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minorlyatfault · 1 day ago

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𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 !

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 !

j. todd x f!reader

𝒮ynposis: jason todd is a yearner & a true lover boy. when he loves, he loves hard yet quietly. he doesn’t express his affection through grand gestures but through the little things▰remembering your favorite song lyrics, the exact shade of your favorite color, & writing love letters he’ll never send because he’s too shy.

even though he’s already in a relationship with you, he still feels the butterflies whenever you're around. during gotham’s chaotic nights, while patrolling the city, he finds himself missing your touch, longing for your presence. even in the middle of his hardest missions, his thoughts always drift back to you▰wondering what small gift he can bring home just to see you smile.

𝒲arnings : my 3 am writing, grammatical errors(?) separated povs of dear beloved jason & reader. backstory of mr. bugs bunny if u squint.

𝒩ote:

001: idea was from @/tiredtodd on tiktok!

002: I JAD TO REWRITE TGIS TWOBTIMES & TRIED SAVING IT INMY DRAFTS FOUR TIMES

003: ikindof hatetgis..

004: SAY MY MY NAME & EVERYTHING JUST STOPS.

005: thank u for 100 followers ongonfongong/srs/srs/srs/srs

gotham never sleeps.

nor does jason.

it’s been one of those nights▰the kind where criminals seem to crawl out of their skin to horrify citizens once more, where no matter how many heads he cracks, there’s always another fight waiting around the corner. his knuckles are sore beneath his gloves, guns being out of bullets, his ribs ache from a particularly nasty hit, & the sting of fresh cuts lingers across his skin.

still, none of that is what’s bothering him.

he sits on the ledge of a building, letting out a deep sigh, his view of the city blurred through smoky neon below. he should go back now, but he waits, holds his breath, looks down into the streets, limned in dim light, & stares & stares, & stares.

this weight in his chest is unfamiliar, yet so painfully recognizable.

he's always been the guy to carry his burdens alone, shouldering the consequences that comes with being red hood without complaint. but ever since you walked into his life▰sweet, soft, full of warmth in a way gotham could never be▰ things have changed.

his fingers twitch,& he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. he doesn't have to look. he knows.

a note.

one of several, in fact.

he writes them when the nights feel like they stretch into forever & when the silence weighs too much on his chest. little notes he can never possibly say to you. this note is no different. folded neatly, shoved between the worn pages of an old book carried around in the pocket▰words he'll never give to you, yet still can't let himself get rid of.

some people would throw anything they did that are considered embarrassing, but no, not jason.

"you looked cute today. i wanted to tell you, but i figured you already knew."

"i stole your lip gloss again. smells like blueberries. reminds me of you."

it's stupid, he tells himself. you're right there in his life. he sees you every day▰watches you hum to yourself while fixing your hair(sometimes he'd help by brushing your hair using his fingers), twirling a ribbon between your fingers(he'd also participate in this activity, claiming it to be “stupid” but won't refuse, not when you seem to enjoying yourself so much), picking out outfits with that soft, thoughtful expression he's come to love(you convinced him to match sanrio pjs once, he didn't rebuff the idea). you don't belong in the shadows like he does. you're all bows & butterflies, a contrast so complete it should have driven him away.

but it didn't.

it never could.

jason breathes, smoothing his hair with a gloved hand. he should go home. he should crawl into bed, let you fuss over his injuries, pretend he doesn't love the way your hands linger just a little longer when you patch him up.

instead, he finds himself moving▰leaping across rooftops, scanning the streets for something(other than crime). he's not even sure what he's looking for, only that the ache in his chest won't settle until he finds something to bring back to you.

it's a habit he's never acknowledged out loud.

some men bring their girls flowers. others bring chocolates, jewelry, grand gestures that scream their affections for the world to see.

jason todd?

he brings gotham to you.

not in the way it brings bloodshed and violence▰no, never that. but in the little things. trinkets he finds on his patrols, things that make him think of you. a pressed flower growing between the cracks of an old building. a charm bracelet abandoned in a crime scene alleyway.

once, he even found a small, tattered bunny plushie, barely holding together. he cleaned it up, stitched it as well as he could, & just put it on your dresser and left without saying anything.

you never asked him where it came from. you only smiled, kissed his cheek, & said, "he looks well-loved."

jason had to get out of the room after that.

tonight, he sees something that lines one of the fringes of crime alley▰a small street vendor selling handmade trinkets at barely subsistence living. most people don't even give him a glance anymore, being so wrapped up in their problems that they don't care.

there's a necklace resting among the clutter, the kind of thing he can imagine you wearing▰a small pendant in the shape of a crescent moon, subtle yet elegant. he doesn't think twice before pulling out a few crumpled bills(that is probably two times higher than it's price), handing them over without a word.

the vendor barely gets a chance to thank him before he's gone.

by the time he returns to your apartment it's late▰by two in the morning, or at least in gotham; all is quieter & yet not silently so. there is no point in knocking. he slips through the window, sliding in, again, moving silent as a phantom as he reaches the apartment's floor.

a view awaits to knock the air from his breath.

you sleep on the couch, all bundled up in that soft blanket. the tv hums away on the opposite side of the room, highlights light shadows on your face. on your lap lies a book open to one side, as though you had fallen asleep waiting for him to show up.

jason swallows, a warmth moving into his chest. his stomach▰no▰his entire soul feels warm.

he's gentle as he moves, settling beside you without waking you. his fingers brush against your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. you stir slightly at the touch, murmuring his name in your sleep, & he bites back a soft curse, heart aching at how easily you trust him.

how easily you love him.

he never deserved someone like you.

yet, here you are.

by his side, as you call his name every now & then.

his eyes fall to the small bag in his hands, the necklace still inside. for a moment, he hesitates, deciding whether to give it to you now or wait until morning.

in the end, he puts it on the coffee table, placing it beside your book where you'll see it first thing when you wake up. a small note beside it, written in his messy handwriting.

"saw this & thought of you. sleep well, sweetheart."

he doesn't sign it. he doesn't need to.

you'll know.

jason settles back, his own exhaustion finally gaining the upper hand. he needs to get up, shower, take care of the bruises he's been pretending aren't an issue. but as you turn in your sleep, reaching instinctively for him, curling up closer to his side with a soft little sigh.

yeah.

he can spend a little while like this.

the clock on the wall ticks.

it's late.

too late.

you change positions on the couch, adjusting your blanket over your shoulders & looking at the clock once again. jason would have been back by now. you know not to worry. he has lived through worse nights, fought against deadly criminals, walked away from things that would kill another man. yet still, a sense of anxiety clings to you, curling inside your stomach like a knot that feels like it's squeezing your insides.

with a sigh, you again let your eyes fall back to the book in your lap, fingers tracing the worn edges of the pages. it's one of jason's, a novel he left on the shelf ages ago & never reclaimed. you aren't even really reading at this point▰just skimming, letting the words blur together while your mind focuses somewhere else.

to him.

to the little things he does that he thinks you don't notice.

like how he keeps your hair ties even though he swears he doesn't.

or how he always makes sure there's an extra blanket on your side of the bed.

or▰your favorite▰how he writes things in his books.

you found it by accident, months ago. a dog-eared page in one of his old novels, words scrawled in the margins in his distinctive, messy handwriting. you thought at first it was just notes▰random thoughts about the plot, maybe something important he wanted to remember. basically him annotating.

but then you read it.

"she was humming today, while she made tea. low, silent. i believe that was that tune she is very much so partial to, that one she uses every time she is styling her hair. she did not appear to have been aware, but i did. i always am."

you had almost dropped the book, your heart flopping in your chest.

since then, you've turned it into a silly game. you pretend you don't notice the tiny notes he scatters around, but secretly, you live for when you stumble on them.

you know there is one in this book. you haven't discovered it yet, but just the idea of it makes you giddy, titter softly & warmth rising like a volcano about to erupt.

he doesn't even realize you know.

it's so jason▰loving quietly, loving deeply, but never really saying it outright. he'll not say one word on being away for that patrol but have you notice some folded paper with the message tucked into his jacket pocket while out doing laundry. he will never tell you, outright say it to your face that you're pretty, but he would watch you style your hair with gazes soft & lingering.

what is he writing tonight?

(something romantic, obviously.)

if he's sat atop some height of gotham, breathing between fights, scribbling thoughts of you into some old notebook while the city, loud.

"i miss her."

"i wish i could bring her here once to see this view."

"do you think she'd be angry with me for taking her lip gloss again? nah. worth the risk."

you are smiling at the thought, worrying in your ribs.

he'll be home soon. he always comes home.

the television, rapid of brightness, a bright glow over the room. your eyes begin to feel more heavy, the weariness of waiting finally settling into your bones. you tell yourself you'll stay awake, just a little longer. just until you hear the familiar creak of the window, the soft thud of his boots against the floor.

you never make it that far.

sleep pulls you down, the book slipping slightly in your lap, the soft sounds of the city fading into nothing.

you don't know how long you've been out when you feel it.

a shift in the air. the presence of someone near.

it doesn't surprise you▰not in the way that it should. instead, your body relaxes instinctively, as if it knows before your mind is quite awake.

a warmth beside you. a familiar scent. leather, gunpowder, the faintest trace of something you.

you stir, barely conscious, mumbling his name before you can stop yourself.

"jay..?"

a pause. a sharp inhale. then, a hand▰warm, calloused, careful▰brushing against your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

you sigh at the touch, sinking into it even as sleep tries to drag you back down.

there's such a long silence before he talks, his voice quieter than ever.

"yeah, sweetheart. it's me."

you want to wake up all the way now, want to sit up straight & fuss over him like you always do. ask if he's hurt; ask if he's eaten anything; ask if tonight was one of the bad ones. but this exhaustion is heavy, pulling you down like an anchor.

you are barely aware of the way he shifts beside you, settling, the weight of his presence grounding you even into sleep.

you hear nothing in the end except the soft sound of something landing on the table▰the clinking of metal and the faint scratch of paper across wood.

& jason's whisper, barely loud enough to hear.

"missed you."

the sunlight arrives▰uninvited▰through the curtains & warms your skin as you blink awake. the tv remains on, a late-night movie in reruns, hanging precariously in the corner of your head.

the book has shifted slightly, now perched on the edge of the couch.

oh, & your beloved jason is still here.

he's half-asleep beside you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other resting loosely against his stomach. he looks tired▰more than usual▰but there's a peace in his expression that makes your heart ache.

slowly, careful not to wake him, you stretch▰only to freeze when your eyes land on the coffee table.

a small bag. a delicate necklace, its crescent moon pendant catching the morning light.

& a note.

your breath catches as you reach for it, fingers ghosting over the familiar, messy handwriting. jason's messy handwriting.

"saw this & thought of you. sleep well, sweetheart."

a smile tugs at your lips, warmth once again spreading through your chest.

you glance at jason, still asleep, still him.

& then, giggling softly to yourself, you reach for the book in your lap, flipping through the pages.

there’s definitely another note hidden in here somewhere.

& you can’t wait to find it.

"she keeps looking at me like that. like i’m something worth holding onto."

"she touches me like i won’t shatter. like i won’t ruin everything the second she gets too close."

"i don’t know how to explain it. it’s in the way she speaks to me, the way she laughs, the way she reaches for my hand without thinking. she doesn’t hesitate. not with me. no one's ever done that before. no one except her."

"i think▰"

there’s a pause. the sentence breaks off, like he wasn’t sure he should continue. like the truth was something too heavy to write down.

& then, softer, almost like an afterthought:

"she's too good. too bright. too much like the kind of thing a man like me should never be allowed to have."

"but gods, i want to.”

if jason peter todd isn't a hopeless romantic, then what is he?

#﹙vi's diary. ﹚#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd #red hood #dc x reader #dcu #dc comics

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inseobts · 2 days ago

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Midnight Snack

luffy x gn!reader

he gets hungry at night so you both go steal some snacks

words count: 1.2k

tags: fluffy, sfw, soft, gender neutral

masterlist || ko-fi

The gentle sway of the ship rocked you awake. It's the middle of the night, and the sky above is studded with thousands of stars. The moonlight filters in through the window, casting a soft glow on the room you share with Luffy. The air is cool, but your body is warm under the blanket.

But there's something you didn't anticipate... Luffy’s stomach grumbling loudly.

You turn to your side, blinking through the darkness. Luffy is sprawled out next to you, his back against the pillow, but he's restless. You can feel him shifting beside you, his body twitching. Then, another loud growl.

“Luffy” you whisper, nudging him “You’re awake, aren’t you?”

Luffy’s eyes flutter open, squinting as he stares at you, his face lit by the soft glow of the moon. He lets out a long yawn, stretching his arms above his head before blinking at you, clearly still groggy.

“Hungry,” he mumbles, rubbing his belly dramatically, as if the sheer force of his grumbling stomach could somehow shake the walls. “Really, really hungry.”

You groan softly, your mind still trying to wake up “It’s the middle of the night, Luffy.”

“So?” He grins, as if the time of day, or night, rather, means nothing when it comes to food “I want a snack.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes “What kind of snack are we talking about? We’ve already gone through the whole kitchen twice this week. Sanji’s gonna murder us if we do it again.”

Luffy grins even wider, turning toward you with an almost childlike gleam in his eyes “That’s the fun part! We won’t wake him up. We’ll sneak a snack!”

You blink at him, unable to stop a small laugh from escaping “You really are impossible.”

“Well, you love me for it” Luffy says, his voice a little too proud as he bounces up in bed. He pats his lap with a mischievous look “Come on, let’s find the perfect snack!”

You rub your eyes, reluctantly sitting up “What kind of midnight snack is perfect, anyway?”

Luffy shrugs, still grinning “One that makes me feel full, and one that makes my stomach stop growling.”

That… was probably as good of an answer as you were going to get from him.

You smile, rolling your eyes fondly at him “Alright, alright. I’ll go with you, but this better be quick. We need to get back before the others wake up.”

Luffy stands up, his enthusiasm now fully evident, and pulls you by the hand “We’ll be fast! C’mon, I know just the place!”

The night air hits you as soon as you step outside, cold but fresh, and the ship is unusually still, the soft sound of the waves lapping against the hull making the night seem peaceful. You follow Luffy down the stairs, both of you trying to be as quiet as possible, though that’s easier said than done when Luffy’s practically bounding from step to step.

“Shh!” You whisper, grabbing his arm to slow him down “We need to be quiet. We’re sneaking, remember?”

Luffy shrugs, his grin never faltering “I’m always quiet when I want to be!”

You can’t argue with that logic, so you simply shake your head and follow him to the kitchen.

As you reach the door, Luffy quickly pushes it open, but you stop him just before entering “Wait. Remember, no ingredients! Not unless we want Sanji to skin us alive.”

Luffy pouts “Aww, but meat…”

“We’re not eating Sanji’s food!” you whisper harshly, but then your mind clicks “Maybe there’s something else we can find.”

Luffy tilts his head, looking at you like you just suggested you go on a treasure hunt “Like what?”

You scan the kitchen, trying to think quickly “Uh… fruits! There might be something hidden away.”

Luffy’s eyes light up “Fruits! Yeah! Let’s find the best fruit!”

You both start rummaging through the small storage area, chuckling to yourselves as you dig through crates of apples, bananas, and even the occasional coconut. But nothing seems to satisfy your cravings.

“Wait, what’s that?” Luffy suddenly exclaims, his eyes locking onto something in the far corner of the kitchen. He runs over to the shelf and pulls out a small jar “Aha! Pudding!”

You stare at the jar in his hands “Luffy, that’s a jar of pudding.”

“Perfect snack!” Luffy says proudly, popping the lid off and sniffing it. He then dips his finger in and takes a big lick “Mmmm! Delicious!”

You stare at him, blinking “You’re eating pudding straight from the jar with your finger?”

Luffy shrugs, totally unfazed “Why not? It’s good! Wanna try some?”

Before you can protest, he sticks his finger in the jar and brings it toward your mouth.

“Luffy!” you laugh, swatting his hand away, though you’re unable to suppress your smile.

“Oh come on, just a little bit!” He gives you his best pouty face, the one that always gets to you.

You roll your eyes but can’t help yourself as you lean forward, letting him feed you a small scoop of pudding from the jar. You can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

“See?” Luffy says triumphantly “I knew you’d love it!”

You wipe your mouth, laughing “I swear, you’ll eat anything, won’t you?”

“Anything that’s yummy” he replies with a cheeky grin.

You chuckle again, and then, for a moment, the two of you just look at each other, the jar of pudding forgotten between you. It’s so simple, sitting together in the kitchen, in the middle of the night, just enjoying each other’s company.

“I’m glad we’re doing this” you say softly, leaning against him.

Luffy grins wide, putting his arm around your shoulder “Of course! There’s no one else I’d rather sneak snacks with.”

You smile, feeling your heart flutter a little at the sweetness of his words.

“Well, as long as we don’t wake anyone up” you say, raising an eyebrow.

He pulls you closer, a wide, mischievous grin on his face “Well… maybe we should wake them up. I can always go for more pudding.”

You laugh, shaking your head “You really are impossible.”

But as Luffy leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, you realize that, impossible or not, this was the kind of adventure you loved. Even if it involved sneaking around in the middle of the night for a perfect snack.

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slut4megantheestallion · 2 days ago

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⋆ ☆ Chloe price x 2000sbaddie!fem!reader gf

Warnings: Chloe price x fem reader, black!reader, 2000s, Chloe is a simple for the reader, fluff, reader is a baddie, wlw.

☆Chloe is down bad for you, and she doesn't even try to hide it at all. She didn't think she'd be the type to simp over someone so hard, but there she is, completely obsessed with you.

☆You are the baddest thing to ever walk into her life, and she knows it. Baby tees, low-rise jeans, fresh acrylic nails tapping on your phone screen, lip gloss always poppin' and a face card that never declines-yeah, Chloe never had a chance.

☆Your style is immaculate, and Chloe is constantly in awe. She'll sit back, arms crossed, biting her lips as she watches you put together an outfit like it's a runway show. She doesn't know how you always pull off the perfect look, but she respects the hell out of it

☆She's your biggest fan, Chloe hypes you up like it's her full-time job. The second she lays eyes on you, she's grinning, whistling, borderline drooling - it's ridiculous.

☆Damn, babe... you trying to kill me? Like, what am I even supposed to do when you look this good?

☆"No, seriously, how? How do you always eat like this? I'm conversation you sold your soul for this level of perfection."

☆If you take too long getting ready, she won't even complain. Instead, she'll be lounging on your bed, watching you like a lovesick idiot, head propped up on her hand. She eats this up.

☆"I could sit here and watch you all day... You're like a work of art, babe."

☆She's taking pictures of you ALL THE TIME.

☆She's got a whole album in her phone labeled "My Goddess" (yes, she's dramatic like that.)

☆She posts you on her story with captions like, "Life isn't fair. How am I supposed to function with this woman walking around looking like THAT?"

☆If you let her take Polaroid pictures of you, she'll stick them in her wallet, on her walls, and even inside her truck just to see your face everywhere.

☆She constantly brags about you constantly. You are her greatest flex, and she makes sure everyone knows.

☆She brings you up in conversations for no reason.

☆If Max or Rachel says literally anything, Chloe would be like,

☆"That reminds me - my girlfriend is so hot. Wanna see pictures?"

☆If you post a fire selfie, she's the first in the comments, typing out paragraphs about how insanely fine you are.

☆"Y'all see what I'm working with???? Y'all wish. Y'ALL WISH."

☆If someone randomly stares at you too long, Chloe is grinning like a smug bastard because, duh, of course they're staring. But they can look all they want - you're hers.

☆"They're just mad they could never pull someone like you. Can't blame 'em. I'd be sick, too."

☆She's obsessed with your style. Chloe loves how put together you always are. She can't relate, but she's obsessed with it.

☆Some days, you're Y2k baddie realness- velour tracksuits, tinted sunglasses, lips lined to perfection. Other days, you're in baggy jeans and a baby tee. Looking like you walked out of a 2003 music video. And no matter what you wear, Chloe is in the background, losing her mind over it.

☆At first, she acted like she didn't care about shopping, but now? She'll hold your bag, give outfit opinions, and even suggest pieces she thinks would look good on you.

☆"Okay, okay, what if we go for, like, the ultimate hot girl look? Low- rise jeans, one of those teeny little crop tops that show off your stomach? Ugh, I'm so fucking lucky."

☆If you do her makeup or hair, she's melting. Completely whipped!!

☆If you do a lil makeover, she's looking in the mirror like,

☆"Holy shit... You made me look so hot. How did you-?"

☆Chloe's possessive over you, but in the chillest way possible.

☆Chloe isn't subtle about claiming you.

☆Arm around your waist all times.

☆Hand on your thighs whenever you sit next to her.

☆If someone gets too comfortable around you, Chloe pulls you closer just to send a message.

☆"Yeah, babe, come sit on my lap- wait, you're already sitting? Okay, whatever, just be closer."

☆If someone tries to flirt with you, she's watching with the biggest smirk on her face. She's not jealous because she knows you're hers, but she loves watching people make a fool of themselves.

☆when you shut them down, she leans in, all smug, whispering,

☆"Damn, they really thought they had a shot? That's hilarious."

☆If you're ever upset, Chloe is ready to throw hands.

☆"Nah, who got you fucked up? Let's go, babe - I'll fight 'em right now."

☆She adores you, period. Chloe never thought she'd fall for you this hard, but here she is, completely wrapped around your finger.

☆She lives for your confidence. The way you walk, the way you talk, and the way you own every room you step into - it drives her crazy in the best way possible.

☆She secretly writes about you in her journal. Filling pages with little doodles of your name, random thoughts about how much she loves your smile, and notes like,

☆"I have no idea how I got someone this perfect. Like, I genuinely think I won the lottery. What the fuck."

☆If she's ever feeling low, she'll scroll through her pictures of you, read your old texts, or just stare at you like a lovesick fool.

☆If you catch her, she'll smirk and shrug.

☆"What? I just like looking at my girl, sue me."

☆Overall, Chloe is your biggest fan, protector, hype woman, and personal simp, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

#wlw #wlw x reader #lis chloe #chloe price #chloe price x reader #early 2000s aesthetic #2000s core #life is strange #fem!reader #2000s aesthetic #baddie!reader #Spotify #life is strange x reader #my work

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nereidprinc3ss · 2 days ago

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I didn’t mean to have so much to say about this but wow do I!!!!

Lots of people say they love domestic spencer reid but I don’t think they love domestic spencer reid like EYEEE love domestic Spencer Reid. Because I love domestic spencer reid where he’s doing nothing. Or he’s being kind of….. not an asshole but…… where it becomes clear that he’s just dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person and then I love domestic Spencer Reid where he’s dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person but he can still say I’m sorry!!! And they can hug and it’s okay because loving someone requires being close enough to sometimes hurt them!!!! And the realism of this kind of fic just fills me w so much joy like THISSSS is what I want from tumblr dot com I LOVEE the meditative fics where nothing crazy happens and the plot comes from the authors understanding of rich interpersonal relationships!!!! I love!!!!

This was also beautifully beautifully written like a breath of fresh air wow I truly am so lucky to get to read work from such talented people thank you for writing this and thank you for sharing it with us!!

So anyway here are the lines that jumped out at me. There is really no rhyme or reason, I tend to extra love lines that are a little philosophical and ponderous about human connection and boy was this full of that!! I am not a literary critic I am just a girl full of thoughts

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

I just think this is an jarringly astute and concise observation of something we as humans do all the time in relationships and again there is nothing I love more than an observation about human connection that I can point at and go MEEEE I UNDERSTAND THAT I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!!!! It’s very exciting to me!!

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

This to me was a kind of honesty most fanfic lacks and obviously most fanfic is supposed to be optimistic and perfect and reflect the readers desires back to them but quite frankly to me it hits harder when there is this subtle kind of interpersonal angst and strife that is something we can feel and recognize within ourselves it makes it easier for me to actually connect to the fic. Rather than watching it like a movie I can recognize this kind of sentiment and it’s far more immersive to me and therefore a lot more fulfilling and rewarding and interesting to read

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

YEAH MAYBE THAT IS THE POINT!!! THE POINT OF EVERYTHING!!! THE POINT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! This to me is just beautiful and very succinctly summarizes something I’ve been working on and will probably continue to work on for the rest of my life and I think really the whole point of love and the lesson most people need to learn!!!! Once again I like my fluffy fanfic tempered w this kind of realism!! It adds so much texture

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

No yeah actually this IS the sexiest thing a man could possible say or do!! Like care and pay attention and be present and observant!!! I won’t even be talking about this because I love it too much to dissect it

Anyways this is maybe making me look crazy I just haven’t been engaged with fanfic very much recently and I did not go into this with the intention of having anything to say about it afterward but to my own personal deep surprise was so motivated to!! And it was so beautiful and so lovely I had to say something. Pls excuse if I’ve gone overboard!! This is just such a good example of fanfic at its absolute best to me like this is what it’s forrrr this is what I wanttttt!!!! Thank you for writing thank you for posting beautiful

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

#fic recs #that should be me #fic motherfucking recs

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 days ago

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Worship

Hello!!! I thought I'd throw an idea out there :3 So I absolutely love god aus, but obviously you don't have to do that, just a thought, I'm just thinking of Janus or Virgil suffering in some way and Roman doing something to protect them, since they're always the ones comforting him? Might be fun to switch it up If you do decide to do this have fun! If not no worries :3 :3 – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none

Pairings: prinxiety

Word Count: 2232

In a world of many gods and goddesses, one of the lesser-known deities goes without a name, simply known as the Storyteller. Virgil is one of their few followers, living on the outskirts of a densely populated city. His is not an extravagant faith, but it is a potent one.

It's the same as it always is. Candles knocked over and his books scattered on the floor. At least they didn't rip any pages out this time.

Virgil sighs, crouching down. He sets his basket on the ground and focuses on making sure none of the pages have creased beyond repair. A few of the books landed on their splayed pages and he winces at the marring of the fading ink, but for the most part, everything looks to be intact. He gathers them to his chest and begins to rearrange them on the small plinth, careful to keep the covers turned toward the flames to reduce the risk of fire. When the books have been arranged just so, he picks up the candles too and reaches into his pocket for his flint and steel.

Out of the many shrines in the city, it's always the ones down at this end that constantly get ruined. Possibly because it's closest to the busy end of the alley, more likely because these gods do not carry the worship of the state. These are the ones that have smaller sects, no grand churches or temples or holy sites, and so they are the ones that require more constant upkeep. Virgil doesn't mind. He has an agreement with some of the people that worship the gods at neighboring shrines. He lets them know when the altar's been ruined, they let him know when his has been. Granted, he's not the only worshiper around here, but he is the most predictable.

At some point, he'll sit back and wonder why it is that this one is the one that seems to be destroyed most often, but that's something he can wonder when his fresh food from the market is not in danger of being swiped by cunning little mouths.

He gets word that the statue on the cliffside had been defaced, and he packs a small bag to take with him. The path is lined with old rocks laden with moss and cracks. Small flowers take root and grow along the edge of the stone steps. At the top of the cliff overlooking the water, there is a circle of stones around the statue. Virgil winces at the crude glyphs painted over the statue's face, hands, and the book it holds aloft.

He sets down his bag and fetches the rag and water. The types of soap he would typically use to clean this are too harsh for the old limestone, and even the water he tries to use sparingly so he won't damage the statue's features. Wind and rain have worn away the details, leaving only the vague outline of a mouth, open in speech, a nose, and kind eyes watching the story weave itself together. As he works, he can help glancing behind himself every so often.

Was this a place where stories were told often? Was it only for special occasions?

Is there a more special occasion than being alive?

The words drift back to him and he smiles, turning his attention back to the statue. As he works, he tells the little stories of being alive. About the cats that run through the alley, begging for scraps. About the new merchants that have come to sell their jewelry and all the other stalls had seen fewer customers that day. About the new recipe his friend had tried and how good it had tasted. Small stories. Short stories. Stories that make up the patchwork of a life.

He wonders if that was the sort of story that would make it into any book, no matter how insignificant. He cleans the statue's hands and wonders if it would be willing to hold such a book.

These were originally sung.

Virgil turns the page in the old book and squints at the faded words. It had been a chance find by an old friend, a book from ages long past that only Virgil had wanted in the end, for he was the only one who could recognize the god's name. He'd taken the fragile thing home wrapped in a cloth and thin string of twine, unwrapping it carefully by his own tiny shrine and reading by the light of the candle. There were words he didn't recognize, words he had no idea how to pronounce, and stories woven in tongues he could never hope to understand.

You could say, then, he was shocked when the thought that they were to be sung occurred to him.

What for? They didn't match any meter or pattern of any song he recognized, nor did he have any inclination as to what the tune was supposed to be. And even if he did, that was no guarantee he'd be able to sing it. No one had ever had the courage to say he was very musically inclined, let alone be able to sing songs of a god that had not been breathed since the book was last opened.

Still, now that the thought's occurred to him, it's almost impossible to get out of his head. So, he starts humming. No melody, not really a rhythm either, just reading the book and letting it decide when he should change notes. He just reads and hums and does his best to let them wash over him. Even if he can't understand it, maybe he can feel what it might have been like to hear them sung.

The candles flicker a little as the sun sets. The book doesn't look as though it's any different, but slowly it occurs to Virgil that he shouldn't be able to see as well in this level of light as he had when the sun was still out. He glances at the candles, then back at the book, and turns the page. Sure enough, the words stand out as easily as they ever have…in fact, they might be a little bit clearer.

He continues humming with a smile on his face.

'Your god should be your focus, your life, your purpose. You should devote your life to theirs, as they have spent their existence to ensure you have yours.'

A lot of people like to talk about their gods like that. There is one house of worship that Virgil journeys past every moon devoted to a dark god—he's not exactly sure what the god's powers are, nor what domain he represents, all he knows are the black tentacle-like tattoos the acolytes wear and the fact that the god, apparently, prefers blondes. Every time he passes, he sees one of the priestesses surveying the courtyard—as if she were its ruler, not the god the temple was devoted to, but her—and the way she looks at him makes him hold his cloak a little tighter around his body. As though he were doing something wrong by not wearing his worship of his god on his skin as brazenly as they did.

Others talk about their gods. All the time. Every sentence, every little thing that happens, is because of their god. The rain, the sun, the harvest, the storm, the way their neighbor smiled at them this morning, the way a bird came and landed on their roof last night. Everything was attributed to some divine message, leaving no room for the quietness of life to breathe. Virgil feels exhausted just imagining that—what would be the point of being so controlling if you didn't have the time to breathe and enjoy the security of it?

And then there were those that thought he didn't worship. Not that they frowned upon him for it, but sometimes the way they talked…as though he couldn't understand what it was like to believe in a higher power. As though he didn't have the discipline to worship, as though he didn't have the faith. As though the shrine in his house didn't exist, as if the hours he spent writing his own story in a leather-bound notebook he'd saved every coin for wasn't worth it, as though he didn't believe.

But his worship isn't for them. It's for him, and his god, and that was enough. And if he arrived home to find a small pot of ink when he'd thought he'd run out yesterday, well, that was between him and his desk drawer.

The thing about stories is that they're meant to be shared. Virgil is many things, but a man with a large group of friends, he is not.

In some ways, he is content not to share his worship. There's something unique, he's found, in storytelling. You can tell a lot about a person by the type of stories they read, or the types of stories they tell. Even if you don't believe so at first, over time, if you hear enough of them, you get to know that person quite well. Virgil is not keen on being so known, not by the sorts of people that he would share this worship with. Because they wouldn't understand, he tells himself, or it wouldn't be fair. He would have to show them how it feels by lying himself bare, with no hope of whether they would understand and do the same.

But sometimes, sometimes he gets…lonely.

His home is small. Humble. His bed has just enough room for his clothes in a trunk underneath. His kitchen is barely more than a stove and a small set of cabinets. He has a tiny desk, crammed into the space under his shrine. He has a few things on the walls, one old bundle of cloth wrapped around his traveling gear in the corner by the firewood. On cold nights, he sleeps right by the fire, and even then, he doesn't feel warm enough.

In the pages of the books, he reads about the importance of companionship. That nights are cold and colder alone, that we were made to warm each other and there is no other warmth quite like it. Sometimes he curls up with one of them, just to read about it and imagine it. He thinks that might be his most poignant worship: a strange yearning, a longing that worries itself into his bones and makes him ache tenderly. His is not a god that values pain and suffering, but he thinks his god might have a soft spot for wanting.

He does not doubt, but he would like to see for himself. Just once.

+1.

There is a man outside his door.

He opens it, a little stunned. Partly because there is no reason for someone to show up as his door unannounced, and partly because this stranger is sublime.

He invites the stranger in, belatedly, and sheepishly offers to cook. It's around that time of day anyways, and he has a little extra of the nice meat from the butcher because he did them a favor last week. The stranger smiles, thanks him, asks if Virgil needs help. Virgil shakes his head and offers the good chair, the one that doesn't creak when you sit on it, and carefully pours a cup of mead too. The stranger takes it and thanks him again.

Virgil tries to keep himself focused on the cooking, but he can't help glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to see what the stranger does. He spends a fair amount of time looking around, at the fireplace, at Virgil's desk, at the shrine, but mostly, he's watching Virgil. To the point where Virgil just starts talking, just so that it makes a little more sense as to why he's being looked at so by someone so…so.

The stranger listens perfectly. Laughs in the right places, hums in the right places, asks questions and offers comments when Virgil pauses for breath. Virgil asks questions of his own, and receives vaguer answers, more cryptic answers, though all delivered with some secret smile like there's a joke the two of them share. When the food has been eaten, Virgil expects the stranger to tell him who he is, or what he's doing here, but nothing comes. Instead, the stranger helps him clean up, and when Virgil says that it's alright, he's capable of doing it, please, make yourself comfortable, wanders toward the shrine. No small lump appears in Virgil's throat as the stranger reaches out to take one of the books.

Do you know, I think you're the only one who tried to sing them.

And Virgil…stares. Because no one should know that. No one does know that. The only way this stranger could know that is if…if…

His eyes widen. The stranger looks at him with a soft smile, and then the book is set down and Virgil's suddenly backed against the wall with that soft smile so, so close.

Oh, God.

The stranger laughs. It sounds like music.

For you, Virgil, you can call me Roman.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs@el-does-photography@princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl@raven1508

#dragonbabbles #fic #sanders sides #virgil sanders #roman sanders

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anonymousewrites · 8 hours ago

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Lavender for Royalty; Sage for Wisdom (Book 1) Chapter Twenty-Two

Kyoya Ootori x Reader

Chapter Twenty-Two: Yellow Carnation for Rejection

Summary: Bossanova has discovered Haruhi's secret, and Tamaki is spiraling. How could things possibly get worse? (He gains a crush).

“What’s Bossanova doing here? I thought he didn’t have a personality crisis anymore,” said (Y/N). The Host Club was back to normal, and all their guests had returned, but Bossanova was still present.

“He’s a customer today,” said Kyoya.

“…He requested Haruhi, didn’t he?” said (Y/N).

Kyoya nodded. “He did.” Kyoya was more than fine with that. Not only would that make up for the trouble Bossanova had caused when guests didn’t come, but it was also Haruhi he had a crush on. As long as it wasn’t (Y/N), Kyoya didn’t care.

“You seem quite pleased,” observed (Y/N).

Kyoya smirked. “The guests like his presence now.” He gestured to where girls were eagerly watching the first male guest they’d had.

“Ah. They think this is a coming out story and love confession,” said (Y/N). “I can see why that would entertain them.”

“If this is disrespectful to the community, I can shut it down now,” offered Kyoya. He knew (Y/N) had a better perspective on that than him (though, technically, he was part of the community since he wasn't straight for being attracted to them).

(Y/N) waved a hand. “This is funny. Let it go on. It makes us money, too.” They flashed him a grin.

Kyoya chuckled and nodded.

“Welcome, Casanova,” said Haruhi, again blundering his name but wearing a charming smile. “So you’re a customer today. Would you like some tea? How about some sweets?”

Bossanova blushed. “Ah, uh, let me help.”

“Hm? There’s no need. Just relax,” said Haruhi, pouring two cups of tea.

“Such skill,” said Bossanova.

“At first I didn’t know much about etiquette,” said Haruhi, smiling. “But the guys told me to relax and enjoy myself. It seems the secret of serving tea is creating a story on the table.”

(Y/N) and Kyoya nodded in tandem from where they were watching.

“I see…Then the title of this would be—”

Before Bossanova could finished, the twins “tripped” and broke the teacup.

“So sorry! Our hand slipped!” From their deadpan expressions and bored tone, that was a complete and utter lie.

“Well…I’d call it ‘destruction,’ now,” said Haruhi. She glared at the twins, who shrugged innocently.

They ran to Kyoya and (Y/N) with accusatorily glares. “Kyoya! (Y/N)! Why did you let him in? He already gets along with his subordinates, so he shouldn’t have any more business with us!”

“He came here as a customer,” said (Y/N), shrugging. “He’s keeping Haruhi’s secret. We have no reason to throw him out.” Not for your jealousy, anyways.

“Besides.” Kyoya gestured to the girls fawning over Bossanova’s love for Haruhi. “He brought in more customers. There’s a 20% increase in revenue today.”

“You’re just after money!” said the twins. “What about Tamaki?”

“Tama-chan doesn’t look so good,” said Honey.

Sure enough, Tamaki was still just staring into space. (Y/N) patted him on the shoulder encouragingly.

“What are the club members making a fuss about?” wondered Bossanova. “And what’s with Tamaki? He looks exactly the same as yesterday.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Haruhi, pouring a fresh cup of tea.

“Are you alright? Being with such hyper people…You’re quiet and reserved. Humble,” said Bossanova.

“Well, I have (Y/N). They have the common sense the others don’t,” said Haruhi. “And it’s basically my fault I’m here. Believe it or not, they’ve been really nice to me. Look at this.” She pulled a bracelet out of her pocket that had tiny paintings of each host on it. “They gave it to me. The design is based on jewelry from the Russian dynasties. It’s too nice for me to wear.”

“Wow. Nice,” said Bossanova.

“Yeah. And they got (Y/N) tailor-made clothes so they can look as feminine or masculine as they want,” said Haruhi. “That can be expensive.”

Bossanova nodded.

“And last month they saw me checking out an advertisement for ham on sale at the supermarket, so they sent a gorgeous ham to my house,” said Haruhi. “I couldn’t enjoy it because I was so surprised. And Tamaki gave me free coupons for ‘pats on the head’ and the ‘carry the bride ride.’ ” She rolled her eyes fondly.

“W-Well, that’s nice…but aren’t you confused?” said Bossanova.

“Hm. I guess so,” said Haruhi. “I’ve never been used to getting so many gifts, but this kind of stuff has become normal to me.” She chuckled and smiled adorably. “Yeah, I’m confused. I feel better now, though.”

Bossanova blushed, and all the watchers looked on in awe. Or, in the Host Club’s case, horror.

“What should we ?!” cried Kaoru. “Haruhi is casually exposing how cute she is! What an unconscious flirt!”

“She’s such a natural,” said (Y/N) proudly.

Tamaki let out a wheeze like a robot breaking down.

“You two aren’t going to interrupt?” said Honey, looking at Hikaru and Kaoru. “That’s rare.”

“We messed up in Karuizawa, so we can’t make her angry again!” said Hikaru.

“Not ‘we,’ just you, Hikaru,” said Kaoru.

“Boss! How long are you going to stand there like a hollow shell?” said Hikaru, ignoring Kaoru.

“The king must come forth!” declared Kaoru.

“Go for it!” said the twins, shoving Tamaki towards the couch.

“I can’t see how this goes wrong,” said (Y/N), shaking their head.

“Tamaki?” said Haruhi.

Tamaki sat down right between her and Bossanova mechanically. Haruhi rolled her eyes.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said. “If you want to sit down, sit over here. If you’re bored, you can play with this.” She handed him a puzzle ring set. “I bought some instant coffee, and I got this as a freebie.”

Tamaki blankly got to work while Haruhi turned back to an extremely confused Bossanova. “Casanova, would you like some more tea?” she asked.

“Um, yeah, thanks,” he said nervously.

“Haruhi, I did it. I solve the puzzle ring,” said Tamaki.

“Wow. That was fast,” said Haruhi. “Now put it back the way it was.”

“O-Okay,” said Tamaki.

“It’s like she’s entertaining a child,” said (Y/N), wincing.

“Tamaki is a child,” said Kyoya, sighing.

“That stupid fool!” said the twins. They called Tamaki’s phone, and he mechanically answered it.

“Boss, stop running away from reality,” said Kaoru.

“The situation is getting worse while your spirit freefalls in outer space,” said Hikaru.

“Got it? Picture this,” said Kaoru. “You don’t do anything, and Bossanova takes Haruhi away…”

“Are you aware that she would end up becoming the wife to a Yakuza?!” said Hikaru.

“We’re jumping to marriage rather quickly,” said (Y/N).

“No!” Tamaki sprang up from the couch, his personality and soul returning to his body. “That may be a beautiful image to behold, but your father doesn’t approve!”

Haruhi stared in shock, and Bossanova’s jaw dropped open. The Host Club was weird.

Tamaki grabbed Bossanova by the shoulders. “Bossanova! What do you think you’re doing here?! Shouldn’t you be cultivating your newfound bond with your men? What happened to your dream of playing kick the can? If you can’t find a nice place, I can show you one! You should go. You should go now! Enjoy your youth to the fullest!”

“We’re off to a strong start,” said (Y/N).

“Which means he’ll crash and burn soon,” said Kyoya.

“But if you still want to deepen your acquaintance with Haruhi, you’ll have to down me down, her father,” said Tamaki.

“Father? You’re Haruhi’s father?” said Bossanova, his confusion increasing.

“W-Well,” said Tamaki, growing nervous. “Maybe not blood-related, but it’s like I’m her father…”

“Have you met her mother?” said Bossanova.

“Well…no….”

“You can’t call yourself her father,” said Bossanova firmly.

Tamaki fainted, and the twins caught him.

“And there’s the crash and burn,” said (Y/N).

“He found quite the weak point,” said Kyoya.

“That was close—Boss was about to turn into stardust,” said Hikaru.

“We never expected a straightforward attack,” said Kaoru. “What a dreadful yakuza.”

“Hang in there, Tama-chan,” said Honey.

“But…he’s right…” said Tamaki, sitting up with wide eyes. “Strictly speaking, I’m not Haruhi’s father.”

“Obviously not,” said the twins.

Tamaki looked at them suddenly like he was suddenly having real thoughts in his head.

“This might be too much for him to handle,” said (Y/N).

“He’ll have to figure it out eventually,” said Kyoya.

“No, wait, I need to sort things out,” said Tamaki.

“Huh? Sort what out?” said Kaoru.

“Let’s just suppose I’m not Haruhi’s father…” said Tamaki.

“We don’t have to suppose that,” said Hikaru.

“Why do I feel so loving and affectionate towards Haruhi?” said Tamaki.

(Y/N) and Kyoya exchanged a look. That was the question everyone but him (and Haruhi) knew the answer to.

“Why do I get so worried when I see her with someone else?” said Tamaki. “If I’m not her father, then I have no right to interfere. What an affectionate father would do is stand back and watch over her. Which brings me back to paternal love…”

“Um, then what’s with all those bridal fantasies?” said Hikaru.

“A father is excited to think about his daughter’s future wedding,” said Tamaki.

“You tried to stop her from kissing someone else,” said Kaoru.

“Shouldn’t I protect her from giving out her first kiss to anyone?” said Tamaki.

“Boss…” Kaoru knelt before Tamaki. “Are you trying to prevent the relationships we all have now from changing? Is that why you’re pretending we’re a family?”

Tamaki stared at him.

“Kaoru?” said Hikaru, his own eyes wide.

Kaoru is exactly right, thought (Y/N). It was no mystery why Tamaki was so protective of the Host Club. They were more his family than his biological one was (minus his mother). He didn’t want that to change at all, even when his own feelings—and obliviousness—were part of that.

“…I don’t understand!” declared Tamaki.

(Y/N) groaned and slapped a hand over their face. “He’s so stupid.”

“He has lovey-dovey fantasies but is too much of an idiot to understand them,” said Kyoya.

“Tamaki is really ignorant of his true feelings,” said Honey. Mori nodded in firm agreement.

“Kaoru, what was that all about?” said Hikaru.

Kaoru sighed. “Oh, it was just a hypothesis.”

Back at the couch, Bossanova sweat-dropped uncertainly as he watched Tamaki sit on his knees in a depressed state. “Is he alright? Did I do something bad to Tamaki?”

“I wonder what it was,” said Haruhi. “I still don’t understand him myself. But…Tamaki does resemble my father a little. Sometimes I know how to handle him but not really.”

Tamaki brightened. “Just now, did she say I resemble her father?” He was excited again. “Did she say I’m like her father?”

“Yeah, but what she meant was your personality resembles her father’s a little,” said Kyoya. “It doesn’t mean you’re like a father at all.”

“I see, I see…” Tamaki’s eyes shone with joy. “I’m not her father, but I’m ‘like’ her father!”

“You’re such an idiot,” said (Y/N) bluntly.

“Haruhi…may I come again?” said Bossanova, looking down at his teacup nervously. “I thought you might like talking to someone who knows your secret rather than just entertaining girls. I-If you aren’t uncomfortable with me around, of course…”

“Thank you,” said Haruhi. “Requesting me would be very helpful. And I’m glad we’ve become close.”

The guests squealed at the moment. Tamaki was shocked out of his fantasies and stared. Something in his heart twisted unexpectedly.

“Haruhi…I…” Bossanova cleared his throat with a blush.

“Is he going to do it?” said (Y/N), eyes wide. “How forward.”

“I thought he was too cowardly,” said Kyoya.

“I—”

“It’s nice to have a friend with the same sense of values,” said Haruhi.

Everyone froze and stared.

“Right now I only have (Y/N), but they’re also my senpai,” said Haruhi. “It’s good to have a friend like you of my age.”

REJECTED, thought everyone.

“Oh, my, he was rejected,” whispered a guest.

“Rejected!”

“Shattered without a chance to even confess his feelings!”

“He specified ‘friend’ twice.”

“Poor guy.”

“How sad.”

Bossanova cleared his throat and raised his chin, even as he blushed. Everyone leaned in to hear his reply (except, of course, Haruhi, who was blithely unaware that someone had tried to confess to her. She, too, needed to work on her obliviousness).

“Haruhi, I’ll always be a friend,” said Bossanova.

“Thanks,” said Haruhi, smiling.

“So honorable!” said (Y/N), pleased with Bossanova’s acceptance of Haruhi’s feelings.

“We’re friends, too, Bossanova!” said Hikaru and Kaoru, also moved by Bossanova’s kindness.

“I’m your senpai, but we can still be friends!” said Honey. Mori nodded with him.

“We’re your friends, too!” said the guests.

“We’re so moved!”

“Thanks for the thrill!”

“Friends forever!”

Bossanova was unsure whether to run or embrace the sudden affection from everyone who used to think him fearsome.

Only Tamaki didn’t approach with his usual energy. He just stared with a strange expression on his face, something that suggested a level of introspection.

“What’s wrong, Tamaki?” said Kyoya, despite knowing what was going on.

“If I think about Bossanova’s feelings, I…” Tamaki trailed off and gripped his uniform above his heart.

“That can’t be right,” said Kyoya, smiling knowingly. “You’re the ‘father,’ aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be happy? There isn’t any reason for you to sympathize or feel sorry for him, is there?”

Tamaki paused. “Oh….Yes! That’s right!” Once again, he had chosen obliviousness.

“He still can’t face his feelings. He’s not ready for it,” sighed (Y/N).

“He has to eventually,” said Kyoya. “There’s no way around it.”

“True,” said (Y/N). “But feelings can be frightening. It changes the way you look at someone, and if they don’t feel the same way, your relationship would be forever changed.” They looked at Kyoya and smiled. “Love is a gamble, even if it is beautiful.” They understood. They loved Kyoya.

Kyoya looked back at them and smiled. “Indeed.” He couldn’t understand them more. He loved them.

To the side of the room, Honey watched everyone as he got onto Mori’s shoulders. “So Hikaru is being Mr. Blind while Tama obviously like Haru, but he’s too foolish to know it. Right, Takashi?”

“Probably,” said Mori.

“And then there’s Kaoru,” said Honey. “He is unaware of his feelings.”

“Right,” said Mori.

“At least Kyoya and (Y/N) are honest with themselves,” said Honey. “They both know they like the other. But they’re both being too careful and not telling each other.” He sighed. “Do you think there’ll be any progress before we graduate?”

“I don’t know,” said Mori. Everyone would have to wait and see.

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kikyoupdates · 2 days ago

Text

Changing Plotlines ⭑˚💞⭑ 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟

yandere!ocs x f!reader

yandere, reverse harem, yandere reverse harem, original characters x fem!reader, slowburn, isekai

A desperate cry on your deathbed leads to you being given a fresh start at life. You're overjoyed at having finally obtained a healthy body and a real chance at living normally, only to discover that you've been transported into a yandere game, where danger lurks at every corner. Determined to protect your new life at any cost, you vow to stay as far away from the major characters of the game as possible. But things don't always go as planned.

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“Honestly, I thought you would’ve given up by now,” Sergei sighed.

“What? Of course not,” you frowned. “I’ll have you know I’m very serious about this. Look, I’ve even been practicing!”

You proceeded to swing your wooden sword with visible enthusiasm, making cutting motions left, right, and center.

Needless to say, he wasn’t impressed.

Today marked the second day of your lessons with the kind-hearted knight who ended up meeting a gruesome fate. Naturally, you had no intention of getting ahead of yourself. It wasn’t as if you expected to become some sort of prodigy overnight. But every effort counted, and the more you practiced, the better equipped you were to defend yourself if something went awry. After stupidly letting your guard down and helping out Flora, you needed to keep up with your training, now more than ever.

“So?” you huffed, wiping the sweat off your forehead. “What do you think?”

Sergei’s brows were creased. He looked like he was searching for the right words to say.

“I think that you have absolutely no talent with a sword.”

Okay, well he clearly hadn’t found the right words, because ouch.

“You’re so mean,” you whined. “This is only our second lesson! Don’t you think it’s too early to jump to conclusions? Of course I’m not going to be great right off the bat. I’m only a beginner. Were you immensely talented from the get-go?”

“Yes,” Sergei said calmly. “My talent is the whole reason I decided to become a knight.”

“Ugh. Okay, that’s beside the point. What I’m trying to say is that someone can suck at something at the beginning, but that doesn’t mean they can’t improve one day.”

“I agree with that,” Sergei acknowledged. “I’m not saying that you can’t learn, but from what I’ve seen, it’s already quite clear that this isn’t the sort of activity that will come naturally to you. Everyone has different types of skills. Why not take up a hobby that you might be better suited towards? It could save you a lot of frustration, and sword-fighting really isn’t the sort of thing a lady like you will ever have any use for...”

But I can’t learn something else. It’s not like I’m doing this for fun. I need to make sure I’ll have some way of protecting myself.

Obviously, you couldn’t tell him that for you, learning to use a sword was absolutely essential. So, you did what you did best. You lied.

“As I’ve told you before, I am a very prudent woman,” you said.

Sergei snorted. Okay, rude.

“Lately, I keep having nightmares of criminals attacking me in the middle of the night, and I can’t do anything but quiver helplessly. I refuse to be helpless,” you frowned. “I never want to end up in the sort of situation where I just cower in fear and hope for the best. I want to take charge of my life and fight until the very end.”

“This seems to be an ongoing concern of yours,” he remarked, looking a touch concerned. “Being cautious is all well and good, but there is such a thing as worrying too much. If you’re really so afraid, why don’t you just make sure to take a personal guard when you go out in public?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“So, then...”

“But if they fail to protect me, then I’m right back to square one.”

Sergei shook his head in disbelief. “Alright, alright. If training with a sword will really help to put your worries to rest, then I suppose it’s the least I can do for you. But you really should know that the odds of you getting hurt, especially if you aren’t on your own, are remarkably slim. Infinitesimal, even.”

Ha. You’d be surprised.

“Yes, I know,” you said, mustering a smile. “But this really does make me feel better about the whole thing. I feel powerful, even though I realize I’m far from it yet. And now I have the added challenge of becoming so good that you’ll be forced to eat your words. Hehe.”

“At the very least, your enthusiasm is certainly admirable,” Sergei chuckled.

Right. That was all you had, really. Enthusiasm. And fear. Fear for your life. With such emotions driving you forward, you were certain that you could somehow compensate for your lack of athletic abilities.

As proof of your readiness to train your butt off, you swung your sword several times in quick succession, building up a noticeable burn in your arms. Sergei wasn’t saying anything, just watching you in silence. It didn’t matter if you sucked. Hell, you knew you sucked, but that still wasn’t going to change the fact that you were going to do this, no matter what.

“Lady [Name], please stop,” he eventually said.

You looked back at him in confusion. “Yes? Am I doing something wrong?”

“You’re doing many things wrong, but that’s not what I was getting at. How would you like to try using a real sword today, just to get a feel for it?”

You could hardly contain the grin that burst across your lips. “Really?!”

“It would be good to try,” he nodded. “If the point is to protect yourself, a wooden sword won’t do much to achieve that. It was just to get you a bit familiar with the length and girth of the weapon you’ll be holding. Keep in mind that the real thing will be quite a good deal heavier, though. It will be difficult to adjust to at first.”

“That’s totally fine!” you babbled, eager to finally try out the real thing. You’d never held a sword before. It was difficult to even find swords back in your previous world. All of this was to learn how to protect yourself, but it was still so exciting!

Sergei bit back a smile. “It’s not that amazing. But I have to admit that it’s quite amusing to watch you react so expressively.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re amused. C’mon, gimme!”

“You certainly don’t speak like a noblewoman, though... anyways, here you are. Be careful. Don’t move too suddenly with it.”

He gently placed the hilt of the sword in your hands, with the blade pointed downwards. You couldn’t feel the full weight of it yet, not while Sergei was still gripping it as well.

But then he let go. And the sword fell to the ground.

“Ouchie!” you squealed, frantically shaking your wrist. “My hand nearly broke!”

Sergei clamped a palm over his mouth. “Pfft... n-no, you’re just exaggerating. I did warn you, my lady. Perhaps you were just surprised. Care to try again?”

You grimaced, cheeks glowing bright red. Okay, maybe you were exaggerating just a bit, but that thing was heavy as all hell! In the interest of staying as safe as possible, you knew wielding a sword was practically crucial, but you were slowly realizing that it was an even bigger obstacle than you’d once presumed.

“I can do it,” you huffed, crouching down to pick the sword back up. “It’s okay. I have muscles. Weak, underused ones... but they’re still muscles!”

Sergei was trying not to laugh at you—and failing horribly, at that.

But by some miracle, you managed to pick the sword up. Granted, you had to hold onto it with both hands, and the strain it was placing on your wrists was enough to make your arms shake, but you were actually holding a sword. God, you felt like such a badass!

“I-I’m amazing,” you said, grimacing in between breaths. “Showstopping, incredible, phenomenal. S-Super epic... ugh, I just can’t anymore!”

You dropped the sword once again, sighing in relief. Okay, so it was a work in progress. Strengthening your wrists would likely be crucial. Maybe you could practice by repeatedly opening jars.

“Good effort,” Sergei mused, flashing you a thumbs-up. “It was—pfft! —very entertaining."

“Well, I’m glad one of us enjoyed it,” you eye-rolled.

“Weren’t you going on earlier about how you’d make me eat my words? Surely the weight of the sword isn’t enough to make you quit?”

“I have no intention of quitting,” you reassured. “That being said... is it all possible to make my own sword? One that’s a bit lighter? I’m not as tall or strong as you. I can have one personally customized to better suit me, right?”

Sergei nodded. “Yes, you can have one made by a blacksmith. If you provide him with the rough dimensions of the sword, and what sort of materials you’d like to have used, I’m sure he can craft one that’s more comfortable for you to use. It still won’t be too light, not if you want it to be sturdy enough to deal damage, but you can figure out the details and strike a good balance between what you’d like to achieve.”

“Is there a particular blacksmith you recommend?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Remind me to write down his name and some other details for you later.”

“Alright. In that case...” You picked up the wooden sword instead of the real one, smiling sheepishly. “Um. Until I have my personal sword made, I’d like to stick with this one, if that’s okay...”

Sergei was clearly holding back the urge to laugh again. “Whatever you say, Lady [Name].”

“Back to training I go,” you hummed. “Watch this! Consecutive wooden sword slashes, but at a dizzying speed. Hyah!”

“Again with the battle cries...”

Even if you were still a noob in the purest sense of the word, over time, your body was bound to adapt. You were intent on getting by through muscle memory alone. Besides, as far as you knew, only two of the yanderes were proficient sword-fighters themselves—namely, Triston and Friedrich. So long as you were armed, and they weren’t, you would probably stand a chance.

Point being, it was best not to skimp on your training. Even if you probably looked like a fool flailing around all over the place.

Still, it was certainly tiring swinging a heavy wooden sword continuously. With every motion, you could feel your arms progressively turning to jelly. Coupled with the fact that it was so hot out, you were really starting to break a sweat.

“Time out,” you groaned, throwing your sword down. You tried to fan yourself off with your hand, but it wasn’t doing much good. This goddamn tunic was making you burn up. It needed to go.

So, you proceeded to get rid of it, stripping your outermost layer and exposing the thin camisole you had underneath. The relief was almost immediate. Granted, it was still hot as hell, but your skin could finally breathe now.

“L-Lady [Name]!” came the horrified splutter. You turned to find Sergei gaping at you in disbelief, several shades redder than he’d been a few seconds ago.

“Yes?” you frowned.

“You can’t just get undressed like that all of a sudden! Please remember that you are in public!”

He looked away in a hurry, and you had to admit, it was kind of cute. In the game, Sergei made every effort to act the part of a knight. He was sometimes guilty of being too serious, although he eventually came to let his guard down around Flora, after falling for her gentleness. From what you recalled, he’d never been much of a joker, yet in the few interactions he’d had with you, you’d already gotten to see him laugh it up plenty of times at your expense. And now he was even blushing. It was refreshing to see such different sides to a character you liked.

But honestly, you didn’t really get what the big deal was. The camisole was pretty thin, sure, but it wasn’t all that revealing. A tiny bit of cleavage and bare shoulders, but that was about it. Back in your world, people showed plenty of skin, so you definitely weren’t used to such an innocent reaction. Your case especially was rather unique. Countless doctors and nurses had seen you butt naked before, so something like this hardly fazed you.

Watching Sergei get increasingly flustered was rather amusing, though.

“You can drop the title, you know,” you chuckled, still fanning yourself off. “Just [Name] is fine.”

“No, I really mustn’t,” he insisted. His face was buried in his palms, and it almost seemed like he was itching to move them out of the way and steal another peek, but his willpower remained undaunted. “This is already quite improper... and you allow me to speak to you so casually in the first place. Now, please, will you get dressed?”

“Aw. But it’s way too hot out. I’d rather keep practicing like this.”

“Lady [Name], what you have on leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Please, for my sake, I’ll ask that you cover up again.”

“Prude,” you muttered under your breath. Alright, alright. You could sort of understand that this was set in a different time period, with different standards and all that, but you were really struggling to feel modest given your previous lived experiences. Guess that was yet another thing you’d have to get used to here.

With a great deal of reluctance, you put your tunic back on, cursing the fact that they didn’t even have air conditioning in this world.

“You can look now,” you announced. “Rest assured that my breasts are back in their rightful place.”

Sergei gritted his teeth, still red as a tomato. “In the name of all that is holy, I am literally begging you to stop.”

“Hehe.”

“Don't hehe me!”

It was safe to say that Sergei was too embarrassed to look you in the eye for the rest of your training session.

Cedric Lightsteel, huh?

You stared down at the piece of paper in your hand. It was the name of the blacksmith Sergei had personally recommended to you. Sergei spoke very highly of him, so you didn’t doubt that he’d be able to craft you the perfect sword. Once you’d obtained a weapon tailored to suit your needs, you were confident that your skills would improve astronomically.

Anyways, things were looking good. As expected, it felt good to plan everything out in the event that you got caught up in something dangerous. Based on the natural progression of the plot, you still had plenty of time until the yanderes began exhibiting their dangerous tendencies—not that you planned on ever seeing any of them again.

There had been a little hiccup with Flora, sure, but you’d ignored her letter. By now, you were confident that she would’ve gotten the message. Even if you did feel really shitty about it.

“Man, I’m pooped,” you yawned, stretching your arms out. Living in a healthy body really was incredible. You’d worked your butt off today, and you were definitely tired, but it still didn’t even come close to the fatigue you experienced every single day back in your old life. Even with minimal activity, you’d been in a perpetual state of exhaustion back then. You slept just about always, lied around doing very little when you were awake, and your body struggled to do even that much.

It almost made you want to cry. The fact that you actually got to live like this now. That was why you needed to hold onto it with all your strength.

You decided to unwind by taking a nice, hot bath. Modern day luxuries were certainly missing in this world, but that just meant that you had more time to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. You could even feel some of your vigor returning to you as you soaked in the delightful bubbly water. You’d trained for hours, but with this body, it felt like you’d be good to do the whole thing all over again after just a little bit of rest.

Sighing happily, you eventually decided that you were squeaky clean and stepped out of the tub, wrapping a towel around your body.

Then, you walked back into your bedroom.

Only to find a strange man sitting on the bed.

“Ah,” he smiled upon locking eyes with you. “Did you have a nice bath? I was waiting for you to finish. Come, let’s have a chat."

Unsurprisingly, you screamed.

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beleester · 2 days ago

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Maybe it's changed since 3.5e when I played, but in 3.5e a wand of Cure Light Wounds is just insanely efficient compared to any other healing item - an average of 275 HP for 750 gold, with the only drawback being that it's not very efficient in combat. You can afford it at a pretty low level, and it has enough juice to refill the whole party's HP multiple times over. It's not the biggest game breaker, but it changes the game enough that it's reasonable for a GM to say "I don't want to deal with this, I want the party to be able to handle about 4 level-appropriate encounters per day like it says in the book."

As for the rest of your post, I don't think the goal is simply "let the players keep exploring as long as possible." Because if that's all you care about, then why are you worried about the 15-minute adventuring day? Just let them long rest anywhere, and go into every fight with full health and spell slots. What's the problem, since they're staying in the dungeon?

But if that's not all you care about - if you want to preserve the game's assumption that players won't blow their whole wad of spells every fight and then take a nap afterwards - then you do in fact need to introduce some sort of "grim endurance gauntlet" component. Something that either rewards pushing through multiple encounters between rests, or penalizes resting too often. You can't have resource management gameplay if the players can refill their resources to full for free at any time.

I like the Angry GM's system because it puts all the risk in the players' hands, and retreating doesn't cost anything concrete, just progress. You don't need to invent an arbitrary time limit or try to pressure the players into "playing fair" by not taking too many rests, just let them proceed at their own pace and risk as much as they think is safe. If they choose to leave and come back, they've still got the treasure they found on this trip and the knowledge of the area they explored, so they're not losing everything, it's just a logistical hassle that you wouldn't want to go through if the party is still mostly fresh.

So if you want to encourage them to keep going deeper, you give them the resources to do that. You let them have healing items. You set up places that can be made safe for long resting in the dungeon. You reward the choice of picking up, say, the Alarm spell or Leomund’s Tiny Hut, or a character who thought to bring string for tripwires and ball bearings for traps. If they brought the tools to stay there, let them stay there. Let them use them. And actually go out of your way to give them to them. Let them find a scroll of Leomund’s Tiny Hut. Let them find a goblin camp’s stash of pots and pans to set up an alarm system. Make small out of the way rooms with only one entrance that they can barricade to make a safe space to long rest. Let them find friendly factions that they can safely stay with for a night.

All of these things are different from "let the party take a long rest at any time." If you can only rest in certain safe rooms, or only when the GM gives you a limited-use item, or if you have to puzzle out how to build a secure camp in a dangerous area, then you're still enforcing resource management gameplay - the players have to decide if it's worth using the scroll, backtracking to the safe room or allied camp, getting woken up when a wandering monster trips their Alarm spell in the middle of the night, and so on.

I specifically said in my first post that intermittent or resource-based healing like this is fine in a dungeon. It's when players can refill their resources for free (or for nothing but time) that it starts to get tricky.

I’m watching a (3hr) discussion on megadungeons as a concept for modern d20 games on a youtube channel called Knights of Last Call, and I’m enjoying it a lot, because it does explore a couple of points that I’ve been very much looking for. Namely, the idea that megadungeons should be there to enable and reward exploration. Which means, among other things, there can’t be a time-pressure meta plot (you have to get to the bottom of the dungeon to stop the lich before he destroys the world), and that the game/DM needs to explicitly reward (with xp, magic items, etc) the act of exploration, not the act of killing things while exploring.

Because the thing I always found enchanting about the idea of massive dungeons and complexes was the idea of going in to see what’s down there. Not being forced in for a plot, but just … because I’m curious, and I want to see what’s there. And he discusses how modern d20 games like Pathfinder and 5e can actually be better for that than OSR-type games because characters are more powerful and sturdy and can survive doing that. You can explore, and (most likely) have a decent shot of surviving said exploration. You can take risks because you’ll survive a broader range of risks.

The thing with a megadungeon is that it’s there to be explored, and so to encourage, enable and reward exploration for people who want to play that kind of game in the first place, you have to a) not penalise taking risks and going exploring by making it instantly lethal to try and go anywhere, and b) actively reward going exploring by making it the main way your character gets more cool things, such as magic items and/or new abilities from levelling up.

(And, he’s less explicit about this, but also making the rewards self-contained to the dungeon, things you find and gain in the dungeon, and not things you’d have to bring outside the dungeon to benefit from. So cool items you can keep and use, experience to level up, knowledge that would allow you to access new areas, etc, not things like gold where you’d have to go back outside to spend it, or quests that you have to go to external parties to be rewarded for).

The discussion goes into some detail about potential ways to do this, and potential problems with various methods, but overall I just really like the tone of the discussion. Because that very much is a thing I’ve been looking for for a long, long time. A game that rewards the simple desire to go somewhere and see what’s there. I don’t want to explore a massive underground complex because there’s a bad guy down there and I need to stop him, I want to explore it because there’s rumours that there’s a vast underground sea down there where creatures that haven’t been seen in aeons are rumoured to still live (blame reading Journey to the Centre of the Earth as a kid), or to discover why there’s a massive dungeon down there and learn who built it, or just because it’s a big strange space and I just want to see what it looks like.

He does talk about how you make dungeons interesting enough to justify that, things like thematically-distinct areas (like the underground lake, or the weird sunless forest, or the ghoul town, etc) so that it’s not one endless slog of ‘10ft wide corridors and stone rooms’, and to make it interconnected so that the players have full choice of where they go and what risks they want to take (enabling them to skip ahead difficulty levels, or retreat if need be, or escape areas that they’re not enjoying). And to possibly put in some distinct … not end goals, but capstone events, like a boss monster very deep down, that might feel like an ‘ending’ if the party wants to ‘finish’ the dungeon. Not something that will ‘burst out and destroy the world’, but something contained to the dungeon that a party could triumph over if they want a ‘final challenge’ sort of feeling. But one that’s optional, a challenge they can take up if they want to, not a prerequisite for getting out of the dungeon or completing a large goal, but just a challenge that exists if they want to take it on.

Because, and I do agree, a lot of the problem with exploring in D&D is not necessarily that there’s no mechanical support for it, in terms of things like skills, etc, but because there’s no reward for it, and in terms of structured adventures, there’s often either narrative or mechanical punishment for it (running out of time on the baddie, or running into something too lethal for your party to handle with no option to nope out). A megadungeon as a concept is a cool environment where exploration is the whole point, and the only point, and if you take care not to put an external pressure on it (‘kill the lich or else’), then then party has time to poke around and decide what they want to see and what risks they want to take (or nope out of). Especially in something so big that there’s no real chance of finishing it, so there’s no ‘100% completion’ pressure, just a big buffet of options for people to pick and choose from.

(There are so many things in 5e that would be excellent for an exploration game, especially in terms of spells and magic items, but because combat is so much the driving force of the standard mode of play, people are reluctant to ‘waste’ spells known/prepared and/or items attuned on things like Alarm or Water Walk or Purify Food & Drink or non-combat items like Candles of the Deep or Foldable Boats or Slippers of Spider Climbing when those slots could be used for combat spells/items instead. But if exploration gets you XP, and if you can nope out of combat as required because there’s no massive stakes/story riding on it, then you’ve got more room for these things).

There’s also an in-depth discussion on ‘game balance’ and CR, and why megadungeons might not necessarily require them, for the simple fact that everything in the dungeon is optional and not required to forward the story/plot, so you can try challenges way above your level if you’re feeling frisky that day, and just nope out and go a different way if it starts really not working for you. Which I feel is a fun point.

There is a point that this is a specific mode of play and not meant to be the point of the game in general. It’s specifically for people (like me) who want exploration as its own point and reward, without needing a quest or storyline attached, and for whom combat is an element/hazard/complication but not the point. But. If you are specifically doing a MEGADUNGEON, it’s an interesting look at things to consider and what people might want out of a massive self-contained dungeon that’s going to be the whole point of the campaign in and of itself.

Where he loses me is when the discussion moves to how to prevent the '15 Minute Adventuring Day', where people go in, do a room or two, and then go back out to rest and heal and resupply, instead of staying in the dungeon to keep exploring. And for some reason allowing healing is bad for this? If you want them to stay in the dungeon, how is it bad to let them heal in the dungeon? Set up factions to trade with and potential base camp locations in the dungeon to let them heal and resupply and set up safe areas so that they can stay in there potentially infinitely? Though it’s possible that I missed something about his point there.

But yeah. I love the idea of megadungeons, vast areas to explore just because they’re there, and I love the idea of game modes with all the cool abilities and spells and powers of D&D BUT where the thing that’s rewarded is exploration and interacting with the environment rather than combat.

(There’s also … I think this also reminds me of the story arc vs episodic discussion regarding TV, where I genuinely like episodic series equally to story-line driven ones, and I think that in games it also works, where there’s a BIG SETTING and the point is to go out and have episodic adventures in it. A loose sandbox like a megadungeon where there’s no plot, you’re just exploring and seeing what you encounter day to day (and possibly developing plots as you interact with individual areas/factions and then connect them to other ones) is also an excellent way to play a game).

Anyway. Forgive the sidebar ramble.

#d&d #game design #dungeon crawling #to continue the dark souls analogy #there's a difference between finding a lifegem and finding a bonfire #they both heal but they have very different implications for gameplay

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clarisse0o · 1 day ago

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The Mayor - Chapter 46

Lucy Bronze x Ona Batlle

Alternate Universe: Mayor and Architect

Words: 600

Masterlist

———————————————————————

I turned my back on her that day.

She tried calling me afterward, but I didn’t answer. She sent me a message saying she needed to talk.

I replied that I didn’t want to speak with her anymore.

I had gone further than I ever thought possible—out of love and, worse, out of revenge.

Alexia pieced me back together that evening, as shattered as I was. She insisted I take a two-month break, and she was right.

I listened. One of our friends had moved to Costa Rica and was thrilled to host me for a month. I planned to extend my trip to the U.S. for three weeks afterward, a much-needed breath of fresh air.

---

The day of the elections arrived, a sunny Sunday. I’d helped with the final preparations while staying in the background.

That morning, I went to my local polling station to vote around 11 a.m.

Lucy was there. My heart clenched, and I avoided her gaze.

One of my former running mates approached me.

“So, it’s the big day!”

“Apparently!” I replied with a broad smile.

“I swear, Bronze hasn’t left this polling station all morning!”

I could feel Lucy’s eyes on me, watching my every move.

I grabbed the ballots and cast my vote for our slate.

When I approached the ballot box, Lucy was standing just behind it.

I looked at her wearily, and she refused to break eye contact.

“I think I can guess how you voted,” she teased with a faint smile.

I forced a polite smile in return.

“Vote cast!” announced the clerk.

I turned and walked away without a final glance at Lucy. I wanted to seem strong, but it was so hard.

---

That evening brought the long-anticipated results. We gathered in the town hall’s lobby.

Lucy won the election with 51% of the vote—a razor-thin margin.

Julie, who had replaced me, was elected as a councilor. Relief washed over me for stepping away from the fray.

Our team was disappointed but proud of how close we had come.

I thanked everyone and shared a drink, but I left early, eager to escape.

As I walked toward my car, I heard her voice behind me.

“Ona…”

I turned, startled.

She stood there, stunning in a black dress. Having just won her third election, she radiated confidence, though a trace of sadness shadowed her expression.

I caught my breath.

“Congratulations! I hadn’t had a chance to say so.”

In truth, I’d avoided her all evening.

“Thanks… It’s a great victory. Ona, I’m really disappointed things ended up like this between us…”

Why bring it up again after such a painful election?

“It’s just the way things are, Lucy. I can’t explain it rationally. Leaving is going to be good for me.”

She seemed worried now.

“You’re going to her, aren’t you?”

I looked surprised, unsure what she meant. She continued, slightly annoyed:

“You’re going to her—in Canada!”

So, she thought I was going to Alessia.

“That’s none of your business, Lucy. But yes, I’m crossing the ocean.”

I kept my answer deliberately vague. She didn’t need to know my plans.

“When exactly are you leaving?” she asked in a whisper.

“I’m taking the morning train to Paris on the 8th, in a week.”

She seemed to wrestle with her words, looking lost. Then she lifted her head.

“Well, I wish you all the best, Ona. I just wanted to…”

Her sentence trailed off.

She pulled herself together.

“… I need to get back inside. I wish you all the happiness in the world!”

And with that, she walked away hurriedly.

#woso #lucy bronze #woso community #ona batlle #barca femeni #lionesses #woso soccer #sefutbol fem #ona batlle x lucy bronze

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ivysprophecy · 2 days ago

Text

My my my...

warnings; bitchy!reader and cocky!benedict, i think thats literally all lol, mentions of threesome??

word count; 1022

summary; we've all heard of 'the other woman' but what are you to do when the mistress is actually a mister? and what are you to do when that mister is someone you cannot escape in public?

[ masterlist ] [ prev. part ]

You would rather be anywhere else right now. Not in this rather uncomfortable gown that's too tight, sipping lukewarm champagne, in this stuffy ballroom that hasn't got any circulation, watching your husband laugh with that traitor Benedict Bridgerton.

Granted, you'd thought highly of him before the events of last night had happened. You'd never spoken to him for too long, however a friend of your husband's is supposedly a friend of yours.

He'd never made a fuss, never a crude comment your way, or of any woman for that matter.

That might have to do with the fact he's not one to pay attention to girls of the ton, if last night was any indication.

"Isn't he just delectable?" Your friend Julia's voice grounded you back to reality. Sadly.

"Who'd that be?"

"Benedict Y/N, I'd just mentioned him before. Are you quite alright? You seem out of sorts tonight."

Truthfully you knew you could do a better job of hiding your negativity but you just couldn't muster up the energy for pageantry. Clearing your throat you answer her question, "My apologies Julia, how rude of me. I do admit I feel a rather dreadful pain in my head."

"Oh Y/N, is there something I can aid for you?"

"I think I require some fresh air, if you'll excuse me for a moment. I'll find you the second I return," leaving your friend with a friendly touch on the arm and a weak smile you make your way toward a balcony behind two French doors, which you decide to close.

The cool air wasn't crisp enough to ward you away, just enough to wish you had your shawl that you'd handed to a maid earlier in the evening.

A creak behind you distracts you from the cold, turning to see none other than the second eldest Bridgerton.

"Should I acquire us a witness? Or are you here to scandalize me further."

"That sounds as though I have taken advantage of you Lady Y/L/N."

"You have. Not in a sexual sense however. You took advantage of my trust in my husband, and you took advantage of my husband's naivete."

"And what would you have to say if I came to you with an apology?"

What is it about Benedict Bridgerton that continues to leave you without rebuttal? Very few have made the accomplishment in your three and twenty years. How is he different?

Your arms unconsciously cross over your front, as if to guard you somehow. "I'd say its unnecessary, unwanted, and untrue."

"You haven't a clue how wrong you are. On all three accounts. Tis absolutely necessary, you were correct when you said I had taken advantage of the situation presented to me for personal gain. I'm most certain it isn't unwanted seeing as last night you demanded an apology from Henry, you deserve one from me, even more so than him. Because my apology is genuine. Henry is... he hadn't a clue of how this could go before he'd met me. He'd been concerned about his commitments to you and I urged to continue our agenda."

Again, your words are caught in your throat, but you refuse to stand there with your jaw slacked looking helpless. "So you're taking full responsibility?"

"I am," his eyes soft, his voice edged with sincerity. It almost is enough pretend none of this happened.

"If only it were true. Regardless of it being your idea, or persistance, whatever excuse you have lined up to defend him, he made the choice. He dug the hole, now he must lie in it. Unfortunately I have to lie next to him."

"And what if that didn't have to ring true?"

You couldn't hold back the scoff that escapes you with the British army. "How could that be possible? Keep my thoughts to myself? I think not."

"I come to you with a proposition."

"If that proposition is letting you continue to fuck my husband quietly for some pennies I do not wish to hear it."

"My my my you truly do have a mouth on you..." Is that a smirk on his face? Does he find this amusing? The audacity...

It wasn't until now you realized you'd both closed the space between you, not intimate by any means but closer than you'd like.

"You talk of my mouth when you were just using my husbands last night? You are mental. Truly out of this world, have you no sense? I know Violet raised you better."

"This isn't about my mother Y/N, this is about how you can both find pleasure in this situation, if that's what you wish to call it."

You take another angry step forward, "Dare I ask how?"

"Join us," How many times is this man going to render you speechless? "Henry was going to bring it up to you after the ball tonight, however I had a feeling you wouldn't hear him out."

"And what makes you so sure I would listen to you?"

"Because as much as you want to ream me out for what I have done you are curious. I see it in your eyes, tonight you couldn't keep your eyes off of us two. What was going on in that marvelous mind of yours while doing so?"

You couldn't believe this. What he is asking of you, of Henry, it's... preposterous. It can't be, it won't.

"Turn around and go back inside Benedict. I won't entertain this any longer. Leave me be and go find my husband so he is not a basket case. Because he will find no comfort *or* pleasure from me. Ever again."

He looks at you with an overly confident smirk, his eyes knowing that the wheels in your head are turning without your permission, and something between your thighs has a mind of it's own.

"I shall leave you to the fresh air Lady Y/L/N", apologies for the intrusion," he nods before re entering the ballroom leaving you with your thoughts and your breath steaming the air because now you feel rather warm with the thought of his proposition.

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton moodboard #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x y/n #my stuff!#my writing <3 #fic recs <3

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concretejunglefm · 3 days ago

Text

Poltergeists: Chapter 17.

Summary: It's been a year since your best friend Noah went missing, two years since you moved into the house you abandoned after he went missing from it during the night. This is a recount of events leading up to and what happened after the night he went missing and all of the strange events that occurred during your time living in that house.

Chapters: Masterlist

Pairings: Noah Sebastian x Reader, Nicholas Ruffilo x Reader, possibly more BO members.

CW: Missing person, elements of supernatural horror, mentions of blood and possibly violence, unreliable narrator. will update as it goes on.

WC: 2.6k.

AN: This series will be told throughout a variety of flashbacks and present day, all which will be marked.

Divider: Silent-stories.

PRESENT DAY

(NOAH'S POV)

At some point while sitting at Bub's bedside, I fell asleep. Then, feeling a gentle touch on my shoulder, I wake up, startled, to a darkened room.

"Sorry, baby, I mean to scare you." Bubs' voice is soft, almost hoarse, as she stands beside me, her hand on my shoulder.

"No, no. I'm sorry. How long have I been asleep?" I raise a hand to rub my tired eyes and stretch out my limbs before turning my head towards the bed when I realize she was out of it and beside me.

"What are you doing up?" I ask before feeling her hand move to my cheek, gently guiding my head back in her direction beside me.

"I wanted to go for a walk." she explains.

Her hand feels cold, and I raise my own to gently cup her hand in mine. "You're freezing." I murmur and bring her hand to my mouth, pressing soft kisses against the back of it.

"Yeah, it's a bit chilly in here." she laughs softly, and my tired eyes flutter up to her face, taking in the comforting sight of her in the dim light.

It takes me a moment to realize that she was wearing clothes instead of the standard hospital nightgown she had been in when she woke up. Nick must have dropped by when I was sleeping and left some fresh clothes for her.

"You should get back into bed—"

"Can we go for a night drive? Like we used to?" she interrupts, her hand moving back to my cheek, fingers stretching up towards my hair as they gently caress through the strands.

It feels comforting to have her this close again, and I close my eyes, holding onto the warm sensation that erupts in my chest.

I missed her so much.

"Yeah." I nod and open my eyes with a soft smile. "Of course, we can."

She reaches for my hand, helping me to pull myself up from the chair. As I unfold completely, I stretch with a loud groan.

Instantly, her arms wrap around my waist, and she pulls herself into me, her face nestling against my chest.

It's the first moment we've had to fully embrace one another since I had returned from wherever I had been and she had woken.

My arms fall and curl around her, tucking her firmly against me as I drop my head to nuzzle against her crown.

I wish I could freeze time and hold onto this moment, hold onto her.

"Come on, let's sneak you out of here." I whisper against the top of her head as we untangle ourselves from each other. My hand finds hers and entwines our fingers.

My remark is met with a giggle, and I can't help but miss the sound of her laugh—the sound of her as a whole. Even if I had been spending my time with a fake version of her, nothing could compare to the real her. Every sound with them had felt less human the longer it went on.

A shiver runs down my spine, and I do my best to shake off the memories that feel more like a bad dream than my reality for the past year.

"Careful, I think Nurse Ratched is on tonight." she remarks with a playful grin, pulling me from the room.

The hospital is quieter during the midnight hours. The bright fluorescents are dimmed, casting a softer glow. A gentle humming emanates from them, accompanying us as we walk down the corridors until we reach the lift that takes us to the ground floor.

There's no need for us to be sneaky, but we both make a game of sneaking past the security guard's desk, tiptoeing past him each time he turns away from the main waiting area.

Once outside, she bursts into laughter, and I can't help but grin as I watch her sprint across the half-empty car park towards her car.

Slipping a hand into my jacket pocket, I feel her familiar set of keys—keys that hadn't been there before. I dismiss it as another thing Nick probably did. Pulling them from my pocket, I click the lock button and watch her jerk open the door, climb into her rightful place next to me in the passenger seat.

"So, where to, bubs?" I ask as I climb into the driver's seat. When I look over to her, she's already pulled my hoodie from the backseat and draped it around herself, tucking herself in. A smile tugs at the corners of my lips, a reminder that my bubs is here with me.

"You know what I'm craving?" she starts, and I respond in unison.

"A milkshake."

It makes her laugh, and I yearn to capture that sound. I crave to listen to it repeatedly, along with her voice and every soft sound she makes.

I never realized how much I could miss until she was gone. The subtleties, like the crease on her forehead when she's deep in thought, or her tongue poking out when she's focused, or the soft little snort she makes when she laughs, all thanks to me. I missed everything. I missed her.

I hold her gaze, my hand reaching out to gently push a stray hair behind her ear before I lean across from the driver's seat and press my forehead against hers.

The urge to pull her into a kiss is strong, but I feel the gentle touch of her hand on my chest, as if she's resisting the same impulse, yet deliberately keeping me at a distance. "I missed you." I whisper, my nose brushing lightly against hers.

"I missed you too." she breathes back, and I can sense the warmth of her breath.

Kissing her could be so effortless, so natural, but I can sense her hesitation in accepting too much from me too soon. Perhaps it's due to everything she shared with me about what transpired during our separation, or maybe it's because she's concerned about what Nicholas might have revealed to me. I'm willing to wait for her pace. All I need is to be reunited with her, for it to finally feel like everything is falling back into place, as it should be.

Reluctantly pulling away, I move my hand to the back of her head, my fingers gently threading through her hair with a soothing scratching sensation against her scalp. She instantly relaxes beneath my touch, and as she rests her head back in my hand, she turns and looks at me, her eyes softened in a way that makes my heart skip a beat.

"Milkshakes?" she finally breaks the comfortable silence that fell between us, and I nod, quietly chuckling as I untangle my fingers from her hair.

Starting the car, I pull out of the hospital parking lot, navigating through the familiar streets despite a year of being hidden away from this place.

A gnawing sensation at the back of my mind urges me to ask her questions about everything, to seek understanding, but as she takes my hand, the one closest to hers, into hers, all thoughts of asking are silenced. They can wait. Right now, all that matters is focusing on finally being back with her.

It feels reminiscent of our high school days, when we'd sneak out and drive around, talking about anything or nothing, and sharing milkshakes.

As we cruise through the familiar streets, recounting various stories, she leans over to share the strawberry milkshake's straw and I smile as she gently kisses my cheek before her hand ascends towards my hair. It's longer now, having grown during my absence, and my head briefly turns, glancing at her. "Do you like it?"

Her fingers gently stroke through it, as if contemplating it. My usual wolf cut is now grown out, but I don't mind. Seeing her smile and nod makes my stomach flutter. It's so teenager-like to care about a crush's or partner's opinion on your appearance, features, or even something as personal as hair. But she always had a way of making me feel like a teenager in her presence, even as we approached adulthood.

"I do." Her fingers wrap around the ends, playfully tugging, and she leans closer, resting her head against my shoulder.

I turn my head, pressing a kiss to her crown and resting my cheek against the top of her head. My eyes focus on the road, but I don't need directions; it feels like muscle memory. Our drives always lead us back to our spot by the lake.

It's too dark and late for a hike through the trees to the lake, so we settle in the dirt parking area, gazing out the window at the stars twinkling above.

The mixtape CD I made for her back in high school softly plays on the player, and she hums along. If I close my eyes, it feels like we're those two teenagers, dancing around our crushes. Now, when I open my eyes, I have everything I could have ever wanted—her.

We continue our time tucked away together in our little corner of the world until sunrise, then take the scenic route back into town.

It's been a while since things felt this normal, where driving her around hadn't been just a way to help her sleep during her restless nights after nightmares plagued her. She'd always resist sleep during these periods, afraid of what lurked in the shadows during her most vulnerable hours.

For the first time, she looks peaceful.

The passenger-side window is rolled down, and the cool morning breeze caresses her face and hair, bringing a smile to her lips.

As we reach Main Street, I pull up to the curbside outside the tattoo shop. It's still early, but I can see through the main window that the lights are on, indicating someone's inside.

"Would you like to come in and say hi?" I ask, glancing over at her. However, she retreats and shakes her head, her eyes momentarily heavy with sleep.

"Perhaps later?" She suggests.

I nod and lean over to press a tender kiss against her forehead. "I'll only be a moment." I promise before climbing out of the car and crossing towards the shop, entering.

There's no Nick, but there are Jolly and Matt, who I learn offered to come in and tidy up some last minute things for Nick.

"We heard about Bubs." Jolly says, his hand slapping down on my shoulder with a comforting squeeze.

"Yeah, we were considering visiting the hospital later if that's okay?" Matt asks.

"Actually." I can barely contain my excitement. I glance back over my shoulder, out of the front window, and to the car where I can see Bubs curled up against the passenger-side door, her eyes closed as she rests her head against her hand, still covered by my hoodie. She at least seems comfortable.

I decide not to share the news that she's out there, even though I'm torn between wanting to and not wanting to cause any distress to her.

"I think she'd really appreciate it." I say, nodding in agreement. I know they would've all missed her as much as I did.

For a moment, as my eyes move over to Matt, I'm reminded of what she told me happened. There's a slight flicker of irritation, but it quickly fades away. I can't be entirely mad at him, at least not based on Bubs' explanation.

Nicholas was another matter entirely. I feel conflicted when I consider him, but I still feel like I'm missing the full story.

"I'll head off. I just wanted to drop by and see who was here." I say, taking a step back and raising my hand in a wave before turning back towards the door and slipping out of the shop.

Climbing back into the car, I look over to Bubs as she lifts her head and glances over at me.

"Where to now?" I ask.

"Anywhere but home." she replies, her voice soft and quieter. I reach over to her, my fingers slipping between hers. Despite our different hand sizes, hers always fits perfectly with mine, as if we were two pieces of a puzzle.

Home wasn't the same anymore, and possibly hadn't been for a long time. Between what I heard from her in the dream area we reunited in and what Nicholas had told me, at least, I knew it wasn't.

I nod when I pull my hand back. "I know just where."

From what I've been told, she's been staying at Nicholas' place. While the actual details of what transpired between them continue to confuse me if I dwell on them for too long, I know it would've been the only place she'd want to go, at least with me.

Before we moved and before everything happened, the three of us lived together happily. Part of me hopes that we can go back to that, but I also wonder if things would ever be the same between us after this.

When we reach Nicholas, she swiftly climbs out, bringing my hoodie with her as she walks around to greet me. A radiant smile adorns her face, causing my heart to swell with joy. I stand still before her as she lifts my hoodie, draping it over my shoulders and using the arms to pull me down closer.

Suddenly, my chest races as she leans up and kisses me. My hands instinctively move to her waist, both to pull her closer and steady myself.

The moment our lips finally meet, it's like fireworks explode behind my eyes. I've kissed her countless times before, but the absence of her that had left an aching void in my heart is swiftly filled as our mouths touch.

She lingers for a moment, holding me close to her as her hands release the arms of my hoodie and her arms wrap around my neck. It's so easy to become enthralled in her embrace, and I do, a hand ascending onto the back of her neck as I deepen the kiss.

"I've been waiting to do this all night." I confess under my breath, a soft chuckle escaping my lips as our lips finally part.

"I know." She whispers, her forehead pressing against mine as I remain leaning down to meet her.

I don't care about the awkward positioning or the strain it puts on my neck; all that matters is being close to her once again.

When we finally pull apart, I grasp her hand in mine and lead us up the pathway towards Nick's house. The front door is already unlocked as I reach for the handle and turn it.

The moment I push open the door and step over the threshold, my fingers slip from Bubs's hand, and my eyes fall upon Nick, standing in the middle of the living room, a sullen expression on his face.

"Nick? What is it?" I ask, as his head turns to look at me. "What's wrong?"

"It's Bubs…" He struggles to find the words. "She passed away last night."

I open my mouth to protest, but no words come out. I shake my head, wanting to tell him he's wrong, she's right here. However, when I glance over to the still-open front door, I find that she's no longer standing there, as if she's vanished into thin air.

The only memory I have of her being with me throughout this entire time is the faint scent of her lingering on my hoodie, still draped over my shoulders.

My eyes remain fixed on the open door, now bare of her presence. I struggle to comprehend the idea that she's gone.

I can hear Nick's voice as he approaches me, feeling his hand on my shoulder as a comforting gesture, but his words are so distant that I barely manage to catch them.

"They said she never woke up."

Tagged: @enemiestolovershoe, @fadingangelwisp, @geminigirlfromfinland, @littlepeachwhispers, @concreteangel92, @deathblacksmoke, @1toreyouapart, @lacy1986, @chaoticwineaunt, @ichoosetenderomens, @chey-h, @baddestomens, @blade-dressed-in-red, @halfalgorithmhafdeity, @geminigirlfromfinland, @fuck1ng-queen, @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard, @xxkittenkissesxx (if anyone else wishes to be tagged lmk)

#bad omens fanfiction #poltergeists fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fic #bad omens fic #bad omens fanfic #concretejunglefm fics

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