#making these connections lights up my life

[embbarnes]

Limbo | W.S

summary: Not quite Bucky, not quite Soldat, but all yours.

warnings: Smut | 18+ MDNI | Winter Soldier!Bucky | Post!CATWS | Brief & minor SH | Mentions of HYDRA | Hints of past drugging | Light non-con | Multiple orgasms | Handjob | PiV | Emotional sex

a/n: Oh my god, I have no self control. I love writing WS!Bucky and I'm glad so many people have been enjoying it too. So, I finally got to a smut. I won't write the typical 'aggressive' WS (if I ever do it will be like a blue moon situation) because imo I don't see that, plus...I like this better lol. Edited lightly but ignore any missed mistakes pls ty ;; wc: 5.0k

You felt like your life was a complete mess.

But it was nothing compared to his.

James, Bucky, Soldat...each name he had gave him the same reaction.

Nothing.

His brow might furrow deeply, eyes glazing over with confusion as he stares intently at the floor, his gaze drifting slowly from side to side as if attempting to piece together an impossibly complex puzzle laid out before him. When his name was called, no recognition flickered across his features, no familiar warmth lit up his face.

He wasn't truly any of the identities that had once been his. Not James with his easy smile, not Bucky with his loyal heart, not the cold precision of the Soldat.

Instead, he existed in a nebulous space between all these versions of himself, these names and personas washing over him like waves, each one bringing with it fragments of memories that would surface briefly before slipping away like smoke through his fingers. Nothing concrete would stay, only wisps of who he used to be.

He was stuck, trapped in this liminal space between identities, neither one thing nor another.

You watched helplessly as he struggled, how he would desperately grasp at each fleeting memory that surfaced, trying with all his might to hold onto even the smallest piece of his past. But inevitably, tragically, even these fragments would dissolve like morning mist, leaving him once again adrift in that haunting space between what was and what is, lost in the void between his many selves.

His handwriting often too shaky to make out among the journal’s pages.

For whatever reason, the soldier had taken to you, of all people. Not even Steve could reach him without causing further distress and confusion to the poor man. Heartbreak glossed the blonde’s eyes each time Bucky rejected Steve's gentle advances, careful attempts to trigger some form of memory, some spark of recognition from their shared past, only failed.

Your own heart ached watching these interactions, seeing the pain etched across Steve's features with every failed attempt at connection and the ever growing agitation from the soldier. You didn't want to step between them, this bond that had survived decades and wars, and you couldn't explain why he had taken such a peculiar liking to you over anyone else.

For the soldier’s sake, you took your new role without complaint.

Countless hours in the medical wing of Avenger's tower proved exhausting for the both of you. Hours of treatment on his end seemed to stretch without end, punctuated by moments of crisis when you found yourself having to wrestle with him every time someone new came into the room.

Your voice grew hoarse from spitting sentence after sentence of reassurance, constant streams of gentle reminders that no one here was going to cause him harm, that he was safe, that these people were here to help. The mantra became as familiar as breathing, though no less important with each repetition.

The soldier experienced dramatic swings between states of intense panic and unsettling calmness, making each medical examination completely unpredictable. Sometimes he would remain completely still, frozen like a statue during the procedures, while other times he would thrash and struggle with every ounce of strength to escape from the men in white. His behavior was noticeably different with female medical staff, even when they wore the white coats - he showed a marked willingness to cooperate with them much more. The behavioral change made your stomach churn with the obvious implications.

As days turned to weeks, he gradually began to show signs of adjustment within your quarters. The decision to let him stay had come naturally, as every attempt to establish separate living arrangements had proven futile…he invariably found his way back to your space.

Every time.

It became a predictable pattern: regardless of the hour, whether in the dark of night or dawn of early morning, he would somehow make his way back into your room and by your side. He was satisfied sleeping on the floor, he settled himself at the foot of it or beside it, he liked the small area tucked between the wall and your mattress, a small hidden space for him to form some sense of security.

It had been several months since the day when you first took him in, watching as he struggled daily with the fragments of his shattered identity. The psychological wounds were still raw and festering, making it impossible for him to process or accept who he truly was. Every morning brought new challenges, every evening ended in confusion and frustration.

Together with Steve, you dedicated countless hours trying to help him piece together the puzzle of his past life. Steve brought out old photographs, shared stories, and created detailed timelines in journals, but despite all your patient guidance and gentle encouragement, the poor man remained trapped in a void of forgotten memories. He couldn't recall anything from his previous life, not even the smallest detail.

The mounting frustration grew in every line of his face, in the way his hands would clench and unclench as he'd violently shove away the journals and carefully curated photos. His eyes would dart around the room like a cornered animal, accusing Steve of fabricating elaborate lies as his mind wrestled between what felt true and what his broken psyche insisted was false.

"Shut up!" Bucky suddenly exploded, sending the leather-bound photo album flying across the room with enough force to leave a mark on the wall. He launched himself up from his position between you and Steve, his entire body radiating tension and hostility. As he whirled to face Steve, his eyes were wild with confusion and fear, nostrils flaring with each rapid breath.

Steve was clearly struggling to maintain his composure through all of this too. Though he tried his best to remain patient and understanding, watching his oldest and dearest friend transform into someone who didn't even recognize him was taking an enormous emotional toll. Rising slowly to meet Bucky's challenge, Steve's face was a mixture of hurt and frustration. "I'm not lying," he insisted, his voice thick with emotion, "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes - I'm your friend!"

"No!" The soldier shouted back, his chest heaving rapidly with each labored breath as he stood there, his long dark hair falling in tangled strands over his face while he shook his head violently in denial.

"You know me!" Steve retorted passionately, his voice cracking with emotion as he faced the resistance before him, desperately trying to reach through to his old friend.

"No, I don't!" The words came out as a raw, desperate cry, filled with confusion and pain.

You wanted to intervene in their intense confrontation, but for the moment you stayed silent and watched the two of them from your position, your heart racing as you observed their exchange, wondering if maybe Steve's unwavering determination could finally break through the soldier's programmed shell and reach the Bucky that lay buried underneath all those years of conditioning.

The soldier threw a punch, his metal arm whirring with the momentum as Steve quickly dodged out of the way. The poor soldier had thrown such a powerful and uncontrolled swing that it sent him stumbling forward, his boots scraping against the floor as he struggled to maintain his balance. You immediately rose to your feet as you realized this confrontation was rapidly escalating. You had been able to keep the soldier at bay, his unstable emotions were pretty manageable up until now and you didn’t want them to get out of hand.

"Okay, enough! Steve, stop-" You warned with urgency in your voice, desperately wanting the blond man to create some distance so the agitated soldier could have space to regain his composure.

"Soldat...easy, it's okay." You placate in a gentle voice, carefully watching his tense form as he sharply turned around to face the two of you again, his chest heaving with each breath.

"He's lying!" The words tore from his throat, anger, fear, confusion filled his tone.

"It's okay...it's all okay," You soothed, focusing all your energy on defusing the situation. You held your hands out toward him in a peaceful gesture, maintaining steady eye contact despite the intensity of his gaze. "You're fine...just take a breath." Your measured, calming tone seemed to pierce through his agitation like a shaft of light through storm clouds.

Gradually, the harsh, rapid breathing that had been wracking his frame began to slow, your non-threatening demeanor and passive body language helping to anchor him back to a more stable state.

"I think that's enough for today..." You muttered quietly, glancing back at Steve with a weary expression. He was still visibly frustrated, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense, but he had enough sense and self-awareness to know it was time to back off for now. Your attention shifted back to the soldier, carefully and gently guiding him down the hallway to your room to give him a much-needed break from the intensity of the memory session.

He was noticeably stiff when he walked, his movements reverted to being mechanical and hesitant. You had no idea what thoughts were racing through his mind, but you hoped you could help ease some of his obvious distress. Days that were more emotionally tense and unpredictable tended to disturb his sleep patterns significantly more than usual, restless nights filled with nightmares and you had to tend him through them. You didn’t mind, but it was exhausting after a few weeks.

Once inside your bedroom, you quietly shut the door behind you and watched as he began to relax ever so slightly, the familiarity of your quarters helping to settle his frayed nerves bit by bit. He slowly trudged over to your bed, his footsteps still carrying that residual tension, before sitting down heavily on the edge and looking up at you with an expression that made your heart ache - his eyes shy and pouty like a kicked puppy, clear with shame and uncertainty.

"M'sorry...I was…bad. I shouted." He muttered softly, his eyebrows deeply furrowed in distress, "I just...can't..." His hand gradually balled into a tight fist and before you could react, he struck himself in the head, hitting over and over as he sat there - delivering short and sharp knocks to his temple that made you wince with each impact.

"Soldat, hey, no. Stop it right now." You quickly grasped his wrist firmly but gently, staring at him with intense concern in your eyes. "We talked about this so many times...don't hurt yourself like this. You don't deserve any punishment...none of what happened was your fault. You just got a bit overwhelmed by everything, and that happens to everyone, even me." You soothed in a gentle voice while maintaining your grip, determined to keep him from continuing to hit his head. “You don’t need to hurt yourself anymore, okay?”

He didn't reply verbally, but the gradual lowering of his mechanical arm provided enough reassurance and comfort for you to finally release your grip on his wrist. With a heavy exhale, you pushed yourself up from your position, muscles protesting slightly from the tension. "I think it's best if we stay in tonight, all things considered." You observed thoughtfully, taking measured steps toward your closet to retrieve some fresh clothes, "I'm going to take a shower, okay?" You turned back to look at him after seconds of silence, only to find his piercing gaze fixed intently on you, his eyes blinking slowly as if processing your words. "Soldat?"

"Да." The response came swiftly and automatically from his lips, prompting you to turn and make your way deliberately toward the attached bathroom. As you walked, you couldn't ignore the sensation of stress gradually creeping through your body, tension coiling through your muscles like a spring. You knew that a hot shower would at least provide some relief, hopefully working to unknot the tight muscles that had formed across your shoulders and down your back.

When you emerged from the steamy bathroom later, towel pressed against your damp hair as you scrunched the moisture from the strands, you stopped in your tracks when you crossed the threshold - the soldier was spread across your bed, his body taut with obvious need as he desperately sought some form of release.

He was alone, his eyes darting around nervously.

Your room smelled nice, a gentle and comforting aroma that made him relax ever so slightly. He felt deeply estranged sitting perched on the edge of your bed, knowing he shouldn't be on the furniture. The memory of that lesson being violently beaten into him surfaced with crystal clarity, he felt a sharp phantom pain at his side, electricity fueling his body.

Should he get down onto the floor where he belonged? You hadn't said anything about it when you left, hadn't seemed to mind his presence on the bed, so maybe just this once it was okay?

“Just this once, you mutt.” He spat at the soldier, perhaps its handler felt some sort of pity for it that day. It was just grateful it didn’t have to curl up on the splintering wooden floor by the bed.

After several long moments of internal debate, he decided to stay on the bed.

You were nice, you wouldn’t hurt him.

He laid back against the bed, a soft sigh escaped his barely parted lips. The sheets smelled incredibly good, carrying your distinct scent; your shampoo, your natural musk that gradually seeped into his sensitive nose as he hesitantly buried his face against your impossibly silky pillow.

God it smelled so good.

Try as he might, he couldn't quite pinpoint the exact notes of the scent, his senses having been shot and dulled for so terribly long. But he knew deep in his bones that it smelled good, smelled sweet and pure and perfect.

As he clutched your pillow closer, hugging it tightly to his chest, he suddenly felt something unfamiliar stirring in his gut, like a sharp fluttering sensation that made his breath catch. His trousers felt uncomfortably tighter and he glanced down at himself with wide eyes, blinking in confusion at the sight. Seeing his body react this way was deeply odd...he hadn't experienced anything like this in such a long time. His handlers always had to give him pills to get this kind of response, otherwise it simply didn't happen.

Growing increasingly curious despite his lingering apprehension, he cautiously felt himself through the fabric and was genuinely surprised to discover that it felt good. It felt...really good, wonderfully good. And it didn't hurt in the slightest. It had always used to hurt so badly before, so why didn't it hurt now? Each time one of his handlers touched him, it hurt a lot. He remembers sharp pain, it made him nauseous a lot of the time. But now…he didn’t feel that pain, only this fluttering feeling.

He couldn't help himself any longer, his control crumbling entirely. Before he fully realized what he was doing, he had frantically ripped his own pants off, stumbling awkwardly as he struggled to kick his heavy combat boots off in order to tear the restricting black pants completely off himself as he penguined around your room. Bouncing precariously on one leg and growling in mounting frustration, he nearly toppled over onto his ass in his desperation.

He stared at his crotch, his thick cock twitching and leaking fluid as it throbbed at attention. The neglected part of him begged for his touch, the way it sent neurons rapidly to his brain to do something almost hurt. The soldier was desperate yet hesitant, he hadn't been allowed to touch himself in HYDRA, it was forbidden for him to ever do so. Only his handlers had that luxury, and it never felt good.

The poor thing felt hot and he bit back a strangled whine as he finally allowed himself the intimate touch he'd been denying for so long. His trembling fingers hesitantly explored bare skin, trailing down his abdomen and to his neglected cock.

He carefully grasped himself, unsteady and out of practice, his hand moved up and down the length with tentative strokes as he tried to replicate what he knew from distant memories. He squeezed and turned his hand with experimental motions, though the sensations remained frustratingly muted, falling short of what he desperately sought. His behavior replicated that of past hands, mechanical and clinical touches that had never prioritized his pleasure or comfort.

His frustration mounted steadily as his pent up desire overwhelmed his senses, leaving him breathless and yearning for more. The soldier moved back to your bed with shaky steps, his cock felt heavy, his balls full and needy for some kind of release. He buried his face deep in your pillow once more, inhaling deeply to chase that fluttery feeling that he felt earlier when inhaling your scent.

As you stood there, freshly showered with droplets of water still clinging to your skin, the plush towel wrapped securely around your body - you were surprised at the sight before you. The soldier on your bed moved with such raw, unrestrained desperation, his movements so primal and needy that you couldn't help but wonder if this was his first taste of pleasure, as if he hadn't ever experienced the sweet release of an orgasm before, or hell, even remember what it was like.

The man clung onto your pillow, face buried in it as his hips jut into your bed, the comforter balling up under him. His grunts were muffled against the pillow, his thrusts against your sheets were sloppy and jerky. You could tell he was just trying to reach climax, but none of his actions would get him there. He'd only cause himself enough friction to stay hard.

He lifted his face up gradually, his flushed cheeks burning bright and his dark eyebrows drawn tightly together in concentrated pleasure. His lips were glossy and parted, glistening with saliva as he practically drooled with desperate need, his entire body trembling on the edge of climax. His frantic thrusting began to slow to an erratic rhythm as waves of tension visibly radiated through his muscular form. The soldier's heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open hazily, only to suddenly lock onto your watching form.

In that moment, his entire body froze completely rigid, like a marble statue caught in a compromising position, as the full realization dawned across his features that you had discovered him rutting so shamelessly against your bed.

Assuming the worst, he quickly got up and leaned back, exposing himself without realizing it. His cock angry with need, leaking thick fluid as it tried to get its host to relieve the growing pain of orgasm denial. Your eyes were naturally drawn to it, the thick member twitching and staining your favorite pillow.

His face was flushed a deep crimson with overwhelming embarrassment, his eyes cast downward to avoid meeting your gaze as he desperately tried scooting further back on the bed. The poor man was clearly consumed by shame, not just from staining your belongings but from experiencing such intense, primal need for the first time in what felt like countless decades.

You had always been careful with him before, understanding and respecting his past experiences and trauma. But right now, watching his reactions and body language, it seemed like he was silently pleading for your intervention.

And honestly...the sight of him this way made your pussy feel wetter by the second.

"Awe, baby...are you struggling?" You asked in the softest, most nurturing tone you could, slowly making your way to the bed, careful not to startle him. "Don't worry, I know it feels weird, huh...I'll help make it better."

Your hand gently reached out and ran up from his knee to his thigh, the bare skin feeling warm and inviting against your palm. Your fingertips traced delicate patterns as they moved upward, savoring each moment of contact he allowed you to have. Your eyes glanced down at the scars marring his beautiful body - silvery lines etched across his skin like a canvas of survival. He didn't like looking at them, always trying to hide them away from view, but you didn't mind. They didn't make him any less pretty to you .

You reached his pelvis, your touch feather-light as you looked up through your lashes to meet his eyes. They were glossy with need, dark with desire as he stared down at you - his broad chest heaving with painful anticipation, each breath making the muscles in his abdomen tense and relax. "Please..." he spoke meekly, voice barely a whisper, his bottom lip trembling as he gripped the sheets beneath him, desperately resisting the overwhelming urge to rut upward towards your teasing touch.

"I'll take care of you," your voice cooed, gently reassuring him as your heart fluttered rapidly against your ribcage as your gaze drifted downward to rest upon his erect cock. Your fingertips traced light patterns up the length of his thighs, the touch both teasing and tender, avoiding those silvery scars. You pressed against his thighs, carefully guiding his legs to part.

Fuck, he was beautiful.

Pretty pink head just weeping for your touch, twitching as it laid against his belly, sticky fluid webbing into his neat, curly happy trail. Pretty pearls flowing out of him as the blushed tip became a darker, angrier red with the company of your touch.

His balls hung heavy, so so full, so you gently kneaded his sac. This earned a loud whine in response to your warm hand palming against him, massaging the sore testicles. "Please, please...please, I need..." His pretty voice was so delicious as he begged for something, he just didn't know what.

"What do you want baby...tell me, I'll give it to you," you whispered softly against his skin, your warm breath causing goosebumps to ripple across his flesh. The man beneath you was struggling to maintain his composure, his chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. Tears welled in his glacial eyes as he trembled against the soft, cotton sheets, his fingers desperately clutching at the bedding beneath him.

His voice caught in his throat - a deep, ripping cry of need as you slowly placed tender kisses along his knee. You took your time, savoring each press of your lips as you traced a path along the sensitive inside of his thigh, feeling the muscles quiver beneath your touch. Just before reaching the spot he craved your attention most, you paused, letting the anticipation build a bit.

"I won't tease too much, I know you are needy." You finally grasped him, letting your hand move along. Bucky squirmed, moaning and desperately rutting up into your touch for more. You kept a slow pace, steadily stroking his hard flesh so as to not overwhelm him. Your thumb gently caressed his tip, circular motions spreading those pearly beads all around and coating the tip in a thick lubricant.

You let your thumb gently press and swipe up through his slit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make him quiver. The sensation overwhelmed him, causing his body to tremble uncontrollably as waves of pleasure coursed through him. His back arched dramatically off the bed as he cried out in pure ecstasy, every nerve ending singing with delight as it felt so good. You felt so incredibly good, your touch electric against his sensitive, neglected cock.

This was entirely new territory for him - he had never experienced anything that came close to this level of intensity before. Physical contact without pain was a rare occurrence, and when he did get touched in the past, it was never on his terms. But this - this was something entirely different, something that made his whole body feel alive with sensation. The pleasure built and built until it felt like brilliant fireworks were exploding in his belly, sending sparks of pure bliss radiating through his entire body until his fingertips and toes tingled with static numbness.

You let out a soft breath, a smile quirked at your lips as you viewed the mess of white ropes that hung against his belly and draped on your fingers from your stroking. He came already, you barely touched him and he fucking came. Disheveled, he took deep breaths and looked up at you, his eyes peeking open as a small whimper emitted from his throat.

However, he was still hard.

You wondered if super soldiers could go more than once without a refractory period.

"What do you want, Bucky?" you asked the trembling soldier, your voice barely above a whisper. His breath hitched as you leaned closer, eyes searching his face intently. "What do you want...tell me. You get to choose. You decide what happens now," you murmured, watching his reactions carefully as your hands slowly traced gentle patterns across his thighs, fingers trailing deliberately up and over his pelvis, thumbs following the natural V-line. You applied just enough pressure to his shaking muscles to make him gasp, feeling the way he tensed and relaxed under your touch.

The poor man could barely form a coherent thought, his mind clouded with desire. His hands frantically grasped at your arms, fingers flexing against your skin as he tugged and yanked lightly, desperately trying to pull you on top of him. His voice came out rough and pleading, filled with raw need as he begged, "More, more...more..." His lip trembled and his eyes watered, you had never seen him like this, so taken over by the cloud of need.

"You want me to ride?" you asked gently, your fingers unwound the towel still wrapped around your body, letting it fall softly and you tossed it off beside the bed. Your skin glowed in the dim light as you leaned forward, your voice dropped to a calm whisper. "I'll ride you, all you have to do is sit back and enjoy..."

The words ghosted across his skin as you traced a delicate path with your lips, starting at his sternum and working your way up, each kiss lingering longer than the last. Your mouth found the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder, and you could feel the thundering of his pulse beneath your lips.

His breathing had grown ragged and uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your touch. His arms encircled you, fingers pressing into your skin as if he were anchoring himself to reality, terrified that if he loosened his grip even slightly, you might fade away and he’d wake up in a cold cell again.

Before you knew it, his cock was poking your slick entrance and you sunk down on his length without wasting a beat, impaling yourself on his thickness. He let out a shuddering cry, his glossy eyes widening with unbridled desire as his trembling hands instinctively shot out to grasp your plush, inviting hips, fingers pressing deeply into the soft flesh.

Oh, this felt...fuck, he struggled to find words. The warmth enveloping him, the wetness made his head spin, the softness of your cunt threatened to undo him completely.

You squeezed him so good, your inner muscles contracting rhythmically around him like your body was purposefully attempting to milk him of everything he had stored away, drawing out every last drop. You carefully began to move on him, lifting your hips up slowly before letting gravity guide you back down, savoring each sensation as you felt him stretch and move your insides. The fullness was overwhelming - he was absolutely massive in you, spreading you wider than you'd ever been, yet somehow he fit perfectly, like your bodies were made for each other, two lost pieces of a puzzle finally united.

Your body moved in perfect harmony with his, each roll of your hips drawing out beautiful moans in response. The way you naturally undulated against him, finding an intoxicating rhythm that had him gasping and trembling beneath you. His hips bucked up desperately to meet your movements, seeking more of that friction that felt so damn good. The soldier's hands gripped you tightly, his fingers still digging into your skin as he struggled to maintain what little composure he had left.

"C..can't...gonna..." His voice strained and broke, he buried his face into your chest as he thrusted up hard - warm, gooey cum shooting out and coating your cervix and inner walls, pooling out of your cunt and coating him as he thrusted slowly until he stopped and remained tucked inside.

He cried out against you, his body trembling and clinging desperately as waves of intense pleasure coursed through him, his second release of the night overwhelming his senses completely. His fingers dug into your skin as he shuddered, overcome by the intensity of sensations he had been denied for so very long.

"I've got you," you whispered soothingly, your arms wrapping protectively around his broad shoulders. One hand found its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently scratched his scalp in a comforting rhythm. His face remained buried against your breasts, and you could feel the warm wetness of tears against your skin.

A seed of worry took root in your gut at his emotional response, but you quickly reminded yourself that these tears were caused by relief and pleasure, not pain or distress. His hurt body and tortured mind were simply overwhelmed by the rush of positive sensations - after decades of existing without any form of physical pleasure or intimate touch, it was natural for him to be overcome by these emotions when finally getting to experience pleasure again.

Bucky sobbed.

His body trembled violently as if the bitter chill of winter had taken his body all over again, leaving him shaking uncontrollably in the aftermath. He clung to you, unwilling to release his grip on you. The safest he had ever felt was here, wrapped in your arms, where nothing else seemed to matter.

His broken mind, a constant battlefield of screaming thoughts filled with pain and unrelenting anger, was silenced - if not just a little - when he was in your arms. The constant torment of pain and guilt became manageable right here by your side, tucked away against your chest and arms.

No longer lost. No longer wandering aimlessly.

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

[jupiterpilgrim]

Drown With Me

Pt.2: Interpolation

Ningning x Minji x Male Reader

word count: 7K

part 1 | part 3

A/n: Pt.2 and pt.3 were supposed to be a single chapter, but it was split in two because of the block limit.

I wish I could be everything you wanted.

—

Oh, here we are again. But this time we're going back in time. We journeyed into the past because some things must be witnessed. And I say 'witnessed,' not 'understood.' For understanding confines the subtleties of human connections to a singular perspective, and that restricts the strange language of the heart.

We're at a bar now, where a lot of stories start. This is one of those:

The lights are dim and amber, casting warm shadows over the polished countertops and the scratched wooden floor. It’s a quiet Tuesday night, a lull between the weekend rush and midweek regulars. You’ve been working here long enough to know the rhythm of it—the predictable ebb and flow of people looking for drinks to drown whatever piece of life was gnawing at them. But then, just as you’re stacking a row of freshly washed glasses, the door swings open, and in walks her again.

She hesitates in the doorway, framed by the cool, blue glow of the streetlights outside. The first thing that grabs you, as it did last night, are her eyes—huge, almond-shaped, and impossibly feline. The kind of eyes that make you forget what you were supposed to be doing. They dart nervously around the room before finally landing on you, and for a moment, she freezes.

“You again,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. You lean casually against the bar, arms crossed, trying not to seem too eager.

She’s wearing a cropped, black leather jacket that clings to her slender frame, sharp and a little out of place against the pale softness of her features. Beneath it, a white tank top hints at the curve of her collarbone and the toned lines of her stomach. Her high-waisted jeans, faded and torn at the knees, hug her slim legs like they were stitched onto her body. The scuffed Doc Martens on her feet somehow make her look even more striking—an accidental runway model lost in a world of beer stains and neon signs.

Her broad shoulders, almost too strong for her petite height, square up as if she's trying to summon some hidden reserve of confidence. But it’s her shyness, that hint of hesitation in every movement, that makes her feel like a puzzle you want to solve. She brushes a lock of jet-black hair behind her ear, her eyes darting away from yours as though the floor might swallow her whole if she stares for too long.

You tilt your head toward the bar, beckoning her closer. “Second night in a row, huh? You sure you’re not stalking me?”

Her lips part in a soft laugh, so quiet you almost miss it. “Hardly. My friend dragged me here yesterday. Tonight… I just needed some air.”

Her voice is as soft as her laugh, tinged with a slight huskiness that adds depth to her otherwise delicate demeanor. She approaches the bar slowly, her movements careful, like someone who’s always aware of the space she takes up.

“Well,” you say, pulling a coaster from under the counter and setting it down in front of her, “welcome back to the quietest bar in town. What can I get you?”

She perches on the stool, her knees pressed close together, hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket. “Um…just a Coke, actually.”

“Coke?”

She nods, her eyes flicking up to meet yours, only to dart away again. “I don’t drink much.”

“Second night in a row at a bar and no drinks? You’re full of surprises.” You grab a glass and pour the soda, sliding it toward her. “Not that I’m complaining. Makes my job easier.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear again, a nervous habit, you realize, but it only adds to the quiet allure of her presence. “You work here often?”

“Most nights.” You lean against the bar again, giving her your best casual smile. “And you? What’s your excuse for gracing us with your presence twice in a row?”

“I’m…” She hesitates, then shrugs. “I guess I just liked the vibe. It’s not like other places.”

“It’s not like most places because most places actually get customers,” you joke, gesturing to the mostly empty room. “But hey, if the vibe brought you back, I’m not going to argue.”

She smiles, faint but genuine. “It’s nice. Quiet. Less… intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” You raise an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

She fidgets with the straw in her glass, swirling the Coke absently. ��Bars aren’t really my thing. Too loud, too crowded. I usually avoid them.” She glances up at you, almost shyly. “This one feels… different.”

You don’t miss the slight blush that creeps up her neck as she speaks, and something about it tugs at you. “Different’s good,” you say softly. “I like different.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The faint hum of the jukebox in the corner fills the silence, playing some slow, melancholic track that perfectly matches the mood. You watch as she takes a small sip of her drink, her lashes casting long shadows over her cheeks.

“So,” you finally ask, breaking the quiet, “what’s your name? Or should I just keep calling you ‘Coke Girl’?”

Her lips twitch into a smile again, a little more confident this time. “Ning Yìzhuo. And you?”

“Coke Boy,” you deadpan, earning a small laugh from her. “Kidding. It’s—”

The door swings open again, cutting you off as a group of rowdy patrons stumbles in, disrupting the peaceful bubble you’d been sharing. Ningning’s shoulders tense immediately, her fingers tightening around her glass. You can tell she’s debating whether to stay or bolt.

You lean closer, your voice low. “Don’t worry. They’re harmless. Plus, I’ve got your back.”

She looks at you, her eyes searching your face for something—reassurance, maybe. And whatever she finds there seems to calm her, if only a little. She nods, taking another sip of her Coke.

You don’t know why, but you can already tell she’s going to stay with you longer than just tonight. Something about her feels significant, like a spark of lightning caught in a jar. Quiet, shy, and utterly captivating.

—

The weeks bleed into one another, and before you know it, Ning is a fixture at the bar. Not officially, of course. She doesn’t work here, doesn’t drink much, and always leaves by midnight like Cinderella with a self-imposed curfew. But she’s here. Three nights a week, like clockwork, perching on her usual stool and ordering her usual Coke, sometimes daring to live dangerously with a Sprite.

At first, you thought she came because it was quiet, because she needed a place to escape whatever stresses her life held. But it’s become increasingly clear that the bar’s charm isn’t the only thing pulling her back. It’s you. And you’re not mad about it.

Tonight, she’s dressed like she always is—effortlessly cool in her slightly oversized sweater, rolled-up jeans, and her beat-up Doc Martens. Her leather jacket is slung over the back of the stool, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like ink. She’s got her sketchbook with her tonight, the same one she’s been carrying for weeks. You’ve seen glimpses of the drawings—sketches of people, abstract swirls, the occasional cat—but she guards it like it contains state secrets, never letting you get a proper look.

“What are you working on this time?” you ask, leaning on the counter with the practiced nonchalance of a bartender-slash-business-student who definitely isn’t secretly invested in whatever she’s drawing.

She glances up from her page, cat-like eyes sparkling under the warm glow of the bar’s lights. “Nothing special. Just doodling.”

“That’s what you said last time,” you point out, reaching for a clean glass to wipe down. “And then you showed me that sketch of that old guy in the corner, and it looked like something out of a museum. You can admit it, Ning—you’re talented.”

She ducks her head, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “It’s not that good.”

“Sure,” you deadpan, “and I’m not the best bartender in this city.”

She laughs—a soft, melodic sound that you’ve started to look forward to more than you’d like to admit. “You’re not even the best bartender in this bar.”

You feign offense, clutching your chest. “Ouch. And here I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” she says, smiling up at you. “Which is why I’m honest with you.”

“Brutally honest,” you correct, smirking. “Fine. Tell me this: do all fine arts students have this much sass, or are you just special?”

“Special,” she says, sticking her tongue out. “And for the record, it’s not fine arts. It’s animation and visual effects. Totally different.”

You nod sagely, as if you know the first thing about animation or visual effects. “Ah, of course. Animation. You’re going to make the next Toy Story, right?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “Something like that. What about you, Mr. Future CEO? Made any spreadsheets cry lately?”

“Every day,” you reply solemnly. “It’s part of the curriculum in business administration. They don’t let you graduate until you’ve traumatized at least three Excel files.”

Her laugh comes easily, her shoulders relaxing as she sips her Coke. She looks comfortable here now, like this place—and you—have become a safe haven for her.

It’s nice.

She’s nice.

“You know,” you say, setting the glass down and leaning closer, “when you first started coming here, I thought you were just using the bar as a library with worse lighting.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And now?”

“Now I think you’re here because you can’t resist my charm.”

She snorts into her drink, nearly choking. “Your charm? Please.”

“Hey, admit it. I make this place bearable for you.”

She tilts her head, pretending to consider. “You do make pretty good jokes.”

“High praise from the queen of sarcasm.”

Her smile softens slightly, the teasing edge in her voice fading. “I just like talking to you. You make things… lighter. Easier to deal with.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s rare for her to let her guard down like this, and you feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to keep it safe, to make sure she never regrets being vulnerable.

“Well,” you say, keeping your tone light, “as long as you keep coming back, I’ll keep telling terrible jokes. Deal?”

“Deal,” she says, holding out her hand like you’re signing a legally binding contract.

You shake her hand, her skin warm and soft against yours. There’s a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—where the noise of the bar fades away, and it’s just the two of you. Friends. Companions in this odd little corner of the world.

“By the way,” you add, breaking the moment, “if you ever need a businessperson in one of your animations, I know a guy.”

“Let me guess,” she says, smirking. “He’s incredibly charming and makes terrible jokes?”

“Exactly.”

She laughs again, and for the rest of the night, the bar feels a little brighter.

—

Ning sits cross-legged on her bed, a pencil tucked behind her ear and her sketchbook balanced on her knees. The room is bathed in soft, golden light from the desk lamp Minji insisted on buying, claiming it was better for productivity. Across the room, Minji herself sits at her desk, perfectly upright, fingers flying across the keyboard of her sleek laptop. She looks like a Vogue spread come to life, even in her oversized knit sweater and black leggings, her shiny, straight hair falling effortlessly over her shoulder.

Minji’s skin practically glows, the kind of flawless complexion that makes you wonder if she’s secretly Photoshopped in real life. Her glasses—a stylish, rectangular pair with gold rims—rest perfectly on the bridge of her pointy nose, framing dark, intelligent eyes that seem to miss nothing. Her lips, soft and plump, are painted a subtle pink, just enough to look effortlessly put together. She’s everything Ning isn’t: confident, composed, intimidatingly perfect.

Ning chews on her pencil, staring at her friend’s back. “Hey, Minji?”

“Hm?” Minji doesn’t look up from her screen. She’s probably working on some group project for her international business course. Even in her downtime, Minji is an efficiency machine.

“How do you, like…” Ning hesitates, fiddling with the corner of her sketchbook. “How do you get guys to notice you?”

That gets Minji’s attention. She swivels her chair around, fixing Ning with a look that’s equal parts amused and curious. “What kind of question is that?”

“You know what I mean,” Ning mumbles, heat rising to her cheeks. “You always have a line of guys chasing after you. It’s like… you just exist, and they’re obsessed with you.”

Minji raises an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. “It’s not like I’m trying to get their attention.”

“That’s exactly my point!” Ning groans, flopping backward onto her bed. “You don’t even try, and they’re all over you. Meanwhile, I could walk into a room naked, and no one would notice.”

“First of all, don’t do that,” Minji says dryly, folding her arms. “Second, you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not,” Ning mutters, staring at the ceiling. “You’re like this goddess of elegance or whatever, and I’m just… me. How do you make people like you?”

Minji sighs, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose in that annoyingly perfect way she does. “It’s not about making people like you, Ning. You just have to be yourself.”

Ning sits up, frowning. “That’s so easy for you to say. You’re perfect. People like you without you even trying.”

“I’m not perfect,” Minji says, though the way she says it makes it clear she knows she’s pretty close.

Ning snorts. “Please. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re the only person I know who actually looks good in those glasses. And don’t get me started on your ‘I just woke up like this’ hair.”

Minji chuckles softly, a sound that somehow feels condescending and comforting at the same time. “Okay, fine. Maybe I have some good qualities. But seriously, Ning, if you want people to notice you, just… put yourself out there.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not shy,” Ning mutters, pulling her knees to her chest.

Minji leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Shy people are fine, but if you never let anyone see who you really are, how are they supposed to notice you?”

“What if who I really am is… shy?” Ning asks, her voice small.

“Then be the best version of shy,” Minji says simply. “Confidence doesn’t mean being loud or outgoing. It just means being comfortable with who you are. People are drawn to that.”

Ning stares at her, skeptical. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Minji admits, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “But if you don’t at least try, nothing’s going to change. And trust me, you don’t need to change who you are. You just need to stop hiding it.”

Ning chews on her lip, mulling that over. Minji makes it sound logical, like a formula to be solved. But Ning isn’t sure she can simply flip a switch and become “the best version” of herself.

“And if it doesn’t work?” she asks.

Minji shrugs, her lips curling into a faint smile. “Then it’s their loss.”

Ning laughs despite herself, the tension in her chest loosening just a bit. “You’re annoyingly good at this, you know that?”

Minji smirks, turning back to her laptop. “I know. Now stop overthinking and start being fabulous. You’ve got this, Ning.”

Ning watches her friend for a moment longer, a mixture of admiration and frustration swirling in her chest. If Minji says she can do it, maybe she can. But it still feels like an impossible climb.

“Hey, Minji?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Minji doesn’t turn around, but her voice is warm. “Anytime.”

—

The door to the bar swings open, and in walks Ning with a determined look in her cat-like eyes. She’s wearing a fitted white crop top that shows just a hint of her toned stomach, a plaid mini skirt, and her signature scuffed Doc Martens. Her hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, and there’s a hint of pink gloss on her lips. Tonight, she’s decided, is the night.

No more shy, stammering Ning. Tonight, she’s confident, bold, maybe even flirty. She’s spent the past three days psyching herself up for this moment, replaying Minji’s advice in her head like a mantra. Put yourself out there. Be the best version of yourself. You’ve got this.

The bar is warm and dimly lit as always, the low hum of conversation filling the air. She spots you cleaning a table, laughing at something one of the regulars said, your easy charm on full display. You see Ning and wave to her with a smile. Her heart skips a beat, but she steels herself. You’ve got this, she repeats silently, striding toward the bar.

Or at least, she tries to.

What she doesn’t see, in her single-minded determination, is the bright yellow Wet Floor sign in the middle of the room. Her Doc Martens hit the slick patch of tiles, and suddenly, her confident stride turns into a cartoonish flail.

“Shit—!”

She feels herself going down, her arms pinwheeling as gravity takes over. But just before she hits the ground, a pair of strong hands catch her, one gripping her waist and the other cradling her back.

“You okay?” Your voice is close—too close—and when she blinks up at you, she realizes her face is just inches from yours.

Her heart is pounding, and not just from the near-death experience. Your eyes, warm and concerned, lock onto hers, and she can feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “I—yeah, I’m okay. Thanks.” Her voice comes out quieter than she’d like, all the confidence she’d mustered evaporating on the spot.

You grin, helping her stand upright but keeping a hand on her arm to steady her. “That was a close one. You almost went full slapstick there.”

“Yeah, well, I like to keep things entertaining,” she mumbles, avoiding your gaze. Her ankle twinges as she shifts her weight, and she winces.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask, noticing the way she’s favoring one foot.

“It’s just my ankle,” she admits. “I think I twisted it a little.”

“Let’s get you off your feet,” you say, guiding her to a booth in the corner. “Come on, sit down.”

“I’m fine, really,” she protests, but you’re already pulling out a chair for her.

Once she’s seated, you crouch down in front of her, gently taking her foot in your hands. “Let me check it out. I can’t have my best customer suing the bar.”

She snorts softly, despite herself. “It’s my fault for not seeing the sign.”

“Well, next time, try looking where you’re going,” you tease, flashing her a grin that makes her heart skip again.

You slide off her boot carefully, your fingers brushing against her ankle. She tries not to shiver at the touch, but it’s impossible. Your hands are warm and firm, and when you start to massage the sore spot, she has to bite her lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

“You’re really good at this,” she says, her voice coming out a little breathier than she intended.

“Comes with practice,” you reply, focused on her foot. “My ex used to come home from work with sore feet all the time, so I’d give her massages. Got pretty good at it after a while.”

Ning’s ears perk up at the mention of your ex. “Oh?” she says, trying to sound casual. “What happened there?”

“She was… complicated,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “Kind of jealous. Possessive. A little manic, honestly.” You pause, then chuckle, shaking your head. “I guess I have a type. Crazy girls seem to find me.”

She swallows hard, caught off guard. “Is that why you’re single now?”

“Pretty much,” you admit, still massaging her ankle. “Taking a break from relationships for a while. Thought I’d give myself some peace and quiet, you know?”

Ning’s heart sinks, though she forces a smile. “Makes sense. Less drama.”

“Exactly,” you say, glancing up at her with a grin. “And besides, who needs a girlfriend when I’ve got customers like you to keep me company?”

She laughs softly, but it feels hollow in her chest. She watches as you go back to massaging her foot, completely unaware of the tiny heartbreak you’ve just caused. But she doesn’t say anything.

Because Minji’s words echo in her head: Be the best version of yourself. And tonight, the best version of herself is just a good friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

—

The dorm bathroom is small, humid, and filled with the faint scent of citrus-scented body wash. The door is open, so the fragrance invades the whole bedroom. The overhead light flickers faintly, casting a soft glow over the scene. Minji stands by the sink in nothing but a pale lavender bra and matching underwear, her skin luminous under the harsh fluorescent light. She’s methodically applying lotion to her arms, her long, straight hair pushed over one shoulder to avoid smearing it. Every movement she makes is precise, deliberate, like everything else about her.

Ning is by the closet, half-dressed, rifling through her limited wardrobe with a furrowed brow. She’s wearing an oversized graphic tee that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone and the straps of her bralette. Her plaid pajama shorts are crumpled, a stark contrast to Minji’s immaculate appearance.

“Can I ask you something?” Minji’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the room, soft but with that unmistakable edge of curiosity.

Ning freezes, her fingers lingering on the hem of a black skirt she’s debating on. “Uh, sure. What’s up?”

Minji finishes with her arms and moves on to her legs, bending one knee and propping her foot up on the closed toilet lid. Her movements are unhurried, as if the question isn’t a big deal. “Where do you go every week? At night, I mean.”

She glances over her shoulder, her face warming under Minji’s unreadable gaze. “Nowhere. Just… out.”

“Nowhere?” Minji’s lips curve in a faint smile as she straightens up, tilting her head slightly. Her sharp, dark eyes scan Ning, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the way her fingers fidget with the fabric of her skirt. “That doesn’t sound like nowhere.”

“I mean it’s not anywhere in particular,” Ning mumbles, turning back to the closet. She grabs a random top to busy her hands, hoping Minji will let it go.

But Minji doesn’t let things go. “Ning,” she says, her voice calm but insistent. “You’ve been going out at least twice a week for the past month. You get dressed up, come back late, and you never say where you’ve been. It’s weird, because it's not something you used to do.”

Ning turns around, clutching the top against her chest like a shield. “It’s not weird.”

Minji quirks an eyebrow, her lips twitching as if she’s holding back a laugh. “You don’t think so? Because to me, it looks like you’re sneaking off to see someone.”

“I’m not!” Ning’s voice rises slightly in protest, her face turning a deeper shade of pink. She tosses the top onto the bed and grabs her sketchbook from the desk. “Look, I take this with me, okay? How could I be seeing a boy if I’m bringing this?”

Minji’s eyes drop to the sketchbook, then lift back to Ning’s face, skeptical but intrigued. “I don’t know. Art students have strange habits. Maybe you’re sketching him while you’re there.”

Ning groans, plopping onto the bed and flipping the sketchbook open to a random page. “It’s not like that. There’s a bar I go to. It’s… quiet, and it helps with creativity.”

“Creativity,” Minji repeats, crossing her arms as she leans against the sink. Her hair falls perfectly over one shoulder, her glasses catching the light just enough to make her look like a chic librarian. “That’s your story?”

“Yes!” Ning huffs, holding up the sketchbook like it’s evidence in a trial. “See? Just sketches. No boys, no dates, nothing like that.”

Minji steps closer, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies Ning’s face. “So you’re telling me you sit at a bar all night, alone, with your sketchbook? That’s it?”

“Well…” Ning hesitates, her fingers gripping the edges of the book. “There’s this bartender I talk to sometimes. But he’s just a friend.”

“A friend.” Minji’s voice is flat, but there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes. “What’s his name?”

“Does it matter?” Ning mutters, ducking her head.

“Probably not,” Minji replies, her tone maddeningly casual. “But now everything is even more suspicious.”

Ning sighs, flipping the sketchbook closed. “Oh, whatever! He’s the bartender. We talk. That’s it.”

“And you’re just friends?”

“Yes.” Ning’s voice is firm, but her cheeks betray her with their telltale blush.

Minji watches her for a moment longer, then does something that catches Ning completely off guard. She smiles. Not her usual poised, mysterious smile, but something softer.

“Can I go too?”

Ning blinks, sure she’s misheard. “What?”

“To the bar,” Minji says, stepping closer until she’s standing right in front of Ning. “If it’s so great for creativity, I want to see it.”

“You want to go to the bar?” Ning asks, her voice incredulous. “The one I go to?”

“Why not?” Minji shrugs, grabbing her towel and tossing it into the laundry basket. “It’s not a date, right? If you’re just hanging out with a friend, I don’t see why I can’t come along.”

Ning stares at her, unsure whether to laugh or panic. “Are you serious?”

Minji leans down slightly, her glasses sliding down her nose as she meets Ning’s wide-eyed gaze. “Dead serious.”

“But…” Ning struggles to find a reason, any reason, why this is a terrible idea. “What about your coursework? You’re always busy.”

Minji straightens up, brushing her hair over her shoulder with practiced ease. “I can spare a night. Besides,” she adds, smirking, “I want to meet this ‘just a friend’ of yours.”

Minji’s calm confidence is both reassuring and terrifying. She knows Minji means well, but she also knows her friend. Minji doesn’t just show up. She observes.

Still, it’s hard to say no when Minji looks at her like that, her dark eyes steady and full of quiet determination.

“Okay,” Ning says finally. “You can come.”

Minji smiles, a triumphant glint in her eye. “Great. I’ll get ready.”

As Minji walks away, Ning flops back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. This was supposed to be simple. Just her, the bar, and a chance to take things slow with you.

Now?

She has no idea what’s about to happen.

—

The bar’s hum is steady but quiet tonight, soft music playing from the jukebox, mingling with the low murmur of scattered conversations. You’re behind the counter, wiping down glasses and vaguely thinking about the economics lecture you skipped today when the door swings open.

You look up instinctively, and there she is—Ning. Except she’s not alone.

Ning walks in first, a bundle of energy in her casual but cool outfit: a cropped black sweater that shows just a hint of her toned stomach, paired with loose cargo pants that sit snug on her hips, and her ever-present Doc Martens. She looks great—like she always does—but it’s the girl walking in behind her that makes your breath catch.

Minji.

She’s dressed simply—an elegant cream blouse tucked into high-waisted, dark-wash jeans that make her legs look impossibly long. Her black hair falls in a sleek curtain down her back, and she’s wearing the kind of gold-rimmed glasses that make other people look like try-hards but somehow make her look even more stunning. There’s something about her presence—poised but approachable, with a quiet confidence that fills the room—that makes it hard to look away.

“Hey!” Ning’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts as she practically bounces over to the counter. She gestures enthusiastically toward her companion. “This is my best friend, Minji. You’ll love her.”

You recover quickly, setting the glass down and offering a smile. “Hey, Minji. Nice to meet you.”

Minji steps forward, her smile polite but warm. “Nice to meet you too. Ning comes here every week, I got curious and realized I needed to see it myself.”

You nod, trying not to seem too obvious as you take her in. “Well, welcome. Hope it lives up to the hype.”

Ning slides onto her usual stool, pulling out her sketchbook like it’s just another normal night. “He’s being modest. It’s the coolest place ever. And the bartender’s alright, I guess.”

You smirk at her teasing but find yourself glancing back at Minji. “What can I get you two?”

“The usual for me,” Ning says, flipping through the pages of her sketchbook.

“And for you?” you ask Minji.

She tilts her head slightly, considering. “Something light. I don’t drink much—health reasons.”

“Got it.” You start preparing the drinks, glancing at her again. “If you don’t mind me asking, health reasons?”

Ning's Coke is ready in moments, she takes a sip absentmindedly as she looks at her sketchbook.

“I have a heart condition,” she says casually, like she’s used to explaining it. “Nothing too serious, but I can’t really handle strong drinks.”

“Fair enough,” you say, sliding the glass across the counter toward her. “This should be light enough.”

She takes a sip, her lips curving into a small smile. “Perfect. Thanks.”

Ning, who’s been scribbling something in her sketchbook, looks up suddenly. “Minji has been really nosy lately, she wouldn't leave me alone until I brought her here, she's never done this before.”

“Oh yeah?” you say, raising an eyebrow at Minji. “Was she really that mysterious about it?”

Minji laughs softly, setting her drink down. “You have no idea. She’d leave without saying much, come back late, and when I’d ask where she was, she’d just shrug and say ‘out.’” She glances at Ning, her tone amused. “It was suspicious.”

Ning groans dramatically. “It wasn’t suspicious! I just didn’t feel like explaining.”

“Well, I’m glad you brought her along tonight,” you say, smiling at Minji. “It’s nice to meet one of Ning’s friends.”

“Best friend,” Ning corrects, nudging Minji with her elbow. “We’ve known each other forever.”

Minji chuckles. “She’s exaggerating. It’s only been a few years. But yeah, we’ve been through a lot together.”

You lean against the counter, genuinely curious. “How’d you two meet?”

“Orientation,” Minji says, glancing at Ning.

“At first I thought she was snobbish for being so serious."

“And I thought you looked like a troublemaker,” Minji counters, her eyes sparkling with humor.

You can’t help but laugh at their banter. “So, Minji, what are you studying?”

“International business,” she says, adjusting her glasses slightly. “What about you?”

“Business administration,” you reply, and her face lights up with interest.

“Oh, really? That’s great. What year are you in?”

“Third,” you say. “It’s not as glamorous as international business, but it keeps me busy.”

“It’s not glamorous,” Minji says with a small smile. “But it’s practical. And honestly, that’s more important.”

You nod, impressed by her straightforwardness. “So what made you choose international business?”

She takes another sip of her drink, her expression thoughtful. “I guess I like the idea of understanding how things work on a global scale. It’s a challenge, but I enjoy it.”

Ning, who’s been quiet for a moment, suddenly speaks up. “She’s being humble. She’s the smartest person I know. She even helps me figure out my art projects sometimes.”

Minji shrugs, clearly a little embarrassed. “I just give her feedback. She’s the real talent.”

You glance at Ning, your curiosity piqued. “What kind of feedback?”

“She helps me refine ideas,” Ning says, twirling her pencil. “Like, if I’m stuck on a concept, she’ll point out things I didn’t think of. It’s annoying how good she is at it.”

Minji rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of affection in her expression. “It’s not that hard. I just have an outside perspective.”

“Well, it sounds like you two make a good team,” you say, genuinely impressed by their dynamic.

Minji smiles, her gaze lingering on you for a second longer than you expect. “We do. But I think I understand why Ning likes coming here now. It’s… nice.”

“Yeah,” Ning chimes in, her voice a little softer. “It is.”

The three of you fall into an easy rhythm after that, talking and laughing like old friends. But every now and then, you catch yourself glancing at Minji, wondering what it is about her that feels so… magnetic.

—

The bar has never been livelier for you, not because of an influx of customers but because Ning and Minji have made it their unofficial hangout spot. At first, it was a bit surreal—Ning showing up with her best friend in tow, bright-eyed and eager to introduce her to her favorite bartender. But over the next few weeks, it becomes routine.

Monday Night

Ning and Minji arrive together, as they always do. Ning’s dressed in her usual casual style—cropped sweatshirt, ripped jeans, and her trusty Doc Martens—while Minji looks effortlessly polished in a tailored blazer over a white camisole and straight-leg pants.

“Usual?” you ask Ning, already reaching for the soda gun.

“Of course,” she says, hopping onto her usual stool.

“And for you?” you ask Minji.

“I’ll take the same thing as last time,” she says, her smile easy. “That drink was great.”

You get to work, sliding the Coke over to Ning and preparing Minji’s light cocktail. “So, how’s the week been treating you two?”

“Terrible,” Ning groans dramatically, opening her sketchbook. “I’m behind on like, three projects.”

Minji snorts, glancing at Ning over the rim of her glass. “That’s because you spent the entire weekend rewatching Spirited Away instead of working.”

“It was research!” Ning protests, flipping through her sketches. “It’s a masterpiece!”

You chuckle, leaning on the bar. “She’s got a point. Spirited Away is definitely worth rewatching.”

Minji raises an eyebrow. “I don’t disagree. But maybe she could balance her research with her deadlines.”

The two of you share a laugh, and Ning pouts.

“You’re both nerds,” she mutters, earning a grin from you.

“Guilty as charged,” you say, raising a random glass in a mock toast.

Wednesday Night

Tonight, Minji’s in a soft blue sweater that matches her dark-rimmed glasses, her hair swept back in a loose braid. Ning looks a little tired, probably from pulling an all-nighter.

“You look like death,” Minji observes bluntly as they sit down.

“Gee, thanks,” Ning says, dropping onto the stool and slumping over the counter.

“You okay?” you ask, sliding her a Coke without waiting for her order.

“Just tired,” Ning mumbles, sipping her drink.

Minji tilts her head at you. “So, did you finish that econ paper you mentioned last time?”

You perk up, surprised she remembered. “Yeah, just barely. Turns out writing about financial markets at two in the morning isn’t fun.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Minji says, her lips curving into a small smile. “But I bet you still nailed it.”

Ning watches the exchange, feeling a pang of something she can’t quite name. She clears her throat. “Hey, can we talk about something not boring?”

“Sure,” you say, turning to her. “What’s on your mind?”

“Aliens,” Ning declares, grinning. “Do you think they exist?”

Minji sighs. “Oh god, not this again.”

You laugh, genuinely amused. “Honestly? I hope so. Would make the universe a lot more interesting.”

Ning beams, satisfied, while Minji shakes her head. “This is why she likes coming here,” Minji says dryly. “You encourage her nonsense.”

“Hey,” you protest, “it’s not nonsense. It’s curiosity.”

Minji chuckles, and Ning feels a little less out of place.

Friday Night

The bar is slightly busier, but the two of them still manage to snag their usual seats. Minji looks radiant in a sleek black blouse and gold hoop earrings, her makeup subtle but flawless. Ning, in her oversized hoodie and her Doc Martens looks comfortable but feels distinctly underdressed next to her friend.

“You look nice tonight,” you say to Minji as you hand her drink over.

“Thanks,” she replies, her voice calm and self-assured. “Ning practically dragged me out of the dorm, so I figured I’d make an effort.”

“You’re welcome,” Ning says with mock pride.

“So,” Minji says, turning to you, “tell me more about your business classes. Do you focus on entrepreneurship or management?”

“A little of both,” you reply, leaning on the counter. “Right now, we’re working on case studies about startups.”

“Oh, I love those,” Minji says, her eyes lighting up. “Which case studies are you doing?”

As you dive into the topic, Ning finds herself zoning out. The conversation is engaging—Minji is clearly knowledgeable, and you seem genuinely interested in what she has to say—but it’s not her world. She fiddles with her straw, feeling invisible as the two of you talk animatedly about market trends and business strategies.

Eventually, she clears her throat. “Hey, do you think they’d let me draw on the walls here?”

Both of you turn to her, surprised.

“I mean, this place could use some art,” she says, grinning.

“Go for it,” you say, laughing. “Just don’t tell my boss I approved it.”

Minji chuckles softly, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly creative,” Ning corrects, feeling a little more grounded again.

Sunday Night

The bar is nearly empty, the quiet hum of the jukebox filling the space. Ning is doodling absently in her sketchbook, while Minji sips her drink and chats with you.

“So, what do you do for fun?” Minji asks, her tone light but genuinely curious.

“Work, mostly,” you admit. “But when I have time, I like hiking. Clears my head.”

“I didn’t peg you as the outdoorsy type,” she says, a hint of teasing in her voice.

You shrug. “Gotta balance all the business talk with something peaceful.”

Ning glances up from her sketchbook, watching the two of you. There’s something about the way Minji leans slightly forward when she talks to you, the way her smile lingers a little longer.

“Do you hike?” you ask Minji.

“Sometimes,” she says. “But only when Ning drags me along.”

“Hey, I make hiking fun,” Ning protests, jumping back into the conversation.

“You complain the whole time,” Minji points out, smirking.

“Because you always pick the hardest trails!”

You laugh, the sound warm and genuine. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Next time, you’re coming with us,” Minji says.

Ning blinks, caught off guard by the suggestion. She glances between you and Minji, unsure how to feel about the way this strange triangle is starting to form.

As the night winds down, the three of you settle into a comfortable rhythm, but Ning can’t shake the feeling that something is shifting—slowly, subtly, but undeniably.

—

The three of you have fallen into a strange, unspoken routine—meeting up not just at the bar but beyond it, like some evolving trio of mismatched energy. It feels natural, at least on the surface, even if Ning occasionally finds herself analyzing every interaction, dissecting every glance and laugh.

Tonight, you’re at the movies, sitting in a darkened theater. Ning insisted on watching the latest animated film, claiming it was "research" for her art, though the truth is she just really loves animated movies. You and Minji went along with it, no complaints. Ning sits between you and Minji, a giant bucket of popcorn balanced precariously on her lap.

Halfway through the movie, she notices how Minji leans slightly toward you, sharing whispered comments about the plot. Ning can’t quite hear what you’re saying, but the low rumble of your laugh makes her feel strangely uncomfortable.

“Pass the popcorn,” you murmur, your hand brushing Ning’s as you reach for the bucket.

She stiffens slightly, then relaxes. “Here. Don’t eat all the good pieces.”

“You’re weirdly protective of popcorn,” you tease, taking a handful.

“Popcorn hierarchy is a real thing,” she replies, smirking. But her voice sounds hollow to her own ears.

Minji chuckles, leaning closer. “She’s serious about it. She once bit my hand when I took the last caramel piece.”

“I did not bite you!” Ning protests, her cheeks flushing.

Minji glances at you, her smile lingering. “She absolutely did.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I believe it.”

The sound of your laugh sends a pang through Ning’s chest. She knows it’s stupid, knows she’s overthinking. But the way you and Minji interact—effortless, like equals—feels different.

Later That Week

The three of you are at a college basketball game, seated in the bleachers. It was your idea this time, a way to do something “normal and fun” after a week of classes. Ning, determined to feel confident, showed up in a cropped tank top and tight jeans, her makeup more pronounced than usual.

But as the game goes on, she notices the subtle ways you treat her. When she trips on the bleachers, you catch her arm, laughing softly. “Careful, kid. Don’t want you breaking something.”

“Kid?” she echoes, raising an eyebrow. “I’m literally an adult.”

“Barely,” you tease, ruffling her hair in a way that makes her want to scream.

Meanwhile, when Minji leans over to ask you something, your tone shifts. It’s subtle, but Ning catches it. You’re attentive, leaning slightly closer, your voice quieter. When Minji laughs at something you say, it’s like the whole world fades out for a second, leaving just the two of you.

Ning fiddles with her phone, pretending not to notice.

At one point, Minji turns to her. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been really quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Ning says quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… not a huge basketball fan.”

Minji studies her for a moment but doesn’t press. She turns back to you, asking something about the game. Ning doesn’t bother listening.

The Bar, One Week Later

It’s a typical slow night, the kind you’ve come to expect when it’s not the weekend. You’re behind the counter, wiping down glasses and occasionally glancing at the door out of habit. When it swings open, you look up, expecting to see Ning and Minji together as usual.

But it’s just Minji.

She steps inside, her presence as poised as ever. She’s wearing a fitted black turtleneck and a sleek gray coat, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears. There’s a calm confidence in the way she walks, like she owns the space without even trying.

“Hey,” you say, smiling as she approaches the bar. “Where’s Ning?”

“She’s sick,” Minji replies, sliding onto one of the stools. “It’s just me tonight.”

There's a hint of excitement in her voice, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. The absence of Ning—her usual energy, her playful remarks—feels strange. But Minji’s presence is undeniable, grounding.

“Just you,” you repeat, setting a glass on the counter. “Alright. What can I get you?”

Minji smiles, a small, knowing curve of her lips. “Surprise me.”

part 3

[digestive]

The whole scent thing might be a wire and cloth mother related psychological reason, you associate warmth and comfort with love whilst a lack of it dosent interest us, which can be part of the reason couple swap clothes in order to feel closer to each other and the scent we associate with them let's us remember them as well during those moments when we feel safe.

But regarding us acting like scientists, we live in a society where something we don't understand is plastered everywhere and is seen as natural, whereas we cannot quite grasp it and therefore our curiousity comes into play and that's when the mental lab coat might come out to play.

Personally I can't relate emotionally or experience wise cause they view romance and sex in such a different light, and personally both of these things were stuff I thought I 'had' to do later in life.

Which might be why now I want to understand them because like, people want this?? For real?? It's just such a different lifestyle.

But I mean, if we were talking about learning of a different culture, such as celtic or asian, it wouldn't be an issue cause these are people who live their lives differently and you would be curious how it differs from your own.

Alloallos for me is a similar thing. This is something that I cannot fathom and/or there is tons of shit I didn't even realise because its not my scene. Took me a while to realise that cherries are considered 'sexy' cause they're associated with sex and losing your virginity and allos use the stems to judge how well they kiss by tying a knot in it.

I still don't get it, probably wont ever get why they do all these things, but I know they do it as part of their own way enjoy their sexuality and romantic orientation.

So maybe the best way to stop feeling fucked up about being aroace is instead to see our experiences on a similar level to allos in a way that lets us know the reality of being alloallo or aroace and how we navigate our identities and the reasons for these behaviours.

Plus I like having that scientist in my brain becuase they help me remove the stigma I have for my sexuality and romantic orientation day by day by showing me the bigger picture and letting me conduct my own mind experiments and develop hypothesises for romance and sex in order to feel less alienated from the alloallos. And maybe that's the purpose of it.

Acting like a scientist can ground us and give us a dynamic where we feel more in control regarding these romantic and sexual behaviours we happen to see, and we don't have to feel negatively if we can follow a fiction narrative that gives us the autonomy to question things and make discoveries about stuff that confuses us.

It's a way to connect with others while allowing ourselves to have room to be okay with not fitting the mould.

this is really weird but part of my aroace experience is viewing allo people like a scientist would view a living specimen in an experiment

its like. they do something and i observe and note their behavior. i know this sounds super fucked up but here is something that happened today:

my sister was showing me her texts from her boyfriend and he was saying stuff like "if u want i can spray a shirt with my cologne to give to u" or "i'll give u my hoodie to wear"

and i just looked at her and said "people exchange clothes because they like each others scent? fascinating." and i felt like a freaking scientist observing a new species' behavior. i promise its not as weird as it sounds. im not uncomfortable with romance/sex (for other people), i just have no idea how it works.

im curious do any other aspecs have experiences like this? or is it just me?

[nomie-11]

Chase After You

masterlist! | part 2 | part 3

synopsis: vi swears she doesn't have a soulmate, you swear that your soulmate is a masochist. Turns out you do exist, and turns out Vi plays hockey

pairings: vi x reader, lowkey ellie x dina

Your soulmate must have been an absolute idiot. 

Caitlyn said that he “or she, I don’t discriminate,” was probably a masochist because every day it seemed you woke up with another bruise or another cut. You couldn’t even count the amount of times you had woken up in the morning with a concussion—it was a miracle your soulmate was even alive at this point. 

“I’m just saying,” Caitlyn continued as she leaned against the counter of the campus coffee shop where the two of you had made it a ritual to meet after your clinical rotations. “Whoever they are, they’ve got to have the worst luck—or they’re actively looking for trouble.” 

You sipped your coffee, wincing as the hot liquid hit the tender inside of your lip. A split lip, courtesy of your soulmate, who had clearly been in some kind of fight last night. Again. 

“Maybe they’re a professional fighter,” you mused, though you were only half-serious. “That would explain all the bruises.” 

Caitlyn snorted. “Or just clumsy.” 

“Clumsy doesn’t explain the frequency, Caitlyn” you countered, setting  your coffee down. “If they’re not in some sort of contact sport, then they’re probably fighting for their life every day. Literally.” 

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You sure you didn’t end up with some sort of action hero? Like, next thing you know, they’ll show up at your rotations bleeding everywhere, and your soulmate bond will suddenly light up in a dramatic fashion.”

“Very funny,” you muttered, though the thought lingered. You were in your second year of nursing school, constantly surrounded by patients—maybe Caitlyn wasn’t too far off. But the soulmate connection was supposed to be this once-in-a-lifetime, world-shaking thing, and you’d never felt anything remotely close to that. 

The coffee shop door chimed, and a gust of cold air swept through as someone stumbled in. You didn’t look up at first, too focused on scrawling notes in your planner about your upcoming rotations. But then Caitlyn’s voice dropped into a low, surprising whisper. 

“Uh, okay. Forget clumsy. I think your soulmate might actually be a hockey player.” 

You glanced up, curious, and froze. 

Standing at the counter, looking half-dead but still smirking like they’d just won the lottery, was Vi, the captain of Piltover University’s Women’s Hockey Team. You didn’t know her personally, but you knew of her—how could you not? Every gay girl within a twenty mile radius knew of her. She was hot. From her cocky grin to her colorful undercut, which always seemed to peek out from beneath her helmet, there was no doubt about it. 

But that wasn’t what made your breath catch. It was the way your chest tightened, how everything in the room seemed to quiet for a split second. 

Then the pain hit. 

You instinctively touched your ribs, feeling a sharp ache that hadn’t been there before. At the same time, Vi winced, her hand going to the exact same spot. Her gaze flickered toward you after searching the coffee shop, her blue eyes narrowing slightly, like she was trying to figure something out. 

You felt Caitlyn’s hand on your arm. “Oh my god,” she hissed. “It’s her, isn’t it?” 

“No!” You bit back, immediately averting your eyes. “No way.” 

If you don’t see her, she doesn’t exist. 

—-------------------------------------------

Vi was convinced she didn’t have a soulmate. 

She had no visible soulmate mark, no timer and—besides her own—no tattoo. She didn’t see in black and white, didn’t have a red string of fate. It didn’t make any sense, the only explanation being that she doesn’t have one. 

Her friend on the hockey team—Ellie—had suggested that maybe it was a feeling soulmate mark. Maybe she was supposed to feel sick when you got sick, or maybe she was supposed to feel hurt when she got hurt. But she never felt… anything. 

That is, until the migraines started. 

It had been two weeks of relentless, skull-splitting pain, and Vi was on the verge of losing her mind. She’d never been the type to care much about school, but even hockey practice was becoming unbearable. The bright lights of the rink made her head pound, and the noise of her teammates shouting felt like nails being driven into her skull. She didn’t dare tell Coach—she had enough to deal with trying to keep her captaincy without giving them a reason to bench her. 

But she couldn’t hide it from Ellie. 

“You’re rubbing your temples again,” Ellie said as she sprawled on the locker room bench, laving up her skates. “What, you suddenly got old-person headaches or something?”

Vi shot her a glare. “They’re migraines. And it’s not funny.” 

Ellie’s smirk faltered, replaced by a frown. “Okay, but, like… you don’t just start getting migraines out of nowhere. You stressed or something? Got some secret essays piling up that I don’t know about?” 

Vi let out a frustrated groan, dropping her helmet onto the bench with a clatter. “I don’t know, Ellie! It’s not stress, okay? They just came out of nowhere, and I can’t get rid of them. I’ve tried everything—water, sleep, painkillers—nothing works.” 

Ellie tilted her head, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. “Huh.” 

“What?” 

“Well…” Ellie dragged the word out as she tied a perfect knot. “You don’t think this could be, like… soulmate related, do you?”

Vi scoffed, folding her arms. “What? No. I don’t even have a soulmate.” 

Ellie gave her a pointed look. “You don’t know that. Just because you don’t have a mark or whatever doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. There are, like, a million different types of soulmate connections. Feeling someone else’s pain is totally one of them.” 

Vi blinked, the idea sinking in despite her best efforts to shrug it off. “So what? You think my soulmate is walking around with migraines 24/7? Who the hell stays up late enough or is dumb enough to dehydrate themselves this much?” 

Ellie grinned. “Exactly the kind of person you’d be soulmates with. You’re a trainwreck magnet.” 

Vi rolled her eyes, but the knot of worry in her chest didn’t go away. “Even if you’re right—which you’re not—I don’t know who it is. How am I supposed to fix this? Walk around asking random people if their head hurts every time mine does?” 

Ellie snickered. “You could start with that cute girl from the coffee shop. The one who was staring at you like you were some kind of mythical creature last week.” 

Vi stiffened. “What girl?” 

“You know. Black sweater, big eyes, looked like she wanted to crawl under the table when you caught her staring.” Ellie’s smirk widened. “She bolted so fast, I thought she might leave a cartoon dust cloud behind.” 

Vi groaned, her hands dragging down her face. “You’re impossible.” 

Ellie shrugged, grabbing her stick and standing up. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’ve got migraines, she looked like she was about to faint—sounds like a soulmate connection to me.” 

“Ellie, drop it.” 

“Fine, fine.” Ellie paused by the door, grinning back over her shoulder. “But if she shows up at your next game, you owe me a drink.” 

Vi glared after her, her headache suddenly feeling worse.

————————

Your day had started out pleasant. 

You woke up on time, didn’t have a splitting headache or a new bruise, and had your fresh and folded laundry waiting for you from the day before as you finally pulled yourself out of bed. Even Jayce and Caitlyn seemed to get the ‘good day’ memo—the two of them swinging by your apartment with coffee before the three of you headed off to class. 

It was nice, until it wasn’t. It all went downhill when the throbbing started. 

It wasn’t your usual soulmate-related ache—no split lip, no bruised knuckles, no sudden stab in your ribs. This was different. Familiar, but different no less. A dull, creeping pressure that started behind your eyes and spread through your skull like a slow wave. By the time your second lecture had started, it was unbearable. 

“Are you okay?” Caitlyn asked, leaning over from her seat. Her voice was low enough not to draw the professor’s attention, but the concern was evident. “You look pale.” 

You pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to will the pain away. “Migraines,” you muttered. “Really bad one.” 

Caitlyn frowned. “You went to bed early last night.” 

“Apparently, that doesn’t do anything for me anymore.”

You barely made it through the rest of the lecture. By the time you were packing up your things, Caitlyn was hovering like a worried mother hen. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to skip clinicals today? Jayce can take your rotation, you look like you’re about to pass out.” 

“No, I’m fine,” you insisted, though your voice lacked conviction. “I’ll just grab some water and take something for the pain.” 

Caitlyn didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push further as the two of you made your way out of the lecture hall. 

You thought you were doing a decent job of toughing it out until you practically walked right into Jayce in the hallway as he excited his pathophysiology lecture. 

“Whoa, you good?” he asked, steadying you when you stumbled slightly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“Migraines again,” you mumbled again, brushing him off. “I’m fine.” 

Jayce gave Caitlyn a questioning look, but she just shrugged. 

The rest of the day was a blur. The pain didn’t ease up—it never did until you went to sleep—and every bright light or loud noise seemed to stab through your skull. By the time you reached the coffee shop for your usual post-clinical ritual, you were barely holding it together. 

Caitlyn was mid-sentence when the door chimed. 

“Do you think it could be stress? Your migraines never used to be so bad—”

Her words trailed off, her expression shifting to one of disbelief. 

“What now?” you groaned, not bothering to look up. 

Caitlyn’s hand gripped your arm. “Don’t freak out, but she’s here.” 

“Who?” 

“Don’t be an idiot. You know who.” 

You blinked up at her, confused, before following her gaze toward the counter. 

There she was again—Vi. This time, she looked even rougher than before, with dark circles under her eyes and a visible bandage peeking out from under her sleeve. She had her fingers pressed to her temples as she leaned against the counter, waiting for her friend to finish ordering. 

And then it happened. 

Your headache, which had been a steady, unrelenting pressure all day, suddenly spiked. A sharp, blinding pain shot through your temples, and you let out a quiet gasp, clutching your head. 

Across the room, Vi froze, and her friend immediately snapped up. 

Her gaze hit yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The pain in your head mirrored the way her hand shot up to press against her temple, and her eyes widened in recognition. 

“Oh, no,” you whispered, panic setting in. 

Caitlyn’s eyes darted between you and Vi, her mouth falling open. “It’s her. It’s definitely her.” 

You scrambled to your feet, heart racing. “Nope. Not happening.” 

You bolted.  

“Hey! Y/N!” Caitlyn hissed after you, but you didn’t stop.  

The door slammed shut behind you, and the crisp evening air hit your face like a slap. Your heart was pounding, your migraine screaming in protest at your sudden movement, but the overwhelming panic drowned it out. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you had to get away. Far away.  

Unfortunately, the universe—or more specifically, Vi—had other plans.  

“Wait!”  

Her voice was rough, loud enough to cut through the noise of the street and send a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through your veins. You didn’t look back, breaking into a full sprint.  

Behind you, you heard heavy, determined footsteps.  

“Oh, come on!” Vi groaned. “You’re really gonna make me chase you?”  

You didn’t answer, too focused on not tripping over your own feet. The ache in your legs spread quickly, your lungs burning as you pushed yourself harder.  

“Damn it,” you heard her mutter, closer this time. “You’re not even good at running!”  

“No one asked you!” you shouted over your shoulder, breathless and desperate.  

Vi let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious? You’re yelling at me while running away?”  

“Yes!”  

She groaned, and her footsteps quickened. “You can’t outrun me, you know. You might as well stop before you pass out!”  

Her voice was closer now, and you risked a glance back. Bad idea.  

Vi was gaining fast, her long legs eating up the distance between you with ease. She wasn’t even winded. Meanwhile, you were gasping for air, feeling like your legs might give out any second.  

“Leave me alone!” you shouted, panic edging into your voice.  

“Can’t do that!” she called back, her tone surprisingly light for someone who was literally chasing you down. “You’re my soulmate, remember?”  

Those words sent a jolt through you, and you stumbled slightly, your pace faltering. That split-second mistake was all she needed.  

Vi caught up in a flash, one strong hand wrapping gently around your wrist as she slowed to a stop. You tried to pull away, but she held firm, her grip steady but not painful.  

“Let me go!” you gasped, twisting in her grasp.  

“Hey, hey!” Vi said quickly, holding up her free hand in a gesture of surrender. “Relax, okay? I’m not here to hurt you!”  

You glared up at her, chest heaving, and she met your gaze with an almost apologetic smile. Up close, she looked even rougher—dark circles under her eyes, a fresh cut on her lip, and that same bandage on her arm.  

“Look,” she said, her voice softer now. “I get it. This is… a lot. Trust me, I wasn’t expecting to meet you today either. But running away? Not the best idea.”  

“Why not?” you snapped, still trying to catch your breath.  

Vi smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Because I’m an elite athlete, so now you’re even more exhausted, and I’m still here.”  

You glared at her, unsure if you wanted to scream or cry. “What do you want from me?”  

She blinked, her expression softening. For a moment, she looked almost shy, which was wildly unfair given how confident she’d been five seconds ago.  

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean, I didn’t even think I had a soulmate until, like, two weeks ago. And then today, bam, migraines, and here you are.”  

Yuo stared at her, dumfounded, and still too overwhelmed to make sense of her words. “That’s not an answer.”

Vi sighed, releasing your wrist but saying close enough that you couldn’t just bolt against. “Okay, fine. I guess I want to… figure this out. I mean, we’re soulmates, right? So maybe we could just… start there?” 

“Start there?” you repeated, incredulous. “You don’t even know me.”

“Exactly.” her lips curved into a small, lopsided smile. “Let’s change that.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, but the way she was looking at you—earnest, a little nervous, but stubborn enough not to let you push her away—made the words catch in your throat. 

Caitlyn’s voice rang in your mind: Whoever they are, they’re probably a masochist. 

Vi seemed to read your hesitation as a crack in the wall you’d been trying so hard to keep up. She tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes locking onto yours with unnerving intensity. 

“Look,” she said, her tone gentler now. “I’m not asking you to, like, fall into my arms or anything. I just want to get to know you. No pressure, no expectations. What do you say? Coffee after your next rotation? My treat.” 

You hesitated, your heart still racing. “Why should I trust you?” 

Her smile faltered, and for a split second, you saw something raw in her expression—something that made your chest tighten. She winced slightly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Honestly? I don’t know how much longer I can handle these migraines, so we need to find a cure or something.” 

That earned a startled laugh from you, despite yourself. “So, this is selfish.” 

“Totally,” she admitted, grinning now. “But if it gets me a chance to spend some time with you, I’ll take it.” 

You studied her for a long moment, torn between wariness and the tiniest flicker of curiosity. Finally, you sighed, crossing your arms. “Fine. One coffee. After my next rotation. That’s it.”

Vi’s grin widened, and for a moment, you were struck by how bright it was—how it softened the sharp edges of her features. “Deal.” 

As she stepped back to give you space, you realized something strange: your headache was already starting to fade. Grabbing a random business card from her pocket and a pen from another, she scribbled down her number and lightly shoved it into your hands. 

“See you around,” Vi said, giving you a little wave before turning and jogging off down the street. 

You watched her go, still unsure if you’d just made a huge mistake, or taken the first step toward something you couldn’t even begin to understand.

this is the first part in a three part series! read part 2 here! reader part 3 here!

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[ssa-danhotchner]

Crawling back to you | Aaron Hotchner x reader

summary: Aaron Hotchner finds himself unable to stop thinking about the connection he let slip through his fingers.

cw: fem!reader, use of y/n, past situationship

wc: 934

note: this is my first time writing here please be kind, english isn't my first language

The clock ticked past midnight, and Aaron Hotchner sat alone in his dimly lit study, the amber glow of a desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. A half-empty glass of whiskey rested by his hand, untouched for the past fifteen minutes. His gaze wasn’t on the paperwork scattered in front of him, nor on the book he’d meant to start reading an hour ago. Instead, it was fixed on his phone, his thumb hovering over a name that made his chest tighten.

[Y/N]

It had been years since he’d spoken to you. Not since you left the BAU. Not since he made the call to end whatever it was that had been building between you two—before it became something neither of you could control.

It had been years, but Aaron could still recall the way your laughter echoed in the bullpen during quiet moments between cases. The sound had been a rare gift in his otherwise chaotic world. You brought a lightness he didn’t know he needed—a reprieve from the endless weight of profiling killers and navigating his fractured personal life.

He thought of the nights you stayed late, pouring over case files with him in companionable silence. You didn’t ask questions about why he couldn’t leave, didn’t push when he kept his walls up, but your presence had a way of eroding his defenses. You didn’t demand anything from him, and that was the problem. You deserved someone who could give you everything, and Aaron knew he was not that man.

Still, there were moments when his resolve faltered. The way your hand brushed his when you handed him a file. The soft, concerned look in your eyes after a particularly grueling case. The lingering touch of your fingers on his shoulder as you said goodnight. He told himself it didn’t mean anything, but he knew better.

Aaron swallowed hard and leaned back in his chair, exhaling a shaky breath. The memory of your last conversation played in his mind like a song on repeat, the words still as sharp as they were the day they were spoken.

You stood in his office, arms crossed tightly over your chest, the tension between you palpable. The door was closed, the blinds drawn, but it felt like the whole world could see the cracks forming between you.

“You’re really doing this?” Your voice was quiet, but the hurt beneath it cut through Aaron like a knife. “You’re going to pretend like we don’t mean anything?”

“It’s not that simple,” Aaron replied, his tone measured, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

“It is that simple,” you snapped. “You either want this—want me—or you don’t. But don’t stand there and tell me it’s for my own good, like I can’t decide that for myself.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his emotions in check. “I’m doing this because I care about you,” he said finally. “Because I can’t give you what you need. I can’t be what you need.”

You stared at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Aaron. You don’t get to push me away and call it love.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But this—us—it’s a distraction. And distractions get people killed.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell. You took a step back, shaking your head as if trying to make sense of what he’d just said. “You’re scared,” you said, your voice trembling. “You’re scared to feel something real because it might actually make you happy. And God forbid you let yourself have that.”

Aaron didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He stood there, watching as you turned and walked out of his office, the sound of the door closing behind you echoing in his ears.

Aaron glanced at the phone again, your name glowing on the screen like a challenge. Are you awake? The words he’d sent seemed too small for everything he felt, but they were all he could manage. He hated how easily he could picture your face—your tired but curious smile, the tilt of your head when you thought he was being ridiculous. Would you even want to see him? Or had he burned that bridge too thoroughly?

The truth was, Aaron wasn’t sure what he wanted. Did he want closure? Forgiveness? Or something more dangerous—something he wasn’t sure he deserved?

Aaron hit send before he could stop himself. The phone felt heavy in his hand as he set it down, the seconds ticking by agonizingly slow. He told himself not to expect a reply—it was late, after all—but when his phone buzzed a moment later, his breath caught.

I wasn’t. I am now.

He stared at the words, a thousand emotions flooding through him at once. Relief. Nervousness. A flicker of hope. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of how to follow up, but he forced himself to type the truth.

I’ve been thinking about you.

The reply came quickly.

Funny. I’ve been trying not to think about you.

Aaron winced, though he supposed he deserved that. Still, you hadn’t ended the conversation, and that was something.

Would you meet me? he typed. I know it’s late, but I need to see you.

There was a longer pause this time, and Aaron held his breath, waiting for your answer. Finally, his phone buzzed again.

Same café as always?

Aaron grabbed his coat before he could think better of it.

The only thing he knew is that this time he wouldn't let you go.

[luckyorchid]

The sun’s up

Comic 1 (PT. 1)

(Lore + Context is below!)

Hoo boy here we go (SPOILERS for anyone who wants to experience sky by themselves!)

Sky lore for Non-players (Feel free to skip, just added this since the story is a bit tied to the lore in game)

Some of the basics:

Core / Flame = Life source.

The ancestors are the original “humanoid” inhabitants of the world. Light creatures (animals) were the first inhabitants though. Sky beings were the last creations to solidify the inhabitants.

Light creatures & Sky beings all have a “core” which means they’re all connected and living off of light as their life source.

Sky beings are essentially just stars that fell on the world and decided to exist LMAO. You can't make one, so you just have to pray really hard for a shooting star.

Realms & Elders:

ignoring the middle one for now, there are 6 realms. Each realm has different climates (But it wasn’t always like that), and settings.

Isle of Dawn - Sandy terrain

Daylight prairie - Hills, grass, oceans and flowers.

Hidden forest - A forest where it rains non-stop

Valley of Triumph - A valley / mountainside that snows non-stop

Golden wasteland - Hell (/j) / Sandy terrain with toxic water.

Vault of Knowledge - Massive tower stored with history and knowledge

In the comic, they’re in “Hidden Forest.” Each realm has an Elder, who is essentially someone who governs the realm. They’re just here to make sure everything is stable.

History (This is all based off of my own observation + Tom Zhao's concept art!):

For that middle realm, it's called "Eye of Eden" and or where the "Storm" originated from. It also has an elder, but he's more or less "King of all kings" sort of thing. He had the say in most things. Eye of Eden never had a clear vision on what it was before the storm, but I'd imagine it would be a sort of sanctuary.

Speaking of before the storm, some realms weren't how they are right now, like how Isle of dawn used to be like Daylight prairie.

Moving on, at first every one was pretty chill, until the king found something called Dark stone. Dark stone is like...the opposite of light? It's like if you shoved a rock into gasoline and something radioactive. Despite it, the elders find out dark stone can be used to make advanced technology, so of course they take the chance to overuse it.

The light creatures and sky beings suffer from the effects of this. While sky beings were taken to areas with less dark stone, light creatures were treated with more hostility. This causes the ancestors and light creatures to go to war with each other.

Long story short; Dark stone corrupted the ancestors and started destroying the environment, because it literally uses light / fire as its power. The creatures said "Nuh-uh" and started fighting back. The final fight (that transpired in Eden) gets so bad that most of the dark stone explodes and creates a massive storm that affects all the realms, and most of the people die including the elders and king 😭

This is where "Dark creatures" start to thrive. These silly little guys are similar to dark stone, they love eating light.

Ratio & Kakavasha Lore

Ratio was born before the storm, while Kakavasha was born when the storm had already happened.

Veritas Ratio Lore:

Ratio was a smart kid, and a lot of people noticed it. That's it/j In fact, a lot of people noticed it, so he was dragged into the Sky version of the intelligentsia guild- in training, of course. He's too young to start running stuff, even if he insists on it.

It got to the point where even the elders acknowledged him, and some wanted him to be their advisor when he reached the right age. Veritas is (internally) ecstatic about this. He still holds the ideals of OG ratio, universal knowledge, and as an advisor he can further be of influence for good.

He was never close to his peers, in fact they couldn't count on their fingers just how many times he's called them idiots and other remarks, but he'd never go as far as to say he hated them. Fond? Maybe, just a teensy bit. A silent room is nice, but after a prolonged period, he may seek out that background noise of chatter. (Or not)

(Ref used: S1 arcane poster) Then the storm came. The storm pretty much threw all of his dreams to the abyss, and not only that- he had to witness the things he loved and cared for either die or go into shambles. He's one of the few survivors, but he's harboring a lot of guilt and contempt towards most things. (aka everything. He always thinks of "Why's" Why did the elders let it get this far? Why were the ancestors so selfish? Why couldn't he do anything to stop his friends from being eaten by those dark creatures?)

He stays with other survivors in safe realms (Daylight prairie), and he tries his best to be of help. Specifically: hunting. (Haha get it cause the hunt *cough*) He likes to join in hunting squads to kill dark creatures in the Hidden Forest, and if he can; study the body. It's morbid, but he wants to find ways to mitigate attacks.

Kakavasha Lore

The Avgin clan are all semi-dark creatures. Their landing spot is always within an area full of dark stone, so it's like their core merges with it. They can all turn into "Krills" (Sky version of dragon). Despite this, most of them have a kind nature and wouldn't go out of their way to hurt Sky beings. They settle on eating fruits, birds, and fish.

They live in Wasteland, which is littered with dark creatures. Despite sharing the same origins, even they have to be careful. Hungry creatures aren't picky after all.

But due to their advantage, they can usually freely travel through the Valley and Hidden Forest to scavenge for food and other materials.

Kakavasha loves to join his sister for scavenging, and he loves finding out about things in general, so much so his sister always has to look behind her shoulder to make sure he isn't doing anything risky. "High risk, high reward!" He still can't turn into a krill, but he can make his hands sharp! Other than that, he's pretty happy. The storm hasn't affected them much- in fact, it's an advantage. Though, he always wonders what's beyond the forest, snow and sands.

Post-storm Kakavasha happens when the storm starts to calm down and the sky beings start to regain their footing. This is how his clan gets found out and gets hunted down, until he and a few were the only survivors. He's used as a test subject to better understand dark creatures, but of course there was no consideration of his well-being. As long as he isn't dead. Similar to the OG hsr lore, he ended up killing the people who 'owned' him. But this time, he was freed with pardon because damn look at all that trauma. In this AU he's free to do whatever without someone shackling him down, but it doesn't make him feel any better to what happened to his clan and himself. He feels a bit of spite towards Sky beings, but he doesn't outright act on it...much.

This ended up having more lore than it's supposed to have 😭 I'll make a continuation comic of their first meeting, and some other random shenanigans these two end up getting into LMAO. Thanks for reading and have a good day <33

[blxxmingrose]

the way june covered hans’ hands was all the warmth hans needed in the moment, this intimate space between them making each of his dreams feel closer, as if they were already within reach. with their foreheads pressed together, hans smiled, happy and content. “i’m happy to hear that you already feel taken care of. hearing you say we get to build this life together... i feel like i have accomplished something great already,” he whispered, low enough to not wake up their sleeping dog. 

seeing the playful glint in june’s eyes was becoming a treat hans was getting used to, and it never failed to coax a smile out of him as well. “i do think we might need a bigger couch soon,” he said with a small nod, not wanting to break their connection. “i think afternoons when we’re both home could be more productive if we had a bigger couch to relax on. and, we could read here too. you could lay your head on my lap, just like that time in the library.” the words poured out of hans, a mixture of excitement and more dreaming as he recalled one of his favorite memories of them together.

he could still remember how the light hit june’s hair from the small window as they stayed there for hours, the book they had been reading forgotten as they focused on each other.

oddly enough, it felt more complicated then, when they felt something for each other but could not voice it like they could now. “and perhaps a bookshelf someday. we could fill it with books over time,” he added, the cadence to his voice matching his faraway look as he imagined little hands flipping through the pages. “not just books for us. books for our children too.” the thought made him smile wider, one that reached the depths of his heart.

it was easy to fall back into dreaming of their future family, and hans shook his head as he caught himself, laughing softly as his thumbs brushed lightly against june's cheeks. “i keep getting ahead of myself. for now, a bigger couch seems more immediate, yes of course,” he said.

june let hans’s words settle into the quiet between them, their weight and warmth filling every corner of his heart. he smiled, soft and unguarded, as he listened to the dreams spilling out of hans so naturally. they painted a vivid picture, one of a home full of life, love, and the kind of joy june had never dared to imagine for himself before hans.

"you know," he began, his voice quiet but steady, "i couldn’t have ever imagined i would be talking about building a life like this with you.” he trailed off for a moment, his thumb brushing over the curve of hans’s cheek.

june’s eyes followed hans’s gaze around the room, already imagining the changes hans described: a bigger table for shared meals, the walls adorned with photographs that marked milestones they hadn’t even reached yet, the sound of laughter filling the air. his smile widened as he nodded. “i can see it,” he said softly. “the kind of home you’re dreaming of. and the best part is, we get to build it together. it won’t be perfect but it’ll be ours.”

june’s hands moved to cover hans’s, holding them steady as they cupped his face. his heart ached in the best possible way at hans’s vow, at the unshakable sincerity in his eyes. “you already take such good care of me,” he murmured, leaning into hans’s touch. he paused for a moment, his voice growing softer, more intimate. “you’ve made me braver, hans. not just in the way i live, but in the way i love. and i want to take care of you too. every day.” june let his forehead rest against hans’s, closing his eyes as he exhaled a quiet breath.

when he pulled back, there was a playful glint in his eyes, though the sincerity of his words lingered in his expression. “now, about that extra furniture,” he said. “do you think we’ll need a bigger couch? because i’m starting to think we’re going to be spending a lot of time just like this.” his voice was tinged with a playful warmth as his lips quirked into a smile.

[leonastarry]

Hihi! Can you make a Mafia(secret)!Sung Jin-woo x author!fem!reader? Where the reader is a famous soft hearted author who wrote many kinds of stories which attracted many attention and Jin-woo being one of her fans(in secret) holds a whole collection of her books. He sent his most trusted guards (igris, bellion and beru in human) to watch over her and keep him updated.

He never misses any of her books and is always the one who buys it first (in her official store on online) he doesn’t buy it in person since yeah his a well known mafia in the underground. But on a random Friday, the CEO name Liu Zhigang requested her to work for him as the reader take’s her time to think about it. Thanks to Jin-woo’s connections and wandering guards, he found out about this and immediately made a move, he ordered his men to sabotage Liu Zhigang’s company to keep the reader away from him.

The rest up to you of how they met. Btw his secretly obsessed with her like a yandere

[ Req 18 ] Under the Cover of Pages. ✧. ┊    mafia!jinwoo x author!reader.

The midnight city throbbed with life, its lights casting a light that could not reach the man sitting behind the vast desk. Sung Jinwoo, the most feared mafia boss in the underworld, stared at the books neatly arranged on his bookshelf. Each title belonged to a single author—you.

To others, his works were simply literary masterpieces, filled with intricate plots and heartfelt characters. To Jinwoo, they were a lifeline. Every word he wrote spoke to a part of himself buried beneath layers of power and violence. The softness, the hope—he found himself drawn to the world he created, a stark contrast to the one he ruled.

Jinwoo’s obsession was a secret he kept fiercely close. Even his most trusted men—his shadows—knew better than to doubt his dedication to your work.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

“Keep her safe,” Jinwoo instructed, his voice cold but firm.

Igris bowed slightly, a graceful and elegant figure. “She remains unaware of our presence, my Liege.”

Beru, always eccentric, sneered. “Her schedule is predictable. She spends most of her time writing at home or going to cafes for inspiration.”

Bellion crossed his arms. “There’s no threat yet, but Liu Zhigang’s offer might change that.”

Jinwoo’s expression darkened. Liu Zhigang was a rival, his influence was immense in the business world, both legal and underground. That man had recently approached you, offering you a lucrative contract to write an exclusive story for his company. Jinwoo couldn't allow that.

Beru's smile widened. "What should we do, my Liege? Teach him a lesson?"

Bellion frowned. "Perhaps we shouldn't overdo it. The Liu family has power, any public move might attract her attention."

Jinwoo's fingers tapped lightly on the polished wood of the desk. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed his determination. "Liu Zhigang is no match for me. No need to be tactful. I guarantee his offer will be rescinded by tomorrow morning."

The shadows bowed and disappeared, leaving Jinwoo alone with his thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the latest book you had published, the pages worn from repeated reading.

“I won’t let anyone take you away from me.”

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

Liu Zhigang woke up in chaos. His company, known for its dominance in the media and entertainment industry, was suddenly in chaos. Key investors had pulled out, and rumors of internal scandals had tarnished his reputation. Within hours, his offer to you was withdrawn with a hasty apology.

Unaware of the chaos, you read Liu’s message with mixed feelings. There was something about his offer that didn’t feel right, and you felt relieved that you didn’t have to accept it. However, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching you, although you chalked it up to paranoia.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

Your favorite coffee shop, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, is your sanctuary. The hum of conversation and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee create the perfect backdrop for your thoughts.

As you scribble in your notebook, a shadow falls across your desk. Looking up, you see a man dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. His striking grey eyes gaze at you with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

“May I sit here?” he asks, his voice soft and deep.

You nod, momentarily speechless.

“I’m Sung Jinwoo,” he introduces himself and holds out his hand.

Your eyes widen in recognition. “The CEO of Ahjin Industries?”

His lips curl into a small smile. “That’s one of my roles.”

As he sits across from you, the atmosphere seems to change. There was something about him that drew you in, something that held you back.

"I'm a fan of your work too," he admitted, his tone softer.

The confession took you by surprise. "You've read my books?"

"All of them," he said simply. "Your stories have a way of… reaching places most people can't. They're remarkable."

You felt your cheeks flush. "Thank you. That means a lot."

Over the next hour, Jinwoo engaged you in a conversation that felt effortless. He asked about your inspirations, your favorite authors, and even your least favorite topics. His genuine interest caught you off guard, and for the first time, you found yourself sharing parts of yourself that you usually kept hidden.

Little did you know, Jinwoo already knew a lot of what you shared. He memorized your interviews, tracked your public appearances, and pieced together your habits. But hearing it from your lips was a different kind of thrill.

As you spoke, you noticed something strange. The way Jinwoo looked at you—it wasn’t just admiration. It was as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

That night, Jinwoo returned to his room. In his hand was the notebook you left at the coffee shop. He had no intention of keeping it—just making sure it was returned to you—but he couldn’t help but flip through the pages.

Your notes, written in neat handwriting, were filled with ideas for future stories. Jinwoo’s heart raced as he read, imagining himself in every romantic scene you described.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, the possessiveness in his voice undeniable.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

The next time you saw Jinwoo was at an event reserved for writers and industry leaders. You were invited as a guest of honor, and Jinwoo was there as a socialite.

Dressed in a sleek black suit, Jinwoo looked every inch the powerful CEO, but he was focused on you. As the night wore on, he found his opportunity.

“I want to return this,” he said, handing you your notebook.

Your eyes lit up in surprise. “You found it! Thank you.”

The two of you eventually left the event together, his presence a comforting contrast to the crowded crowd. As the elevator doors closed, Jinwoo turned to you, his expression unreadable.

“You have no idea how much I admire you,” he said, his voice low.

Before you could react, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both gentle and passionate. The world outside the elevator faded away, leaving only the two of you.

Hope you like it! 💗

Yipee, all the requests has been written :)

Proud of myself ✨

Thanks for loving my works, dear readers 💗💗💗

[beautysurvives]

also don’t see enough ppl acknowledge how Dean and Jack are going through such similar journeys in s14. The parallels between Jack losing his soul and the s6 soulless Sam arc are right there on the surface, but what Dean is going through with Michael is also a huge parallel.

I know people get mad at Dean for putting Jack in the Ma’lak box, and I guess it’s easy to forget that Dean’s original plan was to put himself in there. The way Dean blames himself for Michael’s escape (the line is something like “I let my guard down”) is something that gets echoed by Jack so many times, about failing to kill Michael and getting tricked by Lucifer. Jack thinks it’s his fault for not being strong enough. His fault for being too trusting.

And the fact that Dean didn’t put himself in the Ma’lak box — the fact that he allowed his family to convince him not to — that he let his emotional connections guide him rather than his instincts — probably feels like another huge failure for him, and it 100% connects to Mary’s death. Not just because he’s grieving her, not just because he indirectly got her killed, but because, for him, she represents emotional vulnerability and honesty and connection, everything that he believes family should be. Trust and safety, and most importantly, the presence of a parent/matriarch/patriarch — because if she’s gone, who’s left to lead the family? The responsibility has always fallen on his shoulders as the older brother without a stable father figure, but Dean has never wanted this role, and at this point is really not equipped to handle it. Once Mary came around to filling that role in s14, a bit of the weight was lifted from Dean’s shoulders.

And now that ability to breathe a little easier, to start accepting Jack as his own son with the knowledge that, this time, he doesn’t have to feel like he’s the only person responsible for a kid’s life — all of that, to Dean, was his own mistake. It’s a reminder not to trust, not to be emotional, not to form new attachments, and especially not to feel safe or happy (another huge theme in this season: happiness leading to death)

Because if he had just gone in the box, Michael wouldn’t have gotten out, all those hunters wouldn’t have died, and Jack wouldn’t have burned the last of his soul to save him. And if we go even further back, if Dean had never said yes to AU Michael in the first place — which, if you remember, was to save Sam (and Jack, who also doubles as Sam’s foil) from Lucifer.

Another important detail is how in his s12 confrontation with Mary (in Who We Are), Dean blames her for everything that happened in her absence — including Sam losing his soul. Although in that situation, prior to Mary’s resurrection, the main person who could’ve been blamed for that was Cas, and even that (in Dean’s mind) was a reach, because I’m sure he believed that Cas was telling the truth about it being a mistake, and at the end of the day no one really knew why Sam lost his soul. Similarly, many of the things that Sam did while soulless were blamed on Sam himself, which, in light of what we saw in s11 and with Donatello (that not having a soul doesn’t automatically make you harmful), kind of holds up. But still, who can be blamed for mistakes, errors in judgment, or consequences of risky decisions made in the absence of crucial information. Mary, like Chuck and Amara in s15, becomes that person simply by virtue of being a parent. Which is also why it’s so easy for Dean to start placing all the blame on Cas for failing to warn him about Jack killing the snake, and then failing to get back in time to warn them — being absent when they needed him there most. Regardless of how Dean has been behaving towards Jack, regardless of his own internal feelings of parenthood, Cas is the only one in tfw who has claimed responsibility for Jack, verbally identified himself as Jacks father, and accepted blame by apologizing.

People often point out how Sam behaves like a parent to Jack, but I think they miss the opportunity to connect this to the role Dean had to play after Mary’s death when he was a child. Sam sees Jacks need for another father figure besides Cas, just as Dean did for Sam when they were children — which is something I think Dean recognizes in s15, when he says “I tried the family thing, didn’t work” and Sam says “Yeah, me too.” Dean could be talking about Cas and Jack, or Lisa and Ben, but Sam is most likely talking about Jack. And if you watch the scene, there’s this little look from Dean that I’ve always read as guilt, because imo he does see Jack as his child, and regrets that Sam was parentified in his absence.

But when it comes to Dean himself, as one of Jack’s parents, he completely deflects blame in light of Mary’s death. He starts acting like he never saw Jack as family — and like his relationship with Cas was never “real” — and it’s especially easy because they’ve never had an actual out loud conversation where they explicitly defined Dean’s significance to either of them. His rejection of Jack as a family member — and his subsequent rejection of Cas as a partner — is not because Dean never loved/cared about him — it’s a rejection of responsibility. It’s his inability to recognize himself as partially culpable (and he is, because, despite his relative passivity at the start, he went along wholeheartedly with the plan to use Jack’s soul to bring him back, and he, like Cas and Sam, put the responsibility to make sure that Jack didn’t lose his soul on other people AND allowed Jack to be unsupervised and put in situations where he’d be tempted to use his powers AND didn’t even allow himself to see the warning signs — and none of this makes it entirely Dean’s fault, because of course he was dealing with his own Michael crisis — he was hardly in a position to really act like a good parent, which he knew) — but the death of Mary also means the absence of a central figure to blame. It is the absence of a leader.

So when Chuck appears and gives him the Equalizer — the gun that will kill both its target and the person wielding it — of course he’ll take that deal. God is telling him to do it, and that it’s the only way — and without Mary present to remind him that she wouldn’t want this (which he realizes on his own later), he believes it.

Of course he’ll die killing Jack, because in Dean’s heart he sees them as the same person. He sees them as equally to blame. And it’s so connected to everything that came before Jack too — it’s a fitting punishment for the mistake Dean’s been making over and over again since episode one — since his father first told him that he’d have to kill Sam. Since he refused, time and again. Since he let himself get close to Cas just to get betrayed over and over. Since he decided to team up with Crowley, despite that warning he’d been given (if John saw you working with a demon…) Since he saved Baby Amara, not knowing that she’d grow up to be the darkness. Letting his love and compassion and empathy blind him to something that, in his mind — in any good hunter’s mind — should be black and white. The monster is supposed to die, even if it looks like you. It shouldn’t matter how you feel because feeling means the monsters win.

[anhedoniawrites]

just feeling my way back to you.

gif by @reidgif

lovers - anna of the north

part one!

Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU Reader

summary: the two youngest BAU agents explore their wants & needs together.

genre: smut🔥

word count: 5.2k

warnings: 18+, NSFW, MDNI! no use of y/n, proofread, size difference, nipple play, oral (f receiving, only if you squint), fingering (f receiving), unprotected p in v, cream pie, aftercare.

Spencer sat beside you, his gaze drifting over to you in the quiet of his apartment. You took slow, thoughtful sips of your wine, your eyes wandering around the space as if you were trying to memorise every corner of it. You looked at the bookshelves stacked with well-worn novels, the photographs framed on the walls that captured moments from Spencer’s life—some familiar, some foreign—and the odd assortment of trinkets and souvenirs scattered across the surfaces. It was as though you were taking the time to piece together who he was, each object a small window into his world.

The way you moved—so effortlessly, so naturally—caught Spencer off guard. You weren’t just occupying the space; you were making it your own, adding a layer of comfort to a place that had always felt a little disordered and incomplete to him. It was a quality he found magnetic, the way you seemed to settle into any space with such ease, as if you could make anywhere feel like home.

Without realising it, he found himself staring, lost in the soft curve of your profile, the way your fingers delicately held the glass, and the gentle way your eyes traced the walls. He was so caught up in the moment that he didn’t notice when your gaze shifted to meet his.

Your brow arched slightly, and you set your glass down with a soft clink, the sound breaking the quiet. “What are you looking at?” Your voice was light, and playful, but there was a warmth in your eyes that made Spencer’s heart skip a beat.

He blinked, startled, but a soft chuckle escaped his lips, his usual self-consciousness melting away in the moment. “You’re just captivating,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper, the sincerity in his words impossible to hide.

The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, and without thinking, he reached out. His fingers brushed against your cheek, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, the touch gentle, lingering for a second longer than he intended. It wasn’t a grand gesture—just a simple act of intimacy—but it felt monumental. There was something about the softness of the moment that made everything else fade away.

Spencer smiled softly, his heart fluttering in his chest at the way you looked at him. The warmth in your eyes made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t quite experienced before. Your breath caught for a brief moment, your cheeks flushing with a delicate blush as their eyes locked, and then, without another word, you leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost tentative, as if neither of them wanted to break the fragile intimacy they’d built. But the softness of it, the way your lips met his with such quiet certainty, deepened the moment in a way words never could. Spencer’s breath caught, his pulse quickening, as his hand instinctively found its way to your face, his thumb gently brushing the side of your cheek.

For a moment, time seemed to slow, the world outside of the apartment fading away. It was just the two of them, wrapped in the warmth of the kiss, the tenderness between them undeniable. The soft pressure of your lips against his felt like the culmination of everything that had been building throughout the night—the laughter, the quiet moments, the connection. It was all there, in the simple act of their kiss.

Their kiss deepened, a fiery hunger igniting between them that neither could deny. The heat of the moment consumed them as Spencer got up from the couch and walked backward, guiding them toward his bedroom without breaking contact. Their lips moved fervently, breaths mingling as they stumbled, almost losing their balance. Your hands were insistent, slipping under the fabric of his jacket and pushing it from his shoulders.

“Please,” you murmured against his lips, your voice soft but urgent. Your nimble fingers began undoing the buttons of his shirt, one by one, until the fabric parted to reveal his chest.

When the back of Spencer’s legs hit the bed, he sat down abruptly, his knees spreading to invite you to stand between them. You stepped closer, your arms draping over his shoulders, your touch warm and possessive. His shirt hung open, exposing a lean, lightly toned frame—exactly the way you liked. Your eyes roamed over him with unspoken appreciation. Spencer’s hands found your upper waist, his palms gliding down your sides to your hips, even as the fabric of your dress teased the skin beneath. Every curve, every line of your body seemed to captivate him.

“You can take it off,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. Your thumb brushed along his jawline, the small motion grounding them both in the intimacy of the moment. Spencer swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded. Slowly, almost torturously, his hands travelled lower, skimming the soft material of your dress until he reached the hem. He rose to his full height, towering over you, and you instinctively lifted your arms above your head, allowing him to lift the dress from your body.

The fabric slipped away, revealing your bare skin to the dim light of the room. Your beauty took his breath away. For a moment, he held the dress in his hands, his gaze locking with yours before he let it fall to the floor at their feet. Your cheeks flushed under his intense gaze, but you stood steady, letting him drink you in.

“You’re stunning,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. He reached out, his hands settling on your waist again as he pulled you closer. Gently, sitting back down he leaned forward, his lips brushing against the soft skin of your stomach in a kiss so tender it sent shivers up your spine.

Spencer’s lips began to wander, trailing kisses across your abdomen. Each one was deliberate, an unspoken promise of adoration. When his mouth brushed against your hip, you jolted slightly, a giggle escaping your lips before you could stop it.

“That tickles,” you admitted, your voice tinged with a mix of embarrassment and delight.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Good to know,” he said, his voice laced with warmth. Then, with a soft chuckle, he pressed another kiss to the same spot, revelling in the way your body reacted to him.

Each kiss was a worshipful touch, his lips moving with a mixture of restraint and longing as if he wanted to memorise every inch of you. For the first time, you felt completely and utterly seen, cherished in a way that made your heart ache with the intensity of it.

“What do you want, baby?” Spencer murmured, his voice a husky whisper against your skin as he trailed a series of tender kisses along your collarbone, your shoulders, and down your arms. His lips were soft yet insistent, his touch a silent promise of his devotion. Every movement, every kiss, spoke volumes about how much he adored you—how much he cherished every moment they spent together.

“I want you,” you whispered back, your voice breathy but resolute, as your hands moved to the collar of his shirt. Your fingers trembled slightly, but you didn’t falter, eager to rid him of the barriers between them. The shirt slid off his shoulders with ease, exposing his lean, toned chest to your hungry gaze. You bit your lip softly, your teeth grazing the tender flesh, and Spencer’s eyes darkened at the sight.

He reached out, brushing his thumb gently over your bottom lip, his touch both possessive and reverent. “Don’t do that, sweetheart,” he said in a low voice, his thumb lingering for a moment before he cupped your face, his palm warm against your cheek.

“Please, Spence,” you murmured, your voice trembling with need. Your knees hit the floor as you lowered yourself in front of him, your eyes locking onto his with a mixture of desire and vulnerability. You were at eye level with his belt now, your fingers already reaching for the buckle, your gaze seeking his approval.

His breath hitched, his resolve wavering for the briefest moment, but he quickly regained control. Spencer nodded, his jaw tightening as he watched you deftly unfasten his belt, your fingers brushing against him as you worked. The sound of his zipper being undone filled the room, and his slacks pooled at his feet, springing free his stiff erection.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and expectant, your lips parted slightly. Your hands hovered over the waistband of his boxers, but before you could go further, his large hands gently wrapped around your wrists, stopping you.

“No, baby,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. His gaze softened as he looked down at you, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Tonight is about you. I’m going to take care of you.”

Before you could protest, he leaned down, his hands sliding beneath your arms as he helped you to your feet. His lips found yours in a kiss that was both slow and all-consuming, a kiss that left you breathless as he guided you backward toward the bed.

Your back met the soft mattress, and he eased you down, his hands gentle yet commanding as he positioned you just how he wanted. You lay beneath him, your chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, your body clad in nothing but delicate lace that did little to conceal your curves.

Spencer stood above you for a moment, taking you in. The way your hair fanned out across the pillow, the way your skin seemed to glow in the soft light of the room, the way you looked at him as if he were the only thing you needed.

Spencer shifted beside you on the bed, his breath warm against your skin as he lowered himself to your knee. His lips pressed delicate, lingering kisses along the curve of your leg, trailing upward with unhurried devotion. Each touch sent a shiver cascading through your body, anticipation pooling in the pit of your stomach.

When he reached the edge of your bralette, his kisses faltered for a moment, and he glanced up, catching your gaze. Your back arched instinctively as if your body was urging you forward, your fingers fumbling behind you to unclip the fabric that kept your textured. The moment the tension snapped free, your bralette slid off your shoulders, leaving you exposed.

Spencer stilled. His wide, hazel eyes roamed over you, his breath catching as though the sight of you had stolen every coherent thought. You were radiant—utterly captivating—and for a brief moment, he felt foolish just laying there, staring, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“Can I?” he asked, his voice soft, barely above a whisper, but filled with reverence. His hands hovered hesitantly, his gaze locking onto yours with a pleading vulnerability that made your heart race. You could see him wrestling with himself, clinging desperately to the fraying edges of his self-control.

Your lips parted, and you nodded, the simple gesture granting him permission.

He exhaled slowly, his hands finding your skin with a gentleness that made your breath hitch. His fingers skimmed the swell of your breast before settling at your peak. He pinched softly, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, drawing out the most delicious tension before giving a subtle upward tug. When he finally released, the sensation left you trembling, a soft whimper escaping your lips.

The sound drove him mad, his restraint slipping with every second. Spencer leaned closer, brushing his lips against the column of your neck as his hands continued their exploration, worshipping every inch of you.

You were utterly undone, your head falling back against the pillow as his touch turned you into a mess of quiet gasps and whispered pleas, each sound echoing like a symphony in his ears.

“More. Please, Spence,” you whispered into his ear, your voice trembling with need. Your head rested on his shoulder, your breath warm against his skin. His fingers continued their slow, deliberate pinching at your nipples, drawing soft gasps from your lips.

With his free hand, Spencer moved down, hesitating at the waistband of your underwear. He paused, his fingers ghosting over the fabric as his eyes searched yours for the permission he craved more than anything.

Your response was a broken moan, a breathless, “Mm-hm,” followed by a shaky nod. It was all he needed. Carefully, he slipped his hand beneath the elastic, his fingertips brushing against the soft, slick heat of your folds. You gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily at the sensation.

“You’re so sensitive, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with adoration. His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you nodded eagerly, your body arching toward his touch, silently pleading for more.

Spencer’s movements were unhurried, deliberate, as though he wanted to savour every moment of this intimacy. Slowly, he ran his fingers along your slit, collecting your arousal before letting one finger dip inside you. The sensation made you gasp, your body tightening around him instantly. You bit your lip, trying to stifle a moan, but it escaped anyway, soft and unrestrained.

He began to move his finger in and out of your at an achingly slow pace, his touch gentle yet deliberate. Your head fell back against his chest, your eyes fluttering shut as a quiet plea slipped from your lips. “More. Please.”

Obliging your, Spencer carefully added a second finger, easing your open with patience and care. You let out a breathless whimper, your hips rolling instinctively to meet his hand. It wasn’t greedy—it was perfect. He set a steady, measured rhythm, his fingers curling slightly to brush against your sweet spot with every stroke.

As he worked you, his palm pressed against your clit, adding a delicious friction that had your thighs trembling. You clenched around his fingers, your breathing growing shallow, your body teetering on the edge of control.

“Right there,” you gasped, your voice cracking with need. Your high was building rapidly, a fire igniting deep in your stomach, threatening to consume your whole.

Spencer’s eyes never left your face, his heart racing at the sight of you coming undone in his arms. He continued his rhythm, his touch unrelenting but tender, wanting nothing more than to give you everything you needed.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice reverent, as if the words themselves were a prayer.

Your body tensed, your hips lifting off the bed as your climax overtook you, a shuddering cry falling from your lips. Spencer held you through it, his fingers coaxing you through the waves of your release, his free hand brushing soothingly along your side.

As you came down, your body relaxed against him, your head nestled into the crook of his neck. “I’ve got you,” he whispered softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Spencer shifted from behind you with tender care that made your chest tighten. His movements were deliberate, his gaze soft as he positioned himself above you in missionary. His hands gently brushed over your thighs, his voice low and soothing.

“Can I take these off, sweetheart?” he asked, his tone laced with both reverence and restraint.

Still basking in the haze of your orgasm, you nodded, your mind too clouded to form words. The intensity of what you had just felt lingered in your body, leaving you breathless and pliant beneath him. You didn’t understand why it had affected you so deeply—maybe it was because it was Spencer who had given it to you. Whatever the reason, it had felt better than anything you’d experienced before, though you weren’t about to tell him that. His ego didn’t need any more fuel tonight.

Spencer hooked his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties, pausing as his eyes flicked to yours. “I need you to lift your hips for me, darling,” he murmured.

Your body responded instinctively, your hips rising just enough for him to slide the fabric down your legs. The cool air brushed against your skin as the damp material was removed, and you felt an odd relief to be rid of it. You barely noticed Spencer had already used his boxers until your eyes flicked downward.

You froze for a moment, your breath hitching. You’d had a rough idea of his size when you unzipped his pants earlier, but seeing him now left you speechless. He was bigger than you’d expected—not that you were complaining.

Spencer must have caught the flicker of surprise in your eyes, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he moved back up your body, his touch reverent as he gently parted your legs. His lips found your clit in a soft, feather-light kiss, and you couldn’t help the shiver that coursed through you. Your hips bucked involuntarily, a quiet gasp falling from your lips.

“Do you have a condom?” he asked, his voice slightly hoarse as he positioned himself above your, their faces now inches apart. His gaze searched yours, filled with both desire and care.

“I’m on the pill,” you whispered, your cheeks flushing as a wave of shyness overtook you. You didn’t know why you suddenly felt so bashful when Spencer had grown so confident, but you found yourself enjoying the new dynamic.

His brow furrowed slightly, his fingers reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb brushed over your cheek before trailing down to your lips, his touch both calming and electric. “You’re sure, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost a whisper.

You could hear the sincerity in his question. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you—he just wanted to be absolutely certain you were comfortable with what they were about to share.

Looking into his eyes, you saw nothing but tenderness and a quiet devotion that made your heartache. Leaning up, you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, your hand resting lightly against his cheek as you nodded.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the butterflies swirling in your stomach.

Spencer exhaled slowly, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. “Okay,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, grateful smile before he kissed you again, his movements deliberate and full of unspoken promises.

“It might hurt a little as I’m going in, okay?” Spencer murmured, his voice soft and full of care. His body was pressed against yours, their chests flush, and his forehead rested lightly against your breast as he glanced down to line himself up. He moved with the kind of precision and gentleness that made your heartache, as if every movement was a testament to how much he cherished you.

You nodded, your breaths steadying as you braced yourself for the discomfort you expected. Your hands rested lightly on his shoulders, your fingers brushing against his skin in a silent reassurance. You trusted him completely.

When he finally began to press into you, it wasn’t as bad as you had anticipated. There was a pinch—a sharp but fleeting sting—but it faded quickly, leaving only a sensation of fullness that sent a shiver through your body. Spencer stopped the moment he was partially inside, his brow furrowing as he glanced up at you.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, surprised by how gentle it all felt. “That was it?” you asked, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Spencer chuckled softly, his forehead lifting from your skin so his eyes could meet yours. The vulnerability in his gaze made your heart flutter. “Half-ish,” he replied with a playful smirk.

Your eyes widened at his words, and he couldn’t help but laugh again, the sound low and warm in his chest. “Only half?” you echoed, incredulous.

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he explained, his tone patient and soothing.

Your lips pressed into a thin line, giving him a look he knew all too well—a look that said, You should know better than to underestimate me. As if to prove your point, you spoke the exact words he expected. “I would tell you if I needed you to stop.”

He smiled, his hand brushing tenderly against your cheek. “I know,” he said softly, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss to your lips. “Okay, sweetheart. Just let me know if it’s too much.”

With that, he slowly pushed the rest of the way in, his movements careful and measured. Your body tensed for a moment, adjusting to the stretch, and you bit your lip to stifle a gasp. Spencer paused again, giving you time to acclimate.

Your arms instinctively wrapped around him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body adjusted to the fullness. You hated to admit it, but he had been right—it was almost overwhelming. A soft, breathless moan escaped your lips, and you felt your nails drag against his skin as you gripped him tighter, the pressure grounding you.

“Are you okay?” he asked again, his voice thick with concern, his gaze searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

You nodded, your lips curving into a small, reassuring smile. “I’m okay,” you whispered. “You feel... really good.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he leaned down to kiss you again, his lips slow and deliberate against yours. The kiss deepened as he began to move, his hips rocking gently against yours, keeping his pace slow and steady.

Your breath hitched with every deliberate movement, the pleasure surging through you like a wave, steady and unrelenting. Each thrust was slow, measured, as if he were savouring every moment, every reaction he drew from you. It wasn’t rushed; it wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate, a dance that spoke of connection, trust, and a shared yearning.

Your body arched into his, your hands sliding over the taut muscles of his back. Your nails dug in lightly, not in pain but in a desperate attempt to ground yourself against the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. Spencer leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, his voice a low, reverent whisper. The words were soft, almost vulnerable, as though he were baring his soul in those few syllables. They wrapped around your heart, filling you with a warmth that was just as intense as the fire burning between them.

Your response was a breathless moan, your lips parting as your head tilted back against the pillow. His lips found the curve of your neck, brushing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. Each kiss was deliberate, lingering, as though he wanted to imprint himself on you.

The rhythm they created together was almost hypnotic, their bodies moving in perfect sync, a harmony that felt instinctual, and natural. His hips pressed against yours with each deliberate thrust, slow and deep, leaving you gasping for air. Your body responded to him as if it had been made for this, every nerve alive, every inch of your attuned to him.

“Spencer,” you breathed, your voice trembling with emotion, with need. Your hands slipped into his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel the warmth of his body pressed fully against yours. He responded with a kiss that was both tender and consuming, his lips capturing yours in a way that made the world fade away.

His hands roamed over your body, exploring your curves with a reverence that made you feel utterly adored. His fingers traced patterns along your sides, his touch firm yet gentle, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He held you as though you were precious, as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice steady and soothing, grounding you in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure building between them. The sincerity in his words brought a lump to your throat, your heart swelling with a mixture of love and desire that threatened to consume you.

The intensity between them grew with each slow, deliberate thrust, their movements a testament to the unspoken connection they shared. Your breathing quickened, your chest rising and falling as you clung to him, your body trembling beneath his. The pleasure was a slow burn, building gradually, each wave more intense than the last, until it felt like you were teetering on the edge of something vast and all-encompassing.

Spencer’s own breathing had grown heavier, his control slipping as he lost himself in you. His hands tightened on your hips, anchoring them together as he pressed deeper, his forehead resting against yours. Their eyes met, and in that moment, everything else ceased to exist.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. His lips brushed yours in a kiss that was almost unbearably tender, a stark contrast to the heat simmering between them.

The pleasure built to a crescendo, their bodies moving together in perfect unison, every touch, every kiss, every whispered word driving them closer to the edge. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your back arching as your body surrendered completely to him.

“Spencer,” you gasped, your voice trembling, your body taut with anticipation.

“I’m right here,” he reassured you, his voice steady despite the strain in it, his movements never faltering.

The tension between them snapped like a string pulled too tight, pleasure crashing over you in a wave so intense it left you trembling. A cry escaped your lips, your body shaking as you clung to him, your nails raking down his back as you were consumed by the sensation.

Spencer followed a heartbeat later, his movements faltering as he let go, a low groan escaping him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His arms tightened around you, holding you close as they rode out the waves together, their bodies trembling in the aftermath.

They collapsed against each other, breathless and sated, their hearts pounding in unison. Spencer pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his fingers brushing stray strands of hair from your face.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured, his voice soft, his lips curving into a small, contented smile.

You smiled back, your chest still heaving as you nestled closer to him, your head resting against his shoulder. In that moment, wrapped in his arms, you felt safe, cherished, and completely, undeniably his.

After a peaceful moment of rest, Spencer stirred, shifting carefully as he climbed out of bed. The warm sheets clung to him, but his attention wasn’t on himself—it was on you. He moved quietly, trying not to disturb you too much, but the shift in weight made you protest softly.

“Spence, no. What are you doing?” you murmured, your voice laced with sleep and the reluctance to lose his warmth.

He bent down beside you, his soft, intelligent eyes meeting yours as his hand cupped your cheek. His fingers gently brushed away a few stray strands of hair that had fallen across your face, revealing your delicate features. His voice was tender, a soothing balm in the quiet room. “You have to pee, or else you’ll get a UTI,” he said softly, his tone both practical and caring.

You groaned, turning your head away from him, your body heavy with exhaustion and unwillingness. “I don’t want to move,” you mumbled, burying your face into the pillow.

Spencer, ever patient, leaned closer, his lips brushing against your temple. “If you pee, I’ll carry you,” he offered with a knowing smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d used this bribe, and he knew it would work.

Your lips quirked up into a small smile despite yourself, your facial muscles betraying your resolve. He saw it and smirked in return, victorious before you even gave in.

Finally, you turned back to face him, raising your arms in surrender, signalling for him to carry you. “Fine,” you said, your voice playfully exasperated.

Bending down, he slid his arms under you, lifting you effortlessly in a bridal-style hold. Your head rested against his chest as he carried you to the bathroom, his steps careful and deliberate, ensuring you felt secure in his arms. When they reached the bathroom, he set you down gently on the cool surface of the toilet seat.

“I’m just going to grab you a shirt to sleep in, okay?” he murmured, brushing a kiss against your forehead before stepping out to give you some privacy.

You nodded softly, watching him leave with a small, sleepy smile. Left alone, you did your business, moving slowly and carefully, still basking in the warmth of his touch and the care in his voice.

Moments later, Spencer returned with a spare pair of boxers and one of his oversized shirts, the fabric worn and soft. “You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice low and comforting as he approached you.

You nodded again, a droopy smile tugging at your lips. Your eyes followed him as he moved to the sink, filling it with warm water. He grabbed a clean washcloth, soaking it and wringing out the excess water with precision.

“I need you to stand up for me, okay?” he said gently, his hands extended toward you.

With his help, you stood slowly, leaning on him slightly as your body protested the movement. He supported you easily, one hand steadying your waist as he brought you closer. You looked down at him with a soft expression as he knelt before you, his every movement careful and deliberate.

Guiding your legs apart just slightly, he took the damp washcloth and brought it to your skin, his touch feather-light as he began to clean you. The warmth of the cloth combined with his gentleness sent a wave of comfort through you, even as you winced slightly at the tenderness.

You hissed softly, your body still sensitive. “I know,” he murmured, his voice filled with apology. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I promise I’m almost done.”

To emphasize his words, Spencer leaned forward, his lips brushing against your stomach in a soft, tender kiss. The gesture was full of care and regret, a silent apology that made your heart swell. You glanced down at him, your fingers instinctively moving to run through his hair as he lingered there for a moment.

“You’re too good to me,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

His lips curved into a small smile against your skin before he straightened, his hands moving with the same deliberate care as he finished cleaning you. When he was done, he leaned back slightly, his hands smoothing over your thighs as he looked up at you. “Tyoure,” he said softly, his voice warm and reassuring. “All done.”

He helped you into the boxers and shirt, his hands steady as he guided your arms through the sleeves and adjusted the hem. “You’re so good to me,” you repeated, your voice filled with affection as you looked at him.

He smiled, his expression tender as he cupped your face again. “You deserve nothing less,” he replied, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before scooping your back into his arms.

Spencer carried you back to bed, settling you beneath the covers and tucking you in before sliding in beside you. You curled into him instinctively, your head resting on his chest as his arms wrapped around you.

“Goodnight, Spence,” you murmured sleepily, your voice soft and content.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your hair as he held you close.

In his arms, you felt safe, loved, and cherished—a feeling you knew you could get used to.

thank you for reading!

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masterlist!

taglist: @pleasantwitchgarden

[dnickels]

John Irving Poem Playlist

I love the hype around Davechella and wanted to do something a little different- a mixtape of poems, with commentary (desperate self-justification) and bonus poems below the cut

I.

The Lamb, William Blake

The Pilgrim, Sophie Jewett

Self-Dependence, Matthew Arnold

The Light of Stars, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Wanderer, Unknown, trans. Roy M. Liuzza

Up-Hill, Christina Rosetti

Sir Galahad, Alfred Tennyson

II.

They Could Not Tell Me Who Should Be My Lord, Edwin Muir

God gave a Loaf to every Bird, Emily Dickinson

Ancient Text, Louise Glück

I Find no Peace, Thomas Wyatt

A Secret Told, Emily Dickinson

Mary Magdalen, James Elroy Flecker

Because I Liked You Better, AE Housman

III.

A Better Resurrection, Christina Rossetti

The Temptation of Saint Anthony, Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Leonard Cottrell OR trans. Len Krisak

Batter my heart, three-personed God, John Donne

At Least to Pray, Is Left, Is Left, Emily Dickinson

'Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend", Gerard Manley Hopkins

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, (LXXXIV- LXXXVI) trans. Edward FitzGerald

I Shall Know why- when Time is over, Emily Dickinson

IV.

Sudden Hymn in Winter, Joseph Fasano

Fable and Decade, Louise Glück

Love (III), George Herbert

Of Molluscs, Mary Sarton

Dark Night of Soul, Juan de la Cruz, trans. E Allison Peers

He Touched Me, So I Live to Know, Emily Dickinson

The Finder Found, Edwin Muir

V.

The Plate, Anthony Hecht

Prospice, Robert Browning

Pietà, Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Jessie Lemont

DEATH THE COPPERPLATE PRINTER, Anthony Hecht

The Gold Lily, Louise Glück

Futility, Wilfred Owen

Flock, Billy Collins

"What, no Wild Geese?" spiritually Wild Geese is here, tucked in section IV, which might a well be subtitled "The soft animal gets a treat", same with Song of Songs and so many psalms I couldn't pick one. I wanted to try to play with poems that were either new to me or a little further off the beaten track (although there are still some obvious picks but come on was I not going to get some Donne in there?). Frankly, this entire list could have been Emily Dickinson start to finish, it's not yet accepted historical fact that she was an inexplicable psychic witness to the sufferings of the Franklin Expedition but I am submitting my findings to journals as we speak

(sorry Jirv for all the Catholics and extremely suspect Anglicans!!)

I. SEEKING

Whenever I invoke "The Lamb" please know I am reading it with the same menace and sense of foreboding as Patti Smith. Given the vibe I'm trying to cultivate you'd think there would be more Blake, but I think Jirv has such a profoundly different experience with Church Authority and his own conversion experience that he and Blake hardly seem like they share the same faith. Even in a scenario where he managed to unclench, I can't see him espousing a sentiment like The Garden of Love. Maybe if he survived to reflect on his encounter with Koveyook he might groove more with "[Christ] is the only God ... and so am I and so are you."

The only section that has at least a few poets I think Jirv would actually read, namely Matthew Arnold-- the only poem on here that I think isn't very good, I'm sorry to Mr. Arnold but there we are, they were right to light your ass up in Punch. He's here however because I think his work captures a very clear and immediately accessible sense of the early Victorian man striving to be himself, in the sense that he can flower fully into the model of upstanding sober bourgeois middle-class manhood which isn't always attainable for later birth-order sons in a navy overcrowded with officers. The real life Irving's letters touched me very much in that he is both looking for a deeper connection with God, a better version for himself, and in the material world, a way to make enough money to establish himself as capital-R Respectable in a way that swashbuckling at sea or derring-do in the colonies doesn't really allow him. I actually don't know if the years line up for him to have read Longfellow but this stanza:

O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know erelong, Know how sublime a thing it is  To suffer and be strong.

Is such a classic mid 19th century "making yourself miserable for ideological reasons" motto. Shades of "Invictus" (which for some reason I don't know if Jirv would vibe with, maybe more of a Crozier poem).

I think you could also call the first section "Voyages", I was struck by how often the real Irving was compelled to relocated to try and make a place for himself in the world in the literal, material sense, and the few letters we have are largely his thoughts on his spiritual seeking-- I was very surprised not to find a settled and secured ticket-to-Heaven holder but someone who still considers himself a student, is still wrestling and grasping and looking for something.

Prithee, Pilgrim, go not hence; Clear thy brow, and white thy hand, What shouldst thou with penitence? Wherefore seek to Holy Land? Stern the whisper on his lip: Sin and shame are in my scrip.

It feels a little much to say 'Jirv is the Galahad of their doomed Grail quest' but frankly, given that no one succeeds, I kind of like the idea of a failed Galahad. It's slightly ahistorical to invoke but once we get into the 1860s and the mid-Victorian chivalric revival Galahad becomes a potent symbol for a kind of chaste imperial knighthood in service to God/Queen/Country. At least one young office who died in WWI was named Galahad, not just a PG Wodehouse joke christening.

II. CRISIS

Obviously there are ten thousand things that could torment the evangelical protestant mind and bedevil one's self-worth and it doesn't have to be "hopelessly in love with your best friend" but I wasn't going to miss a chance for some Housman, was i? Wyatt gives us the money couplet:

I desire to perish, and yet I ask health. I love another, and thus I hate myself.

I had included Flecker's We That Were Friends but felt it was just slightly too self-aware, ditto Rosetti's Winter: My Secret.

III. STRIFE

I think these are all pretty self-explanatory. I could have added ten more Emily Dickinson poems because she is the only one on this earth who gets it (me, the deal, the whole of existence). Hopkins I think is more concerned with the sins of the world than the real life Irving (who, based on the very limited material shared, must be the most laid-back and chill evangelical in human history? Or maybe I spent too long among the Baptists) but I can see Jirv wondering, in the God-proof bunker of his diary, why the wicked are flourishing while he is losing his everloving mind and threatening to lock up ABs for being afraid of ghosts.

Here is the excerpted Khayyam so you don't have to go looking (although you should because its wall to wall bangers) (context: the narrator is standing in a potter's shed, and listening to the vessels talk amongst themselves)

LXXXIV. Said one among them— "Surely not in vain My substance of the common Earth was ta'en And to this Figure molded, to be broke, Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again." LXXXV. Then said a Second—"Ne'er a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; And He that with his hand the Vessel made Will surely not in after Wrath destroy." LXXXVI. After a momentary silence spake Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make; "They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

"Did you make me just to smash me, God?"

Runners-up for this section included Rossetti's The Three Enemies, which only didn't make the cut because I think its slightly uneven compared to the rest of this work and this list has become pretty Rossetti-heavy. Ditto De Profundis.

IV. ACCEPTANCE

Also pretty self-explanatory. Mystical union with Christ or a very special sergeant of the marines, or both! Is it canon? No! But I like to think that even just one time...

If you read any poem on this list please read 'Love (III)' and 'The Finder Found', the latter of which is my 'Wild Geese'. It seems self-serving to say I cried when I read it but I did. Meanwhile Herbert is goated and his entire work could be listed here but hearing Love (III) read aloud made me understand what poems could do.

I cheated putting two Glück poems for one but given that they were published together in that magazine I think its ok. Here's even more cheating: The Undertaking would be in there if I could squeeze it on the same line. "The darkness lifts, imagine, in your lifetime" PLEASE

Runners-up here were Larkin's First Sight, which just doesn't quite fit but I love for the sense of spring coming to someone who doesn't know there's anything other than winter deprivation, and A Shropshire Lad XI (On your midnight pallet lying) which I LOVE but again doesn't quite jive with the theme, but I do imagine it as a bridge poem between this section and the last...

V. DOOM

A little bit of Browning, who might squeak in under the line of plausibility (though perhaps not this poem) as Jirv sets out on the death march with waning faith that is not, in fact, a death march but then his journey ends in Stabtown, population: YOU. "The Plate" in this case would be that faith and knowledge of being loved that remains even after hardship and the final lost battle, maybe even literally in the meat from his stomach. But misery and death put all the men on the rack and instead of salvation they are essentially tortured to death, often long enough to crush/squeeze out any semblance of humanity and leaving the animal capacity for violence.

"Futility" could encompass the whole sorry venture but in specific the shot of Jirv's body after all the effort to make contact with someone would could help. Was it for this? "Exposure" also a strong contender for "the long slow process of freezing to death for unclear reasons".

"Flock" of course-- God needs martyrs.

[expectantdaddies]

The story of Chef Denzel and billionaire techbro Atlas Chen began, as many great love stories do, with an ill-fated business dinner at a trendy San Francisco restaurant. Denzel, a strikingly handsome sous chef with chiseled features and a body honed from years in professional kitchens, was used to drawing admiring glances from both men and women. But it was his culinary skills that truly captured the heart of Atlas Chen, the 20-something Chinese-American entrepreneur who had recently made headlines for his latest tech acquisition.

As Denzel plated up a special off-menu dish he had created just for Atlas, little did he know that this moment would change the course of his life forever. Atlas was smitten not only by the exquisite flavors and presentation, but also by the passion and artistry Denzel poured into each dish. In that moment, a spark ignited between them - an undeniable connection that transcended the usual client-chef relationship.

Atlas, known for his relentless determination in both business and romance, pursued Denzel with fervor. He offered the chef an obscene salary to become his personal chef and live in his penthouse apartment. While part of Denzel balked at the idea of being a servant to such an arrogant, entitled young man, he knew this opportunity would provide the financial means to finally open his own restaurant someday.

And so began a tumultuous year for Denzel - cooking gourmet meals for Atlas and accompanying him on lavish international trips, all while suppressing his growing attraction to his boss. But Atlas was nothing if not persuasive, and soon the two found themselves tangled in the sheets, their passion igniting even as Denzel tried to keep his heart at bay.

That is, until the fateful morning when the smell of burning food roused Denzel from slumber. To his shock, Atlas had attempted to make him breakfast in bed, a romantic gesture that ended in charred ruin. Seeing the usually cocky techbro look so forlorn and desperate to please Denzel melted the chef's heart. In that moment, he knew he was irrevocably in love with this infuriating yet endearing man.

Now, as their one-year contract nears its end, Atlas has proposed a new deal - not just another year, but a lifetime together, sealed with an extravagant engagement ring presented under the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower. And as Denzel's stomach swells with Atlas's child, he pauses, savoring the sweet anticipation before finally accepting Atlas's offer and embarking on a new chapter in their unconventional romance - one that began over a shared passion for food and blossomed into so much more.

If you like my work, Buy Me a Coffee.

Denzel, pregnant chef.

If you like my work, Buy Me a Coffee.

[wings-of-ink]

Hello! When I realized you had followed me here on tumblr I had to reach and let you know how much I appreciate it, because I am a huge fan of your work! God-Cursed is excellent and honestly your IF is one of the reasons I was inspired to write my own. I absolutely adore Oswin’s character and his interactions. All your characters are so wonderfully balanced and endearing, and I’m looking forward to more. Thank you for putting your creativity out there for us!

Oh my goodness! I was just re-blogging your IF post, what timing!

I'm so happy you enjoy GC! That makes my week!

I have spent my day counting down the minutes until I can get back to reading Viatica. My husband had to make me put it down last night and I am itching. I am so amazed at how you've painted such a vivid world without much dialogue at all. My mind is blown. All of your ROs are pulling at my heart, and I am very much extra-attached to Lion, oh my goodness, but I will be re-reading for all of them.

I am so elated to be a source of inspiration. I am so glad you have put this out there. Your writing is truly brilliant! ^_^

[itstwoamandimcursingyourname]

Alina Starkov, the unwanted orphan who never knew her parents, the unwanted orphan who was abused by her foster mother, the unwanted orphan whose one friend drifted apart from her when they joined the first army, the unwanted orphan who nobody ever chose, the unwanted orphan with no one to call her own, finally finally finally being wanted and chosen and worshiped by someone(Aleksander Morozova)......

[fullscoreshenanigans]

I headcanon that at first Ray is adamantly against the use of nicknames and pet names for himself because he thinks it's silly.

"My name is Ray. It's literally three letters and one syllable long. Just call me Ray."

But Emma can't let that stand. She has "sunshine" and "Em," Norman has "Nor," "Norm," and "Boss."

So her proposed solution is for Ray to change his name so that "Ray" can be a nickname and show of affection. Ray balks at the suggestions she litters throughout their conversations, addressing him as Raymond, Rayner, even Raybert at one point.

Norman is more deft in his timing so the first time he drops a "Raymond" during one of their chess matches he ends up on the receiving end of Ray channeling Isabella with this look

He does eventually come around to them calling him Sunray.

[paranoidkid]

I am trying so so hard to think and do things but it’s become increasingly difficult for some reason! (I know the reason)

it just feels really really bad to not have a car. if I didn’t have an emotional attachment to my car I dont think I’d feel this awful, but it feels like I just Lost A Family Member (again) and it’s really making things hard to comprehend.

for reference. my car that I drove was my grandmother’s car first, she bought it and owned it. Recently (a couple years ago) I borrowed it to start driving places without using my parents car, and my grandpa just told me to keep the car (my grandma had really severe dementia and couldn’t drive much less leave the house). cut to November of 2024 and my grandmother dies. it’s very sad. on top of her passing, it feels like we’d been mourning her for years, because she was barely able to remember any of us and could not function on her own. [deaths 1 and 2]

The car was an extension of my grandma, to me, on some level. it was Her Car. so when we got the title transferred to me, that was already one step away from it no longer being Her Car. and I’ve been working so so hard to keep that car going for as long as possible; it had a lot of shit wrong with it but I was just glad that It Drove and Had Air Conditioning. bonus points to the speakers, I loved my car speakers. [death 3]

Cut to today, someone blows through a red light in front of me, trying to pass through an intersection, and totals my car. everything about the situation is cut and dry, I am not at fault and nobody is seriously injured. but my car is gone. [death 4]

I’ve spent the entire day having arguments with my manager and a very long panic attack and being at the ER because I panicked so bad I thought I had a concussion (I didn’t hit my head and I was just extremely disoriented). I’ve forgotten how easy it is for me to have a severe response to something that wasn’t “that bad” all things considered. my life has not changed significantly, I am not injured, I got all of my things, my car is totaled, my grandma is dead. I’m really having rough time today.