#so far my thirties have been a million times better than my twenties

[redwinterroses]

Red, you’re an adult, how do you force yourself to grow up without driving yourself mad? Or is it just something you have to do, go mad?

h'ooof that is quite a question.

a) Yeah. Go mad. Just a little. Because part of being an adult is realizing that it's okay to be weird, and it's okay to not have all the answers, and it's okay to fail, and it's okay to not be able to change the world on your own. We're all mad here... which means none of us are. ;)

b) Don't force yourself to "grow up." It's more that you don't keep yourself from maturing -- you don't hold back from learning, and expanding, and becoming more empathetic, and more willing to listen to viewpoints you don't understand or agree with, and taking responsibility for yourself, and turning into the sort of person you want to be... But don't focus on it in terms of "growing up." None of us know what that means -- my grandmother is 72 and she told me the other day that she still doesn't feel "grown up." It's a myth. Focus on growing into the things you want to see in the world, not growing up into some imagined Final Form.

c) Growing up is a thing that happens to you. You won't notice it happening, most times. Sure, some days there are big growth spurts -- learning to cope with the loss of a loved one. Getting fired for the first time. Figuring out rent payments or opening a credit card. Taxes. Moving cross country to a place where you don't know anyone. Those are all big "growing up" things that happen to you, and you see them happen. You have to just take them, the same way you have to eat vegetables: it's part of life. But most "growing up" is... realizing it's been six months since the last time you panicked about someone not liking you. Noticing you can't remember the last time you thought about that one negative thing that seemed like it filled your world a year ago. Checking the calendar and seeing that you've been friends with someone for a decade. Not even noticing how you don't have to struggle to figure out taxes anymore. Doing the dishes because you like to have a clean kitchen, not because someone made you do them. Choosing to eat healthy, and enjoying it. Arguing with someone and being okay with being wrong. Or staying friends with someone you disagree with about something important, because people are more important than positions. Growing up is looking at the tree you planted when you were nine and realizing that, without you noticing it changing, it's now taller than your parents' house.

d) Growing up means building a support system. People who care about you, and what happens to you. People who can call you out when you're about to do something stupid. People who will show up for you when you're going through something. It doesn't have to be many, and they don't even necessarily have to be people you see in person. They can be family, or friends, romantic partners, online friends, pen pals, a religious group, a quilting circle, a stamp collecting club. You invest in their lives, you care about them, you show up for them... and it comes back when you need it. Our current moment in history is hallmarked with loneliness, and it can literally kill -- but part of growing up is realizing that real friendships don't just appear when two people happen to be on the playground together... At least, not past the age of twelve. Support systems take work, and they take effort, and it sucks, but you need it and other people need you. Humans need each other -- even the most introverted amongst us.

e) Care less. But also care more. Care less about what people think of your clothes or your voice or the way you snort-laugh at puns. And the hard one: care less about people being cruel. Care more about counteracting the cruelty. Care less about the person saying hateful things, and more about the people they're saying it to. Care more about picking other people up, and about delighting in the world around you. Look out your window at a traffic stop and care about the clover flower growing in the median -- you might be the only human who ever actually sees it. Isn't that magical? Care more about being kind. Care about justice. Care about rest. Care about the soft things of the world that need protecting. Care about yourself. Care about the people around you. Care about surrounding yourself with people who care back. I guess: learn to budget how you care, and don't spend too much care on things that will harm you.

d) Don't sweat it. ;) Really. People have been figuring this out for hundreds of hundreds of generations. None of it's new. The fear, the uncertainty, the passion, the love, the hope, the confusion... Your great, great, great grandparents felt those things to. Maybe about different specifics, but the emotions are the same. And you're not the only one figuring it out now. We're all on this big stupid blue rock together. Drink some water, breathe deep, and take just the next step forward.

(There's nothing new under the sun: If, by Rudyard Kipling is one of my favorite poems that says all of this but better.)

[kinardsevan]

as we all know, i haven't really been doing @bucktommypositivityweek because I've been busy working on other stuff. but I still wanted to contribute, and I was feeling inspired reading people's additions for 'outsider perspective'. this was also a character study for one of my OCs.

so have this: -

colors

Wilder Gray was born to be an artist. Color was quite literally in his name. He was also gay fresh out of the womb, and god bless the fact that his parents had accepted that from day one, because otherwise he never would’ve stood a chance. 

Life had been easy for him, mostly. He came from enough money that his parents sent him to semi-private school for he better part of his upbringing. When they’d discovered his ability to draw and paint towards the end of elementary school, he’d been promptly enrolled in the Los Angeles Academy of Arts and Enterprise for intermediate school. Growing up in that kind of environment had fed his need to create as well as be surrounded by other creatives. It also fostered a very accepting community where he never felt out of place or like he couldn’t be exactly who he was. By the time he was in his twenties, enrolled in UCLA, he’d had several serious relationships. 

He met one Thomas Kinard at the age of twenty-five, fresh out of his graduate program with an MFA in interdisciplinary arts. Tommy was just about to turn thirty-three and had looked extremely uncomfortable in his skin as he sat down at a gay bar in WeHo. It would be weeks before Tommy would admit to him that he was freshly out of the closet, and that up until a few months before, the most he’d ever engaged with the community was through one night stands and the boy he had shared a secret relationship with during his five and a half years in the military. 

To be clear, Tommy had rocked Wilder’s universe on its axis. When they first met, Wilder wanted nothing to do with a relationship with him. he knew Tommy was still figuring out his footing with his sexuality now that he was out, and as much as Wilder was willing to be a friend through that process, he didn’t want to play the part of the boyfriend who helped Tommy experiment and get educated. 

Which isn’t to say it panned out the greatest for him. He watched Tommy engage in multiple relationships over the next three years, and he was jealous as fuck every single time. He hated Mike, the forty-five-year-old man that Tommy met a few weeks after Wilder had met him. That relationship lasted four months. Mike was a domineering dick who did a damn good job at pretending to be sunshine. Wilder wondered if Tommy realized he didn’t have to date twice-divorced men in order to figure out what he liked, but it also wasn’t his place to speak. At least, until he and Tommy met up on a random Tuesday, three and a half months into the relationship, and Tommy tried to lie to him about bruises on his wrists. Wilder was a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them. He’d told Tommy that night that he was capable of doing so much better, that he deserved better. When Tommy had questioned him—over half a dozen beers—Wilder had kissed him about it. 

Granted, that didn’t lead anywhere, other than far enough for Tommy to be confident enough to end the relationship with Mike. They were both single for a few months after that, but whatever Tommy was waiting on, Wilder wasn’t sure. He was still firm on his position about not wanting to be the person to help Tommy gain experience. 

After Mike came Leo. Leo came with a million and a half red flags. Leo came with love bombs and grand gestures, with one thing on his mind. As soon as he got Tommy into bed, he was gone. Tommy never really talked about how everything with Leo panned out, but Wilder suspected that it wouldn’t have gone much further anyway. Another night over too many beers, all Tommy would say about Leo was that he was ‘rough. Way too rough.’ 

Either way, he bounced back. Ezra came along only a few weeks after Leo, and Ezra was so, so sweet. And so naïve. He was younger than Wilder, and clearly still trying to figure things out about himself. However, Ezra also seemed to have stars in his eyes about how things were going to work out, while Tommy had lost most of his rosy view on his sexuality. It wasn’t to say that they didn’t have fun together. But Wilder could tell that Ezra thought Tommy would settle down with him, while Tommy just wanted to work out the kinks he’d gone through in recent months and figure himself out more. 

Ezra lasted two months. 

Charlie showed up in the middle of October, almost as though he’d been swept through along with the Santa Ana winds. He put a smile on Tommy’s face that Wilder was positive he’d never seen on his friend. Charlie was the boy from Iraq. He was also Tommy’s first real love. Wilder liked Charlie. 

Wilder didn’t love Charlie. 

It wasn’t that Charlie was a bad guy. Charlie clearly cared about Tommy a fair amount, although it was questionable whether he actually liked Tommy as much as Tommy loved him. The deeper problem was that Tommy looked at Charlie the way Ezra had looked at Tommy. Except, Charlie had done the  ‘make my parents happy’ way. He had been married, was now divorced, and still half-living in the closet. Wilder had warned Tommy against doing that with him, warned him that it would only lead to him getting hurt, but Tommy swore to him that Charlie had promised. Promised one day soon they would be out together. Promised they’d get to tell people the truth. Promised the kids would know him as more than just Charlie’s army buddy. 

Those promises went on for a year before Tommy smashed what was left of his rose-colored glasses. Wilder was there with the alcohol and the metaphorical stitches to piece Tommy back together. 

The thing was, by that time, he’d promised himself that he and Tommy were better as friends. That they’d built something strong enough to withstand the passing glances and the hugs that lasted a minute too long, the pauses when they pullled away where he could feel Tommy’s breath on his lips and it stirred something inside him that he hadn’t felt since he was sixteen and dating Danny Coston, sneaking kisses behind the fieldhouse while they were skipping out on PE. 

He’d loved Tommy too much by then. As his friend. 

As more than his friend. 

And then one night, over beers and a pizza, Tommy was telling him this story about a rescue that Wilder still thinks was absolutely fucking stupid, rocking a helicopter between cliffsides to rescue a group of teenagers who thought rock climbing without gear in Griffith Park sounded like a fun idea. By some miracle, everyone had been saved, Tommy hadn’t crashed the helicopter, and it had made the news. What’s more, Wilder had been the first person Tommy had wanted to tell him about his suicidal save. 

Wilder had to kiss him about it, of course. That shattered whatever falsehoods Wilder was letting himself live in at that point in relation to their relationship. Tommy wasn’t experimenting anymore, and he didn’t need an education. He was out, he wasn’t interested in keeping secrets, and he wanted something real.

. . . 

The first year was amazing. Granted, WIlder never fell in love with the danger of Tommy’s job, but that was fine. He was in love with everything else about Tommy. He loved his personality, his face, his body, his hopes, his dreams, his willingness to be Wilder’s model on any occasion…he just loved Tommy. 

Year two wasn’t as easy. They were settled, talking about living together but not quite pulling the trigger. Wilder’s career was doing really well. He’d taken part in four exhibitions in less than a calendar year and there was a lot of attention coming his way. There were offers coming out of Chicago and New York for residencies and some teaching opportunities. 

There was a bad fire at a compound. Tommy got second-degree burns and had pretty bad smoke inhalation. Wilder hoped that after that, maybe he’d rethink his career. 

Things got worse. 

Still, somehow they found their way through. As they came upon their second anniversary, it felt like they were reaching the other side. There were still offers on the table for Wilder, and he had floated a few of them to Tommy. In return, Tommy had fully supported the suggestion for a three-month residency in Chicago. He would remain in L.A. during Wilder’s time away, but it was good for Wilder, and as Tommy had said to him at the time, ‘what’s good for you is good for us’. 

Except, the offers didn’t stop at Chicago. He was weeks away from finishing his residency when he was offered the opportunity to take part in an exhibition in Texas. What was supposed to be a two week trip there turned into four months, and their anniversary came and went with little more than phone calls and the occasional flight out for a twenty-four or forty-eight hours together. 

After Texas was Savannah, Georgia. Then Charlotte, North Carolina. Then a month-long trip to Florida with a few guest lectures at FSU. Eight months into what should’ve been the third year of their relationship, Wilder hadn’t seen Tommy more than fifteen days total. And the thing was, the love was still there.

But they weren’t in love anymore, and he knew they both felt it. Tommy loved his job just as much as Wilder loved his. Neither of them were going to give up their careers, and they weren’t going to ask the other to, either. 

It ended on a facetime call, just a few weeks before their anniversary. There were tears shed, although it was more a sadness at the loss of what they’d hoped they could be than it was at the actual relationship. There were ‘I love you’s. And then there was silence. 

. . .

The first time Wilder meets Evan Buckley, he’s barely been back in Los Angeles for a week. He’s set to start a residency for the summer and then take on a teaching position at UCLA in the fall. He’s supposed to be meeting some friends for dinner when the blonde man bumps into him at the bar, stammering out an apology with full hands as they turn to face each other. 

Evan looks at him with a weird expression that Wilder doesn’t fully understand at the time. He dismisses the bump as equally his own fault and then turns his attention back toward the bar. 

“Hi, baby. Sorry, I’m late.” 

That voice feels like someone just poured a shot of Jack Tennessee Honey down Wilder’s throat. All the heat with none of the burn. As he turns back around, he spots a familiar head of brown curls just as the blonde tilts up toward him, and then Tommy is kissing the other man. Wilder inhales a sharp breath. 

The thing is, it’s been more than a year. It’s been even longer since he and Tommy were something real. But something about seeing him kiss another man still stirs something in Wilder’s chest. 

Still, he decides it’s not his place. Not here, and not tonight. He steps away from the bar and moves down some ten feet, around the corner of it and in between a few people. 

. . . 

“So were you going to call me?” 

It’s been three days. WIlder is standing in the middle of an aisle at Blick, trying to decide between Golden and WIndsor Newton acrylics when he looks up. Tommy has a basket in his hand, half-full with small canvases and a fair amount of Liquitex. 

“Hey, T,” he greets cordially. Tommy smiles at him and then steps forward, offering him a side hug. Wilder accepts it, tucking his chin over Tommy’s shoulder. “Good to see you.” 

“I had to call your mom,” Tommy states when they part. 

“I was gonna call at some point,” WIlder states a bit sheepishly. 

“You always go with Windsor,” Tommy comments, as though he can hear the argument in Wilder’s head. “Forget Golden.” 

Wilder chuckles. “Sure.” He’s quiet for a moment, reaches out for a tube of Windsor Newton. As he stares at the unbleached titanium shade in his hand, he contemplates. He tilts his head after a moment, glances over at Tommy. “So. The new guy.” 

There’s a glint of something in Tommy’s eye that Wilder hasn’t seen in at least five years. Something he saw once, after their first drunken kiss. 

“His name is Evan,” Tommy replies. He lets out a soft sgh. “He thought I was introducing you two. Had a hell of a time explaining to him that I didn’t even know you were back.” 

Wilder nods. That familiar twinge of jealousy throbs in his chest, under his heart. 

“You sticking around,” Tommy asks him after another minute of silence. Wilder glances back up at him. 

“Got a residency downtown,” he replies. “And then UCLA in the fall. So I’ll be here, yeah.” 

Tommy nods. “We should get dinner. Evan wants to meet you properly.” 

“Sure,” Wilder says again. What else is he supposed to say? They’re not together anymore. 

“Give me call when you’re more settled. We’ll plan something,” Tommy says with a pat to Wilder’s shoulder. He’s walking backwards then, heading back down the aisle. He shakes a finger in Wilder’s direction. “Good to see you, Wy.” 

. . . 

The second time Wilder meets Evan Buckley, they’re in another bar. He’s been in the studio almost exclusively for the better part of a week and had been dragged out by a friend with the promise of carbs—his fridge might’ve been mostly empty, other than juice boxes and pepperoni slices—but carbs is apparently at a bar that doubles as a pizzeria. 

He’s not following them, he swears. But he’s been waiting for ten minutes on his pizza while his friend is on the phone with his girlfriend when Tommy strolls up to the bar with his boyfriend—Evan? Tommy has his arm wrapped around the younger man’s hip, head tilted in and listening as Evan prattles on with very animated expressions. Wilder isn’t even sure what he’s on about, but regardless, Tommy is nodding along, clearly invested. 

When they make it up to the bar, some five feet away, Tommy’s arm wraps around Evan, boxing him in. There’s a grin on his face and Wilder notices as Evan leans back into Tommy’s body, turns his head and says something into his ear. Tommy laughs, loud enough that the tinkling sound of it carries in Wilder’s direction. 

“Four for Buckley,” one of the barbacks calls out. Evan raises his hand and the man steps over with boxes of pizza. At the same time, someone from the kitchen yells out, “Veggie with mushrooms, light alfredo up.” 

Tommy lifts his head at that, leans back from Evan just enough to look around the bar before his eyes eventually fall on Wilder. He smiles at him. A few seconds later, he’s up next to Evan’s ear, and then Evan glances over in Wilder’s direction. There’s a half-second pause where Evan seems to be taking him in before he smiles affiliatively at Wilder. Evan picks up the pizzas and Tommy switches the arm he has around Evan’s waist as they stride over. As they reach him, another person is settling Wilder’s pizza in front of him. 

“So do you just hang out at all the best bars in LA,” Evan asks when they reach him. 

“Honestly, I’m usually locked up in the studio,” Wilder replies. He glances in Tommy’s direction, but Tommy is still looking at Evan. Still that look in his eyes. Evan moves a hand from under the pizzas and extends it. 

“Evan Buckley. Most people call me Buck though,” he states. Wilder extends a hand to him, shaking it. 

“Wilder Gray.” 

Evan nods. “I know.” There’s an expression on his face that’s caught somewhere between a multitude of emotions. A look that falls somewhere between curiosity, understanding, and skepticism. Wilder looks him over, spots the emblem on his t-shirt. 

“You’re a firefighter,” he muses. 

“And you’re a multidisciplinary artist,” Evan replies. 

Wilder nods. It’s interesting. It’s like they’re meeting for the most cordial duel of all time, but neither of them have brought guns; just clipboards and pens. 

A phone rings, and Tommy glances away from them. A moment later, he looks back up. 

“Hey baby that’s Eddie and Chris wondering why we haven’t brought dinner back,” he states, giving Evan’s hip a light squeeze. Evan nods, although his gaze lingers on Wilder for a few seconds longer. He turns then, leans into Tommy. Wilder watches as whatever tension is left in Tommy’s body seeps away. 

God damn. He really wanted to not be able to like Evan Buckley. 

“See you around,” Evan states after a moment, glancing in Wilder’s direction again. Wilder nods at him. As Evan and Tommy walk away, Tommy’s hand still on Evan’s hip, his friend strides back across the room 

“Hey, what’d I miss?” 

. . .

A few weeks go by without any run-ins. Maybe it’s because Evan and Tommy find other places to hang out. Maybe it’s because Wilder basically lives in his studio (it’s definitely not that). Maybe it’s because of wildfire season (it might be that). Either way,  Wilder doesn’t see much social interaction beyond his friends occasionally dropping by the studio and his parents stopping in to drag him into the sunlight. Once or twice he opens grindr, but nothing promising pans out. 

It’s mid August when Wilder spots them out together again. Another bar, another set of drinks. He’s been flirting with a guy who introduced himself three minutes after Wilder walked through the door when he spots Evan on the other side of the room. He almost thinks about going over to say something, but there’s a look in his expression. 

Something that looks curiously like defeat. Tommy is standing next to him—Wilder could place that mop of hair anywhere—talking into his ear much like he was that first night all those weeks back. He tries to look away enough to not make Evan look in his direction, realize he’s being stared at. But he sees the way Tommy’s talking calms Evan, the way he leans into him. The way their communication wipes out the defeat in Evan’s expression and replaces it with a small smile. And then a laugh. And then before long, Tommy has Evan half tipped on the barstool, their noses and foreheads pressed together as Evan straight-up giggles. Tommy is laughing with him, and fuck. 

Wilder really wanted to not like Evan Buckley. 

But Evan Buckley isn’t Mike, holding Tommy hard enough to hurt him (although the way he fists Tommy’s t-shirt before he kisses him makes a different kind of jealousy stir in Wilder, like these two probably throw each other around a bedroom with ease, and he wants to see that). Evan Buckley clearly isn’t Leo, just looking to fuck Tommy hard into a mattress and leave him behind. 

Evan Buckley might be a little like Ezra, and Wilder isn’t sure how he clocks that. Except, there’s an ease about him that Ezra never had. Evan Buckley clearly wasn’t looking for an education. The love in his eyes was obvious to the entire damn bar, whether they wanted to know or not. 

Evan Buckley definitely was not Charlie. He was openly making out with Tommy in public, hands all over the man’s body in a way that Wilder could tell was at least partially to tell the world ‘this is mine, and only mine’. 

. . .

It’s an early morning in September when they run into each other. Wilder is definitely not prepared for an eight AM class, and he’s questioning why he agreed to take this particular one on, but there’s no option to back out now. 

He stands inside the café wearily, waiting on his order, when the door chimes with ringing bells and he glances up. Evan Buckley. 

The blonde is in a hoodie Wilder recognizes as Tommy’s. The Harbor Station seal is on the back of it with his last name printed across the bottom. Evan yawns as he walks up to the counter and grabs two coffees. Knowing the kind of schedules they work, it seems Evan is heading home while Wilder is just starting his day. 

Except, Evan stops in his tracks when their eyes meet. 

“Evan,” he comments softly, acknowledging the other man. “Or, Buck. If you prefer.” 

Evan shrugs. “Evan is fine.” A pause. “Wilder. Its…convenient? To see you.” 

Wilder lets out a small chuckle. He nods. 

Evan walks forward a few steps, as though he’s not going to say anything further, and he makes it about a half-step past Wilder before he stops, leans back slightly, contemplating. He looks up at him. 

“He still talks about you,” he states. There’s no jealousy in his tone, no anger. Almost like he’s just putting the information out into the universe. Wilder nods again. He stares at Evan for a moment and then tilts his head slightly, almost like he’s letting him in on a secret. 

“And he’s in love with you.” 

Evan stares at him for a moment, and Wilder isn’t sure if Evan has realized that or not. His expression doesn’t let on one way or the other. 

Wilder takes a deep breath and the corner of his mouth pulls up a little into a small smirk. 

“Tommy never once looked at me the way he does you,” he states. “Not even during the best of it all. And me? I couldn’t ever fully accept the job.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating whether he needs to say more. Even if he doesn’t, he continues anyway. “I found him when he needed a friend. You founded him when he needed a partner.” 

A smile pulls at Evan’s face. If he has anything else to say, he doesn’t get the chance. His phone starts to buzz in the pocket of the hoodie, and he stacks the coffees together before pulling it out, answering the call, shooting only half a glance in Wilder’s direction before he speaks. 

“Hi, babe. No, I already got it. I’ll be there in like five.” 

. . . 

It’s the first week of December. Wilder is exhausted, maybe even a little burnt out, but riding high. His residency has panned out into an exhibition, and it’s the opening night. He’s been bouncing all over the gallery, trying to greet everyone and talk to them, see what they do and don’t like about the work presented. 

A hand comes down on his shoulder as he finally finds a few seconds to get a bottle of water, and he spins. Tommy. 

“Hey, T,” he greets cheerfully, if not a little weary. “Thanks for coming.” 

Tommy nods, and they share a quick hug. 

“How’d you hear,” he asks. Tommy gestures off towards one of the walls and Wilder glances over. 

“Evan saw the listing,” he states. “Told all of our friends we needed to come support. He’s really obsessed with that picture of your nephews.” 

WIlder glances over at the picture. It’s a large portrait, of two children facing away from the camera. One, old enough and tall enough that he isn’t even in the image aside from his torso and legs, with his hand resting on the younger one’s head. The younger child is a toddler, leaning into his sibling’s leg with his arm wrapped around it. 

“I’ve been tasked with getting your price list,” Tommy adds. 

Wilder lets out a soft huff as a smile tugs across his lips. 

He wanted to hate Evan Buckley. He wanted Evan Buckley to be like Mike. Or Leo. Or Ezra. Or Charlie. 

He wanted Evan Buckley to not be like him, not love and respect Tommy the way he did. But then…

Evan Buckley isn’t like Wilder. Evan Buckley supports the people his boyfriend cares about. Evan Buckley doesn’t care that Tommy is a firefighter or a pilot. Evan Buckley clearly likes art. Wilder barely knows him, and yet he already knows Evan Buckley is caring and selfless. 

He takes a breath and sighs, glancing back at Tommy, watching the way he watches Evan. 

“You’re gonna marry him.” It’s not a question. 

Tommy shifts his gaze back to Wilder. It’s the slightest movement, entirely imperceptible to someone who wouldn’t know otherwise. The twitch of the corner of his mouth, of his eyebrow. 

“Forever doesn’t seem nearly long enough,” Tommy says softly. 

Wilder can only shake his head at him as he smiles at his ex-boyfriend. 

“Well, when you start interviewing wedding photographers, I’d like to at least be consulted,” he states, extending a hand to Tommy. Tommy laughs at him but shakes his hand anyway. 

“Sure, Wy. But you should know, Evan’s seen your paintings and he wants one commissioned.” 

“I’ll take that payday,” Wilder says with a laugh. When Tommy lets go of his hand, he pats Wilder’s shoulder, and then he’s off again, heading back over to Evan and the friends they brought with them. Wilder stands in his spot a moment longer, both hands on the waterbottle he still hasn’t had a drink from. He watches as Tommy’s arm loops around Evan’s waist, and as Evan leans into him. The way Evan points at a portrait and talks to Tommy earnestly about whatever it is he sees. The way Tommy is completely enraptured by Evan’s words, nodding and smiling at him with interest. 

The way Evan puts his hand on the back of Tommy’s head as he leans into him, whispers into his ear. How, when Tommy turns into him to answer, Evan looks at him like he’s the only person in the room. 

The way jealousy still lives inside Wilder, but not the way it was that first night. No, this jealousy is from the way they look at each other, the way Wilder only hopes someone will hopefully look at him one day. He finally looks away when the two men kiss, cracking open his water bottle. He manages to get a sip off of it before someone else is walking up to him.

“You’re the artist, right?” 

[kimbapisnotsushi]

Hajime’s nineteenth birthday is the first he spends without his best friend.

They’re far from each other and far from home. It’s strange, Hajime thinks, to no longer be confined by mountains and farm fields. Not that California doesn’t have those things—it’s just . . . different. The air is different. The sunshine is different. The way Americans call him by his first name is different. The fact that the driver’s seat is now on the left side of the car instead of the right is different.

Not having Oikawa Tooru by his side is different. 

It wasn’t like Tooru hadn’t tried. He’d sent Hajime a birthday text at the stroke of midnight, and then they spent two hours FaceTiming each other until Hajime had shooed Tooru off, because he knew that Tooru had practice in a few hours and needed at least some shut-eye. And then Hajime had laid there, in the dark of his apartment, wishing and wanting and aching for something a million miles away.

Five thousand and five-hundred thirty-nine miles, to be specific. Not that Hajime is counting. Not that he’s keeping track of every minute that passes between their time zones, because that would be all kinds of pathetic, and Hajime likes to think he's coping with Tooru's absence much better than that.

Anyways. His nineteenth birthday. Off to a great start, obviously. 

It’s also the first birthday he spends with Ushijima Wakatoshi. If you had told Hajime last year that he’d run into Ushijima at a university in California to speak with Ushijima’s father about internships, he probably wouldn't have believed you. If you had told him he’d be stuck in the backseat of a minivan with Ushijima, cruising through the southern Californian desert to watch the stars on his nineteenth birthday—American pop music cranked high, hot wind grazing his shoulders, the van floor littered with chip crumbs and empty boba cups stuffed in the cupholders, with people he’s barely known for the better part of a week—he definitely wouldn’t have believed you. 

But here he is. Munching on shrimp chips, listening to Ushijima’s friends belt out Fall Out Boy. 

Ushijima’s UCI friends are . . . something. Riding shotgun is Kevin Nguyen—he’s what Ushijima calls a “frat boy” and a “gym bro”, but Kevin seems nice enough, if not overly familiar. Selene Hiraishi wears dramatic eyelashes and nails, and her family has been friends with Utsui since he moved to California, so Ushijima’s known her for some time. Citlaly Torres has about a dozen piercings in her ears and graciously offered to drive for the three-hour trip to the park from the university. Avery Cherent, Hajime was happy to discover, is a fellow Godzilla nerd with short silver-dyed high-top curls. Jaesung Han is never seen without their black bomber jacket and a pair of ripped jeans, and—Hajime has noticed—keeps their eyes on him more than the others seem to do.

They’ve taken to Hajime like ants to a cookie, and Hajime is grateful for it, really. He's grateful for anything that can distract him from that empty, aching tug in his chest. From knowing that he'd wake up lonely, and that today would have been a lonely day if it weren't for these plans.

The road is bumpy, and honestly���Hajime is hesitant to even call it a road. It’s more like a wide stretch of dirt that’s been cleared for cars. Joshua trees—the park’s namesake plant—dot the landscape far into the horizon, sharing ground with desert brush and craggy boulders. Outside the open windows, the sky looks like it’s been brushed with watercolor; deep oranges and purples and pinks bleed from the setting sun like the branches of a river.

Citlaly turns into a pullout, kills the engine, and twists around to grin at everyone. “Made it in one piece. What did I tell you guys?”

“You almost crashed into that Honda Civic right off the freeway,” Kevin says. “‘One piece’, my ass.”

“The One Piece is going to be a far greater treasure than your ass, Kev,” says Avery loftily. “They haven’t gone through six hundred and twenty-eight episodes just for that.”

Jaesung claps Kevin’s shoulder as they clamber out. “Don’t worry, Kev, I think you have a great ass.”

Kevin beams. “Aw, Jae! I think you have a great ass, too!”

“Your friends are weird,” Hajime remarks while he and Ushijima hop out the backseat. “Nice, but weird.”

Ushijima smiles. Before today, Hajime hadn’t even known that was something the guy was capable of doing. “They are, aren’t they?

-- an excerpt from wherever you go in this world (i'll come along), an iwaoi bday fic i really really wanted to finish today but perhaps later this week???

[buggysangel17]

Three Peas In A Pod I

Summary: The start of an adventure with you and your twins. Characters: Shanks x Buggy x F!Reading (she/her). OC Twins. (Rosa & Azul) Word Count: 740 Chapter Warnings:  None

Masterlist | Series Masterlist || Send Me An Ask?

Chapter I: Legend of the Yellow Haired Pirate

“A Hundred Million?” Your son, Azul gaped as his grasp was firm on the bounty placed on one of the newspapers you’ve burrowed from the last island you’ve all stopped by.

It was a sight to see him this animated, far from the resentment of having to stay in an island filled with just the memories and stories of your time in the sea, alongside his father. He was a spitting image of him, even going as far as having his personality, with the only thing that was different with him was the lack of the red nose like his father, which was, one of the only thing your son had inherited from you instead. A part of you wondered how Buggy would think of his own son hoping and praying to be just like him when he grows up to his full potential.

The shock of your son was the last of your problems that you needed to deal with. It wasn’t much but considering that you had decided to remain on land for the past decade and a half since you found out about your pregnancy and now, as your twins had decided that they wanted to follow in their fathers’ footstep, all you could do was oblige.

Taking down a Marine Ship on your first day back, it was chaos that earn not only you but your twins a poster with a hefty bounty on your head and a good start for the twins that were already given a thirty million to their name.

The rest of the crew aboard at the ship were more than amused by your son’s antics. Initially he had led to believe he could flashily take the lower ranking marine down with his numerous smoke bomb but it became more of a nuisance than much of an assistance for everyone involved. But A for effort as the Captain was far too distracted by the smoke to avoid your daughter’s sword attack.

It was team effort for the twins and that was what’s important to the two still too young apprentice you’ve found yourself having in the form of your children. It brought all the memories of your lovers back all over again. How memories of your shared time in Gol D. Roger’s ship was filled with chaos and glory before it all came crashing down at its disbandment and your Captain’s eventual execution.

“I started at twenty million so you two gotten better than I did when I started.” You tried your best to reassure your son before turning your attention to your daughter that wasn’t much affected by the bounty in her name, simply enjoying the fact that she already had one on the first raid.

“Maybe someday, I might even surpass Dad for my bounty.” Rosa spoke, a gleam in her eyes at the possibility.

You blinked at her statement. Unlike her brother, Rosa had been indifferent on whether she would want to stay in the island or set sail to retrieve the One Piece, all she wanted was to have you and her brother at whatever misadventure destiny would place upon you.

“I want you two to pass each and every single one of us one day.” You grinned messing with her red hair as well as her brother’s own blue ones. “I can’t stop either of you from this life, might as well make sure you both become the greatest amongst all.”

You had your own legend and your own stories, being a daughter of who was once Gol D. Roger’s greatest adversary, but had chosen to create a reputation of your own away from his name. You would wish the same fate to be given to your children, once you are certain that they can take care of themselves, you will set them free and let them explore the world as they see fit.

“When I’m grey and old, all I would ever wish is for the two of you to get the One Piece and make a name for yourselves with or without me.” You spoke, earning the cheers from the rest of the crew that had been a devout part of your life even when you had momentarily settled down, all of them ready as ever to get back with just a single word.

When the time comes, if it was you or if it was them, you will all make a name for yourselves.

[lovesosweeet]

better left unsaid // cth

chapter thirty three

in which orion has leukemia, and calum doesn’t know.

calum hood x fem!oc

read other chapter

october 12, 2018 los angeles, califonia calum

“What’s been the biggest shift in making this record versus the previous one?” Yet another interviewer asks us the same question it feels like we’ve answered a million times.

“Y’know, we’ve all grown a lot in our personal lives over the past few years,” Ashton says, and Michael and Luke nod along.

“For sure, I mean,” Michael pauses to laugh. “We’ve all fallen in love, some of these guys have gone through some heartbreak, but overall, we’re just a lot more grown up.”

Some heartbreak. Minimizing what I’m going through right now to those two words is almost a lie because of how inaccurate it is. Orion is worth far more than two words, and I know that everyone in this room would agree given the chance. \

“I’d say everything is almost the same, actually,” Ashton adds on. “Like we said, we’ve grown a lot, but our writing and recording is a similar process.”

“But, y’know, we’ve added a lot of fresh elements to this record, like with the keyboard. We’ve tried to take on a hint of an electronic sound, too,” Luke says. 

“Yeah, so we haven’t actually changed anything, but just with the way life works and how we naturally progress as artists, the final product is so different, but the process isn’t.” Ashton finally wraps up the answer, and the interviewer seems quite happy with it. 

“It’s nice to watch how both you and your music evolve over the years. You guys have been together for seven years now, and some of you have been friends for far longer. Do you find that your constant growth impacts your relationships with each other? Are you ever outgrowing one another and having to play catch up? How’s that dynamic?”

My mouth chooses to speak before I do. “Well, Johnny,” I say. I have no idea how I managed to remember that this man’s name is Johnny, but judging by his unphased expression, I think I got it right. “We outgrow each other when certain people withhold certain vital information from other people and let things blow up in their faces when they could’ve prevented it.”

Luke laughs loudly and awkwardly at my comment, nervously looking at each of our faces. “Calum’s such a jokester, aren’t you Cal?” He asks, smacking my back harder than necessary.

I plaster on a fake smile, sucking it up and correcting the course. “Yeah, I’m just joking. These guys never fail to be there for me. Our relationships are always strong, honestly often strengthened by the ways we evolve away from each other sometimes.”

When Ashton starts talking next, it takes a lot of self-control not to lunge at him.

“Yeah, there’s nothing that could come between us. These are my brothers, you know?” 

I don’t have to look at him to know he’s looking at me.

My smile, still fake, widens. “Oh yeah, nothing could ever break these bonds.”

After the interview ends, I don’t bother thanking the host or crew. I take off my headset and set it on the table before walking quickly outside of the studio, pulling my pack of cigarettes and lighter from my back pocket. It feels like such bullshit to have to sit there and act like I’m happy.

“Cal, I know you guys are having issues,” Matt says, following me outside. He looks annoyed, as usual. “But you have to reign it in.”

I puff out smoke and laugh bitterly. “We’re more than ‘having issues’, Matt.”

Matt takes a few steps towards me so that his face is right by mine. “I’m canceling shows for you. I’m canceling interviews so you don’t have to plaster on a fake smile more than necessary. Fuck, I picked up your drunk ex-girlfriend at the beach for you. You’re pissed at Ash. I get it. But you have to get your shit together. This is your job. This is something you chose. Grow the hell up and be civil for the twenty fucking minutes you spend on air with him.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s also the hours on stage and rehearsing, riding in the tour bus. It’s not just twenty minutes at a time.”

Matt rips my cigarette out of my hand. “Hood, I really don’t care. Keep your personal life out of your professional one if you’re not able to be a mature adult when your feelings get hurt.”

“Excuse me, who the fuck are you, again? Oh, right, a man that I pay.” 

“You know damn well you’re not going to fire me and find another manager that will take care of you guys the way I do.”

I hold back then, because he’s right. Matt is an exceptional manager and he’s been with us for years. I can’t imagine where we’d be without him. “Fine. I just won’t talk in any interviews and I won’t talk onstage. I can’t promise I won’t repeat the shit I just said, so it’s best if I just don’t talk.” 

Matt sighs, and then he surprises me by hugging me. “That’s fine. You don’t talk much anyway.”

Reluctantly, I hug him back. The words that just came from both of us wouldn’t have ever suggested we’d be hugging now, but here we are. 

“If I haven’t said it, Cal, I’m sorry. She was incredible, and I can’t imagine how you feel right now. None of us saw that coming.” 

I appreciate that Matt isn’t saying anything negative about Orion. Everyone who knows her knows better than to badmouth her. She’s doing shitty things, but she’s not a shitty person. She’s still the best person I know, despite how much she’s hurting me. I’m still in shock most days.

I go to text her when I first wake up each morning, and then am painfully reminded that I can’t. I can’t even see what she’s doing because she removed me as a follower on Instagram. It takes a lot of self control not to text her throughout the day, awake and sober, just missing her badly. I hope she’s doing okay. I know I’m not. 

—

Performing in LA should be fun. Our friends and our friends who’ve become family all get to come. It’s our home field, basically. Backstage before the show, everyone was too happy.

They all took shots together, playing games of beer pong and just catching up after we’ve been away for a while. It makes me sick to my stomach, so I spend most of the time before the show outside with some of the crew, just smoking. Our crew knows me well enough to just leave me alone, smoking silently next to me for a while. 

“There you are!” Roy’s voice suddenly sounds.

I smile at him. It’s a real smile. It’s nice to see him. “Hey, man.” 

Roy grins, walking over and sitting next to me on the ground. “Just wanted to check in with you, see how you’re handling things.” 

My bitter laugh, a sound I seem to be making a lot these days, falls from my mouth with a trail of smoke. “Like shit.”

He nods and stares at his hands. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but if I know anything about Orion, she’s gonna come around.”

I want to believe him, but I don’t know if I do. She was so determined to end things. It hurt to watch how badly it was hurting her to push me away. She needed to end things, for whatever reason she had for doing it. ‘Sparing’ me. 

“Guess we’ll see in time.” 

Roy sighs from beside me. “Your guys’ love was—is—so real, Cal. You can’t just shut that off.”

“She did it because she loves me. It’s fucked, but that’s why.”

The next thing I know, Roy’s practically giggling. It doesn’t make me laugh, but it does make me smile. His laugh makes me happier, somehow. 

“Sorry, it’s not funny. That’s just, like, the most Orion thing I’ve ever heard.” 

I smile, tears flooding my eyes. “Yeah, it really is.”

Roy and I hang out until Matt tells everyone it’s time to head to the stage. He gives me a hug and says he’s going to watch from VIP with the rest of our friends, and I join the rest of the band for our pre-show shots. 

“5SOS on five?” Luke asks, handing each of us a shot glass. 

“5SOS on five,” Mike confirms.

We count to five, yell ‘5SOS,’ hit our shots against each other’s, and then we gulp the burning tequila down. Everyone else has a chaser, but not me. I grab the tequila bottle and pour myself another, and another, and another. 

After I’ve had four shots of tequila, I grab a beer from the fridge and my mic pack from its spot where it’s charging. The rest of the band doesn’t say anything but follows suit, and then we’re walking to the side of the stage. 

“Let’s get this shit over with,” I mutter.

Luke throws a hand onto my shoulder and squeezes. 

“If you need a break, just take it, okay?”

I nod and fight the tears that threaten to form. It’s our first show after the breakup, and I know I’ll be a mess if I think about it too much. Some songs are written for Orion, so those will hurt, but so will the ones written about breakups and heartbreak, which our fans joke is all we write about.

Ashton nods to us before he walks out to take his seat behind the drums. He bangs a brief rhythm, and then Mike walks out, his guitar slung over his neck. He waves to the crowd with a huge smile. 

I put one foot in front of the other to make it to my spot, grabbing my bass from its stand. I walk up to my mic and nod at the crowd. The deafening screams have just been background noise this whole time, but now they’re accompanied by glaring stage lights. 

When Luke walks out, the crowd goes crazier. He smiles as wide as Mike did, waving with both hands before he takes his spot, center stage. 

On Ashton’s cue, we all start, and I curse the fact that our opener is a song that I have lead vocals on. I try to lose myself in the music, strumming the chords I’ve played a thousand times before, singing the words to the music I helped write but now feel like a foreign language as they blare through the speakers and the crowd sings along. 

I’m able to operate on autopilot until we get to the brief section of our set that has a slower pace. Luke talks, and I drink a few long gulps from my can of beer. Once it’s empty, I hold the can up to a crew member, motioning that I’d like another. 

“LA, we’re about to slow things down for a bit, but first I just want to introduce you to my brothers up here with me, in case this is your first 5SOS show.

“To my right, we’ve got the ever so talented Michael Clifford, the first one to join me in this lame ass band. To my left, we’ve got the stoic, beautiful bassist, and my best friend, Calum Hood. Behind me, our very sweaty drummer, Ashton Irwin!” The crowd roars with each introduction, and I just focus on the beer that a crew member trades out for my empty can. I crack it open and drink from it while I can.

“And we can’t forget, Luke Hemmings. Voice of an angel, our frontman, and the reason we’re a band in the first place!” Ashton takes over for him, and I don’t bother even trying to look at him. “Los Angeles, we hope you like this next one. This is Ghost of You.”

Michael starts playing before I can even get my bearings, and the words Luke sings cut deep as the whole entire room sings along. 

If I can dream long enough, 

You’d tell me I’d be just fine 

I’ll be just fine

Every time I close my eyes, I have flashbacks of Orion. Smiling, laughing, running down a beach or telling me a joke on a walk somewhere in Europe. Happy, blissful, pure. My girl, before she fell apart, before her fucked up fate blew up her life and her dreams.

And I chase it down

With a shot of truth 

The words ring too true to the shots I just took to drown out everything I’m feeling. I feel the tears falling fast down my face as I try to harmonize, but I give up and take a few steps back from my mic. Luke looks at me, holding his mic while he sings. He looks worried, so I have to look away from him.

I’m supposed to sing the second verse, but I know I can’t. As if they planned it, Michael sings it for me when he notices the look on my face. 

Cleaning up today Found that old Zeppelin shirt You wore when you ran away And no one could feel your hurt

The fans go wild at Michael singing my verse. I can barely keep playing the few notes that I need to for this slow song, and thank god that they had a system in place for me inevitably being unable to sing my own verses. 

All I can think about is Orion. She pushed everyone away. She pushed all of us away. She ran away from our home and is living in San Diego now. It hurt so badly to walk into our apartment last night when we got to LA to find it barren of her things. She’s gone. 

The rest of the song is a blur, and I just play the bass off to the side of the stage, not even looking at the crowd. I just look at Luke and Michael and am grateful for them more than ever in this moment. I’m lucky to have bandmates like them who double as best friends. 

When the song ends, Michael walks up to me with Luke in tow while the fans cheer. 

“You good, Cal? We can take 5 if you need,” Mike says, reaching a hand out to rest on my arm.

I shake my head, even though I know the next song will be equally as painful, if not more so. “No. Let’s just get this over with.” 

They both look at me with immense pity. I hate it. I walk back to my mic stand, determined to at least sing the first verse. We start Amnesia and I close my eyes, hoping that tears don’t fall while I sing.

I drove by all the places we used to hang out getting wasted I thought about our last kiss How it felt, the way you tasted And even though your frie—

I have to cut myself off as my voice cracks and I step back from the mic, letting Luke finish it off for me.

You’re doing fine Are you somewhere feeling lonely even though he’s right beside you? When he says those words that hurt you, do you read the ones I wrote you? Sometimes I start to wonder, was it just a lie? If what we had was real, how could you be fine?

I step back up to my mic, needing to scream the last words of the prechorus.

‘Cause I’m not fine at all

I full on sob for the rest of the song, each of the lyrics hitting way too close to home. I don’t sing into the mic, but I sing to myself while I play and watch Luke and Michael sing the words to the crowd. For the most part, I face the back of the stage, toward Ashton, but ignore his very concerned glances toward me. 

And the dreams you left behind, you didn’t need them Like every single wish we ever made I wish that I could wake up with amnesia And forget about the stupid little things Like the way it felt to fall asleep next to you And the memories I never can escape ‘Cause I’m not fine at all

—

@5SOSUpdates: Cal barely sang tonight at the LA show. Luke & Mike picked up most of his solos and he cried during GOY and Amnesia </3

@5SOSFan4Ever: my heart broke piece by piece watching cal struggle to get through tonight’s show :( my poor bb

@CalumGirl: imagine having your worst heartbreak be on public display. sending so much love to you @calum5sos

@LetThemEatCake5SOS: does anyone know what actually happened betw cal and orion? they both don’t seem to be doing well and i loved them together.

@5SOSFan4Ever: Replying to @LetThemEatCake5SOS: yeah their friends are all still interacting. something seems wrong. makes me sad :’( 

@CalumGirl: Replying to @LetThemEatCake5SOS: someone said orion has terminal cancer and that’s why they broke up. idk how true that is but if it’s true i am simply devastated

@OrilumStan: my babies broke up and both are struggling it is ROUGH out here just look how sad he was onstage. Image attached

@CashtonLover: Replying to @OrilumStan: has anyone seen/heard anything from orion? i know she’s always been private but i’m so nosy @OrilumStan: Replying to @CashtonLover: no, a few of her friends have posted stuff to their stories about respecting privacy tho. and like i get it but I WANNA KNOW

read next chapter

[monroeknoxwrites]

tove and isamund, first kiss and/or last kiss 👀

I'm six and she's eleven. I scrapped my knee trying to keep up with her. She carried me home, cleaned the wound, kissing it to make it better.

I'm ten and she's fifteen. We're rehearsing for my class's play – me the princess, her the knight. When it came time to practice the kiss, I'm too shy. The real kiss will be a peck on the cheek to a classmate in front of a large audience. But it's this one, just the two of us, that's too much for me. She took my hand, she pressed her lips to it. Nothing ever felt so warm.

I'm thirteen and she's eighteen. It was the last day of academy classes and she's worried about being accepted into the Coalition. She didn't say it but I knew. On the academy's rooftop I'm lying beside her, snuggled in close, greedy for every moment until she's gone far, far away. Among the stars she loved so much.

Because of course they'd pick her.

"No one's braver than you. No one's as capable," I told her, as sincere as a thirteen can be.

She held me closer, pressed her lips to the crown of my head. I replayed that moment over and over in the long lonely years once she was gone.

I'm nineteen. She's twenty-four. My wedding day was a year ago. She returned to me too late. It was rushed, petty. The desperate actions of a heartbroken child.

I wondered if she noticed how similar my new wife looked.

I wondered if she knew who I thought of when we fucked.

I wondered throughout the entire day the three of us spent together, my Isamund the perfect chivalrous knight, her eyes or her hands never straying too long.

My wife had business for the evening, told us to spent it together. It would allow us to catch up.

I was hounded by too many questions, by an old wound wrenched open the moment I saw her face again, the warring pain and joy of spending time together, just the two of us as it always had been – when she pinned me to the wall, hot mouth searing into mine, a thousand, million times warmer than I'd ever felt, my brain took several seconds to respond.

But respond I did. Hungrily.

I'm thirty-three. She's thirty-eight. My family was gone. The agony, the guilt, it weighed me down. I couldn't see a way forward with it choking me.

Despite a handful of Coalition members attempting to stop her, she burst into my room. She was on her knees again. She's sorry, she's begging. She offered to disappear and never see me again. Anything to stop what I knew must be done.

I'm resolute. She's devastated.

She rose, no longer my gallant knight, but a defeated woman. I felt her tears alongside the kiss she pressed into my cheek.

I'm thirty-three still. She's still thirty-eight, though she looked ancient sat on the chair beside me, unable to meet my gaze.

I remembered her importance even if I couldn't feel the heft of it.

She flinched at the kiss I placed on her cheek. It might as well have been a slap.

She left the room soon after.

I would not feel her warmth again.

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Number Nine

Chapter One: I Want You All To Myself

AO3 author’s note/info one two three four five six seven eight epilogue extra

All my work is 18+.

I’ve been trying to keep my distance, but in an instant, you break me down. I know better than to want you, but I succumb to you without a doubt. Now the water is rising, and I’m too tired to swim; and my lungs just can’t take it, but I keep breathing you in, so tell me lies, tell me painted truths; anything at all to keep me close to you. Pull me under the way you do; tonight, I wanna drown in an ocean of you.- Martin Garrix & Clinton Kane, Drown

There was a difference between being ashamed of one’s actions and being discreet about them. This was something Lea had learned recently. She hadn’t given the distinction much consideration before, but then she had gotten an additional best friend. 

Lea had two best friends; one made sense and the other—the recent accrual, the one that both required and practiced discretion—did not.

As a broke college student, it made sense for her best friend to be Sam, another broke college student she’d known since they were attending kindergarten at the all-girls school where they’d met in North Carolina.

One could perhaps count her older sister, Lina, as another best friend, and her younger sister, Ari, as a third, but for one, they were her sisters; for two, Ari was in California; and for three, they would’ve made perfect sense.

Lea’s actual other best friend was Tim. This made no sense for several reasons. Firstly, Tim was a guy, and Lea had never had many guys involved in her life, what with the aforementioned all-girls schools and her mother’s choice to deliberately isolate their family from anyone of the male persuasion on account of the hell her father had wracked upon her mother’s life.

Secondly, Tim was not a college student. He didn’t live on campus, and he didn’t live in her building. He did, however, live not too far from the tiny New York apartment she shared with Sam.

Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, Tim was, to the majority of the population, known as Timothée Chalamet, Academy Award nominated actor. This was, in a word, bizarre. In three words, it was really fucking bizarre.

Like. Her best friend was a major celebrity. Her best friend was considered the most talented actor of his generation (not hers, though. She was a Zoomer). Her best friend had been called the most well-dressed man in the world. Her best friend was considered an international sex symbol. Her best friend had been nominated for ninety-four different awards during the course of his increasingly illustrious acting career, and had won thirty-nine (she’d checked Wikipedia at one point). Her best friend had made out with Saorise Ronan and Selena Gomez and Zendaya and Jennifer motherfucking Lawrence. He’d dated Madonna’s daughter in high school—high school!—and then Johnny Depp’s daughter and he acted like it wasn’t even that big of a deal. Her best friend had a net worth of twenty million dollars and it was climbing fast, having outright doubled in the past few months alone.

And, oh yeah, minor detail, but she might also maybe possibly be in love with him. 

Oh, alright. So she was totally head over heels crazy in love with him. Sue her. What was she supposed to do, not fall in love with the sweetest living being she’d met in her entire life who also just so happened to be intelligent and funny and talented and had the appearance of a Greek fucking god? Yeah, unlikely.

She’d never had romantic feelings for anyone before and had fully intended to keep it that way on account of her mother’s less than stellar romantic example, but y’know. Whatever.

Not like anything was gonna happen anyway. 

He had technically asked her on a date the second time they’d met (she’d tailored two suits for him, the second of which he’d requested her by name for), but things had since been strictly platonic. She figured that once he’d actually gotten to know her as a human being, he’d decided they were better as friends. 

Never mind the fact that he got her random presents that cost hundreds of dollars. Never mind the fact that one of her Christmas presents was literally first class plane tickets home to North Carolina. Never mind the fact that he held her hand constantly, cuddled with her under a blanket when they watched movies, or that he insisted she sleep in his bed with him holding her close whenever she stayed over.

Those were all normal friend things. Or normal Tim things. Or normal guy things. She wasn’t sure. Either way, no matter what anyone said, there was no way in hell his feelings towards her were more than platonic. 

This was, of course, totally fair. It was also most definitely for the best. It hurt like a bitch, though. 

But honestly, it would never work. Zendaya was super nice and even had a boyfriend, but like. How could anyone compete with Zen-fucking-daya, even if all romantic and/or sexual interactions were in a work context?

Zendaya had become a friend at Tim’s twenty-sixth birthday party, yeah, but she was also a source of insecurity for Lea. 

She was everything Lea wasn’t. Zendaya was tall. Lea was 5’¾” of an inch on the best of days. Zendaya had perfect skin. Lea was covered in freckles and turned lobster red if she spent more than an hour and a half in the sun without SPF 70. Zendaya had a team of people managing her hair. Lea was lucky her dark red curls didn’t frizz up every day. Zendaya was skinny. Lea was… well. Not. She couldn’t even afford a bra in her size and had subsequently been wearing the same two since she was fifteen.

In any case, Tim had girls like that at his disposal, and she knew for a fact he had a long history of casual hook-ups and flings. They’d never work. It really was for the best that his feelings for her were strictly platonic.

There was one more minor reason that things must remain platonic between them. Well, okay. There were several reasons, but they were interconnected. It all started when, a few weeks into their friendship and she was hurdling head-first into romantic feelings territory and fast, she’d been hit with what she thought of as the Big Reveal.

“Your what?” Lea had sputtered at him over the pizza he’d ordered.

“Huh?” he paused in his story. “I was just saying that my wife—“

She dropped the pizza outright then. “Your wife,” she repeated back to him.

He stared at her for a few seconds, then seemed to recall something. “Shit, right, I haven’t told you, huh?”

“Apparently not,” she said uncomfortably, her appetite completely gone now. “You’re, uh… you’re married?”

He nodded. “Few years now.”

“I’m confused,” she confessed. “You asked me out at first. You said it was a date.”

Tim smiled at her indulgently, and her heart thudded in her chest. She wished it wouldn’t, though, because he was fucking married, apparently.

“We’re polyamorous, sweetheart,” he told her gently. “We both have plenty of girlfriends, some of them shared.” He paused. “Plus a few boyfriends on her part.”

She’d heard of that. She couldn’t imagine the appeal of wanting more than one person at a time. She didn’t get why he did, and she was insanely jealous of the girls he was with and most especially his motherfucking wife, but to each their own, she supposed.

“You said girlfriends,” she observed. “As in, like. Plural. More than one. Multiple.”

He nodded.

“How, uh. How many are we talking here?”

He thought for a moment. “Eight, I think? Yeah, eight.”

“Eight?” she squeaked out. He was dating eight girls? In addition to his wife?

Her mind was reeling, and she leaned back against the couch. She felt queasy.

“Where’s… where’s your wife?” Lea wanted to know.

“Her and Elle are both in a house not too far from here,” he said casually.

“Who’s Elle?” she asked, her head spinning.

“I’ve really never mentioned them?” When she shook her head, he finally put his own pizza down, wiped his hands on his sweatpants, and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his pictures for a few seconds before turning his screen to show her a picture of a grinning little girl who couldn’t be much older than two.

She had Tim’s hair. And Tim’s eyes.

Lea gaped.

“My daughter,” he explained before putting his phone back in his pocket.

“You have kids?” She was trying really hard not to hyperventilate.

“Just the one,” he assured her hastily. Then, “Well— for now. Olivia’s pregnant and she says it’s definitely mine. Another girl, which is cool.”

“Olivia?” Lea squeaked.

“One of my girlfriends, yeah,” he brushed her off. “Lea, are you okay? You look pale.”

“I’m always pale,” she reminded him shortly.

“Are you upset?”

“Of course not.” The words were too forced for someone who knew her very well to believe, but Tim didn’t know her mannerisms super well by this point, plus she was a costume design major and had taken her share of acting classes. She couldn’t very well tell him she was actually quite upset because of how she felt about him, now could she? “I have to get home, though. I have homework.” She stood and went to get her purse. 

“I thought you’d finished it,” he pointed out, frowning in obvious disappointment at her earlier-than-usual departure.

“I just remembered I have to edit an essay.”

Tim outright pouted at that. “Why don’t you enroll in online classes next semester?”

She paused, turning around to face him again as she slipped on her shoes next to the couch. “Why?”

He shrugged, grinning up at her. “So I can take you places we wanna go together.”

She wanted to ask what his wife, daughter, and eight girlfriends would think about that. Instead, she just nodded once and said, “Yeah, okay.”

He took a final bite of pizza before standing up, towering over her as per usual, and handing her her coat. “You sure you have to go?”

Lea nodded again, more firmly this time. “My essay is a mess,” she lied.

He sighed. “Okay. C’mon, then.” At that, he started towards the elevator out of his fancy rich boy penthouse. 

“Oh, uh…” She gulped, desperately trying to think of an excuse to refuse his obvious assumption that he was driving her home. “I can take the subway.”

He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Yeah, no. I’m driving you.”

Deciding that arguing would be too suspicious, she only nodded again, trying not to blush at how sweet he always was as she put on her coat. Why’d he have to be so fucking nice? If he weren’t so fucking nice, she wouldn’t have gone and done something as stupid as catching feelings for a married man.

When she turned to shoot a polite goodbye smile at him before exiting his car, he grinned that heart-stopping grin at her, leaned over the console, and pressed a swift kiss to her cheek.

And that’s when she knew with absolute certainty that she was a goner.

She told herself his life when he was away from her didn’t matter. It didn’t impact their friendship. He talked about his daughter sometimes, and when he did, it was with obvious love, but he hardly ever spoke about the other girls in his life. Not that she considered herself a girl in his life. God, to be a girl in Timothée Chalamet’s life. But no, she wasn’t. He spent money on her, sure; more money than her mom did outside of her schooling, even. But it was pennies to him. Pennies compared to what he must spend on his wife and various girlfriends.

Yes I made that divider by myself. It’s adorable, fuck you that’s why.

Tag list: @meetmyothersouls @ellamaianderson @shika1200 @blackqueenstarseed1 @gatoenlaciudad @esmaada @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @softhecreator @timolaurence @timmymyluv @oddlyenoughiamweird @leecrunchybones @s-we-e-t-t-ea @almostg @vampire-reanimator

To be added, please ask 💗

[clandestineheart]

it’s been four weeks, thirty days, seven hundred and twenty hours, give or take, forty three thousand and two hundred minutes, and two million five hundred ninety-two thousand seconds.

it’s been four weeks, thirty days, seven hundred and twenty… can you hear the clock ticking?

it’s been four, long, excruciating weeks since i have had a full night’s sleep.

i don’t get it.

i open the internet app on my phone, and i type “insomnia”—the word that only makes my eyes roll out of their sockets at this point—into the search bar; as if reading about it some more could help me cure the problem. i tend to do that a lot.

it’s just that nothing seems to work anymore. i do what they tell me—i work out before bed, even though i hate working out. i stop eating three hours before i plan on going to bed. i drink all kinds of magic teas, stay off caffeine… and when that doesn’t work, i do the exact opposite, websites and internet are useless anyway, and you’re better self-medicating than reading and actually going through with what some wannabe-doctor-reporter writes you should do; but still, no effects whatsoever. and when none of the sleeping pills i get prescribed work… there come the sedatives.

see, i’m not the biggest fan of self-medicating. or medicating in general. i have some strawy bits of medical knowledge scattered around in my head, from hearing it here and there and remembering it; so, accidentally overdosing is not even a thing that crosses my mind when i take any pills anymore. and don’t get me wrong; it’s not that i don’t like the effect benzos have on me, it’s that i like it too much. and if i know one thing it’s that i don’t need to add a benzodiazepine addiction to my platter on top of everything else, especially since i have no one to get the pills prescribed by. they’re not a long-term solution. i know it, everyone knows it. i can’t live off off speed and xanax, no matter how hard i try to believe it.

so, i put “insomnia” into the search bar, pretending, almost, that i’ll find something new entirely, even if only twenty minutes have passed since the last time i searched it; but what else is there for me to do, when i can’t sleep, and can’t write, and can’t read.

“persistent problems falling and staying asleep,” says the top of the page in a font smaller than i’d normally think it’d be written in. “problems falling and staying asleep.” great. as if i couldn’t tell what the symptoms were already, after four weeks, thirty days, seven hundred and twenty hours… but i digress. “very common,” it says, right below that first sentence, “more than three million cases per year in the US, alone…”. i huff under my nose, because, however common it may be, no one i’ve ever known has had this kind of problem before… this, or they just drunk it away, and that won’t be the route i’ll take. i read along the page, line after line, and i think i probably have it all memorized by now, the whole page. i close my eyes, and out of sheer curiosity try and repeat all it says. “persistent problems falling asleep and staying asleep,” i say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears, “very common, more than three million US cases per year, self-diagnosable,” i continue, feeling proud of myself for getting it right so far. sad, how when everything around you feels like a death sentence, you feel good about accomplishing things even as small, and as useless as this one. “treatment can help, but this condition can’t be cured.”

i open my eyes and am faced with these same words i just said out loud to no one but the empty space around me, staring me back in the eye. i quickly look at the upper left corner or my phone—twelve am, it reads, in fat, white numbers. another day has gone by, a new one has already started. one more to add to the no-sleep list; because two hours is nothing, if even a joke of a time to rest.

i blink. twelve o’one. another minute gone, and wait, there’s one more, and more, and i blink once more, and the minutes keep passing, time doesn’t stop for me. i don’t expect it to, yet i still feel like it should, when i think about it. i feel like it does, because i’ll blink once, twice, three times… and before i know it, it’ll be three in the morning and i’ll have spent yet another sleepless night, staring at the wall. with songs unwritten in my notebook, lines unsung onstage, ideas for new stories never seeing the light of day.

and how could i know? maybe they could be great? maybe they could change the world, cure cancer or end hunger. or maybe even just make a few people smile? they probably wouldn’t, but how could i know? i can’t. because they’ll never leave the stone cold walls of my head, never break free of the prison that’s my mind.

before i’ll know it, my whole life will have passed with me doing nothing but looking up ways to solve problems you know can’t be solved.

it’s been thirty one days, seven hundred and forty four hours, give or take, forty-four thousand, six hundred and forty seconds…

[kookieswan]

Beyond Decaying Walls

- Level 2 -

Yoongi x Reader (f)

Word Count: 1.5k

Genre: Backrooms AU, Horror, Angsty, Fluffy to help with the angst lol

Warnings: Fenweal mind fuck that comes with liminal spaces. MC has a slight panic attack. Weird creatures, injury, read cautiously.

Summary: You’ve been traveling with Yoongi for a while now, and apparently he’s come to like you enough to not let you die. Yay.

Notes: I decided to skip the whole meeting other survivors thing, mostly because it would have just been feeding an obscene amount of info to you all. If you’re interested in that though, I could always write it! I hope you all like this part. Dedicated to @parkdatjimin ♥️

Find the BDW Masterlist here!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s so fucking hot I’m dying…” You’ve been wandering this new level, two apparently, for days now, not doing much else besides looking. Looking for food, almond water, clothes even… and especially doors. Any door that could lead you out, Yoongi had tired to break through everyone as you checked your nails. The polish is almost completely fine now…

“You are not dying. Keep up with me.” Yoongi walks ahead of you slightly, not looking back as he continues to look down. Likely as his notes, the billions he took when you finally came across people a few days back. They had been helpful apparently, but what good will it do when you’re wandering through the halls of hell? You had wandered into what seems to be level two by accident, the halls narrow and the lack of light horrifying.

The people, MEG, piled on more and more info, Yoongi taking it in stride and you… not so much. It’s a lot. You’re lost in some other reality, where strange monsters exist. There’s no apparent way out and all you can do is search for a way out. One that’s never been found. You knew you shouldn’t have gone into work on that Tuesday, a nice trip to the spa would have been much better…

“Yooooooongi! Come on, let’s take a break. I can feel like, a bazillion blisters on my feet.” A bazillion and one, the man never stops walking, eager to find the next floor level. He kept muttering about getting to floor four, because apparently the people from MEG surmised that three wasn’t a good idea. When you asked why, Yoongi deflected completely. Meanie.

The older man (you had found that he’s going to be thirty soon after pestering him while you sit at twenty four) finally stops with a sigh, turning to look at you. He has bags under his eyes, and it makes you wince slightly. You’re sure that you don’t look any better. If anything, you probably look a million times worse because he’s handling things a lot better than you are. If only you were on a level dedicated to shower.

“We have to find a door, _____. Any unlocked door so we can leave this floor and hopefully get to the fourth. Just a bit longer and then we can take a rest, yeah?” You pout but nod, giving him big puppy eyes as he rolls his own and turns away.

“Okay…” Staring to follow, a door to the far left of the room catches your eye and makes you pause. Hoping it’ll make him happy, you swerve off quickly and go to see if you can budge it open. All of the others have been firmly locked, and you’ve only found three so far in your days of searching. Low and behold, the door starts to open so you call out to him.

“Yoon, look!” You spot him across the room, rummaging through a box. The supplies on this level have been plentiful, more than enough to keep you fed and energized (the fear of being killed has not kept you energized though). Not nearly enough sweets though if you say so yourself.

“Give me just a second, there’s rations here we could use…” He keeps rummaging, not even looking toward you. Rude of him, so you huff and stomp your foot once, turning back toward the door to push it further open. It creaks loudly, and you can’t see much inside except for darkness.

“Come on Yoongo, I found an exit I think! It’s opening up!” It opens, and opens, and opens, but you can’t see much. It’s almost completely dark, and you can’t make out much on the other side. Stepping a little closer, you can feel the heat radiating from inside this new room.

“Oh yeah, and how- NO!” The smell hits then. Somethings rotting, and whatever has slid around your ankles when you weren’t paying attention doesn’t waste any time. It pulls and you tumble down hard, landing in your butt as it starts to tug you through.

“FUCK! Yoongi?!” You’re pulled deeper into the room, your screams and the echoing of Yoongi’s boots hitting the floor all you can hear. He’s yelling too, and then everything stops. Something touches you again after a beat and you thrash, clenching your eyes shut and preparing for pain.

It doesn’t come though, strong hands holding your shoulders firmly. Glancing up through teary eyes, the dim light allows you to see Yoongi’s face concerned. His eyes look wild, flitting across your own face and body quickly as his hands slowly slide down your arms.

And then you burst into violent sobs.

“You’re fine! Hey, hey, don’t cry! It’s okay, it’s okay, shhh…” Yoongi drips down and wraps himself around you quickly, holding you close to his chest as you try your best to quiet down. Burying your face into his chest, you gasp for air as he rubs your back, slowly rocking back and forth to try and sooth you.

It works after a while, your tears and snot finally drying up enough for you to pull away from him. He pats your head a few times, his own special way to show affection apparently, and then sits back slowly. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything about the fluids you’ve left on his poor chest. His words come out calculated and cautious then.

“I do not want to scare you and we likely do not have a lot of time… But we’re on floor three now I think. I didn’t tell you about it before because I did not think it would matter, but it has a pretty high entity count.” The man draws away then, pulling his pack off of his back quickly. He rummaged around for something and that’s all the time you need to start panicking again. You’re soft, you weren’t made for this kind of shit, you’re made for fluffy blankets and mimosas.

“Yoongi that thing-“ He grabs your hand before you can spiral again, squeezing it once to draw your attention. You quiet down, shifting so you’re sitting closer to him again. Handing you a bottle of water he pulled out, he watches warily as you start to take slow sips before putting it down.

“… We’re going to fucking die oh my go-“ And then he’s squishing your cheeks between his hands. You look at him with wide watery eyes, slightly bewildered by his actions. He raises a brow as you stick out your tongue automatically, leaving a light pinch on your cheek before letting go. He’s lucky he’s walking eye candy.

“No, no we are not. We just need to be smart and keep our wits about us. We have plenty of resources and weapons to keep ourselves safe, alright? Hold on…” Your add hurts terribly now that the adrenaline is gone, and not for any reason you’d like it to hurt. Shifting from side to side, Yoongi pulls out his notes again and starts to read over then quickly, mumbling quietly to himself in Korean before nodding.

“Our best bet of getting to level four from here would be to find an elevator. Even if we end up on five, it is safer than here. Stay close to me.” An elevator…? He doesn’t give you much time to think, standing up and holding out his hand. You take it, slowly getting to your feet and assessing the situation. He asks if anything hurts, but you’re alright beside your broken ass, so you shake your head.

“Four and five are safe…?” Looking around, it’s clear that this level is different from two. It’s made up more of hallways so far, ones lined with bars like prisoner cells. And it’s much warmer, warm enough that you’ll be stopping down if it gets any hotter. You certainly won’t be mad if Yoongi does. Still, his good looks can’t distract you from every dark corner…

“Yes. The people I talked to from MEG insisted we avoid three if we go further and get to four or five if we intend on exploring. What just attacked you looked to be a Stalker, but they’re usually harmless so we should be fine. I have a whole list of notes of what we should and shouldn’t avoid.” He goes to pull his hand away, but you won’t let him, holding it tightly in your own. The older man doesn’t protest thankfully, just holds your hand in his as he tugs you gently down the corridor.

“But- but the entities…” level two had some, but none had actually touched you like that, had tried to attack you. Maybe you got a little too comfortable, but you like being comfy. You’re whole life has been comfy. This shit is not comfy.

“There’ll be a lot, but we’ll stay in the light if we can, okay? Come on.” He walks ahead of you, head held high as he surveys every new corner or twist you come upon. You’re secretly more than thankfully that he protected you, chased the creature down to dave you, but still… You love to tease him, even if you’re likely going to die.

“… Is it break time yet Yoonie?”

[doctorstethoscope]

In the Garden || A. Hotchner x Fem!Reader

hello babes! Something a little different today-- I didn’t have time to write a request that I was going to be pleased with, so this is something that’s been sitting in my drive for a while. Hope you like it! 

Submit requests here! 

contains: sexual innuendo, gun mention

wordcount: 2.4k

You can’t remember the last time you wore a dress, much less a gown like the one JJ was zipping you into now-- dresses weren’t practical for field work with the BAU, and even when you’d worked in the counterterrorism unit, you’d much preferred a professional blouse and pair of slacks. But the First Lady had decided to throw a ball in the White House to celebrate federal employees, and the Bureau was receiving an award, which the Director had hand-picked the BAU to accept. So, gown. Even though you’d much prefer to be changing into a pair of sweats-- you had been called on a case two days before the ball, and Garcia saved the day by running to everyone’s apartments and grabbing their nice clothes so you all wouldn’t be late. Which is how you found yourself squeezing into a sleek off the shoulder number in the Batcave, with Emily batting at your face with a makeup brush and JJ tugging at your zipper. 

“Babe, you look hot.” Penelope says as Emily and JJ step away from you, admiring their work. 

“All Emily’s work,” you deflected with a shy smile. 

“We’ll have that fight when we’re not running late,” Emily said, pulling you out of Garcia’s office, she and JJ not far behind. 

Derek let out a wolf whistle when he saw you all approaching, and you heard JJ’s windchime laugh from a few steps behind. 

“Hello ladies,” he said with an exaggerated leer. 

“Derek Morgan, you’re lucky that my thigh holster doesn’t go with this dress.” Emily spits out, and all of you burst out in laughter. 

“Chocolate thunder, you clean up good,” Garcia says, crossing to Derek, who moved to put his arm around her shoulders as Reid emerged into the bullpen. 

“Speaking of cleaning up good,” JJ says with a small smile, and you catch Reid blushing. 

“Did you know that balls like this can cost American taxpayers up to a million dollars?” He asks the group, and you smile.

“Maybe don’t mention that when the first lady gives us the award, yeah Spence?” You tease, and he treats you to a little chuckle.

You hear Hotch before you turn to see him and Rossi. “Alright, let’s go,” He says, leading the group out of the BAU and towards your SUVs. You end up in the passenger seat of the car Rossi is driving. 

“You doing okay, kid? You’re awful quiet this evening. Invitations to Federal Government Prom don’t come often, you know.” He smirks, and you half-ass a smile in return. 

“Yeah, I’m okay, Rossi. Just tired, you know. Would have preferred to get a night’s sleep in my own bed before we did this, you know?” 

He nods, but there’s no use in lying to a profiler. 

The food, you have to admit, is leagues better than the instant ramen you would have cooked up if you had gone home tonight. And the conversation isn’t half bad either, you admit to yourself as you lazily flirt with Paul, a junior fellow from the Department of Health and Human Services, just barely putting in enough effort to seem interested while allowing your mind to wander.

The sensation of a warm hand in between your exposed shoulder blades distracts you from your train of thought. 

“Excuse me,” Aaron’s deep baritone interrupts Paul’s nervous tenor. “I’d like to cut in for a dance, if you don’t mind.”

Paul sputters, and you laugh, because you know that Aaron was asking you, not this early-thirties politico type that he towered over, both physically and morally. 

“We’ll catch up later?” you said to Paul, with absolutely no intent to catch up later, before Aaron led you out to the dance floor. 

“Hotch, I’m gonna step on your feet.” You warned. 

“No you won’t,” he assures you. “Follow my lead.” 

You do as you’re told, and you’re surprised to realize just how easy it is to follow him, anywhere. 

“Aaron Hotchner, when on Earth did you learn to ballroom dance?” You asked incredulously. 

“Boarding school,” He answers with an easy smile.

“You’re joking,” you accuse. 

“Ah, yes, something I’m known to do.”

“You remain a mystery, Hotchner.”  You tell him.

“I don’t know. That might have been my last secret.” 

You roll your eyes, content to continue dancing, and finding yourself getting distracted again. 

“What are you thinking about?” Aaron asks, and you mentally curse yourself for letting your guard down in front of your boss. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just tired. But really grateful to be here, of course, and--”

“I wasn’t asking as your boss, you can stand down,” He smirks, dipping you quickly and it takes your breath away. “You’re thinking of leaving.” He says as he lifts you back up, and it’s not a question. 

“How did you-- I can’t believe-- Damn profilers.” You harrumphed. 

“You’ve been distant, the past couple weeks. You’re in your early twenties accepting an award at the White House, by all accounts you should be ecstatic. That’s when I knew something was wrong. And when I saw you with Peter, or whatever his name was, who you couldn’t be less interested in, that’s when I knew it was us.” 

“See, and that’s exactly why I need to leave. Because I’ll never be able to do that.” You tell him, finally looking him in the eye.

“You will,”  He says in a self-assured tone that does nothing to assuage your anxiety.

“I don’t know,” you sighed. 

“I do.” 

“Maybe I’m not good enough, Hotch.” You confess carelessly. He’s already figured you out. Might as well fess up to your deepest insecurities while your boss holds you and stares you down with his deep brown eyes in the middle of the East Room.

“You are,” he says in that same tone, that you’re sure is supposed to be calming but is only infuriating. 

“But maybe I’m not! Maybe I’m one of those people who always wanted to do it, who always wanted to be an agent, but it’s like a pipe dream for me. I don’t contribute to the team the same way everyone else does. I don’t pick up on the things that seem so obvious to all of you, and it sucks. I can still do good work, but you know-- you change your dreams and you grow up. Maybe I’m one of those people and I’m just not supposed to be here. I just can’t stay knowing that I’m not supposed to be here-- I have to leave.” You’re not even sure if your soliloquy makes any sense, but Aaron pulls you a little closer, so he can speak the next few words lowly, directly into your ear. 

“You’ve been here eight months. It takes time. You are an incredible agent, and an asset to this team. I don’t need another profiler that sees the same things we all see-- I need you, and your observations, the things we missed-- those are the things that solve cases. I can’t-- I can’t allow you to change your dream. I can’t let you leave. I need you here.” 

You let his words hang in the air for a moment before he speaks again. 

“The, uh-- the team needs you. We all need you, and your observations, is what I meant.” He stammers. 

“Hotch?’ You ask, confused by the sudden change in tone. 

“Do you want to go get some fresh air? Get away from the crowd?” He asks, pulling away to look at you, and there’s an invitation in his eyes. Maybe a more seasoned profiler would know exactly what it was, but you were excited to find out nonetheless.  

“Yeah, I think I do.”

You’re certain that you’re breaking some sort of law as Hotch pulls you out of the ballroom and down a hallway, his fingers interlocked with yours. You try not to think about it too much. Your heels click against the marble floors as you follow Aaron’s brisk pace, and eventually he finds a door outside, opening it up and allowing you to pass through it first. It takes a minute to place yourself, especially under the cover of night, but after a moment you realize you’re in the rose garden. 

“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” You say under your breath with a little laugh as you look out over the sprawling display of flowers and plants. 

“It definitely beats the Quantico courtyard,” Aaron agrees.

“Never thought I’d make it there, either.” You confess, not looking at him.

“But you did. It wasn’t meant to be easy, but you made it, and you’ll grow. You just need time.” He tells you. 

“How can you be so sure?” You ask, feeling your eyes well up. 

“I was young once, too.” He tells you with a self-deprecating grin. 

“You can’t play up the wise, ancient elder with me, Hotch. I’ve seen you chase Jack across a soccer field like you’re still in your twenties.” You laugh, but he can hear the emotions behind it.

“Hey, come on, I mean it. I’m not Rossi, but I’ve got my fair dose of wisdom to share,” he says, moving closer to you and placing a hand on your arm, trying to comfort you. “Let’s keep dancing. If you want to talk, you can talk. But you thought you couldn’t dance, and you could dance, right? So we can keep doing that until you believe me.” He said, pulling your hand up in his and placing his other on your waist. 

The two of you moved slowly, the orchestra from inside only barely audible from where you were standing. With Hotch’s bad ear, he could really only hear it when his body was angled just right in the direction of the East Room, but somehow he had perfect rhythm regardless. You move in silence for a song or two or three before Hotch speaks up again. 

“I lied to you, earlier.” He confesses, still guiding you effortlessly through a simple waltz. 

“How do you mean?” You ask, suddenly nervous that you were right, that you’re a complete failure of an agent, and that you need to pack your bags and head on back to Kansas.

“I lied when I said that I’d told you my last secret.”

“Oh,” you said, too caught up in your own head to try to understand what he was saying.

“And I lied when I told you that I meant the team needed you--” you felt that bone-crushing weight on your soul again-- “we do, of course, but that’s not what I meant.” 

“Hotchner, what are you talking about?” You finally asked, no longer able to tolerate the emotional whiplash of his conversation.

“When I said I needed you, I meant it.” 

“Oh,” you say, your face a portrait of shock and confusion, even though you understood him completely. 

“That’s selfish of me as a person, and wrong of me as your superior, and maybe that means that I’m outing myself as the kind of fucked-up person that isn’t worth another second of your time, but I needed you to know.” He stops dancing now, tries to hedge a bit of space between you without letting you go entirely. 

“Aaron,” you whisper, clinging to him more tightly as he pulls away, feeling his jacket wrinkle under your fingernails. 

“Yes?” he whispers back. 

“I’m glad you told me,” you tell him, and that’s all the permission he needs to take your face in both of your hands and kiss you, with a gentleness that makes you feel like spun gold, with the reverence of a man who knows that love is not a game, with the hunger of one who has been starved for months. 

He pulls away from you, too soon, and your eyes are wet. “My resignation will be on your desk by Monday morning.”

He takes a step away. “What do you--” 

“Goodnight, Aaron,” You tell him with a sad little smile, turning around towards the door you came from and leaving him in the garden.

You’re drowning your sorrows in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s when the doorbell rings the next day. You swing the door open grumpily, to reveal Aaron. 

“It’s Saturday, and you can’t turn in your resignation until 9am Monday. What can I do in the next forty eight hours to convince you that you belong here?” Aaron asks, still standing in the hall of your apartment complex.

You sigh, stepping aside to let him in. You can’t give him what he wants, but you won’t have this argument where all the neighbors will hear, either. “It’s too late, Hotch.”

“It’s not too late,” he argues, checking his watch. “I have forty six hours and thirteen minutes.”

“I’ll still be the girl who got this job on her back forty six hours from now.” You tell him, folding your arms.

“You’ll be what?” He asks, incredulous. 

“I know that you heard me loud and clear. 

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know that you slept with Erin Strauss. I didn’t think you were her type.” He says, and you let out an exasperated sigh. 

“You’re absolutely incorrigible!” You cry out. 

“Who implied that you got this job on anything other than your own merit?” Aaron asks, a glint in his eye that lets you know that they’ll be handled just as soon as he gets you to shred the letter of resignation you drafted last night.

“Didn’t I? You didn’t clear my promotion because you were attracted to me?” You asked.

“I cleared your promotion before we even met-- your interview was a bureau formality. Your reputation and the glowing recommendations from your peers in counterterrorism spoke volumes.”  He assures you.

“Oh,” you let out, your anger deflating. 

“If you want to leave because of my inappropriate behavior, please reconsider. I’m incredibly sorry for--” He starts, but you cut him off, placing your hands on his face and pulling him in for a kiss. 

“Nothing to be sorry for. Please continue to be inappropriate,” you tell him in between kisses. 

He smiles as he continues to place kisses across your face, your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “Right now?” He asks, slipping a hand underneath your shirt.  “You want me to be inappropriate right now?” 

“If you’re really good at it, I’ll let you tear up my resignation yourself.” 

@romanogersendgame @wanniiieeee      @zheezs14      @greeneyedblondie44 @angelic-kisses13  @baumarvel @ssamorganhotchner  @ijustwannaread2k19    @rexit-mo @shmaptainhotchnersmain @qtip-blog @averyhotchner  @the-modernmary @itsmytimetoodream @choppa-style @hotforhotchner11 @infinite-tides @isthatme-thatsme @g-l-pierce @bakugouswh0r3 @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @rousethemouse @scuttling

[xjoonchildx]

last call | jjk x reader

pairing: jungkook x reader

rating: 18+

word count: 4.4K

synopsis: jeon jungkook is the hottest bartender in the city. everyone has their sights set on him, but it seems he has his sights set on you.

warnings: oral (female receiving), protected sex, jungkook thirst, excessive jungkook thirst, hello we’re talking about jungkook here -- there is a jungkook-sized amount of thirst, unsanitary use of a space designated for food and beverage

A/N: this fic is a commission for the @ficswithluv​ special project “Changes with Luv”. The awesome @dee-ehn​ made a donation to BLM for this fic and she asked for sexy times with long-haired JK with tattoos and dammit that’s what she’s gonna get.  Thanks so much for making the donation, this is a cool way for authors like me to pitch in for an important cause!

*********************

Jeon Jungkook is the sexiest man in this city.

That’s not a matter of opinion, that’s an actual fact -- voted into law by you and the rest of the Council of The Thirsty after a night of downing shots at The Black Swan.  The four of you piled into the bar’s single-stall restroom to check lipstick and chat shit and it was decided, that was that.

The Black Swan is open long after the other nearby bars and restaurants have locked up for the night. After the tables have been cleared and the tips have been counted, it’s where just about everyone who works in the service industry in this part of town ends up for a post-shift nightcap. They’re drawn by the late hours and the strong drinks and, well --

Jeon Jungkook.

On any given night, his bar is packed with flirts -- men and women alike -- all hoping for just a taste of his attention.  You can’t blame them, really.  It’s far too easy to get lost in Jungkook’s massive, dark eyes, or that slow, confident smile.  And it’s far too hard to look away when he tucks an errant strand of inky hair behind his ear or when he rolls his sleeves up to reveal those toned forearms covered with tattoos.

Jungkook works his bar with the confidence of a man who understands his magnetism, a man who understands why people get sucked into his orbit and never want to leave. 

Suckers just like you.

*************************

Jägermeister is totally fucking disgusting and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

You’ve just bellied up to the bar to grab a drink when Jeon Jungkook drops a shot of the foul shit right in front of you.  The look you give him is equal parts confused and revolted.

“What’s this?” 

“Oh, come on,” he teases with a smile, “You work at a bar.  Don’t tell me you don’t recognize a shot of Jäger.”

“Oh, I recognize it,” you tease back. “I just refuse to acknowledge it.  Who sent this to me?”

Jungkook narrows his eyes playfully, pulls another shot glass from under the bar and pours himself a shot of the dark, thick liqueur.

He holds it up in the air and waits for you to do the same.

“I did.”

Your eyebrows shoot sky-high in surprise.  Jeon Jungkook buying you a shot? 

You’re probably just in the right place at the right time, you reason. The lucky recipient of a free drink because he’s in the mood to get one, too.  

Or unlucky, you correct yourself -- looking down at the glass.  But one more look at Jungkook and you know there’s no way you’re going to refuse the offering.  

You’re picky, but you’re damned sure not stupid.

You raise your shot glass in the air and Jungkook looks pleased.

“Bottoms up,” he says, eyes twinkling.

***********************

Something strange happens a few nights later.  

You’re seated at a high-top near the bar with your girlfriends when you hear Jungkook call something out across the room.  Your friends freeze, wide eyes and shocked stares focused on you for one awkward moment.

He says it again, this time louder -- and there’s no mistaking it.

It’s your name.

You ignore the frantic whispering of your girlfriends and stand up from your seat at the high-top to approach Jungkook’s bar.  He’s leaned over it, hands bracing the dark wood -- pen tucked neatly behind his ear.  His long dark hair is pulled back into a glossy knot, but one lock has fallen into his eyes.  

He looks insanely good -- but honestly, what’s new?

You clear your throat before you approach so you don’t croak your way through whatever comes next.  Spine straight, you get close, slide into a barstool and do your best to appear casual.

“What’s up?” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna threaten you with any more shots of Jäger,” he laughs, flashing his million-watt smile.  You smile back, hoping he can’t hear the holy shits and what the fucks flying at the table behind you.  “I’ve got something else for you tonight.”

“Okay,” you breathe, dazzled by the personal attention he’s bestowing on you.  “What’s on the menu?”

Jungkook reaches for two fresh shot glasses and pulls a heavy amber bottle from the well behind his bar.

“Grand Marnier,” you answer for him, watching as he pours you both a shot.  “An upgrade from Jäger, that’s for sure,” you tease.

He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the most goddamned adorable way possible.  “I figured this might be more your speed.”

Figured how? As far as you know, he doesn’t know a thing about you -- apart from the fact that you usually drink a vodka tonic.

And your name, apparently.  How does he know your name, anyway?

“Cheers,” he says in that low, sexy voice, and you shiver.

“Cheers,” you agree, tongue swiping at the taste of the sweet liqueur on your lips.  

Jungkook’s eyes darken for a split-second and heat creeps up your neck.

“So, um -- how do you know my name?”

You can thank the alcohol for giving you the courage to ask.  Sober you wouldn’t be nearly so forward.

Jungkook shrugs.  “I’ve seen it on your credit card.”

“Ah,” you smile.  “Well, thanks, again.  Next time, I’ll be the one buying, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he grins.

But as you’re walking back to your table something dawns on you.  

You turn and head back to the bar.

“Hold on a second,” you say, eyes narrowed at Jungkook.  “I’ve never paid with a credit card here.  I always pay my tab in cash.”

“Hmmm,” he murmurs -- and fuck if the slow smile that spreads across his features doesn’t make your panties wet right then and there.  

“Is that right?”

**************************

“Jeon Jungkook wants to fuck you.”

“For the love of God, Tifa,” you hiss, ducking your head.  “Keep your voice down.  Jungkook and every last one of his ancestors can hear you when you’re talking that loud.”

Tifa shrugs, unbothered.

“I said what I said,” she sniffs, checking for non-existent dirt under her nails.  “You see any of us getting free shots from The Golden One? Or any of the other women in here, for that matter?”

Well, she’s kind of got a point there, doesn’t she?

You have no idea why you seem to have captured Jeon Jungkook’s attention, but you’re not going to question it, that’s for sure. You’re going to enjoy your good fortune while it lasts.

“He’s being nice,” you argue, and even you aren’t buying it the second the lame deflection comes out of your mouth.  Tifa rolls her eyes.

“You know what else would be nice? Getting dicked down by the hottest man in town.  Wouldn’t that be nice?”

You sigh.  

It would be, actually.  The part of your brain that entertains such outlandish fantasies has been working overtime these days, imagining exactly what that would be like.  Imagining the body that lies underneath that sinfully fitted shirt and the almost-too-tight-but-not-quite jeans.  

Jungkook certainly walks and talks and moves like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing in bed.  You’d love nothing more than to know if there’s any truth to that theory.

You chance a glance over your shoulder, back to the bar -- and Jungkook is deep in conversation with a patron.  She’s leaning over the bar, practically throwing herself at the man, but he looks away from her to catch sight of you.  His picture-perfect face breaks into a wide smile and you break into a sweat.

“See what I mean?” Tifa asks, brow raised when you turn back to face her.  “The man is trying to fuck you.  I’ll be right here after he does, waiting to say I told you so.”

You sputter a laugh into the rim of your glass.

“We’ll see about that, T.”

*************************

Nothing ruins the end of a night of drinking quite like last call.

All the fun screeches to a halt when the house lights come on.  No one looks good under the harsh fluorescents that hum to life as tabs are being paid and drinks are being slammed and tables are being wiped -- no one.

Well, no one except for Jeon Jungkook, of course.

He’s in the weeds tonight -- trying to settle tabs for at least twenty people all trying to cash out at the same time.  He nods in your direction to confirm he’s seen you, that he’ll get to you -- that eventually you’ll get your chance to pay.

So you wait.  And wait.

The crowd starts to thin as Jungkook closes tabs at top speed -- tip jar flush with obscene amounts of cash.  No one tips better than people who make a living on them -- and tonight is no exception.  From what you can tell it’s been a good night for Jungkook.  

Hell, every night is probably a good night when you’re Jeon Jungkook.

You sip what’s left of your vodka tonic and scroll through your phone while you patiently wait for your turn -- then promptly lose track of time.

How long have you been sitting here? 

It’s only when your ears pick up on the echo in this place that you look up from the screen.  Jungkook is cashing some guy out -- and as you take a look around you realize this guy must be the last person in this place. 

Correction -- you are the last person in this place, or at least you will be in about thirty seconds. 

Your pulse picks up as Jungkook wraps the transaction and sends the guy out the door with a friendly wave.  You’re definitely the only two people left in The Black Swan now, no doubt.

“So uh -- ” you drag the sound out on a nervous breath, “ -- I still need to pay my tab.”

Jungkook flips the house lights back off before sauntering to your end of the bar, wearing his most dangerous smile. He dries his hands with the towel at his waist then sets it aside.

“Your tab was paid hours ago.”

Oh.

“Because you paid it,” you say slowly, forcing yourself to drag your eyes from the man’s muscled thighs and trim waist to his flawless face.  Your heart stops a bit at the smirk you find when you finally get there.

“Yup.”

You grab for what’s left of your vodka tonic and slug it down.  

Jungkook laughs.

“You want me,” he says, fingers working the top buttons of his fitted shirt open.  You watch with wide eyes, so distracted by the action that you barely process what he’s said.

“Wait, what?” you ask in a daze.

“You want me,” he repeats casually, like it’s no big deal.  His fingers stop only a few buttons down, the tease -- but he chooses that same moment to pull his hair out of the loose knot he’s been wearing all night.  The dark strands fall into his face and you stare like a moron.

“What makes you say that?” you ask, weakly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jungkook teases.  “My vision is 20/20.  My hearing is pretty good, too -- though it would be pretty hard not to overhear the things you and your friends say about me.”

Dammit, Tifa, I told you to keep your voice down.

“Yikes,” you murmur on a shaky laugh.  “That’s embarrassing.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” he says with no hesitation.  “‘Cause I want you, too.”

You pull back from the bar so far, your stool nearly tips over. Jungkook waits for you to right yourself in amused silence.  Then he waits for you to speak.

“I’m, I  -- “ you sputter, searching for things like words and thoughts.  Jungkook’s brows lift as he awaits whatever is on the other end of that sentence.  “ -- I think I need another drink.”

Jungkook winks before reaching down to pull glasses from under the bar.  He sets a brown bottle with a familiar orange label down beside them.  You hold your breath when you see him walk out from behind the bar to slide into the stool next to yours.

“Fireball,” you say thickly, watching him pour the cinnamon liqueur into the shot glasses.  He nods, handing you your glass.

“Think this will help?” he asks, smiling wickedly.  

“No way to know but to do it,” you smile back.

You clink the glasses together before draining them.

You can almost feel the alcohol working its way through your veins.  The warm burn of it starts in your throat, slides low into your belly and spreads out through your arms and legs.  

“Think that did the trick?” he asks in a low voice, dark eyes fixed on your every move.  He leans closer.

“I don’t know,” you admit. He’s close enough now you can smell the warm cinnamon on his breath.  Between the booze and the hormones, you’re starting to feel a little reckless.  “That depends.  Are you trying to fuck me in this bar?”

“Absolutely,” Jungkook deadpans.  You suck in a breath.

“Then I think we’ll probably need one more.”

Jungkook chuckles as he refills your glasses.  His eyes glint with unconcealed mischief when you knock the second round back.  This time, the warmth that spreads down your throat seems to pool between your thighs.

You dip the pad of one finger into the remnants left in the shotglass, emboldened by the buzz you can feel coming on.  Jungkook watches rapt as you slip it between your lips.  You are weightless and shameless by now, more than prepared for the moment he slips two fingers under your jaw to tip your mouth up towards his.  

He tastes like the pleasant spice in the alcohol and he smells like sweat and bodywash and your senses are overwhelmed.  Your fingers dive right into his hair, desperate to feel the silky strands between your fingertips.

“Fireball was a good idea,” Jungkook groans between kisses, hands going to your back to pull you close.  You stand out of your barstool to position yourself between his thighs.  “I like the way you think.”

He pulls away to tug at the hem of your shirt. 

“Take this off,” he orders with a quiet authority that makes you desperate to comply. His eyes are heavy-lidded; glued to the nipples pebbling underneath the thin cotton.  You cross your arms across your body and lift the shirt over your head.

Jungkook doesn’t bother to take your bra off.  You jolt with surprise when he surges forward, mouth seeking the skin peeking out of the soft cups.  He plants hot, open-mouthed kisses across the heated flesh before leaning low to graze the outline of one nipple.  You jerk at the sensation -- at the way his lips and tongue and teeth make the fabric rub against the straining buds.

“Oh, God,” you hiss, “That feels good.”

Jungkook pushes the straps of your bra off your shoulders, eyes dark and focused when your breasts spill out of the cups and your nipples are exposed to the cool air in the bar.  You shudder.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, touching his tongue to your nipples now without a barrier.  You allow yourself to run your fingers through his hair again, anchoring yourself to him to keep steady in the onslaught.

It’s bad manners that you haven’t pulled yourself together enough to thank him for the compliment, but how can you be expected to think straight when his teeth are scraping against your nipples? 

Jungkook pauses to look up at you -- eyes smoldering, lips swollen with use -- and you squirm in his hold.  “You should take these jeans off,” he whispers, fingers slipping into the belt loops. He tugs at them gently. “I wouldn’t want them to get wet.”

Oh honey -- that ship has sailed.

You nod slowly and Jungkook leans back in his stool, eyes hooded as you unbutton the denim, slide it down your legs and step out of it.  

“You gonna take any clothes off, or am I the only one stripping tonight?” you tease, shivering at the loss of his body heat. 

A slow smile spreads over his face. “We’re getting to that, I promise.”

He reaches across the bar for the bottle of Fireball and your mouth falls open in surprise.

“Wait, are you gonna -- “

“Yeah,” he cuts in, dripping the cool liquid onto your breast.  His lips swipe at the liqueur that spills over your nipple and you groan out loud.  “I own this bar,” he teases, his warm tongue a stark contrast to the cold alcohol.  “I can do whatever I want in here.”

You certainly can.

He drips more of the liquid onto a nipple and watches with satisfaction as it slides down your skin.  He laps at the cinnamon taste as his hands roam the sensitive skin of your stomach and down to the band of your panties.  Your breath hitches in your chest.

“I can do whatever I want on here, too,” he smirks, nodding at the bar.  You laugh.

“You’re the boss, right?”

“Exactly,” Jungkook winks, before his hands drop to your waist. His grip is firm as he helps lift you on to the bartop. 

You brace your hands against the wood and watch as he slips his fingers under the satin seam of your panties.  In this position, you have a front-row seat to what is sure to be the hottest sexual experience of your life.  Jungkook’s brows knit in concentration and his tongue swipes across his lips as he pulls your soaking panties away from your legs.  The sight of him preparing to debauch you on top of his bar alone could make you come.

He steadies you with firm hands to either side of your hips before dipping his head down to test your taste with a light flick of his tongue.  You buck in his grasp and he muffles his laughter against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.  “You’re not allowed to fall off of my bar,” he teases.  “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” you laugh, fingertips gripping the bartop for dear life.  

Jungkook pulls his mouth away from your aching center and you damned near whine at the loss of his warmth.  But in a split-second he’s back, and so is the Fireball.  

“Just a little,” he rasps, tipping the bottle to the side.  You hiss as the frigid liquid seeps down into the crux of your thighs.  Jungkook purses his lips and blows a puff of air against you, sparking an intense tingling sensation and earning a loud whimper.  He’s satisfied with your response, if the look on his face is any indication  --  but his wicked smile disappears from view when he lowers his mouth to your center again.

“Fuck,” you gasp, head dropping back between your shoulders. “God, that feels good.”

“Tell me what it feels like,” he whispers, slipping one long, calloused finger into your channel.  The added sensation makes you whine when he swipes his tongue against your clit.  

“Like --,” you gasp and try again to formulate a thought. “Like fire and ice.”

He hums his approval of that assessment right into your cunt and you nearly break your promise not to fall off his bar.  Your arms are shaking with the same tension that is building between your legs. Jungkook pulls back to drip more of the Fireball onto your sensitive center and you shudder.

The alcohol burns a bit, a pleasant pain that is somehow heightened by Jungkook’s warm, wet mouth.  He doesn’t rush, seemingly content to take his time as you slowly come undone. 

“I’m so close,” you whimper, elbows threatening to buckle underneath you.  Jungkook finally picks up the pace, tonguing you deep as your thighs tighten in anticipation.

“I can feel how bad you want to come, sweetheart,” he goads, finger crooking inside of you, stimulating that spot that makes you feel like you can’t see straight.  “Do it.”

The moans Jungkook pulls from you in those final seconds are made all the more obscene by the echoing inside this empty bar.  Every muscle in your body tightens and then melts as your orgasm hits with the intensity of a freight train.  Jungkook seals his mouth over your cunt to capture the wetness he’s earned, prolonging the sensations, prolonging your moans. 

It takes a moment for the roar in your ears to subside, for your ability to focus to return.  When you can hear and see and think again, you look back down to the space between your thighs and find Jungkook wearing a look of utter satisfaction.

“Believe it or not, that’s the first time I’ve eaten pussy on top of my bar,” he teases, dimples emerging as his lips quirk into a smile.  “How has your service been tonight?”

“Pretty good,” you taunt, a lot ballsier with a few shots and an orgasm under your belt.  “Would be a hell of a lot better if my bartender would take his clothes off.”

Jungkook feigns a wounded look as his fingers work the rest of the buttons on his shirt open to reveal a tight white tank underneath.  He pulls that overhead and reveals the body you’ve been fantasizing about for so long.  Whatever you’d imagined was lying underneath those clothes pales in comparison to the real thing.  His body looks cut from stone, his smooth skin the perfect canvas for the tattoos that run across his arms and onto his chest.

“Better now?” he chuckles.

“Not yet,” you say, savoring the power of your position on the bar.  You watch his one-woman striptease with the hint of a smile on your lips.  “The jeans have to go.”

“Bossy,” he mocks, fingers unbuttoning the dark denim.  Your jaw drops about the same time the jeans do.

“Well,” you laugh, slipping down off of the bar to stand in front of him.  “Your review has just improved.”

He smiles into the kiss you plant on him as your fingers snake between you to wrap around his cock.  He thrusts firmly into the tight grasp of your fingers as his tongue delves deep into your mouth.  He sucks in a breath when your thumb teases as the moisture gathered at the tip of his cock.

“My cock is gonna explode if I don’t bury it between those thighs,” Jungkook groans and you shudder from head to toe.  “Turn around for me.”

You do as you're told, turning away from him to brace your weight against the bartop.  You can see Jungkook’s reflection in the mirror that lines the back wall of the bar.  You watch as he grabs a condom from the back pocket of his jeans and makes quick work of rolling it down his thick length.

He presses the length of his warm body against yours, and you tense when the blunt head of his cock teases your entrance.  One hand lines up his cock and the other grips the soft skin of your hip.  He looks at you in the reflection of the mirror and your knees almost give out when he leans down to whisper in your ear.

“Let me in, sweetheart.”

You arch back just as he sinks inside -- going to the hilt in one firm stroke.  

“Shit,” he groans between gritted teeth. “Fuck, that’s a tight fit.”

“Oh, God --” you gasp as he begins to rock against you.  After a few languid strokes he sets a steady rhythm, hips smacking against your ass with the force of his thrusts.

He leans over you, bracketing you in with one arm braced on the bar while the other helps guide your hip.  Your eyes fall closed and your head drops forward as you push back against him, rendered boneless by the thick slide of his cock.  The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loud in the empty bar.

Jungkook leans down to take your earlobe between his teeth and you whimper.

“Look at me,” he orders in a whisper.  “Open your eyes.”

Your eyes snap open to find Jungkook’s reflection and the sight nearly makes you come undone for a second time.  His damp hair is falling into his face, body covered in a sheen of sweat and his mouth is curled into a dangerous smile.

“That’s it,” he murmurs when your eyes meet in the mirror.  “I want you to see how good you’re getting fucked.”

Your rhythm falters at his provocation but Jungkook refuses to let either of you get off track.  He drops both hands to your hips and begins pounding into you with relentless strokes, huffing a laugh when you squeak in response.

“Just like that, sweetheart,” he groans, thrusts going frantic.  “Can you come for me again?”

You nod -- completely out of words -- reaching one hand down to the aching button between your thighs.  Jungkook pulls your body back against his, angling deeper into your aching cunt at the same time your shaking fingers manage to apply a light pressure to your clit.  

That’s all it takes.

You come apart a second later and Jungkook pulls your hair back to expose the column of your throat as he rides you through it.  His teeth scrape against the sensitive skin of your neck as his own orgasm starts to ignite.

His fingers grip your hips so hard you’re certain there will be bruises in the morning.  But it’s worth it -- so damned worth it when you get to watch Jeon Jungkook come undone for you.  You’ve never seen anything sexier than Jungkook with brows knit in utter concentration, mouth slack with pleasure and coming for you.  Inside of you.

 You lean against the bar, legs like noodles as he comes down from his high and seconds later, he’s slumped over you, body lax against yours.

“Hey,” he says after a moment of silence, as you’re catching your breath.  He leans his chin against your shoulder.

“Yeah?” you manage, craning your head to face him.

“Come back tomorrow and we can break open my bottle of Goldschläger.”

*********************

You wake with an ache between your temples and an ache between your legs. 

The pounding in your head is your punishment for drinking way more than you should have last night.  

The pleasant soreness lingering between your thighs is an entirely different story.  That’s the only souvenir you get to keep to commemorate the best sex of your life.  And it’s not going to stick around.

You roll over in bed and reach for your phone.

Tifa picks up on the first ring.

“I’m not even going to play the game with you, girl,” she says, in lieu of a proper greeting. “I just wanna know how it was.”

***********************

[sirtommyholland]

Four Years of Birthdays

A/N: Hey everyone! This isn’t my first time writing for Harry but my first time actually posting it so I’m very excited! This is inspired by the little piece I wrote on Tom Holland’s birthday, I wanted to make a similar concept. Hope you guys like it, and happy birthday to our beloved baby boy Harry Styles! We love you so much!💜

Word Count: 2.4k (she tiny because I suck)

Summary: Harry’s four different birthdays with Y/N in differents points of his life. 

Fluff all the way! with like a little talk about sexual themes because I had to.

poc friendly and plus size friendly (I think, please tell me if I made a mistake!) because we dont blush bright red or swim in men’s clothes in this house💫

2019 - 25th Birthday

Spending his birthday with Y/N was one of Harry’s favourite things. Over the last ten years of his life, she had missed quite a few of them as he was on the road and she was back home in London, going to uni and living a normal life. It was only the last couple of years that he was able to be home on his birthday, his solo career allowing him a bit more freedom to arrange his schedule as he wanted. 

This year, he had wanted to have a quiet birthday, just with his family and close friends. And of course, his girlfriend, who was currently climbing on his back on the bed, trying to coax him out of sleep. 

“Loviee” she whined into the back of his neck between kisses. “Wake up.”

“No.” his voice was deeper than usual as he groaned, trying to bury himself more into the pillows to avoid the bright sunlight in the room. “‘M sleepy.”

“But it’s your birthday.” she protested with a kiss to a small part of his cheek that wasn’t hidden away. “I need to give you your 25 kisses.”

“Just 25?” he frowned, raising his head from the pillow to look back at her. “That’s nowhere near enough! You kiss me more on a regular day.”

“Hmm..” she pretended to ponder his words, one of her hands going up to brush away the soft curls that fell on his forehead. “Then how about I give you a blowie for 25 minutes?”

Even if she couldn’t see his face, she would still be able to hear the grin in his voice. “Now that’s more like it.” He was turning over and laying on his back in a heartbeat, tugging at her thighs to make her straddle him again. 

She complied, throwing one leg over his hips and gently sitting on thighs, not putting her full weight. She leaned down to softly brush her lips against his, once, twice, three times. “Happy birthday, baby.”  she sighed against them, rubbing her nose against his lovingly. 

“Thank you, angel.” he smiled, letting his hands roam over the soft material of her shirt. “I reckon it’s gonna be the best one so far.” 

“Really? Is there a reason why?” she grinned, feeling like she already knew the answer.

“Because this is the first one I’m waking up with you as my girlfriend. Finally,” he sighed. “I can kiss you for real instead of making a wish for it when I blow out the candles.”

“You’re so cheesy.” she teased with a smile, leaning down to give him another kiss. “I still can't believe you wished for it.”

“Literally every year.” he confirmed, only blushing slightly under her loving gaze. “Honestly don’t know what I’m gonna wish for this time. It’s been the same thing for many years.” 

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” She placed a final peck to his lips, then swiftly got up from his lap. “Now get up, your mum’s expecting us for breakfast.”

“But- but- my blowie!” 

She looked back to see an adorable pout on his lips, one that she almost couldn’t resist. Almost.

“Later.” she promised, pulling him to his feet and laying a few kisses on his neck. “I’m gonna take care of you properly tonight, after your party. Along with your final present.”

“You’re a tease.” he breathed, the meaning behind her words not so hidden. She grinned, and trailed her hand softly down his back until she was grabbing his bum, giving it a firm squeeze. 

“Heyy!” he jumped, trying to grab her before she made a run for the bathroom, and failing.

“Pick your outfit, it takes ages!” she yelled through the closed door, making him huff and fall back on the bed dramatically. 

“Harry Edward Styles!” Well, guess she knew him too well.

“Yes, ma’am!”

2009 - 15th birthday

“Hello.”

Harry raised his head from the plastic cup he was refilling, to see a familiar girl looking at him with a friendly smile. 

“Hi.” he smiled back as he straightened up, silently giving her the cue to go on. 

“Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to say that I really liked your performance. You guys were incredible!” 

“Oh, thank you! Of course you’re not bothering me. I’m glad to know you liked it.” He grinned. “We’re at the same school, right? I’ve seen you around before.”

“Yeah, but we’ve never actually talked, I think. I’m Y/N, by the way. Will invited me because I live next door.” she explained, nodding towards his bandmate that was currently hosting his birthday party/small concert in his garage. 

“You don’t need to explain yourself! Next time, I’ll just have to make sure that I invite you myself.”

She grinned at his words. “That’s very nice of you, Harry. Oh, and happy birthday, by the way! I almost forgot.” Right, she was at his birthday party. She already knew his name. 

“Thank you! And thanks for coming.” 

Before she could open her mouth to say anything else, the lights were dimmed and the back entrance of the garage was illuminated with a soft, orange light as his friends brought in the cake. Off-key voices singing him happy birthday filled the space, and he made his way to his friends with a huge smile on his face, Y/N joining the small crowd around him as they waited for him to blow out the candles.

“Don’t forget to make a wish!” one of his mates yelled just as he was leaning towards the cake. 

“Sorry.” he chuckled, then closed his eyes to make his wish. I want to make music. For all my life.

Little did he know, that would be his only wish in the next ten years that didn’t involve the girl that he had just met. 

2016 - 22th birthday

“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling twenty-two! Everything will be alright if you keep me next to you!”

“What the fuck.” he muttered into his pillow, trying to figure out if he was dreaming or if his phone was actually ringing with a Taylor Swift song. But even when he was wide awake after a few minutes he could still hear her melodic voice, so he reached out with a groan and checked the caller ID. Of course.

“How did you manage to change my ringtone all the way from London?” he answered in a groggy voice. 

“Well, good morning to you too, hun, took you long enough! I’m very good, thanks for asking! And I got Niall to do it yesterday, obviously.” 

“... Morning Y/N.” 

“Oh, stop grumbling, it doesn’t suit you. Get up and get ready, I’m gonna facetime you in thirty minutes.” And before he could say anything, she hung up on him. 

He looked at this phone in disbelief. Did she just hang up on me on my birthday?! He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the soft smile that appeared on his face. To be honest, there were a lot of things he couldn’t help when it came to her. 

Half an hour later, when he was freshly showered and dressed, his phone rang with an incoming facetime call just like she said. She probably set an alarm for exactly thirty minutes, he thought fondly.

Her smiling face greeted him as he accepted the call. “Happy birthday, Haz!!”

“Thanks, love.” he chuckled, eyeing the tiny cupcake in front of her through the small screen. “Whatcha got there?”

“That’s your birthday cupcake, made it myself! Was tired of shitty store-bought cake.” 

“I don’t know, it looks kind of ugly.” he joked, grinning at her mock-offended face. “I could do better. I worked in a bakery, ya know.”

“You literally just ran the register and washed the dishes.”

“Still, in a bakery!” 

She was shaking her head at his shit-eating grin, but he could still see a soft smile playing at her lips. It caused his heart to flutter in his chest. What he wouldn’t give to see her smiling at him like that everyday. 

“Anyway, candle time!” she piped, grabbing a lighter from somewhere behind the camera and lighting up the single candle on her tiny cupcake.  

Harry watched her raise the cupcake closer to the camera and she instructed him to make a wish. This routine was familiar to them now. Every year, she would video call with a different type of cake, to make up for not being able to be there with him.

Harry closed his eyes, and made the same wish that he had been making for the last six years of his life. I wish you were mine. 

He opened his eyes and blew lightly towards the screen, her actions matching his as she blew out the candle in his place. She gave a little cheer afterwards, and the brightness of her eyes warmed him up all the way down to his toes, even through a phone screen. 

They talked for a while after that, catching up on each other’s lives and discussing the dates they would be able to meet up again. She hung up with a final ‘happy birthday, love you!’ and then he was left staring at his phone, a small smile still remaining on his face. I wish you were mine. 

And later, when he logged onto his twitter account and tweeted some certain song lyrics, he only cared about one person’s reaction out of millions. 

2018 - 24th birthday

“Hey. I’ve been looking for you.” 

Harry turned towards the kitchen door that led to the back garden, seeing her slide it close to make her way towards him.

“Just taking a breather, love.” he said, accepting his woolly coat that she handed him. “Thank you.”

“Didn’t want you to catch a cold.” She sat next to him on the wooden porch bench, wrapped up in her own fuzzy coat. There was another item in her hand, a thick, heavy looking box. 

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at it. 

“Oh, I came here to give it to you. Your final gift.” 

“Y/N.” he sighed. “The others were more than enough.” 

“I don’t think this even counts as my gift, honestly.” She grinned at the puzzled look on his face. “Just open it.” 

He did. Inside was a thick notebook, a scrapbook by the looks of it, that read ‘Happy Birthday Harry! - 2018’ 

He looked at her curiously, but she just smiled and told him to open it again. He turned to the first page, and ran his gaze across the page. His eyes widened in surprise. He quickly flipped a few pages to see that all of them had the same thing; printings. Printed screenshots from various social media platforms, of his fans wishing him a happy birthday. 

“I know you don’t use social media a lot these days.” she explained as he kept reading the tweets glued onto the scrapbook. “But you were trending on Twitter today, and yesterday too, lots of people wishing you a happy birthday and telling how much they loved you. I thought you might want to see it.”

He let out a watery laugh, not being able to tear his gaze away from the book in his hands. He couldn’t help the tears, not really. She had taken the time to print out lots and lots of tweets, instagram posts, everything; she had cut them and put them in this book and added little stickers in between with colorful doodles. And she had done it to carry his fans’ messages to him, she had basically hand-delivered their gifts of love to him.

“Thank you.” he breathed, his voice catching in his throat. “This is… I think this may be the best gift I’ve ever received.”

“Well, like I said, it’s not technically from me. I just put some tweets together, your fans are the ones who wrote them.” She paused, then added. “I just wanted you to see just how loved you are. By everyone. You have such a kind heart, and an amazing soul; all of these people are aware of it and they love you for it.” She tapped the book in his lap, emphasising her words. 

“Thank you.” he repeated himself, seemingly at a loss for words. He closed the book and carefully put it back in its box, intending to read everything in it later. He placed it beside him, then turned to her and pulled her in a hug. 

Her arms were around him in a second, not hesitating to tighten around him and pull him closer. She was so warm even in the cold weather, and she smelled so nice, and he wouldn’t be able to pull back if he tried. He didn’t know how long they sat there in each other's embrace, but when he felt her starting to lean back, something in him shifted. He turned his head towards her as she pulled away, so his cheek was softly grazing hers. She stilled a bit, looking into his eyes as if she was looking for something, then she closed her eyes and turned the rest of the way, her lips meeting his in a gentle kiss. 

His breath hitched in his throat as his lips slightly parted, a small gasp making its way out of them when he realized finally, finally he was kissing her. He was kissing Y/N. This was really happening.

He brought a hand up to gently cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her cheekbone as they kissed, probably the softest, the most incredible kiss of his life. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He couldn’t believe how amazing she felt against him, how her hands in his hair felt just right, how warm her cheek was under his hand. 

But despite every bone in his body wanting to kiss her forever, he was the first one to pull away, because he just couldn’t keep it in anymore. “I wish you were mine.” 

“What?” she asked breathlessly, apparently still under the effect of their kiss.

“I wish you were mine.” he repeated. “That’s the wish I’ve made on every single birthday since I was sixteen. Everytime you looked at me and told me to make a wish, I was only able to think about how much I wanted to kiss you.” 

She stared at him with parted lips, looking into his eyes like she was trying to figure out if he was messing with him. She could only see love and admiration. 

“You’re an idiot, Harry Styles.” she breathed. Then, she cupped his face with her hands and kissed him again, and again, and again, and he felt like everything in his life was finally going to be okay. 

 some end notes: Sooo I’m sorry for the kind of shitty ending. It’s literally 3 am in Turkey rn and I have an early class but I just wanted to finish this quickly and post it before I went to bed. I haven’t written anything in months because I wasn’t 🌌feeling it🌌 so I basically bullied myself into writing this haha. This is my first posted Harry piece but there are a few other pieces I’ve been working on! (for months, literally. *sigh*)

~~

If you liked it, please feel free to reblog and leave a teeny tiny feedback! Writers really appreciate it!💜

[rcksmith]

Spring breeze part.2 — Spencer Reid

Gif by @ssadrreid

Sumarry: Spencer never thought about falling in love with someone, but he certainly didn't expect that he would fall in love with Gideon's daughter. — season 3 —

Part.1 Part.3 Part.4

A/N: I was very happy with the return you guys had in the first part💖. I hope you guys like.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️ Couple:Spencer Reid / Gideon's daughter!reader.

Warnings: nothing, just very fluff.

— — — — —

Spencer straightened his tie for the hundredth time in front of the mirror, in several unsuccessful attempts to exhibit his best that day. It was funny and ironic how, after so many years wearing dress shirts and a tie, the universe seemed to handpick that day to do - no matter how much Spencer tried to fix it - his tie looked weird. The fabric was too far to the left, or too far to the right, or too wrinkled in the folds. No matter how much he undid the knot or changed his tie, still looked strange.

What a nightmare.

Reid was barely able to sleep with the notion that he would see you today, his body being whipped assiduously by unsettling waves of euphoria, his mind whizzing like a propellant, anxiety screaming in his mind and sending his sleep for miles away. That morning, the world seemed to be more stuffy, hot and torrid, and for a second, Reid felt himself under the heat of Egypt instead of autumn in Washington.

He could feel his heart speeding up with the steps of the clocks, his breath running away from his lungs, a thousand and one speeches being revised in his head to try to lessen the likelihood of speaking some bullshit near you. Because he couldn't ruin that chance.

Spencer knew he was not the type of guy to have dates whit women like you every day. In fact, Laila had been the only stunning woman who had looked at him a second time. But, well, to be honest, he knew that all that affection she had directed him had been side effects of the transfer. He had been her hero and it clouded people's rationality. And, to his disquiet and to the dread of his insecurity, you were above the beauty of Laila on stratospheric levels.

To make matters worse, the damn tie wasn't good! God, he was screwed.

Spencer gave up on that impossible mission, settling for and conforming to what the tie looked like after the twentieth attempt. He wanted you to see him as a handsome person, a man worth wasting time with, not a boy who only served to be your friend. You were beautiful on so many levels that... well, Reid wanted you to be attracted to him, too, to simplify.

He stepped away from the mirror and slung his work bag over his shoulder, trying to control the pounding of his own heart.

On the way to work, trying hard to avoid thinking about what him looked like in that damned imperfect tie, Reid wondered, for a moment, if you too were under the same emotions. Did you change your clothes several times because you also felt anxious too? Could it be that, like him hands, yours also trembled? Or, if he was lucky, was your heart beating as hard as him?

He hoped that was yes.

As soon as he entered the BAU headquarters, with anxiety as his chaperone, Spencer sat at his own table while pouring a “Good morning” to his colleagues.

“Arrived early.” Derek narrowed his eyes at him, in that suspicious look.

"I am never late." He was quick to hit and that caused his friend to raise an eyebrow.

"But you never be anxious to get here earlier."

Sometimes Spencer hated that his friends were profiles.

“I just like my job.” Reid started to unpack things of bag, trying to avoid the look of Derek who was still burning his back.

“Oh, I'm sure you like.” The double meaning in his friend's tone did not go unnoticed by Spencer, but he did not want to delve into the truths of that argument, much less think about it.

Emily and JJ arrived after a few minutes, with Garcia following behind and making their point that she was not to blame for buying those pairs of shoes, since they were practically begging her to take them. Normally, Reid did not look at the glass door whenever he heard someone approaching, or had a strong desire to see Gideon pass through them as well.

But that day... that day, seeing Gideon meant seeing you. And seeing you meant that you would go through that door. And going through that door meant that Spencer would see you come in. That was enough to make his gaze turn to those doors from minute to minute.

But time passed. Fifteen minutes flew by, then twenty, then thirty. Anxiety increased and now his agitated heart was tuned to his right leg, which did not stop quietly, shaking from top to bottom assiduously.

“What do you look for at the door so much, Reid?”

Prentiss asked the last question that Reid would like to answer, and that caught Derek’s attention, who, as expected, laughed amusingly and sank further into the chair, a sly, playful smile on his lips.

“Oh, he is expecting a member of the Gideon family.”

Spencer swore and, in that moment, he was never so jealous of ostriches for being able to stick their heads underground. If he were one of them, he would definitely do it.

“I'm not expecting Y/n.” he said, whit voice higher and thin than usual.

“But I didn't say it was Y/n.” Derek laughed and Spencer felt his cheeks go red.

This time he gave up hitting back, his let out a bad mood murmur and turned forward, forcing himself not to look at the door anymore. From that moment on, Spencer focused on focusing on the pile of reports in front of him, forcing his brain to disconnect from the things around him and concentrate on matters that demand his all attention.

The hours went by, faster this time, the case-free day was being used to finish late reports and giving the team time to recover the nerves and breath of the last case.

After noon, Gideon still hadn't arrived and Spencer started to feel slightly fearful. He was about to take his phone out of his pocket and dial Jason when JJ appeared, handing over more piles of reports to they that required to be finished today.

Derek gave a loud curse of annoyance, muttering something and back to writing again. Emily was used to the paperwork bureaucracy, but from the bittersweet and dissatisfied look on her face, Spencer knew that no one there shared the same delight him had with paperwork. He also knew that Morgan was exhausted because he had remodeled a property yesterday and was barely could to sleep, and Prentiss felt overwhelmed because she was dealing with problems with her mother and with the bureaucracy policy that Strauss pressed against her.

Then Spencer looked at the file stack itself. There was a lot of paperwork, but the amount of reports he would finish in two minutes was three times what his friends would finish in an hour. He leaned forward, looking over the table to see Emily and focusing Derek better in his field of vision.

“Do you guys want to give some reports? I finish faster anyway”

They agreed without hesitating or pretending modesty. Reid laughed, saying that his friends would owe him one, and went back to work.

After that, when Spencer finished the reports and lifted his head from the paperwork, the light in the world had dimmed to a dark blue hue, streaked by small, bright stars.

The breeze coming in through the large glass windows was fresh and invigorating, the scent of the night's wonderful promises was reminiscent of your perfume. And then he realized that neither you nor Gideon showed up all day. Something about him withered, the euphoria diminished until it became as small as the stars outside. The clock struck seven at night when Spencer got up and put his things away, millions of feelings buzzing in chest.

The unsettling sense of concern began to take place than had previously to been emotions of anxiety and excitement, and he pondered whether to ask Hotch about Gideon or to call himself. Reid looked around, looking under his colleagues, who were packing up to go home, and going up to Aaron's office. He could still see his figure under the marble table, the light from the room underscoring the serious and concentrated expression he directed to the documents. The air in that room looked different, maybe more dense, maybe more serious. But Spencer knew it was best to let Hotch do his own thing.

He ran the tip of his tongue over the corner of lips, reaching into his pocket and reaching for his cell phone.

“Hey, Reid." he turned toward Morgan, that signaled them to go to the elevator.

“Did you speak to Gideon today? Or did you hear Hotch say something about it?” The question came after he reached Derek, both of them walking out the glass door.

"Is it Gideon you're worried about or... his daughter?” He laughs shamelessly, pressing the elevator button.

Spencer stumbles over the words when says: “Wh-What? No. I'm just worried about him. It has nothing to do with… ”

As soon as the sentence was about to end, the elevator doors open. Instead of the usual void or presence of someone from the FBI, Spencer felt catatonic when he saw the female figure inside.

You.

In a burst, like a strong wind that blows and pushes things away, Spencer was struck by all the feelings and sensations that had been bubbling in his stomach all day. Euphoria, anxiety, insecurity and... animation. Suddenly, he was worried again about how he would look, what he would say, if he was presentable enough for you to look at him with... Well, Spencer didn't know how he wanted you to look at him, but he wished it were something that guarantee your affection.

He wanted to be something that excited you, that made your heart race. Just like his was now.

"Y/n...” He did not recognize his own voice. The intonation.

"Hey." You smiled genuinely, and it was able to make Reid's heart beat so fast that he feared you could hear. “I'm sorry I didn't show up and neither did my dad.”

“No problem at all.” He was sincere “Did something happen? Are you two okay? ”

The concern in Reid's voice was so palpable that you losing your breath. God, that man couldn't be real.

“I just remembered that Garcia is call me." Morgan tried to swallow a big smile “It was good to see you, Y/n.”

“Me too, Morgan.” You gave him a hand gesture that, for Reid, was lovely.

Spencer put his arm in the elevator door, preventing it from closing.

“Will you want to leave?” Always as solicitous as a gentleman.

“Oh no.” Now it was your cheeks that were softly red. “I came to see you actually.”

If nothing that had happened before was not enough to steal Spencer's breath, your sentence completed the mission. He put himself in an elevator, pressing a button and letting the doors close.

"I was going to bring my dad today, but ... well” You laughed “To put it succinctly, my dad has a list of things he wants to do before he dies, and one of them was rollerblading”

You and Spencer laughed. Half because he would have laughed at anything you said to see your smile, and half because he couldn't see Gideon having such a list. But he liked it. The feeling of knowing that Jason was having fun, enjoying life, not letting that job rip off all of his humanity, was comforting, joyful.

“Why do I feel this is not going to end well?" He joked too and you laughed.

“Because it doesn't end.” Your fingers ran through your hair “We ended up going to a place that had this, before he have work today, and he ended up twisting his ankle when he fell.”

You tried to no laught, because it was not something to play with, but after the fright passed and your father and you were entangled, they both burst out laughing. And now, reliving that, you didn't remember the hurt itself, but how great the fun between the two of you had been.

“He is fine?" But Spencer had a worried flash in his eyes.

“Oh, yes, the doctor said there was nothing much. He just needs to get some rest.” You smiled “I was going to call, but one thing led to another and when I saw it, it was too late to call. So I thought about coming in person.”

Spencer was known to have a photographic memory and a very high IQ, but at that moment, if then asked what you had just said, he would need a moment to remember. For the only thing he was concentrating on at that moment was the certainty that your smile could light up the whole of Washington. How your eyes held the stars' syntax and how the energy that emanated from you was... cheerful.

He realized that you were a cheerful person, outgoing and with an innate ease of making friends. You had that special touch that made people and the universe orbit around you. And Spencer knew it was one of the planets captured by your gravity.

"It is very sweet of you to come here to tell me that.” He smiled, but then realized what he had just said “N-not that you owe me any explanation! I just-I think it's cool that you worried and…n-not that I waited for you but… not th-that I didn't expect you too and...” Spencer stopped talking, giving up trying to find the right words to get him out of the mess he got himself into.

At times like this, Reid was used to people just dropping an embarrassed nod and leaving, or ignoring the avalanche of things he said. But as soon as the tone of your laughter echoed through the elevator and snaked through him body like a wave of energy, Reid looked at you more closely. You didn't give that embarrassed look, nor did you look sorry for him. You laughed lovingly and touched his arm.

"I was also looking forward to seeing you.” You summed up all of him thoughts in one sentence and freed him from all fears.

"Serious?" But disbelief was still present.

The elevator door opened and the two of you got out, walking to the exit of the building and being greeted by the cool, comforting breeze of the night.

“Yea.” You said as if it were obvious, “What do you think about going to a movie? It's not too late. ”

If Spencer had been told a few weeks ago that in a few days he would be on a date with the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, he would have scoffed. He would have thought it was a joke with a background of evil. Going out with girls was not on the list of things Spencer did regularly, but he was thanking any confusion or mistake the Universe had made to accidentally placed you with him.

To be honest, with you on his side, with you with him, Spencer felt like he had won in life. That all those years of school and university, when he only saw beautiful girls from afar and dreamed of what it would be like to have one this girls interest in him, had dissipated into the air. Dissolved in the breeze like smoke. During all the hours of film, the joyful and ecstatic conversations you both had after, Spencer could feel the connection in the air. Naturally, kind of magical.

Did he know you two days or two decades ago?

You told all of your adventures, all of stories, and listened carefully to every ramble and phrase Reid had to say. He felt, for the first time, completely important. As if everything he had to say was valuable as a diamond, rare as a tropical treasure.

He felt comfortable, relaxed, cheerful.

And when, at the end of the night while the two of you were walking along the lively and vibrant streets of DC, you took his hand and intertwined yours fingers, Spencer never felt so alive.

He had been born twenty-four years, but only now did he really feel what it was like to be alive.

tagged: @gublersuvula @peculiarinsomniac

[i-am-a-closet-fanfic-fiend]

In a Heartbeat ~ Doctor!Bucky x Reader Oneshot

A/N: Title subject to change. This is a GIANT CONGRATULATIONS PRESENT for my fave Doctor!Bucky lover and yours @captainscanadian Because my girl finished undergrad today! Congrats, bby! Enjoy this doctor!bucky fluff that I said I would write a million years ago. ;) I'm so proud of you!!

Summary: What should have been a fun night out ends in the ER. At least your doctor is handsome?

Characters/Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Wanda Maximoff

Warnings: Injuries (fractured ankle), hospital, getting a cast, xrays and catscan. I think that's it. Fluff

Word Count: 2190

For the first hour of your stay in the ER you couldn’t decide if the constant beeping from the machine beside you was calming or irritating.

As it rolled into the second hour, you settled on irritating. You glared down at your ankle even though it was hidden under the blanket. You moved it ever so slightly, wincing as it caught on the sheet.

You unlocked your phone, letting your friends know that yes you were still here. And no you didn’t have any updates. And no they shouldn’t feel guilty.

A small part of you had blamed them in the first moments, after all they were the ones who convinced you to celebrate the end of finals with some drinking and dancing.

You checked your make up in the mirror next to your front door before locking up. You glanced at the door across the hall, hoping to catch the eye of your hunky neighbor before heading out. But no dice.

Oh well. At least your dress would likely be appreciated at the club. You’d even pulled out your comfy heels. Heels which were now mocking you from their spot on the chair next to your purse.

You’d been feeling good strutting down the stairs of your apartment building when a group of college kids who had clearly been pre-gaming, thundered past you, forcing you to press up against the wall. When you’d taken your next step your heel broke and you went sliding down 15 stairs.

You’d thought your ass had taken the worst of it until you tried to stand up and immediately cried out in pain.

So instead of ferrying you to a club, the Uber your friends arrived in took you to the hospital. You’d sent your friends on their way once you’d been processed and were waiting to be admitted. No need to spoil everyone’s night.

But now five hours later and bored out of your skull you were regretting that decision. You were going to lose your mind. You’d only left the room twice. Once for an x-ray and once for a CT scan.

You turned on the TV and settled on the game show network, letting the episode of family feud distract you.

You were on your third episode when a nurse came in.

“Hello. I’m Wanda, the night shift nurse. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. I’m just eager to get out of here.”

“I’ll bet you are. Dr. Barnes should be in soon,” she assured you. “He just finished up a surgery.”

“Sounds good.”

She checked your chart, noting your vitals and making sure that you weren’t tangled in any wires.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Can I have some water?”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

Wanda brought back a cup of water and a warm blanket.

“Thought you might be cold,” she explained.

“Actually yeah. Thanks. Is there any way I can take this off?” You gestured to the heart rate monitor on your finger.

She shot you an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry. It’s protocol.”

“Worth a shot,” you shrugged.

“I’ll come and check on you in a little bit.”

“Thank you.”

She bustled out of the room and you turned your attention back to the TV which had moved on the Price is Right reruns.

You must have drifted off because the next thing you know you were being gently shaken. Your eyes were finally able to focus on a pair of entirely too blue eyes.

As your brain caught up, you realized the blue eyes were set in a very handsome face. A familiar handsome face at that.

“2A?” you asked cocking your head to the side.

He chuckled as you readjusted yourself trying to discretely check that you hadn’t drooled in your sleep.

“Most people call me Dr. Barnes. Or Bucky.”

“Bucky?”

That made even less sense. You were certain the name on his mailbox was James.

“My middle name is Buchanan. And what shall I call you, 2B?”

“Y/n.”

“Well it’s very nice to officially meet you, Y/n. Although I wish it were under better circumstances. Let’s take a look at this ankle shall we?”

You nodded, and he took that as an assent to lift the blanket. He folded in neatly up over your knee leaving most of your lap covered. You grimaced when you saw the swelling was even worse now than when you arrived.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

You relayed your story to him, omitting the bit about hoping to run into him. He listened intently, making the occasional note but mainly he just nodded.

“I’m going to examine it now,” he announced.

His hands were sure and practiced as he gently turned your ankle from side to side. It twinged occasionally, so you focused on his features to distract yourself.

You catalogued each in turn but lingered on his sharp jawline. Your thoughts drifted to peppering kisses along it and down his neck.

You were startled when his cerulean gaze met yours with a concerned look.

“Did that hurt?”

“Not really. Why?”

You were genuinely confused by the question. You hadn’t noticed anything amiss in his examination.

“Your heart rate was elevated. And you, ummm,” he broke eye contact for the first time.

“I what?”

“Squeaked.”

Your eyes widened and your chest felt hot with embarrassment. You glanced at the traitorous machine which was live casting your racing heart. Although that probably was less of the issue than the fact that you squeaked.

“I guess the hospital just makes me nervous,” you lied lamely.

He didn’t look convinced but thankfully let it go.

“I just need to check one more angle.”

This time it was painful and you yelped.

“Sorry.” He gingerly placed your foot back on the pillow that had been elevating it and covered it with the blanket.

He held the CT scans and X-rays up to the light as you watched him. You once again failed to notice your heart rate climbing as you admired the bulge of his bicep.

Dr. Barnes however definitely noticed. He smiled over at you reassuringly, which failed to help the issue at all. He glanced at the erratically beeping machine, before looking back to you. You would swear that there was a hint of smugness in his expression. But he kept it well hidden.

“Well, I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.”

“Lay it on me, doc.”

“Well, the good news is that you will not be needing surgery. It’s a minor fracture.”

“And the bad news?”

“It’s a minor fracture that requires a cast.”

“How long?”

“Eight weeks. Total.”

“Eight weeks on crutches?” You whined.

“You should only be on crutches for the first four. After that, assuming everything is healing well, you’ll be in a walking cast.”

You groaned and shot a murderous glare at your heels once again.

“The price we pay for fashion.”

“I’ll have Wanda prepare everything now. It should only take about an hour.”

“Well, that sure cuts into my dancing plans,” you joked, frustrated by being stuck there for another hour.

It would be morning before you got home.

“Is that where you were headed?” he asked as he pressed the call button.

“Yeah. My friends finally convinced me to go out with them for once and look where it got me,” you laughed humorlessly. “Well at least I’m done for the summer. So the leg won’t mess me up too bad.”

Wanda appeared in the doorway.

“What do you need, doctor Barnes?”

“I need a cast kit. For the ankle.”

“Got it. I’ll be right back.”

You expected Bucky to leave then, but he continued bustling around the room.

“You said you’re done for the summer. Are you a teacher?”

“Kinda.”

He quirked an eyebrow at you.

“I’m a graduate student. So I just finished up TAing for the semester.”

“Ahh. Are you doing research then?”

“I’m finishing up the edits on my thesis actually. So this might actually make me do it instead of procrastinating," you giggled.

“What’s your thesis on?”

You were in the middle of explaining your thesis, when Wanda returned. Genuinely interested in your area of research, Bucky continued asking you questions as he wrapped the liner around your leg.

From time to time he would grin up at you and the damn heart rate monitor would go off all over again. You’d gotten over your embarrassment for the most part, until Wanda had to suppress a giggle because your heart actually skipped a beat.

“Alright. You are all set. Wanda will grab you your crutches and your discharge papers. You’ll need to make a follow up with your Orthopedic in four weeks.”

“Since I don’t have an orthopedic on speed dial, do you know any good ones?”

Bucky chuckled.

“I’ll have her put my practice’s number on the sheet.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“No problem. Do you have any questions before I go?”

“How long do you think getting all the paperwork sorted will take?”

“Not long. Twenty minutes or so. Why?”

“Just wondering if I should order my Uber now or wait.”

He glanced at the clock on the wall. His fingers drummed against the clipboard in his hand as he momentarily mulled something over.

“If you’re willing to wait another forty-five minutes, I can drive you home when I get off my shift.”

You immediately shook your head.

“You so don’t need to do that.”

“Please. It’s literally on my way home.”

You nibbled on your lip. It would be a lot easier.

“If you’re sure.”

He seemed almost relieved when you accepted.

“Absolutely. It’s been pretty quiet tonight, so you can just hang out in here until I get back.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

He smiled, softer than the other ones he’d given you so far before hanging your chart on the end of your bed and exiting the room, bumping into the glass door as he went. You stifled a giggle. Maybe you weren’t the only one affected.

It took a little over thirty minutes to get you processed. And before you knew it Bucky was helping you into his car. You went in butt first and then swung your cast leg, followed by your good leg in just a hospital sock. Bucky handed you your shoes and purse.

“So, do you chauffer all of your patients home?” You teased as you left the parking lot.

“Only the ones who live across the hall. Speaking of which, I am sorry this is the first time we’ve gotten to meet properly. Not very neighborly of me.”

“I can’t imagine why you haven’t made your way over with your loads of free time,” you deadpanned, earning you an eyeroll. “But however it happened, I’m glad that we met. It was getting to the awkward stage.”

“Yeah, seven months of passing waves is a long time.”

You hummed your agreement.

“So, how did you get into medicine?”

“Family business.”

He told you all about his surgeon mom and physician father as you drove home. His siblings were also in medicine and even his childhood best friend.

“That is so many medical degrees in one house. Must be rousing holiday dinner conversations.”

“We actually have a no shop talk rule.”

“And how long does that last?” you asked knowingly.

“Through appetizers… maybe.”

“Your family sounds amazing.”

“They are. I wouldn’t trade them for anything,” he admitted as he parked his car.

Bucky carefully helped you out of the car and up to your apartment. You’d never been so glad to live in a building with an elevator.

“I feel like I should offer you breakfast for bringing me home,” you admitted as you plopped down on the couch, and lifted your foot onto the coffee table exhausted from the crutches.

“You need to stay off that foot. But I’m sure you’re starving and so am I. Got any pancake mix?”

“Doctor Barnes, you really don’t have to do that.”

“It’s Bucky. We’re back to just neighbors here. And I want to.”

“How can I repay you?”

“Think about going out on a date with me when your leg is all healed.”

You cocked your head, as you appraised him.

“Just think about it?”

He scratched behind his ear as he shrugged a little.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you out for well… about seven months. But I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. Because you don’t. I would have brought any of my neighbors home,” he rambled.

“You’re a really good guy,” you hummed.

“Could you tell my Ma that?” he joked, though his ears tinged pink.

“Happily. And I’d love to think about going on a date with you.”

He beamed back at you.

“I’ll take it. So pancakes?”

“In the cabinet above the fridge. Next to the chocolate chips.”

He nodded, taking the hint on your favorite add on.

“I’m on it.”

Eight weeks later when your walking cast came off, you and Bucky went out for dinner… for your two month anniversary.

Your heart definitely still raced when he smiled at you. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

A/N: There we have it! I hope you enjoyed @captainscanadian.

[inkandpen22]

Permanent Chaos (3/?)

Pairing: MGK x Female!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: mild swearing, mentions of smut, mentions of underage drinking 

Part Summary: Sam and Y/N are on The Late Late Show to promote The Seasons of Life. 

Masterlist

Before the interview, Nicole practices questions with me so I don’t get blindsided. Meanwhile, Sam and his manager, Steven, practice talking about our upcoming photo shoot for Vanity Fair. Steven is much more laid back than Nicole. Sam is free to do whatever he pleases. The country sees him as an average twenty-something. If he ever messed up he would be forgiven. Nicole emphasizes to me whenever she can that I have no room for error. I must be a saint as “America’s Sweetheart.”

There’s a knock at the door to our dressing room and Steven opens it. A man with a check board and a headset instructs, “Ms. Voss, Mr. Merka you’ll be on in five. If you could follow me.”

“We’ll be right off camera if you need us!” Nicole informs me and Steven agrees with a hum.

“Have fun guys!” he adds.

Sam holds the door for me and the two of us follow the man down the hall into backstage. Sam takes my hand as a precaution, just in case the chaos might separate us. Through double doors, we enter backstage and we’re stopped behind where we’re meant to enter. Loud music begins to echo from the stage and I recognize the song as one of Machine Gun Kelly’s. He’s all the rage now, one of those rockstars that girls fifteen and up obsess over. I don’t have much space left in my mind to obsess with everything going on. As we wait, I bop and sway my head back and forth to the beat absentmindedly.

The man says over his shoulder, “he’s great huh!”

I frowned confused, “wait, is he performing live?”

The man raises an eyebrow as if the answer is obvious. “Yeah, his interview was a few minutes ago. I’m surprised you didn’t cross paths when you got here.” He’s then pulled away by a lady dressed in all black. “I’ll right back! Stay right here!”

I scoff under my breath, the dude treated me like a dingus.

“Well, he was friendly” Sam mutters sarcastically under his breath.

“Right! Geez, he’s what? Only around four years older than you? At least he looked it. My bad for not knowing I’m apparently in the same building as a god!”

Sam snickers but covers his mouth since we’re not allowed to be loud. The song ends and the crowd goes wild on the other side.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Machine Gun Kelly!” The applause goes on and on with James attempting to speak over it into the camera. “After the break, we’ll have the breakout stars from the hottest show of the decade The Seasons of Life, Y/N Voss, and Sam Merka! So don’t go anywhere!”

The audience gets loud at the sound of our names and a shot of adrenaline rushes through me. People rush around backstage to get the music equipment off the set. Sam and I move up against the wall so people can get through. The crew is yelling to make the switch quick. Propping myself up against the wall, I watch the chaos happening. Sam leans against the wall and faces me. I don’t mind the tight quarters though. He acts like a wall, blocking me from the craziness.

“It never gets like this on set,” Sam says, scanning the stage.

“That’s because we don’t film live,” I remind him with a chuckle.

My arms cross over my chest and Sam props his elbow on my shoulder. If this was a photoshoot, this would be a great shot of us. We’re being ourselves, depending on each other as per usual. We’re comfortable with one another. To kill time, I glance around as people move about backstage. My eyes meet a lengthy, bleach blonde, tattoo-covered musician walking off stage. He instantly goes for the guitar case against the far wall in the corner. As if he could feel me looking, his attention snaps away from his guitar and toward me. His focused features gently fall as he stares at me from across the busyness of the show. A chill shoots up my spine and spreads across my face. Instantly, I'm drawn in and can't find the means to look away.

Sam steals my attention when he straightens up in my side view. “We’re on,” he informs me.

I immediately bring to focus and adjust my floral pencil skirt to appear put together.

The man from before leads us up to where he left us last. “Okay, here’s the deal. James will announce your names. There will be cheers, you will walk out together and sit on the couch. The order in which you sit doesn’t matter.” He pauses to press on his headset, “sure, alright, one minute.”

I shift my head to the side and yet again I see them, the same pair of eyes that made me freeze. I quickly snap my attention forward as though I’ve been caught red-handed. He’s not what I had expected. I’ve heard of Machine Gun Kelly, who hasn’t? I’ve seen pictures here and there. I’ve heard a song or two. Never in a million did I ever imagine we would meet eyes and he would make me stop breathing for a second. It was nothing short of groundbreaking. It’s dangerous and immaculate at the same time.

Soon, the noise of the audience dies down to signal the end of the commercial break. Sam and I are told to walk out so we cross through the corridor. Sam leads and reaches his hand back for me to take. I do so mindlessly since it’s what we always do. We wave to the audience and James stands up to greet us. He hugs Sam and they exchange a few words. I keep on waving to the audience and point towards a girl who has a shirt with the show’s title on it. Sam moves over so James and I can say hello.

“Hi, James! How are you?” I greet as we embrace.

“Excellent, how are you, Sweetheart?” He charms.

“Great! Excited to be here!” I gush as I shuffle to the side to settle on the couch beside Sam.

“Thirty seconds!” A man, whom I assume is the producer, announced loudly.

I sit down next to Sam on the light blue velvet couch. He sits back and crosses his arm over the back of the couch behind me then slides it down to rest over my shoulders. I lean into his side, crossing my legs toward him. 

“Five seconds!” James sits down in his black desk chair next to Sam and looks into the camera. He’s given the signal and he lights up. “I’m joined here by the two biggest young stars of the decade, Y/N Voss and Sam Merka!” The audience applauds loudly and I wave to all of them. James turns to us with a bright grin. “First off, how are you two?”

“We’re great, couldn’t be better!” Sam answers with a charming smile. He takes my hand and I rest them on my lap instinctively.

At the start of the series, our management and the show’s team encouraged us to be mildly affectionate in public situations to promote interest in our tv counterparts. Since then, it’s come so naturally to us because as friends we genuinely feel better when we have physical contact when on display. We’re security blankets for one another.

James continues, “you two play the power couple, Hollyn and Elliot, on the hit show The Seasons of Life, better known simply as Seasons. It’s all anyone is talking about lately! Has all the publicity changed your lives at all?”

Nervously, I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear before I speak. “I can’t speak for Sam, but at least for me, I answer with a confident “yes!” The Seasons of Life has changed every aspect of my life. When we first started filming the first season, I was still living in South Carolina. I went to a normal high school and had to travel back and forth between here and there. Back then, no one really knew of me. I was your average teenage girl trying to have the best of both worlds.”

James nods, seemingly fascinated by my response.

Sam smiles in agreement, switching his sight between James and myself. “My story is basically the same except I was in college studying law.”

“That’s right!” James perks up, “There’s a decent age gap between the two of you!”

We glance at each other and nod, both of us grinning.

“Does that make the more romantic scenes between Hollyn and Elliot harder?” James inquires.

“No, not at all” I answer, squeezing Sam’s hand.

“Y/N has always acted with such maturity and grace that she makes it unbelievable easy onset. The eight years feel nearly nonexistent.”

“We haven’t had too many extremely romantic scenes,” I add jokingly, looking fondly at Sam.

He meets my gaze and hums in agreement. “Have to build up that suspense!”

James laughs at Sam’s remark and goes on with his questions. “Last year, during the season finale, Twitter blew up because your characters finally got together! And had that bow-chicka-wow-wow scene,” James wiggles his eyebrows. The audience cheers in excitement. Everyone was over the moon about the scene. “Y/N, what was going through your mind during that scene?”

“Sam, Jonathan, and the rest of the Seasons family never fail to make me feel so secure onset. For that scene, in particular, Jonathan made sure it was just the three of us on set so that space felt relaxed. It was my first time ever filming a sex scene of that magnitude and I was so lucky to have this fella right here to help me,” I gush as I place my hand on Sam’s knee with a pat.

“That’s lovely,” James feeds into the sappiness that the audience eats up. “Was there ever talk of getting a double for you?”

“I told our director, the producers, everyone that only I can do the scene. It didn’t feel right to me to have someone else play Hollyn. Especially for a scene that would have such an impact on the characters involved. The fans had been begging for Elliot and Hollyn to finally get together and I couldn’t pass up being a part of the moment when they finally did. It wouldn’t have been fair to the fans if it wasn’t me playing the role.”

The audience approves of my response with their loud reaction which eases my nerves immensely.

“Absolutely incredible,” James compliments. “I can’t imagine the scene being done without you two. I mean, you two have such chemistry! What were your reactions to watching the infamous final scene? Did you watch it together?!”

Sam and I side-eye one another then burst out laughing because I can recall my exact words. I’m sure he can too.

“This is a question for Y/N,” he points out between laughter.

I hit the back of my hand on his stomach, “why me?!”

“You said!” He chuckles, so he does remember my words.

I get the giggles as James pushes me to answer. I settle down and catch my breath. “Well, I had a watch party at my house with the cast, and right after the scene happened and the show cuts to the dramatic final credits, I yelled “yay! Hollyn finally got laid!”

James hides his face with his cards as he laughs. Laughs of all kinds spread throughout the audience and I can feel my face getting warm. James’s laugh is contagious and I can’t stop.

“You all know how uptight Hollyn could be! Maybe she’ll be a little more laid back!” I add with a shrug and James bursts out laughing.

“You two are absolutely hilarious,” he wipes his watery eyes. “And adorable! Please tell me you’re dating in real life!”

Sam hiss between his teeth and glances at me. “I’m sorry, we’re not…” he answers hesitantly.

“What!” James’s jaw drops, “but you two are so cute together! I mean, you’ve been holding hands the entire time!”

We shake our heads and Sam explains for us both. “Y/N and I are super close. We can see how people would assume we’re dating but in all honesty, we’re just really good friends. Considering, for example, to have done the final scene from last season we kinda have to be. We met when she was just a teenager and I was in graduate school. We’ve seen each other grow. We’ve been around the world together and since our characters are paired together, so are we. Meaning, we’re constantly together and I’m thankful we are because I’m so lucky to have such an amazing partner in all of this.”

“Aw, isn’t he the sweetest!” I pout playfully and rest my head on his shoulder.

“Ugh, can we change the whole “only friends” thing?” James begs. “I ship it!”

The audience agrees and then he moves on to talk about the next season. We say all that can be shared at the time being and we share some pictures from filming yesterday as a teaser for the season.

“Y/N, is that you crying here?” James questions.

The photo on the scene behind us shows the part where I cry because Elliot just told Hollyn she’ll only ever be a rich girl from Los Angeles.

“Yeah, the first episode is filled with drama! Elliot and Hollyn already have a rocky time.”

“No! You’re joking!” He whines, disappointed.

We flip through more photos and answer a few more questions. James says into the camera that when we get back we’ll be playing a game. The game is Who is Most Likely To? Between me and Sam who is more likely to…

After the commercial break, James looks toward the camera with the utmost enthusiasm. “And we are back with Y/N and Sam! I have given each of them a paddle! One side says Y/N and the other reads Sam! Now, the game is Who is Most Likely To? So, between the two of you, who is more likely to “fill in the blank?” We all set?”

“We’re good!” Sam and I say at the same time as if we practiced.

“Alrighty, question number one...” James reads his cards. “Who is most likely to sleep until noon?”

I instantly flip my paddle to myself without a second thought. Sam is such an early bird. The type to get a five-mile jog in by ten. I lean forward and Sam said me as well.

“I’m not gonna deny it. If I could I would stay in bed all day,” I giggle without shame.

“You have stayed in bed all day,” Sam teases and I playfully nudge him in the arm. The whole set finds it humorous.

“Who is most likely to get a tattoo?” James reads with a raised brow.

The audience “ooh’s” in anticipation. I flip my paddle to Sam’s side, never in a million years would I get a tattoo.

“Y/N, you flipped your paddle super fast. Why is that?” James inquires.

“Mhm, nope! There will be no ink on this skin!” I wave my head frantically. “Sam can do whatever he wants with his body but it’s a no for me.”

“We’ve actually talked about tattoos before and I plan on getting one here soon,” Sam describes.

James asks him about what he plans on getting and that conversation goes on a minute or two. Sam explains where he plans on placing the tattoo and when he’ll get it done.

James reads over the card and smirks, “who is most likely to date another celebrity?”

Sam, no doubt. I feel no urge to date, thank you very much.

“Oh! Looks like we got ourselves a mix-up! Sam said Y/N and Y/N said, Sam!” James laughs toward the audience.

“Me?!” I gasp, earning amusement from the audience.

Sam turns his body to face me, “why not?”

“You know, if you two dated this could work itself out,” James points out to get a reaction from the crowd.

“I’m not really looking to date at the moment,” I explain, and James is surprised. I explain further, “the show is important to me and this summer I just want to fun. Plus, my schedule is quite hectic and I would feel bad for dragging someone else into it all.”

He completely understands and asks the final question. “Who is most likely to get married first?”

I flip my board to Sam again. James starts to laugh and I comprehend that it’s the same case as last time. I check Sam’s and I’m right, he said to me.

“Why do you keep putting me?” I fuss playfully.

“Because it’s true! You’re such a little liar to say me!” Sam teases.

“You’re older!” I reason.

“Oh please,” Sam rolls his eyes and leans back into the couch.

“I’ll have to agree with Sam on this one,” James adds and I look to him betrayed.

“Y/N, you’re America’s Sweetheart! Every young guy’s dream girl!”

I hide my face in my hands and shake my head with a giggle.

“Doesn’t mean I’ll be the first to get married! I have no interest in anyone right now!” James and Sam beam as I finish.

“Ah, ah see! You said “right now,” James points at me.

These two are teaming up on me now.

“Thank you so much you two for coming in! It’s been a lot of fun!” James thanks.

“Of course, it was a blast!” I charm.

He stands and so do we. He hugs Sam then me, “you two make me laugh like no others.”

James looks into the camera and wraps up the end of the show. “Thank you, Julia Roberts, Adam Levine, Sam Merka, Y/N Voss, and Machine Gun Kelly for joining me today! Have an excellent night everyone! Until next time!”

The band starts their music. Sam and I dance to the beat and James join in. The produces yells that the show has cut to a commercial.

To hear my name and Machine Gun Kelly’s name mere seconds apart is something I never thought I’d hear.

“Thanks again for coming!” James repeats once the show is over.

“We had fun! Thanks for having us!” Sam compliments.

The duo shares a brief “bro hug” and James embraces me one last time.

Then, Sam and I head backstage to our dressing room. Nicole and Steven should already be back there since I didn’t see them on the set.

“That went well!” Sam mentions while we walk down the hall.

I hum, “totally not getting married first though.”

“Whatever, you’re lying to yourself,” he laughs as he opens the door to the dressing for me.

Nicole and Steven are waiting for us and instantly begin talking about the Vanity Fair shoot tomorrow. It’s never-ending.

____________________________________________________

Masterlist

Tags:  @canyoubuymetoast  @bri-3530 @asil1652 @andstilltryingtofindmyself @nadia2021 @olafsidehoe @mgkobsessed @fairywriting101 @ferrell-cat @naylanae-0308 @tonystarkswife10 @alexsa56 @brocksbabyyy @stormrider505 @magnificenthumancopangel @sarcasticfangirlus @lilramencup95beech @missyviolet123 @skeleton-gxrl @glitterybearllamaflap @margaritaville20 @amoresixx

[rjhpandapaws]

Congrats on the 160 followers!

For your ask event, could I please give you the prompt of “Firsts”? More specifically “First fight”.

I’m thinking canon-verse, established relationship Reed900 with Gavin not realising that his strong, resilient boyfriend actually needs a lot more attention and affection than he lets on. The cause of the fight could be anything, maybe a forgotten anniversary, but I wanna see a fluffy fluffy reconciliation in your trademark writing style!

Thanks Panda!!!❤️❤️❤️

//thank you Maya!!! Also I live this idea

Gavin was many things, but emotionally aware was not one of them. Which was in his humble opinion why he and Nines worked so well, being with Nines didn’t require that much emotional investment. Or so he had thought anyway. He didn’t really notice Nines pulling away from him until he was nearly gone, though now that he was looking back he could see some of the steps that were taken. As they said hindsight was twenty-twenty; but that wasn’t going to help him fix his relationship. Knowing that he was wrong wasn’t going to keep him from losing the best thing that had ever happened to him. It started out slowly enough, Nines started spending fewer nights at Gavin’s apartment, they didn’t live together so that wasn’t entirely unusual. Sometimes Nines needed time to himself, emotions were new to him and they could be overwhelming at times. Or that was what Gavin told himself, his boyfriend was bullet proof and nearly indestructible so it was hard to imagine anything else being wrong. Nines hadn’t been designed to feel anything so it was easy to convince himself that Nines only needed space to process. Then the coffees had stopped. Richard expressed himself largely through actions, and he expressed affection specifically through gifts, in Gavin’s case coffee. There was a stretch of weeks where the coffees were few and far between, but that was because they were working a big case and there just wasn’t time, though by the time the case had been closed they had stopped all together. Which Gavin hadn’t noticed until then because he was only human and could only put all of his focus on one thing at a time; and the maybe issue with Nines was not the thing that needed his attention at the time. It would pass, Nines just needed space. 

Connor had been the last straw. It wasn’t that he thought Nines was cheating, he knew better than that. The reason Connor was the last straw was because of how Connor saw Nines. Nines was his little brother despite being the bigger and arguably more powerful of the two; Connor had been around longer and knew a little more about how things worked. Moreover Connor had loved, he knew what it was supposed to look like. Gavin didn’t particularly want to be on the bad side of someone made to get away with crimes. Either of them actually, though he feared Connor more than Nines. Nines looked the part, Connor did not, and there would have been people who argued that Gavin deserved it. So he needed to fix this before it got to that point. Easier said than done because Nines was actively avoiding him, which Gavin was sort of impressed by considering as they were partners. He would disappear at the end of their shift without giving Gavin a chance to say anything. It was getting frustrating. How was he supposed to fix things when he wasn’t being given a chance to learn what was wrong. That would change soon though. Things came to a head on a Friday afternoon. They were in Gavin’s car riding back from a scene when he couldn’t hold his tongue anymore. “Can you tell me what I did at least?” He asked, taking his eyes off the road long enough to glance at Nines, “If you’re going to avoid me.” “I’m not avoiding you.” Came the calculated reply, “I am putting as much effort into this relationship as you are.” Gavin wanted to call bullshit, “What do you mean?”

“I always come to you when we are together. I bring you coffee when we’re at the station.” He replied and there was anger at the very edge of his voice and something else, “But I get nothing back. I pull away and you can’t be bothered to check until Connor and I put in to swap partners.” “You what?” Gavin snapped, that shouldn’t have been what caught him and he knew it, “You’re going to work with Hank? Nines, what the hell?” “I don’t see another option Gavin. Clearly you want space and this seems the best way to handle that.” Nines replied, his voice back to level, “And I need time to reevaluate things apparently because I thought we were on the same page.” Gavin would have stared at him if he weren’t driving. Getting in a car accident didn’t seem like a good way to break the tension, “What is it exactly that made you think I wanted space? You have a multi-million dollar brain so what made it jump to that conclusion out of all of them.” “Your emotional distance for one thing. Humans are meant to feel things and unless you’re mad there usually isn’t anything.” Nines explained, “The fact that it has taken you four months to realize something is wrong despite my trying to bring it up several times. Out of all the things that should have upset you, what got a reaction out of you is that I would rather shadow the Lieutenant than be ignored.” Gavin sighed as they pulled into the station. “Then go.” He said, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do and there was no point in keeping Nines if he didn’t want to stay, “I clearly can’t make you happy so find someone who will.” He heard a computerized something come from Nines followed by a burst of static, and then he was gone. The echo of the car door closing sounded almost like a judge’s gavel coming down. Gavin couldn’t shake the feeling that he had made a mistake.

As much as Gavin hated the saying that you didn’t know what you had until it was gone, he found it was true. After months of working, if it could be called that, with Connor, he missed Nines. There was more to it than that as well. He spent a lot of time watching Nines, and he noticed that he wasn’t nearly as emotionally flat as Gavin had believed him to be. He wasn’t as expressive as Connor, but he showed what he was in small ways. Or perhaps Gavin was just seeing this now because he and Hank treated their partners so differently. As much as he and Hank had their personal differences and opinions, Gavin would be one of the first to admit that Hank was more kind to the people he worked with than Gavin was. Perhaps it was his general disposition, or maybe because Hank had multiple partners over his career and that made him easier to work with. Where given his prickly nature Gavin tended to work on his own and didn’t handle team work well. Though the one nice thing about this was he was learning from a distance how to handle Nines. While Gavin wasn’t a nurturer by nature in the way that Hank was, or at all really, it was nice to learn that was what Nines responded the most to. It made sense in a way as well since that was the same way that he took care of others. Hank would bring him a pouch of thirium or a cup of something to sample whenever he got up to get coffee; the same thing he had seen him do with Connor. He made an effort to learn about Nines and make conversation with him, which Gavin tried as well, but he wasn’t all that chatty unless he was drunk so that wasn’t on the table. He knew now, in a sense, what to do to try and fix this.

It took him longer than he would have liked, and a significant amount of pushing from Connor before Gavin was ready to confront his mistake. Nines had seemed so happy without him, so it was easy for him to believe that it was better like this; for Nines at least. Connor agreed to help him so that week Gavin got himself mentally prepared and made plans for the end of the week on how he was going to do this. He was going to fox this, or at least apologize if Nines was already moved on. Here was the thing about having plans and anxiety, time became a myth and the day you were fearing came after what felt like a thirty minute nap. Friday was there before Gavin had psyched himself up enough, but he couldn’t back out because he was pretty sure Connor would come after him if he did. His plan started with a small detour before work. He stopped at a cafe that he learned Nines liked and ordered something for him, he could make coffee for himself at the station. When he got back to the car he put the sticky note that he rewrote at least a hundred times on the lid and drove to the station. He hoped this wasn’t too cheesy, but Nines liked solving mysteries so Gavin was praying this would work. He set the cup on Nines’s desk as he walked to his own. Nines either wasn’t in yet or busy which made things easier on Gavin, he wasn’t sure he could explain himself if he had been asked. It was a matter of courage as well as the plan was entirely contingent on the first sticky note working. Connor had agreed to set the rest of them up, mostly because he didn’t want Gavin to chicken out which was an entirely valid point. As often as he stuck to his guns when it came to his opinions and getting into fights, when it came to personal matters he was much less bold. This was important though so he was going to stick to it. He spent more time staring at Nines’s desk than he did working, even after Nines had come back. Luck had him missing Nines studying the cup, but he did see him put the sticky note on his monitor which he hoped was a good thing.

His plan started with a scavenger hunt that brought Nines to the places that meant the most to the two of them and places he had known Nines to find privately special for reasons Gavin wasn’t privy to. Each place had a sticky note with a clue, he had asked Connor to come up with a code for it, something that Nines would have to work at a little to solve. He would have done it on his own, but Nines had a powerful mind and Gavin didn’t so it only seemed fair that he level he playing field a little. He didn’t know the system Connor had used but he did know the answer. He wanted this to work, but even if it didn’t he hoped Nines would enjoy himself while he did it. The day passed slowly for Gavin because of his worry. He didn’t feel like he got all that much done which was unusual. Going back to the apartment seemed daunting as he made his way to his car, there would be one of two results when he got back and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face either one. The best option meant putting in consious effort into being more aware of what Nines needed from him, and the worst one meant he had done too little too late. He was tempted to detour but didn’t, because not having an answer was almost worse. He was distracted on the drive home and made his way back on autopilot. He parked and took a moment to gather himself, he would get an answer tonight. He needed to focus on that rather than what the answer would be. This awkward uncomfortable thing would be ending today, either in a second chance or closure, but it was ending today. That was Gavin’s silver lining.

There wasn’t anyone outside of his apartment when he got up to it. He ignored the ache in his chest in favor of hoping Nines was only late. Connor had made the code so it probably wasn’t easy, it would take time. He turned his key in the lock and opened the door, instead of being greeted by his cat he was met with dim lighting and music. In the middle of it stood Nines. Gavin probably would have cried if he could get his emotions in order. “You came....” Was what he managed instead, breathed above a whisper and carrying the weight of all of the things he was feeling. He let the door fall shut behind him as he tried to gather himself. “Of course I did.” Nines replied as he made his way closer, “I learned what I put you through today, and I only thought it would be fitting to put as much effort into my apology as you did yours. That’s what you do when you love someone.” That broke Gavin and this time the tears came unbidden. He hugged Nines and buried his face in his chest, this wasn’t something he had expected. All those months he assumed Nines to be better off, happy even, without him there. He hadn’t known he was hurting. He didn’t have the words to express as much, and it didn’t seem that he needed to. Nines closed his arms around Gavin and ran his fingers through his hair. He made a sound that seemed more contemplative than comforting, but Gavin figured he was trying his best.

“You were so quiet that day Gavin. I expected more of a fight from you, but you just pulled away.” Nines said after a moment, there was remorse in his words, “I didn’t know then that it was because you were hurting. I thought you had just given up. I was so upset I didn’t go into stasis for days.” He paused for a moment, “Hank explained things to me, how humans react when they’re hurt and I realized how I had messed up, but I didn’t know how to fix it. You got to that first. I want you to know that I love you and I never stopped, and I don’t plan to.”

@asset35-maya

(Prompt from this list)