#the first two rows? relatively easy

[fyrewalks]

9 movies i could watch a million times!

tagged by: stolen from the dash tagging: @parameddie @heartsbreaking @nursc @itsbuck @entriprises @lvebug @saud4des and you, the cutie on the dash reading this!

[ofbatsandballads]

kindness you can’t afford

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: injured character, multiple descriptions of blood + wounds

a/n: so this is the very first jason fic I’ve written since I was twelve, so forgive me while I find my jay’s voice now that I’m not a preteen. anyways I humbly offer thee my wares.

divider credit: cafekitsune

Gotham’s a shithole. You hadn’t known that when you first moved here. To be honest, you’d kind of thrown a dart at a map and gone where it landed. Alright, maybe it wasn’t literally a dart throw, more so finding the cheapest metropolitan city because New York was tempting but it would bankrupt you. Mostly you just wanted a place to not exist. And so Gotham’s relatively low rent rates and towering skylines were the pick with little to no research.

Gotham’s a shithole. You know that beyond a shadow of a doubt now. It’s surprising, honestly, how little of Gotham’s chaos makes it outside the city limits. One would think a psychotic killer clown that’s prone to gassing a whole city district or a half-plant poison lady or a guy going around dressed like a bat would make national news. And yet, no. You’d known superheroes existed, of course. Superman was the shining jewel in the crown of the country that is Metropolis. Everyone knows about the extraordinary Wonder Woman. It’s not like hyper skilled people working for the greater good aren’t a thing. But Gotham plays her cards close to her chest.

You've lived here almost two years now and you’ve managed to make it through relatively unscathed. An impressive feat especially since you live in the Bowery. The Bowery itself isn’t so bad, but its neighboring district Park Row, more often known as Crime Alley, is about the worst Gotham has to offer. You’ve heard your fair share of gunshots and sirens, and you’ll never forget the time that Scarecrow released fear toxin in the district and you had to shove every towel and blanket you owned against the cracks by the doors and windows to keep it out. However, you’ve avoided being mugged or assaulted or anything like that so far. And you’ve never encountered the vigilantes that run the night here.

But there’s always time for new and exciting experiences.

The loud thunk that sounds outside your living room window makes you jump and starts your heart pounding. You know you should just ignore it. Crawl off the couch and to the bedroom, lock the door. The lights in the apartment are already off, only the television light illuminating the room, so it would be easy to creep unseen. But you can’t. Something pulls you to the window. Maybe it’s the cat killing curiosity, or maybe it’s your own little voice of self destruction, or maybe it’s something else entirely. All you know is that you have to go look.

So you do. And there, out cold on the fire escape, is a man. A very large man. A very large man in a red helmet. A very large man in a red helmet with dual pistols holstered to his thighs. Red Hood. Red Hood is passed out face up on your fire escape. Huh.

You’d heard of him. It was hard not to. The Bat had the most notoriety by far, but it was Red Hood that truly scared the criminals of Gotham. Batman might break your bones, cripple you even, but you’d leave with your life. No such guarantee existed if you crossed Red Hood. Hurt a few innocent people and you might end up with a bullet or three in your skull. Then there was that thing about heads in a duffel bag and Red Hood running crime for a solid year in Gotham, but he’s better now, apparently. None of this is deterring you from unlocking the window, pushing it up, and stepping out into the cold winter air. Not when you see the blood seeping through his body armor start to drip off the fire escape grate.

He needs help and he can’t stay unconscious in the middle of the city. If whoever injured him didn’t find him, the cops would. He’s just as wanted as the actual rogues of Gotham. You think it’s bullshit, which is why you’re trying to find a way to get him inside the safety of your apartment. He’s huge up close. This is going to be very, very difficult. Your mind flashes suddenly to one of your favorite childhood movies and how the princess pulled the dashing rogue around with her hair. You glance down at the street before heading to your bedroom.

You come back out with sheets bundled up in your arms. You’re not even sure if this harebrained idea will work, but you weave the sheets through the gaps in the grates and around Red Hood’s waist nonetheless. You secure a knot and go back into your apartment with the length of the sheets. Your legs are stronger than your arms, so you brace them against the wall and pull. You can feel his body slowly dragging towards you and you pause to check your progress. He’s slumped against the window now. Good. You loop your arms under his, place your feet back against the wall, and pull hard. Your hard work is rewarded with his body breaching the threshold of your window and landing directly on top of you. The air is knocked clean out of your lungs. He is heavy.

It’s a struggle but you manage to roll out from under him and immediately see the massive red stain contrasting against the white of your fluffy pajama pants. A small puddle of blood is emerging on your floor under his left thigh, and droplets of blood have splattered next to his torso. He’s not in great shape. It suddenly hits you what you’ve done. You dragged an injured vigilante, known for shooting first and asking questions later, into your apartment with no plan on what to do after the fact.

What the fuck did I do?

That’s all you can think as you look down at him. Then something snaps into place inside your rattled mind and you run to your bathroom to grab your first aid kit. You’d bought it and learned the basics after Wayne Enterprises ran televised infomercials about the importance of first aid a couple months back. You’re carefully balancing all the supplies in your arms as you head back out to the living room.

The empty living room. No vigilante in sight. Then your world spins. Everything clatters to the floor as you’re yanked backwards by your waist, pinned to something solid and unable to move.

“Who are you?” A growl sounds behind you, modulated to sound semi-mechanical.

Ah. There he is. You think you should be panicking, absolutely losing your shit even. But your brain is moving in slow motion.

“Someone trying to help you,” you breathe out.

“Doesn’t answer the question.”

The grip around your waist tightens. You want to laugh. As if you could’ve made a run for it in the first place. You tell him your name, and explain that you live alone. There’s no one else here but the two of you and you really do want to help.

“You were passed out on my fire escape. I couldn’t just leave you out there,” you explain cautiously.

The two of you stay like that for a minute longer. Then, a mechanical sigh sounds from behind you and the vice grip on your waist goes slack. You turn to him and see that he’s already halfway to your window.

“Hey! Wait! I can help!” you shout, scrambling after him.

“Don’t need it,” he snaps.

“You were bleeding out on my floor!” you exclaim.

You don’t know why you feel so strongly about this. Maybe because he seemed so…mortal. It’s easy to forget that these guys running around at night are people. They’re strong, tough, and capable, but they’re still human. The fact that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the window frame proves your point.

“Please. I promise I won’t take long. Please just let me help,” you beg.

He turns around and even through that unreadable helmet you can tell he’s sizing you up. You’re sure you must be a sight in your fuzzy white cat pajama pants, old Snoopy t-shirt, and fluffy white socks. Honestly, it’s a bit of a ridiculous tableau. Massive armed man in tactical gear opposite a woman in fluffy pajamas, both bloodstained. But either you seem harmless enough or he’s in exceptionally bad shape, because he just slumps against your wall and gives a barely noticeable nod of his head.

You go into autopilot the second you get his consent. A dining room chair is dragged to the center of your living room and Red Hood drops himself into it, the old wood creaking under the force. You go to assess the damage on his torso first. Light slashes litter his waist, none of them are deep enough for stitches. You grab the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls from the floor where you kneel before warning him that it might sting.

“I got slashed. Think that might’ve hurt a bit more,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

The torso slashes are light work. It takes all of five minutes to disinfect them and seal them shut with bandages. It’s his thigh that you’re a little more concerned about. There’s enough blood that it’s soaked his tactical pants around where you’re guessing the wound is. You can vaguely make out what appears to be cut fabric, so you’re assuming he was stabbed.

“How deep did the knife go?” you ask.

“Hm. ‘Bout two inches?” he offers.

“Why’d you take it out?” you ask incredulously. Anyone with half a brain knew not to take a knife out of a stab wound.

“No idea. Should’ve just gone runnin’ around the city with a knife wedged in my leg.”

The mask’s modulator does nothing to hide the teasing edge to his voice. Of everything you’d heard about Red Hood, you’d never heard he was such a smartass.

“You know how to do stitches?” he asks.

Great. So he saw the deer-in-headlights look you had while thinking about how to fix his stab wound.

“If you count mending clothing then, uh, sure,” you reply.

The white slits of the helmet stare hard at you before a warped chuckle comes from under it.

“Well, close enough.”

Oh, so he liked to gamble with his health then. Okay. Sure. Great. You could totally do this. Untrained, unlicensed, unsupervised you. You have to stop your hands from shaking as you thread the curved needle. You have to stop yourself from vomiting with anxiety as you push the needle through his skin. He hisses and you immediately feel bad. He’d handled the alcohol without flinching, but the stitches were a different story. You whisper sorry’s with every puncture of his skin you make. Soon enough, his leg is closed up and the whole thing is said and done.

“Okay, should be good to go,” you start, “Well, not good per se, but functional to go.”

A hum and a quick nod of his head are the only response you get before he’s back on his feet. He’s about to climb out your window for the second time tonight when you call out to him again. He turns around and you’d swear he almost seems exasperated.

“Take these with you. You’ll probably need them,” you say as you toss him a water bottle and a small carton of orange juice.

He snatches them easily from the air. But then he just stands there and stares at the drinks in his hands. You think you may have somehow offended him and go to apologize when he speaks.

“Thanks,” he says, mechanical voice catching on the word.

And then he’s gone. Out your window and off into the night. Once you shut and lock the window you feel exhaustion hit you like a freight train. All the adrenaline drains from you and it takes whatever energy you have left to collapse on to your bed and drift off to sleep.

You’ll never know it, but the Red Hood spends the last fifteen minutes of his patrol sipping his orange juice and dutifully watching your apartment window.

You’ll never know it, but Jason Todd lingers across the street to make sure you get home from the grocery store safely, and he scoffs as he sees you feed and pet a stray dog. It’s silly, he thinks.

Don’t you know that now you’ve shown it some kindness, it’ll just keep coming back?

[thef1diary]

Baby Jr | One

— Friendly Banter

Series summary: The teasing, fleeting touches became much more on the night Carlos won, the sexual tension between you two reached a breaking point. Perhaps it was that night, or the many nights that followed, but you were pregnant with his child, putting you in a difficult situation.

Series Masterlist

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work.

pairing: carlos sainz x reader

Warnings: allusions to smut but no actual smut yet

wc: 2.9k

Note: here it is, the first chapter of many more to come. lemme know what you think, feedback is always appreciated.

You had caught the eye of a certain Ferrari driver from the moment you joined the team. He always looked at you in fascination, having the urge to find a way to figure you out but that's all it was for the longest time. Until it wasn't.

Carlos Sainz vividly remembers the first time he set his eyes on you. He was on his way to leave the headquarters in Maranello while you were on your way inside. Carlos' gaze was watchful, almost heavy with judgment as you hurried in through the doors with more items in your arms than you should've been able to carry.

He almost stopped you to ask who you were, but he noticed the badge clipped onto your jeans, media personnel. You had already passed him before he could read your name, and shook his head knowing that your name was the more important detail compared to your role.

You hadn't noticed him that day, but he noticed you.

He didn't see you again until the new season came around, having almost forgotten about your brief encounter at the end of the previous year. He had to do a double take once he saw you setting up the cameras for some content he was supposed to record along with his teammate.

It was a simple video that required the drivers to answer a few questions sent in by their fans, something that should've been easy since they've done it before. But he couldn't focus on anything but you. Given that you were the ones asking the questions, reading them off the short stack of cards you had in your hand, he wasn't outed for being distracted.

Knowing the drivers still had a busy day ahead of them, you began packing up the items once the video was filmed. Keeping your eyes locked on the task, you expected the drivers to be led away by their PR managers, so you were surely startled once you heard a voice acknowledging you.

Carlos stayed back, and roaming your gaze for a split second behind him, Charles had left. You knew who he was of course, after all you followed the sport for many years before you were given the opportunity to work for one of the teams.

"I don't think we properly met, I'm Carlos." He extended his hand out and you gladly accepted, shaking it while introducing yourself. You found it sweet that despite being one of the two faces of the team, he still introduced himself like you didn't know who he was.

As a junior media employee who was still relatively new to the team, you were informed in advance that you would rarely be interacting with the drivers.

So it wasn't surprising that while working in the same team, you rarely saw Carlos in person. Working under Silvia—the head of communications—you would usually be the one tasked to edit the challenge videos, creating enough content from various footage to keep the fans engaged. The few times you did see him in person was to conduct media challenges that the team planned every once in a while to give the fans a chance to know the drivers underneath their helmets.

As the season went on, you found that you were indeed given the wrong information; you did in fact meet the drivers again and again. You were given many opportunities to travel with the team, and it would've been absurd if you denied those opportunities—not that you had a choice since you were needed at almost every race.

You were glad to experience the thrill of Formula 1 from the front row seats, able to watch all the sessions in the weekend itself but also be a part of the journey with the drivers that not many people get to see.

It was inevitable to befriend many people along the way, especially with their welcoming nature despite some news outlets suggesting otherwise. Formula 1 could be considered as one giant family that obviously had issues every once in a while but no one outside of the sport could relate to them like each other. Especially since it was described like a traveling circus by a few drivers.

While you had befriended many other employees whether it was within your team or others, you also spoke to the other eighteen drivers often.

But no other driver invaded your thoughts like Carlos did.

You didn't know if you were overthinking it all, but you believed that Carlos was a tad bit too friendly compared to Charles or even any other driver for that matter.

Whether it was a compliment that left you a blushing mess, a lingering look that followed you until you left the room, or even a small graze of his fingers against your back while crossing your path, you couldn't think of anyone but him lately.

You heard a Monégasque accent calling your name and you slowed your pace, allowing him to catch up to you as you greeted without needing to look to see who it was, "Charles"

"Here, it's still hot," he was holding two disposable cups of coffee in his hands, extending one towards you.

You gestured to your own hands, carrying one too many things again.

He sighed, "I still don't know how you do that." He stopped walking as he neared a surface to put down the cups. "Here, give it to me," he spoke but didn't let you make a decision as he grabbed the various folders, a clipboard, and a tablet from your hands. You were still holding on to a tripod and a camera but he freed up one of your hands so you could hold the cup.

"I will have to let you know, that tablet you're holding, is very valuable to the team," you stated, mainly in a joking manner because you knew he wouldn't do anything to it.

"Oh is it now? What's on it?" Charles asked once you resumed walking, this time sipping on your coffee before answering his question. "First, perfect," you hummed, gesturing towards the cup. "Second, it has all the schedules for meetings, interviews, and everything that you or Carlos could possibly need a reminder for during the weekend."

He gasped, almost offended, "I do not need reminders for anything during the weekend, not like Carlos does."

Despite how it may seem, your role didn't entail being a driver's assistant. In fact your job was to manage a few social media accounts and create content that included the drivers as much as possible but every now and then you also helped the company keep the public images of the drivers reputable.

Lately, Carlos had been finding reasons to talk to you, and most of that time would be spent reviewing his schedule multiple times throughout the day.

"He can be a little forgetful sometimes," you commented but Charles shook his head.

"A little? He needed you to remind him what time the race was."

You grimaced, knowing Charles was correct. "Well, you're his teammate so you know him better than I do."

"Yeah, I guess I'll ask him, thanks for the coffee," Charles stated as you two entered a meeting room. There were still fifteen minutes before it started, but you preferred to use that time so you could prepare yourself for all the notetaking it usually required. Since you were still a fairly new employee, you wanted to absorb all the information like a sponge.

Confused, you responded back, "you're the one who got the coffee."

He placed the items he was holding on the table, then noticing the time on his watch, a brief gasp overtaking his expression. "Thanks for the company then, I'll see you later," he playfully winked like he always did before leaving the room.

Moments later, a knock distracts you from reviewing the previous notes and stats from the last meeting. Thinking it was Charles, you ask, "did you forget somet- oh, Carlos."

"Are you busy?" He asks as he leans his forearms on the back of a chair. Shaking your head you respond, "not really, what's up?"

"I forget how crazy the crowds can get outside, so can I stay here for a few minutes?" You smile, "of course you can, come sit." He rolled a chair out and sighed in relief after finally getting off his feet.

Carlos closed his eyes for a moment relishing in the moments of silence in his hectic life. It didn't last long as you hummed a random tune which you usually did while working. It was so faint but since it was completely silent otherwise, Carlos' ears perked up as he heard it.

Instead of looking for the moments of silence he thought he needed earlier to even do a simple task as breathing, Carlos leaned forward with his usual watchful gaze focused on you. "Are you planning on more ways for us to make a fool out of ourselves?" He asked.

You chuckled, "I would never do that." Carlos gave you a look that indicated he didn't believe you.

"The last challenge was planned by you, no?" He countered and when you sheepishly smiled, he knew he was correct.

"You know, Charles is right," you spoke after a few moments of silence.

"How so?" He leaned back, stretching his arms above his head for a moment that almost caused you to lose track of your thoughts. You've gotten better at keeping yourself calm and collected around Carlos lately, but you still took a little moment to appreciate how his muscles flexed in the full sleeved shirt he wore.

"There's a team debrief happening in about five minutes where you're needed, and it's a bit of a walk so I'm wondering if you're gonna reach in time." To confirm your words, he glanced at his watch, raising his eyebrows when he realized you were spot on.

"You know my schedule so well now," he couldn't help but comment, chuckling as he did so.

"Only because you forget it," you retaliated.

"Maybe I do that on purpose," he stood up, once again stretching to the point where the hem of his shirt raised a bit, revealing a sliver of skin that your gaze immediately shifted to. While you might've gotten better, you still needed a bit more practice every now and then. Carlos chuckled when you didn't have a response right away, knowing you were distracted but he didn't feel the need to expose you just yet.

As he pulled his shirt down, your eyes snapped to his, finally coming up with a response "and almost get me fired for making you late?"

He shrugged, "maybe." You knew he would never do such a thing that would jeopardize your job, so you shrugged off his comment.

"Go now, Sainz" you urged, waving your hand to emphasize your point.

"I'm going, I'm going, relax, cariño." You could hear his laugh as he left the room, and you didn't focus on the papers in front of you until his footsteps had faded away.

It was just friendly banter, you reminded yourself even after hearing the nickname he gave you. Sometimes your conversations were borderline flirtatious, but it was still fine. Until it wasn't.

As the year progressed further, you were no longer just an employee with a career in motorsport; you were a member of the team that celebrated each high while consoling and sticking together during the lows.

While your job wasn't directly connected to the race, nor could you help in changing the outcome like the mechanics and engineers could, you helped uplift the mood in the room on multiple occasions.

Which is why when Carlos stood on the top step of the podium, claiming his first place trophy that would eventually become a part of a larger collection, you felt like you won.

The spray of champagne reached the crowd of his team waiting below the podium. A laugh bubbled up your throat as Carlos tried to aim the spill of the drink in the team principal's mouth standing on the floor a few feet away from you.

A proud smile grew on your face as you watched the drivers and a representative from your team that collected the constructors trophy gathered together on the top step to take a photo.

The celebrations continued in the team garage, since both drivers made it on the podium. The energy buzzing through each member was noticeable, knowing that this win would be celebrated until the next. After the team photo was taken, the champagne popped once again.

A few people were able to get away from becoming soaked, others were being targeted. Charles managed to slip away, but Carlos couldn't. He happily accepted the spray, soaking his race suit further after the podium.

His eyes however, darted across the crowd and landed on you. Standing just out of reach of the champagne shenanigans but still close enough to celebrate, Carlos decided to pull you even closer.

Grabbing the bottle from the nearest person, he covered the top and shook it. Releasing his thumb, he let the fizzy drink spray out, directing it at you this time. "Carlos!" You shrieked, but laughing nonetheless.

Once satisfied, he took a sip from the bottle, his gaze fixed on you as yours moved down to his neck, watching his Adam's apple bob while he swallowed. Passing the bottle to you, you moistened your lips before tipping it up and sipping the cool champagne.

His attention was diverted as Charles had found another bottle of champagne, deciding to drench his teammate even further after the celebrations began to die down. You smiled as Carlos tried to run away, dodging the alcohol, but it quickly dropped once he used you as a shield.

"Oh, no, no, no," you held your hand out at Charles who smiled mischievously, stopping in his tracks right in front of you.

"You are a part of the team," he commented, and you almost ignored his words as you felt Carlos' hands rest on your waist from behind, feeling his breath on your neck.

The heat of your thoughts was ruined when Charles decided to rain champagne down on you, cooling you off instantly. "Charles," you groaned, knowing that it would be an excruciatingly long process to wash all the champagne out of your hair, especially if it began to dry soon.

The team began to disperse, rightfully so as everyone wanted to change out of their champagne soaked clothes, you included. Trying to wring out as much liquid as you could, you muttered a curse under your breath. This was the first time you ever experienced a win like today.

Speaking of, the winner of the race was standing off to the side, shirtless. Carlos had removed his fireproof top but still had his race suit zipped down to his waist and placed a cap on his head backwards to keep his hair out of his face.

You parted your lips and watched his back muscles flex as he moved around, then hastily looked away as he turned. You kept wringing your shirt as he moved past you, and despite the fact that there was enough space for him to pass you without touching you, his fingertips brushed over your back, down to your waist. He lingered on your hip for too long, but he didn't say anything, only smiled when you inhaled deeply.

You had returned to your hotel room and immediately rushed towards the shower. The champagne from earlier had dried, creating an unpleasant sensation as a layer of tackiness remained behind. Washing away all the sweat and champagne, you sighed in relief, standing underneath the shower for a few extra minutes to release all the soreness in your muscles.

You still felt the buzzing excitement of the day running through your veins as you dried and dressed yourself, but you were also exhausted, ready to climb into bed and drift away into the safety of your dreams.

That plan was interrupted as you heard a knock on the door. Pulling your shirt over your body, you peeked through the peephole, smiling when you saw him standing on the other side.

"Oh hello, don't tell me you forgot your room number," you greeted Carlos as you opened the door.

Wetting his lips with his tongue, he was transfixed by the sight of your hair, still wet from your shower, dripping down to your shirt beginning to cling to your body.

"I think I did, tell me you don't remember it either," his voice dropped an octave, and his stare was no longer calculating, but rather enticingly seductive.

"And why would I do that?" You almost whispered, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from him.

He stepped forward, leaning one arm on the doorframe while his gaze glanced over you to briefly look inside the room. "I'm sure yours is big enough for two people."

The corner of your lip turned up at his words, knowing it was just a ploy to let him in. The realization that he desired you just as much as you had grown to want him dawned on you as you stared at him standing in front of you.

Trapping your lip between your teeth for a moment, instantly attracting Carlos' gaze towards them, you nodded.

"Let's check," you stepped back, pulling him inside by the collar of his shirt.

——

Taglist is open!! Lmk if you wanna be added or removed <3

@xoscar03 @pierregazly @rowena-ravenclaws-diadem @lilymurphy03 @gay-hoes-blog @ilovethefruits @lewlew44 @luvvtrent @hc-dutch @fwhore1 @khaylin27 @lillyssh-tposts @thatgirlmj @ladyoflynx @tcfanmania @customsbyjcg-blog @sltwins @nonstopbookworm @glitterquadricorn @charizznorizz @mrs-bunny @moonliightbabes @likedbygaslyy @booksandflowrs @teamnovalak @formula1mount @gaviymarcsbride @gotthemilk-69 @bwormie @llando4norris @ellesssssxzxz @arian-directioner @lou-bean28 @depressedgiftedburnout @halleest @amberpanda99 @borapsycho @cosmoscoffeee @mycenterfold @67-angelofthelordme-67 @sugarvibez @mehrmonga @aadu2173 @bokutos-babyowl @teenwolf01 @presidentdangdang @mrswolffs-blog @khaylin27 @amyfelix14 @seasonswinter @amalialeclerc @amandadesantasworld @ystrolllll @xisab @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @pedrohoe04 @yagirlhayes @teamnovalak @jadaaasworld @mmack23 @shimmermotorsport

[chosopie]

FLUNK OR FUCK - SATORU GOJO

Gojo was the popular kid in college who often attended frat parties and was known for his pretty face and athletic abilities. He had numerous girls up on his shit who would desperately beg him for a chance, but no. His eyes were set on you.

A lot of people didn’t understand why he was so fixated on someone like you. You were a STEM girl—the complete opposite of him. You two came from different crowds that didn’t get along.

Gojo was tempting. You couldn’t deny the fact that he was hot. He had a nice toned figure and angelic facial features. It was like he was sculpted by the gods and descended straight from Olympus. You had nothing against dating him, but you had standards. The kind of man you wanted was someone who was responsible and intellectual. You couldn’t stand the thought of being with a guy who had shits for brains.

“Y/N! What could I possibly do to make you date me?” He whined into your ear. He had been pestering you for 45 minutes now while you were busy summarizing your notes for tomorrow’s upcoming math test.

“Please, just one chance!”

“Ugh,” you groaned, finally turning away from your notebook. “One condition.”

“Anything!” He exclaimed.

“Pass tomorrow’s math test and I’ll let you hit,” you proposed.

“Too easy! It’s just basic math,” he scoffed, crossing his arms.

“Sure,” you rolled your eyes. “Good luck.”

-

It was the day of the test. Gojo was comfortably sat on his chair with his legs crossed, his mind thinking about how close he was to getting some pussy—yours, which made it even more exciting. The professor started distributing the papers to the students in the front row. After all the papers had been given to those students, they started passing the papers backwards. You were one of those students in the front and as expected, you were already leaning over, your back slouched and your forehead close to touching your table while you started solving the problems.

Gojo looked at his paper, carefully analyzing the first equation.

“This ain’t so bad. Y/N taught me this. You just gotta use that one formula,” he thought.

Done. Next problem.

This one wasn’t a challenge either since it was relatively similar to the first problem. Gojo triumphantly smirked and started writing his answers.

Next.

“Guys, what the fuck is that…” he mumbled to himself, his hands clutching his hair. “I’m fucking cooked.”

-

“Do better.” The professor sighed as he handed Gojo his paper.

“Don’t play with me like that,” Gojo nervously laughed. He had to have passed, right? He answered most of the questions. It was just that one question he left blank.

11/30.

The red writing on the top right of the paper stared at him.

“Gojo!” You called, walking over to his seat. He was slouching, quickly putting his paper away the moment he heard your voice.

“What’s your score?” You asked.

There was no response.

“Gojo?” You worriedly asked, then you looked at his stiff face. “So, you failed?”

“Please. Pussy….” he softly pleaded.

“Seriously? That’s the last thing you should be worried about right now,” you sighed, rubbing his back. You suddenly heard sniffles.

“Fine! For fuck’s sake, Gojo! Just come by my apartment at 5 and we could fuck. I’ll teach you too so you better pass the next test.”

“Thank you,” his voice quivered. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

: ̗̀➛ part 2

[holdinggrudges]

what's my flavor?

pairing: sam winchester x reader

content: EXPLICIT 18+, oral (fem!receiving), vampire!sam, blood drinking, bloodplay (surprisingly little though tbh), fem!reader (afab anatomy + the word girl used in reference like three times or so), feeding being explicitly referred to as similar to drugs/getting high, mentions of serious illness (made up for plot reasons but still)

word count: 10.5K

summary: Working your way through college, you find a secretary job with great pay and more than enough downtime on the clock to get your coursework done. The only downside is that it leaves you with no choice but to attend night classes. But it's not so bad, especially with Mysterious Hot Guy attending them as well. Oh, and there's been blood bags going missing, but you're pretty sure that's not going to be relevant to your life any time soon.

notes: this was supposed to be pwp. it was also supposed to be posted on halloween. clearly, neither of those things happened. but fuck it, we ball.

crossposted on ao3

You don’t understand how anyone could get through college without a job. You hear about people surviving off scholarships all the time, and you try your first year, you really do. But, God, something has to change. You can’t imagine working your way through school could be any more stressful than the budgeting, and the skipping meals, and the cards declining at the grocery store. 

So you get a job. A good one, too; a secretary job at an office ten minutes away from your apartment, and only twenty minutes away from campus. The job is easy, with plenty of downtime for you to work on your coursework, and the pay is good. Better than good, even. The only problem is the hours; 9-5 is great, generally, but not very convenient when setting up a college schedule. You’re relegated almost exclusively to night classes. Which is fine. Not ideal, but fine. 

You take four classes, two a night, and it leaves your Fridays wide open after work. It would truly be a perfect schedule if it didn’t mean you were on campus until 11 o’clock most nights. But the classes are relatively empty and none of your professors are total hardasses, so it’s not so bad. Actually, you start to really enjoy it. 

You make a little game out of studying the other students, trying to figure them out. The woman who sits in front of you in your statistics class is a stay-at-home mom, you think. The older man a few rows down in english is retired military. It’s interesting, and it gives you a reason to actually make it to class everyday. Well, that and Mysterious Hot Guy. 

Mysterious Hot Guy (or MHG, for short) is in two of your classes: your 6 o’clock political science class on Mondays and Wednesdays sitting a row down from you, and sitting beside you in your 8:30 biology class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He first caught your eye because, frankly, he looks more like he should be on a movie set than night classes at a dinky community college. He’s drop dead gorgeous, and that’s putting it lightly. Even so, that’s not what has you so intrigued. Something about him is off somehow, strange in such a way that it has you completely captivated. Alluring in a way you can’t quite put your finger on, even outside his appearance. 

MHG hardly ever speaks. You’re pretty sure he’s only said one word to you the entire four weeks of the semester so far, and he sits literally a foot away from you every other day. He’s also, apparently, a genius. He never takes notes, never writes a single thing down, he never asks questions and never answers them either, for that matter. Still, you happened to catch a glimpse of his grade on the test your biology professor handed back last week, and he got a perfect score. 

He also doesn’t have a car. Or, rather, he doesn’t have a car of his own. Every Tuesday and Thursday as you’re walking back to your own car at almost 11 PM, he’s climbing into the passenger seat of an absolutely gorgeous vintage Chevrolet Impala that makes you simultaneously green with envy and desperate for him to push you up against the side of it. Or push you down against the backseat. Or the front seat, which you find out is a bench seat after some minor googling. Car like that, you’re not exactly gonna be picky about where. 

Still, even after all your observing, you don’t learn a single useful piece of information about MHG until six weeks into the semester—two weeks out from midterms—when your biology professor announces that you will be choosing your partners for the midterm project. You barely even let the words leave his mouth before you’re turning to your right, pouncing with what you hope is a normal amount of enthusiasm, although you’re so damn intrigued by this guy that all you can do is pray you don’t come across as a total stalker. “Hey. Would you wanna partner up?” 

MHG turns to you, his eyes wide in a way that leaves you a lot less hopeful about how normal your greeting was. “Uh. Me?” he asks, and his voice is…warm in a way you weren’t expecting. He could do audiobooks, or a podcast, or something—he has a nice voice is what you’re getting at.

You laugh. You’re almost a little starstruck—it makes sense; you’ve definitely turned this guy into your own personal celebrity. “Who else?” you respond, holding out your hand for him to shake. “I’m ____.” 

He eyes you for a moment before he clasps your hand and gives it a shake. Jesus, this guy must have anemia or something because his hand is fucking freezing. “Sam. Uh, Winchester. Sam Winchester.” His touch lingers for a moment before he tugs his hand back. “And…yeah. Yeah, we can…partner up.” 

Sam Winchester. Finally, a name to put to the face. No more thinking of him as Mysterious Hot Guy for you; you and MHG are on a first name basis now. “Awesome,” you say softly, and you really, desperately hope your smile looks less manic than it feels. “So. Sam. Would you mind giving me your number or something so we can set up a time and place to meet up?” 

He hesitates, but he does scribble a number down on the corner of his empty notebook page. “I, uh. I can’t do…daytime,” he tells you as he slides it over. 

Okay. Weird way to phrase that, but you assume he’s like you, he works during the day or something. So you shrug and take the proffered paper. “Me neither. I have work.” You pinch it between your fingers with a grin. “We’ll make it work.” 

He smiles at you, a shy sort of thing that makes your chest ache to draw out more. “Yeah. Okay.” 

You plug the number in your phone almost as soon as you get home, but it takes you almost an hour to actually text him. You go through probably a hundred different drafts before you finally land on: ‘hey!! it’s ____. does friday work for you? my only day without classes lol’ 

Once you press send, you figure you’ll probably have at least five minutes to freak out and overthink. Sam doesn’t really seem the type to be glued to his phone. Which is why, you suppose, that you nearly have a heart attack when your phone buzzes with a response no more than 30 seconds later. ‘Friday works. 7 at the library?’ 

‘see you then :)’ You debate over the smiley face for a solid minute and a half before finally sending it and then violently throwing your phone across the couch and screaming into your throw pillow. 

When you do finally work up the courage to pick your phone up again, he’s sent two texts back. ‘See you then.’ And then another one, a small bubble containing two characters: ‘:)’ Embarrassingly, you giggle alone in your living room. Oh, this guy is going to be the death of you. 

You spend the rest of the night googling Sam Winchester and coming up with absolutely nothing. He seems to have absolutely no social media presence at all, not even an old MySpace or a private Facebook account. The only reference you can find to his name at all has it listed as one of two sons of some random serial killer from, like, the 1800s, which is obviously useless. 

You give up your fruitless search with a sigh, closing your laptop and shoving it aside. Your tv is playing on some local news station—doesn’t matter which one, they’ve all been reporting the same story for weeks. You click it off, 100% disinterested in hearing about the blood bags going missing from local clinics for the millionth time this month. 

You go to bed and dream of brown hair and eyes that you just can’t quite place the color of, but you can swear you see them flash red.

Friday finds you at the library almost a full hour early. You’d agonized over your outfit all day yesterday, and for another half an hour after work to boot. In the end, you’d decided to go casual. After all, it is just a study date—and actually, not a date at all! A study meet-up. A study hangout, at best. The fact that you did your make-up and your hair for it is entirely irrelevant. 

It’s 6:45 when a cough draws your attention up from your phone. Sam is standing in front of you with another one of those shy smiles, and two coffee cups in his hands. Coffee cups from your favorite cafe. He shoves one in your direction. “Uh. I’ve noticed that you have drinks from here pretty often. And- I hope you don’t mind, but I…I read one of the cups? So. This is for you.” 

Your eyes flick over him, your heartbeat practically pounding out of your chest. So he’s been watching you too. Or—Jesus, not watching, that makes it sound creepy. Observing is a better word for it. He noticed a pattern in your coffee cups. He read one to find out what it was you were drinking. “Thanks,” you tell him, taking the cup from his hand. Turning it to read the writing, you find he’d gotten it right. Maybe you should find it creepy, actually. As it is, you’re sort of having a hard time not swooning. You beam at him. “I’ll…have to return the favor.” 

For some reason, that makes Sam laugh as he sits down across from you. “Sure.” He opens his backpack and takes out his laptop. “So, this project.” 

Sam, as it turns out, is a genius. Or at least exceptionally smart. A project that would’ve taken you hours on your own is done in record time with him, which leaves the two of you there at 7:30 with a fully completed midterm project and half-empty coffee cups. You don’t want to leave, and it seems Sam doesn’t either, as he closes his laptop and asks, “Why are you taking night classes?” like he’s really, genuinely curious. 

So you tell him. You tell him about trying to get through college on your own, deciding you needed a full time job, how it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had. You ask him the same question, and he tells you about his brother, who is, apparently, the one who drives that fucking awesome car. He drops Sam off at classes, and pretty much anywhere else he needs to go.

The two of you chat for an hour and a half before Sam gets a text that says his brother is literally going to leave him there if he doesn’t shag ass and get in the car pronto. So Sam walks you out of the library. 

“You know,” you blurt out before you can lose your nerve, “I feel like our classes would be a lot easier if we put our heads together like this. You know, regularly. Like, every Friday, maybe.” 

He ducks his head, smiling that same shy smile he’d had when he gave you the coffee. “Sure. Every Friday. Sounds…helpful.” 

You don’t realize until you get home that he never actually told you why he takes night classes. It turns out to be a pattern for him, as the two of you meet up week after week. You simultaneously feel like you know everything and nothing about him, and every week you like him more and more for it. Well, for that and the coffee that he gets you every time. 

It takes a week before he moves seats in your political science class. The Monday after the second Friday you meet up with him, you almost sit in the wrong seat because you’re so used to him sitting two rows ahead of you. Of course, when you realize what’s happened, Sam’s staring at you with an amused grin on his face, like he’s trying really hard not to laugh at you. So, you decide, you are friends, at least. And as far as friends go, Sam’s a pretty good one.

You and Sam text, constantly. Despite seeming relatively unplugged, he responds to you instantly almost every time. You hate to get your hopes up, but by the time finals roll around, you’re starting to really like him. You’re starting to think he really likes you too. 

He finishes his biology final on the last Thursday of classes long before you, but when you leave the classroom, you see him leaning against the wall, waiting. Again, you don’t want to get your hopes up, but when he lifts his head and sees you approaching him, you swear to God, you see his whole face light up.  He looks a little pale, maybe. But it also might just be the fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“How do you think you did?” he asks, falling into step beside you.

And, you think, it’s now or never, now, isn’t it? Classes are over. You may never see Sam again (although, you like to think the two of you are close enough now that you would at least remain friends outside of having classes together, but still, the sentiment remains). So you change the subject and ask, “Would you wanna get dinner with me on Saturday?” 

He pauses, freezes in place pretty much, and you stop to match him. “Dinner, like…dinner?” he asks, as if that question makes any sense. 

You laugh, a little awkward, and adjust your backpack straps. “Uh, yeah. Like, dinner.” You don’t want to explicitly mention it being a date. You feel like he likes you, you really do, but if you’re wrong…that rejection is going to sting. So you don’t say it, not explicitly. 

But still, Sam’s face lights up with a grin. “Yeah. I’d…really love to get dinner with you, actually. I’ll have to—I’ll text you. But…yes, yeah. I’d love to.” 

You’re pretty sure the smile on your face matches his. “Okay. Then, I’ll see you on Saturday. And you’ll text me.” 

“I’ll text you,” he agrees. 

The two of you linger for a moment before parting, and you have never been more excited to say goodbye to someone in your entire fucking life. 

When you get home, you have a text message. ‘I’ll pick you up. Does 7 work for you?’

You have to take a moment to squeal into your pillow before answering that yes, 7 does work for you, and you’re excited to see him then. And then, as an afterthought, your address.

God, you need to find something to wear.

Saturday comes around, and you’re fully ready by 6. Sam’s almost always shown up early, after all. Your TV plays news footage, stating that the clinics have taken to putting up extra security around their blood banks to no avail. You couldn’t care less, too giddy and girlishly excited to even think about the stolen blood bags. 

6:45 rolls around. Sam isn’t there. That’s…fine. He’s not obligated to show up early. You set up a time to pick you up for a reason, right? There’s no reason for the sinking feeling in your gut. 

7:00. No sign of Sam. But that’s no reason to worry. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. People are late sometimes, and you don’t need to panic just because Sam’s never been late before. 

At 7:30, you shoot Sam a text. ‘are you okay? don’t tell me you forgot about me :( lol’ You don’t get a response. 

You don’t change back into lounge clothes until 8, and you don’t take off your makeup until 8:30, and that’s only because you’re pretty sure you’re about to start crying and ruin it anyway. 

The real kicker is that you thought Sam, at the very least, considered you a friend. Or at least friendly enough to let you down easy rather than agree to a date and then stand you up. Clearly, you severely misread the entire situation. You entirely misunderstood Sam in general, if he’s really the type of person to do this sort of thing. 

Wiping hot tears off your face, you cork open your expensive bottle of wine. Desperate times, right?

Two hours and half a wine bottle later, you’ve swung from devastated to angry. How dare he stand you up? You’re a catch! You’re gorgeous, you’re funny, you’ve ignored all of his weird quirks and red flags, and for what? To cry into a glass or five of overpriced wine on a Saturday night? Screw that. You should call him and give him a piece of your mind.

Or…no, you’re pretty drunk, actually, so you probably shouldn’t call him. But you could text him. Yeah. You fumble for your phone, furiously typing out a text and hitting send without a second thought. ‘if u werent interested in me u cldve just said so. didnt have 2 ghost me’ 

Next thing you know, you’re opening your eyes the next morning with a killer headache, a damn near empty bottle of wine, and no response from Sam. While you’re curled over the toilet, the alcohol isn’t the only thing turning your stomach. There’s a worry brewing there too. 

Because the more you think about it, the more that this really just doesn’t feel like Sam. Now that you’re further out from it, you can acknowledge that much. When you ask yourself if you truly believe that the guy who bought you your favorite drink every time you met up, the guy who remembered every single thing you ever told him, the guy whose face totally lit up when you asked him to dinner—when you ask yourself if that guy would stand you up, you truly, honestly don’t believe he would. So the real question is: why did he?

You fight through the worry until about halfway through your shift on Monday when you realize that with finals over, you have absolutely no idea when, or even if you’ll see Sam again. You call him. It rings all the way through until you get his voicemail, and you wish the sound of his voice could calm you, but it only reminds you that he’s not answering. You don’t leave a message, sending him a text instead. ‘seriously, are you okay? please at least let me know you’re not dead.’ You’re not surprised to find you haven’t gotten a response the next time you check your phone, walking to your car at the end of the day. Desperately, heart-clenchingly worried, but not surprised. 

You open your laptop the second you get home, furiously searching anything you can think of. You search for his name again, hoping to find anything that could point you towards family or friends, to the brother he mentioned. You search local obituaries, John Does, anyone who might even bear the slightest resemblance to Sam, but there’s nothing. Nothing, until you accidentally click on one of the articles about the blood theft. There, in a blurry screenshot of footage from the new security cameras one of the blood banks had installed, you see it. You recognize his brother’s gorgeous fucking car. 

Your eyes go wide. Holy shit, you’ve been flirting with a criminal. You scroll up through the article, reading furiously, but it doesn’t even mention the car, focusing instead on the blurry, shrouded figure entering the doors. Is this why Sam went missing? Laying low until he can be sure no one will connect the footage of the car to him or his brother? Why the fuck is he stealing blood bags in the first place? Needless to say, the discovery leaves you with more questions than it does answers. 

The world, unfortunately, does not stop with this revelation. You go to bed. You get up, you go to work, you come home. You think about Sam. You have no idea what you’re supposed to do in this situation. Should you go to the police? It’s not like he’s killing people but…it’s still illegal to steal blood bags. Also morally wrong, probably. Plus, you now have information that could help forward an ongoing police investigation. You’re not entirely sure what counts as aiding and abetting, but you’re not exactly itching to find out where the line is. 

On the other hand, Sam never seemed particularly…criminal-like to you. Strange, sure, but he was nice. Kind, even. You never in a million years would’ve pegged him as some sort of criminal mastermind. That’s got to count for something. Right? At the very least, you think it allows him the benefit of the doubt. So…late Tuesday night, you send him another text, the last one you’ll ever send him. Probably. ‘hey so keep ignoring me if im wrong but are you the one stealing blood from the clinics?’ 

He doesn’t text you back, and you pretend that means you’re wrong. That you can clear your conscience and go to sleep. That you can go to work and stop worrying about vintage cars in blurry security footage. 

Then the sun goes down on Wednesday, and someone knocks on your door. 

The man on the other side of it is unfamiliar to you. He’s wearing a leather jacket, an amulet hanging off his neck. There’s absolutely no reason you should recognize him as quickly as you do. Except that he has this quality about him, something unreal or maybe inhuman, and you’ve seen it before. You can’t quite tell what color his eyes are.

He smiles at you, and confirms it. “You’re ____, right? Sam’s told me all about you.” This is Sam’s brother, the one with the car. The car that you recognized in the blood bank footage. “I’m Dean. Can I come in?” 

You keep your hand on the edge of the door, ready to slam it in his face if need be. “How’d you get my address?” you ask, instead of answering the question. This man could be dangerous. You trust Sam, mostly, but his brother…that’s a different story.

“Sammy had it. Remember? For your little date.” Dean says, taking a step towards the threshold. You take a step back. “Can I come in now?” 

You ignore the fear raging down your spine, the urge to turn tail and run away. Sam carries himself differently than Dean, presents himself in such a way that instead of cowering away from him, you want to keep looking. His strangeness is intriguing, not off-putting. Dean, though, he takes those same qualities and twists them on their head. Dean looks at you, and your entire body screams Danger! Like he’s some sort of predator. “Why are you here?” 

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. He takes another step forward, but stays notably on the other side of the door. Just barely. “Sam needs help. Are you gonna invite me in, or not?” 

He could be lying. He could be manipulating the affection you already have for his brother to get you to let him in so he can off you, maybe the only person who’s connected him to his crimes. But, if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have just forced his way in? And also, why the fuck would he go that far just to cover up some stolen blood bags? “What’s wrong with Sam?” you ask, stepping back from the door to allow him inside. When in Rome, right?

His lips press together, like he’s irritated, though you can’t imagine why. You’re letting him in, which is what he wanted. He stares at you for a moment before sighing, world weary, like he’s holding the weight of a hundred lifetimes of idiocy on his shoulders. Jesus, this guy’s dramatic. “You have to invite me,” he grits out. 

Your confusion only grows, but you oblige anyway. “Okay…come in, then.” 

Dean steps into the apartment almost as soon as you’ve said it, like you’ve only just now opened the door. You back up a few steps further. 

“Just so you know,” you say, standing up taller and trying to act less terrified than you feel, “I have a gun. So don’t- don’t try anything ‘cause I’ll shoot you.” You’re completely bluffing, of course, but there’s no way Dean could know that. 

“No, you don’t,” Dean says, like he definitely knows you were bluffing. Well, great. “Besides, I’m not here to hurt you. My brother needs help, you think I’m gonna kill the only person who can help him?” 

He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Then again, you’re pretty sure this man is a criminal, so maybe he’s just a really good liar. “Yeah, you said that before. If he needs my help so bad, why didn’t he just tell me himself?” It’s not like you slammed the door in Sam’s face and told him to leave you alone. You’ve sent him four texts and a phone call since he dropped off the face of the earth last week. He’s had every opportunity to ask for your help. 

“Cause he’s sick,” Dean tells you. He lifts his hands before he approaches you, like you’re some sort of wild animal that he doesn’t want to spook. Embarrassingly, it works. “Really sick.” 

You shake your head, bemused. “I don’t understand—what does that have to do with me? If he’s sick, he needs a doctor. Not…a random college student.” 

Dean nods. “Yeah, he would. But he’s got…it’s complicated.” He pauses in his approach and nods his head toward you. “Can I come closer, or are you gonna shoot me, tough girl?” 

You roll your eyes, but gesture him closer. “Be my guest, so long as it means you’re gonna tell me something that actually makes sense.” You’re tired of the riddles, frankly. If he doesn’t give you real answers soon, you don’t care how terrifying he is, you’re gonna have to do something drastic.

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, I can see why Sam likes you,” he mutters, shaking his head. “See, me and Sam…we’re not exactly normal. If I took him to a doctor, not only would they not be able to fix him, they’d probably kill him.” He stops beside you, forcing you to look up at him as he speaks. He cuts an intimidating figure, even without the air of a predator about him. You really, really wish you actually owned a gun.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, voice quiet in the face of this hunter. “That you’re not normal?” 

He grins, big and sharp and toothy. And then his illusion drops. Your eyes seem to fail you, like someone’s dropped the floor out from under you and then told you the floor was never real in the first place. His eyes catch your attention first, blood red and striking. And then, of course, you see his teeth—no, his fangs. Two long, sharp, killer fangs where his canines used to be. “Welcome to the night of the living dead, sweetheart.”

Vampires are real. There’s a monster in your fucking living room. This is crazy. You should be screaming. You should shove this man out the door and lock it behind him and maybe never leave your apartment again. Instead, you blurt out, “So that’s why you were stealing blood bags.” Honestly, a lot of things are starting to make way more sense now. You’re almost embarrassed you didn’t think of it before. 

Dean laughs. “Right on the money.” You flinch as he claps you on the shoulder, and he laughs at you again. 

“So…I’m guessing Sam doesn’t just have a regular old stomach bug, then?” You really feel like you should be having a more extreme reaction to this situation. You just found out that not only are vampires real, but you’ve been actively flirting with one. You think maybe you’re in shock. “This is some sort of weird…vampire virus, or something?” 

“Smart girl,” he says, pointing at you approvingly. “Though it’s not exactly a virus, more like…food poisoning. Actually, we call it blood poisoning. Comes from drinking stale blood—bagged blood, for example—rather than fresh from the source.” 

You frown. “Why drink bagged blood, then, if it makes you sick?” 

“Why do people go vegan even though they need protein?” Dean counters. “Harm reduction. Plus, it doesn’t always make us sick. It’s pretty rare, actually. More common now than, you know, the olden times, but it happened back then too. Storing blood in vials, bottles, anything can make blood go stale, but it means you don’t have to hurt as many people getting it. Some things are worth the risk.” 

That much, at least, you can understand. “So this…this stale blood, whatever—it makes you sick,” you repeat, that same worry for Sam from before roiling in your stomach again. “How sick?” 

Dean grimaces, so whatever it is is clearly not good news. “It can kill us. Pretty easily, too. I have to tell you, I don’t know exactly how it works. Sam’s way better at this sort of thing.” He taps his fingers against your coffee table. “But I do know how to fix it.” 

It’s pretty easy to guess. Dean’s here, despite the fact his brother is apparently dying, and there’s really only one thing you have that they don’t. “He needs blood,” you say quietly, beating Dean to the punch. “Fresh blood.” 

He nods and shoots you a stilted smile. “Quick on the draw, huh?” The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he sighs, shaking his head. “Sam hates what he is. Doesn’t matter that he’ll die without it, he won’t hurt anyone. He just won’t.”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly uncomfortable with Dean’s intense stare, like he can see straight into your soul. “So- so, what am I supposed to do about it?” you ask, your shoulders shrugging helplessly. “I’m still a person. I can’t force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.” 

Dean takes a step toward you, and this time you don’t step back or shrink away. He’s dangerous, sure, but not to you. Not as long as you’re the only thing standing between his brother and certain death. “Look, Sam really likes you. If he knew I was here right now, and he wasn’t on his deathbed, he’d kill me. But I just—I’ve tried. It’s been a week, and I’ve tried so hard—” He ducks his head as he cuts off, his jaw working over clenched teeth. “I know that you care about him, right? I mean, I saw the texts; I know—I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. I can’t just sit around and watch my little brother die. I had to try. I have to try.” 

Seeing him now, you almost can’t believe you were afraid of him. He looks almost terrified himself. And despite the uncertainty you feel, the fear, well…there’s a clear answer here. Yes, there’s a chance Sam refuses to feed from you, but there’s also a chance to save him. You can’t just stand back and let him die because you’re scared. “Okay.”

Dean’s eyes snap to yours again. They sparkle with hope, and even though the illusion is dropped, even though his eyes are red and his teeth are viciously sharp, for the first time since you first saw him, he looks human. “Okay?” 

“Take me to him,” you tell him, moving past him to grab your coat off the hanger by your door. “Let me try to save him.” 

Dean gives you the key to the apartment and a wish good luck, but stays in the car (which, yes, is just as nice as you imagined, though you wish you’d gotten to experience it under different circumstances). He tells you as you climb out the passenger door, “If this goes the way I hope it does, you two aren’t gonna want me there. Trust me.” 

Apprehension keeps you rooted outside the locked door, biting a hole through your bottom lip. There’s a lot of ways this could go. Quite a few of them could end up with you dead, and you’d be a fool not to acknowledge that. Then again, you’d also be a fool not to acknowledge what you know about Sam, what Dean’s told you about him today. Kind, gentle Sam, who is sick and dying, but apparently still refuses to hurt anyone. Who drinks from blood bags, despite the risk, simply because it means he can live without harming others. He doesn’t deserve to die.

You take a deep breath, and unlock the door. 

The apartment is…Well, it’s a little dingy, but it’s cozy. Homey. There’s clutter and trinkets on every shelf, books that look so old that you fear they’d disintegrate if you touched them. It occurs to you, then, that you don’t know how old Sam actually is. A memory flashes in your mind of his name mentioned in records from the 1800s. Holy shit. 

“Dean?” You recognize Sam’s voice, but it’s thin and croaky. Weak. Really sick, Dean had said. “Are you home?” 

  You follow the sound of his voice into a bedroom, and the stale smell of illness almost makes you stumble back from the doorway. It doesn’t smell bad, necessarily, so much as still and wrong. Sam’s been in this room, wallowing in sickness, for a week. Your heart aches for him. “Not Dean,” you say quietly, hoping not to spook him. You approach the bed, and only just keep from gasping at the state of the man curled up in it. Sam is pale and sunken, visibly weak and malnourished. He’s trembling, shaking all over with chills, maybe, or just tremors in general. 

His face changes when he hears your voice, his brows furrowed in confusion. He opens his eyes and peers up at you over his cocoon of blankets. His eyes, like Dean’s, are red, but unlike Dean’s, they’re glassy and tired, his eyelids fluttering like he’s struggling to keep them open. “____? What…what’re you doing here?” He pushes himself up to sit, and you can see the effort it takes him to do even that, his arms shaking under his own weight. 

You sit gingerly on the edge of the bed beside him. “Dean sent me,” you tell him, ratting Dean out immediately. 

Sam groans, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The veins in his hands are standing out, ugly, mottled red under pale skin. As if the blood really had poisoned him. “I’m gonna kill him.” Wow, Dean hadn’t even exaggerated, huh?

“Not like this, you’re not,” you mutter, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “Jesus, Sam…” He’s ice cold to the touch like he’s been out in the snow for hours. You curl your hands around his, trying to warm him. 

His gaze flicks to them, your hands barely covering his. “Sorry I missed our date,” he says, mournful like he really is repentant, like standing you up is the worst sin he could’ve possibly committed. “It…was a date, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it—I meant for it to be.” You huff out a laugh, sympathetic as you smile at him. “And, you know, somehow I can’t find it in myself to hold it against you.” 

Sam laughs, and for the first time, you catch a glimpse of his fangs. They’re just as viciously sharp as Dean’s, but they somehow look less dangerous on Sam. You’d worry you’d been charmed or something (isn’t that supposed to be something vampires can do? You have to admit, you’re a little out of the loop of vampire lore), if you weren’t certain that Sam would never do something like that. No, not charmed, not in any sort of magical sense. “I’ll die happy then.” 

Wow, you see the dramatics run in the family. “You’re not going to die,” you say firmly, releasing Sam’s hand to brush his bangs out of his face. He’s freezing all over. It makes you want to wrap him up in your arms, make sure he never goes cold again. You settle for pressing your palm against his cheek, your fingers cupping around his jaw. 

“I am, though,” he shoots back, like he’s arguing about who’s answer on the homework is right, not about his actual, literal life. “I’m going to die. But that’s—it’s okay. It’s been a week, so I’ve sort of come to terms with it.” 

“Screw that.” You turn more firmly towards him, pulling your legs under you to kneel on the bed. “Seriously, screw that. I can help you. If you think I’m just gonna- what, stand aside and let you die, then you really don’t know me at all.” 

“Sure. And you’re just gonna fix me, huh?” He shakes his head, turning it away from you with a huff. “All sunshine and rainbows after that. Not like I’ll have to bleed you to get better, right? Oh, wait.” Oh, he’s such a fucking diva, even on his deathbed, apparently.

“Oh, my God—yeah! I sort of figured it wouldn’t exactly be pleasant.” You didn’t spend all that time hesitating at the door because you thought it would be a walk in the park. “But if the choice is between that and letting you die, there’s no contest. I don’t understand why you’re so set on it when I’m sitting here offering you a solution!” 

“Maybe I don’t want to be saved!” His outburst silences you, especially because it seems to take a lot of energy from him to snap at you like that. He stares you down, red eyes meeting yours, and you…you don’t know what to say to that. 

You can lead a horse to water, but… “Sam—”

He cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Dean…he used to tell me that what we are doesn't make us monsters, it’s what we do. And I really wish I believed that, but the thing is, I…am going to die if I don’t feed from someone, like- like a fucking parasite. What is that if not monstrous?” 

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” you tell him. Slowly, cautiously, you reach for his face and replace your hand on his cheek, turning his gaze to meet yours. “I actually happen to think you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I don’t know what kind of monster would’ve apologized for getting deathly ill and accidentally standing me up.” 

His eyes flick over your face, like he’s searching for something. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” His voice, thin and mournful, is heartbreaking. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know—I’ve never been sick like this before. It’s possible I won’t have a lot of control if I feed on you like this.” 

That’s sort of what you were afraid of. But that’s the benefit of him feeding from you, rather than some random person off the street, right? You know what’s going on. “I won’t let you go too far,” you assure him. “Sam, please. I want to do this for you. Let me…let me help you.” 

His eyes meet yours, and he seems to find what he’s looking for. He lifts his hand and brushes your hair back off your neck. “If I do this—if—it’ll hurt, at first,” he tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder. Just resting there. It sends sparks down your spine all the same. “But not for long. It’ll start to feel good, kind of like getting high. But if I—I’m not going to bite you if I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop me if I take too much.” 

“I’ll stop you. If I have to.” You trust him, mostly. But you’re also aware that he hasn’t fed in a week, so you’re prepared to have to at least alert him to your blood loss. 

His fingers trail along your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. His eyes follow the path of his touch, and his hands may be hesitant, but you can see the hunger in his eyes. Maybe you can make the horse drink, after all. “Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand moves to the back of your head. Bracing. 

“I told you—” you say, your voice coming out almost as quiet as a breath— “I want to do this for you.” 

“Okay.” He leans forward until you can feel his breath on your neck. It’s almost cold, unnaturally so. “Tilt your head a little more, that way—there you go,” he instructs, and that tone in his voice is…yeah. You are definitely glad Dean didn’t come in with you. His lips brush your skin when he speaks next, “Ready?” 

“Yes.” You’re not sure how you manage to get your voice to come out as stable as it does. You bring your hands up to brace on his shoulders, and your grip goes a bit tighter when you feel his fangs press, just barely, against your skin. “Yeah, I’m—go ahead.” 

You’ve never been bitten by a vampire before. You have no frame of reference of whether this is what it’s like every time, or if it’s just a Sam thing. Or if it’s just a you and Sam thing. But the whole process is intensely intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Even when he first sinks his fangs in and it stings, makes you draw in a sharp breath. He’s a little uncoordinated, you think, and maybe goes in at a weird angle, because he draws his teeth out to sink them in again, but not before his tongue flicks out to catch the blood that drips down the side of your neck. The gasp that escapes you this time is not just from the pain.

He was right, of course. It does hurt at first. But the pain is offset by his hand on your head, his fingers curling just so to grip your hair. You swear you can feel in real time as he gets his strength back. As your blood flushes the sickness out of him. You’re not sure there is anything more intimate than that. 

You think maybe you expected a transition between pain and euphoria, but there is no slow fade. In between one blink and the next, the pain disappears, replaced with a floaty, echoing pleasure that has your fingers clutching at Sam’s shirt. Everything around you goes a little unfocused, fuzzy, except for everywhere Sam touches, where you swear your nerves are lighting up with sparks and ecstasy. You might be making noises. It’s a little hard to tell, your senses dampened as they are. 

“Sam…” You shove a little at his shoulders when you notice your hands start to shake. He hums, and you feel it on your skin. You can see, now, why he likened this feeling to getting high, although you’re not sure it’s the feeding that you can see yourself getting addicted to. You shove him a little harder. “Gettin’ dizzy here.” 

He pulls back from your neck, and your senses return to you in a rush of sound and a pinprick sort of ache where his teeth had sunk into your skin. You watch, full focused vision returned, as Sam wipes at his mouth and then drags his tongue over his hand, now free of mottled veins, to catch the blood that had, you assumed, spilled as he drank from you. Like he can’t bear to waste a single drop. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly very dry. 

“You taste like…” He trails off, and then his mouth is on you again, but not biting. No, his tongue drags up your throat, and it occurs to you—vaguely, through the fog of earth-shattering, soul-bending lust that settles over you—that if blood had spilled down his mouth, then it stands to reason that it had made a mess of your neck as well. Not that you’re complaining, if this is the result of a little mess. He makes a soft noise against your skin, his breath hot now in a way it hadn’t been before. “Taste like…” His voice peters off again, distracted or just unable to find the words to describe it.

Yeah, screw this. “Let me find out for myself,” you murmur, your hands moving from his shoulders to his face—and his skin, too, is warmer now, almost the temperature you would generally expect it would be—until you can drag him into a kiss. The answer, as it turns out, is blood. You taste like blood, although you sort of assume it tastes different to him. Strangely, the flavor isn’t as off-putting as you would assume, especially not when he groans and uses his grip on your hair to tilt your head, kiss you deeper. !You lick into his mouth, tasting your actual, literal blood on his tongue, and you…don’t have the words to describe how absurdly hot it is.  

He’s not careful with his fangs, not really, lets them catch on your bottom lip and draw out pinpricks of blood that he soothes with his tongue. It makes the whole thing a little messy; he’s got blood smeared over his lips when you pull back to breathe. Your eyes track his tongue as he licks it up. 

His hand, the one that’s not braced on the back of your head, brushes against the skin of your waist under the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly, still so close that you can feel the words on your lips. 

Is this okay? You almost have to laugh at the question. As if you hadn’t wanted him since the first moment you saw him. “Yeah,” you tell him, a little smile tugging at your lips. “It is so absolutely more than okay.” 

At your confirmation, he smiles too, and his hand rests more firmly on your waist, almost grounding. “Well, I didn’t buy you dinner first. Wouldn’t want you to think I was ungentlemanly,” he says, drawing a soft laugh from you. 

“Aw, well. You did try.” You press forward, leaving a short kiss on his lips as your hand shifts from his face to tangle your fingers through his hair. “Plus, I mean…technically, I—”

Sam cuts you off with a kiss, but you can feel his grin against your mouth. “That does not count,” he protests.

“I dunno,” you say, a little sing-song in your voice as you grin at him. “I did quite literally just save your life. I think we might be a little past dinner.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head at you. He’s not annoyed though. You can tell, because his fingers flex on your waist and then move, brushing up your side. “Uh-huh. Sounds to me like I’m slacking.” He ducks his head and presses two short, soft kisses to your neck, right on top of the pinprick aches. “I’ll have to repay you. You did just save my life, after all.” 

Almost subconsciously, your fingers tighten in his hair. Anticipation settles in the small space between you, a space that grows even smaller when his hand presses against the small of your back and tugs your closer. “I did just save your life,” you repeat, your voice significantly breathier than it was before.

He laughs, a little puff of breath against your skin, and his lips drag down your throat in a line of open mouthed kisses until it lands at your pulse point. You swear to God, time slows down as he breathes in, slow and deep like he’s smelling your blood beneath your skin, and then presses his teeth to it until you can feel the points of them, precarious like water pooled on top of a penny. He doesn’t bite down, doesn’t break the skin, but fuck, you almost want him to. It seems like he wants to, too, as he closes his mouth with a snap. “Fuck…” He pulls back and lifts his eyes to yours. “Can I taste you? Please?” 

It takes you a second to understand what, exactly, he means. He’d already tasted you; if he wanted more blood, he could’ve just bitten you again. Then, it clicks, and you…well, what are you supposed to say to that? Sam Winchester, all big, cow eyes and mouth smeared with your blood, so politely asking to eat you out, like you’d be giving him a gift. How could you possibly turn that down? “Yeah. Yeah, fuck, that’s—yeah.” 

You only see his answering smile for half a second before his lips are on yours again, kissing, biting, while his hand caresses over the bare skin of your stomach. His kiss, his touch, is almost overwhelming, doesn’t leave you much room to think about anything else but him. Not that you really want to. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, pulls back just far enough from you to speak, and even then you can feel his lips move against yours as he asks, “Can I take this off?” 

You really do laugh this time, drawing your hands down his neck and over his shoulders. “I appreciate the whole gentleman thing, I really do, but Sam, baby, I’ve wanted you since before I even knew your name. So let’s just assume that whatever you wanna do, I really fuckin’ want it, too.” 

His eyes flick over your face, and you can literally feel the cocky ass grin he gets at that. It is, unfortunately, like everything else he does, ridiculously sexy. “That long, huh?” He’s such a dick. You want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your entire life. He tugs back and drags his gaze down your torso, his hand leaving your hair to join the other in toying with the hem of your shirt. “Guess I shouldn’t keep you waiting any longer, then.” His hands brush against the skin of your stomach as he pulls your shirt up and over your head before tossing it aside, not caring where it lands. You’ll find it later. Or you won’t. 

His eyes lave over your newly bare skin, his hands following shortly behind. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing his palms flat against your stomach and dragging them up your ribs. “Can you lay back for me, darling?” he asks, even as his hands press you back against the mattress before you can respond. 

You go easily, not in the least because the name knocks the breath out of you. “Darling?” you echo, shifting until you’re resting comfortably against the nest of pillows at the head of the bed. 

Sam climbs over you, his knee nudging yours until you spread your legs to make room for his hips to settle between your thighs. “Is that alright?” he asks, ducking his head to press his lips to the hinge of your jaw. 

More than alright, if the fluttering in your stomach is anything to go by. “It’s fine,” you say, playing it cool. Then, because his hands are rubbing up and down the bare skin of your sides and his teeth (the blunt ones, not the fangs, because he has much more self control than you do) are nipping at the skin of your neck, you play it decidedly uncool and continue, “Darling.” 

You feel his answering smile against the skin of your collarbone as he and his kisses and his teeth travel down the line of your neck and chest, pausing at the edge of your bra. He lifts his eyes to meet yours through his lashes as his lips press the softest of kisses there. “‘M gonna take this off, now,” he tells you, his voice deep and rumbling. His hands move up your back, and you arch your spine to allow him room to do so. He undoes your bra clasp without removing his lips from your chest, tugs the garment down your arms and tosses it vaguely in the same direction as your shirt without a second thought. 

“I thought about this, you know,” he says, softly, against the skin in the valley of your breasts. “Getting my mouth on you. How it would feel.” He shifts his attention, his lips closing over your nipple while his hand palms your other breast. It draws a soft gasp from your lips, your fingers twisting in his hair. “How you’d sound,” he continues, his voice a little cocky now. 

“Sam…” His name falls from your lips on an exhale, like you’re breathing him in, like he’s pumping through your veins the same way you’re now pumping through his. 

He smirks. If you thought he was cocky before… “Yeah, pretty much—” He presses that smirk against one nipple and brushes his thumb over the other, and while your head is dropping back onto the pillows with a moan, he laves his tongue over it to make you moan even louder— “just like that.” He's got you so distracted, you almost don't notice his free hand trailing down your stomach, brushing along the waistband of your jeans, not until his fingers undo the button with practiced ease. 

“Oh, God, you are so unfairly hot.” You lift your head to watch as he kisses his way down your stomach until he finally reaches your waistband with his mouth, too, and leaves a nippy little bite there. 

He laughs, glances up at you with that fucking smirk as he drags your jeans down your hips. “Unfair to who? You?” The two of you maneuver a bit until he can tug your pants off your ankles and toss them aside, another clothing casualty lost to the war on your sanity led by the swooping in your gut whenever Sam looks at you like that. 

“Not me,” you elaborate, although it’s hard to do so when Sam’s hands are settling on your hips and his thumbs are rubbing slow circles on your skin and dipping just so under the elastic of your panties on every other pass. “But, like, every other guy. How is anyone supposed to compete with…this?” 

This being Sam motherfucking Winchester, who had spent months shyly testing the waters and cautiously flirting so subtly that you were terrified you’d read him wrong, suddenly suave and confident and practically begging to eat you out. Oh, and also being, objectively, the hottest monster. This man has been terrorizing the dating pool for maybe centuries. You shudder to think how many women’s standards he has completely obliterated. 

Continuing the streak of obliterating your standards, he ducks his head, that shy smile on his lips again. “I mean, I should hope no one is competing with me in this particular instance,” he says, voice hesitant as if there’s a chance on Earth you’d ever turn him down. 

You shake your head, and honestly, you can’t help but laugh because a literal vampire is about to go down on you, and somehow the most unbelievable part of this situation is that he thinks he has an ounce of competition. “Are you actually asking me if I want to be exclusive right now?” you ask, drawing a hand up and through his hair, brushing his fringe off his forehead. “Because I feel like I made it so obvious how much I like you. Obviously, there is no competition.” 

You have the honor of watching Sam blush for the first time, and knowing that you made it possible. Your blood flushes his cheeks, makes his face go the prettiest shade of pink you’ve ever seen. 

��“Obviously,” he echoes, his words brushing against the skin just above your panties. His hands brush down your thighs, and he pulls one of your legs up and over his shoulder so your heel rests against his back. He turns his head, and with your thigh now bracketing his head, it’s easy for him to press an open-mouthed kiss there, and then another, and then another until he’s brought you back practically to panting again. 

“‘M gonna make you see stars,” he tells you, his lips pressed against the crease where your thigh meets your hip. “And then, because I am a gentleman, I’m going to buy you dinner. And I’m gonna be thinking about this—” He nips at your skin, bares his fangs this time and draws a well of blood and a gasp from you simultaneously— “The way you taste; the way you feel—I’m gonna be thinking about it the whole time.” He draws his hands back up to your hips just to tuck his fingers under the elastic of your panties, lifting his eyes to yours as he tugs on it. “Can I take these off?” 

You think you might die if he doesn’t. “Please.” 

His fangs seem to glint in the light when he grins, but he ducks his head before you can look again, a sort of hyperfocus to his posture as he shifts your hips and legs until he can pull your underwear off your ankles, and finally, finally, leaves you bare to him. He doesn’t waste a second, his hands dragging up your thighs and then spreading them further, his eyes roving over you like you’re the most beautiful work of art he’s ever seen. “Gorgeous.” His voice, breathy and sweet, washing over you is the only warning you get before his lips press against you in a surprisingly gentle kiss. 

Your lungs expand on a gasp, and then deflate on a moan as he laves his tongue between your folds, the muscle pressed flat and soft like a tease. Or a preview. You’re not totally sure you’re going to survive this actually. You might die with Sam’s tongue licking over your pussy, and honestly, what a fucking way to go. 

“Taste so good all over, huh?” Oh, holy fuck, he’s still talking. His lips brush over your skin and make you whine, and you’re pretty sure you can feel the vibrations of his voice better than you can hear him. “Feel like I should thank you. Letting me feed from you, and now this?” He makes it sound like it’s some sacrifice to let him go down on you, like you’re not gripping his hair so tight you’re surprised you’re not pulling it out. “You’re perfect.” 

“Oh, my God,” your voice comes out high and tight as he closes his lips over your clit and sucks. Your back arches off the bed, but as your hips shift to press up against his mouth, you find his hand pressed low on your stomach, pinning you down. “Sam—oh, my God.” 

You can feel as much as hear the soft, contented hums he’s making, like he’s never wanted to be anywhere more than with his head between your legs and his tongue drawing circles over your clit. His fangs, sharp and dangerous, are almost artfully pressed against your skin, just barely enough to feel the points of them. His free hand, the one not pressing you down against the mattress, keeps trailing up and down the outside of your thigh, making you shiver and press your heel into his back. And it’s so obvious he’s loving this maybe even as much as you are, his whole body shifting as he grinds down against the mattress, and God, that feels almost as good as his mouth on your cunt does. He’s getting off on the taste of you, on making you squirm and whine and moan.

It’s over the second he presses his tongue against your entrance and his nose smushes against your clit—everything after that is a jumble of sensation. The feeling of his tongue fucking in and out, his nose rubbing against you with every movement of his mouth, his hand grabbing at your thigh and holding your legs open when your muscles go tense and tight and anticipatory. 

He draws his tongue out of you with an obscene slurping sound that just has you hurtling even faster towards the edge, your hands grabbing at his hair for dear fucking life, white knuckled. “Are you gonna come?” he asks, his voice low and gruff and almost fucked out. You squeeze your eyes shut, nodding as if it wasn’t obvious from the constant stream of noises spilling from your lips. “Yeah? Go on, come on my tongue. Give it to me, darling, let me taste it.” 

How could you resist that? His words and his stupidly talented mouth draw you over the edge, your pussy spasming as you do exactly as he asked and come on his tongue. True to his word, he does, in fact, make you see stars, lights sparking behind your eyelids. His mouth works you through it until you’re whining and using your grip on his hair to tug him away, oversensitive as you come down from an explosive fucking orgasm. 

He presses kisses on your inner thigh as he shifts it off his shoulder, your body loose and pliant now. “There you go, good girl.” The words make your cunt give a valiant twitch, even as he draws himself up your body until he’s laying beside you and pressing kisses over your face. “Was that good?” 

You peek one eye open to look at him, incredulous. “Was that good—you’re so ridiculous, c’mere.” You turn your head to draw him into a slow, lingering kiss. Much like the taste of your blood in his mouth, the taste of your pussy on his tongue is, frankly, life-changing. You’re addicted already. 

He draws back with a soft laugh, his eyes traveling over your face with such obvious fondness that you have to press another quick kiss against his lips. “Okay, understood.” He brings his hand up to brush over your face, soft and gentle and such a contrast to the obscene pleasure he’d taken in going down on you that it makes your cheeks go warm. “So when can I buy you that dinner?” 

The question gives you pauses, and your eyes flick down his body, curious. “Did you not want me to…” 

You watch your blood, again, flood his cheeks as he laughs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s not—I really like giving head,” he explains, as if that is not literally the hottest thing he could’ve possibly said. 

Fuck dinner, you wanna go five rounds with him back to back right now. “Okay,” you say, because he’s very sweet and he wants to be a gentleman and who are you to take that from him? “You can take me to dinner, if you swear you’ll let me suck you off when we get back. Deal?” 

The way his face lights up is worth having to wait. “Deal.”  

“And,” you continue, your hand smoothing over his hair where your grip had mussed it up, “next time you need blood, let’s just skip the whole ‘I’m a monster’ thing. I am more than willing to supply you; I have a vested interest in keeping you around.” 

He rolls his eyes, but the way he kisses you, fangs and all, tells you he gets it.

[forhappysake]

Teach Me

A/N: This is my first smut and it is LONG. Sorry y'all, I love a plot. Also, not totally proofread, xoxo.

Warnings: SMUT, professor!reidxreader, implied age gap, mentions of dementia, loss of virginity, bl0wjob, protected sex, use of nicknames (good girl), sub!reader/dom!spencer if you squint

The fact that you’d managed to get into Dr. Reid’s criminology class was an absolute stroke of luck on your part. You’d stayed up until midnight, eagerly waiting for your round of registration to unlock, and you’d immediately submitted your requests and refreshed the page until you got confirmation. You were elated. You had read so much about the young doctor, only in his mid-30s, who had multiple doctorates and over a decade of FBI experience. You were fully aware that taking his class would elevate your resume, not to mention that he was quite easy on the eyes.

Of course, that last part was just the consensus around campus. He polled “hottest professor” on social media every year since he’d arrived. You stared at his professor profile on the university’s website. The picture was undoubtedly a couple of years old, with brown curls atop his head and a cleanly shaven face. However, you’d heard from lots of the older majors that he’d aged like fine wine. With that in mind, you shut your computer before crawling into bed for the night. This semester can not end fast enough, you thought. 

*Seven weeks later*

Returning from Christmas break was never easy, but knowing you were going into Dr. Reid’s class made things that much easier. It was your last class of the day, from 3:00 - 4:15, and you knew you’d soak up every minute of it. Though after surviving two other earlier classes and multiple rounds of icebreakers with your new classmates, you were starting to lose your initial excitement at what Dr. Reid’s course may hold.

You walked into the lecture hall, noting an empty seat about three rows from the front. Claiming the seat as your own, you pulled out your new notebook and a red pen, scribbling the date and course number at the top of your page. You checked your watch: 2:58. You couldn’t help but tap your foot impatiently as your fellow students filtered into the room.

After a few more moments passed, the side door in the lecture hall opened, and Dr. Reid walked out in front of the room. He didn’t look up at the students, whose murmuring had gone silent the moment he entered. Instead, he turned his back to the group as he wrote his name and the course number on the whiteboard. 

He turned back around, this time scanning the students in the hall before clearing his throat. “Good afternoon, my name is Dr. Reid. I’ll be your professor for this course.” He paced around for a moment before coming to a stop and leaning himself back onto the desk. He looked a bit different from his faculty picture. His brown hair had grown out, allowing you to see more of his curls. His once clean-shaven face had evolved into stubble, and the rings around his eyes looked a bit darker. However, you couldn’t argue, he had aged well. 

“First thing’s first, the university requires that I take roll call for the first three weeks of the course.” You waited for him to fumble around on the computer or take up a piece of paper with all of your names on it. Surprisingly, Dr. Reid began calling out names from memory without picking up a roster. “Riley Anderson?” 

“Here,” a light-haired boy in the back of the class said, waving his hand. 

The back and forth of Dr. Reid calling names and students replying went on for another minute before he came to your name, “Y/N Y/L/N?”

You raised your hand and offered a small smile, “Here.” He looked up at you and smiled back. As you looked away, you could feel his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he cleared his throat and continued, making quick work of the rest of the roll call before starting the course. 

The first day’s lecture was relatively tame. Nothing too gruesome was discussed, and thankfully the young doctor didn’t make you play any more icebreaker games. Upon class dismissal, a large line of students eager to make nice with their new professor lined up at his desk. Though you had hoped to meet the doctor personally, you didn’t want to wait around after being on campus all day. You quickly gathered your books and shoved them in your backpack before walking up the stairs and leaving the lecture hall. 

As with all semesters, the work began to pile on quickly as you did your best to keep up. Most of your classes began to blend together. However, Dr. Reid’s class was always your first priority. There was something about him that made you feel the urge to make him proud of your work. Maybe it was the way he’d smile thoughtfully as you asked him questions during the lecture or the time he’d made extra office hours for you when you needed help with a paper. It could have even been the morning you’d bumped into him in the campus coffee shop and he’d paid for your drink. As you pondered this, laying in bed the night before your midterm, you couldn’t help but feel a little silly. He did these things for all his students, right? You did your best to quiet your thoughts before forcing yourself to sleep the night before your exam. 

The next morning, you walked through campus with a certain confidence in your step. Though you had never been a great test-taker, you were confident that you were going to do well on Dr. Reid’s midterm. He’d even been so kind as to offer you a study guide, which you had been working through over the last week. You were prepared, but as you approached the lecture hall, you could see that your classmates weren’t feeling so confident. 

A young boy sat by the door, frantically scanning his handwritten notes in a last-minute attempt to memorise information. Several others followed suit.

Dr. Reid came around the corner, exams in hand. “Good morning, Y/N,” he said with a bright smile. “Are you ready for the exam?”

“Born ready, Doc,” you joked, following him into the lecture hall and settling into your seat. Dr. Reid passed out the exams. Just as you suspected, you finished without a hitch. You dropped the paper on his desk and he offered you a small smile as you turned and left the lecture hall. 

You made your way to the library to study for your fifth and final midterm. You chose your typical spot in the corner of the room, hidden behind a large bookshelf. As you settled into study, you put your headphones in. As you dove into your reading, you became oblivious to the world around you. An hour passed, and it was only when you felt a tap on your shoulder that you were pulled from your work. 

You turned to face whoever had tapped you, and you failed to hide your surprise when you were met with the dark eyes of Dr. Reid. “Oh, hey!” you said, trying to be casual as you paused your music and took your headphones off. “What are you doing here?”

He looked down at you from his standing position, offering an awkward shrug. “I’m not sure, really. I guess I just thought I might find you here.” 

You furrowed your brow. “Is something wrong? Did I mess up on the exam?” 

Dr. Reid shook his head, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Goodness, no. You did wonderful. The grade is already in, actually.” “Oh,” you mumbled, smiling a little at his compliment. “Well then, what’s up?”

He stumbled around for a second, working up the confidence to utter his next sentence. “I was wondering if you were free tonight.” 

Your eyebrows raised and you felt your jaw drop a little. Was this happening? “Uh… f-for what?” you asked, trying not to get your hopes up. 

He pulled his hands from his pockets, fiddling with his tie as he shook his head. “Ah, you know, this was silly of me. I should go,” he turned to turn from you, but you reached out and grabbed his hand before he could walk away. 

“For what?” you asked again, ignoring his previous comment. You locked eyes with him, trying to read his expression.

He stood up a little straighter, your obvious interest seemingly bolstering his confidence. “I’ve been working on an article for a journal publication here at the university. I was wondering if you’d be willing to look it over for me,” he said. There was silence for a moment before he added, “I will also be cooking a new pasta recipe I found, and I would like it if you would stay for dinner after that.”

You felt a small smile creeping on your face, but you tried to contain your excitement. However, you could tell from the blush growing on his cheeks that he noticed. “I would love to do that, Dr. Reid. If you could send the address to my personal email, I would be more than happy to be there in-” you looked down at your watch, “roughly an hour.” 

A smile spread over his face, “Great. I’ll do that right away.” He looked around the library for a moment before he seemed to realize where he was, snapping back to reality. “Right, well, I’d better go straighten up my place a bit. I’ll see you soon, Y/N.” With that, Dr. Reid turned from you and headed for the library door. He glanced back at you once, the blush on his cheeks evident as he walked out onto the quad. 

—

After Dr. Reid’s departure from the library, you quickly gathered your things and rushed to the parking lot, making quick work of the drive back to your apartment. You jumped in the shower and rinsed the day off yourself before drying off and standing in front of your closet. 

You examined your clothing choices. This wasn’t a date, was it? Maybe you should go with business casual… or should you choose something a bit more scandalous? Scandalous seemed to be the winning choice. If anything, you could lie and tell him you were going out after leaving his place. He wouldn’t think anything of it, right?

You settled on a shorter black dress that had a low-cut top. It exposed the tops of your breasts in a way that wasn’t wildly distasteful but wasn’t too subtle, either. You decided to skip on the underwear for the evening, the idea of being exposed underneath your dress enough to excite you. You’d never been with a man before, and you figured tonight wouldn’t necessarily be any different. You might as well have some secret fun of your own. 

Checking your watch, you realized you were running short on time. You dashed back out the door to your car. Checking your phone, you saw he’d emailed you as he promised: 

From: Spencer Reid Here’s the address you asked for, along with my apartment number. I look forward to seeing you soon.  -S.R.

You couldn’t help but smile as you entered the address into your car’s GPS before taking off. The fifteen-minute drive felt like an hour as you tried not to let yourself get too nervous. You entered the lobby of his apartment building, catching the elevator to the fourth floor. 

“Apartment 424,” you mumbled to yourself as you stepped off and walked down the aesthetically lit hallway. The carpeted floor was pristine, and the view from the window at the end of the hallway told you that living in this building was not cheap. You shook the thoughts from your head as you reached the last apartment in the hallway, closest to the window. This is it, you thought, don’t fuck it up. 

You knocked twice and stopped to listen for any motion on the inside. You swore you could hear the soft lull of classical music from behind the door, and you suddenly heard footsteps fast approaching. The dark wooden door swung open, unveiling the wild curls of Dr. Reid. “Y/N!” he said, a smile spread wide across his face, “I’m so glad you’re here. Please, come in.” He stepped back from the door, ushering you into the room. 

“Thank you, Dr. Reid.” You stepped inside, examining the room around you. It fit his personality wonderfully. The green paint on the walls was accented by large bookshelves and dark furniture. You smiled when you noticed the lack of a television and instead, a record player sat in front of the sofa. “You have a lovely apartment, Dr. Reid,” you whispered, in awe of the way his personality was infused into the design of the place. 

He furrowed his brow at you, tucking his large hands into his pants pockets once more. He must be nervous. “I appreciate that. But please, call me Spencer.”

“Spencer,” you said, testing how the name felt in your mouth. “I can do that.” He smiled at you before gesturing to the couch, offering you a place to sit. You followed his lead, sitting on the far end of the couch as he perched in the middle. You felt him watching you closely, so you turned to look at him. 

Spencer noticed that you’d caught him staring, so he cleared his throat to diffuse the awkward silence that had fallen over the room. “Here’s that piece I’ve been working on, if you’d still like to look over it.” He leafed through some files on the table before pulling out a thick stack of papers, held together by a large paperclip. 

You took the article from him. “Twenty-seven pages front and back? That’s quite the article, Spencer,” you joked, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. 

He blushed sheepishly. “You don’t have to read it all if you don’t want to. I just thought that-” 

You waved your hand, cutting him off. “Of course, I am going to read it all. I’ll get started right away if you want to go work on something else.”

“Actually, I think I’m going to start that recipe I mentioned if you’re still interested in dinner,” he rose from the couch, watching for a sign of your approval. 

You looked away from the papers to smile up at him, “Certainly, thank you.”

As he walked away, you continued scanning the papers he had given you. You weren’t sure why he wanted you to review it, you could find no issues. You let out an audible sigh, which Spencer heard from the kitchen. 

“Are you doing okay?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes! I’m not sure why you wanted me to look over this. It’s flawless,” you said, sounding almost disappointed. 

“I would take that as a compliment if you didn’t sound so let down,” he said jokingly, a nervous tinge in his voice. 

You shook your head, “I feel that I wasn’t much help.” 

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been a great help on this project. In fact, the questions you asked about the behavior of female abusers in class were what got me thinking about this in the first place.”

A blush spread over your face, “Really?”

He smiled, trying not to make it too obvious that he noticed the blush on your cheeks. “Really. You’re easily my best student. Your drive is unmatched, and your work is some of the best undergraduate writing I have ever seen. You should consider graduate school if you aren’t already.”

I shrugged at his words. “I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. We’ll see where life takes me, I reckon.” Spencer nodded before padding back to the kitchen, checking whatever he had put together in the oven. Almost on cue, a kitchen timer dinged, letting him know creation was complete. 

He pulled an oven mitt onto his large hand and pulled the dish out of the oven, setting it carefully on the stovetop before he turned back to you. “If you’d like to come sit at the kitchen table, I’d be happy to serve you.” You did as he requested, picking one of the two seats set at the table. Two glasses of wine were readily poured and thick, black cloth napkins were placed at each chair. You spread the fabric over your lap, noticing the careful vines embroidered along the trim. 

“Are these hand-embroidered?” you asked. 

Spencer nodded, “My mother used to live with me. She enjoys doing that sort of thing. I came back one day and she’d done these floral patterns around the edges.” He held up his cloth, gently tracing his finger along the vines and flowers. 

Despite your evident interest in her handiwork, you couldn’t help but wonder about his mother. “Your mother used to live with you?” you asked. “Where is she now?”

Spencer sighed as he looked down, gently laying his cloth across his lap as you had done moments before. “She stays in a nursing facility where they can give her the attention and care she needs. Between working at the university and consulting on cases for the Bureau, I wasn’t doing enough.” As he looked up at you again, you could hear the implication of his final statement: I wasn’t enough. 

You reached for the hand he’d placed back on the table, gently covering it with your own. “I’m sure you did everything you could for her. I’m certain she knows how much you care for her.” 

He offered you a sad smile, turning his hand up under yours and gently wrapping his fingers around your hand. “Thank you, Y/N.” Spencer trailed off, seeming to zone out for a minute as his eyes glazed over. You gently pulled your hand away from him, bringing him back to reality. 

“Well, uh,” he cleared his throat, rising from the table. “We can’t have dinner without the food, how silly of me.” Spencer gently picked up the dish from the counter, setting it on the table in front of you. You examined the dish of pasta. “May I?” Spencer asked, scooping up a healthy spoonful. 

“Sure, thank you,” you picked up your plate, offering it to him. He placed a large helping of food on your plate along with a piece of bread before passing it back to you. You waited for him to serve himself and get reseated before you took a bite. “Oh my god,” you mumbled. 

Spencer’s eyes shot up from his plate as he dropped his fork on his placemat. “What’s the matter?”

You shook your head, eyes wide in amazement. “This pasta is incredible. Where did you find this recipe?” 

Spencer’s shoulders relaxed and he let out a small laugh of relief. “Oh, I got it from a coworker. He’s a true Italian – cooks this sort of thing all the time.” 

You lifted the glass of wine he’d set out for you earlier. “Cheers to this mysterious coworker and your ability to replicate authentic Italian cuisine.”

He mirrored your movements, and your glasses gently clinked together. You locked eyes with him as you both took sips of your drinks. Something about the moment was wildly intimate and laced with flirtation. 

You forced yourself to look away, examining the cloth on your lap. “So, uh,” you stuttered, “are you looking forward to the end of the semester?”

Spencer took a bite of his pasta, mulling this over for moment. “Well,” he started, “yes and no. How about you?” He looked you over. You wondered if he was trying to profile you based on his careful examination of your body language and facial expressions. 

You chose to shrug, “Yes and no.”

“Why’s that?” he asked. 

“Oh, I’m not sure. There are some classes I’ll miss. Yours, of course.” 

He smiled shyly, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I love your class, but it’s really more than that,” you mumbled, refusing to make eye contact as you fiddled with the hem of your dress. 

He quietly rose from the table and approached your side, looking down at you carefully. “Tell me,” he whispered. He leaned down to you, putting a hand under your chin and forcing you to look at him. He placed his large hands on either side of your face, as one of his thumbs gently caressed your cheekbone. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he whispered. His dark eyes scanned your own. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong and we can forget this. We’ll never talk about this again.” 

You swallowed nervously. “You’re not reading this wrong,” you answered quietly. You brought one of your hands up to cover one resting on your face. 

You rose from your seat and he followed suit. He stood several inches taller than you, adding to the strange power dynamic between the two of you. 

He lowered his hands, running them over your shoulders and down your arms until he slipped his hands around your hips, holding you in place in front of him as he looked at you. You could see the way he held himself back from you. He was trying to decide just how far he should go. 

You sighed and reached for him. “I’m not made of glass, you know,” you whispered jokingly, hanging your arms loosely from his neck to pull him a bit closer to you. He complied, leaning over you silently as your words hung in the air between you. 

“This entire situation is delicate,” he said in a serious tone. “I just don’t want to overstep.” 

“Spencer,” you laughed. “I’m standing in your apartment, calling you by your first name. Your hands are wrapped around my hips. I’m hanging off your neck. Don’t you think we’ve already overstepped?” 

He considered this for a second, looking around the room. “I suppose. What are you thinking?” he asked genuinely, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. 

“I’m thinking,” you said, pressing your body against his, “that I would love to push some more boundaries with you.” 

As much as he tried to deny it, he found himself giving in to you. Spencer closed his eyes, letting the scent of your perfume flood his senses. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he whispered. 

“Tell me,” you pressed a gentle kiss to his neck. He leaned back, allowing you full access.

“Fuck-” he murmured, “I noticed you from the beginning. You…” His words trailed off into a groan as you gently sucked on his neck. He ran a hand down your body, pressing you against him with a large hand on the small of your back. “You’re always so attentive, so eager to learn.”

You hummed in agreement, continuing to trail your lips up and down his neck. “Is there anything else you can teach me?” you whispered dangerously close to his ear. 

He pulled away, placing a gentle hand around your waist, guiding you into the hallway of his apartment. “Where are we going?” you asked. 

“My bedroom,” he said. His hand tightened around your waist as he reached for the door. 

The two of you stumbled inside, unable to keep your hands off each other. You found yourself falling backwards on his bed as he leaned over you, catching your lips in a kiss once again. You ran your hands through his soft curls and thought of all the times you’d berated yourself for imagining this exact moment. This couldn’t be happening. 

“I’m not going to go easy on you,” he mumbled against your lips. You felt a tinge of anxiety. Was now the time to tell him you really had no idea what you’re doing? He ran his hands up the back of your thighs, lifting the hem of your dress and revealing your lack of underwear to him. “No underwear?” he asked, smile evident on his lips as he leaned over you, leaving your back pressing against his clothed chest. 

You blushed, trying not to let on that you’d secretly been praying for this to happen all evening. Of course, Spencer already knew that. You were putty in his hands. 

He lifted himself off of you, and you rolled over to face him as he stood over you. “Stand up,” he said. You did as you were told, rising in front of him. You stayed still as he circled you a moment, almost as if you were some kind of prey. Spencer found the zipper to your dress. He rested his hand on it for a moment, leaning forward to offer you a soft kiss on the cheek. You took it as his way of asking for your consent, so you nodded, to which he immediately began unzipping the back of your dress. 

The black material fell from your shoulders and soon laid limply at your feet. Spencer let out a quiet moan as he turned you around to face him. You were completely bare before him. “My god, Y/N,” he mumbled. 

His lips attacked yours as he pushed you back on to the bed, your dress forgotten on the floor as his hands explored your body. He placed both his hands around your breasts, squeezing them gently as he began kissing down your neck. Spencer’s descent down your body continued with the utmost purpose, as you saw him lowering himself off the bed and down on to his knees in front of you. 

“W-what are you doing?” you asked nervously. 

Spencer looked up from your body to meet your eyes. “I want to taste you,” he said, matter of factly. 

As hot as the statement was, you couldn’t overcome the insecurity and anxiety that had seeped into your mind. In one flash, the confession fell from your lips. “I’ve never done this before,” you whispered, voice barely audible. 

Spencer stopped immediately, completely removing his gaze from your naked figure to focus on your face. He rose from his knees and sat himself on the edge of his bed. “You’ve never had sex before?” Spencer asked gently, looking you in the eyes the entire time. 

You nodded, suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable in front of him. “I probably should have disclosed that sooner. I’m sorry, I know it’s a major turn off,” you started to sit up, reaching for your dress on the floor. As you did, Spencer grabbed your wrist, forcing you to stop and look at him. 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” he said. 

You furrowed your brow at him. “Really?” 

He cupped your face with his hands, gently tracing the edge of your jaw with his thumbs. “I know our situation isn’t the most conventional, but if you let me, I promise I’ll take care of you.”

You bit your lip in anticipation. “Okay,” you nodded. 

“Okay,” he whispered. “I want you to lay back for me, and I’ll make you feel good.”

You couldn’t help but trust him as you laid back on to the bed. He dropped to his knees once more, running his hands over your thighs before pulling them apart, exposing you to him. Spencer lunged forward, licking an experimental stripe up your slit to gauge your reaction. You’d never felt anything like it before, and you couldn’t help but moan as he continued his movements, focusing his attention on your clit. 

“Spencer,” you groaned. Your hand found its way to his mess of curls, tugging sharply. He moaned into your center, the vibrations nearly sending you over the edge. “I-I’m close,” you whined, continuing to hold the back of his head. 

You heard him speak from between your legs, “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.” Spencer dove back into your core, wrapping his lips around your clit. 

A sudden intrusion caused your legs to jerk, and you realized he’d inserted a finger into you. The mixture of the wonderful pressure he was placing on your bundle of nerves and the new sensation of his finger thrusting inside you sent you over the edge. You came hard, loosing your grip on the back of his head as you did. 

Spencer remained on his knees, lapping up what he could of you release before he rose to meet you on the bed. “You’re such a good girl,” he said, placing a soft kiss on your forehead as he laid next to you. 

You hummed in satisfaction, forcing yourself to open your eyes. He brushed a strand of hair out of your face. You couldn’t help but notice the sinful amount of clothes that were still on his body. You expressed this by tugging gently on his tie, “Why am I the only one who’s naked?” 

Spencer chuckled. “We can fix that,” he said, rising from the bed. He made quick work of his tie, and undid the buttons on his dress shirt as you watched in awe. As Spencer shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, you took in his physique. Though thin and tall, his muscles were pronounced. You noted a few scars scattered about his figure, and wondered if you could get him to tell the stories behind them. His voice brought you out of  your thoughts. “You’re staring,” he said as he slowly undid his belt. 

You shrugged from your position on the bed, “I like what I see.” 

He let out a quiet laugh as he discarded his belt on the floor next to the bed, the hard leather hitting the floor with a loud thunk. Spencer peeled his pants off his legs, neatly folding them and setting them on a dresser next to the door. You couldn’t help but notice the large tent in his boxers, and found yourself wondering what exactly he was hiding under there. 

Before you could stop yourself, you slid off the bed and stood in front of him. He raised an eyebrow at you, indicating his confusion as you dropped to your knees in front of him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he said with a tinge of humor in his voice. 

“Returning the favor,” you said shyly, not wanting to meet his gaze. 

A large hand came to rest gently on your head as he ran his fingers through your hair, “You don’t have to do this, you know. This is about you.”

You shook your head, finally mustering up the courage to look up at him. “I want to. I want you to teach me,” you whispered. 

That statement was enough to bring an end to his objections. Spencer smiled down at you with a sigh, “Pretty girl. Go ahead.” You smiled happily at the compliment and the permission to continue. You placed a few simple kissed above the hem of his boxers before locking your fingers under the seam and pulling them down completely. Spencer assisted by stepping out of his boxers, and he stood completely bare in front of you. You stared at his figure once more, eyes wide at the sight of him. His length was intimidating, especially for someone as inexperienced as yourself. You were unsure of how to proceed. 

Spencer leant down quietly and took your hand from his thigh, moving it to wrap around the base of his cock. “Now, just move your hand back and forth until you find a rhythm,” he encouraged. Like a student eager to please, you followed his instructions. After a moment he spoke again, “You’re doing so good, pretty girl.” 

You weren’t sure if it was your need to praise him or the flash of unadulterated lust you felt at that moment, but you leaned forward and slid the tip of his dick into your mouth. Spencer looked down at you through hooded eyes, the silent act urging you to continue. You opened your throat the best you could, sliding him further into your mouth until you couldn’t anymore. You wrapped your hand around the rest of him and, in time with the bobs of your head, stroked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. 

“Y/N,” Spencer groaned from above, placing an encouraging hand on the back of your head. He held your hair tightly. “Relax, baby,” he murmured. You slowed your movements so that he could fuck your throat at his own pace. You could tell he was holding himself back for your sake, and your heart swelled at how gentle he was trying to be during such a filthy act. 

You closed your eyes, becoming accustomed to the feeling of him hitting the back of your throat, timing your breaths to the thrust of his hips. Suddenly, you felt the hold on the back of your head let up as Spencer pulled completely out of your mouth. “I’d love to keep doing that,” he said, out of breath, “but there are other places I’d like to finish tonight.” 

You blushed at the implication of his words. He reached a hand out to you, helping you stand up from the ground and pulling you into a passionate kiss. Spencer’s tongue entered your mouth as he moaned into the kiss, hands exploring your figure as he pushed you back towards the bed. You let yourself fall, the soft mattress greeting you as Spencer continued kissing you. 

He reached a hand down between the two of you, taking a hold of one of your thighs and spreading your legs open for him. Spencer pulled away from the kiss, meeting your eyes. “Do you still want to do this?” he asked. 

You nodded. “I want to do this with you, Spencer.”

“You have to be vocal,” he said, continuing to look down at you. “I want you to tell me what you feel and what you need.”  You agreed.  

He kissed you gently once more before guiding his hand in between your legs, pushing a single finger into your opening. Spencer thrusted the digit in and out of you slowly, allowing you to get used to the feeling. “Do you think you can take another one?” he asked quietly. 

You nodded, “Yes.” He gently pulled his fingers out of you, the next intrusion stretching you more than the last. He worked his index and middle fingers in and out of your opening as you moaned under him. 

After another minute, he pulled away from you. “You’re doing so good,” Spencer encouraged. He gave himself a couple quick strokes as he reached over to his side table, pulling a condom out of the drawer. He slid the condom over himself and positioned both your legs on either side of his body, lining himself up with your entrance. “Remember, you have to tell me what you’re feeling. Okay?” 

He rubbed soothing circles on your thigh with one hand as he gently rubbed his cock up and down your folds, collecting your wetness. You whimpered as Spencer pressed his tip into your entrance, body jerking inadvertantly as he continued to enter you. He peppered your collar with kisses as he continued. There was a small tinge of pain which brought tears to the corner of your eyes, but the pleasure was overriding the minor discomfort you felt. After fully entering you, he paused, allowing you to adjust.  

“How does it feel?” he asked. Your eyes, which had been squeezed shut, fluttered open at his voice. 

“Spencer-” you stuttered, “m-move. Please.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead before pulling himself back and entering you slowly once again. 

“God, you’re so tight,” he groaned above you. You couldn’t respond, too focused on the feeling of him thrusting in and out of you to begin to form a reply. “I wish you could see yourself right now,” he whispered, peppering your cheeks with kisses, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You moaned at his praise, and you felt yourself tightening around his cock. “You like it when I tell you how good you’re doing?” Spencer asked, a mischievous smirk rising to his lips. “You’re such a good girl, Y/N. You’re taking me so well,” he punctuated the final two words with sharp thrusts of his hips.

Between the words coming out of his mouth and the consistent movement of his hips, you knew you wouldn’t last long. You moaned, dragging your fingernails down his chest in an attempt to let him know. “Words, baby,” he encouraged. 

“I-” you groaned, “I’m gonna cum.” 

Spencer nodded, lifting himself up on his right arm to create some distance between you. “Hold on for me, one second.” He snaked a single hand down your torso, reaching your clit. He began drawing tight circles on your clit, causing your legs to shake as you tightened around him. Spencer leaned down to you and pressed his body against yours, “Let go, I’ve got you.”

With his permission, your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks. Your back arched off the bed as you squeezed your eyes shut, Spencer’s name falling off your lips. Driven by the feeling of you constricting around his cock, Spencer drove one final thrust into you, pushing himself in to the hilt. 

You felt an unfamiliar sensation as he finished into the condom inside of you, lips parted in a silent groan as he held himself above you, staring deep into your eyes. “Good girl,” he whispered one more time as he collapsed on top of you. You both laid there for a second in a futile attempt to catch your breath. He leaned up, placing a soft kiss on your lips before he pulled out of you, causing you to moan at the sensation. “I’ll be right back,” he said. 

You heard him exit his bedroom, and the sound of water running drew your attention to the bathroom. A moment later, Spencer reentered the bedroom. “Come on, baby. Let’s get cleaned up.” It was then you became aware of the amount of sweat coating your body, as well as the wetness coating your inner thighs. You accepted his outstretched hand as he lead you to his bathroom, allowing you to sink into the bathtub before he followed suit. He climbed in behind you, allowing you to lean back against him. “How do you feel?” he asked. 

You turned your head to look at him, “I feel great.” You sat in silence for a second, a smile spreading across your face. 

“What?” Spencer asked. 

You shook your head, covering your face before letting out a small giggle. 

Spencer’s smile mirrored your own. “C’mon now, what is it?”  

“I guess you did have a lot to teach me, Dr. Reid.” You turned to look at him, eyes meeting for the first time since entering the bathtub. 

Spencer pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek, lips dangerously close to your ear. “Believe me, there’s lots for you to learn, if you’re interested.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you asking me on a date, Doc?” 

He sighed, leaning back against the bathtub. “Sure am.”

“Maybe next time, we’ll actually make it through dinner and get to dessert,” you said with a laugh. 

“I don’t know,” he said, leaning around to look at you. He lowered his voice, “Now that I know what you taste like, you’re my favorite dessert.”

[cobaltperun]

Jerks With Hearts of Gold - Work For It

Request: Tara Carpenter x Female Reader

Summary: The first kiss should not be this difficult to get, yet nothing is ever easy for Tara Carpenter.

Masterlist / Side story of this request

Word count: 2.7k

She could no longer deny it, she could no longer fight it, and she hated every single thing about it. Except she didn't actually hate it, she absolutely loved it, only she would never admit it, especially to anyone other than herself.

Tara Carpenter was in love with a jerk.

How could this have happened? Sure, she wanted to live her life, set aside everything that's happened while being comfortably cautious about which people she let in, but she did not expect to let the biggest jerk of them all in. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she took it not just a step, but a fucking marathon further by falling in love with you. So, there Tara was, lying on her bed facing the ceiling and glaring at it as if she had your face painted right on it. She might as well have it painted there, because that's all she could see when she closed her eyes. Your smiling face, that stupid grin when you prove her wrong, or when you get the upper hand in a debate, or when you just annoy the living hell out of her.

“Jerk,” she muttered as she looked through window that was somehow facing the direction you were in. Of course, you were far away, too far for her to even see your neighborhood from her window, let alone your apartment, but just the fact that she knew she would be looking in the direction of your apartment if she looked outside her window infuriated her. Why did you have to be so good to her? You stopped smoking just for her, and that really was the true start of her downfall. But you couldn’t stop there, could you? Ever since she opened up about the attacks she survived you've been crazy attentive to everything she was feeling, noticing even the minute details about her mood shifts.

Somehow, despite only knowing you for a relatively short period of time, Tara was absolutely certain you wouldn’t turn out to be a Ghostface. Maybe worse than even that was how sure Tara was that if she confessed and you returned her feelings that the two of you would just stay together. That you would never break her trust or her heart.

And that just made her afraid that one day she would do that to you. Because there was that feeling deep inside of her, that thought that maybe she did ruin everything she touched, and that she just wouldn’t know how to let you love her.

Yet at the same time, Tara knew she wanted that kind of love, that almost unconditional love, more than she wanted anything in the world. So, Tara picked up her phone and sent you a message.

~X~

You were bored beyond what you imagined was humanly possible. You were so bored you might actually consider doing schoolwork that was still far from the deadline. That's how bored you were. You weren't in the mood for a movie or some new TV show or a new book or anything that would reasonably take more than a few hours to finish, but you also weren't in the mood to go out and have fun, or go to a stupid party if Tara wasn’t there, or anything of that nature.

Luckily, just as you were about to lament on your ruined night, your phone rang and you jumped to your feet cheering loudly that there was even a smidge of distraction to be had tonight.

You placed your palms together in front of your face praying to whatever higher being that might exist. “Please be Tara, please be Tara, please let me annoy her tonight!” because you would not be that desperate to actually send the message first. Not after sending the first message four times in a row.

You plucked your phone off your charger and the screen lit up and you pumped your fist at your side. “Yes!” you exclaimed. It was Tara. “Oh, I love this girl!” your eyes widened when you said that.

Well, you did love her, and you knew that, and you knew how you loved her, how much, and how intensely. But you haven't really said it out loud and with that sudden realization the urge to annoy her faded away and you just opened the message she just sent you.

Tara: Let's meet up tomorrow

Please I'm bored

Well, that was direct and right to the point, just the way Tara always was, and you grinned like a fool because you would get to see her tomorrow instead of waiting for the next week's classes. So, you replied with a simple ‘Of course! Usual time usual place?’

It took Tara less than a minute to reply, and you've never thought a simple ‘yes’ would make you this happy.

You walked back to the bed and just fell on top of it, still grinning. You loved this girl. You loved her so damn much and she didn't even know it and maybe, just maybe you could confess tomorrow. Just see how it goes. At least you won't be painfully stuck in friendzone and things would be clear, you would know if you should give up on these feelings or if you would just have to wait for some time until she got more comfortable. You understood perfectly well just how difficult opening up would be for Tara, and all you really wanted was to know if there was even the slightest chance that she might one day reciprocate your feelings.

~X~

She must have done something right lately because all of a sudden and without even considering all of those things Tara ended up being really lucky. First of all, she didn't have classes today, Sam was working, and all of her friends had classes, so no one was free to hang out with her. Not even Chad and he was the most relaxed about classes out of all of them. At least before the exams, once the exams were going then he was the one worrying the most.

That would probably be something you and Chad could bond over. You had the same annoying nonchalant approach before the exams only to completely flip it once exams actually started. She still smiled, because somehow, despite everything, she found that endearing.

The usual spot was your code of sorts, for a small secluded spot in the park that Tara found when she first came to New York, back when she felt the need to escape from everything and pretend she was just a normal teenager. And you came to appreciate the spot as well, so instead of hanging out in a café bar or some other place, one of you would get the drinks and the other some snacks and you just go and sit at the park. And it worked well, because not only was it a nice place where she could breathe easier, but it had designated spots for picnic, so that was just another plus in its own way.

Her heart was hammering in her chest as she walked through the park toward the place where you would meet up. The basket filled with your favorite food felt a lot heavier than it really was. You weren't really a flowers kind of girl, or rather Tara wasn't, she just felt that would be a bit too on the nose and she wants to be a bit subtle about everything. Although… There was nothing subtle about being twenty minutes early.

She picked a good spot for the picnic. The one with a nice shade, far enough from the people walking through the park, and light fresh breeze blowing through her hair bringing in the scent of the flowers blooming in the park.

“Guess we are both early,” Tara jumped when she heard your voice and flipped around to see you standing there sheepishly rubbing the back of your head, all the while holding a bag filled with a couple of bottles of probably juice if she had to guess. You were kind of boring like that, not really consuming alcohol, but she guessed that would make Sam like you more because you weren't some party animal.

“Damn it, you scared me!” Tara put her hand over her chest trying to calm her heart rate down. Getting scared was not one of her plans for the day!

Your eyes widened and immediately she could see the guilt on your face. “I'm sorry! I should have texted you or something, I just didn't want you to rush if you weren't here and-“ you facepalmed, you didn’t forget about anything, you just got eager to see her and she wasn’t expecting you. “God, I'm such a fool for scaring you like that!” there you were being the caring, gentle dumbass she fell in love with.

Tara smiled widely, unable to restrain her reaction. “Hey, it's fine, come on, let's just sit down and start this again, OK? Shit, look at us,” Tara laughed as you joined her, still looking at her apologetically. “We're like two teenagers trying to go on their first date instead of hanging out as friends,” she chastised herself and you to an extent because you were both nervous and she couldn't wrap her head around why you were nervous. She was the one who intended to confess her love for you… unless…

No, that couldn't be right.

The two of you knelt down on the blanket and began taking things out of the bag you brought, and the basket Tara brought. “You really went all out! And it's all homemade!” you commented, and Tara just knew you could see the blush on her face.

You only complimented her cooking, once granted she only cooked for you once, and ever since then has been practicing, wanting to impress you once more.

“I just grabbed the leftovers,” of course she wasn’t going to tell you the truth. She would die of embarrassment if that happened, but you knew, you probably knew every single time she uttered a ridiculous lie just to save face.

You snorted at that. “Of course, of course, I wouldn't dare to imply the great Tara Carpenter would prepare food for an occasion this beneath her,” you laughed and despite the joke you just said something just didn't feel right about it. It annoyed Tara more than she ever imagined it would. She just hated that there was a certain sense of self-deprecation within your voice.

So, Tara reached up, grabbed you by the chin and pulled you closer. “Don't you dare ever think that,” she leaned in, intending to kiss you and get all of this confession bullshit out of the way, and just show you how she felt instead. But then you smirked and pulled away from her and her hand was just left hanging in the air, empty, while her lips remained stuck, slightly pursed as she intended to kiss you.

“Work for it, Carpenter,” you did not just say that. You did not just deny her of the kiss she wanted for so damn long.

“What the fuck?!” Tara just stared. You actually did that to her. “Work for it? How do I- I mean- You know-“ she paused, taking a deep breath. “Was I reading this all wrong,” she gestured between the two of you. “And you actually don’t feel the same way? Y/N, I can take it if you don't feel the same way, I'm not some-“

You interrupted her by placing the tip of your finger on her lips and snickering and now she was just confused. “I do feel the same way, I love you too, Tara,” you said it so easily even if she didn't, even if she wasn't all that sure she could say those three words anytime soon, despite how genuinely she felt them. “I just want you to work for the kiss. You've been a pain in my eyes for so long, I deserve this!” you laughed and took a bite of the sandwich she so carefully prepared, choosing all the ingredients you loved, and here you were saying she had to work for the kiss.

“What do you even mean by work? How?! Tell me how?!” she demanded red in the face from the anger and the embarrassment and because she was denied of what she wanted and like a petulant child that was suddenly rejected she was just about ready to throw a tantrum.

And that wasn't like her. She was denied so many things as a child, it wasn't in her nature to throw a temper tantrum, yet with you she really felt like that. She felt like the way you were loving her, even when you were just friends, was allowing that child within her to come out for perhaps the first time in her entire life.

“Ask for it, you can’t just take it,” you winked at her. “Come on, now, Tara, all you have to do is ask,” oh, you were enjoying this. You got your victory. You knew she felt the same way that you did before you even uttered a single word and here you were eating it all up like the menace you were.

“I'm just not gonna do it,” Tara pouted and refused to look at you even if she knew you would just shrug and keep eating the sandwich.

“Whatever works for you,” you were being way too nonchalant about this and she should have been elated that you felt the same way that she did, but this was infuriating in so many ways. Of course it had to be like this with you it couldn't be just an easy, simple confession, followed by a soft kiss, followed by a passionate kiss that would threaten to consume both of you. No, it had to be this complicated and difficult because that's who you were and that's who she was. She was Tara fucking Carpenter and every single thing in her life just had to be complicated.

Well not this time.

“Let me kiss you,” she leaned in and you burst out laughing backing away once more not allowing her to claim her reward.

“That's not how you ask, dumbass,” you just laughed and sure, fine, she could play that game too.

“I want to kiss you,” you were still leaning away and she faked a smile, speaking through gritted teeth. “Come on, Y/N, people are watching. They're looking at me leaning closer to you and you are not working with me here,” she was working hard for it and she had the right to her hard-earned reward.

“Not the magic word, Tara,” surely you weren't going to make her actually ask for it! You loved her back, why was this so complicated! She even licked her lips to tempt you, and she saw you looking down on her lips, she knew you wanted to kiss her as well! You just weren't giving in.

Fuck…

“Please, can I kiss you?” there. She asked. You smiled and didn't back away as she leaned in and that was all she needed to just go in and press her lips against yours for a heated, passionate kiss. And when she pulled back, she truly was rewarded by getting to see you being a stuttering, embarrassed mess. “Cat got your tongue?” she asked and stuck her own tongue at you, the tongue that was mere seconds ago inside of your mouth because of course she couldn't go for a soft kiss for the very first kiss. She had to be intense with everything that's included.

Especially with this because you deserved to be loved just as intensely as you loved her.

Safe to say you failed to construct a proper sentence for the next twenty or so minutes. Frankly she was impressed it only took you that long to get your composure back and actually start putting words together in a way that made sense.

[enteroctopusdarkysilis]

✨More Clones Brickheadz !✨

Since I acquired the Small Cody (40675), I found that there was an untapped mine. Why would they only make one ? Well. I don't have an answer to that, but I decided to take matters into my own one; so behold : 11 more. I went mostly for commanders here, but then I went a bit astray and so I added some captains to the mix.

In order, row by row :

Tukk (Not cannon but the colours are so beautiful)/Vaungh (died too soon-)/Rex (obviously)/Fordo (I did Rex, so I had to)

Gree/Doom/Thorn/Neyo

Bly/Cody/Fox/Wolffe

It was a really fun project, and I hope to do more of them in the future - maybe even phase 1s, some day~); supposedly not commanders because I did most of them (except Bacara, I know...The helmet was too tough).

And because I really like challenges, if you want to see another clone turned into one of these (Be it cannon or one of your ocs) feel free to send requests in my aksbox !)

Anyway this post is already far too long for anyone's dashboard, so closeups and details will be under the cut !

Let's start with the easy ones : Cody, Doom, Fox, Thorn

Obviously, Cody was easy, I just rebuilt the original one virtually - Nothing too hard. The printed pieces here are not the right ones, because Cody's are not available on STUDio yet, but the storm trooper ones were relatively similar, so I used these for most of these models. Of course, it means I'm lacking the sun bands, and a few other distinctive elements, but it works well enough for now.

Now, Doom is essentially a colour variation (minus a few antennas). I also used an old space piece, which has this big yellow arrow printed on it. I's not exactly what Doom has, but I feel like it's close enough for a first attempt.

Then, Fox is relatively similar to Doom, but with two DC-17s. I also moved the printed torso brick up to get that red line he has.

Thorn works in a similar way to Cody too, except I removed both accessories on the side of the helmet. I also added this tile with diagonal lines to figure the wings he has. One day I'll slap some real wings on there, but I haven't found the right image yet. I also gave him a Z-6, obviously. I really like it, so I might actually make that one physically, because the way it's build (with old binocular pieces) is pretty nice; although I doubt the pieces are available in black.

Moving on to two captains : Vaughn and Tukk !

Admittedly, not really that different either, except for one thing : I learnt to do custom prints now ! Yay ! Well, these are really basic : the blue line for Vaughn, and some trapezoids for Tukk's helmet (which are, indeed, not visible here - shame, I spent so long making these fit). The Ahsoka pattern was already in STUDio (because Ahsoka already has her own brickheadz, which I'll get my hands on someday~)

I must also add that having some cyan in this whole thing added some much needed colours in here, I'm grateful some people give their clones amazing colours (If somehow someone doesn't know who Tukk is, well just check High Ground Animation. Right now. It's really cool, trust me). Anyway.

As for design changes, I modified the faces slightly by adding 1x1 tiles, to allow for different colours variations on the face. It makes them look slightly blockier, but given the overall size of the head, it doesn't do much.

I also gave Vaughn a DC-15A. It's a bit messy, but it works out well enough. Past me forgot to render it, so here is a raw, in-software picture of it (from Fordo(s hand, but it's the same design for both) :

BARC helmets ? Wolffe, Fordo, Neyo

As I've been told, these look a bit wonky, and I'll admit its wasn't exactly easy, but in my defence, it's relatively hard to get such round shapes with bricks (lego cheated by adding the visor). Anyway, given that doing that with a printed piece was out of the question, I tried to replicate the filter's shape with actual bricks, and I used a printed piece which, technically, is Lando's moustache, but downward. I'd say it does the job relatively well.

I also added a rangefinder to Wolffe, which is a little big compared to everyone else's antennas, but It's still relatively to scale with the head itself. No custom prints for him (not sure where I would find the correct pattern images ?), but I've done it for Fordo and Neyo. Fordo obviously has his well deserved Jaig eyes (and who knew it would be that difficult to find a picture of that on internet ?), and Neyo has his symbol on the helmet, chest plate, and the shoulder not shown here.

The really tinkered ones : Gree, Bly, Rex :

Here, it was a matter of trials and errors to figure out just how to get the shapes right.

I actually started with Bly, by removing the previous visor and adding the macrobinoculars first, then I tried to shape the helmet around. Truth is, it doesn't make sense technically : the two separated parts of the helmet do not connected at all, if you remove the equipment. Luckily, no one has to know that.

Next is Gree. It took me some time to figure out how to properly get a round feel, but I feel like it's as good as I can make it like this. Colour-wise, it was surprisingly difficult to find how to balance the different shades of green, and equally hard was to figure out which silvery colour would render well in STUDio. The answer lied, as it always does, in Bionicle. Of course, none of these pieces exist in this colour, but it's not really my main problem (because none of the coloured printed pieces exist either).

Finally, Rex...He gave me some trouble, I have to admit. Firstly, the part-designing software decided to have some trouble with custom prints, which was problematic, because I simply couldn't do Rex without jaig eyes (and Fordo already had his). Then, I started with Gree's base and tried to go from there to fit Rex's custom helmet. I ended up using Boba Fett's printed visor piece for Rex, because these were all triangles. I also got rid of the printed chest piece and used some black plates to simulate the pouch he has; while also adding a a few more custom printed pieces for the arms and pauldron (barely visible, but they're here. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I don't see much other solutions than more and more custom prints, which isn't my goal, so it'll stay like that for now.

Anyway, that's way too much rambling for one post, so I'll just end by saying that next week I'll post an alt version of this whole build [here !], with some 'slight' colour alterations. Definitely nothing big.

[wildemaven]

confessions | tim rockford

pairing: tim rockford x f!reader word count: 1349 warnings: 18+ blog; beer consumption, Tim is older than reader but no age given (not more than 10+ years), fluff, pining, secret crushes, kissing, fluff, one mention of calling Tim ‘old’ in a playful manner, (none of these pictures dictate the appearance of reader, this is all purely for vibes and up for your own interpretation) notes: this is my first Tim fic and I’m so excited to be apart of the Summer Lovin’ challenge out on by @pedgito @chaotic-mystery @amanitacowboy Big shout out to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for giving it a once over for me!! I appreciate you!!

“Thanks again for coming.” You lean over and say before hiding behind the sip from your plastic cup of ice cold beer. 

“Of course. It’s a bummer your date couldn’t make it.” Tim says now leaning slightly over in your direction so you can hear him. 

The music isn’t loud. More of a steady hum as a slower ballad is played on stage. Low enough that you can carry on an easy conversation without shouting over blasting speakers. 

“Yeah. Definitely a bummer he couldn’t make it. I don’t think I’d be having as much fun as I am if I was alone— so thank you.” You almost feel bad about lying. Your date that canceled on you last minute for this very concert you’re attending right now with your partner instead. 

Expect Tim doesn’t know that there never was a date prior to him accepting your last minute invitation to be your plus one. His detective skills certainly are not keen on the slight crush you've had for the man for some time now. 

“You don’t have to keep thanking me. I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to be here. It’s kind of a bonus that they’re one of my favorite bands. Missed out on getting tickets. So I should be thanking you.” Tim bumps your arm playfully with his elbow before directing his attention back to the stage where the lead singer is ripping on his shiny black electric guitar. 

“Oh! I didn’t realize that when I asked you. I’m so glad it worked out like this.” Another lie. 

You knew it was one of Tim’s favorite bands. Overheard him one morning in the break room talking about this upcoming tour and how it’s been a dream of his to see them live. The only problem was this exact venue had sold out before he had gotten a chance to even attempt to get tickets. 

It pays to know people. Especially the kind of people who owe you favors. You had immediately called in the favor and you were able to secure two tickets that were relatively close to the stage without any issues. 

Tim Rockford has been your partner at the police department for the last three years. The crush you’ve been quietly harboring for him has been alive for nearly the same amount of time. 

You tried to not feel guilty while flat out lying to him about the whole thing. Especially right now with how much he is enjoying himself. His head bobbing in time with the beat. The words so effortlessly fall  from his mouth as he sings along to each song. 

As the song plays on, you don’t see the way Tim is admiring you thoroughly enjoying the music. Your arms high in the air, falling into a rhythmic wave that mirrors the other concert goers. What surprises him most, and finds almost angelic, is the way you sing word for word without missing a beat, making him even more grateful you asked him to come now, so he could witness such a sight. 

“I’m surprised you know all the words.” He says with a grin that makes your stomach swoop instantly. 

“Of course I do. It’s a good song.” You’d only discovered it when you began your rigorous studying of the band’s entire discography after securing the tickets. But Tim doesn’t need to know that— yet. “They’re a great band for being around for so long.” 

He shoots you a pained look.

“A great band for being around for so long? Sweetheart, I was listening to them in high school. You calling me old?” He turns fully to you in the small row where your seats have been abandoned for the better part of the show. His signature Detective Rockford stance, hip cocked out and hand secure at his waist band, is way less intimidating when he’s dressed in his off duty casual clothes and unarmed. 

“Well, not as old as my dad…” Technically, Tim isn’t not much older than you, but the years between you were enough for there to be a difference in tastes of music. You shrug your shoulders at him, not sure if he’s picking up the flirty tone you’ve adopted in the last few minutes. “But if the shoe fits, I guess.” 

“I’m hurt— wounded.” Tim grabs at the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching under his grip. 

“What was that?” You cup your hand over your ear and lean back into him. “I can’t hear you over your knees popping every time you stand up.” 

His smile drops and it has you feeling like you might have crossed a line that has blown any chance of ever being something more serious with Tim. 

“Tim— I was totally kidding. I’m so sor—“ Tim cuts you off before you can properly apologize to him. 

Tim’s lips are softer than you had imagined them being, slotted perfectly over yours. The music playing is no longer the main event for you, fading into the background as Tim conveys to you his own undisclosed feelings for you through the kiss. It’s a moment that feels straight out of one of your favorite rom-com movies. 

“I hope I haven’t been reading this whole thing wrong and I didn’t just make an ass out of myself by shutting up that pretty mouth of yours.” Tim’s musky cologne mixes with the beer he’d been savoring as his words fan across your face at such a close proximity. 

“No. You definitely didn’t— to both things.” A cool breeze sweeps through, alleviating the warmth that’s settled on your skin. “I have a confession to make.” 

“What’s that?” His thumb grazes over the apple of your cheek. It’s gentle effort helps ease all of your shot nerves. 

“There was no date. I got the tickets and planned to ask you. I didn’t want to sound desperate or weird, so I made it seem like I was going with someone else and that they canceled at the last minute.” 

“Oh— well I guess I should confess something to you then.” There’s a small hint of relief that you detect in his voice at your confession, you wouldn’t be one of the best detectives in your department to let that tell slide by unseen. “I was jealous of your non-existent date.” 

“Really?!” 

A light fluttering sensation swirls through you. Sincerity etched in the flecks of the warm brown eyes staring back at you. 

“Yeah. Heard you talking about it with everyone at work. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that had wished it was me going with you.” 

“You’re only saying that because it’s your favorite band playing right now.” 

You amusingly roll your eyes and push at his solid unmoving arm, but he catches your wrist before you can pull away. 

“Nah, I would have been jealous even if it was that Bieber kid.” Tim maneuvers his hand around yours, interlocking your fingers together. 

“Good to know, Rockford. I'll remember that for next time.” 

The chords of a new song fill the air. A vivacious energy spreads through the crowd like a wildfire. It’s not enough to break the small bubble Tim and you are currently existing in. 

“Next time? So what does that mean for us then, Sweetheart?” His brows knit together. He’s hopeful at the prospect of a next time, but doesn’t want to be too expectant and scare you away before he even has a chance to have you. 

“I don’t know. Let’s listen to the rest of this concert. Then afterwards you can take me to that old diner you love over on Pine Street. Order some food and we can talk until they threaten to kick us out.”

“If I’m not mistaken, that kind of sounds like the perfect first date.” He delivers another weak-in-the-knee inducing smile and you can’t help but mirror it with a little wink. 

“Way to use those detective skills.” 

It’s your turn to kiss him. It doesn’t linger as long as you’d like, but the night is still young. 

[trippinsorrows]

with me + part one

authors note: well, i got some type of writers block working on two other RR wip's so opened a new google doc and ended up with this. prob gonna be 3 parts, maybe 4. there's an almost five year time jump after this one, can you guess why? also, joe's wife is an oc, not galina.

first time posting my roman writings on here and trying not to freak out tbh

warnings: angst, infidelity, language, suggestive content

song inspo: with me by destiny's child

word count: 4,000

You know that assignment everyone at some point in their education where they research what they want to be when they grow up and share it with the whole class for a grade? Yeah, that big mammoth of a question that somehow you’re supposed to have confidently answered before even reaching double digits.

That was always super easy for you.

From as far back as you can remember, you wanted to be a teacher. It took until you were in middle school, almost high school for you to settle on an elementary school teacher, college for a specific grade. But, the teaching profession always called to you.

You chalk it up to your grandmother, undoubtedly one of your favorite people in this entire world. She was also an elementary school teacher who taught until she was expectedly called home when you were 14. Some part of you wonders if you’ve never even allowed yourself to entertain any other professions because of her loss. She was your best friend, and following in her footsteps was wanted but also felt somewhat necessary. Like you had to in order to honor her and her legacy.

A couple years into your career, you still think about that, how you’ve known from such a young age what you wanted to do with your life. Well, one part. 

In other areas, maybe the most important areas, you were lost as all of the outdoors. Mostly in one area, if you’re being honest, and truthfully, it’s not even what you want in as much as it is how you get there. The path is relatively simple: find a man, fall in love, get married, have babies, live happily ever after.

It’s such a stereotypical trajectory, but one you’ve also envisioned for yourself since your late teens. You’d gotten partying all out of your system during the early college years, somewhat in high school as well. Now in your mid 20s, soon to be late 20s, all you want to do is prepare to eventually settle down. Sooner rather than later.

And the issue isn’t even having no prospects. You have a prospect, he’s just unavailable. 

Because he’s already fucking married.

But can you even call him a prospect when that implies there’s some chance? Because there’s zero chance. You know this. You know this very well, too well. So why you still allow him into your bed and inside of you is beyond you. Yes, the sex is out of this world, but you desire more than that. Maybe not at first, but almost three years deep into this arrangement, most definitely.

You still think back to your first meeting.

Your best friend won a contest that not only granted her two front row tickets to a Smackdown show but backstage passes as well. You met so many wrestlers that night, some you grew up watching on TV as the little tomboy that you were as a kid. But, it was one wrestler in particular: tall, muscular, hair more beautiful and silky than any silk press your beautician mother could ever style, that changed your life. Whether for better or worse remains to be seen. 

He was attractive, extremely, possibly one of the most beautiful men you’d ever met. But, the attraction was short-lived when you spotted the wedding band on his left hand. You’d be lying if you tried to say that was when the attraction sizzled out. It diminished, but it was still there. Still, you didn’t think much of it, that was until you received a call from a number on your phone that you didn't recognize. 

Why you even accepted the call is still a mystery. You never answered random calls, yet that one was an exception, an exception that resulted in you having an unexpected phone conversation with Roman fucking Reigns. He explained that he got your number from your friend who’d exchanged contact information with a wrestler she met that night as well. They were messing around too, that much you knew. And good for her. He, unlike Roman, was not married and therefore free to fuck around.

The conversation lasted much longer than it needed to, especially given the flirtatious nature it quickly took on. It was wrong, you knew this well, very well. He took vows, but you were also aware of those vows. And heat no point pressured you into anything, you could have cut it off. Flirtatious he was, but forceful he was not.

The conversations increased in frequency and length over a matter of weeks that turned into months, and before you knew it, your day started and ended with either a text or phone call from the wrestler. 

A small part of you knew that it would eventually escalate into more, a man like him seemed like he needed more. But, you stupidly tried to tell yourself that when that time came, you would remain strong and draw the line in the sand with just communication. Even if it was just as wrong as anything else.

It was a silly thought. 

Your resolve was weak.

You absolutely did not need to accept his invitation to fly you out to one of his shows, and you damn sure didn’t need to allow him to take you back to his hotel where your legs ended up wrapped around his waist as he pounded into you—among other things—until the early hours of the morning.

The days after that were rough. You felt absolutely disgusted with yourself. It was one thing to flirt with a married man, but it was an entirely different thing to fuck a married man. He wasn’t yours. He belonged to someone else. He had a life with some other woman. You had no right to insert yourself into that union, so you decided to sever contact with him, deleting his number from your phone and shoving the experience in the ‘biggest regret of your life’ box with no intention of reopening it.

Unfortunately for you, Roman, Joe, as he asked you to call him, was a persistent bastard.

You ignored his texts, so he called. You ignored his calls, so he texted. You ignored both, and this motherfucker showed up at your goddamn door. There were multiple times you could have and should have ended things, that being another perfect opportunity. If you told him to leave that night, not allowed him into your apartment, he would have listened. He was stubborn and resolute but also respectful. If you told him to leave, really told him, he would have done so.

But, you didn’t. You allowed him into your place and similar to the last time you were in his presence, ended up spread out on your bed with him balls deep inside you until you couldn’t feel your lower half. 

Now, fast forward three years later, not much has changed. You two don’t communicate quite as much in the day, and his visits are more spread out given the company’s current efforts at pushing him as the new face of the company. But, that doesn’t stop his visits to come see you and flights he puts you on to come see him, both of which always end with him leaving your legs jelly and throat raw.

All the while his wife sits at home unaware of her husband’s consistent residence between your legs.

The thought alone makes you sick, revolted at yourself, at how you’ve allowed yourself to reach this point in life. Closer to 30 than 20 and going on 3 years of being a mistress to a married man, a man who can never give you the future you want yet refuse to let go. 

Not that you’d ever allow yourself to really acknowledge why. 

That’s….that’s just too much.

________

Pillow talk was just something that naturally happened between the two of you. It made sense given that your relationship started out with just talking. He seemed interested in knowing more about you, about your likes and dislikes. He shared his as well. You weren’t beyond admitting that Joe was insanely easy to talk to, the flow of conversation always natural, never forced. There never seemed to be a dry spot between you two. 

And whether it was an innate ability to pick up on the emotions of others or just his, you could always tell when something was bothering him, could see when he came to you with a burden he didn’t want to discuss.

Not that that stopped you from asking. If he declined to talk about it, you respected it, didn’t push. But, more often than not, he would end up sharing things with you, mostly concerns regarding his career.

It seemed he visioned one thing for himself, while Vince McMahon saw another. He felt frustrated at times, especially when the fanbase started pushing back more. He never admitted as such, but you could see it hurt his feelings. How could it not? Kayfabe or not, Joe was still a real person with real feelings, regardless of the role he played.

And at some point, his visits to see you stopped always involving sex. That happened majority of the time, but there were occasions when he just seemed like he needed someone to be around, a distraction, someone to talk to. 

Someone like you.

“Come on.” You jumped up off the couch and offered your hand that he looked at with disinterest. “Don’t make me drag your big ass. It’ll probably break my back.” He lifts his brow, and you roll your eyes. “Joe, come onnnn.”

“Where are we going?” He finally asks, all the while sighing heavily and standing up. Though unnecessary at this point, he still takes your hand. You try not to think too much of the gentle squeeze he gives.

“To my kitchen.” 

Glancing over, he gestures with his thumb. “The place that’s like 3 feet away.”

You suck your teeth and shove against him. “Don’t be an ass. We’re gonna bake cookies.”

“Bake?”

“That’s what I said.” Though clearly skeptical, he follows you into the kitchen and watches as you start gathering supplies. “I spent a lot of summers with my grandma, and whenever either of us were having a bad day, she’d take us into the kitchen and we’d bake chocolate chip cookies. She’d always say there’s nothing a good chocolate morsel can’t cure.” 

Reflecting on those memories, so fond and cherished, brings a despondent smile to your face.

His eyes fall on you, sensing the sudden sadness. “You miss her.”

“Every day….” Shaking your head, you make a conscious effort to not make this about you and your grief. “Now, we need music.” You settle on some random “cookout” playlist that aids in setting the playful mood. To your surprise, yet not surprise, Joe keeps up without struggle. He's a fast learner, easily following along to your detailed instructions and explanations. Things get messy at times, as one does when baking, but it only causes the two of you to share laughter. Especially when you ‘accidentally’ get flour on each other. For you, it was an accident. His was definitely intentional. 

Still, between the laughter, light conversation, and New Edition serving as backdrop, it’s a sweet moment. 

“And now we wait,” you announce, plopping down on the sofa. “Wrestler by day, baker by night. Who’d a thunk it?”

He chuckles. “I never knew you could cook.”

At that, you nearly choke on the water bottle you’d grabbed off the coffee table. “Me? Cook? No. Not at all. There’s a reason every thanksgiving, my family only asks me to bring the drinks. My mom is the cook. Grandma was the baker. I can make cookies and a few select items. That’s it.”

You can still hear your grandma’s voice in the back of your head, chiding you for never allowing your mom to teach you how to cook. It just never garnered your interest, even when they swore up and down you’d never find a husband without knowing how.

Maybe they were right.

He joins you in the living room, settling on the other end of the sofa. “Maybe I could teach you then.”

His words—and offer—suprise you. “You can cook?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” He rolls his blue eyes. Some days you love the contacts, others you hate them. Today is a love day. They make his beauty even more exquisite. “Because of the big age difference between me and my siblings, it was just me and my mom a lot of times. They were either out and about or had either moved out. She’d ask me to help her out in the kitchen, and I picked up on a couple things.”

“You’re a fast learner.” That much is very obvious, in several areas of his life. “Was it ever hard? Like, not really having them around?”

He seems to think about her question before answering. “Yes and no. The twins moved to Florida when I was like three, and we became close instantly. It was like suddenly having two new brothers. Obviously, they didn’t live with us, so they weren’t always around, and those times were hard, I guess. But the older we got, the more we did together.”

The Usos. Also wrestlers trying to make names for themselves. He really does hail from a legendary dynasty. “I get that. It was just me and my mom, and she worked a lot to support us, so that’s why I spent so much time with my grandma. And I loved it, but sometimes it got lonely not really having siblings.” You look over at him, studying this massive specimen of a man who seems so unsure of himself right now, unsure of his future. He’d hinted at such during their prep, but you bookmarked the comment to revisit. “It’s all gonna work out, you know.”

His gaze is on you, partially disinterested, mostly in disagreement. Joe knows what you're referring to. He chuckles, darkly, “you sound sure.”

“I am,” you counter calmly. Moving to sit on your knees, you continue, “no matter what it takes, you make them respect you. You can do it, and when you finally find your footing, you’ll be one of the best to ever do it. Mark my words.” 

You’ve never been one to build up false hopes in anyone, far too familiar with the sting of disappointment. So every word leaving your mouth drips with sincerity. Joe is so much more than a “pretty face” or someone who got lucky by being born into a wrestling dynasty with a golden spoon in his mouth. He’s worked his ass off, you see how he works his ass off, so the last thing you’d want to witness is him become his own worst enemy by getting too into his head.

“You’ll see. They boo now, but pretty soon they’ll be cheering.” Moving to your knees, you lift your arms in a theatrical display. “Roman, Roman, Roman.” You yelp when his strong arms pull you into his lap, legs spread on either side of his thick thighs. “Would you let me hype you up? Like, damn.”

His smile, so beautiful and genuine, warms your soul. His spirits are lifted, and that’s all that matters. Joe’s hands are on your hips, palms massaging you through your shorts. You move your arms around his neck, resting on his strong shoulders “Thank you.”

It’s at this moment, you foolishly allow yourself to wonder. Wonder what it would be like for this to be the norm, for him to always return to your place when he has time off or in between shows. Wonder what it would be like to consistently be this safe space for him, to be in his corner and not just in the shadows, but in the light. To be supporting him ringside. To be his.

And for a second, you pretend. You pretend that you are his, and he’s yours. That this is your man, and you’re his girl. Just the two of you. Nobody else.

But the comedown from that is devastating, like a boulder sitting on your chest, a butcher knife to your heart. Because he isn’t yours. He never was, and he never will be. 

Mood sullen, you lower your arms to separate yourself. “I should…” You clear your throat, climbing off of him. The air is suddenly too stuffy, the room too small. You need space. “I should go check on the cookies.” 

Joe’s not stupid, far from it. You know that he has to pick up on your 180 in mood, yet he doesn’t pursue you, doesn’t ask questions, and you’re thankful for that. You need to not be around him right now, not so close, not so connected, not so in love.

You need to let him go. ________

“I can’t do this anymore.” 

Joe’s in the midst of sliding his shirt over his head, sitting on the edge of the bed when your voice, low and quiet, stops him mid movement. “What?”

“I said.” You blow out a big breath, unsure why your chest suddenly feels so heavy. “I can’t do this anymore.”

At that, he angles his body so that he can look at you, assess your face. He’s a big eye contact person. “What are you talking about?”

Irritation piques. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Joe.” Gesturing between the two of you, you kick the blankets off and quickly reach for your t-shirt that got discarded last night. Being naked in front of him suddenly feels uncomfortable. “This. It’s done.”

He pauses for a second and then shakes his head, resuming his dressing. “Okay.”

His tone is dismissive, like he doesn’t believe you. Like he thinks you’re playing around. Of course he would be in one of those moods, where he’s more irritable, less receptive and fucking stubborn. “I’m serious.”

“I’m not doing this shit with you right now.” Joe gets up and continues dressing himself, prompting you to climb out of bed and move in front of him. 

He can’t avoid his way out of this. You won’t allow it. It’s time to finally rip the bandaid off. 

You’ve sat on this for the last two weeks, since he last left your apartment and you realized you’d stupidly allowed yourself to fall for this man. Fall for a man who walks around with a wedding ring on his left hand, who’s always had that wedding ring from the moment you met him. You’re not upset with him, not as much as you’re upset with yourself.

You grew up the product of an affair, felt the stinging pain of being rejected by a parent whose selfishness resulted in the creation of life, a life he wanted no part of. Seen how your mom literally begged your piece of shit father to be in your life, to play some role. Heard how he cruelly rejected her, rejected you, calling you your mother’s bastard. A mistake.

It devastated you so deeply that you still can’t really talk about it without getting emotional. 

And yet, you idiotically found yourself playing the same role you used to judge your mother for: the other woman. 

It’s a role you stepped in, and one you must now step out of.

“There’s nothing to do.” You run your hands over your face and shake your head. Choosing to have this conversation at almost 4 o’clock in the morning probably wasn’t the best move, but you also know that if you give yourself more time, you’ll find a reason not to do it. And you need to do this. “You have a wife, Joe. A whole ass woman who loves you and would probably let you fuck her just as much as you like to fuck me. Go be with her, and if not her, find someone else, cause I won’t be that for you. Not anymore.” 

You’re not exactly sure what part of what you just said registered with him, but it’s obvious something did by the change of tone he takes. “Where is this coming from?”

“It’s coming from where it should have come a long time ago,” you answer, crossing your arms over your body. “This was never right, and I refuse to partake in it anymore. I won’t be your whore anymore.”

You didn’t expect hurt to flash in his beautiful eyes nor for him to move closer to you, that hurt intensifying when you back away. He can’t touch you. You can’t allow that, because all it takes is only touch, one longing gaze, and you’ll be putty in his hands. This has to end. “Is that really what you think you are to me?”

“I don’t know what I am to you, Joe,” you answer, honestly. It’s something you’ve battled back and forth with for nearly three years. Just what is it about you that keeps him coming back, keeps him in your bedroom, inside of you. At face value, it’s the sexual compatibility between you. Below the surface level though, there’s maybe more. You’ve never allowed yourself to venture there, and you’re certainly not about to right now. You know how you feel about him, but you refuse to really ask yourself how he feels about you. “And truthfully, it doesn’t matter, cause it doesn’t change anything.”

“So, that’s just it?” His voice is wounded, handsome face painted into a mixture of scowl and a frown. “Almost three years, and you want to throw it all away, for what?”

“For what…..Joe, you are married. You have a whole wife at home. Whatever issues you have that cause you to step out, work that shit out. Learn how to be with her. Cause I’m not doing it any more. I—I can’t.” Emotion imbues your voice toward the end, and you hate that shit. You don’t want him to see, to know, how much this has been eating you up as of lately. “I’m gonna be 30 in a few years. I want to be married. I want to have a family. I deserve that, and I’ll never have it as long as I’m messing with you, so I’ve gotta let you go.” You swallow the deep lump in the back of your throat. “And you’ve gotta let me go.” 

This time, this time you can see the part that wounds him, that digs into his chest. You’ve gotta let me go. 

Joe is fast, fast enough to move directly in front of you, large hands holding your face. He says your name, desperate almost. “Tell me what to do, tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Just….” He stops, and you close your eyes, refusing to see if it’s his own emotions coming up. You can barely handle your own cascade of feelings right now and refuse to take on his. “I can’t lose you.”

What you want…..

What you want is for him to never leave. What you want is for him to stay with you, to be with you. What you want is for him to have never met Jadah, never married her, never committed his life to her. 

What you want is for him to be yours and only yours, but what you want….is also what you can never have. 

“I—I want you to leave, Joe.” The words burn your lips, scorch your throat, ache your soul. “And this time….don’t come back.”

You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes, to see the result of your heartbreaking, even if honest request. It’s because you know seeing him hurt will only cause your resolve to crumble, and you can’t have that. You have to be strong, have to be the woman your mother couldn't.

So, you remain there, remain silent as he steps away from you, his touch vanishing. There’s such an emptiness in his wake.

It’s only when you hear the front door of your apartment shut that you finally feel it, the caving of your stomach, the heavy lump move from the back of your throat, the release of the loud sob you didn’t realize you’d been keeping at bay. 

It’s when you finally allow yourself to feel all of the emotions of a woman who just told the only man she’s ever loved to leave. 

If only you knew his departure was just the beginning of the rest of your life.

[puck-luck]

Ooh omg congrats on the 1K!!

I would like to request 5 of clubs with Jack Hughes please. (Maybe with an exhibition kink 🙈)

This isn't quite as clubs-like or exhibitionist, but I've been feeling slightly out of the mood today (I think because I had to make a lesson about the American relationship with Native Americans during colonization... not the most uplifting topic). Hoping for something better tomorrow!

Also I'm watching a 2.5 hour video essay about One Direction's history right now. I love that people can make whatever content they want, and they usually give it their all :)

after typing that i'm realizing that statement is really meta since i'm writing nhl fanfic. sigh. ok fine i guess i enjoy my own content whatever

Warnings: fingering, exhibition, Paul Mescal in Gladiator II WC: 592

You’ve never been one to keep trivial secrets from Jack. He’s your boyfriend and you are thoroughly against miscommunication. Your openness has resulted in plenty of fun jokes for Jack, the latest of which has landed you in your current predicament. You’re in the bougie movie theater that Jack always splurges on, sitting in a plush recliner and watching Gladiator II. Jack thought this would be a fun date night, because– well– you love Paul Mescal. 

It’s something about his nose. It’s very Roman, which you find sexy. Jack knows this, and knows that you’ve particularly enjoyed the costume design of the film, even joking with you about dressing up like a gladiator for Halloween. 

He hadn’t mentioned it again until this morning, which is when he told you that he’d bought some tickets for the film. It had actually been out for a while now, so the theater is relatively empty, but you’d never had the time to see the movie. Jack, after all, had wanted to see it with you… probably because he wanted to pull something like this.

He knows that Paul Mescal is your celebrity crush. You’ve been repeating that to yourself since you realized that it’s the motivation behind Jack’s movements. His touch had been casual at first, just tapping his fingers against your thigh. He’d convinced you to wear a skirt by claiming you’d be going to dinner afterward. You expect that his real reason is that he wanted easy access.

His fingers are inside of you now, petting over your walls. He’s teasing you, moving slowly when Paul Mescal isn’t on screen and thrusting into you at a quicker pace when your crush graces your vision with his presence. Jack also particularly likes drawing circles over your clit as he moves inside you, constantly keeping you on the edge.

“Jack,” you hiss, ready to try and convince him to stop, even though you only half-want his movements to cease. You’re flushing a bit, eyes darting around the theater to make sure no one is watching you. There are only a few other groups in the theater: another couple two rows ahead, a group of university-aged girls near the middle of the theater, two middle aged women in the front row. All in all, there are less than fifteen people in this theater. 

“Be quiet, baby. I can’t have everyone hearing you,” Jack murmurs. He shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth, continuing his movements. He’s acting completely normal, even as your cunt squeezes him tight. 

You bring your hand down and clutch his wrist, trying to halt his movements. 

Jack turns to you. “Do you really want me to stop?” He asks quietly. Paul Mescal starts speaking on the screen and Jack’s eyes flicker away from you to check the screen. His thumb increases its pace against your clit and his fingers flex rapidly inside of you. 

You whimper a bit, clenching down involuntarily. Your knuckles turn white while your fingers grip his arm. Your hips jolt.

Jack quirks an eyebrow. 

“No,” you admit, loosening your grip and allowing him to continue. 

“Just pay attention to Paul,” Jack encourages, smirking at you and brushing a kiss against your cheek. “I’m just here to help you along, baby.”

You scoff quietly, cringing a bit at his words. 

Jack clocks your reaction, his face breaking out in a tiny smile. He giggles to himself, tracing the line of your jaw before mouthing against your throat. “Don’t laugh. We’re having fun. You, me, and your other boyfriend.”

[20dollarlolita]

What are notches and how can I pirate them?

If you've ever used a commercial pattern, there's a good chance you've encountered notches. They're little markings along the edges of your cut pattern pieces, and you use them for identifying the pieces and aligning them with each other.

Notches are important for a lot of things. First of all, sometimes parts are not easy to tell apart from each other, so notches make similar pieces visually distinct. They help you know which parts align, so that you don't accidentally sew something to the wrong edge of a piece. They also allow you to align parts that might not otherwise line up. If you're connecting an inside curve to an outside curve, or you're connecting a gathered piece to a flat piece, or you're connecting two similar pieces made out of different fabrics, notches help you make sure you're lining pieces up.

However, as much as I love using PDF patterns from indie brands, sometimes a small pattern company will, <screams internally> just not use notches.

We add notches to the pattern piece, and not to the fabric, for a few reasons. We cut most garments on the fold, so when you add notches to the pattern piece, the notches will be symmetrical across the garment. It's also easier to manipulate paper without distortion than it is to manipulate fabric.

For many reasons, one being a lack of notches, I started a blouse and had to scrap the entire thing and start over. The fabric that I was working with was relatively fragile, and couldn't stand to be ripped and re-sewn too many times. Since I'm making this again, from a new size of the pattern, I thought I'd take the time to show everyone how I add notches:

The basic technique for this is called "walking a seam." You're going to need a tool to use as a pivot for your pattern, and a surface where you can stab through. Carpet, ironing boards, and big pieces of cardboard all work well for a work surface, and you can use a push pin for your pivoting tool.

To walk a pattern seam, the first thing you need to do is to draw your seam allowance onto each pattern piece. When you walk the seam, you're going to be aligning the actual seam lines, not the edges of the fabric. If your pattern won't tell you what included seam allowance is on every piece, ask for your money back. That's basic information you should always get.

Start at the top of the seam, and stab your little stabby tool through both layers, so that you line one seam line up with the next one. You can now use that point as a pivot to swing either pattern piece around.

It's hard to see what's happening in photos, so here's an illustration.

In this illustration, the red dot represents your pivoting tool. In the top row, you a) place the pivoting tool at the end of both lines, so that they overlap. B) turn one of the lines/pattern pieces. so that the lines overlap. Due to the curves of these lines, it only overlaps for a little bit, before they start curving apart again. Now C) You move your pivoting tool so that it's at the point where the two lines diverge.

Second row: You now, using your new pivot point, move one of the lines so that it overlaps the other line. You can now move the pivot point to the spot where the lines start to come apart again. Once you've moved the pivot point, you can rotate the seam lines to once again make them line up.

It makes a little more sense in video form, though GIMP was being uncooperative and not saving this as an animation properly.

Anyway, the point of all of this is that it's an accurate way to make sure that two curved lines are the same length.

Now, if you're walking a seam, and you put a mark at a point in the walk, the mark will be at the same length on both pieces. This is how you use marks to make sure that two pieces line up if they're curved in different directions.

For example, these two pieces are different shapes, but they're the same length. Because fabric is weird and it stretches, if we don't put a mark in the same spot on each piece, when we match them up, we can't know for sure that they're actually meeting up evenly on both spots.

For princess seams like this, I like to do one notch above and one notch below the big curve.

If you're making a pattern to sell to other people, it can be really helpful to look at where notches are supposed to go in modern pattern making convention, and to stick with that. For example, a lot of the time notches are meant to line up with base foundation lines such as bust or natural waist.

If you're just doing this because you got a pattern with no notches and you fucked it up last time, the only thing that matters is that you give yourself help.

You'll see that I have a single notch above the curve, and a triple notch below. This is because on the front, I had a double notch below, and that would look too similar if they were the same number of notches.

Okay, so other pattern making convention here: see how the side back and side front both face the same side? This is technically wrong.

The reason this is wrong is that you should be able to put your pattern together like a puzzle and get half of a garment. Fronts and backs face opposite sides so that you can line them up on the side seam. When I wanted to walk these two pieces so that I could add a notch, I had to turn one upside-down and work on the back. That was really annoying.

Walking patterns is really important for complicated pattern pieces, like this rectangular collar that goes onto a very curved neckline. To ensure that this collar fits correctly, I wanted to add notches on the bottom that would line up with the shoulder seam. To walk that line, I had to place all four of my bodice panels together, so that the collar was all in one place. Again, you can see how half my pieces are wrong side up, and that's just becuase that's how this designer made this pattern.

You'll also notice that, for notches, I clip an actual notch in the pattern paper. I'm using a special hole punch for this, but you can use all kinds of different things. You can just cut a slit in the paper, or use a pen or something to draw in your notch.

Anyway, there's a way to just give yourself a few clues about what's the proper side of things in this crazy world of patterns.

[skzoologist]

Will you stay?

word count: ~1.8k

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort

summary: Old wounds are torn open, but Bae has someone by his side, always.

a/n: I am not back yet, I won't pretend I am. But I can offer this short fic, if anything.

Please let me know if I left a warning or anything out, I will add it in! Reblogs, likes and feedback are greatly appreciated!

!I don't condone anyone stealing my work and posting it anywhere without my permission, or feeding it to AI!

!This is just fiction, my interpretation of Stray Kids. By no means is this how they are and how they behave in real life!

·͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙·͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

·͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙·͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

Bae didn’t know what to feel.

In one moment he was just having a relatively good time, joking around with the others and watching as Minho was once again chasing around Hyunjin for whatever the weasel had said. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them, the group loud and energetic even when they weren’t in front of the cameras. And he truly enjoyed that, even if he was the black sheep amongst them, with how quiet he usually was.

But then the next thing he knew, his sight grew slightly blurry, the softest of tremors running through his hands. He was holding his phone, feeling it vibrate in his pocket. So naturally, he fished it out of there, not wanting to miss out on anything possibly important.

The first row of the message in itself was enough to make his breath stop, even though it was only a few words that popped up in the notification.

Glancing around, he saw that everyone else was busy, nobody paying him any mind, thankfully. Bae was also glad that he’d decided to sit alone this time, not squished between two of his bandmates on the sofa. He loved them, he truly did, but because of their closely-knit friendship he knew that they would immediately notice if anything was off with him.

Thus, he unlocked his phone and opened the message with a simple flick of his thumb, eyes quickly reading over the several, long rows of words. With each sentence a weight was added onto Bae’s shoulders, his chest constricting painfully.

Why would he get this? And why now?

It had been long months since he had heard from the person who had sent him this message, someone who Bae had called a good friend of his in the past. The two had hit it off back when they had been trainees, finding solace in sharing their hardships and helping the other grow their skills. Friendly chatter had flowed easily between them whenever they’d met, so much so that Chan and the others constantly teased them of being long lost soulmates, even if only platonically.

And Bae would have agreed back then.

But suddenly, that connection started suffering, becoming strained between the two. It was inevitable to a certain extent, since his friend had failed to stay by Bae’s side, leaving the company and chasing after another dream. Still, they kept in touch, telling stories to each other over text or at a rare café visit. And while there had been a slight rift forming between the two friends, it was still easy to jump over, something Bae had tried to fix.

It was all useless, in the end.

That rift had merely grown in size, so much so that fixing it felt like throwing down buckets of water into the endless stomach of the abyss. It was greedy, swallowing up everything, no matter what he’d tried. Every text had only gotten a dry response, the conversations dying out quicker and quicker with each attempt.

And after a while, Bae had stopped.

It felt useless, chasing after somebody who didn’t even slow down so he could catch up. But Bae came to peace with it. It hurt, yes, seeing those ghost conversations still sit in his phone, but people come and go. Such was the way the world worked. Besides, he had 8 boys now to always have by his side, becoming his second family.

So why?

Why was a goodbye letter blinking up at him from his screen, completely unprompted and talking as if he was the one who’d left his friend?

Why?

The air felt heavy in his lungs, each intake a little harder to perform. His hand had automatically shut the device off it held, knowing that if he hadn’t placed it down, he would look even more obvious to the others. It was hard as it is to hide the tremors running through his body, memories he’d buried long ago resurfacing and tearing open old wounds. Those things happened long ago, each and every single one something he had tried his best to forget and never relive. It had already taken him so much effort to reach where he was these days, to not question every little thing, to believe in others and their words.

Yet everything felt like it was crumbling down, years worth of effort just turning into dust, mocking him to rebuild it all again.

He wasn’t sure he had it in himself to do so.

By the time he’d snapped back to reality, Felix was by his side, concern clearly written on the young boy’s face. Bae didn’t hesitate to plaster on a smile, hoping he would buy the fakeness of it.

“I’m fine Felix, don’t worry. Guess ‘m just a little tired from today’s practice.” - he muttered out, flashing a smile at the boy’s direction before standing up, excusing himself.

He couldn’t bear to be there anymore.

Not when those loathed voices were coming back, making him question if they would eventually leave him too, just like everyone else had done so in the past. Would they find him boring after a while, once his cold facade broke away, his loving yet scared self finally revealed to them?

He didn’t want to think about it.

The door closed with a soft click behind him, the lock shifting in place to ensure his solitude. A deep sigh left his chest as he leaned against the door, too exhausted to try and keep those loathsome thoughts at bay anymore. He didn’t have the energy for it, not when his limbs ached and joints screamed, not when his mind was already filled with worries about their next project and comeback.

This one thing was the last drop to break him, his body shaking as tears rolled down his cheeks, staining his clothes and skin. He was usually strong, always there to provide comfort for the others, but tonight, it felt impossible. As if a weight was crushing his whole existence, not allowing him to continue on his path, binding him in place like a chain secured to the depths of the ocean.

All he could do now was to sit there, face buried in his knees, hands tightly wrapped around his shaking form. A hiccup escaped through his lips, loud in the silence of his room. He tried his best to not let any sound escape him, to ride these emotions out alone, not wishing to disturb anyone, but it was useless. He could only pray that no one had heard him, that none of the boys chased after him.

His prayers were left unheard as a soft knock echoed through the space, the vibrations running down Bae’s back. He stilled, unable to even breathe from the shock, only hearing the shifting of clothes besides the loud drumming of his heart.

A few beats of silence passed before a sigh could be heard, yet there was no frustration behind it.

“Dal, baby, I know you’re in there. I can hear you. Please let me in, it hurts to know you’re hurting.” - pleaded Chan, voice so soft Bae couldn’t believe the man was talking to him.

No reply could be heard as Bae’s silent tears continued, shocking him when a loud thump could be felt from behind, the door gently rattling in place once.

“You don’t need to tell me what happened, or what’s wrong, just… know that I’m here, yeah? I’m always here if you need me, always have been. Or so I’d like to believe.” - Chan chuckled, his voice turning into a hushed whisper near the end.

Bae slowly wiped at his eyes, a soft sniffle letting Chan know the boy was still awake and listening.

“You know, I’ve always admired you. Even when we were just young trainees, hardly knowing each other. If someone had a hard day you tried your best to put your differences aside and lended them a shoulder. Even me, no matter how hard I was on you in our training.” - a soft sigh could be heard, one filled with mirth and memories.

Bae remembered those days clearly, being one of the first ones to join the group. He was standoffish and cold, often getting into arguments thanks to that. But at the end of the day, Chan always stuck to him, adamantly chipping away at the walls he had built up.

“I know you might not believe me, especially with how stubborn you are, but we care about you. We all do, me included. Your pain is our pain. And knowing that you’re on the other side of this door, suffering, it pains me. Please, Moonlight, let me in. I can’t bear to hear you cry any longer…” - the elder’s voice cracked at the end, filled to the brim with emotion and hurt.

Clothes shifted and the lock clicked, their leader not hesitating to tear the door open and scoop Bae into his arms. The younger clung to him desperately, hands looped around Chan’s neck, face buried in his chest. The waterworks never really stopped, silently flowing even while the older had been speaking.

The door slowly clicked shut, the two now laid on the soft sea of blankets and pillows.

For a while, Bae just laid there in Chan’s embrace, hiding away from the entire world in his hyung’s steady hold and gentle touches that nearly lulled him to sleep with each stroke over his hair and skin. But he couldn’t sleep, not yet, not when doubts continued plaquing his mind constantly, feeding his fears until they grew impossibly large.

A question left his lips, so quiet that not even Chan could make sense of it.

“What was it, baby? Could you repeat that for me?” - he asked, gently drawing Bae’s face away from his neck to look at him.

“You… you won’t leave me, right?”

Nothing could have prepared Chan for that question, his eyes widening in pure shock and disbelief.

It only took a second longer for his own eyes to water, those warm nebulas looking at Bae with such emotion that it nearly broke the boy.

“Of course not. I’m here to stay, now and forever.”

The two fell asleep in each others’ hold, Chan curled up around Bae as if he was trying to shield the boy from the entire world itself. And for once, Bae let himself be held, desperately clinging onto the other, as if he would disappear in the blink of an eye without any prior notice.

[ostermad-blog]

Playtesting Continues on MONSTER GUTS 2e

One of the things I'm expanding in the Second Edition for MONSTER GUTS (click here to join the campaign, btw) is expanding the card grid described in the First Edition. See, as a LUMEN game, MONSTER GUTS uses range bands for combat: Close, Near, and Far. These are great when you want a fast-paced, narrative fight, but it's a little tricky to hold on to people's relative positioning when fighting something big (like, I dunno, a monster), where you hit different parts depending on where the creature is facing.

On the other hand, grids (square or hex) come with their own baggage. It's a lot harder to have cinematic combat in a grid-based game. Not impossible, obviously (looking at you, Gubat Banwa), but grids bring a lot of granularity to combat that can sometimes get in the way of a fast-paced experience. And grids often struggle with creatures of wildly different sizes, which is kind of the whole shtick of MONSTER GUTS.

The card grid is a middle ground. Right now (we're still in playtesting, this might change a little bit), every Bout you lay down a 6x6 grid of face-up cards, which lets you roll a d66 (two d6s, one for the rows and one for the columns) to put the monster's card down. That's right, a card.

See, monsters are really big. And you are kind of small, at least in comparison. So while you get a token that sits on top of a card, the monster gets a whole damn card that sits just off the grid, at the corner of 4 adjacent regular cards.

We can still use those narrative range bands, too:

You're Close if you and your target are on the same card.

You're Near if you and your target are on adjacent cards (they share an edge).

You're Far if there's a card between you and your target.

And if you're further away than that, don't worry about range bands cuz they're out of range of anything you can do.

If you take a look at the 4x3 card grid above, the scavengers wielding the Fire Lance and Knives are Close to each other and to the front of the Artillamander, and the Bow-wielding scavenger is way too far away to be of any help.

This lets us have our cake and eat it, too, as we can treat each of those cards as their own little subregions of the battlefield, almost like different hexes in a hexcrawl map. Remember I said that MONSTER GUTS 2e uses face-up cards? That's because each card represents a different combat environment based on the card's color (Red or Black) and value (Number or Face). In the Once-Emerald Forests (where our scavengers are fighting this Artillamander), Red cards are clearings and Black cards are stands of trees that block line of sight. Our battlefield has a band of forest running through the middle of it, which puts the Bow-wielding scavenger at a bit of a disadvantage and encourages them to reposition. At least the Artillamander can't attack them through the tree cover either?

With this 6x6 card grid, we can quickly build simple, tactically engaging battlefields that represent their environment, give us enough granularity to see roughly where everyone is in relation to the monster, but not too much that we get bogged down in details.

And there's some slick interactions we can have with our cards, too: those tree stands on the Black cards? If you (or the monster) damage them enough, you flatten all the trees and replace the Black card with a Red one. It's quick and easy to change up the battlefield, whether in-person or on a virtual tabletop.

Each Hunting Zone in MONSTER GUTS 2e has unique features and terrain in the card grid, helping the environments feel different not just through roleplay but through the battlefield itself. And the size of the battlefield gives the monster room to roll and jump and fly about, constantly on the move and requiring you to reposition and coordinate with not just your fellow scavengers but your animal companions too, the Palline, Caterpal, Dogepal, and Hootepal. I'll talk about them another time.

Click the link to make sure you don't miss when the MONSTER GUTS 2e crowdfund goes live! Backing the campaign is a surefire way to get a print copy of the game, or the PDF at a reduced price. You don't want to miss it!

[witchthewriter]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒆 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑫𝒊𝒅 𝑹𝒖𝒏 𝑺𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒉

Pairing: Happy x OC/Commissioned

Word Count: 1k

@a-kayy47.

ANNIE.

The bar was a sticky place, with a sign out the front that said ‘Frank’s.’

   It wasn’t as if Frank was ever at his own bar. He was too busy doing … something else. Not that he would tell you. Your relationship with your boss was strictly professional. Not like he hadn’t tried anything. But you shut that shit down immediately.

Your legs ached. Feet feeling like they were made of blisters. A headache had been forming for a good two hours and you knew you needed sleep. You had no idea how many times you’d heard the playlist. Metallica, Black Sabbath, Led Zepplin. The clientele had a particular taste.

This was your fourth shift in a row. Hours on your feet, serving assholes (and some relatively nice assholes). Pouring drink after drink. You had had worse jobs than this, but you were on track to start a career. Well, you were hopeful.

   So yes, this isn’t your ideal job, but you had to pay the bills somehow in this little fairytale town of Charming.

You moved here two years ago, and seemed to be stuck here since. There was something about the town that you liked. Some things that you didn’t.

     You looked at the clock on the wall, then checked your watch; 1:55 am. You had five more minutes till your shift ended.

 “Thank fuck,” you sighed, picking up stray glasses from the counter.

     Looking around at the people in the bar, your heart ached as you thought about your daughter. Your sweet, feisty little girl. Kayleigh. Only eight years old and ready to conquer the world.

She was the reason you did all of this. Worked so hard, endured blisters and cranky assholes. Smiled when you really wanted to scream.

Being a single mother wasn’t easy. But you wouldn’t change it. Not for the world.

   You were brought back to the present when the bell on the door jingled. In came three men, three bikers: with their kuttes and heavy boots. Usually, you could hear if bikers were coming to the bar. Their bikes were so loud you could hear them a mile away.

And yet, you knew who they were, the Sons of Anarchy. The real power in this town.

Your other job, as a stylist, loosely connected you to them. Gemma Teller-Morrow has been your client for a year now. Doing her hair and makeup. She rarely talks about the club, but lets you vent whenever you need to.

You couldn’t see the men’s faces at first. The lighting was so low.

There was the sound of pool balls being knocked together, a heated conversation on one of the circular tables. Even though you had been in the bar for hours, you could still smell the strong stench of alcohol.

   As the three men sat down at the bar, you hadn’t noticed but one couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.  

HAPPY.

Happy was a man of few words. Often keeping to himself yet possessing an observant eye. That’s how easily he saw you. With your long black, blonde hair, curvy body and spectacular green eyes.

Oh, those eyes.  

He had seen you around before. In town. The grocers. Sometimes when he picked Gemma up, he saw you in the window of the beauty store.

  You were something else.

A person like you didn’t seem to belong in Charming. It was too corrupt. And you seemed too good for this life.

It’s why he suggested this bar after the night the boys had had. It was a deal gone south and he needed a pick me up. As did the others. But his wasn’t about a drink.

He just wanted to see you.

     “Three beers, any beers, honey,” Tig said. The tiredness in his body echoing through his words. Happy and Chibs nodded, their arms resting on the bar’s surface.

“Coming right up,” you said with a quick smile. They’ll be your last customers. And then you can leave.

Turning around, you opened the fridge door and got out three bottles. Popping the caps, you placed them down. And someone caught your eye.

 “Um, enjoy,” you said and looked at your watch. Time to clock off. Time to see your daughter. To get off your feet and … possibly relax. You took another peek at the stranger and saw him already looking at you.

    Your cheeks burned.

But before you could even leave the main bar area, there was a loud crash behind you. The shattering of glass, shouts, and as you swiftly turned around, an outright brawl had started.

The three bikers had stood up and faced the chaos. With chairs now involved, you couldn’t believe your eyes. Especially as your shift ended.

Fuck.

The owner of the bar wasn’t the most decent man, but he did have safety measures in place…like a gun in the back office and a metal bat underneath the bar. But he told you to never call the police.

Opting for the bat, you turned off the music and screamed at the top of your lungs.

     “STOP THIS FUCKING SHIT AND GET THE FUCK OUT!”

It was quiet for a heartbeat. Then another. On the third, you thought you were out of the woods. But then an idiot just had to throw another punch.

Within seconds the brawl started again. Fists swinging, jaws crunching, eyes swelling. You were too tired to deal with this.

That was, until there were three-gun shots and everyone, but the three bikers crouched down.

    “Listen to the lady,” was all the bald man said as he tucked his gun away.

The men went silent, their eyes wide like an owl’s and they ran. The door opening and closing constantly. Incessant squeaking until it was you and the three men.

  A small grin was fighting its’ way onto your face. No one had helped you like that. Not even the other employees when things got too much. Everyone just thought you had it handled.

   “Thank you,” was all you said as they sat back down. “These are on the house.”

[theimportantnone]

Prompt: Aliens discover goodie bags.

Story one

Xek had been invited to a human birthday party. He did not understand the hubbub around coming closer to death but to promote unity between the crew he accepted the invitation. Coming from a frugal race it had been hard to adjust to the abundance of quantity **and** quality prevelent in human culture as he would be described as a "lick the plate clean" kinda person. But he found solace in that meals where prepared for a number of people in mind and made accordingly large. What he did not expect was careless quantity as he saw them, so called goodie bags. A whole table was layed out of small plastic bags full of sweets and meal cubes, what a horrid waste. He knew that even if everyone invited took one there would still be dozens left to waste. This would not do, perhaps more people had been invited that he first though, friends and family on the next planet they where stopping on, as he was just helping with party prep. Once they landed he found he was wrong. Xek panicked, a primal urge to consume even to his own detriment so nothing would be wasted. He counted out every bag and every guest, and took what remained. Once the party started he heard complaints about a lack of goodie bags that apperently were promised by the hosts. Xeks stomach nearly inverted (something that only happens when his kind went into labor, it's very painful.) Apparently, the bags where not for just eating right away, but where also for giving from host to guest to guests relatives. No wonder there where sweets instead of just meal cubes, they where gifts back to the community! A thanks for being with the one who aged. Xek admitted that he ate the rest of the bags (plastic and all, he knew this was "abnormal" but his stomach was built for heavy duty eating and no waste meant no waste,) but much to his relief he was forgiven, as even more gift bags were prepared, "just cause."

Story two

Iizikiel (pronounced Ezekiel) was tasked with observing human traditions for first contact prep. "These humans are such a young species," it thought, floating above its spy console, theyre small pod invisible to all but the most advanced eyes (which thankfully on this planet belonged to a specific crustacean living far away from iizikiel's ship.)

"I must give them merit for their rapid technological development but it is clear their socio-political development is far behind, if I could choose if bar these bipeds from the union until they could find us first."

"Negative, Iizi (pronounced easy) , the councle feels their spirit would bring a wondrous boost of productivity to the union," booped his bio-mechanical companion, 2hr+d. "Shut it," replied Iizi with a frustrated belch. Being a floating jellyfish like blob wasn't always great compared to a half mech half anthropomorphic beetleish creature, but at least Iizi had electrosis and could shut up (tw-hr-pl-d, or twerpd) for real if it wanted.

Today Iizi was witnessed two humans promise monogamy for each other under their home government, known as "marriage." a large ensemble of people gathered in rows in front of the couple, as a religious figured blessed their union. "So odd that they feel the need for a higher power to allow for a union, feels very-" "insecure?" clicked twerpd. "I was going to say, superfluous, " retorted Iizi.

But then something caught Iizi's eye, little bundles of edibles, being handed out to leaving attendees. Up until now he had only witnessed eating immediately after food was presented to its recipients, extras being taken only after an initial digging in. This was something entirely different, as some people where eating the contents right away while others stuffed them in their pockets or vehicles. He would have understood that behavior if their had been a feat prior but no, it seemed these seemingly needy eaters where intentionally waiting to eat.

"What do you make of this Twerpd?"

"Iizi, this is only our 4th local rotation in tandem with this continent, maybe they we've only ever seen them hunger, perhaps they don't always need to eat when presented with food."

"But if that's true, why do so many eat to unhealthy levels, and why is food such a large industry when it's clear that knowledge of self sufficient food production is commonly available? The likely conclusion is that humans are unable to not eat when presented with food and only stop when full, normally saving leftovers or making sure no one else gets said left overs by tossing them into trash recepticals. It also explains why roundness is common place, at least on this continent. "

"we still have more to learn, as evidence also suggests that there are a multitude of cultures present here and beyond, Iizi, save your rambling conclusions for our first revolution of their home star."

Authors note

To be so honest I was three paragraphs deep into a five part story but I forgot to save and lost all of it, so I thought up these two, more hastily written stories as a replacement. Who know gift bags would be a struggle to write about.