. I had a panic attack, told myself it’s totally not my fault, and moved on by baking fourteen cakes over the weekend. I thought I got away with it, but three days later, I got an email from him—he’s now suing me for “emotional damages” and “theft of pastries.” Am I doomed, or is this just karma with extra frosting?

⥣ 7.7k ⥥ 2,701 Comments

bun_theory0222 • 2h

INFO: Did you at least try the samples? Were they worth the lawsuit? We’re all dying to know here.

➥ Reply ⥣ 3.2k ⥥

muffinbutdrama1122 • 1h

nah cuz why is he suing when he CLEARLY wants to flirt??? this man is embarrassing but so are you. somebody matched ur freak <3

➥ Reply ⥣ 1.7k ⥥

soggywaffle0205 • 6m

YTA why can’t this shit happen to me. AT LEAST I would commit to the bit.

➥ Reply ⥣ 420 ⥥

cerealfordinner0323 • 2h

Bro sued you just to slide into your life again. He’s not slick, and neither are you. Good luck with that wedding cake.

➥ Reply ⥣ 9,011 ⥥

. . .

If you could hop a few steps to the right, feign unconsciousness, and climb right into the active fireplace, it could potentially make everything okay. For you, that is. Not for the poor bakery employees who would have to call the cops. 

“I’m sure he’s a handsome one!” The girl behind the counter giggles, light pink dusting her cheeks. “You’re- you’re so gorgeous!”

Setting aside the fact that most gorgeous women you know end up with malformed gargoyles, your current predicament is almost equally sinister. What started as an innocuous process to gain free wedding samples (in other words, a scam) has led to a question that should be obvious but completely escaped your mind following your trailing success.

“We’ll need to have you come in with your fiance for the free wedding cake samplers. Is he around?”

Is he around?! Boy, you sure hope so. Because now you’re also frantically looking around with the employee after you blurted out another lie: “He’s going to be here soon!”

When did you turn into a compulsive liar? You’re not sure if your mom would be proud of you for being so good at nabbing free food, or disappointed that you’re a filthy liar. After all, she did tell the buffet employees you were under 10 all the way till you were 14. So, really, you’re not the source of the problem! You brush your festive red skirt of invisible crumbs, trying to busy yourself.

The cafe itself is well decorated for Christmas—a silver reindeer bores holes into your head from by the front door, a small Christmas tree stands at the center that’s a little emaciated but the cute Sanrio ornaments in Santa hats make up for it, and most importantly, a beautiful Mont Blanc cake sparkles from atop the glass counter. (Seriously, why didn’t you think of this? Your own bakery is all sparkles and no play.)

You move out of the way of other customers, and casually glance at the source of your awe and joy. Powdered sugar dusts the top as idyllic snow, covering the sugared cranberries and sugared chestnuts, not dent in them under the white fondant star. The base of the cake is tied with an edible red ribbon, completing the seasonal aesthetic of it. A sigh rests momentarily upon your lips before it escapes. 

You love Mont Blanc cakes, but you never quite get it right. That’s your biggest failure as an up-and-coming baker, and such is the reason for your unhinged serial sampling scam. You swear it started off as a search for inspiration in a creative rut but before you knew it, a lie had spilled from your eclair-sweetened lips, and another, and another. 

It is at this point that you briefly consider bolting for the door. Tibet is great around this time of the year. Maybe if you convert to a monk lifestyle and atone for your sins, you’ll be granted a pardon in the form of delicious sweets. Before you can make your escape, however, the front door jingles, and in strides a sight unbelievably reassuring. A man with caramel hair enters, who might as well be wrapped in a giant red ribbon and seated atop a snow-white horse in golden ornaments.

It’s a Christmas miracle. Hallelujah! They still apply to you.

His smile—soft and sweet as meringue hearts—lights up the room as he inhales the warm, sugary air of the bakery. You’re hit with the vaguest sense of familiarity. He might be one of the few customers you get these days. For a moment, you falter. Are you really going to victimize this stranger?

Yes. Yes, you are. The situation is dire.

“Hi darling!” You exclaim within earshot of the employee, before lowering your voice. “Could you help me out a little here?”

The man blinks, dazed for whatever reason. “Uh… sure?”

“Okay, then follow along and ask questions later,” you reply, and loop your arm through his gingerly. The touch of his fuzzy winter coat makes you relax a little. It is chocolate-colored, with beige fluff around the collar. Not now, you think to yourself, You need to stop thinking about sweets for one goddamn moment.

“Here he is,” you laugh sheepishly as you bring the man forward. Gosh, what in the heavens are you doing? You didn’t even ask his name. 

The employee stares, jaw agape. What’s with the reaction? He’s not that hot. 

“O-oh,” she responds. “That’s quite the surprise. I never knew. Congratulations, sir!”

You turn to look at him. He simply scratches his chin with a sheepish smile, and manages to respond with a “Thanks, Kimi.”

He must be a regular, you think. Oh, (Name), what did you get yourself into? You’re just gonna have to read his name off his coffee order first.

“We have a selection of samples for our wedding cake choices,” the girl, Kimi, moves to the far side of the counter, offering a small menu card to the two of you. “I know you’re not a big fan of wedding cakes, Mr. Lee, but the latest tiramisu flavors should suit your tastes, no?”

Just how close are they?! You chew on your lip and try to calm your depraved little heart.

“Well,” he responds, thinking for a second, “I actually hadn’t thought this far. What do you think, honey?”

He turns to you with a radiant smile, but you sense a hint of mischief. You don’t have time to think of that though—so you just change the topic. 

“Actually, do you have a Mont Blanc flavor? I’ve always had trouble perfecting it myself.”

Truth be told, that ‘honey’ had flowed from his lips and struck you straight in the heart. He’s not too bad to look at, you think now. His tousled hair catches the light with a playful sheen, framing his face and accentuating his disbelieving smile, while his fluffy coat adds a cozy touch to his charming, boyish demeanor. If you were to overthink a little, you’d find a hint of mischief in his voice. Alas, you’re a simple girl who only overthinks sweet treats, not boys.

“You bake?” He blurts, before his ears turn red from realization.

Kimi shoots him a puzzled look and your breath hitches in your throat. Was the miracle an idiot in disguise?

“I mean, uh, gosh, you make me so nervous, honey.” He looks like he’s trying his very best to ace an exam he never studied for. “I meant to ask if you're going to bake.. today? Don’t look at me like that.” 

Maybe you should’ve picked a candied apple and prayed that a witch had poisoned it. You can’t even force out a smile at that pathetic save.

“You’re a lucky man, Mister,” Kimi jabs, a look of distrust in her eyes before they flash to you. “I’m afraid Miss (Name) in a wedding dress would make me drop dead at the altar.”

“Oh, you- you flatter me,” you choke out, “I promise you wedding gowns aren’t my thing at all. Besides, you’d look beautiful in white yourself.”

Why is she so into this wedding conversation? How close are these two? You’re not sure how to react, and neither do you know how this man is going to explain your mysterious disappearance the next time he visits the bakery. You’re sure as hell not going to continue the act beyond this. It���s time you retired from this scam business. You’re not even sure how you’ll talk your way out of this with the man, currently engaged in small talk with Kimi. 

And— is he blushing?! Does he have something going on with the girl—Kimi? Did you just ruin something? Your heart tightens a little, and you have to physically restrain yourself from falling to the floor, head in your hands.

You laugh awkwardly, trying to diffuse the situation. When you open your mouth, you are interrupted.

“Actually, Miss, I think I take back what I said about the handsome part,” Kimi jokes, evident disdain sent towards Donghyuck.

Your natural response is a little laugh that leaves before you know it. Maybe, the feelings you sensed were of unrequited resentment. He does have the kind of face that looks like it’s often smacked by girls. No offense to him.

Kimi hands you the first sample (two delicious slices of Mont Blanc) and excuses herself to fetch the rest. The two of you make your way to a booth with the heaviest silence you’ve ever experienced. You might as well be at a funeral.

“So… free samples are that good, huh?” The man asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Shut up,” you mutter. 

“I’m Donghyuck, by the way,” he responds with a youthful laugh. “Might I have the honor of knowing my fiance's name?”

“(Name). And stop looking at me like that.”

He lets out a short breath.

“You know, maybe we should’ve pretended it was an arranged marriage.”

“Quite proficient in the scamming business, are you?”

“Oh, you’re better off not knowing my dirty secrets.”

You couldn’t care less about his secrets but the look you shoot at him is certainly dirty.

He opens his mouth but you interrupt him to absolve yourself first. “Listen, I don’t do this often. And I’ll have you know it’s nothing personal. Well, not against you. The owner of this place maybe.”

Donghyuck blinks. “Oh? Do tell. I’m all for being a hater with my fiance.”

You stare at him, not impressed.

“Sorry.”

“Okay, so this started a month or two ago. I had been working tirelessly, testing recipe after recipe, trying to perfect the Mont Blanc cake. It was my dream to make it iconic, you know? But before I could even settle on the perfect combination of flavors, some smug bastard opens a bakery right across from me. And what does he have as his specialty? Why, the Mont Blanc cake of course. Seasonal! Cute, elaborate new decor every two weeks! Just how rich is he? I bet he doesn't even bother to create his own recipes. This guy didn’t just steal my idea, he’s turned my passion into some overpriced, generic trend!”

You heave, tired from the onslaught of frustration. Chewing on your lower lip, a pout naturally makes its way onto your face, and so do more complaints. 

“And that’s not all, okay? I never see him at the bakery. I refrain from entering my competitors' establishments unless I greet them in person. But this asshole is just never there! What, is he too good to work at his own bakery? Too good to grace us lowly bakers with a visit? How could he just swoop in and steal my signature item?”

Donghyuck listens to your rant with intent, cheek resting against his palm. He even looks a little ridiculously charmed right now. 

“Wait… so you’re the infamous Free Cake Phantom everyone’s talking about?” He gasps.

You’ve finally turned to your poor, neglected Mont Blanc sample, just for your heart to jump out. “What?”

“Just kidding. Your secret is safe,” he says, digging into the cake with infuriating nonchalance. “But hey, you’ve got good taste. This Mont Blanc though? It’s my personal recipe.”

Your fork halts halfway to your mouth. “Your recipe? What, you work here or something? And, no offense, but it’s overwhipped.”

If that’s a joke, it’s not very funny. The man looks more like a confectionary than a confectioner. There’s no way he works here. He’s probably some jobless guy drifting from bakery to bakery on early Saturday mornings.

His jaw drops. “Overwhipped? Are you kidding me?”

You wave the fork at him like it’s a weapon. “Chestnut puree shouldn’t have the texture of mousse. It’s called finesse, Mr. Lee.”

Before he can respond, Kimi returns with another tray, and you slip back into character, placing your hand on Donghyuck’s. “Thank you,” you coo at her. “I can’t wait to share all these flavors at our wedding.”

Donghyuck stiffens slightly at the unexpected contact, but he recovers quickly, plastering on the fakest grin known to man. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Kimi laughs. “You’re such a lovely couple. When’s the big day?”

You freeze, and so does Donghyuck. For a moment, neither of you has an answer.

“Oh, we’re still, uh, deciding,” you blurt, glancing at him for backup.

“Yeah, we’re thinking spring,” he adds smoothly. “Cherry blossoms. Very romantic.”

“Y-yes. Maybe the Raspberry Rose should be in the winner’s spot then.”

As Kimi bows politely and walks away again, Donghyuck leans in to whisper. “Should I book the honeymoon now, or…?”

“Don’t push your luck,” you hiss, elbowing him in the ribs. 

He makes a pained sound, but recovers quickly. 

The second flavor is dubbed “Marble Eclipse”, a decadent blend of rich chocolate and vanilla, perfectly balanced with a luscious buttercream frosting. You try to focus on the taste, but Donghyuck’s smug grin as he watches you take a bite is more distracting than you’d like to admit. You’re not easily flustered, not by men. Unfortunately, he would have been the exact type you’d have tried to nab in college.

You shake your head. Focus, (Name), you think to yourself, You’re in the enemy’s lair right now!

“So… I might as well come clean,” Donghyuck says with a serious tone, right after you’ve taken a bite. You pause in horror. What arcane knowledge is he going to use for your humiliation this time?

“I visit your bakery often, and I must say your selection is just as good, if not better.”

You exhale.

“Oh, it’s better alright,” you retort, before realizing the unwarranted passion in your voice. You compose yourself. “I mean, maybe their Mont Blanc is… a solid competitor.”

Donghyuck laughs, clearly amused by the bashfulness on your face.

“Wait, are you patronizing me?”

“Of course not!” He places his hand over his heart in mock hurt.

“I think the difference is that this one keeps up with the youth.” He waves his fork about, explaining his point further. “Everyone loves new, shiny things. Cycle those as much as possible. Have you ever considered holding blind box events with your cupcakes? I’m sure the kids would love to find out which flavor of panda bear cupcake they got—matcha, my personal favorite, or coconut cream, or… god forbid, chocolate mint. Ugh. Have you considered removing that from the menu? Anyway, that shouldn’t take too much time and money, right?”

The youth? What is he, forty? However, however, the look on his face as he describes your own baked goods to you is enough to make you intensely flustered. Has this man visited so often? And you never noticed him? How could you miss that easy-going smile?

A familiar figure saves you from whatever awkward, garbled response you were going to muster.

Despite Kimi’s arrival, Donghyuck has a hard time taking his eyes off you. Lashes swaying with each flicker of his eyes over your face, he’s hardly taking a bit of the delicious marble cake, in fact. What, have you got something on your face?

Kimi apologizes profusely before you can say anything to greet her. 

“There’s only one slice prepared for the Tiramisu Dream sample,” she explains. “I’m so sorry about this. Would you mind sharing this one? I apologize again.”

“No worries, Kimi,” Donghyuck responds, laughing a little. You shake your head and reassure it’s alright too. 

Anyway, that slice is going to be yours. You’re ready to pry it from his cold, dead hands.  

To your surprise, though, he shoots a friendly smile at you. 

“Want the first bite?”

“May I?” You ask, just to be sure.

“By all means,” he says, gesturing grandly. “After all, what’s mine is yours, fiance.”

You swear, if he calls you that one more time, he’s going to end up in the cake display.

Kimi stares at the two of you blankly for a moment. It instantly flusters you and Donghyuck both, so much so that the idiot digs his fork into the cake slice and holds it up to your lips with a soft ‘ah’ —and so much so that you actually accept it graciously. 

And all that only for Kimi to not even notice as she excused her way back to the counter. So now you’re just two idiots deep in your romantic charades. Donghyuck clears his throat, too late to cover his coral-tinted cheeks and ears. You’re certain you wear a similar expression.

“You’re- you’re so weird,” you jab, unable to come up with an insult higher than middle school grade. 

“What, you wanted me to do airplanes too?!”

“Take that fork and drive it through your tongue, will you?”

“Woah, woah, no need for violence, Miss (Name). Peace and Love.”

Unexpectedly, it makes you break character into unbound laughter. The weariness of the act and the silliness of the whole situation leaks into the sound, and it’s enough to make Donghyuck join in. For passersby, you are just a couple already past your third, fifth and seventh dates.

“Any comments for the tiramisu cake?” Donghyuck asks, grinning ear to ear.

You catch your breath, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “Yeah, I have a comment: who puts this much cocoa powder on top? Are you trying to choke your customers?”

“Awh, and I thought you were gonna be nice,” he whines, “Your smile is just so… inviting.”

As if on cue, he chokes on the cocoa powder. 

“I still like it,” you continue. “I’d just do it better.”

“I have the utmost confidence in that.”

Gosh, his smile is nauseating—too bright, too easy, like he’s actually enjoying this. Maybe he’s a rising actor, and you’re the one being hoodwinked. After all, who looks at someone like that on a first meeting?

A moment passes, and suddenly his thumb is at the corner of your lips, brushing off the cocoa powder with a touch so casual it feels anything but. “Got it,” he murmurs, and the air between you shifts, warm and oddly heavy.

“So, how do you know all this?” you ask, changing the topic. You’re forcing yourself to focus, to breathe. 

He leans back, a small laugh slipping out like he’s grateful for the lifeline. “You- uh- you could say I’m a connoisseur of pastries,” he offers, his voice lighter now. “I like to sample the best around town—just, you know, legally. I even take notes of my favorites.”

He gestures towards you, and you scoff.

The words settle between you as you toy with the edge of your skirt, smoothing the fabric down over your lap. There’s something about the way he speaks—so casual, so effortless—that needles at you. For a man so annoyingly confident, he sure seems relieved to have redirected the conversation.

Your hand grazes the tiny snowman buttons on your cardigan, tracing the cold plastic absentmindedly. His gaze flickers to the movement, then back to your face, a smile tugging at his lips like he’s trying not to laugh. You don’t know what’s more embarrassing—getting outed as the Cake Thief or the fact that he’s bound to know he flusters you.

You tilt your head, giving him a skeptical look. “How professional of you.”

The bite in your tone is softening, and you don’t like it one bit.

He holds up his hands, feigning surrender. “Hey, it’s an art. Someone’s gotta appreciate it, right?”

The faint chatter of other patrons fills the room, but his presence sharpens the moment, making it feel like it’s just the two of you. For a fleeting second, you catch yourself wondering what kind of person would take notes on pastries for fun. It’s so bizarrely specific, so utterly unnecessary—and yet, so like him.

His smile deepens, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he teases.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the traitorous grin threatening to break through. You refuse to indulge him, even as you feel the faintest crack in your defenses.

"Maybe,” you say, finally.

He chuckles, the sound warm and genuine, before leaning back against his chair with a satisfied air, as if he’s won something. You glance at the tray, willing yourself to focus on anything else.

How awkward. How warm. 

You spot a napkin fluttering off the table, carried by a sudden draft from the door. Instinctively, you step out of your chair to grab it, but Donghyuck beats you to it, scooping it up with an exaggerated flourish and a bow.

“Your knight in shining armor,” he declares dramatically, holding it out like a trophy.

“More like my nuisance in sugar-stained armor,” you retort, snatching it from his hand.

He laughs, unabashed. “Ah, so sharp. Yet here you are, sharing cake with said nuisance. Life is full of mysteries.”

“I’m just here for the cake,” you deadpan, dusting your hands off.

For a second, his smile falters—not in hurt but in sheer disbelief. He tilts his head, studying you with an incredulous expression, and you suddenly feel like a frog under a magnifying glass.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he says, almost to himself, his voice low but still playful.

“Get what?” you ask, genuinely confused.

Donghyuck presses his lips together, fighting back a grin. He steps closer, leaning in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of chestnut cream. “I mean, I could spell it out for you, but that might ruin the fun.”

“Spell what out?” you press, a little flustered now.

He straightens with a laugh, shaking his head. “Nothing, you airhead. Absolutely nothing. Is your head full of cotton candy, by any chance?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but before you can respond, he’s already pulling his chair back, resuming his seat with a sigh.

“Mont Blanc, Marble Eclipse, and Tiramisu on the first date,” he states, deep in thought. “Maybe Matcha Lemon, Lavender Peach, and White Chocolate on the second… Perhaps a Red Velvet and a Strawberry Shortcake before you realize I literally own this place?”

You feel the heat intensify on your cheeks. You almost miss the last part, clouded by the implications of the rest of his words. He… wants to go on more dates with you? Was this a date all along? You’ve been swindled into having fun with a man somehow. He even knows the ins and outs of a baker’s life. And he’s charming in an oddball sort of way. You shouldn’t be feeling solidarity with this weirdo. But then again, somehow, his laugh is very… endearing. 

Wait a minute.

“You- you really own the place?!” A scream dies in your throat.

Donghyuck looks positively taken aback. “So you actually weren’t aware?!”

“What do you mean? How the hell am I supposed to know?! You described yourself as a connoisseur of pastries. I thought you were some kind of freelance failure so I didn’t pry!”

“Excuse me?!”

“Well, either that or you’re unbelievably rich. But then you don’t look it. Your sleeves have flour and oil stains on them, and your shoes are all dusty too, and there’s gold flakes in your hair—okay, how did I miss this?”

“Geez, way to judge someone by their looks. I’m not taking that from the local tart snatcher.”

The retort barely registers because your brain is too busy replaying the words “I own this place.” The realization hits, and before you can think better of it, the chair screeches back as you bolt upright.

“Wait, where are you—” Donghyuck’s voice is cut off by your shrill, mortified “Bye!” as you make a beeline for the door, leaving behind a very startled staff and a half-empty tray of cakes. Immediately after your exit, you let out a shriek. 

What the hell are you doing?!

Your face burns as you speed-walk down the street, each step punctuated by the memory of your impulsive retreat. You must have cast your senses away at that moment, like some wide-eyed fool in a fairy tale, almost charmed by that silly man and his absurd little quirks. It’s not your fault, of course—it’s his, with his flour-dusted sleeves, that stupidly endearing laugh, and the way he talked about pastries like they were a love language. What was wrong with him?! you think, conveniently ignoring the fact that it was your awkwardness and runaway theatrics that had caused the scene. You’d blame it on sugar overload if it weren’t for the nagging realization that maybe—just maybe—he’d gotten under your skin, and the fact that you deserved it.

. . .

You hadn’t expected to hear from him again. Not after your embarrassing getaway. But three days later, you’re staring at an email with the subject line: "Notice of Legal Action for Unauthorized Sampling."

You open it with trembling fingers, only to find what can only be described as the world’s most dramatic—and definitely fake—lawsuit. 

Your jaw drops as you scroll through the email. He’d even attached a fake case number: #CAKE-404-NO-FUN.

The body of the email was littered with ridiculous legalese. Phrases like "egregious acts of confectionery negligence" and "failure to properly appreciate artisanal craftsmanship" were scattered between absurdly specific accusations.

There is a diagram. An actual diagram. Arrows pointing to "Exhibit A" (the Mont Blanc) and "Exhibit B" (the empty spot on the tray), annotated with notes like "victim of hasty consumption" and "left to fend for itself."

And then, at the very bottom, there it was—the pièce de résistance:

“This suit may be settled by one (1) heartfelt apology and one (1) coffee date at the aforementioned bakery. Should you require legal counsel, I suggest bringing your A-game. I am, after all, a connoisseur of arguments… and pastries. 😉”

You groan, head thunking against the back of your chair. The audacity. The drama. The fuckass emojis. 

This man is getting to you.

Your first reaction is, of course, panic. Your second? Rage. And by the time you storm into the bakery at ass o’clock before it even opens, Donghyuck is waiting for you, leaning against the counter like he owns the place. (Which he does, actually.)

He’s propped on his elbows, his posture easy and unhurried, as if he’s been expecting you. The black apron around his waist is slightly askew, and his beige T-shirt bears faint streaks of flour across the chest, a testament to an already busy morning. His fluffy brown hair is an artful mess, the kind that looks unintentional but infuriatingly perfect, with a few errant strands curling over his forehead. There’s a streak of something golden—sugar, maybe?—on his cheek, catching the light as he tilts his head to regard you with an expression that’s equal parts curious and smug.

“You’re early,” he remarks, his voice low and teasing, as though he isn’t the root of all evil.

“You think this is funny?” you demand, shoving your phone in his face.

Donghyuck grins, unbothered. “Hilarious, actually. Did it get your attention?”

“You can’t just send someone a fake legal notice!”

“Worked, didn’t it?” He shrugs, leaning back with infuriating calmness. “Besides, you owed me an explanation for your Houdini act. You know, poor Kimi had to clear your tray. She almost cried.”

“She did not!”

As if on cue, Kimi pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Oh, she absolutely did. It was tragic,” she deadpans before ducking back in.

You groan, feeling your cheeks grow hotter by the second. “You’re unbelievable.”

Donghyuck leans back, smug as ever, and gestures to the email still open on your phone. “Unbelievable or resourceful? Let’s review: I sent a single, harmless message—full of creativity and wit, I might add—and look where we are.”

“At me wanting to strangle you?”

“At you running right to me,” he corrects, his grin widening. “What, were you worried?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap. “I’m here because—” 

You stop, realizing you don’t have a decent answer. “I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of thinking I took you seriously.”

“Oh, you absolutely took me seriously.” He nods sagely. “I saw the panic in your eyes. Admit it: for a second, you thought you were going to have to pay me a hundred grand or grovel at my feet.”

“I- ugh- fuck you!” is all you can muster, stepping forward without thinking.

He mirrors your movement, the space between you shrinking by degrees. 

“But seriously, you ghosted me, and I had to get creative. What the hell was I supposed to do? I figured the legal drama might get my point across.”

“What point?”

“That I wanted to see you again.” The words come out so easily, so matter-of-fact, you don’t know how to respond. When you finally glance up, he’s watching you closely, his expression uncharacteristically sincere.

“Just because you’re all cute and covered in flour like the star of some indie chef movie doesn’t mean you get to toy with me.”

“Ha! You’re presumptuous—despite all the fine details on me you seem to observe.” He leans in. “But guess what, I’m a greedy bastard that loves attention. So, look closer.”

And you look anywhere but his lips, too pink and too plush, as your face grows hotter than a convection oven on broil.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you manage, staring resolutely at the display of cakes. “That hardly counts as details.”

“Details,” he echoes, his grin growing wider. “Like the way I look at you?”

“You’re just a flirt,” you mutter.

He gasps, mock-offended, and gestures dramatically to the kitchen. “Kimi, did you hear that? I’m just a flirt!”

“You said it, not me,” Kimi calls back without missing a beat.

You laugh despite yourself, the sound surprising you. And Donghyuck doesn’t miss it. His gaze softens, the teasing edge in his voice dropping slightly. “There it is. I knew you could laugh without running away.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

For a moment, the air shifts, the humor giving way to something quieter. Donghyuck’s gaze lingers—not on your awkward posture or flushed cheeks, but on you, as though trying to piece together something he doesn’t quite understand.

“What?” you finally ask, defensive.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, but there’s a small, genuine smile now. “Just... you’re such a fidgety person.”

“Are you trying to shell out an insult?”

“No, I mean, I always see you scuttling here and there. Always on the move. Always observing, but never stopping long enough to be seen. You just… don’t seem like someone who takes much time for yourself.”

You blink, caught off guard. He tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s crossed a line.

“I’m wrong?” he asks, almost sheepishly.

“I—” You pause, unsure of how to respond. “You’re nosy, that’s what you are.”

“That’s a yes,” he decides, grinning again.

Donghyuck chuckles, leaning just a little closer, his warm brown eyes locking onto yours. “Tell you what,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur, “I’ll prove I’m not just nosy. Let me take you out. Somewhere you don’t have to bolt out the door halfway through.”

“You think I’d agree to that?” you retort, though your words lack bite. The proximity is doing something to your brain, and you’re acutely aware of how close he’s leaned in.

His grin is confident and infuriating. “I think you’d be curious enough to say yes.”

Your breath hitches as you realize how little space is left between the two of you, your noses almost brushing. “Woah,” you whisper, trying to play it off, “my mommy warned me about boys like you. All up close and personal with flour in their hair.”

He raises a brow, unrepentant. “Smart woman. But she didn’t tell you we’re pretty good at first dates, did she?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes, soft but genuine. “Fine,” you say, straightening up and taking a step back before your pulse betrays you further. “But you’re paying. And no weird cakes this time.”

“Deal,” he replies, his smile softer now, more sincere.

And for a moment, you believe it—not just the act, not just the cakes and the banter, but the idea that maybe, somehow, this strange, sugar-dusted series of events has led to something real.

. . .

r/AmITheAsshole

u/YeastMode6969 • 16h

UPDATE: I faked my engagement for free cake samples then got sued after I ran away. AIO?

Fine, you guys were right. We’re dating now. Let’s just say we’ve been filling my cream puffs lately  🫠

Edit: I also got the Mont Blanc recipe!!

⥣ 7.7k ⥥ 3,297 Comments

kimikakes • 13h

KIMI HERE, REPORTING LIVE FROM THE SCENE: they literally argued over frosting consistency for half an hour yesterday. This relationship is built on chaos and croissants.

➥ Reply ⥣ 7.1k ⥥

bun_theory0222 • 2h

Hellooo where are the recipes. Priorities, OP :/

➥ Reply ⥣ 4.1k ⥥

lil_sugar_daddy0813 • 1h

man i was betting on donghyuck dying alone i dont wanna lose my $20

➥ Reply ⥣ 1.3k ⥥

muffinbutdrama1122 • 1h Give me your money NYEOW ➥ Reply ⥣ 1.7k ⥥

soggywaffle0205 • 6m why are you suddenly a furry ➥ Reply ⥣ 1.1k ⥥

muffinbutdrama1122 • 1h pays the bills ➥ Reply ⥣ 2.7k ⥥

[netherfeildren]

Cannibals : 1. House of Fools

An At the Restaurant story

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: It's two days til Christmas, and the two of you sit side by side, thighs pressed warmly together, giggling at one another for absolutely no reason other than it’s been such a good day. All the best things the two of you do, wrapped into a perfect set of twelve hours.

It's two day's til Christmas, and one of the more bizarre aspects of life is how everything can fall apart from one moment to the next.

-OR-

the Christmas situationship to real love AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alternate Universe; Modern AU Din Djarin; Holiday Season AU; Fluff and Angst; Angst with a Happy Ending; Unhealthy Relationships; Emotionally Unavailable Idiots; But Also, Idiots in Love; Complicated Characterizations of Imperfect People; If that's not your thing, click away dear reader; Grief; Unprotected Sex; So Down Bad it Makes You Look Stupid; Commitment Issues; Found Family; Self Esteem Issues; Insecurity; It's Called Fuckboy Conversion Therapy Look It Up; Toxic Relationship

A/N: Happy New Year, beautiful people.

Word Count: 7.5K

Read on AO3

House of Fools

Glass shattered on the white cloth  Everybody moved on Help, I’m still at the restaurant

The tree is set with multi-colored lights and tinsel and care. It’s a good tree, the one the two of you put up together as his little brother cheers you on. Too tall, fluffy and charmingly droopy, shoved into the corner of the two bedroom bungalow you’d helped them move into months ago. 

Three years is a long time to know a person. It is an even longer time to love someone. 

And yet, sometimes, it remains a half-full sort of love. 

You watch as he lifts his brother’s small frame above his shoulders to set the star atop, final touch sparkle, and you’re still looking in through the window of this honest and heartbreaking home of two, even from your seat within their warm living room. 

Finally, Din turns, and gives you that pink-glow smile, the one you love. Right corner of his mouth, pulling upwards—a dimple, tan skin and the flush of his appled cheek, and he’s really beautiful, sometimes yours, dedicated to many things before he is dedicated to you. But you’re here. And you’re grateful. The spaces for the shiny red ornaments you’d been assigned, carefully chosen and hung on the tree. Your imprint is there, in this small decision. Your mark on their home, on their Christmas tree. Your handwriting, looping and careful on the tags on the gifts you’d helped him wrap beneath the branches. Grogu, not Greg, thank you, written out with all the care and consideration you feel for the small boy who you’ve come to love as much as you love his brother. 

The two of you had come to some sort of staid agreement in the past year. Together. That’s what you are. Afraid of each other, too. Perhaps. Afraid of what you feel, of what could become of it. But aware enough now that you can both understand you can not be without one another, so that any sort of lingering fear or trepidation was forced to become secondary. There were eggshells still, to be treaded on. A carefulness about the way the two of you approach one another day in and day out. An awareness on your part, that there is so much past loss and even more future responsibility awaiting him so that he’ll always live his life afraid and with bated breath for the worst still yet to come. On his part, the awareness of an easily broken heart and a willingness to give more of yourself than is right. And a promise to be careful with those things. Or at least to try. 

But you’re together and it’s not easy, per se, but it’s necessary, and you don’t ask for more even though you want it. Even though there’s still that small bit missing. And every time you look at him, every time he’s sweet and considerate and so aware of you it’s almost overwhelming, and when he touches you in that way that is so delicious it should be illegal, you’ll say: I like you so much, Din because you’re afraid to say the stronger word out loud. 

You prepare for the holidays with frenzy. In between classes and your thesis and a reading list so long you’re afraid your eyesight will never recover this finals season, you still find the time to do your gift shopping and help him with his. The three of you go out one evening in early December to buy their tree. Taller than Din, is Grogu’s stipulation and the decree that leads to the slightly hunched behemoth with the lopsided star held on by the sheer force of a zip tie’s will. 

The two boys meander slowly amongst the evergreens while you trail behind, watching them. The way Din towers over the young boy, occasionally bopping him over the chunky green hat with the droopy knit ears, listening intently at Grogu’s excited chatter. The sweater Din has on had been carefully chosen between you and your mother for his birthday, navy blue half-zip knit that makes him look so sexy and is so, so exciting to unzip, bearing the sharp edges of his collar bones, keeping him warm so that when you slip your hand beneath the hem and up against his hard stomach his skin almost burns. 

Or maybe it’s just you, the burning. Maybe it’s what you make together. 

Grogu had vetoed seven trees thus far—not fat enough, not tall enough, too wimpy, doesn’t have the right “vibe”. The kid said it needed to be wide enough so that all the naked little angel babies he loved to collect, and for which he’d been soundly sent home from school two weeks ago for—and this is a direct quote from the principal Mrs. Armorer as per Din—‘enabling a covert trading ring as if these artifacts were the most insidious of contraband being distributed amongst the most derelict of city streets’. An exaggeration surely, but Din’s own hatred for the little angels only reinforced the gravity of the boy’s crime. And as he’d so eloquently put it, “When I looked up in the shower the other day to find twenty of them watching me wash my dick, I knew we had a problem.”

If only he also knew you were the one constantly buying them for the kid. 

When you blink your daze away, resurfacing from your thoughts, the boys have disappeared. You can hear the sound of Grogu’s voice in the distance, high pitched and laughing, and when you look up at the dark night sky, the first flurries of snow are starting their spiral fall. The warmth of the cocoa the three of you had bought at the entrance of the Christmas tree farm has long since left you, and you burrow further into the damp warmth of the scarf wrapped around your neck, suddenly unable to catch any sound but the rhythm of your own breaths. 

You take a few more steps forward, peering through the trees and seeing no one—there had been so many people just minutes ago—when a strong tug at the back of your puffer pulls you between the branches of two of the larger evergreens. 

His breath is warm on your face, you can smell the sweetness of the chocolate and marshmallows, but his lips are cold when they press against the corner of your eye, pulling you in close against him, pushing you deeper into the pines.

“Kiss me. I’m cold,” he pouts, another flutter of lips to the apple of your cheek, the point of your chin, and then he’s licking against your mouth and his tongue is hot as sin, sweeter than the chocolate. You open for him, pulling him against yourself as tightly as he pulls you, pressing up on your tippy toes to get even closer.

“I couldn't find you. Din—” you gasp, kissing him again, again. 

“Can’t get lost in the snow, baby.” The puff of his laugh is warm against your face, the tip of his cold reddened nose nudging against your own. You cling to him more tightly, feeling unfocused, almost drunk—the tip of his tongue against the arch of your cupid's bow. There are snowflakes catching in his eyelashes. The deep green of the trees, the sky, dark and falling above you, the cold everywhere except for where he touches you, presses against you. 

“Need this kid to pick out a tree so we can go the fuck home and get in bed,” he says, shivering and grouchy. “Still gotta strap it to the car, lug it inside…” He buries his face in the warm space between your throat and scarf and whines. 

His hair is long enough right now it sticks out the back of his beanie, curling against the edge, and you tangle your fingers in the soft locks, holding him there pressed against you. You can hear Grogu sing-songing your names, coming up behind where you’re embracing with loud stomping gallops, bulldozing into your back hard enough he’d knock you over if you didn’t have his brother there to hold you up. The boy wraps his arms around your waist, shaking the two of you out of your daze, demanding you stop making out and get moving. 

“Don’t whine, I’m going to help you.” You say it laughing, fond and grateful. Grateful that you get the chance to be here with the two of them. 

-

“You use laundry softener?”

 Wham! plays softly through the overhead speaker of the empty grocery store. It’s early on a Friday, and both of you had found yourselves with the rare treat of being off work and out of classes at the same time. It would be a busy weekend for him, the last home stretch before Christmas. The 23rd and he’d be swamped at the bar the next two nights, facing the revelers returning home for the holiday, eager to get drunk on booze and merry joy. 

“Yeah. Don’t you?” He turns to press his mouth against your temple where you cling to his arm, slumped over the shopping cart he's been slowly pushing through each aisle. He has a list he’s not looked at once, throwing things into the basket thoughtlessly. When you get home, you know he’ll complain he got too much he didn’t need, but you keep quiet, happy to see him have his indulgence. 

“I do. Yeah.” You don’t know why the sight of the lavender scented softener makes you pause—the same one your mother buys for your parent’s home. Maybe because in some moments, the reminder that Din is also someone’s mother is more sobering and obvious than others. 

“Smells good,” he says as he reaches for a box of Scooby Doo fruit snacks. Two boxes of granola bars go in next, peanut butter protein for himself and double-chocolate puff for Grogu. 

Pressing your face into the hard muscle of his shoulder, you inhale deeply. Silently agreeing with a nod of your head, pressing your fingers into the swell of his bicep beneath the thick fabric of his dark hoodie. 

Tipping his chin, he gives you a sly, knowing look. “What?” He asks—half-crooked smirk. But you can’t even say, and anyways he knows. You drag your fingernails against his muscle, tummy going tight, hiding your face in the warm cotton, shaking your head. 

His laugh is soft and gently teasing. 

The post office is a mess after the grocery store, and the two of you stand in line for forty-five minutes, waiting to buy stamps and post the last minute Christmas cards to your friends you’d entirely forgotten about in the mania of turning in the final draft of your thesis to your advisor. Another thing that was in the home stretch—your fight to get your masters had been a long journey of indecision and self doubt, but you were so close to being done you could taste the freedom. Your edits were going smoothly, and your advisor, Luke, had been a great help this past year. Disheveled beard and mind in a million places at once, a little bit of a hippie, but always patient and kind and in tune with your wants and ideas when you were really desperate for him to be so. Din had been so supportive, as well. Staying up late with you when you needed to study or write, perfecting the art of a BLT and keeping you fed, because as he put it, there was much more to the construction of it than just bacon, lettuce and tomato. Even though they always ended up being nothing more than just that, it was the action that counted. 

You’d be presenting at the end of January, and you were looking forward to being done with school once and for all and being able to work. You’d been offered a position at the public library as the junior librarian over heading the non-fiction department, and you were more eager than words could express. It wasn’t only the idea of leaving behind your little job at the bookstore and being able to come home with something more than a meager paycheck, it was also the notion that you’d finally done something. You’d made a decision for your life, and you’d seen it through, and come January 19th with no extraneous tragedies, you’ll have succeeded. It wasn’t something you were used to, making a sure decision and seeing it to completion. Throughout the course of your program there had been so many times when you’d felt as if it was all a play-act, a game you were taking part in through each step and that eventually, the rouse would be up and you’d realize you weren’t actually passing your classes or enjoying the field you’d chosen for yourself or doing well at this thing you’d so agonized over the decision of. 

But here you are now. You’d committed to something and you’d seen it through and not only had you not coasted by, but you’d excelled to a degree that had gotten you a job you were extremely happy with. 

And amidst all this, there was also something about doing this and having the people in your life see you do this—having Din see you do this. Having Din see you commit to something and stick to it with your whole heart. You wanted him to know you were capable of such a thing. 

After the post office, he obliges you with a wander through the frantically busy Old Port streets. Picking up some last minute wrapping paper you’d been eyeing for the little box of earrings you’d gotten your mother, delicately hand-painted trees and golf leaf holly, some cigars for your father’s stocking. You purchase a box of assorted salt water taffy when his back is turned, large enough it should last him at least half the year, hopefully, considering the way he goes through it. And you stop to get a little cup of gelato to share between the two of you despite the twenty degree day. You walk slowly, your arm looped through his and your hands twined together, your fingerless gloves folded warmly into his fleece covered palms, protected. And this is how you best love being with him—sharing bites of sweet cream gelato from the tiny spoon held in his long fingered hands, he feeds you every other step—when he feels so yours. When he’s most like your boyfriend, and the whole world can see that the two of you are together so that it’s real, so that there’s proof and witnesses you can revel in. 

Perhaps it’s insecurity, this feeling. Low self esteem that demands constant reassurance. Perhaps it’s pride. Candid and unashamed elation you feel when people see the two of you on the streets together and know you belong to each other. 

He drives you over the bridge and into the Cape after lunch to pick up a package from your parent’s house that had been mistakenly delivered there. The place is quiet, neither of them home yet, but you can see the Christmas tree lit up and sparkling warmly through the large bay windows in the family room, your mother’s heirloom hand-blown ornaments backlit and glowing.

The kid is at a sleepover tonight, the last Christmas celebration for him and his friends before the 25th, smores and ghost stories and a game of white elephant. Making the most of your freedom, the two of you pick up large coffees before heading to the North Viewpoint to sit together for a few hours before Din has to head in for his shift at the bar. The sun begins to set at about four this time of year, and you’re able to catch the last fiery burst of it slipping beneath the water’s edge before you’re left in the murky darkness of the oceanfront. The horizon turns to a purple grey frisson you feel imitated in the over-eager beat of your heart. All there is to hear is the sound of your synchronized breaths and the furious salt spray crashing against the rock cliffs. It’s like you’re the only two people left in the whole world. 

It’s been a perfect day so far. 

Twin splashes of the Baileys you’d nicked from your parents house while Din hunted for your package, go into your coffees, and the two of you settle into a contented silence. The heater is on full blast, warming your frigid fingers and toes, while your Irish coffee melts you from the inside out. Makes you go all soft. The sweet of the drink makes you tipsy fast, and you eagerly go for a second helping from the thermos he’d prepared while he paces himself for his shift later. 

Frank Sinatra’s I’ll Be Home for Christmas comes on the radio, and Din drops your fingers he’d been playing with to turn up the volume. 

“This is my favorite one,” he says softly, reaching for your hand again and bringing it up to his mouth to press a kiss against the quickly warming skin. Your fingertips buzz and tingle, suppressing a heart-set-to-burst sigh, and you want to say that it’s your favorite too, all of it. The two of you here together, the overwhelm of the water, so dark if you were to fall in you’d surely disappear off the face of the earth never to be found again. The suspended stillness of you sitting here before it. 

This is the neighborhood you grew up in, the exact spot you’d had your first kiss at thirteen and then clumsily gone to second base a couple years later with your highschool boyfriend. Din had found that small piece of your history endlessly fascinating, knowing he was sitting in the place of your ‘historic first fingering’. You’d tried to throttle him when he’d said that, flushing with embarrassment from head to toe, and then a flush of a different sort when he’d made you come on his own hand afterwards. And in record time, lest he be outdone by the competition of your teenage past. 

But it was true, this was a place significant to your history, and now, it had become a place the two of you found yourselves at often, together. The playground of your upbringing you’d been able to share with him as much as he’d allowed. All the times he’d driven you over the bridge to your parent’s house to spend the night—never coming in, but always kissing you soundly and waiting to drive off until you’d made it safely inside. It didn’t hurt your feelings, you wouldn’t let it, his not coming in. And anyways, you’d never formally asked him except for that time your father had thrown your mother’s fifty-fifth birthday party. A large and extravagant thing because he claimed double fives were lucky. Din had played dumb until the last minute, and then politely refused, sending flowers in his stead. You hadn’t been upset because you’d expected the refusal. He’d claimed he couldn’t find a babysitter, lied, but you knew it was a hard limit for him. The metaphorical line that could not be crossed. Whether that was because it would inevitably be a hallmark simply too serious and devoted to come back from. Or, and more devastating an option to consider, because it was too hard for him to see the happiness that still lived through your family, the care and love you and your parents had for each other. The closeness. You knew. You know. You could see it in the look in his eyes when he dropped you off once a week for family dinner and a sleepover, wine nights and board games and things he couldn’t understand. Saw the way he’d look up at you the moment before you’d open the front door, eyes full of yearning and hurt for parents who would never again be. A look that said he didn’t think he could ever belong to something like that. 

His twelve minute drive to drop you off was enough. It meant more to you than perhaps it meant to him, his bringing you to the doorstep of your home full of love and parents who were still alive. So you didn’t, wouldn’t, let it hurt your feelings, his refusal to join you. 

And anyways, your mother knew all there was to know about him. Your father, aware of his existence but unwilling to extend the benefit of his doubt or any sort of grace because he held it against Din that he’d never shown his face in their home. He couldn’t understand, thought that getting the chance to be with you should’ve been enough to cure whatever past trauma kept Din from committing himself fully to his little girl. Your mother was keener, though, more understanding. Especially after you'd run into him once at the grocery store together. He’d had to run in unexpectedly for last minute cookie supplies Grogu had conveniently forgotten to mention he needed for school the next day. And the way Din had blushed and stammered, shaken her hand no less than three entire times, babbling about how he was so glad he’d gotten the chance to meet her, the glaze in his eyes when he’d looked at you, like he was begging you to see how pleased he was, how ashamed, how confused and hurt and shy and out of his depth. How desperate he was to be approved of but how unwilling he was to let himself be. 

Your mother had held your hand afterwards, in the car on the way home, while you’d been unable to hold back a few helpless tears for the heartbroken boy you couldn’t help but love. And still, you promised yourself your feelings weren’t hurt. You promised yourself it was enough and that you could understand. 

He takes a long pull of his warm drink, and you watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, pressing your thighs together to assuage the tight heat in your belly. His cheeks are flushed with bright red splotches from the bite of the cold outside and the blasting heat of the car’s vents, the spike of whiskey, and you can see his eyes swing from one end of the dark ocean to the other. Wondrous, almost. You’d tell him you feel the same if you didn’t want to keep him. 

“What’re you looking at?” He says without turning, half smile and the flash of a dimple. 

“I think I’m buzzed already,” you mumble, cheek smooshed against the seatback. 

He laughs softly, corners of his eyes creasing so endearingly that your heart gives a stupid, pitiful throb. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Finally, he turns to look at you. You cross your legs tightly, can’t help it, and his gaze flashes briefly, knowingly, to your legs. “My little light weight. Can’t handle shit.” He chucks you under the chin, voice full of fondness, pinching the soft skin to pull you towards himself. 

“You know whiskey makes me drunk fast,” lashes fluttering as he presses a bitter sugared kiss to your mouth. 

“That’s your excuse for everything we drink.” You pout against him, breathing a don’t tease against his mouth when he kisses you again, changing the angle, deepening it, giving you his tongue. “It’s alright, I like you just the way you are.”

The sound of his favorite song throbs in your ears before it floats away, and then it’s just the sound of your heavy breathing again as you tug him closer by the collar of his sweater, wanting to pull him over the console and on top of you. His mouth slides a wet path over your cheek to suck on the sensitive spot beneath your ear he loves best, humming deep in his chest at the taste of you. 

Nothing has ever felt better than touching him. 

The hand at the back of your neck moves to your front, slowly pulling the zip of your jacket down; the sound loud and shocking amidst the heave of your panting. Despite the heater, you’re wracked with shivers as he pushes your jacket open and over your shoulder, cupping your breast as he sucks on your neck. 

“You gonna get in the backseat and fuck me?” He murmurs between wet kisses and a soft bite. 

He pulls you across his lap after your mad scramble between the seats into the back of his little 2008 hunk-of-junk Corolla, silver and shitty but reliable, according to Din. The space is too small for his tall frame, and the burst of biting cold that’s let in during his thirty second spin to join you in the back has you shivering against his broad chest. Long legs bent against your back and spread wide but allowing you ample space to sit on strong thighs. Now it’s your turn to taste him, scraping your teeth against the hard edge of his jaw while your cold fingers sneak their way under his hoodie, dragging your nails over the hard planes of his abdomen, pulling a gruff whimper from his throat. You spread your thighs wide, grinding down against the hard bulge in his jeans, finding the perfect angle to press your clit against the seam of denim. 

“Fuck, baby. Fuck me—” he moans your name and it’s the greatest sound in the world. Worth everything. 

Your kisses turn sloppy, desperate, fingers twisting tightly into his hair, pulling his mouth against yours until it hurts. And there’s something about the fact that no matter how many times the two of you do this together—whether it’s hard and fast in the back of a shitty car in the freezing cold or slow and deep and helpless, when he wakes you in the middle of the night, warm and naked in his bed, sliding over you and between your thighs, tasting your cunt before he’s pressing inside, needing inside of you—it’s always, always bursting with a sort of frenzy. A desperation, even in the slow, that helps make up for other things that might be missing—that proves a point. A promise in the way he touches you, like he’ll never get enough, like he’ll always want more, even if it’s just of this. 

When you pull him from his jeans, hot and heavy in your palm, his breathing goes ragged and the flush in his cheeks meets the hot splotchiness of lust crawling up his neck and over his jaw. His moan is broken, needy, head falling back against the seat and eyes rolling backwards, the soft curls around his ears damp with sweat. You lick your palm, gripping him tight and slick, twisting at the thick head as he tries to fuck himself into your fist, hips jerking helplessly. He’s yours like this. Gorgeous and vulnerable in the palm of your hand, moaning that you make him feel so good, that you’re doing it just right, that you’re his good girl. He wants you so much like this, gripping your hip with one wide palm, the other clutching at your ass to pull you in closer. You wrap your fingers halfway around the wide base, squeezing, other hand concentrated at the tip, working him round and round. You’d make him come like this, quick and sloppy in seconds if he’d let you, show him how good you are and how quickly you can make him feel better than anyone else ever has. 

But soon he’s demanding, “Inside. Want inside your cunt,” and shoving you sideways to rip your boot and one side of your leggings off, yanking the center of your thong aside to slick his tip against your swollen wet before he’s pressing against your entrance. All “Let me in. Let me in. You’re fucking perfect—” Chest heaving. 

He works himself inside slowly, in stuttered thrusts of his hips, moaning while he goes. Clutching at your hips and rocking you forward while he forces his way in from below. The sticky wet sound of your grinding against him, your clit rocking against his pelvis until you’ve taken him so deep the pressure is just this shy of painful so that you know you’re going to come quick and hard and wet. 

His hand snakes it’s way beneath your sweater, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers as he makes his way up your back, gripping tightly at the nape of your neck, squeezing, his other palm flat against the base of your spine to hold you imobile. Allowed nothing but the helpless jerk of your hips, chasing your pleasure, desperate for your orgasm while you feel him throb against the deepest part of you. 

“Please, Din.”

“Wait. Wait. Not yet. You feel so fucking good.” 

The sex is messy. He tells you he wants more. The wet sound of his thighs slapping against your ass as he starts to thrust again, gripping the swell of your bottom to bounce you on his cock, meeting each other on the up and down. In tune with one another’s bodies in a way you've never been with anyone else. Your cunt clenches tight, it almost hurts, and he laughs, bends his head to bite at your breast over the thick knit of your sweater. Please, baby, I want more. Hold on just a little longer. Your face and throat flush hot, burning, you can feel the sweat collect at your temples and along your spine as he tugs gently at your nipple with his teeth, fucks into you with snapping hips, the rock forward of your clit sliding against his hard stomach. 

It’s dizzying. You can’t help it. You come with a cry of his name, clutching him to your breast, wrapping your arms around his head as his bite turns reprimanding, “Fucking lightweight, I told you.” Another laugh that turns into a strangled moan when the heat of his come fills you as your muscles clench tightly around him. The gruff sound he makes: masculine, vulnerable again—the way you wish he’d always be—a mix of your name and a whine. Now that, that makes all the rest of it worth it. 

-

You’re supposed to meet Bo and her girlfriend for drinks at a new wine bar at half past eight. A cosy little place tucked into the cobbled streets of downtown you’ve all been desperate to try. She’d mentioned the plan every day for two weeks, giving away her nerves at the prospect of the three of you getting together. Likely afraid of your reaction at what you’re sure will be the announcement that she and Fennec are planning to move in together, news you've been expecting for a while and which you’ll take more than happily. They’re in love and your friend, who had always been known to be light and wandering as a butterfly in love, was ready to settle down and commit herself to someone she truly wanted to be with in a real way. There was never the possibility of your being anything but happy and excited for the two women. After all, you and Bo had been waiting for this for a long time, steadiness, commitment, a forsaking of that fear of forever you’d always found camaraderie in. 

And it only added to that keen sense the past few months had brought along, that the two of you were growing up in a real and immeasurable way. Your lives were changing, moving on, who you were as people was evolving. Leaving behind the last vestiges of your frivolous youth full of too much partying and more fun than anyone should probably rightfully have for something steadier, more reliable. Grown up. As much as you’d miss your friend, your housemate of the past five years, this move spoke well of what was to come for the both of you. 

Din makes the two of you a quick dinner before you have to part ways for the night—a creamy mushroom risotto and a crisp glass of white wine for you. The man likes to get you drunk and slutty. Watching him move around the kitchen, lithe and capable, makes you squirm for more of what he’d given you earlier, the sound of his moans in your ear and the wash of his hot breath against your throat while he throbs inside of you. 

The house is cozy, the warmth of the tree, the toys strewn across the living room floor, the precariously leaning tower of Din’s cookbooks at the edge of the kitchen counter, the overflowing pile of laundry on the sofa waiting to be folded and Grogu’s art pinned by spaceship magnets to the refrigerator door. Something you’d always admired in the way Din had taken on parenting his brother, the way he'd nurtured and preserved Grogu’s childhood, giving him the space and safety to be a little boy for as long as he needed without the pressure of feeling like he had to grow up too fast. Not the way Din had. 

He brings your dinner to you on the sofa, presenting it to you with a flourish of steam and his beautifully proud grin, like, look what I’ve made for you, aren’t I a nice boy? And the two of you sit side by side, thighs pressed warmly together, silverware clinking as you watch each other eat, giggling softly at one another for absolutely no reason other than that it’s been such a good day. All the best things the two of you do together, wrapped into a perfect set of twelve hours. 

Then, one of the more bizarre aspects of life: how everything can fall apart from one moment to the next. 

“You and Greg should come to dinner at my parents tomorrow night.” You don’t know why you say it, or where it comes from. “My mom would really love to have you, and she makes a great Christmas Eve roast.” Probably because it’s simply the truth. You want him there, quite desperately. Both of them. And your mother had asked. Your dad too, why he wasn’t joining you all, why he didn’t want to. 

You suppose you also want to hear why he doesn’t want to. What excuse he'll give. 

He goes silent, fork halfway to his open mouth, and a stupidly shocked expression on his face you could slap off of him. 

Suddenly, you’re angry enough you could cry. 

“My dad got some really nice wine too, something about a two thousand ten harvest—he said it’s something real special,” you press. “Do you want to come? My mom can make up a room for you guys so you don’t have to drive back, and then on Christmas morning we can—”

“No,” he says abruptly. “We can’t. What are you doing?” He sets his plate down loudly on the coffee table, the rattle of his fork making you jerk. 

Your throat convulses around a swallow, your own plate held shakily in your lap. You should stop, but you feel ruinous. Half-full and ready to self implode. 

It had been such a perfect day, resplendent with that knick of time possibility. That maybe forever tease. But in the end, what is this casual intimacy, and why does it always feel like a wait in line for the execution block? He should want to spend tomorrow with you, let it be another perfect day. 

“Why not? Why can’t you?” 

“We have plans already.”

“What plans? You’re just going to be here. My father wants to meet you.”

“Well I don’t want to meet him. What is it that you’re trying to do here?”

You close your eyes, shaking your head quickly in a nod. Okay. Okay. Open your eyes again. “Okay. Then tell me what your parents were like.”

He jerks back in a flinch. “What?”

“Tell me. You’ve never told me about them before. Not really. I want to know what they were like. All I have to go by is a fucking photograph I had to rifle through your drawers for. Do you have traditions for Christmas they left you with? What were they like? Tell me, Din.” Your tone is perfunctory, cold and biting, too fast and not the tender sort a conversation like this requires. 

And he gives you a sort of look—one that asks, are we really doing this? But you’ve already decided you won’t let him get away with it this time. You’ll ruin it all if you have to. And you know he won’t ever tell anyone else, so he might as well tell you. Right? You, who knows and cares and asks. 

Who else will ask you these sorts of things? You want to say. Who else will help you remember? Who’s going to love you like I do?

Your gaze is persistent, and he nods once, swallowing acceptance, finally understanding what it is you’re doing—ruining it all. 

“What is any parent that’s gone like? Perfect in your memory. I don’t know… They were real and busy and kind and thoughtless. All the things all parents are. But they’re absent now. That’s all I'm left with, which I hate. They’re dead, and that’s all they’ll ever be and I resent them for it. What else do you want me to say? What would I do at your parent’s house? I don’t know what I…I wouldn’t belong—We wouldn’t—” His jaw is set in anger as he says it, choking on his stumbled words. 

Your chest aches with a repressed sob, and you refuse to blink and miss a single second of this. 

“What were you like as a child?” He looks at you like he can’t understand why you’re doing this to him. 

“Solitary, but not lonely.” I’m equipped for this in reverse, you think. “And then Greg was born, and I was a kid for only a very short time longer. Why are you asking me this? I don’t have anything for you but sorry answers. Is this really the shit you want to talk about?”

You clutch your plate more tightly. “I want to kn-know you. I—”

“You do!” His voice goes from measured to a yell very quickly. “You know me better than anyone else! What more do you fucking want from me? Jesus Christ—” he spits, shoving himself off the couch to pace away from you, running his fingers through his hair, agitated, angry. You’re never satisfied, he says at the wall. 

It’s true. You’re not. 

It’s helpless. You feel big and greedy. You’re never going to be able to stop wanting more. And you’d always told yourself, tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow, it will—he will—be different. Something will change because it has to, because everything always changes. 

But you realize in this moment that maybe the only change here has ever needed to come from you. 

You realize that you’ve been eating your own illusions for too long, selling yourself snake oil. 

“I don’t want to be alone in this anymore,” you tell him. “I want more.”

“But what? What more is there? You’re not alone, and I don’t—” he makes some choked noise of frustration, “This is all I have to give. Can’t you see that? I don’t know—” The look he gives you, palms out and pleading, like some infinitely lost boy—half abandoned child, half apology. 

“I don’t know either,” you cut him off, setting your plate down next to his with a surprisingly steady hand. 

It’s a lost battle, no more starry eyed sleight of hand, all the cards are on the table. 

When you look back at him you can see the emotion choked behind his eyes. That you’ve pushed him beyond the line of his own reasoning and into hurt. But his comfort had to become secondary to yours eventually. You couldn’t tend to it forever with as much care as you’d always done without hurting yourself. 

And everything has a breaking point. 

“Maybe I wanted you to think of someone other than yourself for once.” You see the blow land. The snapping bone, wrong-thing-said reaction. It’s a lie, after all, you know it. A terrible lie, a terrible thing to say to someone who has so obviously given up everything and their whole life, their youth, for the sake of another, and done so gladly. 

Perhaps a wiser person would take this as reasoning enough for Din’s behavior. For his lack of ability to give more of himself to a relationship. Perhaps for someone more mature or with more experience, with a greater sense of self, it would be obvious, the fact that a person who’d lost so much of themselves so young found it hard to love, to give themselves over to partnership and the sort of commitment needed for a fully functioning adult relationship. But you can’t, or choose not to see it anymore. Perhaps you’re tired of fighting, of working so hard for it. Perhaps you’re tired of waiting. 

His face turns away like you’ve struck him, and for a long moment he doesn't turn back, but when he does there’s anger almost like hate, and his eyes are wet with tears. You wish you could be cruel, laugh in his face, but your own drip from your chin as well. And anyways, it’s so shocking there isn’t any room for cruelty. 

You go gasping fish silent, until he says, “I do. It’s just not you.” The salt lie drips from his long lashes and he moves, turning away from you towards the Christmas tree you’d picked out and decorated together, the gifts for his brother you’d chosen and wrapped with him. 

“What did you want here? From this?” Maybe he means the fight now, but what does it matter compared to the whole mess and lie of this entire fraught ordeal. 

“Well…” you stand, moving for your purse on the kitchen table. There is, in everyone, a limit to the amount of pain you’ll put up with for love. You can’t ever know the limit beforehand, but once you’re there, you know, and then it’s impossible to move the line. “I figured you’d love me.”

The word out loud is shocking, never before been said. 

You hear his stuttered breath, the way your words might make him angry. Throwing this lacking of his in his face—his inability to love the person who loves him. You think you should tell him that you’ll hate him now, but you’ve never been a talented liar. You think you should ask him if it’s such a bad thing, to want his love. But you know he won’t have an answer. You know he doesn’t believe he has it in himself. 

You move towards the door, pausing at the mouth of the hall to their bedrooms. The lopsided ‘Greg’ sign tacked to the kid’s door. The ‘E’ had been haphazardly turned into an ‘O’, a ‘U’ scribbled on at the end, the slip of the shaky marker bleeding out messily onto the wood of the door at the tail end of the letter. Like the child had been hasty in his vandalism and slipped, afraid he’d be caught by his older brother. 

It makes you smile dimly. 

And below that, in a green meld of water colors and marker and crayon, depicted in a manner so lovely it could only come from the imagination of a child, a drawing of the three of you together, stick-figured and holding hands. 

Like a family. 

“We’re eating each other alive,” you whisper at the imagination family. He moves forward, his socked footsteps towards your turned back.

You’re truly crying now, unable to hold back the sob of grief, of too much time wasted and a loss of yourself you’ve yet to fathom the depth of. He’s looking at your face again, finally, and you think, let this be the last time. Let this be the end of it now so that I’ll never have to feel like this again. 

He’s crying too, and you want to be angry at him, at the lie you have to take it for. He cannot cry and not love you back. It’s not possible. 

“Is that it?” All you can manage is a half nod that dislodges the cold tears clinging to your chin. “We had a good run,” he says like an almost question, and looks at you very sadly—tiny flame of struggling hope about to die. A held breath: should I go with grace? sort of look-back. But the gleam in his eyes, like he really might care, like this hurts, like he might feel anything—there are no notions of valor left. 

No benevolence to be found in this moment. You’re very tired. “Did we?” Head cocked to the side gracelessly. If ever you could hurt him the way you’ve been hurt here, now would be the time. The last chance. 

“Maybe not.”

We were so close. We almost had it. You’re so, so tired. You could sleep for an age. 

You take your hurt and go after that, not entirely understanding what it is that’s happened here between the two of you, why you’ve wrought it so suddenly. Also, relieved. That finally, everything’s been ruined for good. That there might be rest now. 

Christmas comes, neither one of you calls, there’s nothing else left to say. 

2. LOVE.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[wonton4rang]

——————————————————————————

pairing: bnd x reader.

warnings: none, mentions of arguments, kissing in some parts, mentions of the members real names.

summary: how would bnd react to “we have to talk”

——————————————————————————

sungho; unless he knows he did something to make you feel sad or mad, he would be chill, leaving his coat in the hanger and walking to you with a little bit of confusion since you said this as soon as he went in the house after coming back from work. “sure, what is it about?” he would ask in the sweetest and softest voice, his eyes showing the way he worried about you. and you just couldn’t do that to him, so you finally came clean and explained it was only a joke to see his reaction, sungho would laugh and kiss your forehead, assuring you that the whole “we need to talk” situation didn’t scare him since couples need to communicate in order to last :’) best boyfie award winner right here.

riwoo; “we need to talk” chills ran through his body before he unglued his eyes from the tv screen and directed them to you, his orbs got glossy really quick and his voice trembled when he asked “is everything okay, baby?” it was late, at least 1 or 2 in the morning and there was riwoo binge watching the series you told him not to loose sleep for. yeah, in sanghyeok’s mind you guys were done. but you just laughed at his scared frame, making him gulp before looking confused as you just kept laughing, explaining how it was only a joke and that you didn’t mind him watching his serie anytime, he was going to be the one tired after all. he would be soooo relieved, because he couldn’t even think of loosing you.

jaehyun; he didn’t even registered it the first time, his mind taking its time to process everything and create a thousand scenarios where he did something and you left him for it. so when you snapped your fingers in front of his face, he just held you in his arms, kissing your lips right away, so soft and yet so passionate and rough, only him could kiss you like that. he would back you up to the wall when you didn’t push him away and kiss you a little longer before letting your lips go for a second, panting against them before looking for your eyes and saying “i don’t recall doing anything wrong but if i did, i’m sorry, baby. can you tell me what it was? i promise i’ll fix it” but when you said it was just a joke, he just got a little mad, because why would you put his heart through such a harsh time.

taesan; “we need to talk” he was sitting on his bed when you said this, noticing how woonhak left the room right after you talked and taesan directed his eyes to you, still cleaning that vinyl disc “about what, noona?” you closed the door behind you and then crossed your arms in front of your chest, dongmin confusingly looking at you before putting his disc back in place and finally standing up “is there something bothering you, love?” his hands held your arms to uncross them and pull you in for a small peck in your lips, “what did you wanna talk about? did they do anything to upset you?” , “w-what? no, the members are just fine” , “are you sure?” and you could tell that even though he was showing you that nonchalant attitude he was really worried, he would NEVER think wrongly about his members, which is why you couldn’t hold it and laughed, explaining it was just a joke before he rolled his eyes at you and put you on laundry duty with sungho as a “punishment” for making him worry.

leehan; “what do you think i did now?” and that alone would make you feel soooo offended, your eyes and mouth opening at the same time and before you could even say anything to defend yourself he kept going “I haven’t even been out lately, you have my phone most of the day because for some reason you don’t want to subscribe to youtube premium on yours, i made you breakfast, i took the garbage out, i did the dishes and took a bath after cleaning the living room and folding the clean clothes. I don’t know what I missed or what you think I did but I-“ you had to stop him before he kept ranting “it’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong, it was just a joke” he arched his eyebrow at you as you added “but I didn’t know you did all that” leehan laughed this time and pull you over to sit on his lap in the couch “i did, between yesterday and today” and you couldn’t hold it just laughed while he kissed you, he was also a really good boyfie even when he liked to argue back.

woonhak; oh god please don’t do this to him omfg, he is nervous, screaming, trembling, tongue tied, shaking and paralyzed at the same time, he doesn’t know what he did, he doesn’t really think he did anything but you are his noona, his first girlfriend, you know better. so he could just sit there and look at you with his big eyes, sobbing every once in a while, waiting for you to talk and stop walking around in front of him. so when your eyes met he crumbled, “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, i don’t know what i did yet but i will fix it, it won’t happen again. i love you so much, y/n. please forgive me” and the way his voice sounded broke your heart, immediately leaving the joke behind when you held his face and softly kissed his lips, assuring him that he didn’t do anything wrong and apologizing for the joke that took the wrong turn.

[skyfallscotland]

🐉 ONYX STORM PROLOGUE, CHAPTERS ONE & TWO MY THOUGHTS: (god bless the dutch 🇳🇱)

So not totally verified yet, but it seems legit. This is absolutely the scene I expected us to be starting with, and despite the translation it does read like Rebecca. Thank you so much to @thestarseternaal for sharing it with me! You can find it here.

Ok, let's fucking goooooo! 🤘

· That trigger warning list? "The death of an animal" 💀😬 The "descriptions of sexual acts" though, thank god, though it's not looking promising for the two of them so far.

· Garrick and Bodhi KNOW?! Ok that I didn't see coming?

· "I can't blame him for wanting to know what he is" ANDARNA 😭 "I'm as much in the dark as he is, and you trust me." 😭 I want to hug the baby

· "Magic feels different when I change colours. When I used my power, it was like the venin transformed, weakening-" Ok so confirmed, she's the solution they're looking for *sigh*

· It's going to be unfortunate if the allies we're seeking are just Poromiel, and I think they are given both the excerpt prior to the prologue and the fact the Target edition map had only a few places in Poromiel on it and no Isles. I guess we're not looking for Andarna's family over there until books four and five? 😞

· Wait...what? Leadership knows what Andarna is? Everyone knows? Who TF told them? I was certain they didn't see? I can't believe we spent all this time worrying about people knowing she was a baby when she bonded and y'all just told everyone she was a super special rare breed right off the bat. SMDH.

· Aotrom's only 22? 😭 I'm older than Aotrom? RIDOC and him are the same age, that makes so much sense!!

· TAIRN CALLS XADEN "THE DARK ONE"? 😭 I feel like I'm not going to like Tairn much this book, and I feel like he's gonna ☠️ but that's for my theory post.

· "His soul is no longer his own" "That's a bit dramatic." VIOLET I LOVE YOU 🖤

· "You mean whether I'll support you in the thousand ways you want to face death to heal someone who's beyond redemption?" Oh Tairn...why do I get the really, really bad feeling you lied about Naolin?

· The truth-sayers have let Caroline Ashton off the hook? Hmmmm suspicious. Everyone's evil, I just know it.

· "Devera and Kaori will be back soon. They’ll straighten out the command structure once the princes have signed a treaty that hopefully grants us grace for even leaving in the first place." Ummm princes plural? So I guess Cam hid for nothing? Well not nothing, but he's...back with his fam? Also why would they be signing shit? Where's the damn king?!

· "The rarest signet, which appear once per generation or century, have been documented twice simultaneously with an equal counterpart, both during critical times in our history, but only once have the six most powerful walked the Continent at the same time. As fascinating as that spectacle must have been, I would rather not witness it again in my lifetime. – A study of signets by Major Dalton Sisneros" Ok could be a weird translation but I'm confused by this. The counterpart thing could be either a rider and a venin (ie. one of the venin can distance wield and we're getting a distance wielder) or dark and light, ie. shadows and light. Also six like the first six and they all had partners within themselves? Three pairs? Or? What even were their signets because I can't believe we've NEVER FUCKING ASKED? I've literally never seen that mentioned and it seems...so fucking relevant.

· Perhaps a more outlandish theory, but I think the venin with the silver hair who distance wields might be Xaden's mother. I'll elaborate later, but 😬😬

· Ok well, 1. I'm fucking crying already, and 2. "Even if I reached the rank of Maven, led armies of dark wielders against everyone we care about, and if I had to watch every vein in my body turn red because I had drained all the powers of the Continent, I would still love you. What I’ve done doesn’t change that. I don’t know if that’s even possible." That's a little bit storm in the quiet, I love it when the vibe is proven ✨correct✨ 😭 @justallihere

So all in all, 1. As expected, every excerpt, hint, and thing we've thought about it over in one-two chapters, 2. This is going to hurt so bad and I think it will go as I expected, and 3. I'm still not ready 😭

Send help 🥺

[inkandtension]

Minimum Three

The soft light of morning spilled through the curtains, warming the bed where you lay tangled with Minho. His arm was snug around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You stirred slightly, and his hold tightened reflexively, as if even in his half-asleep state, he couldn’t bear to let you go. You’d woken up minutes ago, the dull ache in your lower abdomen making itself known like a low, nagging hum. You shift slightly, your back pressing into his chest, and he grumbles a low, sleepy protest, pulling you closer.

“Morning,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin with the word.

“Morning,” you replied.

Before you could say more, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your neck. His lips moved lazily, trailing along your skin as though he couldn’t resist the temptation of each inch.

“Minho,” you whispered, half-laughing.

“Hmm?” he hummed, but his mouth never stopped. He kissed the spot beneath your ear, then down the side of your neck, his fingers grazing your waist where his hand rested.

“Can’t you just say good morning like a normal person?” you teased, your voice soft.

“I did,” he murmured, his lips brushing the words against your collarbone now. “You’re the one who makes me do all this extra work.”

You laughed, a small sound that was quickly swallowed by his next kiss, this one just above your heart. His hand slipped beneath your shirt, his fingers splaying across your stomach as he moved lower, his lips warm against your skin.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your jawline, his free hand sliding under the hem of your sleep shirt to rest warm and comforting against your waist. “Let me spoil you a little.”

“Minho…” you started again, your fingers threading through his hair as he continued his descent.

“What?” he murmured between kisses, his voice low and teasing.

“I’m on my period.” you said softly, catching his head gently in your hands.

He froze for a second, his lips hovering just above your navel. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at you, his expression a mix of mild disappointment and curiosity. “Really?”

You nodded, your cheeks warm under his gaze.

He blinked once, and then his lips twitched into a smirk. “That’s inconvenient,” he said, tilting his head as if considering something deeply. He leaned forward and pressed another kiss to your stomach. “But I could always make it go away.”

You furrowed your brows, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Kids,” he replied simply, his smirk widening as he continued to kiss his way back up your body.

“Min,” you murmur, your fingers tangling in his hair, but he doesn’t stop.

“I just wanna take care of my wife,” he says against your skin, his voice a mix of mischief and tenderness.

It took a moment for his words to sink in, and when they did, your face went hot.

His laughter was rich and low, his breath brushing your skin as he rested his head against your stomach. He kissed you there, too, just for good measure. He steadies your hip when you move a bit, cramps.

“That bad?” he asks softly, his lips moving against your skin.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, sinking your hand further into his hair.

“I told you not to eat all that spicy food last night,” he chides gently, though his tone is teasing.

You glare at him,“You’re the one who made it,” you remind him, narrowing your eyes.

He laughs, low and throaty, a little apologetic, the sound vibrating against your back. “Touché.”

“You leave for the military next year,” you say softly, your fingers idly combing through his hair.

He hums, a quiet acknowledgment, but his face remains buried against your waist.

You bite your lip, the words spilling out before you can second-guess them. “I heard South Korean men don’t have to serve if they have three kids.”

He stared at you for a moment longer before his smirk returned. Without warning, he rolled onto his back, then pulled you onto his lap in one smooth motion. His hands settled on your hips, holding you in place as he looked up at you, his gaze playful but intense.

“Three kids in one year?” he repeated, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. His thumbs brushed slow, teasing strokes over your waist. “Not practical. But…” He tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “We could try for triplets.”

*

“Baby,” you said again, a little breathless this time.

“Hmm?” He hummed against your skin, his hands tightening gently on your waist.

“Three kids…” You hesitated, the thought suddenly lighter, almost playful. “It doesn’t seem so bad.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, his brow lifting. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to keep a straight face. “Three kids minimum, right? Triplets, as you said.”

He threw his head back with a laugh. His hands slid to your hips, gripping them firmly as he moved you gently against him. “You’re really committed to this plan, huh?”

“Just saying,” you teased, your smile softening as his laughter faded into a hum of contentment.

He leaned up, capturing your lips in another kiss, slow and lingering this time. “Fine,” he murmured against your mouth. “Triplets it is.”

[zepskies]

Outlander - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won? 

AN: Ready for some more Cowboy Dean? Here we go with Outlander Part 1! This is a sequel story directly following The Honorable Choice, where Dean not only saves the member of a Native American tribe, but falls in love with her. (She saves him a lot in return.) Now, he’ll have to learn how to live in her world if he wants to stay with her.

This sequel series will be 4 parts! 💜

Disclaimer: I first got inspired to write The Honorable Choice for @jacklesversebingo after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (with a tinge of Yellowstone in the mix). I’ve done a fair bit of research for this now ongoing series, both on the Native American Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s; AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Word Count: 5.3K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Suggestiveness/implied smut and spice, hunting (in the more traditional sense), angst, hurt/comfort, and romantic fluff. **Pronunciation guide at the end!

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 1: Two Worlds

Her people call this river Little Cheyenne. It’s because Big Cheyenne cuts through the land of the Sioux Indians by half, but Little Cheyenne almost meets it in the south, stretching all the way up to the Black Hills.

Mila’s tribe has always lived near this river. Its waters have bled red during battles with other tribes, and sometimes during battles with White Men.

The White Men’s fort, the one her husband came from, lies farther down in the south. The tribe had to move their village higher north along the river after Mila returned with Dean Winchester, just to be safe.

On a cloudy afternoon, Mila scrubs at a bundle of dirty clothes until they’re clean. She rinses them off in the river and is thorough about her work, but she knows she can’t be here much longer. She has a stew simmering on hot coals in her tipi…

Well, the one she now shares with her husband.

Unconsciously, she smiles. She remembers leading Dean through the tribe, to the place where she hoped he would find rest. They stopped at the foot of her tipi. 

“This one’s yours?” he asked.

She paused, giving him another small smile. 

“Ours.”

Mila continues scrubbing, though she frowns when her fingers slip through a tear in one of the new tunics she made for him (even though he keeps calling it a shirt). The tear was made by a blade, or maybe an arrowhead, she realizes. 

The crunch of feet on the riverbed’s gravel makes her raise her head and look over her shoulder. Unease prickles down her spine. She braces herself for a familiar shadow, come to disturb her peace.    

But then she relaxes. She’s being joined by two of the older women in her tribe. Mila has known them her whole life, and so she calls them tunwin. Aunt. They both greet her kindly and kneel beside her with their own bundles of clothes for washing, but Eyota, the older one, has a sharper eye. She is their tribe’s medicine woman. 

“Your husband wears out his clothes,” she remarks.

“He’s been working hard training with Šóta and the other men,” Mila explains.

“He seems to be learning quickly,” says Misae. She has a more playful glint in her eyes. “Who knew that you could catch and tame a White Man. Looks like they are no different from wild horses.”

Mila smiles slightly, but it’s not genuine. She nods in agreement. “He’s learning quickly.”

She holds her tongue from saying anything else, even though she wants to. Dean isn’t a man to be tamed, any more than she was, in his people’s eyes. She aims to change the subject. 

“Do you have any good herbs or spices for wahonpi? I’ve had the stew simmering all morning,” she asks Eyota. Not only is she a gifted healer, but Eyota is also one of the best cooks, and she knows it. She nods and straightens her shoulders the way she always does when someone asks her for advice—and even when they don’t ask for it.

“Of course, child. What you need is…”

“Goddamn it,” Dean huffs under his breath.

The jackrabbit flees from him again, or more accurately, from his terribly aimed arrow. He’s an excellent marksman…just not with a bow, it seems.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong here, and he’s not likely to figure it out. Not by the way Takoda, Šóta, and the other men are laughing at him.

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows when he’s being hazed.

These men are bare-chested warriors, each of them richly tanned under the sun. Most of them wear their hair long, half of it gathered high on their heads, or braided in some way. Šóta is his wife’s cousin, and as the Chief’s son, he wears a small adornment of eagle feathers threaded into his hair. His closest friends are Takoda and Otaktay. Both of them laugh at Dean the most, and in their language, using just enough gestures and body language that Dean knows he’s being talked about. They point at his boots and his brown Stetson hat—two of the only things he’s kept of his own that make him feel comfortable in his own skin.

Finally, Šóta goes over to him. “Good try,” he says, in his usual patronizing tone.

Dean knows he can’t punch out Mila’s cousin, no matter how bad he’s asking for it. Somehow, Dean manages to hold onto his temper.

“What’re they saying?” he asks lowly, gesturing at the two chuckle brothers.

Šóta’s lips twitch. He glances down at Dean’s feet. “They say your…shoes are loud on the earth. You give yourself away before the animal even catches your scent.”

Dean’s given up a lot of things, but his boots won’t be one of them. He wants to learn. He wants to belong here, in Mila’s world, but he also wants to stay himself.

So the men move on, mounting their horses. Dean rides with Baby at a plodding clip. Her black coat ripples with a healthy sheen. He thinks she’s come to enjoy the more natural surroundings and freer pasture of the grasslands, and he can’t deny, this part of it all feels right. The sun peeks through between the dappled leaves of oak trees, painting the ground in red, green, and gold. It’s quiet and beautiful here as Šóta leads the pack through the forest, just southwest of the village.

Eventually, he stops them between a denser thatch of trees and shrub. He raises a hand signal that Dean’s come to recognize. He raises his bow belatedly after the others though. He follows Šóta’s line of vision, and there is a deer grazing in a small clearing. A young buck.

Šóta signals at Dean. Try again, his eyes say.

Dean takes in a deep, quiet breath through his nose, and he takes aim.

He really misses his damn rifle.

Dean shoulders the sting of failure while he makes his way through the camp, leading Baby by the reigns. He drops her off at the large horse pen. There he feeds her and brushes her long coat, all while murmuring soft affectionate things. She’s still one of his only friends here.

But even she leaves him short to join her new friend, Mato. The two have become thick as thieves. Mato greets the black mare with a friendly whinny. Their noses touch in affection, and Mato playfully nips at her ear.

Dean raises his brows. “Well, that’s a little more friendly than usual. You guys start courting when I wasn’t looking?”

He walks over to Mato, who’s softened up to him in recent weeks.

“You sly dog,” Dean remarks, smirking. “Didn’t even ask me for her hand.”

Mato blows a hot breath through his nose at Dean, who has to blink, wiping his face.

“Now that’s just rude.” Still, he offers the mustang an apple from his pocket. Mato takes it from his palm, letting Dean rub his neck while he munches on his snack. “As fathers-in-law go, you lucked out, pal. See? I’m a delight.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if Baby had her first foal by spring. Dean grins at the thought, but it soon falls. If only his father-in-law were so easy to please.

His mind dwells on it as he starts making his way back to the heart of the village. Chatan, Mila’s father, hasn’t warmed up to him any better than Šóta or the other men. Tahatan is the only one of them who treats Dean civilly, and overall, he seems to be a good leader.

Dean has that thought, just when he sees the older man himself walking with a woman Dean sort of recognizes. She wears a long necklace made of blue beads and seashells. Tahatan goes into her tipi, even though Dean knows…that woman isn’t the Chief’s wife.

Dean raises his brows, but he subtly pivots on his heel and takes a different route back to his own tipi. Whatever he just saw, it’s definitely not his business.

“Honey, I’m home,” he teases.

She welcomes him into her arms, her hands traveling warmly up his shoulders. He bends to kiss her, soft and slow at first. And then deeper, sucking on her lower lip and teasing her with a sensuous tongue. She hums in surprise into his mouth, making him smile.

He’s exhausted and feeling low, but he doesn’t want to let on to her. He just wants to forget about his day, and hopefully recharge with a better night.

“How did it go today?” she asks, after he allows her to breathe.

Dean nods (and lies). “Pretty good.”

She waits for him to continue. When he just continues to hold her, she raises her brows up at him.

“Dean?”

“What? I’m workin’ on archery. Lots of progress.”

She eyes him in suspicion, and he knows he doesn’t have her fooled. Actually, she looks like she’s going to press him about it, so he releases her from his hold and goes to change out of his dirty clothes to avoid her gaze.

“Hey, uh, maybe it’s none of my business, but I saw the Chief go into some other woman’s tent today. Holding hands, bedroom eyes, the whole deal,” he says while he changes. He glances back at her and waggles his brows. Mila smiles slightly.

“Did she wear her hair in a half-braid, or did she wear a necklace made of seashells?” she asks.

Dean’s surprised that she doesn’t seem surprised, but he thinks back to what he saw.

“Uh, seashells. Yeah, she wore seashells,” he says.

Mila nods. “Yes, that woman is also his…the chiefs of my people are known to take more than one wife.”

At that, Dean becomes even more surprised. He finishes dressing and leaves his boots by the tipi’s entrance. His raised brows even out into a smirk.

“Well, okay. Guess it’s good to be Chief,” he says.

Mila’s lips purse as she eyes him narrowly. She goes back to stirring the stew with a wide, wooden spoon. Dean doesn’t see her reaction, but he does notices that something’s missing from his side of the bedding. He frowns.

“Hey, where’s my gun?” He asks Mila, who shakes her head without looking at him.

“I moved it,” she curtly replies.

Dean’s frown deepens. He touches her arm to get her attention.

“I’d rather you didn’t do that, baby,” he says. He’s made sure that she knows the basics of a gun well enough, but he doesn’t want to take the chance of her hurting herself.

“Don’t leave it out, then,” she snips back. “It shouldn’t go where we sleep.”

Dean tilts his head at her. He’s a bit confused at her tone, especially because they’ve had this conversation before.

“I have it there just in case something happens at night,” he reminds her. His pistol is really just for emergencies though. There are only three bullets left in it, and he can’t exactly go shopping for more. 

Dean realizes then that Mila’s mood has shifted. He approaches her from behind.

“What’s wrong, huh?” His hands find familiar purchase along the curve of her waist. He swipes her braid away and presses a kiss where her neck meets her shoulder. More teasingly, he asks, “What’d I do now?”

Mila remains tight-lipped, until she glances at him over her shoulder.

“Do you want another woman?” she asks.

It’s a simple question, but it succeeds in completely tripping him up. He blinks at her, incredulous and bewildered.

“What?”

She continues shredding another herb to put into the stew. Somehow, it makes the broth smell a bit worse. 

“You seem to admire the Chief for having three wives, so you must want another one too,” she says.

Holy shit, three wives? Dean wonders. The man must be a saint. Look at the hell I’m catching with one.

He can’t help but laugh, a deep belly chuckle that does nothing to take away Mila’s ire. She glares at him now, genuinely upset, and Dean knows he’s starting to shit the bed on this one. He sobers up and raises his hands in surrender.

“Sweetheart,” he says, in a placating tone.

Despite her annoyance, she allows him to hold her again. He plies her with more tantalizing kisses along her neck. He breathes in the sweet-smelling oil she uses on her hair.

“You’re more than enough woman for me. You know that, right?” he whispers against her skin. It earns her slight shudder, and he smiles. He teases the spot just under her ear, grazing with his teeth, then soothing with his tongue. She can’t help but writhe against him a bit. It stirs a well of desire in his lower belly, especially when he squeezes her hips, pressing himself to her from behind.

She tries to remain strong as she clears her throat, no doubt feeling his growing hardness against her. She starts to blush hotly.

“It’s all I can do just to make sure you stay sweet for me,” Dean says, a hint of teasing returned to his voice.

Mila finally breaks into a laugh. She reaches back to swat him on the head, but his ministrations work. Once she manages to escape from his grasp with a teasing smile of her own, she more happily serves him a bowl of stew.

Dean smirks. Fine, he can be patient. He’ll just have to wait until dessert, then. After a moment to calm himself, he sits down on the ground beside her and brings a large spoonful of stew to his lips. There, he pauses. The strange taste that assaults his tongue nearly makes him choke, but he does his best to swallow it down. The meat’s tough as nails, for Christ’s sake…

Hearing a spoon clatter against the bowl, he chances glancing at Mila. She sits stock still, her brows furrowed as she frowns. Slowly, she sets the bowl down and says,

“Stop eating.”

She looks angry at herself. Dean feels bad for her, his sympathy striking at his chest.

“What do you mean? I’m hungry,” he says, and gamely takes another couple of bites.

She just watches him. Her upset worsens while he tries and fails to cover up a hacking cough.

Finally, Mila can stand no more. She takes the bowl from him, making some of the foul broth slosh over their hands and onto the ground. She tried to make wahonpi, one of the most basic soups in her people’s culture, made from bison, potatoes, corn, and carrots stewed in the broth.

Eyota told me it was simple! she thinks in dismay. How did it go so wrong?

“It’s no good,” she says, her voice hard. “I will go to my mother and see what she cooked. She may have extra for us.”

She rises to her feet, and Dean quickly follows her. He catches sight of her tears, even though she turns her face away from him to grab her shoes. He reaches out and stops her with a hand on her arm. He tugs her back to face him.

“Hey, it’s okay. Why’re you getting so upset?” he says. “I’m not picky. I’ll eat whatever you make.”

Or maybe next time, I’ll try doing the cooking, he thinks.

“Because!” she blurts. Tears well up in her eyes and begin to slip down her cheeks, no matter how much she tries to brush them away. “Because you shouldn’t have to eat it. Because it should be good. You deserve to eat something good!”

Mila finally realizes why her mother tried so hard to teach her these things. She’s embarrassed, feeling sorry for herself, but it’s also far worse than that. Her heart hurts knowing what Dean has gone through, and what he continues to go through for her sake. The least she could do is make sure he eats well, and it seems she can’t even do that.

“Mila,” he says with a sigh. He guides her into his embrace. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

She can’t allow herself to be comforted. She pushes at his chest to look up at him.

“You think I don’t know what happens outside?” she says. “It’s a small village, and people talk when they think I’m not listening. I know what the men are doing to you.”

Dean shakes his head stubbornly. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

“You should not have to,” she insists, resting a hand over his heart. “You have proven yourself to be a man of honor. Tahatan said it himself. They should not be this way.” 

Dean smiles ruefully. “I can handle it.” 

He bows his head and captures her lips, plying her with a deeper kiss. The heat of it grows and becomes more than a distraction, more than comfort. It strips everything else away, until it’s just the two of them again, like the night she found him at the riverbank and held him until he woke up in her arms.

What they eat doesn’t matter. Other people don’t matter. All that matters is this.

He squeezes her hips and presses her harder against him, so she can feel every part of his desire. She moans into his mouth, curling her fingers into his shirt. So he guides her down to the bedding, where he shows her what he’d rather get a taste of.

Later that evening, Mila and Dean have dinner with her parents. Her mother, Weaya, is a gracious host, treating Dean both like a guest and a proper son-in-law. She gives him a special cut of braised bison meat, not to mention extra corn and potato hash. Chatan says nothing to him and eats in gruff, stoic silence. 

Dean can tell it both hurts and annoys his wife, but he has to focus on answering Weaya’s many questions about his life—mainly about his family and the farm he grew up on. In some ways, raising crops and rearing up cows, chickens, and horses there isn’t so different from the Lakota village.  

“You must miss that place. Your home,” she says. Dean meets his mother-in-law’s eyes, pausing in polishing off the meat sauce on his plate with a piece of bread. Chatan looks up from his meal, and so does Mila, who hesitates too. He sees the thread of her concern there, behind her eyes, so Dean hides the stab of sadness that hits him every time he thinks of Lawrence. 

“Sometimes,” he admits. He looks over at Mila. “But I’m not alone. That’s what matters.”

She smiles at him softly. Dean has the urge to take her hand, maybe raise it up to his lips, but he’ll leave that for when they’re alone. He doesn’t want to upset her father any more than he has just by sitting in Chatan’s house. Tent…whatever.

He’s glad when, after almost another hour and a round of hot tea, Mila finishes chatting with her mother and stands. It means they can finally get the hell out of here. No disrespect to her parents, but with so much change happening so quickly, Dean had been able to put Lawrence out of his mind for a while. Tonight he thinks about his mom and his brother more than makes him comfortable on their way through the village. He follows Mila inside their tipi, then starts up a candle while she gets ready to rest for the evening. 

Living here is like going back in time—before the lantern, before indoor plumbing and the water heater. It’s not a huge hardship for Dean, who’s spent a lot of his life sleeping on hard, dusty ground, or military bases with less than most modern amenities, but it’s still another adjustment. 

He undresses down to his pants and settles down to the bedding and furs, waiting for his wife. She kneels beside him after undressing down to just her shift. He lays on his back with an arm tucked behind his head, and he watches her unbind her long, dark hair, undoing the braid from the bottom strands. She has this concentrated look on her face, like her mind is far away, even though she’s right here next to him. He threads his fingers through her loose hair while she works, giving her a smile.   

“You okay?” he asks. 

Mila pauses. She lets her tresses escape from her fingers and reaches for him, laying her hand on his chest. Dean holds it there and finally allows himself to press a kiss into her palm. 

I’m sorry, is what she wants to say, but she knows he’ll only reply, For what?

So she lowers down and slips into his warm embrace, as if this can make them both forget the day. She rests her cheek over his beating heart. 

“You will never be alone,” she promises. 

Dean quirks a smile. Instead of answering, he brushes her cheek tenderly with his hand, and he closes his eyes. A few deep breaths later, and he finds sleep.

The candle slowly flickers out.   

On most nights, Mila falls asleep before Dean, and so his light snores don’t bother her. Tonight, even though she’s tried, she can’t tune out his rumbles. Or maybe it’s her own mind she can’t tune out.

She carefully maneuvers out of his hold and slips on her shoes. Maybe the moon will give her clarity tonight. 

She pushes open the front flap of the tent and steps out into the cooler air. She looks up at the moon’s white-blue glow, a wide crescent peeking out from between two large clouds. A strong breeze tugs at her hair and flutters her lashes when she closes her eyes. She crosses her arms when goosebumps spread across her tan skin.

“What troubles you, Kimmímila?”

The voice is steady and male, and all too familiar. Still, the intrusion startles her. Her eyes fly open wide and she jolts, inhaling sharply. She frowns when she realizes it’s him. 

“What are you doing? It’s late,” she says.

He steps out from the shadows with his pipe in hand. He smells strongly of tobacco. Her father and uncle smoke as well, but she doesn’t like it herself. She’s glad Dean doesn’t either.  

“Easing my mind,” he says, raising his pipe. “I see you’re up to the same thing.”

Mila shakes her head. She returns her attention to the moon. “Go. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Are we not friends, Mila?” he says. “Can’t we talk and share like we used to?”

His voice is disheartened enough that it earns her gaze. She sighs at him. 

“I am sorry, but I can’t give you what you want,” she says. “Don’t test me anymore.”

He pauses with his pipe in hand. It drops to his side, and he takes measured steps closer, until he’s looking down at her. Even with the litheness of his form, he’s still taller and broader than her. His long, dark hair is half pulled onto the top of his head, threaded together with a beaded leather string she made for him when they were children. He has used it ever since. The rest of his hair lays loose down his back, brushing his arms. 

“If you actually loved him, it wouldn’t be a test,” he teases.  

He tries to touch her cheek, but she guides his hand down. She shakes her head and steps away from him. 

“This isn’t a game,” she says. “You know I mean what I say.”

His anger and frustration surfaces, with a sharp exhale of breath and the crunch of his dark brows.

“You would choose the Outlander over your own people,” he accuses.

Mila’s gaze is firm as she heads back to her tipi. If he will not be reasonable, then she will make it clear enough to hurt. 

“I choose him over you,” she says. 

Then, she slips back inside.     

The shadow outside remains, just long enough for the moon to become clear past the moving clouds. 

In the morning, Mila goes to her uncle, Chief Tahatan. She finds her parents there in his tipi as well, all of them sharing breakfast. Her aunt passes around more bread and wojapi, a sweet mixed berry sauce, while her father is resting a broken ankle. He’s complaining again, even though it happened over a week ago now. 

“If you hadn’t let the horse buck you off, you wouldn’t be hurting,” she says sharply now. She’s become annoyed with his griping. “Or better yet, you can finally admit that you’re beyond the years of breaking young stallions.” 

Chatan is the Horsemaster of their tribe, and has been since Mila was a little girl, inheriting the position from her great uncle, the former chief’s younger brother. Mila knows, however, that Chatan is getting too old to do the harder work. Many years have meant many battles too, and they’ve taken their toll on his bones. 

An idea grows in her mind, and she goes to sit beside her father. She applies the poultice Eyota gives Weaya for him, before rewrapping his ankle.

“Father,” she begins, imploring him gently, “perhaps Dean could help you care for the horses.”

Chatan eyes her with a frown. “Your husband already has his hands filled with training.” 

“Šóta and Takoda can’t do it all themselves, and Dean has experience with breaking young horses,” she reasons.  

Chatan ignores her and hefts himself to his feet without her or his wife’s help. He leaves with her mother on his heels, even though she looks back at her daughter apologetically. You know your father, her eyes say. 

Mila frowns at his back, both frustrated and upset. When they’re gone, she heaves a sigh. She remains determined though. 

She goes to Chief Tahatan next. He sits in his chair of whicker and wood while he smokes his pipe. Her aunt has gone to help the other women harvesting chokeberries and wild onions. Mila will go there soon, but first, she has business here.

“Uncle,” she says. 

He makes a sound of acknowledgement, crossed between a grunt and a groan. He knows what's coming. She kneels at his feet and touches his hand in a sign of humbleness, reverence, and familial love all at once. 

“Uncle,” she repeats. “Dean has done nothing but try to please Father, but still, he’s being stubborn…will you talk to him? Please?”

Tahatan sighs deeply. “You must understand your father, child. The decision you’ve made affects us all.”

“I do understand, Uncle. But the truth of it is, none of you have given Dean a chance to prove himself.”

“His chance is right now,” Tahatan says, his tone more stern. “Have I not been gracious? Did I not allow him to stay and live among us?”

“Yes, but you continue to judge him in your mind, like everyone else,” she says. The Chief remains quiet. She moves to stand before him, holding his gaze directly. “Let us perform the Huŋkápi.”

Huŋkápi. The Making of Relatives. Her people first created the tradition to make peace between Lakota and rival tribes, like the Ree. It can even be used to unite extended families within the tribe, especially in times of marriage. There is no better time for it, she thinks. 

The Chief shakes his head. “Kimmímila.”

“Is he not my husband?” she says. “In the eyes of our people, this is the joining of two families, and accepting an outsider into our tribe. That is exactly what the ceremony is for.”

“He has no family,” Tahatan snaps. “It is not exactly the tradition.”

“Then let us make it new,” she argues.

Tahatan hesitates. He shakes his head and rubs at his chin in a gesture of long-suffering. He thanks the spirits that he never had daughters. While he loves his niece, he has never envied his brother. 

“I will think on it,” he says. 

Mila frowns, but she tries her best to accept this, for now. She thanks him respectfully and leans in to kiss his cheek. Tahatan grunts an acknowledgement and watches her go with another shake of his head, despite a small smile. Between her and his sons, they will keep adding years to his life. 

On her way out of the Chief’s tipi, she runs into her cousin, Šóta. He walks with all the comfortable cockiness of a rooster among his harem.

“Good morning, sister,” he greets, even as he playfully pulls at her braid and tosses it into her face.

She flicks it away and meets him with an irritated frown. She’s in no mood to be teased, especially by him. “You’re still a child.”

“Ho-ho, hey now,” he chuckles, and he cuts off her path by standing in her way, crossing his arms. “Watch it. When I become Chief, don’t think I’ll let you talk to me so disrespectfully, my sister.”

“Just because you will be Chief one day does not make you wise,” she says. Her voice is as sharp as the snap of a blackberry vine. “And don’t call me sister. You have lost that right.”

Šóta finally becomes serious; he realizes that she means what she says.

“What are you talking about? What have I done?” he asks, more earnestly.

“It’s what you haven’t done,” Mila snaps. “If you were a good leader, you would take your father’s words to heart when he accepted my husband into our tribe. If you were my brother, you wouldn’t let the men mock him. If you were a man at all, you would do what is right. You would be guiding him right now, instead of letting the others ‘train’ him.”

She storms away from him, leaving Šóta feeling irritated, but also with an uncomfortable feeling beginning to churn in his gut. 

Mila moves brusquely through the camp until she reaches the clearing edged by the forest. There the horses are fenced in. They’ve been given their food and water for the morning, so they’re rather frisky as they clop around and graze.

She looks for Mato. Baby is no doubt with Dean today, so the Kiger mustang keeps to himself underneath a large sycamore tree. His tail flicks when she approaches, and he turns to her with a sound of greeting. She allows her hand to run along his dun-colored coat as she draws closer.

“I need you, my friend,” she whispers. 

She holds his snout, pressing her forehead against his as she squeezes her eyes shut against the burn of frustrated tears. Mato bumps her shoulder with his nose, softly whinnying. She smiles, sniffling, and rubs his cheek. 

“Let’s go for a ride.”

AN: Well, here we go! Sorry for ending on some angst, but here we've got the pieces in motion for a fun-filled, four-part sequel. 😂💜 Dean and Mila are both struggling in their own ways while he tries to navigate this new world he's trying to live in.

And how do you think he's gonna react to the "mystery man" trying to win her back? 😬

Pronunciation Guide:

Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Otaktay ("ogh-tac-tay") Weaya ("we-ayy-ya") Takoda ("ta-koda") Mato ("matt-toe") Misae ("mee-sah-eh")

Next Time:

But she feels a shadow at her feet as she ventures through the village. They are getting bigger as a tribe, harder to move when they need to, and it’s more mouths to feed, but it’s also a good thing. Despite all the challenges the past few decades have brought, their people are enduring. 

However, she pushes these thoughts to the back of her mind when she feels a prickling down the back of her neck. It’s followed shortly by the strong hand that closes on her wrist, and the man that calls her name. 

She gasps and whips around. He is there, gently shushing her. She glares at him and tries to pull her hand out of his grip. 

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(Going back to the regular Dean tag list, plus those who said they'd like to be tagged on this series!)

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@thebiggerbear @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @deans-spinster-witch

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@tmb510 @syrma-sensei @artemys-ackles @malindacath @mrsjenniferwinchester

@jc-winchester @charmed-asylum @fromcaintodean @k-slla

[xarology]

Transformers X Reader 18+

I saw a post on twitter about using shock collars on bots but instead of hurting them it does the exact opposite and makes them feel so good!!! and I had to run and write something down because oh my god!!!

Starscream snippet at the end :3c

General Headcanons

Though maybe instead of collars they’re located near their interface panels? I’d imagine a low dosage shock to them would be similar to a vibration.

If I were to really describe it, shocks are a numbing buzz that you can feel circulating throughout parts of your body. If in direct contact, you can feel the energy the most but it slowly dissipates through their body. So really these shock devices would be a cool edging tool to keep their focus on their interface panel.

But that’s with low dosage shocks. Higher dosages yield for crazier results!! If some bots are into masochism then maxing out the shocks is basically sending them to the gates of heaven (well of allsparks?). On a full dosage they’re able to feel the shock throughout their whole body and then some. It blanks their processors out and they’re left a horny mess. Would also be great for those who love dumbification as their processor would be left scrambled for a bit

There’s a risk factor if you’re human. Their tolerance is CRAZZYY so if you’re giving them a high amount and end up touching them then you’re dead for sure. This is such a risk I cannot stress this enough, please throw on some thick rubber elbow high gloves, boots, ANYTHING.

———

With no mass displacement, imagine,,,,

Leaving Starscream a whimpering mess.

His hands tied together on the berth as he jerks his hips up to find stimulation. The device is placed right above his spike on one of its highest settings, curtesy from you of course. You’re standing to the side a fair distance away from him. Close enough to see the details, yet far from danger.

The pace is too slow for his liking. He’s so used to a nice hard frag. So used to being the one to tease you. So used to having you underneath him as he ruts into you like an animal. He doesn’t have to wait and think about a growing ache in him as he frags your brains out. But with you in charge, he thinks.

Starscream is running with thoughts, working overtime to delete warnings and stupid pop ups that tell him to ‘overload or overheat’. He doesn’t want to admit it but he likes this torturous buzz. And so, he chooses to overheat. His fans do little to help him as the volts short circuit it over time. He’s left to manually cool himself through large intakes of air. Focused on trying to cool now, his processor is so full that it blanks. He’s left a mumbly whiny loud mess. His valve cycles around nothing and he wants nothing more than something to pound into him. To touch him, to do anything.

His thighs are squeezed together by the time you walk near them, no longer grinding against air as he lays somewhat still.

His thighs snap open, obscenely wide at your command to open them. Bright pink fluid drips from his valve, and lots of it.

Don’t move, you tell him. He scrapes his pedes against the berth as he tries to keep them planted away from you. He doesn’t want to hurt you but he can’t help it when his hips grind against your gloved hand on his node. He doesn’t want to hurt you but frag, does it feel good when your other hand enters his valve.

His babbling turns into whines as your hands move faster. Then rougher. And now he’s trying hard to not fall into stasis as he overloads. Your hand is dripping with fluid and you’re quick to leave him. His thighs close together and he can still feel himself overloading, the charge dripping onto the berth and making a pool near his aft.

He’s out like a light when you turn off the shock device. You’re left to clean him up while he recharges. His spark swelling when he wakes every so often to see you polishing him up!!

————

Tons of aftercare after all that I promise he’s getting the princess treatment

[inkieflame]

I’m Fragile and I Need Someone (To Kiss the Cuts and Tell Me to Keep Trying)

An angsty SL!Roomies AU :3

(I’ve deviated from canon slightly, bite me)

Content warnings: blood/gore, death (respawn), descriptions of a major injury

1300 words

Aka: The Secret Life zombie infection eventually reaches the Roomies. Grian gets injured in the crossfire. Cleo and Etho fight to keep him alive

Grian’s infected friends are not the only threat to his life.

Of course, they’re the ones actively pursuing him, so perhaps they take slightly higher priority than the several arrows to the chest they have given him. He yanks the arrows out forcefully and throws them behind him as though they could stop the enemy players.

He keeps his eye set on Cleo in front of him.

The curse has infected nearly the entire player base. One by one, the zombie-like infection had spread through each alliance. Grian and Cleo were two of the few survivors.

Cleo glances behind her, taking in Grian’s gasping and shaking. She pauses for a moment to gently tug one more arrow out of his shoulder.

“Cleo, I don’t think-“

“Its just a little bit further” she murmurs, scanning behind them for where the infected are starting to catch up.

“Cleo-“

“We’ve got to go” she cuts off. She picks up her sprinting again.

Grian shutters, the pain in his gut growing. He can hear the infected players behind him. Arrows are starting to fly in his direction again.

He forces his feet to keep moving.

Cleo’s statement had been a lie. Their base is on the other side of the game map still. It will be a struggle to get there, especially under fire.

His sprint feels like thunder pounds in his ears with each heavy footstep. He just has to keep his eyes ahead and keep pushing. He can do it.

Cleo pauses around the corner of a wall. Grian is too dazed to remember who’s base this is. The towering walls have been abandoned since the infection started.

His head is spinning ferociously.

“Cleo, I need-“ he gasps for breath, “moment please.”

Cleo nervously glances out at the horde. The are circling the empty houses, searching. Soon they will find them.

“You’re okay, it’s just an arrow.” Cleo promises, “We can rest when we get back home, you can make it a little longer.”

Grian can feel warm liquids running down his stomach. He doesn’t have the words to tell her there were far more arrows in him than she noticed.

“A mo-moment.” Is all he can manage. “Cleo, I can’t-“

“They’ve seen us.” She hisses suddenly, “Run.”

He’s pulled behind her, his sense of balance throwing him sideways. There are spots in his vision, making it hard to focus on Cleo leading the way.

He's going to throw up. He’s going to pass out. Grian feels so, so ill inside. When he hangs his head, the can see a dark patch has bloomed across his red sweater.

Grian doesn’t think he’s running anymore. He’s stumbling, falling and catching himself again, trying to force his body to keep moving.

“You guys made it!” Etho’s voice calls to them from the front of the home he’d built with Cleo. “Cleo, Grian, quickly! Inside!”

Cleo takes the steps to the front door two at a time. Etho grips her in a tight hug, grateful to see her still alive. She hugs him back like she never has before. She didn’t show affection often but now was a grand exception.

“Grian?” Etho calls.

Grian stands at the bottom of the steps, barley holding himself upright without Cleo to pull him along anymore. His breath is heavy, and his eyes are glazed over.

“Grian?” it’s Cleo this time, confusion in her voice.

Somewhere behind him, he can hear the infected nearing them. He needs to get inside. He needs to lay down.

“Cleo, I can’t” he breaths, weak. “I can’t make it up the stairs.” He raises his gaze to search for help in them

Cleo and Etho had lived here long before they took Grian in. He was lucky they let him in at all, so late into the season.

“You took an arrow to the shoulder.” Cleo scoffs, “You’re fine, get inside before the zombies tear you up.

Grian feels his kneels buckle. He grasps the fencing to stay upright.

“I can’t make it, Cleo.”

“Stop dragging yourself down,” Cleo snaps, “Let’s get you some bandages for that shoulder of yours, come on.”

Etho lingers while Cleo makes her way to the door. “I dunno Cleo, are you sure it was his shoulder?”

Spots are dancing in front of him. Etho’s voice sounds so very far away. Grian really wants to go to sleep.

Etho is at his side. Grian doesn’t remember Etho walking down the stairs. Did he black out?

“Come on” Etho whispers, wrapping his arm around Grian’s chest to support him, “Lets get you inside.”

Grian tries his best to walk the steps, but everything is in pain and he can’t feel his legs anymore. Twice, he blinks his eyes open without remembering closing them, with all his weight leaned into Etho’s side.

Eventually Etho bundles him into his arms and half drags half carries Grian into the base. Grian can hear him hurriedly locking the gate behind them.

Etho lifts him again, stubbornly carrying him up to the second floor despite his protesting body. Grian is barely awake enough to love him for it.

The bed he is set on is soft, and warm, and there are large, callus hands stopping him from laying down. Cleo.

“Let’s get you needy thing some first aid.” She rolls her eyes, while another, thinner set of hands slips under Grian’s sweater. Etho slowly helps him work it over his head, so they are left staring at the staunchly red button down that had once been white.

Somewhere between the blurry vision, Grian can see Cleo narrow her eyes in confusion.

They lay him down, and it makes the spinning worse. He’s going to be sick. He wants to pass out.

Cleo says something to Etho, but Grian can’t hear her. Etho’s hands are cold where they meet his skin. Or maybe his skin is burning. Grian can’t tell the difference.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Etho is saying, cold hands against Grian’s face and neck. When did that happen? They’ve opened the front of his button down. Cleo is gently tugging out pieces of arrowhead still lodged in the dozens of wounds. Grian’s throat is sore from screaming. When was he screaming?

He feels lightheaded. He wants to pass out again. Please let him sink back into unconsciousness for now.

“Stay awake.” Cleo instructs, “You’re on low health, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Those injuries are from the infected, right?” Etho says, “If you die to them, you’ll respawn infected too. Stay with us, ok?”

“Okay” Grian thinks, or whispers, or screams. He can’t tell.

“You should have told me.” Cleo is explaining, but Grian is struggling to focus on her words, “You shouldn’t have been running with these wounds.”

Darkness starts to creep up into the edges of his vision again. It is fiercely driven back when Cleo dabs a wet cloth to Grian’s stomach, and a sharp sting makes his whole body flinch.

“Sorry, disinfectant.” Cleo murmurs. Grian’s hand is clutched tightly around Ethos. He doesn’t recall when Etho took his hands off his face, but they’re still so cold. Grian feels like he’s burning alive.

Cleo dabs a few more times, before wiping the area gently with a second towel. This one doesn’t sting. Grian is relieved.

“-know we care about you, right?” Cleo is still saying. Grian’s hearing goes in and out. “-why we took you in.” she continued, “-home for you-“

The spots in Grian’s vision are growing. He clings to the last of their voices he can hear, to the feeling of Etho’s hands wrapped around his and Cleo’s palms pressed into his stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.

“No, no, please, stay with us.” One of them is begging, “Please, not yet. Please.”

Etho’s grip tightens. Grian can feel himself slipping away.

“Look at me, Grian, look, I’m right here.” Cleo is crying, “I’m gonna fix you, I promise, you’re gonna be okay. Stay with me.”

And that’s when the darkness came again, and Grian was dead, or asleep, or reloading, or offline, or taking a break.

Whatever would help Cleo sleep better that night when he doesn’t wake up again.

Grian will be among the infected tomorrow.

[happyfoolz]

happy new year. — cyj

pairing: choi yeonjun x gn!reader

content: fluff, best friends to ?

warnings: swearing, some pining, yn is a little drunk

word count: 3k

a/n: i wrote this literally 3 years ago and never posted it so uh. happy new year i guess!

taglist (click to join): @ashxxgyu @hydroqenbreaths

Looking back, your year wasn’t too bad. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but perfection doesn’t exist, anyway. Would you change anything if you could? Who knows? It’s not like you can go back and do it, so you prefer not to think about it too much.

The New Year’s Eve party is kind of loud, there’s too many people. Usually you wouldn’t be caught dead in such an event, but Yeonjun always knew how to work his way around you. It was hard saying no to him when he knew just how to convince you. You tried to, you really tried, but he gave you those puppy eyes — or should you say Shrek’s Puss in Boots eyes? — and you couldn’t help but give in. 

So you dressed up, put on your best cologne and let your best friend help you to ensure you looked good before going to Kang Taehyun’s house. You’ve always heard he was the best party thrower, and you’re not surprised to know the rumors are true. The music is nice, just as much as the food and the drinks. The atmosphere is very inviting to anyone who likes that kind of thing, and although you’re not one for loud parties, you still try to make yourself comfortable. You’ve already greeted many people, and even danced shyly for a while, but your social battery was far from lasting as long as Yeonjun’s. By now, your best friend has disappeared in a sea of people, and you know he’ll eventually find his way back to you, but you won't stand awkwardly beside him like a shadow for the rest of the night. Yeonjun is a true party person, he enjoys being surrounded by people. He might even find someone he could spend the night with, and you don’t wanna be in his way. You’d never cockblock him, would you?

All of that’s why you end up consuming one too many drinks, just enough to leave you a tiny little itty bitty bit tipsy. See, you don’t really like the strong taste of alcohol, but Taehyun had so many options to appeal to everyone’s personal taste, and you found yourself a nice sparkling wine that was perfectly sweet and did wonders to your taste buds, so you might have had a little more than you should’ve. 

You’re not drunk, you know you’re not. At least you think so. You’re still 100% conscious, you know exactly what you’re doing and where you’re going, but it’s kind of hard to keep your balance. Every time you move, you feel like you might fall over, so you tread carefully toward the balcony. 

The sky looks nice, the stars are in full display — not a single cloud to ruin the picture. Though the snow is no longer falling down, you can see the white coat it has created over the entire town. It’s quite the view. Peaceful, comfortable. The cold doesn’t bother you at all as you get distracted, admiring everything there is to see.

You still have a glass of sparkling wine in your hand, and at this point you don’t even know how many you’ve had. But you don’t think too much of it, because you still feel sober enough. Leaning forwards, you prop your elbows on the ledge of the balcony and look down. It’s really high up, but it’s not like you’re going to jump or fall down, so you don’t really feel scared. 

For a moment, you catch your thoughts wandering in Yeonjun's direction. He’s one of the only constant things you have, if not the only one. You've been friends for a while now, longer than you can recall. You actually admire the people who keep track of precisely when their friendship with someone started, because you could never do that. You know there was a time when Yeonjun wasn't there, and then suddenly he was, and you know he waltzed into your life when you were children, maybe pre-teens, but you're not sure of the exact date or even the year when it happened. But he's been there for you for long enough and it feels like it's been a lifetime.

Feeling the cold breeze turning your cheeks red as you admire the snow-covered buildings, you feel thankful for him. Sure, you wouldn’t be at a party if it were completely up to you, but the thing about your best friend is that he always knows when you might just have a good time going somewhere, and when you might not. He never really forces you to go anywhere with him, but if he feels like it’s gonna be good for you, he’ll try and convince you to be his plus one. And, once again, he was right about this one. Despite not mingling with people for too long, it still feels nice to have a change of setting, be somewhere new. Besides, you know he’ll be right there and take you home as soon as you want to leave, all you need to do is text him, but you don’t feel the need to. 

You’re not sure what time it is, but you’re guessing it’s probably close to midnight. Instead of reaching for your phone to check the clock, you raise your glass to take another sip, and that’s when you hear someone clearing their throat.

“Don’t you think you’ve drunk enough for tonight?” Yeonjun’s playful voice speaks directly to you. He walks up to you, stands right beside you and gently takes the drink from your hand, as if to prevent a tragedy. 

You offer him a lopsided smile. “Not at all. I’m still perfectly fine.”

“Mhm. How many glasses have you had so far?” He seems to be having fun with the sight of you, for some reason. You narrow your eyes and tilt your head back, looking at the sky as you try to mentally count the number of times you’ve gone for a refill. After a few seconds of silence, Yeonjun chuckles and pats your shoulder. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“No, I swear it wasn’t that many! I’m okay, I’m completely sober.” You insist and he raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” He grins, and for some reason, you catch yourself looking at the shape of his lips as if it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Maybe it is. Yeonjun has always been a handsome guy, and in the past few years he’s gotten more attractive. His features have become less juvenile, more mature. He always gets heads turning whenever he walks into a room, and you're not oblivious to how good he looks.

As soon as you notice where your mind’s going, you shake those thoughts away. “Yeah, look, I’ll prove it!” You step back from the ledge, trying to think of a way to show him you mean what you’re saying.

You end up raising your left leg, standing on the other and trying to keep your balance — which is probably not a good idea, considering you’re tipsy — as you start counting. Yeonjun still looks entertained, like he’s holding back his laughter and just waiting for your arms to start flailing around. You, on the other hand, can’t help but notice how beautiful he looks under the moonlight, with the dim light of the tall lamp set outside also illuminating his face.

You lose your balance as soon as that thought crosses your mind again, swaying helplessly for an instant. Thankfully, Yeonjun has quick reflexes, so before you know it, he has already put the glass down on the ledge and come to rescue you in his arms, preventing you from falling flat on your face.

“Pff, yeah, totally sober. You’re the most sober person in the entire world right now.” He scoffs, while still firmly holding you. 

You hold on to his arms and stay still for a moment. The sudden movement made you feel dizzier than you already were a few seconds ago, so you need to stabilize yourself before moving. 

He notices it and brings you closer, tilting his head in an attempt to look at your face. “You okay?” 

Being so close to him, you can smell his cologne. It’s nice, not too strong, and it smells like… comfort. You’ve known him for way too long, and that’s the smell of warm hugs, soft smiles and playful light punches. It’s the smell of home. 

Fuck, where are these thoughts coming from now? You start giggling to yourself like a child, and that makes a smile replace the worrisome look that was on his face just now.

And damn, you keep getting distracted by his smile. You’re not the religious type, but if there’s a God up there, you’re certain He took his sweet time designing Yeonjun’s smile Himself, making sure it would look as heavenly as humanly possible. You get so fixated on his smile you don’t even notice your giggles slowly fading, giving space for a dumbstruck face.

“Jesus, you are drunk.” He comments, and in return you slap his arm, coming out of your moment of daze.

“I’m not! I’m just a little tipsy, it’s fine. Thank you for saving me, though.” You smile awkwardly and stand up straight once again, letting go of his protective embrace, though you don’t want to. You immediately miss his arms as soon as you leave them.

“Let’s slow down on the alcohol for now, alright? Don’t make me carry you home, you’re supposed to be the responsible, reliable friend here.” Despite the playful tone, you know he’s actually just worrying about your well-being. He knows you’re not used to drinking too much and doesn’t want you to end up sick or passed out on a couch.

You nod in agreement and lean on the ledge once again, silently staring at the view. You need some air, you need to stop focusing so much on Yeonjun’s features and qualities. 

But he settles by your side and your head automatically lies on his shoulder.

“They’re gonna start the countdown soon, that’s why I was looking for you. We only have a few minutes left.” He says quietly after a moment of silence. You can still hear the party behind you, everyone’s being incredibly loud, so you appreciate the fact that your best friend is right there with you. 

Yeonjun is usually loud and rowdy, the life of the party, always ready to dance for hours and joke around. Everyone loves him, everyone fawns over him, he’s a real social butterfly, but nobody knows him as well as you do. This other side of him is reserved exclusively to a few lucky people, and you’re one of them. It’s a quieter, gentler side, one that’s calm and soft and sweet. He’s just standing there with you, staring at nothing and everything in front of his eyes, because he knows you appreciate little moments like that, and he doesn’t want you to be alone out there.

“Do you wanna go back inside?” You ask, hoping for a negative response. Particularly, you’d much rather stay there with him. Out of all the people at that party, he is the only one you want to be with when the year finally comes to an end.

“Only if you want to. I’m cool with staying here with you.” He doesn’t raise his voice, as if the two of you are sharing secrets right now.

“Okay.”

You don’t feel like going back inside at all. It’s better to stay there, because if you go back, he’ll probably be taken away from you. Too many people want him around, and you feel like you should be the one beside him once the clock strikes twelve.

“Jjunie.” You call for him and he hums. “What’s gonna be your New Year wish?”

He chuckles and pushes you lightly. “C’mon, you know you’re not supposed to tell your wishes or they won’t come true.”

You furrow your eyebrows and look at him. “Oh. That rule’s valid for New Year wishes too?”

Still smiling, he nods. “It’s valid for any type of wish, isn’t it?” His hand reaches up to delicately rub his thumb between your eyes, smoothing out your skin. The gesture makes you raise your gaze to his face, looking in his eyes for a moment. “Wrinkles.” He’s always telling you you’re gonna get wrinkles if you keep doing that with your face, so that single word is already a good enough explanation.

You’re used to his touches, but you’re still feeling lightheaded and that seems to be affecting your judgement. It doesn’t help that he seems to get just as distracted by you as you are by him right now. His hand lingers in place for a few seconds, because the two of you are staring at each other’s eyes, not saying a word, and you’re so close to each other. It’s like the cold finally froze both of you in place, and neither of you could move.

“You’re staring.” He’s the first one to break the silence, but not the eye contact.

“You too.” Your gaze falls to his plump lips, which look way too tempting right now for your own good. 

He seems to take notice of that, because the corner of his mouth tilts up in a more discreet smile. His hand finally moves again, gently holding your chin between his fingers so that he can slightly move it up, trying to capture your eyes with his once again, and you feel something stirring inside of you as soon as your gaze meets his.

“Did you find anyone to be your New Year’s kiss tonight?” Your curiosity strikes, because you don’t wanna think about him kissing anyone else. He’s already there with you, might as well follow the tradition. That’s what best friends are for, isn’t it?

He chuckles, but his eyes are still staring at you intently. “Don’t know yet. Did you?”

You feel brave enough to put your hands on his waist, as a sign that you want to keep him close just like that, and neither of you tries to move your faces away from each other. “Maybe.”

And then the countdown starts. You can hear the people inside excitedly chanting out the numbers, but the two of you don’t move an inch.

Ten. You think back to when you were teenagers and you had the biggest crush on the man right in front of you, when he was just a silly nerdy dude. 

Nine. His thumb rubs your cheek.

Eight. You silently recall the number of times people thought the two of you were together, and how you always felt secretly disappointed every time he laughed it off. 

Seven. You tighten your grip around his waist.

Six. You wish you could just hold him close for the rest of the night. He’s always been there for you, through thick and thin, and tonight something seems to have clicked in your head, but you still can’t put your finger on it.

Five. He lets out another chuckle, quieter this time.

Four. “Y/N.” He calls your name in a whisper.

Three. You stare at his lips once again.

Two. “Will you kiss me?” You whisper back.

One. He leans closer to you, lips ghosting over yours, without really touching them.

Happy new year.

He hesitates for an instant, but then tilts your head just enough and leaves a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“Happy new year.” He looks into your eyes again, with a soft smile on his face.

You furrow your eyebrows, trying to understand what just happened. Oh, shit, did you just embarrass yourself?

“Oh, um– Happy new year.” You step back, suddenly regaining the consciousness you seem to have lost just a moment ago. “Maybe I should…” You point to the door and try to move that way. 

Did you just honestly ask your best friend to kiss you? And then got a kiss on your forehead? Maybe you should've actually jumped off that ledge after all.

Still, before you can move, he holds onto your forearm. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“Um, well, we– I just. I mean, uh… This is kinda awkward, isn't it?” You scratch the back of your head.

“Is it? Doesn’t have to be…” He doesn’t seem to follow your train of thought.

“Well, I thought you were, um–”

“About to kiss you? I was.” He cuts you off with an amused grin.

You narrow your eyes, suddenly feeling suspicious of him. Before you can say anything, he puts his hands on your waist and pulls you closer.

“C’mon, Y/N. You don’t know how badly I wanna do this right now.” He sounds half amused, half frustrated.

“Do it, then?” You can’t understand what’s holding him back.

“I gladly would, but you had to go and drink your ass off tonight, of all nights. Now I can’t kiss you without knowing whether you actually want this or not,” he reasons. “I mean, what if you regret it later? As far as I know, this might be just you being drunk.”

You scrunch your nose. You want to be mad at him, but he’s so fucking precious right now, not wanting to kiss you when you’re not 100% sober because he cares about your consent. 

“You’re no fun.”

“Sorry for respecting you, I guess?” He replies and you laugh quietly.

“Whatever. Fucking loser," you tease him. "Sleep over at my place and kiss me in the morning, then. How about that?” You suggest and he nods.

"I like the sound of that," he agrees, and you wish you could kiss that adorable smile off his face.

“Can you at least hold me for now?” As soon as you whine, he wraps his arms around you, bringing your body against his own and allowing your head to rest on his chest.

“Always.”

And though you can’t kiss him tonight, you spend the rest of the night clinging onto him, letting him drown your senses with his presence. Once you get home, you innocently share a bed with him and fall asleep holding his hand, anxiously waiting for the next morning, and not willing to let him go this time.

if you liked this fic, please consider reblogging and leaving some feedback as it motivates me to keep writing!

[please don't repost or translate without permission]

[cringevalue]

I keep a fanfiction spreadsheet, I have no shame, and I need to yap about my stats.

I am no longer tracking the time I spend on AO3 because it has gotten too complicated tracking between different devices and listening to podfics / TTS. That being said, I read 35 fics this month, 126 chapters, and 443,876 words.

My top fandom was Stranger Things (obviously), being all 35 (with one crossover) fics and my top ship was Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson with 27 fics. My top five reoccurring characters (according to how fics were tagged) were Eddie Munson in 19 fics, Steve Harrington in 19 fics, Robin Buckley in 13 fics, Dustin Henderson in 8 fics, and Wayne Munson in 8 fics.

The tags I read the most were Eddie Munson Lives in 8 fics, Canon Divergence in 6 fics, and multiple tags were tied in third place.

The most words I read in a day was 53,193 on December 13th and the longest fic I read was The Eddie Munson Hallucination Crisis by FerYerHealth at 63,086 words.

All of this information and every fic I've read this month can be found on my spreadsheet!

Every Stranger Things fic I read on AO3 this month is linked under the cut (fics i read on tumblr can be found here!)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

And All That Could Have Been by HateMeDestroyMe

Mature - 50.4k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Broken Hearts, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Professional Athlete Steve Harrington, Business Owner Eddie Munson, Long lost love, Eddie Is A Single Father, Daddy's GIrl, Mistletoe, Rekindled old flames, Suicidal Thoughts

When Steve left Hawkins to go to college in 1986, he broke Eddie's heart. So, Eddie sought comfort with his best friend. That was how he'd become a single father. Now, 15 years later, Steve comes home after a shoulder injury brings his professional baseball career to a grinding halt. But he gets more than he bargained for when he keeps running into Eddie all over town.

Rogue Organ by Battered_child

Mature - 2.9k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Sicktember, Sickfic, Steve Harrington Whump, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Established Relationship, Platonic Soulmates Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Hospitals, Vomiting, Nausea, Appendicitis, Good Uncle Wayne Munson

As the minutes and hours slowly crept by, Steve began to feel off. He wasn't quite sure what was wrong exactly, he just knew he didn't feel quite right. Nevertheless he continued on with his shift, watching the minutes tick by on the clock. Or Steve starts to feel sick and Eddie takes charge looking after his boyfriend

Bows & All by GodsDoggy

Explicit - 3.3k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - PWP without Porn, Christmas Smut, Bottom Steve Harrington, Dom Eddie Munson, Top Eddie Munson, Trans Male Character, Trans Steve Harrington, Masturbation, Dirty Talk, Breeding Kink, Squirting, Multiple Orgasms, Creampie, Face-Sitting, Oral Sex, Daddy Kink, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Steve Harrington Has a Praise Kink, Plugs

“What can I say?” Steve smiles. “I’m a man of my word.” Eddie snorts. “Clearly.” He looks down between them, admiring the ribbons that decorate Steve's inner thighs. “Bows and all, huh?” Steve laughs, a little breathless in his needy state. “Bows and all.”

As Long As I Get to Keep You by MysteriousMidnight

Explicit - 8k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Based on Fan Art, Rockstar Eddie, photographer steve, Playgirl Photoshoot, silver fox steve, Younger Eddie, Age Difference, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Rimming, Getting Together, minor daddy kink, like blink and you miss it, some kink talk, Bondage, BDSM, just a little bit though, Nothing Hardcore, Eddie gets tied up and blind-folded, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Some Plot, Mostly porn though, Light Praise Kink, Top Steve Harrington, Bottom Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Eddie Munson

“I- I think I’m ready.” Steve tilts his head. “You sure? There’s no rush, I promise.” Eddie nods, fidgeting nervously with the robe belt. “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, then lets the robe fall to the floor. And it’s.. less scary than he thought. Maybe because it’s just Steve here, and he trusts Steve completely. ~*~*~ OR: Rockstar Eddie agrees to do a Playgirl photoshoot. Steve is the photographer. They do a little more than just picture-taking.

All Still Breathing by FarahsAmboolents (@farahsamboolents on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 23.1k - Eddie Munson & Wayne Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Eddie Munson Lives, hospital fic, Wayne Munson centric, Protective Wayne Munson, Supportive Wayne Munson, Queer Wayne Munson, Queer Eddie Munson, i guess this counts as a character study?, no ships yet but there's Steddie if you squint, Steve Harrington gets a hero moment, Wayne Munson is vaguely faceblind, that didn't quite happen on purpose it just sorta happened, so many long pauses, Wayne spends most of this fic being very confused, Everybody Lives, pov fic, Hurt Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Graduates High School

Still, Wayne found himself making his way to the hospital after the quake, both hoping to see his nephew come for help and hoping that he wouldn’t have to. He wound up volunteering at the front desk out of helplessness; he sat behind the triage nurse, wrote down the names of the patients that she barked at him and where she had directed them. It was not unlike his job at the motel as a night auditor, except that he was handing out little paper wristlets instead of keys. __ A Wayne Munson centric fic set at the hospital after the "earthquake". Things slowly turn around for the better.

why can't this be love by ssoftcell (@ssoftcell on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 15.5k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - 5+1 Things, Pining, First Kiss, Slow Burn, Brief Sexuality Crisis, Gratuitous Mention of Eddie Munson's Bat Tattoo, it happens like twice but still, Post-Season/Series 04, Fix-It of Sorts, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship, she's a great friend, gareth makes an appearance, so does mechanic eddie (if you squint)

Let it be known that Steve Harrington hates cliches. But let it also be known that, despite himself, the feeling of kissing Eddie after all this time is something akin to fireworks behind his eyes, sparklers buzzing beneath his skin and through his veins like pure adrenaline. It’s a high he’ll never be able to top, no matter how hard he tries. Alternatively: Five times Steve and Eddie almost kiss, and the one time they do.

the boys of summer by steveharringtoned

Not Rated - 19.9k - Steve Harrington & Everyone - Graphic Depictions Of Violence - Fix-It, Stranger Things 4 Fix-It, Eddie Munson Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Steve Harrington-centric, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Stranger Things 4 Vol. 2 Rewrite, Not Beta Read, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism

“Steve,” Wayne echoes. “This is my home. Eddie’s my boy.” And then he ruffles his hair with one large hand, coarse from years of working with them, in an action that reminds Steve of Hopper. “I’m gonna go down there and get my boy back. You’re gonna be my tour guide.” He holds his hand out for the final gun Steve has stashed, which he gives over reluctantly. He finds Wayne remarkably difficult to argue with—wonders if Eddie found the same. “Tour guides don’t need guns. You point at somethin’, I shoot it. Got it, Steve?” (Steve knows Eddie’s alive. Wayne’s the only one who believes him. So they team up to save him.)

four puffs of farrah fawcett spray (and a mouthful of UD pollen) by oaseas (@metaldeads on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 17.4k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Crack Treated Seriously, Angst, Temporary Character Death, Steve Harrington Has Powers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Getting Together, First Kiss, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Pining Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship, Not Beta Read, Steve Harrington-centric, Alternate Universe - Tangled (2010) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Follows S2 through to 4

Steve cops a faceful of Upside Down flower pollen in the tunnels, hours after Billy Hargrove tries to punch Steve's brain out the back of his head. Beyond the general hubbub of UD bullshit, Steve thinks he's made it out pretty much unscathed. Months later, he makes a discovery. Turns out, he's much more intact than he'd thought. As in, his skin is baby smooth. Even the scar on his knee from his ill-advised ‘77 summer of skateboarding has disappeared. OR: Steve Harrington can take a hit. He can take many hits. In fact, thanks to the Upside Down, there isn't a hit Steve can't take.

You're The One I've Waited For by Foreverlong

Teen and Up - 12k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Protective Gareth (Stranger Things), Disabled Eddie Munson, Guitars as a love language, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, Very Minor, Reference to past blood and injury, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, POV Alternating

There’s something to be said for people seeing you at your worst and sticking with you regardless. All of those people - okay, not the band - have seen him at his worst. Dead is probably him at his worst. Bloodied and torn open is not a good look on anyone. He feels sick thinking about it. But they saw it. Steve saw it, then he tried to fix it. Steve gave him CPR; no one wants to know they’ve had CPR performed on them, it’s a window into something that he really doesn’t want to think about. But it was Steve, and somehow that feels big in a way he can’t put his finger on. And then Steve got him out of that hellhole, and Steve kept him alive in the car all the way to the hospital, and Steve screamed at a nurse until they brought a gurney, and Steve, Steve, Steve. It always comes back to Steve. Or: Steve wants Eddie to have the perfect Thanksgiving. He ends up giving him so much more.

I'm The First In Line by FarahsAmboolents (@farahsamboolents on tumblr)

Mature - 53.1k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Platonic Soulmates Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Robin and Steve decide to be beards, Slow Burn, Disabled Character, Disabled Eddie Munson, this fic contains an obnoxious amount of ABBA, Slow Romance, Period-Typical Homophobia, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, they're a pair of dinguses who don't get the memo, Steve Harrington Has a Bisexual Awakening, Firefighter Steve Harrington, fireman steve harrington, actually now that i'm in the thick of it there's less ABBA than i planned

“Look,” said Robin, exchanging a glance with Steve, “My dad is like, super against me dating, so we didn’t even wanna think about it, okay? But we have a mutual friend from Family Video, she’s not around much but sometimes she’s there, and she was hanging out at my place once with Steve and me,” “Dorothy,” supplied Steve, and he smiled at Eddie for some reason. Was he was supposed to know this Dorothy - maybe she used to be one of his clients? “Yes, Dorothy,” said Robin, “Anyway my dad was saying how I wasn’t allowed to date, and Dorothy was like, well if she can’t date now how’s she gonna know what to do when things go wrong when she goes to college after her gap year and she’s in the big city on her own? And so my dad said fine, and then Steve asked me out, like, the next day.” ____ Steve needs some space for his queer awakening, so he and Robin decide to be beards. Eddie doesn't get the hint. *This is a sequel, but previous fic isn't necessary to understand. Context is provided.

Backbone by GhostHost (@sp0o0kylights on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 14.3k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, The Party Vs Eddie, Dustin Henderson is a Little Shit, Protective Steve Harrington, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Fic, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is the Parties collective older brother

Steve this, Steve *that*—Eddie’s had enough of his newest sheepies’ hero worship of the guy, and it all comes to a head when they’re distracted at the most sacred of events: Hellfire. Apparently his majesty is under the weather—time to storm the castle and end their serfdom. (Jokes on Eddie, because one look at sickly, pathetic Harrington has him ripping up his Munson doctrine faster than you can say ‘m’lord)

Non Denominational Winter Party For Friends (Who Know) Of The Upside Down by FarahsAmboolents (@farahsamboolents on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 8.5k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington - No Archive Warnings Apply - Gay Murray Bauman, murray bauman being a good investigator, Murray Bauman POV, Beards (Relationships), Fake/Pretend Relationship, Eddie Munson is a Little Shit, Good Sibling Jonathan Byers, murray has a single instance of research gone wrong and the crowd goes wild

It was written mostly in large bubble letters, reading: ‘you are invited to a NON-DENOMINATIONAL WINTER PARTY’. Below it, in messy handwriting, said ‘for friends of the UPSIDE DOWN’. Between the words friends and of was a proofreader’s caret, and in much nicer handwriting, someone had added the words ‘who know’, with a set of aggressive underlines. “Your brother clearly wasn’t consulted when making the invites.” He said. Either that, or Joyce had a serious case of mom brain when it came to her younger son’s skill. He could even see remnants of the word CHRISTMAS where it had clearly been erased in favour of NON-DENOMINATIONAL. ___ Murray goes to a party with The Party. Author shamelessly uses The PI Character for expositional purposes. (Part of a series. Context is provided in author’s notes if you want to read as a one-shot.)

the one we stay for. the one we come back for by flowercrowngods (@flowercrowngods on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 5k - Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & The Party, Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Eventual Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, but this is not a steddie fic primarily, Steve Harrington Has Seizures, Seizures, Hurt Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs a HugThe Party Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington hurts so prettily, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Brotherly Steve Harrington, Trauma, they're all kids they don't know how to talk about their trauma, but they're getting there, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Battle of Starcourt (Stranger Things), Found Family

Two days after Starcourt, concussed and beaten, Steve has a seizure. As a consequence of getting his head smashed in one too many times, he loses more than his car. He has to give up on the one thing he felt like he was good for: driving his friends around and making sure they're safe while he's behind the wheel. He isolates himself from his friends and the world he has no place or purpose in anymore, and it takes a year before people realise it. An intervention is in order. You know, once the world has been saved.

clinging to life by llovebug

Mature - 3.8k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - Graphic Depictions Of Violence - Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Suicide Attempt, Overdosing, Seizures, Vomiting, Hurt Eddie Munson, Protective Steve Harrington, Men Crying, Sad Eddie Munson, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drugs, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Eddie Munson Needs a Hug, Medical Inaccuracies, Depression

Eddie recovers from nearly dying in the upside down. He thought he'd be okay. But he wasn't. He shuts everyone out until it becomes too much to handle. Steve makes it just in time to prevent Eddie from almost leaving them a second time.

Never Thought by estrellami (@estrellami-1 on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 9.7k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson & Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington & The Party, Corroded Coffin & Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - actually how do i tag this, Fluff, Minor Angst, Bat Eddie Munson, I freaking LOVE that that’s a tag, Freak’s name is Arthur because I cracked up at him having a ‘proper’ name like that, he’s my child and I love him

Eddie died in the Upside Down. But… what if he didn’t? Aka 10k of bat!Eddie and turning him back into a human.

is it ever gonna change (am i gonna feel this way forever?) by jewishrat420 (@jewishrat420 on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 12.1k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Steve Harrington is in Love With Eddie Munson, eddie munson is in love with steve harrington, DM Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Needs a Hug, Eddie Munson Needs Therapy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Never Been Kissed Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Love Confessions, Getting Together, more celestial imagery it's all i'm good for, Kissing, Making Out, Crying, Crying While Kissing, Anxiety Attacks, Panic Attacks, OCD, Eddie Munson Has OCD, Eddie Munson Has Anxiety, smoking weed, references to drinking, references to intrusive thoughts, slight descriptions of gore, very VERY slight germophobia, fic is written from both steve and eddie's perspectives, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Literal Sleeping Together, Steve Harrington's Love Language is Physical Touch, Eddie Munson's Love Language is Physical Touch, quality time as a love language, weed as a love language tbh, Jargyle if you squint, Ronance if you squint, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Are Best Friends, Steve and Robin Are Platonic Soulmates, First Kiss, Jewish Eddie Munson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, POV Multiple

Steve notices things. Recently, he’s been picking up on it more. Eddie makes these little movements, minute utterances under his breath, like he’s reassuring himself of something. The seemingly incessant tap tap tapping of his fingers, too exact to be strumming a rhythm in the seam of his jeans but too calculated to be mindless. His pointer finger taps the table. Once, twice, three…Five times. Five times before he moves onto his middle. Then his ring, then his pinky, then back to the pointer. Interesting. or Eddie’s got these habits that Steve desperately wants to understand.

The Eddie Munson Hallucination Crisis by FerYerHealth (@fanficferyerhealth on tumblr)

Mature - 63k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Ghost Eddie Munson, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Attempt at Humor, Recreational Drug Use, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Getting Together, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Are Best Friends, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship, The Upside Down (Stranger Things), Eddie Munson in the Upside Down, Family Video, Shenanigans, Steve has a big empty house, Robin has loving and supportive parents

Eddie was concerned, but not 100% sure that he died. He had to be dead if he got stuck in the Upsidedown. Except. Sometimes he got out. Sometimes he flickered about topside and enjoyed his new favorite hobby: Haunting Steve Harrington. Steve was concerned that he lost his mind. He kept hearing things. Seeing things. Smelling things. And by "things" of course, he meant Eddie Munson. It's enough to drive him up a wall. Or at least out of the closet. With help from Robin, of course. The Party was concerned. Steve's behavior of late, was... weird. He started talking to himself. Max saw him breaking into Eddie's trailer in the middle of the night. Lucas noticed some pretty questionable hickeys when they played basketball. Except how could he be hooking up with someone when Steve never left the house? One thing became clear: it was time for an intervention.

Three Queer Boys by lovelylover (@lovely--lover on tumblr)

Not Rated - 2.9k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson, Will Byers & Eddie Munson, Will Byers & Steve Harrington - Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings - Will Byers Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, not like a full crush but, Eddie Munson Lives, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, steve and eddie live together, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Eddie Munson, Gay Will Byers, Will Byers Needs a Hug, And He Gets One!, steve eddie and will r a trio, Fluff and Angst, slight angst

Dustin smiled a wide grin and opened the door to the room they were playing in, where Will saw one of the prettiest men he had ever seen. His hair was curly with bangs cut bluntly over his forehead, not reaching over his eyebrows, though. He was wearing the same Hellfire shirt as everyone else in the group, but he had the sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos on his forearm. Everything about him just seemed so… mustic. But not in a gross way, in a hot-leader-of-a-band type of way. And when he smiled and stood up to walk over to WIll, he could feel his chest tightening and processed thoughts escape his mind. OR Will goes to play in the Hellfire club, he has a slight crush on Eddie, they become friends and Will has complicated feelings to sort out !

Spaghetti-O's by mackmcellister

Teen and Up - 2.1k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - steddie, Abortion, Discussion of Abortion, background lumax, steve and eddie are basically maxs big brothers, This passes the Bechdel Test, mention of suicide but its a joke so i think its okay, steve and eddie are dating i promise, Drabble, no beta we die like billy hargrove, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Max Mayfeild shows up on his doorstep at 6pm on a Tuesday with a plastic bag from Meijer and tears on her cheeks. “I fucked up, Eddie.” or, the Steddie abortion fic.

Cruising by Anonymous

Explicit - 3.3k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage Sex - Heavy Angst, no dialogue in the first chapter, Eddie Munson Needs a Hug, evil author, Hurt/Comfort, Eddie’s bandana changes, implied grooming, Eddie was groomed, Sexual Assault, Rape, Eddie adapts his kinks to his trauma, Drug Use, Smoking, Self-blaming, Victim Blaming, Eddie relocates his own shoulder, I promise Steddie in the second chapter, First chapter is all hurt, no beta we die like billy, Grant is unnamed Freak, Eddie gets raped 3 times, Gang Rape, More tags to be added, There’s a gun, Chapter 3 is dialogue heavy, Steve is a good boyfriend, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship, Robin Buckley & Eddie Munson Friendship

Eddie’s habit of fucking around has gotten him into trouble many times. Three incidents leave him more and more tired and traumatized than the last.

where the light won't find you by griesly (@griesly on tumblr)

Explicit - 24.8k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Extremely Dubious Consent, Monster Eddie Munson, Haunted Houses, Generally spooky vibes, Eldritch Horrors, Liminal Spaces, Isolation, missing time, Oneirophrenia, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Implied Somnophilia, Praise Kink, Monsterfucking, Human/Monster Romance, Monsterfucker Steve Harrington, Tentacles, background rovickie, Background Pregnancy, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Kind Of, Tentacle Sex, potentially ableist language, speedrunning a sexuality crisis

From the moment Steve sees the little house on Cornwallis Lane, he knows it's the only one for him. What he doesn't know - at first - is that what's inhabiting the house feels exactly the same about him. I strongly recommend checking out the end notes for a discussion of the ableist language and dubious consent if you feel those might be an issue for you, though they are slightly spoilery.

apple blossom by honeyglooms

[Stranger Things / Marmalade crossover] - Teen and Up - 2.1k - Baron Lamram / Eddie Munson - Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings - Meeting the Parents, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Established Relationship, Gay Baron Lamram, Gay Eddie Munson, Alternate Universe, 1990s, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Eddie Munson Backstory, Love Confessions

Baron knows the best way to an uncle/father figure's heart is a good turnover. Well, he sure hopes so. He’s got his fingers crossed. Maybe he should pray on it.

honestly, just let yourself go by limerental (@limerental on tumblr)

Explicit - 7.3k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eddie Munson Lives, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Omorashi, Wetting, Desperation Play, Urination, Bodily Fluids, Bladder Control, Undernegotiated Kink, Light Sadism, Adolescent Sexuality, Fuckbuddies, Developing Relationship, Piss Kink WIth Plot, But Still No Plot, oh also some, Crossdressing, Feminization, Light Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Praise Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, They just don't have the vocab for it, Implied subdrop

"So, you want me to pee on you?" Steve asked. "No," said Eddie. "I mean, yeah sure, but not really. And also, yeah, hell fucking yeah, but no, not quite." "Crystal clear, dude. Really cleared that one up."

Made with Love (and Yarn) by SolarMorrigan (@solarmorrigan on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 10k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Crocheting, Gift Giving, Fluff, Gay Panic, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers

El teaches Steve how to crochet. Steve finds himself getting surprisingly into his new hobby. He crochets Eddie a scarf. Things sort of spiral from there.

took you for a working boy by pukner

Mature - 43.8k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings - Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Misunderstandings, Coming Out, Gay Eddie Munson, Lesbian Robin Buckley, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bisexual Disaster Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship, Good Friend Robin Buckley, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Gender Issues, Gender Identity, Genderqueer Character, Babygirl Steve Harrington, except literally, Eddie is a radio host, for some reason, Hawkins is basically nightvale, and Eddie's Cecil Palmer, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eddie Munson Lives, Steve Harrington Has A Crisis, and then Outsources His Crisis, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Everyone Thinks They're Together, Genderqueer Steve Harrington, Nonbinary Steve Harrington

"Do you--Harrington, do you know other gay people?" "One," Steve says, and then, after a moment, "and a half." "And a half?" Eddie boggles at him, "What does that mean?" "He's figuring it out!" says Steve, defensively, "Taking his time, y'know? Whatever, the point is. It's cool you're gay, man."

Eddie comes out to Steve, and Steve's heartbroken about it for some reason. Eddie thinks Steve's dating Robin. Everyone else thinks Steve and Eddie have been dating this whole time. Robin doesn't get paid enough for this shit. Also, Hawkins has been cracked open like a badly-baked cake, and everyone's settled into the most mundane apocalypse possible. Eddie Munson starts a radio programme about it. Meanwhile, Steve gets his nails painted, and outsources a crisis he isn't having.

Like a Mythical Virgin by ArtaxLivs (@artaxlivs on tumblr)

Mature - 1.3k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Crack, Unicorns, Virginity, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Virgin Eddie Munson, Mentions of Blood, Mike Wheeler is a Little Shit

"Are you a virgin?" Mike asked like the total little dickhead he is.

Hold My Hand (Hold It Tight) by MerthurAllure (Kirbymatsu) (@apple-juice-dreams on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 2.3k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Canon Era, Modern Era, You Decide, Meet-Cute, Dentists, Accidental Subspace, Subdrop, Hurt/Comfort, Holding Hands, Corroded Coffin Concert (Stranger Things), Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, First Kiss, Sub Eddie Week 2024 (Stranger Things)

Something strange happens when Eddie goes to the dentist and gets his teeth cleaned by the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen. Somehow it ends up being a good thing.

punched in the teeth by love by spacenarwhal

Not Rated - 1.9k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings - Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Eddie Munson Lives, Crack Treated Seriously, Anesthesia, Wisdom Teeth, Established Relationship, Aging, Fluff and Humor

After all these years together, Steve has seen Eddie under the influence of a lot of things. Weed. Alcohol. Whatever the government doctors had him on back in 1986. He’s known Eddie running on nothing but fumes and Yoohoo mixed with crushed caffeine tablets, and on the tail end of a week long insomnia jag. None of that prepares him for this version of Eddie, cheeks stuffed with soggy gauze, eyes glazed over and comically wide as he stares at Steve. Hard. Blinks. Then he starts to cry.

Wisdom by TiannaMortis (@tiannasfanfic on tumblr)

General Audiences - 2.1k - Eddie Munson / Reader - No Archive Warnings Apply - Eddie Munson Lives, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Wisdom Teeth, Best Friends, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Medical Procedures, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Friendship/Love

You finally get your wisdom teeth taken out and your best friend, Eddie Munson, is there to take care of you afterwards.

You Ahh Sooooo Byuootifuh by StarsHideYourFires (@starshideurfics on tumblr)

Teen and Up - 2.7k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - No Archive Warnings Apply - Modern AU, Wisdom Teeth, Post-Surgery Confusion, Established Relationship, Married Life, Caretaking, minor hurt/lots of comfort, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, even when he's already locked that down, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, super minor breeding kink, but we all know, Steve Harrington Has a Breeding Kink

Hey, you’ve got Robin. Or I guess you don’t, really. If this is important text me, but you can leave a message and I’ll get back to you eventually. Unless you’re my mom, then probably sooner! BEEP. “Rob-biiiiihhnnn! Where are you? There’s a hah guy shtanding ow-side my room, and I don’ know where I am. I need you here, Robbie. Yuhv gotta hehp me! I’m gonna say somethin’ shtupid and ‘mbarrass mysel’ in front of the hod guy. Robin, come save meeeeeeee!” Steve gets his wisdom teeth out and has trouble coming out of general anesthesia, much to Eddie’s amusement.

Cabin Fever by These_bones_remember_death

Mature - 6.5k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death - Cannibalism, Eddie Munson Goes Insane, Angst, Not Canon Compliant, Hurt No Comfort, Eddie Munson is Not Okay, Steve Harrington is Not Okay, Snowed In, But it's not sexy, Finished this as a treat for my birthday, Future Fic, eddie munson has trauma, Fluff and Angst, light body horror, Mentioned Cannibalism, Semi-Graphic Description of Death, inspired by an episode of Dan Vs., Starvation, Robin Buckley needs a hug after this, Eddie Munson Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Eddie Munson Has Anxiety, Accidental Death

Would you believe me if I told you this was inspired by an episode of Dan Vs. Eddie and Steve just wanted to get away for a nice winter vacation in the Harrington family cabin. But things don't go as planned when a freak storm sets in and freezes everything, trapping them there. Resources can only last so long when you're snowed in.

our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it by jewishrat420 (@jewishrat420 on tumblr)

Explicit - 830 - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death - Vore, Blood, Cannibalism, POV Eddie Munson, POV Steve Harrington, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, yeah i'm using that tag. it fits, idk how to tag this one man read the warnings, Traumatized Eddie Munson, eddie munson's love language is eating people, steve harrington's love language is letting himself be eaten, Blood and Gore, Gore

Eddie loves Steve.

Death Embraces You as I Kiss Your Skin by steviewashere (@steviewashere on tumblr)

Mature - 1.7k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death - Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Vecna is Defeated (Stranger Things), Aftermath, Dead Eddie Munson, Grieving Steve Harrington, Secret Relationship, Angst and Tragedy, Mild Cannibalism, (Not Really Steve Just Licks Some of Eddie's Blood of His Finger?), Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, (minor) - Freeform, Loving Something that Death Can Touch, Breaking Obtuse Promises, Steve Asks That Eddie Doesn't Forgive Him, Unhappy Ending

"He breaks that promise. Because of course he does. The axe falls from his grip. Heavily to the ground. His hand burns from the tightness he held onto the handle. Palm a dull red, fingers aching. His body trembles, knees weak and legs like splintering tree trunks, ready to land sideways on the dusty, dirt ground. At his feet is Eddie's mangled, bleeding, cold corpse. Eyes glazed and far away. Mouth agape, lips parted enough for mumbles to fall through. Hair fanned around his head like the saint halo depicted on Saint Francis' portraits. Blood. There's so much blood." OR Eddie Dies Still and Steve Grieves the Love of his Life

Stream My Darlings!! by DutchsPretties (@dutchs-toybox on tumblr)

Explicit - 3.1k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con - Suicide, Self-Harm, Anger, Rage, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Sex Cam Worker Billy Hargrove, Rape/Non-con Elements, Anal Sex, Stalking, Murder, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Blood and Injury, Bullying, Sexual Harassment, Harassment, Masturbation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Short, Crying

Uh oh, someone found the Eddie Munson tape! I hope he'll be ok... Oh no! Someone found Billy Hargrove's address! I hope he'll be safe...

Welcome Home (To My Arms) by patheticbabiemunson (@patheticbabiemunson on tumblr)

Explicit - 6.4k - Steve Harrington / Eddie Munson - Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings - Eddie Munson as Kas the Betrayer (Dungeons & Dragons), Monster Eddie Munson, Monster Fucker Steve Harrington, Porn with Feelings, Porn With Plot, barely any plot, slight degradation, Slight Dumbification, Anal Sex, Desperation, Pathetic Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Lives, Eddie Munson Needs a Hug, Protective Steve Harrington, Vampire Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Has a Big Dick, Monstercock Munson, Belly Bulge, Feral Behavior, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Eddie’s back, Eddie’s different, and Eddie was looking for a different welcome committee. ~~ based wholly on @/StaceTanicPanic ‘s beautiful Kas!Eddie art on Twitter, please send her lots of love because I adore her <3

[lordfries]

Now You See Me [Ch I]

Characters - Bucky x F reader

Summary - In the unforgiving deserts of North Africa, 1942, you’ve spent months proving yourself as a nurse in an army that doesn’t quite know what to make of you. When Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes arrives with a reputation for charm and easy confidence, he’s everything you don’t have time for—until the realities of war force your paths to cross.

Word Count - ~20,000 (so far!)

Warnings - Fluff, eventual smut, angst, war themes, descriptions of injury, blood. Reads fairly gender neutral for the most part, but it is written to be F!Reader and that'll show during future naughty scenes ... Unless the people request a gn option!

El Bucko doesn't show up until the second chapter, so I'll post that immediately after and link below... The tag is NYSM lordfries, for those that don't want to see updates for it.

If you want to get the latest chaps, they're up on my Ao3!

You’re not entirely sure how this soldier has managed to get his left hand stuck inside an empty ordnance casing, but the absurdity of it hits you the moment you stride into the ward. Your jaw tightens, and your frown deepens as you take in the sight: a sheepish-looking young man sitting stiffly on the cot, his trapped arm resting awkwardly on his lap. When he sees you, he gives a small, apologetic wave with the encased hand.

His uniform is spotless, not a wrinkle in sight, and his boots gleam like they’ve just been polished—textbook “fresh recruit.” You suppress a sigh as you glance down at the clipboard in your hand, flipping a page for confirmation.

“Private…” you drawl, eyes flicking up to meet his as you find the name, “…Ambley, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is eager, the kind of politeness that makes you suspect he’s trying to soften the blow of whatever lecture might be coming his way.

You read aloud from the clipboard, tone flat. “Presenting here due to an ‘unfortunate miscalculation of hand-eye coordination’?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nods earnestly, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.

“And when, exactly, did this… miscalculation occur?”

“This morning, ma’am. Just after oh-eight-hundred.”

You inhale deeply, pressing your thumb and forefinger to the bridge of your nose as if it might physically help you process the absurdity. A muffled groan escapes you before you lower the clipboard onto the cot beside him and crouch slightly to inspect his arm. He smells faintly of soap and clean linens—two luxuries that feel nearly foreign to you now.

“Private,” you begin, gripping the metal casing and giving it an experimental tug, “I’m going to assume you and your friends exhausted every possible solution before deciding to grace the infirmary with this… situation.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Absolutely. Me ‘n the boys tried everything we could think of.” He nods solemnly, rolling his shoulder with a theatrical wince. “It’s a bit sore now. Can’t be helped, I ‘spose.”

“Mhm.” Your scepticism is palpable.

This time, you pull harder, earning a strained grunt from the soldier.

Jesus… It’s really jammed in there.

You lean closer, tilting the contraption to get a better view as your brows furrow in frustration. For a moment, you try to imagine the sequence of events that led to this—was he just bored? Showing off? You almost laugh at the thought of him purposefully shoving his hand into the casing to avoid drills. The possibility feels less absurd the longer you think about it.

Still, you can’t entirely rule out that this was an accident. Maybe.

You straighten, tilting your head at Private Ambley as an idea begins to form. He watches you cautiously, the corners of his mouth twitching nervously at the sudden determination in your gaze.

“Stay here,” you instruct sharply, though there’s little chance he could wander off with his arm encased in half a bombshell. Grabbing the clipboard, you make a quick note before calling out to the orderly on duty.

“Corporal Ndoye!”

The man snaps to attention, leaning through the doorway. “Yes’m?”

“I need rifle oil, and plenty of it. Now.”

Ndoye raises a brow, looks past you to see Ambley grimacing and nods slowly. “D’accord. I’ll be right back.”

Private Ambley guffaws from behind you. “Rifle oil? That shit’ll stain my uniform, and I only just got ‘em.”

You glance back at him, arching a brow. “And yet, you’ve managed to lodge yourself in an empty ordnance casing, Private. So unless you’d like me to requisition a hacksaw, I suggest you trust the process.”

The corporal returns with a battered tin of oil, handing it over with a bemused look. You roll up your sleeves and set to work, placing a tray on Ambley’s lap before tilting his arm to pour a generous stream of oil around the rim of the casing. The private flinches, his shoulders drooping as the sleeve of his uniform blossoms darkly with the spreading oil.

“This might take a minute,” you mutter, rotating his arm carefully to ensure the oil spreads evenly. He sniffles, a faint sound of resignation. “Private, I can guarantee you’ll be getting much more than just rifle oil on these sleeves before long. Hold still.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he croaks, looking like he’s already regretting every choice that led him here.

Once satisfied, you plant your feet firmly and take hold of the casing with both hands. “Alright, Private. On three. One… two…”

You yank sharply on two, catching him off guard. He yelps, jerking forward as the casing pops free, slipping out of your grip and clattering loudly onto the floor.

“Three,” you finish dryly, leaning down to retrieve the casing. Straightening, you hold up the greasy hunk of metal as Ambley cradles his liberated arm.

“You’re free to go,” you say, wiping your hands on a rag. “Though if I ever see you in here for something like this again, you’ll be scrubbing latrines for the rest of your deployment. And don’t even think about dripping that all over my floor.”

Ambley stares numbly at his oil-soaked arm, watching it drip into the tray. You return to your station, gathering your papers and reports.

“Uh, nurse?”

“… You’re still here, Private?”

“Can I get a towel?”

You sigh and pass him the rag, planting your hands on your hips as you watch him give a sheepish nod and shuffle out of the tent, dripping oil all the way to the exit.

***

The infirmary smells of antiseptic and dust, a strange mix of clean and gritty that clings to everything. You tighten your grip on a roll of gauze, shifting it deftly as you unwrap the old bandage from a soldier’s forearm. The work comes easily, your hands moving automatically, though your lips twitch at the sound of familiar footsteps.

“Bah, that Ambley.” Corporal Ndoye sighs, his voice carrying that signature mix of exasperation and amusement as he approaches. “Though, if there is a way to make a mess, I believe you will find it, no?”

You glance up briefly, raising an eyebrow. “If that were a talent, he’d be running this camp by now. Not me.”

Ndoye’s grin widens, showing teeth, and he leans casually against the edge of the nearest cot. “Perhaps he has hidden ambitions. One day, you will see, eh?”

You shake your head, tying off the fresh dressing with a precise knot. “If his ambitions involve using up the last of our supplies, then we’ll have a real problem.”

Ndoye chuckles, the sound rich and unhurried. “You are too kind,” he says, his tone amused. “The patience of a saint, I think. I would not last ten minutes with that one.”

“Patience has limits, Dan,” you reply, brushing past him to the supply cabinet. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but is there a reason you’re not at your post?”

Ndoye tilts his head, his hands resting loosely on his hips. “Ah, yes. I bring you news… Word around camp is that reinforcements are coming soon.”

You pause your ogling of the cabinet, glancing at him. “Reinforcements? From where? How many?” The thought twists uncomfortably in your mind, considering the lack of supplies and bare rations you’d all been living on already.

“From everywhere, it seems. America, England, Australie… Some from Brooklyn, even.” He smirks, tilting his head at you. You’d spoken to Ndoye of your hometown from time to time, describing the gritty streets, the scent of hot pretzels mingling with smoke from chimneys, and the way the borough never truly quiets, even in the dead of night. It was a world away from the sun-scorched camp you both now called home. He seemed to enjoy the stories too—a far cry from his quieter upbringing in Senegal. You’d grown fond of his stories as well, as fantastical and unbelievable as he often made them sound.

“Let me guess,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Heroes in their own minds?”

Ndoye laughs, a deep and infectious sound. “Perhaps. Or perhaps just more men trying to survive, like all of us. We will see.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress a small smile, closing the supply cabinet and leaning on it. “If they’re anything like Ambley, I’m filing for an early discharge.”

“Oh, no, no,” Ndoye says, shaking his head dramatically. “You cannot leave me here alone with these men. Vous êtes ma préférée, tu sais.”

“Favoritism isn’t very becoming of you, Corporal,” you reply, though your voice softens and you find yourself smiling anyway. You nudge the side of his arm lightly before turning back to your inventory. “Now go make yourself useful before someone decides to put you on latrine duty. You’re too clever to be shoveling shit.”

“Yes’m.” He grins, saluting lazily as he turns on his heel and strolls back to his post outside the tent.

***

The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly, turning the sand outside the infirmary into a shifting, golden glare that makes your eyes ache. Inside, the air is no better. Dust clings to the canvas walls and settles on every surface, mixing with the ever-present smell of antiseptic and sweat. You’ve long given up wiping it away—it’s a losing battle.

You pause your work to stretch your back, glancing toward the small table in the corner where someone left a tin cup of water. It’s lukewarm by now, but you drink it anyway, grimacing as the metallic tang coats your tongue. It’s the same water everyone else drinks, hauled in barrels from god-knows-where, and you try not to think about the strange taste.

Outside, the low murmur of voices drifts through the heavy air, punctuated by bursts of laughter that sound more forced than genuine. The men joke and jeer to pass the time, their voices rising and falling like the hum of insects in the desert heat.

You turn back to your task: reorganising the dwindling supply shelf. A neat row of bandages sits next to a tin of aspirin that’s been half-empty for weeks. The morphine ration is nearly gone, and you dread what will happen when the next serious injury comes in. A stack of neatly folded linens catches your eye, and you count them twice to be sure. Six. Barely enough to get through the week, let alone any emergencies.

A shadow falls across the tent, and you glance up to find Corporal Ndoye leaning against the entrance, his usual grin replaced with a more contemplative expression.

“Two visits from you this week. Now I really am starting to feel like a favourite. Is it a blister this time?” you ask, not bothering to hide your smirk as you set the needle down.

“Non,” he replies, stepping inside. “Though I am sure one of these fools will come running in with something soon. It’s been… quiet.”

The way he says it makes you pause. Quiet wasn’t always a relief in places like this—it could be the kind that preceded a storm.

You nod toward the supply shelf. “Quiet or not, we’re running low on just about everything. Any word on when those reinforcements might actually arrive?” You silently pleaded that with reinforcements, also came supplies.

He exhales, crossing his arms. “Two days, per’aps three. That is the rumour.”

“Rumours don’t fill stomachs or replace bandages,” you mutter, tugging at the edge of your apron nervously.

He chuckles softly, though there’s no humour in it. “No, they do not. But they give the men something to talk about. That is important, no?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the sound of raised voices from outside cuts through the moment. Ndoye’s head tilts sharply, his expression hardening. Without another word, he strides toward the tent’s entrance, and you follow, curiosity prickling at your thoughts.

Outside, two soldiers stand chest-to-chest, their faces red with anger. One of them, a wiry young private whose name you can’t recall, gestures toward the water barrel while the other—a broad-shouldered corporal—glares down at him.

“I told you,” the corporal snaps, his voice low and sharp. “You’re done. Don’t take more than your share.”

“It’s my turn!” the private shoots back, his voice cracking with desperation. “You’ve been hogging it all morning!”

Ndoye steps between them before you can intervene, his presence commanding immediate attention. He doesn’t shout—he doesn’t need to. The corporal mutters something under his breath, backing off with a scowl, while the private stumbles away, muttering to himself.

The tension lingers in the air as Ndoye turns back to you, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Reinforcements cannot come soon enough.”

You nod, glancing toward the horizon. The camp feels smaller than ever, its routines fraying under the weight of too many days and too few resources. You wonder, not for the first time, if new faces will truly ease the strain—or if they’ll simply add to the burden.

***

The mess tent is stuffy, the heavy canvas walls barely blocking out the relentless afternoon sun. The air is thick with the smell of old coffee and damp fabric, and every seat at the makeshift tables is filled. Soldiers crowd together, some leaning forward on their elbows, others sitting back with arms crossed. You linger near the back, clipboard in hand, the edge digging into your palm as you try to gauge the mood.

The commanding officer stands at the head of the tent, his silhouette sharp against the light streaming in through the open flap behind him. Captain Barlow is a wiry man, all angles and precision, his voice clipped and sharp as he addresses the gathered men.

“As most of you have heard by now,” he begins, his tone brisk, “we’re expecting reinforcements within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

A murmur ripples through the room, and you catch snippets of conversation.

“’Bout time.”

“Think they’ll bring any decent food?”

“Bet it’s just more green recruits.”

Barlow raises a hand, and the voices die down. “Before anyone gets too comfortable with the idea, let me remind you that this isn’t a pleasure cruise. The reinforcements are here to bolster operations, not babysit. Supplies will remain tight until the next convoy arrives, so don’t expect miracles.”

That earns a few groans, and someone mutters loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Then what’s the point?”

Barlow’s gaze snaps to the speaker, a young private sitting near the middle. The room goes silent. “The point, Private, is that they’ll be picking up where some of your comrades left off. Or would you like to volunteer for double patrol duty instead?”

The private shrinks under the weight of the captain’s glare, mumbling a half-hearted apology.

Barlow exhales sharply, turning his attention back to the group. “We’ll be taking in a mixed contingent—American, British, and Free French. Among them is a sergeant who’s been noted for his leadership in field operations. I expect you to show the same respect you’d show your own.”

You notice a few raised eyebrows at that. Soldiers already worn thin by heat and hunger don’t tend to take kindly to new authority figures, especially ones with reputations that precede them. It also meant yet another officer for you to size up and promptly keep out of your infirmary’s business.

Someone from the far end of the table speaks up. “What about supplies? Are they bringing any extra rations, or are we supposed to stretch what little we’ve got?”

Barlow hesitates for the briefest moment before answering. “They’ll have their own initial provisions, but until the convoy gets through, we’re all operating on limited resources. Make it work.”

The tension in the room ratchets up another notch. A sergeant seated nearby folds his arms across his chest, his voice low and rough. “Reckon that means they’ll be eating our bread and sleeping in our cots. Nice of them.”

“Sure that shit’s mouldy, but it’s our mouldy bread.”

A smattering of bitter laughter follows, but it’s cut short by Barlow slamming his hand down on the table.

“That’s enough,” he barks. “These men are coming to do a job, the same as you. If anyone has a problem with that, they can see me directly.” His gaze sweeps the room, daring anyone to challenge him. No one does.

You feel the weight of their frustration pressing against your own unease. The reinforcements could be a lifeline, but they could just as easily upset the fragile balance the camp has clung to. Your mind drifts to the dwindling supply cabinet.

“Dismissed,” Barlow says finally, and the room begins to empty, soldiers filing out in clusters. The low hum of complaints picks up again as soon as they’re outside, the tension spilling back into the open air.

You linger near the edge of the tent, watching as Ndoye approaches, his expression unreadable.

“Thoughts?” he asks, leaning casually against one of the wooden poles supporting the structure.

You shrug, though the knot in your stomach betrays your attempt at nonchalance. “Hard to say. Would be nice to have some more hands on deck, mix things up. But I don’t know… They’re being incredibly vague about the supplies.”

He hums in agreement, his dark eyes scanning the dispersing crowd. “You’re not wrong. New faces bring new stories, new tempers. But perhaps they bring something else, too. Hope, maybe.”

You snort softly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Ndoye tilts his head, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Always the skeptic.”

“Always the realist,” you correct. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Rodeo?” Ndoye tilts his head as you turn to leave.

“Rodeo. Erm… Horses, whips and cowboys and… You’ve really never heard of a rodeo?” You grin in disbelief, placing your hands on your hips.

“Why would you be whipping cowboys?” His eyes bore into you earnestly, though a smirk tugs on his lips.

“Dan…”

“Relax, mon chou. I jest.” He winks, striding past you. “Made you smile, though.”

You resolve to return to the infirmary. The supplies need organising again, and there’s no telling how the next few days will unfold.

Chapter II