#there’s something going on here. and I need answers.

[street-smarts00]

Wish You Were Sober

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary: The four times you confessed to Spencer while drunk, and the one time you did it sober

WC: 8.0 k

Tags/warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, lot’s of mention of alcohol consumption, regretting things said while drunk, drunk flirty reader, reader is emotionally constipated and doesn’t want to feel her feelings at first

A/N: chat I’ve been sitting on this for MONTHS it’s been marinating in my google docs for a while so hope you enjoy! I lowkey picture this happening in earlier seasons Spence but picture whatever you like ;) Beta read by the lovely @whats-yesterday00

The first time it happened, your feelings were just starting to peek through the surface. 

You tried your hardest to shove them back down. Trying to convince yourself that developing the beginnings of a crush was absolutely not happening. But the alcohol opened the door you tried to close.

The whole team went out for drinks on a friday night. After multiple shots with Derek and JJ, plus the drinks you had before that, you were feeling quite a buzz. A buzz that always left you more flirty and courageous than normal. 

You were busy dancing amongst the crowd with Penelope and JJ. The music was flowing through you all as it blasted throughout the bar. The movement and crowd caused the temperature to rise exponentially. 

You wiped the sweat forming on your forehead and paused your dancing. 

“What’s wrong?” JJ asked. 

“I’m melting,” you answered, fanning yourself. “I gotta go sit down.” 

Penelope blew you a kiss and said, “be back soon!” as you made your way to the table. You of course blew a kiss back to her. 

After weaving through the mass of people, you approached the table housing the rest of your coworkers with a heavy sigh. 

“You done partying already, pretty girl?” Derek teased. 

“No, not yet. I just need a breather. It feels like 1000 degrees right now.” You sat down across from him and next to Spencer. 

Derek’s attention was pulled towards someone behind you. A smirk grew on his face, “Oh Reid look, it’s that girl from earlier she’s back.” 

Spencer’s face flushed at Derek’s remark. 

“What girl?” you asked intrigued. You hated the taste that question left in your mouth. 

“It’s nothing,” Spencer tried to brush off before Derek interrupted. 

“She was flirting with him when he went up to the bar.” 

“She was not!” Spencer squeaked. 

Derek chuckled, “oh yes she was,” his eyes turned back to you. “She was definitely into him. And judging by the fact that she keeps looking over here, I think she wants to talk to him again.”

Spencer hid his face in his hands and quietly groaned.

“Why don’t you go over there? Go talk to her,” you encouraged while silently hoping he doesn’t leave the table.

Spencer lifted his face from his hands. His face was scarlet now. 

“I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but cut himself off. He saw your eyes staring back at him and felt his palms getting sweaty. He swallowed and stuttered on his words. “Because I wouldn’t know what to say. I can’t flirt.” 

Derek leaned back in his chair, dissatisfied with his answer. “That’s bull.” 

“It’s not bull.” That was probably the closest you came to hearing Spencer curse. “I’d probably make a fool of myself and say something stupid.” 

“Spencer, you say a lot of things,” this earned a chuckle from Derek across the table, “But I don’t think you could ever say something stupid.” 

Spencer tried to resist the smile spreading on his face from your compliment. 

“Still doesn’t change the fact that once I open my mouth, she’ll lose all interest in me.” 

A small pout appeared on your lips. “Well, I don’t see how a girl wouldn’t find you endearing.” 

“Really?” He didn’t believe you. 

“Yes! I thought you were so cute when I first met you,” your eyes brightened. “The day we met, I remember you were rambling about something and I just sat there amazed.” 

He swallowed as his ears turned crimson. “You thought I was cute?” his voice cracked at the end of his question.

“Sweetie, I think you’re more than cute,” your voice lowered as you locked eyes with him. 

“Morgan calls you pretty boy for a reason,” you continued with a mischievous glint in your eyes. 

Spencer’s heart damn near stopped. He knew your playful demeanor was from the amount of drinks you’d consumed, but still seeing you so openly attracted to him was making him delirious. 

Morgan, of course, found the whole interaction to be the most intriguing thing he’d seen all week. The growing amused smile on his face was telling enough. 

“Wow I think that girl from the bar has got some competition,” he teased. 

You shrugged in response to his comment. “Maybe,” was all you gave as your answer. You stood up from your chair with Spencer's eyes still beaming at you. 

“I’m gonna go dance some more,” you turned to the man next to you. “You wanna come with, pretty boy?”

Spencer struggled to get the words out for a few seconds. “I can’t. I don’t know how to dance.” 

You tried to hide the disappointment on your face but the gleam in your eyes had dimmed. 

“Maybe next time,” you replied before making your way back to the girls. 

Spencer watched you walk away and disappear into the crowd. He then received an extensive amount of teasing and questions as to why he didn’t say yes from Morgan for the next 20 minutes while you were gone. 

Over the weekend, the hangxiety set in. You layed in bed staring at the ceiling as the memories from Friday night flooded your mind. 

The anxiety followed into Monday as you stood in the elevator. The doors opened to the sixth floor and you reluctantly dragged yourself to the bullpen. 

Your hands tightened around your bag as you approached your desk. Spencer’s eyes lingered on you as you set your things down

“Morning,” he greeted with a small smile.  

“Morning,” you mumbled. 

You fidgeted with your hands and stepped closer to his desk. 

“Listen Spence, about Friday night… l’m sorry I was flirty with you.” 

His cheeks turned a dusty rose at the memory. “It’s alright.” 

This still didn’t ease your worries. “Are you sure?  The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable around me. Especially because of something I did.”

His eyes softened when he noticed just how nervous you were. 

“I don’t, I promise,” he reassured. 

“So we’re okay?”

He nodded with a small smile and the weight started to lift off your shoulders. 

___________________________________________

The second time it happened was a few weeks later. 

It was Derek’s birthday. The whole team went out to dinner followed by a trip to the bar to keep the night going. 

Spencer stayed behind at the table, watching you order drinks and chat with Emily at the bar. He also tried to ignore the angry green feeling surfacing as the bartender flirted with you. 

“So, are you finally gonna dance with her tonight?” Derek asked the young man as he sat down beside him. 

Spencer sighed as he kept his eyes trained on you. “I don’t know.” 

His friend patted him on the back, “Come on man. Consider it my birthday present.” 

Spencer turned his attention to the man beside him. “I already got you a present.” 

“Kid,” Rossi interjected from farther down the table, “in my professional opinion, when a woman asks you to dance, you dance.” 

This brought out a smile from Hotch. 

“Even if you think you’ll look like a fool,” Rossi continued. 

“Like two weeks ago when that woman asked Morgan to dance,” Hotch teased, which brought out an annoyed expression from the man in question. 

“Hey! I was not that bad,” Derek defended. 

“You looked like a bird doing a mating dance,” Spencer now joined in. 

Derek looked appalled from the younger man’s joke. 

Soon after you approached the table with Emily. “What’s so funny?” You asked the table.

”Morgan's attempts to woo women,” Rossi joked. 

Emily took a sip from her drink and rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh where do I begin?” 

Derek stood up from the table shaking his head and smiling. “Well, I’m gonna go dance with people who appreciate my moves.” He then made his way to the open area where Penelope and JJ were. 

Back at the table, before you could sit down, the speakers of the bar started to play Maneater by Nelly Furtado. You gasped and a bright smile filled your features. 

“I love this song!” You squealed. 

You set your half consumed drink down on the table and looked at Spencer, “Do you want to go dance?” 

He looked at you surprised. “Me?” He squeaked. 

You giggled, finding his reaction cute, “Yes you!”

Spencer started closing in on himself. Before he could come up with the excuse he used last time you said, “I can teach you. It’ll be so much fun!” 

You were oblivious to the knowing looks from your other team mates at the table. Your focus was only on Spencer. Staring deep into his golden eyes and finding nothing but comfort. 

“Okay,” he agreed with a small smile. 

You beamed with excitement, “Yay! Let’s go.” You offered your hand to him. He took it and found you pulling him up from his chair and towards the dance floor. 

He followed you through the people in the crowd until you found an open space to settle. You held onto his hands as you swayed to the beat. 

Spencer tried to follow you but was still noticeably tense. He was also less focused on his dancing because he was too enamored by your movements. Watching you sway so effortlessly with the rhythm. 

“Look at you Spence! You’re getting the hang of it,” you praised. 

He appreciated the compliment but cringed, “I feel awkward.” 

“That’s not how dancing should feel. You should feel free and loose.” You let go of his hands and spun around.

A real smile spread on his lips, “I’m surprised you’re this coordinated with how many drinks you’ve had.” 

“Oh, I guess you missed when I almost stepped on you.” 

He chuckled, shaking his head, “I guess I didn’t.” 

The song ended and changed to Don’t Stop The Music by Rihanna. Your jaw dropped and your face filled with excitement. 

“You like this song?” he asked even though he already knew the answer. 

You grabbed his hands once more and grinned, “Yes!” You resumed dancing with his hands in yours. This time you were mouthing the lyrics of the song. 

I gotta get my body moving, shake the stress away you heard from the speakers and shook Spencer's hands. 

“You gotta shake the stress baby!” you cheered at him. 

He bashfully laughed watching you drunkenly shout. And hearing you call him baby, but that’s beside the point.

As the song played your hips and shoulders moved to the rhythm of the music. He wasn’t as successful as you when it came to swaying his hips but he could move his shoulders and copy you. 

Who knew that you’d be up in here lookin’ like you do?

You took a step back and gestured to him as the song said. Spencer shook his head and pulled on your hands to bring you back closer to him. 

Do you know what you started? I just came here to party

You took him pulling you back as a way to sneak your arms around his neck. 

But now we're rockin’ on the dance floor actin’ naughty 

Spencer’s cheeks started to turn red at the closeness. 

Your hands around my waist, just let the music play

You retracted your hands to grab his and place them on your waist. 

We’re hand in hand, chest to chest, and now we’re face to face 

By the time your arms returned wrapped around his neck, his ears were crimson. With your arms around him your shirt raised slightly. His hands met the gap of your skin that was exposed. 

Even though he felt like his insides were going to melt, he kept his hands on you and kept dancing. Spencer followed the steps you took, the way you moved back and forth. He was finally starting to let the music flow through him. 

You definitely took notice. It only made you more eager to dance with him. 

As the song continued into the next verse you grew more confident. 

Don’t you feel the passion ready to explode? 

Your hands moved to his shoulders. You moved in closer, and with a playful smirk sang along the words so Spencer could hear. 

What goes on between us, no one has to know

Just when Spencer thought the fluttering in his stomach couldn’t get worse, you leaned in close to his ear and whispered the next lyric.

This is a private show

The air between you was magnetic. It felt like you were in your own little world. Like the rest of the bar goers were gone. Suddenly, it was just you two on that dance floor. 

Spencer���s face was inches away from yours. You were so close you could count the freckles on his pink cheeks. 

“You look so cute, all flustered,” you muttered. 

He licked his lips nervously, “I’m not used to dancing like this with someone.” 

“Are you having fun at least?” 

“Yes,” he answered instantly. 

“Well then, we should do this more often,” you offered with a sweet smile. 

As the song came to an end you leaned up and left a kiss on Spencer’s cheek. You took a step back to fully look at him. His eyes slightly widened and his lips parted from your peck on his cheek. 

“I love dancing with you,” you released your hold on his shoulders. The ghost of your touch was still hot on his skin. “Hopefully we can do this again.” 

His eyes shined as he looked at you, “I’d like that.” 

________________________________________

The third time it happened, Spencer got a phone call at 12:04 am. 

He was resting on his couch, nose deep in a book, when he heard his phone buzz. He breathed a sigh of relief at the caller ID revealing it to be you instead of Hotch with a new case. 

When he answered, he heard loud music and faint voices in the back. 

“Hello?” 

You quickly answered back, “Spencer! I didn’t wake you, did I?” Your voice had a higher pitch than normal. 

“No, I was just reading. What’s up?” 

“I went out to a bar for girls night but…I had one too many drinks,” you whined. 

He sat up straighter, “are you alright?” 

There was a pause before you spoke again. “The room is spinning. I’m really dizzy and everything is overwhelming,” you mumbled. Hearing you sound so scared and small made his heart hurt. 

“I didn’t want to bother the girls because they’re having so much fun and none of them can drive right now.” 

Before you could finish your statement, he was already standing up and walking to find his shoes and jacket. 

“Do you want me to pick you up?” He knew the answer. 

“Please. Can you?” you begged. 

Spencer was grabbing his keys and out the door in a heartbeat. “Of course, I’m on my way.”

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot. He walked inside and looked around the crowded room. A few meters away, a hand rose from a booth and waved him over. 

He followed it and found Emily, JJ and Penelope keeping you company at the booth. You rested your head in your arms, which were folded on the table. 

JJ carefully tapped your arm, “hey, your ride is here.” 

You slowly lifted your head up and beamed at the sight of him. 

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he said softly. 

“They found me,” you said pointing to your friends. “They said they would babysit me until you showed up.” 

He chuckled and lightly rubbed your shoulder, “You okay? You think you can walk to the car?” 

You nodded and slowly stood up. 

“Text one of us when you get home safe,” Penelope announced. 

You gave a lazy thumbs up in her direction and turned to Spencer, “Can you remind me to do that?” 

The corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. “Of course. Come on, let's get you home,” he nodded towards the door. 

You waved and said goodbye to the girls before Spencer led you through the crowd with his hand in yours. You grasped his hand like it was an anchor in the over-stimulating environment. 

When you stepped outside, the cool breeze caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. The fresh air and dulled sounds were already starting to help you feel better. 

Unfortunately, your balance was still screwed and you managed to trip over air. Before you could fall to the ground, Spencer swiftly reached out and caught you. He helped you stand back up and wrapped an arm around your shoulder. 

“I got you, you’re okay,” he muttered close to your ears. 

Him being so sweet was going to make your stomach twist. 

The rest of the walk to the car he kept his arm around you. Your body instinctively leaned into him and used his frame to keep you upright. 

When you reached his car, he opened the passenger door and let go of his hold on you. You almost whined at the loss of contact. 

“Thanks for coming to get me,” you spoke quietly as he helped guide you into the car.  

Before he closed the door and headed to the driver's seat he offered a kind, “You’re welcome.” 

The beginning of the car ride was quite aside from the hushed music on the radio. You leaned back, slouching in the car seat. 

You watched Spencer’s hands on the wheel instead of the rapidly changing view of the windshield. Your fuzzy mind was trying to focus on anything that wasn't the dizzy spinning feeling that couldn't go away. 

Of course your thoughts were jumbled with images of the man next to you. 

“You’re so nice,” you said with a fond look. 

He looked at you with brief confusion over your random declaration. “Thanks,” he returned his eyes to the road. 

You shuffled in your seat to face him. 

“No you’re really nice,” you huffed, frustrated he somehow didn’t understand the full scope of what your drunk brain meant. “You’re so kind and sweet to everyone. I love it.” 

An amused smile grew on his face. “I try to be,” he returned.  

“You are.” 

He quickly glanced over to see your figure leaning against the seat. Or more like the seat holding you up. Your eyes occasionally felt heavy, leading to your eyelids fluttering every so often. 

“You look half asleep,” he teased. 

“I feel half asleep.” 

“Then why are you so chatty all of a sudden?” 

You shrugged, “I don’t know, just feel like talking.” 

You forced your eyes open to get a better look at him. “I like talking with you.” 

Spencer tried not to think about how your voice was much more soft and melodious than normal. 

“I like talking with you too,” he affirmed. 

He suddenly went down a mental rabbit hole of your previous conversations with him. How often you conversed over coffee early in the morning. All those plane rides home where you both had to stifle your laughter so as to not bother the others. Or the dozens of times he rambled to you about endless topics. 

“I’m surprised I haven't bored you yet with how much I talk.” 

“Oh sweetie, I could never get bored of you.” 

His ears started to turn red at the flirtatious tone in your voice. 

“I could listen to you talk for hours. Even about things I don’t understand. I’ll always listen to you,” you continued.

“Really?” He muttered with a slight voice crack. His heart rate was steadily growing. 

“Uh huh,” you confirmed sweetly. 

His eyes darted to yours for a fleeting moment. You looked completely and utterly enraptured by him. 

“Your voice sounds like honey.”

Spencer's grip on the steering wheel tightened. He kept his gaze trained on the road ahead. 

“We’re almost at your apartment,” he deflected. 

Your smile fell slightly. 

The air in the car was growing stale by the seconds. Neither of you spoke until he pulled up to your building. 

As you reached for the door handle, he whispered for you to “wait one second.” You complied. He got out of the car and walked to your side. He opened the passenger door and held out a hand for you. 

“What a gentleman,” you said with a smug grin. 

He chuckled and made sure you didn’t stumble as you stepped out of the car. 

“I try,” he replied. 

“You succeed.” 

As you walked together to your apartment, neither of you let go of the other's hand. At your door, you fumbled with your keys. Spencer tried to offer to open the door himself but you shooed away his hand and mumbled, “I got it, I got it.” 

After fighting with the lock, you stepped inside and practically threw your bag on the couch. You were seconds away from falling on the couch yourself before Spencer calmly grabbed your shoulders. 

“Come on, let's get you to bed.” 

You whined but didn’t object. He guided you down the hall to your room. In the dark, he reached for your lamp and turned it on. You plopped down on your bed and yawned. 

“Where are your makeup wipes?” He asked, looking around the room.

You pointed towards the dresser, “In the top left drawer.” He followed your directions and returned to your bed, handing the pack to you. 

“See I told you. You’re so nice,” you complimented while lazily cleaning your hours old makeup off. 

“Why because I got you your makeup wipes?” He joked with a playful tone. 

You giggled in response. The sound made Spencer feel like he was the intoxicated one. He would never get used to the way you laughed. 

“No silly, not just that. The fact that you’re still here.”

You tried and failed at getting your lipstick and eyeliner off. Instead you smeared the deep colors around your face. 

Spencer’s lips formed a thin line, trying not to smile at you smearing your makeup. He grabbed a fresh wipe and kneeled down in front of you. “Here let me help,” he mumbled. With careful hands, he pressed the damp wipe to your face to finish the job. 

“Of course I was going to stay with you,” he acknowledged your previous comment. “I’m not going to just drop you off. I wanted to make sure you were safe and feeling okay.” 

You tried not to smile because his hand was so close to your mouth. Your brain was going to short circuit at the closeness. His face mere inches away. His hand and the skin of your face are only separated by a tiny piece of cloth. 

You watched intently as he used his thumb to wipe off the last bit of lipstick. His movements were desperately slow as he handled you with care. Like you were a fragile statue he couldn’t let break. 

The action made your chest tighten and your heart race. If you had consumed another drink or two back at the bar, you would’ve jumped at the chance to kiss him. 

But instead, you stared deeply into his eyes as he checked your face for any more makeup residue. His pupils were wide. You assumed it was from the dim lighting of the room. 

You may not have been drunk enough to kiss him, but you were drunk enough to joke about it. 

“What if I just kissed you right now?”

His eyes widened and his lips parted in shock. “What has gotten into you?” he questioned in a lighthearted tone. 

“What? it’s not just me! You’re also staring at my lips!” you put your hands up in defense with a mischievous grin. “Just say you wanna kiss me.” 

He chuckled at your antics. “Because I’m taking off your makeup. And what about you staring at my eyes?” 

A grin spread on your face. “I can’t help it. They’re beautiful. Nice to look at.” 

“They’re not that nice.” 

“I beg to differ gorgeous,” you returned with a wink. “I could look at them all day.” 

Spencer smiled as his cheeks turned pink. He looked between your eyes and your lips before his expression faltered for a moment. Like he was mentally stuck on something. 

However, because of your dizzy mind and vision, you didn’t pick up on it. 

He stood back up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You think you’ll be okay?” 

You nodded, “Yeah. Thanks again for … everything.” 

“You’re welcome.” He started walking towards your bedroom door but before he left the room, he paused. “Don’t forget to let the girls know you got home safe.” 

Your jaw went slack and a hand flew to your forehead, “oh my god you’re right.” 

He fought back a grin from your reaction. “Goodnight,” he offered before he left. 

You waved and said goodnight as his frame left your bedroom. The sound of the front door shutting soon followed. 

Before you passed out for the night you texted penelope you got home safe. But you didn’t see her reply until the morning. 

Penelope: yay! 

Penelope: hope you feel better my sweets <3

Thanks :) I have a raging migraine so I better feel better soon 

Penelope: :(

Penelope: oh btw, how’d it go with boy genius???

Ugh 

I flirted with him AGAIN 

Penelope: you’re kidding! 

Penelope: What did you say?

I can’t remember all of it but at some point I said his voice sounds like honey 

Penelope: OMG

Oh no it gets worse

He helped me take off my makeup and I said I wanted to kiss him. And THEN I pointed out how he stared at my lips and I said “just say you wanna kiss me” 

Penelope: oh girlie

Penelope: I think you have to throw in the towel 

Penelope: you love him

You stared at the words on the screen before your hands could even type a reply. Mentally fighting with yourself about the subject. 

No way

I can’t be in love with him

He’s my friend I can’t do that 

Penelope: I don’t think you have much of a choice  

You sighed and turned off your phone. As you reached for the aspirin bottle, you prayed you wouldn’t do something stupid like this ever again 

You were wrong. 

______________________________________

By the fourth time it happened, almost a month had passed since you asked him to pick you up. 

To celebrate the success of a case, his coworkers and friends wanted to go out for some down time. He thanked them for the invitation but kindly rejected it saying he had previous plans to attend some film festival. In reality, he had been on the fence about attending the film festival and ended up spending the evening at home. 

As much as he wanted an excuse to spend time with you, he couldn’t go through another evening of you flirting with him. 

Normally, it’d be his dream to have you flirt with him and call him sweet names. To hear how much you liked his voice, his eyes, and the way his brilliant mind worked. But the more it occurred, the more confused he felt.

At first, he assumed you were just a flirtatious drunk and there was no meaning behind your advances. But as time went on, he saw your actions and affectionate words had so much desire, so much longing that he started to suspect they were based on real feelings. 

Yet, it was only reserved for the version of you that had multiple drinks running through your system. 

He’d almost given up on asking you how you felt. Almost. 

Something that gave him a glimmer of hope was a voicemail he received. 

In an effort to actually get some sleep, he took a late night shower. When he returned to his bedroom, he found his cell phone had received a voicemail. He checked and saw he missed a call from the very person he was anxiously avoiding. 

With new clean pajamas on, he grabbed his phone and sat down on his bed ready for the possible plea for him to pick you up. He clicked the message and lifted the phone to his ear. 

“Hi Spence! I wanted to talk but it looks like you’re busy,” your voice sounded sweet and bubbly. He deduced you might have already gone home at this point given the fact that this time there was no loud background music or voices.

“I missed you tonight. I wish you came with us. I know that isn’t always your favorite place to be, but I still kinda had hope. I love spending time with you. I don’t care if it’s at work or off the clock, it makes me so happy to see you.”

His heart felt warm from the way you talked about him. Your voice sounded giddy and occasionally you would slur your words. 

“It’s kinda silly but when we don’t have work or plans, I will literally count down the days until I get to see you again. Isn’t that silly? I spend like five or six days of my week with you and when I don’t see you, I’m thinking about when I’ll see you again.” 

Spencer found familiarity in what you were saying. For the last few weeks he found his thoughts were constantly revolving back to you. Whether intentionally or not. 

“I pretty much think about you all the time. It’s becoming a bit of a problem. I don’t mean you’re a problem! The problem is how much I like you. I’ve never liked someone as much as I like you.”

There was a brief pause in your message. He almost thought the voicemail was over until your voice returned softer than before. 

“I’m probably falling in love with you.” 

“And that’s really scary to think about because I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before. You’re different Spence, when I’m around you I feel-“ 

You were cut off by the time limit of the voicemail. Spencer stared at his phone screen with wide eyes. His heart was beating so fast it could’ve jumped out of his chest. 

He finally got an answer to the question that plagued his mind. You loved him back. 

You loved him. 

His whole body was filled with adrenaline. He almost grabbed his keys and drove over to you at that moment. But he knew he had to wait. He couldn’t have this conversation with you while you were still intoxicated and would probably fall asleep by the time he got there. 

Spencer on the other hand, could barely sleep. He was too busy on cloud 9 to come back down and let sleep overtake him. 

The next morning he was practically buzzing with excitement. He got up earlier than normal for work so he could stop by your apartment. 

He nervously knocked on your door. He kept fidgeting by fixing his tie and cardigan while he waited for you. 

When you did open the door he saw you were still in the process of getting ready. You had on dress pants and an old college t-shirt. 

You looked surprised to see him of course since he didn’t announce he was going to come over. “Spencer? What are you doing here?”

Suspicion started to creep its way into his mind. For now he ignored it and pushed on. 

“I thought we could commute to work together. I figured you would be hungover and not in the best mood to drive.” 

Your eyebrows raised and lips turned up. “That is so sweet of you,” you beamed. You opened the door wider, suggesting he was welcome. He followed and walked inside your apartment

“You’re absolutely right by the way. I feel like shit,” you groaned. “My head is killing me, I’m exhausted and I have this massive bruise on my leg.” You waved your hand over your right thigh indicating where the injury was. 

“I have no clue how I got it. I probably fell but I'm not sure. Most of last night is fuzzy, I barely even remember how I got home,” you joked with a chuckle.

The suspicion Spencer felt turned into a pit in his stomach. With furrowed brows he asked the million dollar question. “Do you remember calling me last night?”

You stared at the ground as you tried to shuffle through the vague images of the night before. “No I don’t. What did we talk about?” you asked innocently. 

His grip on the strap of his satchel tightened. “We didn’t. Talk. I couldn’t pick up the phone and didn’t realize you had called me until this morning. That’s why I wanted to stop by. To make sure you were okay.” He topped off his lie with a flat smile. 

”Thanks for checking up on me,” you sweetly replied, not yet aware of the internal mess he was experiencing. 

“It’s no problem,” his voice almost cracked.

“I need to finish getting dressed and brush my teeth but I’ll be ready to leave in like five minutes.” You speed walked back to your bedroom. 

It wasn’t until he heard the door close that he finally let the storm of emotions rip through him. His chest was getting tighter by the second. It felt like he was suffocating. 

You don’t remember. 

You told him you loved him and you don’t remember it at all. The best news he’d heard in months was a blip in your memory. Was late night drunk babbling. 

He felt so foolish. So stupid for thinking you might really reciprocate his feelings. 

One part of himself that was still holding onto hope tried to remember that “drunk words are sober thoughts.” But that’s not always true. 

He knew studies have shown intoxication can lead to someone misinterpreting their own thoughts or feelings. Leading to them impulsively expressing things that they don’t really believe. 

Unfortunately, the factual and heartbroken part of his brain was overwhelming compared to the sliver of hope he had left. 

“Alright, I’m good to go,” you snuck back into the living room. Your voice brought him back to the present. 

You grabbed your purse off the couch and walked towards the front door. As you put on your jacket you noticed the sudden change in Spencer’s demeanor. 

“Spence, you okay?”

”Yeah, I’m fine,” he nodded and answered with a light voice. But you could see right through it. His eyes gave it away. They looked so full of hurt. 

”Spencer-“

”I promise, I’m fine,” he interrupted. He offered you a fake smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He walked to your door and tightly held his bag. “We should go before we hit traffic.” 

You observed him for a few seconds longer than he liked. The profiler side of you wanted to pry but you knew it was a bad idea to push your friend. 

The drive to work was agonizingly quiet. It was odd for you two to barely speak when in close quarters. Instead, you both let the tension hang in the air, ignored and untouched. 

Spencer sat with his feelings for most of the drive. He didn’t want to be hopeful anymore. He didn’t want to be confused if it was real anymore. At this point, he just wanted to give up. 

Now, he’d have to keep a tight lid on his feelings for you. Leave it to fester and wear away at his heart. 

Like that would do any good though. He couldn’t stop loving you no matter how hard he tried. 

____________________________________

The following days felt like a dream to you. But not in a good way. 

It felt like one of those dreams where you know something is off, but can’t tell what it is. 

Spencer had been closed off ever since he picked you up for work. You couldn't wrap your head around why. He seemed so happy and eager when he arrived at your apartment that morning. 

That was the last time you saw him act normal around you. Now there was an underlying bitterness in the words he spoke. Everytime you tried to ask him if he was okay, whatever excuse he gave you left a sour taste in his mouth. 

You weren’t the only one to notice either. Everyone could sense the air go stale when you entered a room he was in. How his eyes no longer lingered on you. Or how it almost pained him to even look at you. 

His sudden change in behavior was starting to drive you insane. You were overthinking and overanalyzing every single interaction you had with him, leading up to that day in your apartment. Every move you made around him was calculated. You were terrified one wrong word or move would make him hate you. 

“He hates me.” 

“He doesn’t hate you,” Penelope swung around in her chair to face you. “I think it’s impossible for him to hate you.” 

You shook your head, “but still he won’t talk to me Pen. He’s always been so open with me and the last few days he’s been shutting me out. He hasn’t been weird around you guys at all.” 

She twirled a sparkly purple pen in her hands as she watched you sulk. “You said it started on Thursday last week?” 

“Yeah, the day after our last case.” 

Penelope sat back in her chair thinking. “Do you think the case bothered him? Could that be why he went home instead of going out with us?” 

“No, I don't think so. The next morning when he showed up at my apartment he was in a good mood. A great mood even,” you folded your arms in frustration. “But when I left the room and came back he looked like a sad puppy.” 

Penelope tapped her pen against her chin. “Why was he at your apartment before work?” 

“Apparently, I called him the night before but he didn’t pick up so he stopped by to check up on me and assumed I’d be hungover.” 

“Awe, that’s sweet,” she cooed before her confusion crossed her features. “Wait, you apparently called him? You’re not sure?” 

You cringed as you explained, “I don’t remember calling him. I was really drunk.” 

She tried to hide the amusement on her face but failed. “Why did you call him?” 

You stared at the floor trying to piece together what happened after you got home that night. “I remember missing him. I wanted to talk to him, but I’m not sure what about.” 

“It’d pay good money to hear whatever voicemail you must’ve left him,” she chuckled with a cheeky grin. 

“Right!” You started to chuckle with her until vague memories of talking on the phone came to light. Your face fell as your drunk declarations were pulled out of your long term memory. 

“Oh god,” you said barely above a whisper. 

Penelope filled with concern, “sweetie what’s wrong?” 

“I did leave him a voicemail. He must have listened to it while I was changing,” your eyes widened and anxiety started flowing through your veins. 

Before she could ask what you said in the message, you interrupted. “I have to go,” you alerted as you remembered Spencer already left the office. “I’ll text you later!” 

You practically ran back to the bullpen to grab your things and tell Hotch you were leaving for the night. 

The car ride to his apartment was agonizing. You gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white.

This was all your fault. He couldn’t stand to be around you and talk to you anymore because you drunkenly told him you loved him. 

You ruined your friendship. 

The least you could do was go to his apartment to try to make things right. Try to fix whatever you have broken. 

You couldn’t lose him. Not Spencer. Not the first man you ever actually truly wholeheartedly loved. Even if he didn’t love you back the same way. You’d rather live with the soul crushing pain of unrequited feelings, than lose one of the most important people in your life. 

The walk to his apartment was even worse than the drive to his building. With every step you took, your heart grew heavier. By the time you weakly knocked on his door, your eyes had started to water. 

When Spencer opened the door, his face fell with concern. 

“I remember,” you whispered before he could ask what was wrong. 

A look of realization dawned on him. He stepped to the side and opened the door wider, “come in.” 

You followed and stood awkwardly in his living room. You’d been here hundreds of times before. But now it feels different. Even though you were welcomed inside it still felt like he was miles away. 

“Spencer, I am so sorry.” 

“For what?” He already knows what you’re talking about, you can see it in his eyes. 

“The voicemail.” 

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You’re sorry for sending it?”

“Yes, no!” you stuttered fidgeting with your rings. “I meant what I said. Every bit of it. I just uh- I wish I had told you all of that when I was sober. Maybe I could’ve phrased it better. Not come off so strong.” 

“Why didn’t you?” he inquired, a hint of desperation in his voice.

He took a single step closer to you. “You could’ve told me.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed at him, “wait, you’re not mad about what I said?” 

He mirrored your confusion, “what do you mean?” 

“All week you’ve been acting weird. I thought you were mad or uncomfortable with me because I said I love you.”

Spencer raised his hand to his face as he realized. “I would never be mad at you for that.” His voice raised slightly in frustration, almost a wine, as he continued, “I was upset because by the time you sobered up, you forgot about it.” 

“Oh,” you whispered —if you could even call it that— under your breath. 

He lied. He listened to the message before he showed up, was going to ask about it, and you forgot like an idiot. 

“You only flirt with me or show interest in me when you're drunk. I couldn’t tell what was real or not,” his expression showed more pain as he spoke.

“Spencer, I promise I really do have feelings for you.”

His lips formed a flat line as he stared back at you. “Then why did you only show it when you were drunk?”

“Because I was scared!” your voice raised. You spoke with your hands as you got louder. “How do you tell your best friend you fell in love with them? You can’t! It just doesn't work. I thought I was going to lose you.”

“I’m in love with you.” 

You deadpanned at him, “Spencer, I’m being serious.” 

“So am I,” he said louder than you. 

The weight of his confession finally settled. Time stood still. The world stopped turning. The hands on the clock stopped ticking. 

His voice was quieter this time when he said it. He spoke in the gentlest tone you’d ever heard from him. Like the words dripped right from his arteries, carrying them away from his heart and to you. 

“I love you.” 

“You do?” 

You don’t know why you asked that. It seemed to be the only thing that could leave your mouth. How could you not believe him when he said those three words like that. Like it was his purpose. That he was put on this earth to love you and only you. 

The realization of what his confession meant started to dawn on you.

“That’s why you were at my apartment. So you could tell me. And I-“ 

You stared at the floor with wide guilty eyes and sat (more like fell) on his couch. The guilt started to creep into your blood. It started to crush your bones. 

“Oh I screwed up everything,” you buried your face in your hands. 

He sat down next to you, “no you didn’t.”

“Yes I did. You have every right to be mad at me.” 

”I'm not,” his hand landed on your back, his thumb slowly caressing you. 

You looked up at him, “really?”

“Yes.” 

You stared back at him, looking unconvinced. 

He surrendered and shrugged, “okay I was kind of crushed about it. But I know now that you really did mean it.” 

“I still hurt you,” you returned meekly. The tears started to return back to your eyes and you blinked them away. 

“I’m so sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?” 

His thumb stopped its movements on your back. With the same hand, he pushed back the hair that had fallen in your face. He looked into your eyes like he wanted to see all of you. See every little crack and crevice of your soul you tried to hide from him in fear of judgment, in fear of him running away. 

He could never run away from you. 

“Tell me everything you wished you could say when you were sober.” 

You sat up straighter and turned to fully face him. After taking a slow deep breath, you said what you’d wanted to say to him for months. 

No liquid courage. Just the pure, raw, unadulterated you. 

“Spencer, I’m in love with you. I couldn’t tell you when I was sober because I was afraid. I was in denial for so long. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t falling for you. And it’s not because I don’t want to have feelings for you. It’s the opposite. I love you so much it scares me.”

You started to play with your rings again. “I’ve never been in love before. I’ve never said it and been sure that I really meant it.”

“I mean it when I say it to you. I know I mean it because I want to spend as much time as I can with you. Doesn’t matter if it’s sitting quietly next to each other on the jet or dancing in a crowded bar. I know I mean it because I’d do anything for you. I’d listen to anything you want to ramble about. I’d drive you anywhere you wanted to go because I know you’re not the biggest fan of driving.” 

You swallowed down the lump you didn’t realize formed in your throat. 

“I always find myself crawling back to you when you’re not near.” 

It was only now you really noticed Spencer's expression. His eyes were soft and dilated so much there was barely any brown left in them. His waterline threatened to spill with tears. 

Before you could even dare to say anything else, he reached to the back of your neck and pulled you closer. His lips mixed with yours in a long awaited dance. 

The kiss wasn’t overwhelmed with passion. But also not too slow and careful. The only way you could describe it was perfect. 

It was perfect. 

He was perfect. 

Every aching moment of yearning and longing leading up to this. 

After kissing for what felt like forever —although you’re pretty sure you could kiss him for forever— you laid down on the couch with your head on his chest. Your arms wrapped tightly around him as if he could disappear at any moment. His one arm wrapped around your waist while the other was playing with your hair. 

“You can stay the night if you want,” he nonchalantly tried to offer without explicitly asking if you would stay over. 

“Do you think we’ll have time in the morning to stop by my apartment to get me fresh clothes?” 

“If not, you could borrow one of my sweaters.” 

You chuckled, “Imagine their faces when we show up to work together and with me very clearly wearing your clothes.” 

He smiled at the thought of you wearing his clothes to work. The image of you proudly showing off that he was yours. “Yeah I can imagine it.” 

[dark-l-angel]

may I please request batfam x reader where they randomly find out the reader has Omnilingualism? the reader just randomly drops lore then the batfam is like "HUH?" me pleading:

A/N: Sure luv ❤️ sorry it took a little while.. but here you go 😺

Omnilingualism is the ability to understand all languages.. spoken, written, or otherwise.. instantly and fluently, without having to learn them first.

Batfam x Omnilingual reader + onshot bonus "wait- YOU CAN SPEAK EVERY LANGUAGE?!"

Bruce Wayne:

He pretends he isn’t impressed. He really tries. But the moment you casually correct a mistranslation in one of his case files from an obscure dialect in the Amazon, his eye twitches.

Definitely runs tests in the Batcave. "For data" he claims. Lies. He just wants an excuse to hear you switch flawlessly between Ancient Sumerian and Icelandic.

Low-key starts trusting you with delicate negotiations at Wayne Enterprises. "Accidentally" leaves confidential contracts in languages no one in the room understands except you.

Oh, and you catch him brushing up on his French. He'll never admit it, but he’s trying to catch up to you.

You once whispered something scandalous to him in flawless Latin during a gala. His hand on your lower back tightened just slightly. Dangerous man, but you’re worse.

Dick grayson:

Immediately obsessed. No chill whatsoever.

"Say something in Italian!" "Now Portuguese! Oh oh.. Tagalog!"

Thinks it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. Genuinely struggles to focus if you speak in another language, especially something romantic-sounding. (You catch him blushing like a schoolboy, every time.)

Tries to flirt back in another language but completely butchers it. You gently correct him, and it turns into an unintentional couples language lesson.

You catch him Googling "How to propose in 20 languages." Cute idiot.

Teases you with fake words in gibberish, just to see if you catch on. You always do.

Jason Todd :

Oh, this man loves it. Filthy mouth, wicked grin, and a brain full of bad ideas.

Purposely swears in different languages to see if you catch him. You do. Every. Single. Time.

One time you threw back a sharp insult in flawless Russian, and he damn near swooned.

Has you read his favorite banned books in their original languages. "I just wanna hear you say it, babe." No you don’t, Jason. You want to hear them moaned, don’t you?

Will 100% ask you to dirty talk in languages no one else understands in public settings. "What? I like living dangerously."

Bonus: If you tease him in French, it destroys him. He can’t fight it. French + your voice = his personal kryptonite.

Tim Drake :

Immediately runs to his laptop. He needs answers.

"Omnilingualism is a hyper rare meta-ability.. there are fewer than seven confirmed cases worldwide.. wait- does this mean you can read codes in programming languages like they’re actual languages?!"

Makes you his official decryption buddy. His Batcomputer just became 500% more efficient.

Low-key fascinated, high-key turned on.

Asks you to record audio lessons for him in various languages. You catch him listening to them at 2am with a suspiciously dazed smile.

Will absolutely text you random phrases in dead languages at ungodly hours of the night. "For science."

Damian Wayne :

Instantly annoyed that he’s no longer the most linguistically gifted person in the room.

Challenges you constantly. "Recite this ancient Arabic proverb." You do, flawlessly, and throw in the correct accent for good measure.

He respects you deeply but refuses to admit it directly.

Secretly asks you to teach him rare dialects to communicate with his animals better.

The moment you start speaking to Titus in perfect, gentle Arabic, his eyes go wide. You’ve officially earned his permanent admiration.

Bonus: You tease him by complimenting him in languages he doesn’t know yet. He storms off to study them immediately.

Alfred Pennyworth

Unbothered king. He knew from the start.

Smiles softly when you casually slip into old, classical British idioms even Bruce doesn’t understand.

Occasionally tests you with the oddest phrases from obscure Commonwealth colonies. You pass every time.

"I dare say, Miss, you have a talent most remarkable."

Secretly keeps a list of the rarest languages to see if there’s anything you don’t know.

Family game nights? Forget it. You dominate every round of “Guess That Language.”

You become their favorite asset in undercover ops. Fake passports? Check. Local slang? You’re a walking encyclopedia.

They jokingly call you their “Batbabel.” (Yes, even Bruce lets that nickname slip once.)

Jason is convinced you must have alien blood. "Bet you could sweet talk the Martians, too."

You like to randomly mess with them by switching languages mid-conversation. Pure chaos.

And they all fall a little harder every time you do.

Oneshot bonus : Wait- YOU CAN SPEAK EVERY LANGUAGE?!

It started, as many things in Wayne Manor do, in the most stupidly casual way possible.

You were seated at the long dining table, lazily flipping through your phone while Alfred served brunch. Tim was half-asleep beside you, his forehead dangerously close to his waffles. Jason was reading War and Peace in Russian, because of course he was. Damian was arguing with Dick over the proper form for his new kata routine, while Bruce pretended to read the paper but was very obviously just eavesdropping like the rest of them.

Then, Alfred, with his calm British cadence, said something softly under his breath. In French.

"Mon dieu, cette confiture est un désastre…" (this jam is a disaster...)

Without thinking, without even looking up from your phone, you mumbled back, perfect pronunciation and all,

"Pas nécessairement. C’est la confiture d’orange, elle est censée être comme ça." (Not necessarily. It's orange marmalade, it's supposed to be like that.)

Silence.

Dead silence.

Tim lifted his head slowly, eyes bleary but confused.

Jason lowered his book.

Damian squinted at you like you’d just sprouted a second head.

Bruce folded his newspaper with a quiet, deliberate finality.

Dick? Dick’s eyes were sparkling with mischief.

"Since when do you speak French?" he asked, grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

You blinked, confused by the attention. "Huh? Oh, I don’t."

Wrong answer.

"You just did" Tim said flatly, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

Jason leaned forward on his elbows, sharp smirk spreading. "Care to explain, mon ami?"

Your brain, still not connecting the dots, offered the most unhelpful thing possible: a shrug. "I don’t know. He just said the jam was a disaster. I just... knew."

“Wait.” Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits, laser-focused. "What did Alfred say, exactly?"

You repeated it, casually.

He tried to hide it, but his brows twitched upward. "That’s correct."

Now Jason was grinning like he knew something juicy. "Try Russian."

"What?"

"Say something in Russian," Jason pressed, eyes alight with curiosity.

You hesitated, then shrugged. "Что ты хочешь, чтобы я сказал?" (What do you want me to say?)

Jason’s chair screeched back from the table as he stood, hands in his hair. “NO. No, no, no, what the hell is this?!”

"That was perfect," Tim said, his voice pitching higher, caffeinated brain now fully awake.

"You said you don’t speak these languages?" Bruce asked, a suspicious tilt to his head like he was running seventeen background checks in his mind at once.

You frowned, getting a little defensive now. "I don’t! I never studied Russian, or French, or whatever else. I just... get it, I guess?"

Dick gasped, like someone hit him with a Batarang of Realization. "Wait wait wait.. omnilingualism."

Jason’s mouth dropped open. "No freaking way."

Tim’s eyes went huge behind his glasses. "That’s an actual thing, you know. Hyper rare meta ability. The brain automatically understands and reproduces any language it’s exposed to."

Damian narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. "Prove it."

"Say something in Ancient Latin," Bruce instructed, his detective mode fully activated.

You tilted your head, focusing, and then fluently responded,

"Memento mori, pater. Etiam noctes detectivi requiem merentur" (Remember death, father. Even detectives of the night deserve rest.)

Pin-drop silence.

Jason cackled so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

Dick was clapping like you’d won an Olympic gold medal.

Tim, meanwhile, frantically pulled out his phone, already Googling ‘omnilingual reader discovered at brunch’.

Bruce, stoic as ever, gave you a single nod of respect. "We’ll need to run tests."

"You mean interviews," Dick corrected, leaning closer with a grin. "Because I, for one, have a thousand questions."

"Congratulations" Jason said dryly, raising his glass of orange juice in your direction. "You’re officially our walking, talking, sexy Google Translate."

You rolled your eyes with a crooked smile. "Glad I can be of service."

"And you will be," Bruce added, already making plans in his head. Oh, you were never getting out of this one.

[itsxarien]

how bad do u want me | natalie scatorccio x reader

“Cause you like my hair, my ripped-up jeans, you like the bad girl i got in me.”

SUMMARY: After a quiet conversation with Coach Ben in the wilderness, you come to a realization about yourself that you’ve been avoiding for a long time - you’re in love with your best friend, Natalie Scatorccio.

warnings: nsfw, smut with plot, slight angst!

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The fire was dying again.

You and Coach Ben sat across from it, the silence thick between you. Most nights, no one really talked anymore. But tonight—tonight felt heavy, like something needed to be said. You were chewing on a piece of dried something (you didn’t ask), half-listening to the hiss of the flames when he broke the silence.

“You ever been in love?”

The question felt like it came out of nowhere. You blinked at him. “What?”

He gave a tired shrug. “It’s the kind of question you think about a lot out here.”

You stared into the fire for a long time, the heat kissing your cheeks. “No,” you answered too quickly. Then, quieter: “At least, I don’t think so.”

Coach nodded, then said gently, “What about boys?”

“I dated some, but my heart was never really in it.”You shrugged, pulling your knees up to your chest. “It’s always been like that. I tried. I kissed them. I let them take me out. But it just felt like going through the motions. Like I was acting out a scene someone else wrote.”

He looked at you, not with judgment but with something like… curiosity. “So what does feel real to you?”

Your heart stuttered. The answer lived right there, under your tongue, ready to spill. And once you started talking, it didn’t stop.

And someone came in your mind.

Natalie.

You let out a long breath and started speaking, your voice softer than usual.

“When me and Natalie were younger… I don’t think I ever realized how much I needed Natalie. But there was always something between us, something I could never quite explain.” You paused, taking a moment to collect your thoughts. "When we were at my house, my mom would always be downstairs, cooking or doing something. And Natalie and I would go up to my room, lock the door, and just... be together."

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to find the right words. “We’d lie there in my bed, close, too close sometimes. I’d press my legs against hers, feeling the heat of her body next to mine.”

“I think I always knew, even back then, that I wanted more. But I didn’t know how to say it, how to make it real.”

Coach Ben stayed silent, watching you as you spoke. His presence was comforting, and yet, there was a pang in your chest as you relived those memories.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You and Natalie were sitting on her bed in the dim light of her room, the air thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and the faint aroma of her cheap perfume. The faint sound of music played low, something from the ‘80s. Queen, maybe? You weren’t sure, but the static from the speakers added to the feeling of everything being just a little bit hazy.

She was sprawled across her bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out lazily, her ripped jeans showing more skin than you'd care to admit. Her black eyeliner smudged just slightly, as it always did, and her messy hair framed her face in the way it always did—like she didn’t care, but still somehow looked like she owned the room.

You were sitting a little too stiffly beside her, in your usual outfit of pink, a fuzzy sweater and white skirt with a flower hairclip on top of your head. A stark contrast to her—the good girl, the one who was always so... perfect.

You were used to the way people looked at you both, always wondering how the two of you ended up as best friends. You were opposites in every way. You were the quiet, perfect girl, the one who sat in the front of class and smiled politely. She was loud, messy, always caught up in something she shouldn’t be.

Still, here you were. Side by side, as you always were. Yet tonight, something felt different. You could feel it in the air, that shift that always came before something bigger, something you weren’t ready for but knew was inevitable.

“I don’t get why you hang out with me, (Y/N),” she muttered, her voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place. She turned her head, her eyes searching yours for something—maybe an answer. "I'm trouble, you know that, right?"

You glanced at her, biting your lip. You always hated when she said things like that. Like she wasn’t worth it, like you weren’t worth being around her.

“You’re not trouble,” you said, though your voice was quieter than you intended. “You’re just... complicated. But I like complicated.”

She snorted, a sharp sound that made your heart flutter in an oddly comforting way. “Yeah, sure. You like it ‘cause you’re perfect. You’ve got everything together. I’m just a mess.”

That ache you were feeling deep in your chest earlier felt heavier now. The gap between the two of you was always there, but tonight it felt bigger, harder to ignore. You looked at her again, really looked at her. Natalie—your best friend, the one who you’d known for years, who knew you better than anyone else ever could.

“Maybe I like you because I’m not perfect,” you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “And I don’t want to be.”

There was a long pause as Natalie processed your words. She tilted her head slightly, watching you closely, and then a small, almost sad smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“You’re so good to me, cupcake,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest at the nickname. That nickname. She only ever called you that when she was soft, when she wasn’t trying to hide the part of her that was vulnerable, even if she didn’t always let herself show it.

“I’m not... I’m not good,” you whispered back, your words shaky. You wanted to say more, but the words were stuck in your throat. "You... you’ve been through so much. And you—"

But Natalie cut you off with a shake of her head, her expression turning serious. “You’ve always been good, (Y/N),” she said, her voice like gravel. "You just don’t see it. You always help me, no matter what. You keep me from falling apart."

Her words hung in the air, and you could feel them pressing down on you, making everything feel heavier. You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “You don’t have to let me in, you know? You can—"

“I’m not going anywhere,” she interrupted, her voice suddenly more forceful than before. She moved closer to you, her leg brushing against yours as she did. The proximity sent a jolt through your body, making your pulse quicken.

The closeness was something you both had always shared—laying side by side, pressing your legs together when you watched movies, when you talked about everything and nothing. But tonight, with everything hanging in the balance, it felt like so much more.

You stared at her for a long moment, the words you wanted to say stuck on your tongue. But then she spoke again, her voice quieter, more vulnerable this time.

“Promise me something,” she said, looking down at your intertwined legs. “Promise me you’ll never leave me. No matter how... messed up I get.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

The air between you two felt thick now, like something unsaid was hanging there. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say it out loud yet. You couldn’t tell her what you were really feeling, not when the world seemed so uncertain.

You were so different. She was so different. And yet, you couldn’t imagine being anywhere but right here with her.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

“She kissed me once,” you admitted, pulling your legs closer to your face.

“Said it was practice."

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Madonna crooned from the cassette player, half-muffled by your bedroom pillow.

Like a virgin… touched for the very first time…

Natalie was sprawled next to you, one foot crossed over the other. Her flannel was sliding off one shoulder, eyes smudged with the kind of liner she never wiped off before crashing at your place. She had a joint in hand, laughing at something stupid you’d said about math class.

“Wanna practice?” she asked, not looking at you.

“Practice what?”

She raised a brow. “Kissing.”

You thought she was joking. But then she rolled over onto her side, facing you, close enough to smell the weed and grape soda on her breath.

You hesitated. “Okay.”

She leaned in like it was nothing. Like you were the one being weird about it. Her lips brushed yours, soft, slow, as if she’d done it a hundred times.

You didn’t even move at first. You just felt it—this terrible, perfect spark crawling up your spine. You kissed her back, and it felt like falling. You wanted to cry, and you didn’t know why.

When she pulled back, she grinned.

You wanted her to do it again.

And she did, again and again.

When she kissed you, it wasn’t playful. Not really. It was slow, searching. Her tongue moved against yours like she was memorizing it.

Later, she had pulled back, breathless, eyes darker than the night.

“Damn,” she whispered. “They don’t kiss like that.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

“She kissed me again, later,” you told Coach, your voice cracking. “A bunch of times. And then she touched me.”

You didn’t mean too say it out loud, but it was already gone. Out in the cold air, hanging there like smoke.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

It had been late, after another party, when she’d stumbled into your car, laughing. Her eyeliner smeared, her voice sticky sweet with whiskey.

“You’re always so soft,” she murmured, leaning against you in the passenger seat, cheek pressed to your shoulder.

“You’re always so loud,” you said back, trying to steady your voice even though your hands were trembling on the wheel.

She laughed and turned her head, eyes glassy, breath warm on your skin.

“You ever think maybe I’m loud ‘cause I don’t wanna hear myself think?”

You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t. Just drove her home in silence, the quiet between you almost unbearable.

That night, she left her bedroom door cracked open like she always did when she didn’t want to sleep alone. You followed, heart hammering like you were doing something wrong.

You helped her change. Her skirt was hitched too high, her shirt sliding down one shoulder. When she sat on the edge of her bed, legs loose and lazy, she reached for the strap of your sando, tugging them, letting it leave your shoulder.

“Wanna practice again?” she whispered, lips brushing yours.

Your breath hitched, your cheeks flushing. “Yeah,” you said, and kissed her.

God, you kissed her like it would be the last time. Like it had to count.

It started soft. Your lips, her tongue, the way she cupped the back of your neck. But she tasted like smoke and sugar and something that burned, and soon your sando was half off, her hands under your bra, skimming the bare skin of your sides.

She touched you like she meant it. Like she’d been thinking about it.

Her hand slid beneath your waistband, fingers grazing the elastic of your panties. Your hips jolted.

“Natalie…” you gasped, but it wasn’t a protest. It was a plea.

She paused, eyes locking with yours. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head.

Her fingers dipped lower, slow and careful, until she brushed against the wet heat of you. You choked out a sound, half gasp, half whimper.

“God, you’re already soaked,” she said, voice low and rough, almost reverent.

She kissed your collarbone as she slid a finger inside, then two. Her touch was practiced, but gentle. She curled them just right, dragging them slow, deep, the heel of her hand pressing firm against your clit. You buried your face in her neck, biting down to muffle the moan tearing from your throat.

“Fuck,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

She didn’t. Her fingers worked you open, curling and stroking, coaxing you toward the edge until your thighs were shaking, your back arching, your hands twisted in her sheets.

You came like that, trembling in her lap, forehead pressed to hers, a quiet sob catching in your throat.

She kissed you after, messy and slow. Then she pushed you gently down onto the bed and climbed between your legs.

“Wait - ” you started, but her mouth was already there.

She kissed your thighs first, soft, dragging her teeth across the skin. Her hands pushed your legs open, steady and sure. And then-

Her tongue. Warm, slow, deliberate. She licked a long stripe up your slit, then circled your clit, teasing, tasting.

You cried out.

“Natalie -”

She moaned against you like she was drunk on it. Like she wanted to ruin you slow.

And she did.

The last thing you remembered before the flashback burned out was the sound you made. loud, raw, real - and the way she looked up at you from between your legs like you were something sacred, as she enjoyed

You never noticed but the way she looked at you, it was love.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You looked down at your lap. Your hands were shaking.

“It was my first time,” you admitted.

Coach Ben nodded, listening intently.

You thought that was it—that the conversation would taper off into silence like everything else here did. But then he looked at you again, steady and quiet, like he was waiting for something to click.

“Maybe the love you’re looking for,” he said gently, “has always been in front of you. Waiting.”

You froze.

The fire popped. Your heart did too, in a different way.

He said it like he knew something you didn’t. Like he’d seen it in the way Natalie passed you her joint with soft fingers. The way she always sat just close enough that your knees touched. The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t looking - tired, tender, like she didn’t know how to say don’t go.

“Maybe,” he added, “you’ve just been looking for it in the wrong people.”

Your throat burned. You didn’t have an answer.

Just Natalie’s name echoing through your chest like a secret you’d been too afraid to tell out loud.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe she’d always been right there.

Waiting.

And as you return to the cabin the, faint rise and fall of Natalie’s breathing as she lay curled up on the cot, her face relaxed in sleep.

There was space next to her, an empty spot on the edge of the blanket, clearly left for you.

You smiled softly to yourself, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. It was a small thing, but it meant the world to you.

As you moved closer, the cool night air from the door fading behind you, you hesitated. You knew what you were feeling now. You couldn’t ignore it anymore. You couldn’t hide from the truth.

Coach Ben’s words echoed in your mind—Maybe the love you're looking for has always been in front of you, waiting. You thought about it again, about how, all this time, you’d been searching for something that was never really gone.

It had always been Natalie.

You gently eased into the space beside her, sliding your arms around her waist and pulling her close. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her body fitting into yours like it was always meant to. You hugged her tightly from behind, feeling the warmth of her skin seep into yours.

And in the quiet of that moment, you realized what Coach Ben had meant. You’d been looking for love in all the wrong places, convinced that there was something out there for you, when all along it was right here. Right in front of you. Waiting.

Natalie.

The love you’d been searching for, the love you had been too scared to admit, was already yours.

And as you held her close, the world outside the cabin seemed so far away. The noise, the chaos, it all faded to nothing. All that mattered was the warmth of her body in your arms and the gentle sound of her breathing.

 Coach Ben had been right after all.

THE END

[itzpookiepooh]

Dump Him!

You ask them for relationship advice

“I need advice.” You huff falling onto the couch where Caleb sat. Your head was in his lap as you pout, he looks down at you in confusion. He adjusts his position taking his ankle off his knee.

“Shoot pipsqueak I’m all ears.” He assures you making you take a deep breath. This was like a mini therapy session you guys had every once in a while. Too often for you not often enough for him.

“So he’s always running to help his best friend and I mean running. She called him to stay at her house because she’s going through a break up.” You explained as Caleb nodded slowly. He didn’t see the big deal because he always comes running when you call.

“I mean that is his best friend and think of us—“ You cut him off before he could say anything stupid. “The best friend is a girl and he spends the night. No matter what we’re going through he runs to her.”

“You should kill him.” He states bluntly before unpausing his show as if he solved your problem entirely.

“Caleb!”

You just got done arguing with your boyfriend again. Rafayel just watched with a bored expression, he was use to the bickering. He just wished you would dump him already. He watched you pace as you screamed at him which was out of character for you, in his mind at least. You hung up slamming your phone on the counter.

“Ugh! He’s insufferable. What should I do?” You ask more out loud but Rafayel was going to answer anyway.

“What did he do this time?” He asked taking about bite out of a grape from the bowl. You pout putting your chin on your fist. You know Rafayel and you also know he loathes your boyfriend.

“Ditched our date tonight for his friends.” You sigh, Rafayel on the other hand glares at you. He then got an idea.

“You should invite him out here to make up. It’s beautiful and quiet.” Rafayel counts on his fingers before your face fell flat.

“I’m not bringing him out here for you to kill him.” You deadpan making him drop his act and shrug.

“Worth a shot.” He throws a grape into his mouth.

Your leg bounced as you stared at your phone waiting for a text back. Sylus looks over his glasses to watch your leg bounce. You were shaking the couch with these nerves of yours. He couldn’t focus on a single word with all this bouncing. He knew you were arguing with that no good boyfriend of yours. He grabbed your leg without looking away from his book. Your gaze snaps over to him.

“Sorry.” You mumble, Sylus closes the book with a sigh, “What is it now?”

“He’s jealous because I spend a lot of time with you. Which is bullshit by the way! He spends a lot of time with his friends too!” You ramble as you wave your arms around. Sylus just watches you as you express yourself.

“What should I do?” You groan leaning into him. Sylus hums before rubbing your arm.

“We could give him something to be jealous about.” Sylus suggests, his smirk widening as he looks at you.

“You’re never serious.” You deadpan making him chuckle.

“Worth a shot.”

You get in Zayne’s car in a hurry accidentally slamming the door. You were so irritated that the night felt ruined because your boyfriend wanted to argue. He hated whenever Zayne was around but you make sure to remind him this is your childhood friend. His jealousy was ugly and Zayne would tell you constantly. The boy thought you were sleeping together for goodness sake! Not that you would mind. You explained all this to Zayne knowing he’d probably say what he usually does. You were just waiting for it.

“Maybe I can fix him…fix us y’know?” You fall back into the seat as Zayne stops at a red light. He looks over at you with the most serious face ever.

“Did he defecate on himself?” He asks seriously, you blink at him as if he was confused.

“No?” You question more than answer. Zayne hums as he nods his head slowly, “then why would you change him?”

You narrow your eyes at him. He’s as sassy as ever but he was right.

Your boyfriend and you had a huge fight. It was so big that you left and went to Xavier’s who could hear it from his apartment. You apologized for the noise which he didn’t care about. Your wellbeing was what mattered most to him after all. He made you tea and waited to hear what the arguing was about. You explained he accused you of cheating on him which wasn’t true. Xavier knew this since you guys spent so much time together.

“What should I do?” You sigh sadly. Xavier blinked slowly as he gave you a once over.

“Leave him.” He bluntly said. No hesitation, no pauses, nothing.

“Xavier I can’t.” You groan falling into the couch as he takes the cup from you. He places it on the coffee table and then turns his attention back to you.

“Why not? He’s not a good person and has zero redeeming qualities. He chews with his mouth open, he burps obnoxiously loud—” He lists and if you hadn’t stopped him he would go on and on all night. You put your hand over his mouth and nod as you look at the ceiling.

“You’re absolutely right.” Leaving the conversation at that.

“Want me to kill him?” He mumbles looking at you. You swiftly turn your head to look at him with genuine concern. Maybe you heard him wrong.

“What?”

“What?” He repeats now looking at you confused.

I couldn’t wait to get to Zayne’s but imo his Caleb’s and Rafayel’s are the funniest 😭 I also forgot what I was gonna write mid Caleb’s because I left my mind palace (the shower).

Have this while I concoct Sylus’ bday special 💋

[sukumna]

┌─ WHEN HE MAKES YOU CRY

characters; gojo. naoya. toji.

warnings; fem!reader. hurt/comfort. ddlg!!! (no age regression) daddy kink. 24/7 ds relationship. suggestive uh yeah.

notes; this is so self indulgent you guys i’m sorry SHSHHS. i was gonna remove the daddy and make it normal but 🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️.

✦ — TOJI FUSHIGURO

you’re in the corner of the kitchen, arms crossed, glaring at him through tear-filled eyes. he just stares.

and then—

“fuck,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

his voice drops. “don’t do that. don’t look at me like that, sweetheart.”

you don’t answer. he walks over, crowding into your space, and you flinch—just a little.

it wrecks him. he presses his forehead to yours.

“you scared of me now?” he murmurs. “that what i’ve done to you?”

your breath hitches and he kisses the corner of your eye.

“you cryin’ like that and i’m still standin’ here instead of on my fuckin’ knees,” he says, wrapping his arms around your waist. “what’s wrong with me, huh?”

he lifts you up, sits you on the counter like you weigh nothing.

“let daddy take care of it,” he whispers. “let me kiss it better. all of it. all of you.”

his mouth is soft when it finds yours, but his hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

✦ — GOJO SATORU

you turn away mid-sentence, and he thinks you’re done with the conversation—until he sees your shoulders shake.

“wait,” satoru says, voice tight. “are you crying?”

you try to hide it, but your sniffle betrays you.

he’s on you in seconds, spinning you around and cupping your face in his hands. “no, no, baby, hey—look at me. shit. did i really make you cry?”

his thumb brushes your tears like they burn. you can feel his hands slightly trembling.

“daddy didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “you know i’m just an idiot, right?”

he pulls you into his lap and kisses your temple over and over.

“you want me to make it up to you?” he murmurs, pressing a hand between your legs, not even teasing—just holding. “want daddy to take care of her? make her forget everything?”

you sniff and mumble out a small mhm.

his voice is all sugar now. “don’t cry for me, baby. let daddy fix it.”

✦ — NAOYA ZENIN

you slam the door on your way to the bedroom, and he almost lets you go.

but then he hears the sob. soft. quiet. but real.

he grits his teeth and follows.

“stop that,” he says, and it sounds cruel—until he kneels in front of you, grabs your wrists and pulls them from your face.

“don’t hide from me,” he mutters. “not when you’re crying.”

you hiccup, tears wetting your lashes, and he feels it—something split open inside him.

his hand curls around the back of your neck. he leans in.“you’re so fucking pretty when you cry,” he breathes. “but don’t waste those tears on some little fight.”

he pulls you onto his lap, his hand sliding up your shirt, stroking the bare skin of your back.

“you need daddy to help you calm down?” he hums against your throat. “you want me to love on you? hmm?”

you nod, barely. he smirks.

“then tell daddy how to fix it.”

[starsoverbrooklyn]

Very informal, obnoxious, and messy annotations below... (all love, promise) 💚

“It’ll be fine by morning–” he starts to argue with you, but you’re already walking away from him, exiting the room to retrieve a first-aid kit kept in one of the shared bathrooms just down the hallway. Though you can’t currently see him, you have no doubt that he is shaking his head and rolling his eyes at you. 

I love that this feels so him. I’m a full supporter of the theory that Bucky and Steve both lack the sense for self-care and burdening with what can heal—regardless of it being broken. Ah! & then your sprinkle of his personality? 5-star Michelin.

“What were you reading before I so rudely interrupted you?” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in a smirk as he inspects the cover of the book. 

🫵Witch!! I shouldn’t be able to PICTURE this rn—insane work.

Natasha, Sharon, and Wanda wave at you from where they lounge next to the bonfire, Steve and Sam are engaged in an intense game of beer pong (which Sam seems to be doing impressively well at, considering one arm is still in a cast and sling), Clint and Bruce are playing cornhole - everyone is here, though you don’t see the one person you came for.

This is the content I live for—everyone on this earth and living their best lives. I love the rest of this scene so much—ugh. And the wrapping paper?! Cait. I’m dramatic but I’m sending you my hospital bill bc i feel the love for this piece building & i’m going to have to go through another heartbreak of finishing it again.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, earnest smile. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you. I'm going to start reading them–” 

Omg, he’s whipped. and i love it.

“Ivanov just arrived,” Bucky's voice murmurs next to your ear as he walks up behind you, snapping you out of your self-doubt induced trance. His left hand, disguised using nano-tech to look like a human, flesh hand, comes to rest against the small of your back and his right hand extends the drink that he retrieved for you from the bar. 

This gives congressman Bucky & I’m losing my mind. Him knowing the drink is such an attractive detail, ugh. 

“Dance with me,” Bucky interrupts, his eyes locked on something on the opposite side of the room.

My breath trembled a bit like he actually cut me off. You’re compiling so many rich tropes into one piece and mixing it with your ability to just create an immersive reading experience… It’s giving am I reading or watching a movie?

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, beginning to massage his thumb over the skin of your hand in languid, circular motions.

Time for me to indulge a little on my top love language. You did this push and pull with her anxiety and his soothing so naturally. People often mistake WOA as someone who needs to be constantly assured, and though there are people who do—the truth and assurance in his words, with a note of him highlighting her past things worth praising? I seriously love how beautifully you’ve touched on all of these love languages.

And then the fucking—

“And remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

I get this is a huge talking point with this piece, but it was such a subtle affirmation that he cares about what she shares with him—and gosh, I wish I could rave day & night about how amazing you did with this.

“I fully anticipate him trying,” he answers as he puts the car in reverse and peels out of the nearly vacant parking lot. “But I promised you a potentially gut-rotting meal, and I'm going to keep that promise.” 

I’m a skeptic of shifting, but if I wasn’t, this would go on my script. This gives ‘I’d stop the world and melt with you’, which is the epitome of quality time. Beautiful.

“I'm just saying, Katniss is kind of oblivious,” Bucky shrugs with a mouthful of fried cheese. “It's obvious that Peeta was never just pretending to be in love with her.”

This parallel is paralleling. (Don’t hate me, I’ve never read the books, but this is the reason I’m going to).

“Why were you trying to play pool at ten years old?” he chuckles, gathering up all of the balls and placing them inside the triangular rack in the center of the table.

Ugh, adorable. Give him to me, Cait. Just let me copy him from your brain and paste him irl. And the touch about the cootie-phobic crush just puts the icing over the cavity just before things take a turn……

But you don't miss the way his expression darkens ever so slightly and his eyes sweep up your figure before moving to stand behind you, propping his own cue stick up against the table.

CAIT, LADIES AND GENTS. Made Bucky flip like the switch he so desperately is. 

“With how fast your heart is beating right now, I don't think I would have to do something as cheesy as that to make a move.”

I… have to read the rest of this portion in solitude… I shall return.

As soon as his mouth makes contact with your center, you’re lacing your fingers through his short, soft locks and tugging on them.

Screaming!!

You bring your other hand to remove the ring from your finger, planning to tuck it into a cup holder for safekeeping while you use your hands on him. “Leave it on,” he breaks the thick silence when he realizes what you're doing. “Want you to keep wearing it.” 

CRYING!!! THROWING UP!!!!!!!!!!!! UNFORGIVABLE. 

He snorts, breaking into laughter beneath you. “A second date, then,” he concedes. “I would love to take you on a second date.”

*SLAMS CREDIT CARD ON TABLE A BILLION TIMES* ADD TO CART. ADD TO CART. ADD TO CART. BUY. BUY IMMEDIATELY. BUY POSTHASTE. FULL-fucking circle, baby. This is what we were WAITING FOR!!!!!!

Cait—I do not expect you to read all of this. Just know that I had so much fun reading it this time around (as I’d previously wished I could read it for the first time again)—and it felt just like the first. I’m reading as part of self-improvement for my imagination, and I hope you know this will always be in my top favorites of things I’ve read that made me feel. Thank you for writing it, and sharing on this platform. May your pillows and covers always be just the right temperature for the season. I’ll definitely be back for more 💚 -rrinnie

love language

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 6.6k

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

“remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

warnings/tags: smut, oral, unprotected sex, mentions of blood, wound care, brief uses of alcohol, anxiety and self-doubt, language, reader is afab, avenger!reader, fluffier than what i typically write, undercover mission, friends to lovers!!! 18+ only

Acts of Service

“Exciting Friday night?” Your head snaps up at the masculine voice. You nearly slosh hot tea on both yourself and the pages of the book that lay open in your lap. You're surprised to see him - as far as you were aware, Bucky and Sam were in Munich. You didn't think they were supposed to be back in the country for another two days.

“Something like that,” you answer, regaining your composure as you bring the mug to your lips. “What are you doing back so early? Did recon go okay?”

Bucky lets out a long sigh as he plops down into the recliner, adjacent to where you're curled up on the sofa in the compound’s communal living room. His eyelids look heavier than normal, with dark circles underneath that aren't typically present. You place your cup of tea on the end table next to you and close the book before angling your body towards him, giving him your undivided attention.

“It was a shit-show,” he answers bluntly, voice laced with defeat. “HYDRA had the drop on us from the minute we entered Germany. What was supposed to be us just gathering intel turned into an ambush. One minute, it was just the two of us in an old warehouse, and then the next..” he trails off, eyes locked on one of the buttons of his tactical pants that he’s fidgeting with. “We’re lucky to have made it out. Sam was taken to med-bay as soon as we got back. Broken arm and collarbone, dislocated shoulder, possibly a few fractured ribs..” he lists off the injuries.

“Jesus,” you cringe, a death grip on the book in your hands as you listen to him summarize the mission. “Looks like you came out pretty unscathed in comparison.” You glance him over from head to toe, relieved to see no visible wounds or bruises.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, sitting forward and pulling the collar of his black t-shirt over to expose his right shoulder. Your eyes bulge when you see the obvious knife wound that the fabric had been concealing. “Not completely unscathed.”

“Holy shit, Bucky, why didn’t you go get this stitched up?” You stand up quickly, your book falling forgotten to the floor as you step closer to him to inspect the cut. There’s dried blood covering the surrounding skin of his chest and shoulder, with fresh blood still seeping from the opening of the wound. Even with the luxury of the Quinjet, a direct flight from Germany to New York is at least eight hours, who knows how long the cut had been steadily oozing–

“The bleeding has slacked off for the most part at this point,” he tries to assure you, attempting to cover the wound back up with his shirt. His shirt that, upon closer inspection, is thoroughly soaked through with blood. You all but smack his hand away so that you can continue to inspect the cut.

“It’s too deep,” you shake your head. “It needs stitches.”

“It’ll be fine by morning–” he starts to argue with you, but you’re already walking away from him, exiting the room to retrieve a first-aid kit kept in one of the shared bathrooms just down the hallway. Though you can’t currently see him, you have no doubt that he is shaking his head and rolling his eyes at you.

Before returning to the living room, you stop by the kitchen and grab a cold can of Blue Moon to help take the edge off. Upon reentering the living room, you find that he’s hunched over where he sits in the recliner, leaning forward to grab your book from where it had fallen on the rug.

“What were you reading before I so rudely interrupted you?” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in a smirk as he inspects the cover of the book.

“The Hunger Games,” you answer simply as you place the first-aid kit on the couch and hold out the beer to him. He accepts the drink, a small, surprised smile appearing on his face.

“Shirt,” you instruct a second later, turning to him with a warm, wet rag that you intend to clean some of the dried blood off with. Surprisingly, he obliges your request, placing both the beer and the book in his lap to pull the bloodied fabric over his head.

“And what exactly is The Hunger Games about?” he asks, looking up at you through his thick lashes before turning his attention back to the book in his lap. He flips it over, skimming the words on the back cover.

“The Hunger Games,” you begin as you delicately swipe the damp washcloth across the dirty skin around his wound, watching as the material turns from white to pink as it collects the old blood. “Are dystopian fiction novels. The books get their title from an annual event in which a boy and a girl, ranging from the ages of twelve to eighteen, from twelve different districts are selected by name-drawing to compete in a fight to the death. Twenty-four go into an arena, one comes out.”

“Sheesh,” Bucky grimaces and pops the tab to the beer. You turn away from him, placing the soiled washcloth on the table next to him before retrieving some disinfectant from the kit. “And what’s the point in having a bunch of children kill each other?”

“Punishment and control,” you shrug, pouring some of the clear liquid on a large gauze pad until it’s soaked. He gives you a vague nod, signaling he’s ready for you to clean the wound. You dab the drenched cotton along the opening of the wound, wincing more visibly than Bucky does himself. “The districts where the children are reaped from have had uprisings against the nation’s Capitol in the past. The games are to punish them, as well as to remind them what power the Capitol holds.”

Bucky’s brows furrow together, contemplating your words. You make the initial incision for his stitches and he lets out a grunt of discomfort. “Sorry,” you mumble, concentrating on the stitchwork.

“So what happens?” He asks after a few moments of silence, obviously trying to distract himself from the needle going in and out of his tender flesh as he sips on the amber colored liquid. “The group of kids rebel and take down the Capitol?”

“You’re not too far off,” you chuckle lightly. “I guess you’ll just have to read them for yourself to find out.”

“I suppose I will,” he says, eyeing your needlework from the corner of his eye. “Will you let me borrow your copies when I finish The Lord of the Rings?”

“You’re reading The Lord of the Rings?” you fail at hiding your tone of surprise, more focused on finishing suturing his cut.

“Don’t act so shocked,” he feigns insult. “I read when I have the free time to do so.” He turns his head towards you for the first time since you began stitching, causing you to realize just how close his face is to your own. You push down the fluttery feeling in the pit of your stomach at the close proximity, clearing your throat as you turn to grab a pair of small medical scissors. You clip the thread before backing away from him.

“That should hold you together well enough until your supernatural super-soldier healing abilities take care of it while you sleep.”

He stands from his position in the recliner, holding out your book to you. “Thank you,” he tells you sincerely. “For the stitches, and the beer.”

“Of course,” you say as you take your book back from him. “Don’t want you getting blood all over the compound.”

“I think I’m gonna go check on Sam,” he sighs. “I’ll let you get back to your reading.”

“Get some rest!” you demand as he retreats to the hallway.

“Yes ma’am,” he calls without looking back, his Brooklyn drawl making an appearance.

For the rest of the night, you try to focus on your book and not the way you felt when his plush pink lips and cerulean blue eyes were just inches from your face.

Receiving Gifts

One week later

Punctuality has never been your strong-suit, but you didn’t expect to be the very last person to arrive at Bucky’s birthday party - get together, as he insists on calling it, since he feels silly having a birthday party at over one hundred years old. However, as you’re approaching the pavilion at the compound’s lake, you see that all of your friends are already mingling comfortably.

Natasha, Sharon, and Wanda wave at you from where they lounge next to the bonfire, Steve and Sam are engaged in an intense game of beer pong (which Sam seems to be doing impressively well at, considering one arm is still in a cast and sling), Clint and Bruce are playing cornhole - everyone is here, though you don’t see the one person you came for.

You make your way over to a picnic table closer to the lake that has been dedicated to presents so that you can add yours to the pile. You had ordered the gift a week ago, the same night that you had stitched up Bucky’s shoulder wound, and it arrived just in time - in today's mail, only an hour ago.

Hence the reason you are the last to arrive with a shittily-wrapped present in hand.

“Is that Avengers wrapping paper?” You whirl around at the amused voice to see Bucky walking towards you.

“That it is,” you confirm. “You and I aren't featured, though. Just the OGs,” you shrug, staring down at the cartoon depictions of Steve and the others.

“I was starting to wonder if you weren't going to come.” He says lightheartedly, nodding in the direction of everyone else.

“Your present didn't get delivered until the last minute,” you explain, giving the box-shaped object in your hand a shake. “Didn't want to show up empty handed.”

“You didn't have to get me a gift at all,” he says reassuringly, but eyes the present curiously. “But since you almost missed my party over it, I should open it right away.” He holds his hands out expectantly, almost childlike.

You roll your eyes, handing over the poorly packaged present. You had never been the best at gift-wrapping, usually preferring to reuse bags.

“I did not almost miss your party. It's just now eight o'clock,” you defend yourself, staring at the sun that's just starting to set over the lake's horizon, painting the New York sky in hues of orange and purple.

He smirks, walking past you to place the present on the table. You watch as he rips the wrapping paper away unceremoniously, until the gift is revealed.

“I know you had asked to borrow my copies,” you begin, suddenly feeling nervous as you watch him look over the box set of the first edition of The Hunger Games trilogy. “But my copies are old, and tattered, and have been annotated to shit, so.. I thought maybe you'd like your own,” you shrug nonchalantly.

He studies the box, pulling out the first book and glancing it over with a look you can't quite decipher. There's a faint hint of rose on his cheeks, and the lines around his eyes crinkle when he turns his head to look at you.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, earnest smile. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you. I'm going to start reading them–”

“This pizza is getting cold!” You hear Sam's voice bellow from under the pavilion a few yards away. “I'm about to dig in with or without the birthday boy.”

You exhale through your nose, a half laugh, half sigh and look at Bucky expectantly. “Pretty sure you're the only birthday boy here.”

“I guess that's my cue,” he sighs as he places the books with the rest of his unopened gifts. “Thanks again, really. It's my favorite gift,” he adds with a sly grin as he begins to walk towards Sam and the table of pizza boxes.

“You haven't even opened the others yet,” you point out, following in his steps.

“Don’t need to open any of the others to know that yours is my favorite.”

Words of Affirmation

Two weeks later

Overstimulated. That's the best word to describe the way you're currently feeling.

Nervous, uncomfortable, irritable, a little hungry, even - any of those words would suffice, too. But with the way the velvet fabric of your dress hugs your hips too tightly, the way that the conversation of the drunk party guests roars in your ears, and the way that the heels of your feet already burn in your platform wedges so early in the evening, you think overstimulated sums up your current state the best.

You fidget with the extravagant ring that adorns your left ring finger, twisting it back and forth and rubbing the pad of your right thumb across the oval-shaped stone.

You aren't even supposed to be here, your brain keeps reminding you. It was supposed to be Natasha. Natasha, who has a boatload of undercover operations experience. But then she had to come down with the flu. Natasha, who never gets sick with anything more than a head cold, bedridden with the flu the day before a highly anticipated undercover mission that you are now taking her place in.

It's not that you hadn't been part of an undercover operation before - you had. You just hadn't been part of any undercover operation that required you to pose as someone's wife before.

Definitely not Bucky's wife.

The two of you had just arrived at the party no more than thirty minutes ago and you had spent the entirety of that time thinking that you wouldn't be able to make this believable; that everyone would see how anxious and awkward you feel and just know - just know that you weren't meant to be here and that it's abundantly clear that you and Bucky aren't actually together.

“Ivanov just arrived,” Bucky's voice murmurs next to your ear as he walks up behind you, snapping you out of your self-doubt induced trance. His left hand, disguised using nano-tech to look like a human, flesh hand, comes to rest against the small of your back and his right hand extends the drink that he retrieved for you from the bar.

“How'd you know I like lemon drops?” You ask, instantly recognizing the pale yellow liquid in the martini glass.

“I'm your husband. It's part of my job to know your go-to cocktail,” he smirks, looking at you in a way that almost makes you believe his words. “Besides, I'd know your drink of choice anyway. You always order a lemon drop.”

You clear your throat, breaking his stare by checking out the fellow attendees and event staff filtering through the ballroom. You slowly sip the sour liquid, trying to focus on the burn of the vodka and not the heat radiating across the skin of your back from him simply resting his fingers against the material of your dress.

“So where's Ivanov?” you break the tension. The illegal arms dealer that you'd been assigned to spy on was nowhere to be seen.

“He should be showing his face any minute now,” Bucky answers, a hint of displeasure in his voice. “I overheard some men at the bar saying he had just arrived in a three million dollar Bugatti with his twenty year old girlfriend.” You visibly cringe at the numbers. Ivanov had to be approaching senior citizen status at this point.

“Can't say that I'd expect anything else from him,” you sigh, attempting to wipe the disgust from your features. “What’s our game plan from here? Hover close by him and listen in on conversations–”

“Dance with me,” Bucky interrupts, his eyes locked on something on the opposite side of the room. You follow his gaze, realizing that Ivanov has entered with his exceptionally youthful girlfriend on his arm. Bucky extends his own arm to you, which you accept after tossing back the last sip of your drink and setting the empty glass on a table behind you.

He guides you to the center of the dance floor where several other couples are swaying to classical piano music. Ivanov mingles with a small group of questionable looking men just a few feet behind you, where Bucky is able to keep an eye on him.

He places one hand on your waist, using the other to hold one of yours in his own as he begins to slowly sway both of you to the rhythm of the music. Your free hand rests on the back of his neck, where you nervously twirl a tuft of his hair between your perfectly manicured fingers (you tried not to take too much offense to Sharon rushing you to the first salon she could find yesterday to help you look the part).

Bucky huffs a low laugh before using his grip on your hip to tug you closer to him, closing an awkward amount of space that separates your chest from his.

“If we want this to be believable, you’re gonna have to act like you kind of like me,” he murmurs lowly so that no one near you overhears. His face is just inches from yours - the scent of sandalwood from his aftershave and spearmint from his mouthwash is dizzying. Add in the fact that the lemon drop you had just quickly downed was heavy on the vodka, it’s a miracle that you’re still standing upright in these ridiculous heels that Sharon had picked out for you.

“I do like you,” you huff, your cheeks warming. “Not liking you isn’t the problem.” His gaze shifts away from where Ivanov stands a few yards behind you and down to your face.

“What is the problem then?”

You stare at his hand that holds yours, your eyes fixated on the brilliant diamond of your faux wedding ring. “For starters, I don’t really know how to slow dance,” you half-mumble. As if on cue, your left ankle shifts ever so slightly in your shoe, causing you to wobble. Bucky tightens his grasp on both your waist and hand to help steady you. He cackles - loudly enough for an old lady walking by to give him a side-eye.

“I think it’s pretty unlikely that our cover gets blown because you’re a little unsteady,” he whispers reassuringly. It does little to ease the lump of anxiety that has settled in your gut.

“It’s not just my lack of dancing experience,” you retort. “It’s all of this. I’m a bit out of my element here and I can’t help but feel like Natasha would have been able to do a much better–”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, beginning to massage his thumb over the skin of your hand in languid, circular motions. You can’t decide if it’s the effects of the alcohol coursing through your veins or if it’s just the fact that it’s him, but it feels as though there’s a continuous trail of hot sparks everywhere his skin touches yours. “You've got this. If anyone’s got this, it's you. You've handled missions far more daunting than this with ease, right?”

You finally shift your eyes to meet his gaze. His deep blue eyes bore into yours with utmost sincerity. You give him a small nod of agreement and a tight-lipped, uncertain smile.

He leans in closer so that his mouth hovers just next to your ear, his warm breath raising goosebumps down the expanse of your neck and shoulders.

“And remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

The slow, gentle swaying motions you'd been forcing your body to perform come to a sudden halt. You look at Bucky as if he's grown a second head. He’s looking at you with a shit-eating grin spread from ear to ear.

“Did you just quote Peeta Mellark?”

“I finished up the first book yesterday,” he shrugs as if his words hadn't just made your heart skip several beats. “Now let's get this job over with so we can go discuss the book in detail over some greasy diner food, yeah?”

Quality Time

The mere thought of getting the fuck out of that giant estate and away from Ivanov and the other countless skeevy party-goers to gorge on greasy diner food was more than enough motivation to get you through the duration of the mission.

Of course, it helped that Ivanov is a lightweight drunk with no concept of volume control. After a couple drinks, he handed the location of his next illegal arms deal to you and Bucky on a silver platter - without ever even noticing the two of you dancing just feet away from him.

“I'm sending the audio recording over to you right now,” Bucky says as he types on his cell phone. The two of you are currently in a drugstore parking lot half an hour away from the estate, sitting in the Audi SUV that you'd been given for this evening’s mission.

“Got it,” Sam’s voice booms through the car’s Bluetooth speakers a second later. “You guys did great back there. Go ahead and get back to the compound for debriefing.”

Your eyes flash to the time on the vehicle's touchscreen display - 10:06 pm. You can feel your stomach churning from hunger and your skin itching to get out of the restrictive velvet fabric, the last thing you wanted to do at this hour was go to a fucking debriefing.

“About that..” Bucky starts, noticing your disappointed expression and tense posture. “Debriefing is going to have to wait until the morning.”

“We should really get any details while they are still fresh–”

“What’s that? Sam? Sorry, you're breaking up, can't understand what you're–”

Bucky's flesh finger touches a button on the digital display screen and the call disconnects before he finishes his sentence.

“You know he's going to call back any second, right?” You ask after a moment of loaded silence. Bucky says nothing at first. You watch as he powers off his phone, and then grabs yours from its location in the center cup holder and powers it off, as well.

“I fully anticipate him trying,” he answers as he puts the car in reverse and peels out of the nearly vacant parking lot. “But I promised you a potentially gut-rotting meal, and I'm going to keep that promise.”

Half an hour later, you and Bucky sit opposite each other in a cozy, corner booth of the only open diner in a five mile radius. It's half diner, half arcade, and the two of you are some of the only people here save for the teenage couple making out next to the jukebox in the gaming area. You both look out of place - him in his black satin suit and you in your burgundy colored dress with the thigh-slit, but you're too relieved to be eating to care.

He's already scarfed down a fried chicken sandwich and is rapidly making his way through a pile of mozzarella sticks. You're eating a fat stack of blueberry pancakes and the best loaded hash browns that you think you've ever had.

Breakfast foods hit different at eleven o'clock at night.

“I'm just saying, Katniss is kind of oblivious,” Bucky shrugs with a mouthful of fried cheese. “It's obvious that Peeta was never just pretending to be in love with her.”

“That's a big assumption coming from someone who hasn't even started the second book yet,” you say as you fork a bite of pancake into your mouth.

He throws his hands up in mock defense, covering his now empty plate up with a dirty napkin.

“You're not wrong though,” you admit. “She did miss a lot of signs, and she's not always the most reliable narrator.”

He responds with a small hum as he watches you finish your pancakes with a soft smile that shows his laugh lines and the dimple of his left cheek.

His smile turns to something more curious as the young couple who had been making out in the arcade room earlier dashes past your booth and out the back door of the restaurant.

“What is it?” You ask, pushing your empty plate towards the center of the table.

“The game room is free now,” he states, as if it's obvious. “Now I can kick your ass in air hockey.”

And kick your ass in air hockey he does. And skee ball, and Dance Dance revolution.

“Please don't tell Natasha that you beat me at Dance Dance Revolution,” you beg him as you pick up your high heels that you had discarded for the game. “She'll never let me live that one down. In fact, if anyone asks, it was a dead tie for all of these games.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he chuckles, approaching the pool table in the center of the room and leaning against the edge. “As long as you win this game of pool.”

“No, nope, absolutely not,” you freeze where you're standing, crossing your arms over your chest. “If I couldn't beat you at air hockey then I don't stand a chance of beating you at pool.”

He ignores you, instead turning to choose two cue sticks from the selection on the back wall. He tosses one to you from several feet away, which you instinctively drop your shoes to the floor to catch.

“I haven't even tried to play pool since I was maybe ten years old,” you whine.

“Why were you trying to play pool at ten years old?” he chuckles, gathering up all of the balls and placing them inside the triangular rack in the center of the table.

“It was at a birthday party,” you admit. “I pretended to know what I was doing to impress a boy that I had a crush on.”

“And how did that go for you?” He removes the triangle-shaped container from around the balls and begins to line up his shot.

“Well, I haven't tried to play pool since then,” you begin, taking a seat on the edge of the table and turning your head to watch him. He pulls the cue stick back and quickly stabs it forward, breaking the balls apart and sending them rolling in various directions across the felt table. “And Kyle from my fourth grade class thought that I had cooties, so, you tell me how you think that went for me.”

“Sounds like it was Kyle's loss.” You watch as he walks to one of the table's pockets to look inside. “I've got stripes,” he states, looking at you with an expectant smile.

You exhale a dramatic sigh, hopping off the edge of the table and turning around to position your stick in front of the cue ball.

“Fine,” you relent, looking up at him from where you're leaning over across the table. “But you're not allowed to laugh at me when you realize I wasn't lying about having no experience at this.”

“Scout's honor,” he swears and you can tell by his smile and reddened cheeks that he’s already trying to contain his laughter.

Feeling extra nervous due to the way you can physically feel him watching you, you take an embarrassing amount of time working up the courage to propel the tip of the cue stick towards a solid purple colored ball.

It travels a foot or so across the green felt material of the table and comes to a stop just inches away from a corner pocket.

“Damn it,” you sigh under your breath.

“That wasn't too bad, actually,” he says, not even trying to conceal his tone of surprise as he walks over to where you're standing. “You just need to change your stance a little and hit the ball a bit harder.”

“So, do basically everything differently, then?”

“I can help you, if you want,” he offers with a smug grin.

“Hm,” you bite your lip as you pretend to contemplate the proposition. “Okay,” you accept with a shrug. “But this better not be an attempt to pull a cliche “pretend to help her with pool as an excuse to make a move” kind of move.” You're fully joking - you know Bucky well enough to know he wouldn't make such a corny, obvious move with anyone - and you definitely wouldn't expect him to do so with you.

But you don't miss the way his expression darkens ever so slightly and his eyes sweep up your figure before moving to stand behind you, propping his own cue stick up against the table.

The front of your thighs brush up against the edge of the table and Bucky’s arms enclose you on either side - his hands coming to rest next to each of your legs on the table's edge, as close as they can be to you without actually touching.

Your breath hitches in your throat when the silky material of his suit brushes against your bare shoulders, the sensation causing you to go deadly still as you await his next move.

“With how fast your heart is beating right now, I don't think I would have to do something as cheesy as that to make a move.” He murmurs, his mouth close enough to the exposed skin of your neck that you can feel the heat of his breath. It's an automatic response, the way your head tilts back into his touch. You start to pull away, start to feel embarrassed, start to tell him just how wrong he is, when he brings a flesh finger to the ball of your shoulder and trails his index finger down the skin of your arm, eliciting a surge of goosebumps in its wake.

This physical reaction doesn't go unnoticed by him, either. He hums a small laugh, inching closer to you so that his body presses against your ass.

“In fact,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I think that if I wanted to, I could have you bent over this table for me without having to resort to anything like that.”

If his chest wasn't pinning you between him and the pool table, you probably would have fallen over. The air in the arcade feels a sudden ten degrees warmer and you swear you can hear your blood pumping in your ears - things that unfortunately can't be blamed on the effects of the martini that had dissipated from your system hours ago.

No, it's all him. His closeness, his warmth, his voice, his scent. Just him.

“If you wanted to, yeah?” You question, your voice an octave higher than you ideally would have liked. “That makes it sound like you don't want to. But the bulge I'm feeling from your pants makes it seem like you do want to. Kinda sending me mixed signals here.” You rut back against him for good measure.

He hisses next to your ear, his hands snapping to your hips, effectively stilling you beneath him. His fingers dig into the flesh around your hip bones, the pressure somewhere perfectly between uncomfortable and pleasurable.

“Here? Bent over this table?” he tuts, his lips grazing the skin next to the shoulder strap of your dress. “Where a couple of unsuspecting teenagers could walk in for a game of skee ball at any second?” He lets out a low laugh, the sound vibrating against your back.

“No, I don't think so,” he continues. “Not when we've got a brand new Audi with a spacious backseat and highly tinted windows just outside this building.”

Physical Touch

If someone had asked you six hours ago if you thought there was a chance you would be ending this night by having sex with Bucky Barnes, you would have said no.

But if someone had asked you if you thought there was a chance you would be having sex with Bucky Barnes in the backseat of a car in a diner-arcade combo parking lot, you would have said fuck no.

You would have been wrong on both accounts. And with the way that he's nipping and sucking up the insides of your thighs, you're pretty fucking okay with that.

Your dress is bunched up around your waist, your panties discarded on the floor of the car. You're laying as comfortably as you can across the backseat with Bucky nestled snuggly between your legs. It's a tight fit, and the stagnant air inside the Audi is balmy, but you'll be damned if you interrupt this to turn the AC on. The only light inside the vehicle is from the glow of the full moon that illuminates the sky, and the giant neon green diner sign a few yards away from where you're parked.

He's not wasting any time - it's well past midnight at this point and considering the fact that Bucky turned your cell phones off hours ago, you're surprised that Sam hasn't traced the location of the vehicle and sent search and rescue already.

As soon as his mouth makes contact with your center, you’re lacing your fingers through his short, soft locks and tugging on them. You grind your pussy against his face, meeting his fervent motions with your own. He locks his lips around your clit before pulling away with an obscene, wet pop that echoes through the cab of the car.

He reaches one hand up to your shoulders while keeping his lips on you, quickly tugging down the spaghetti straps of your dress and then pawing at the fabric covering your chest to free your tits.

At the same time that he plunges his tongue inside you, he rolls a nipple between two of his cool, metal digits, yearning a sharp yelp from you. He releases his grip and then palms your breast in his hand, continuing to work your folds with his lips and tongue.

You don't know if it's the fact that it's been a ridiculous amount of time since you so much as kissed someone or the fact that Bucky eats pussy like he's starving, but you're approaching your climax insanely fast.

You clench your thighs around his ears and push your hips upwards, the friction building that warm tension in your lower belly that comes spilling over when he lets out a guttural moan across your core.

You cum against his face, feeling your juices drip down the insides of your thighs - there's a pesky voice in the back of your head telling you that you're going to have to pay to have this car detailed before giving it back.

He sits up, his back resting against the middle of the leather seat. He unbuttons and unzips his suit pants, raising off the seat just enough to tug them down to mid-thigh along with his boxers. You're still coming down from your orgasm when he's pulling you up from the seat and into a sitting position.

You tuck your legs underneath you so that you're propped up on your knees on the seat directly next to him. Bucky pumps himself in his hand as you lean over, gathering all of the saliva in your mouth and letting it slide between your lips and over the head of his cock.

You push his hand away to replace it with your own, using your spit as lubrication as you stroke him up and down. He throws his head back against the headrest, looking up at the roof of the car as he brings his hand around the curve of your ass, flesh hand finding your pussy that's still throbbing from how hard he had made you cum.

You can feel the smooth band of the engagement ring that you'd been wearing all evening repeatedly caress a large vein on the side of his dick - you remove your hand from him, causing him to snap his head back down to look at you. You bring your other hand to remove the ring from your finger, planning to tuck it into a cup holder for safekeeping while you use your hands on him.

“Leave it on,” he breaks the thick silence when he realizes what you're doing. “Want you to keep wearing it.”

You push the ring back down on your finger, his command sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. You're extending your hand back to his cock when he cuts you off, pulling you to him and across his lap.

You straddle him, his erection locked between your pussy lips and his lower belly. You move forwards, and then backwards - earning another deep groan from him as you coat the underbelly of his cock in your juices. You grind up and down against him several times, until you're feeling impossibly empty and can't take the feeling of not having him inside you any longer.

You lift yourself up on the balls of your feet, high enough for him to guide himself to your entrance. He teases your hole with his head - or at least tries to, before you're sinking yourself down onto his length. You go still for a moment when he's fully inside you, giving you both time to adjust to the new, overwhelming sensation of each other.

You begin to ride him, slowly at first - he stretches you blissfully sweet and soon you're picking up the pace, your ass bouncing off of his thighs with each comedown.

He places a hand on the back of your neck, pulling your face down to his in a sloppy, searing kiss. It hits you that he's inside you raw right now, and you're just now kissing. You taste yourself on him, warm and salty sweet. He sweeps his tongue along your bottom lip and you open up for him, letting him explore your mouth from the perfect angle that he's at beneath you.

He continues to kiss you but removes his hand from the back of your neck, moving both of them to cup your ass. He begins to meet your movements with his own, thrusting himself upwards so that his cock is ramming into that sweet spot of your cervix and sending you towards a second climax.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” you moan into his mouth, breaking the kiss for air. Your encouragement spurs him on, increasing the speed of his thrusts. Your legs turn to jelly beneath you, but he's got you - he holds you up by your ass cheeks and leans forward to take one of your nipples in his warm mouth.

It's enough to send you over the edge again. Your orgasm builds, heat exploding through your abdomen as his movements grow erratic and he spills into you from below.

He stills beneath you when you're both spent, your chest heaving against his. You make no effort to remove yourself from him, and he seems more than happy to keep you right where you are - his arms locking around your waist and pulling you close to him.

“I guess now would be as good of a time as any to ask you if you'd like to go on a date with me sometime?”

“Go on a date with you sometime?” You lean back, looking down with him with the limited amount of moonlight and neon lighting that breaks through the tinted windows. “We dressed up real nice, slow danced, spied on a bad guy, ate greasy diner food, played arcade games, and you're inside me as we speak. I think it's safe to say we're currently on a date.”

He snorts, breaking into laughter beneath you. “A second date, then,” he concedes. “I would love to take you on a second date.”

♡♡♡♡♡

thank you for reading!!! kind of nervous to put this one out there tbh, i've been working on it off and on for weeks but i love how it turned out and i hope you all do too. as always comments and reblogs are very appreciated 💕

it's nice to have a friend

moth to a flame

oil & water

[meganegatari]

EATING ELLIE OUT FROM THE BACKKK!!

idk if you’ve written this but omg she’d be the biggest mess crying into her pillow

eek sorry for the wait!! have been sitting on this for a while, but the loveliest, most genius ever @bloodstainedsapphic helped out SO MUCH by offering her skills to create a backstory and introduction + proofread the rest! once again i need to see yall showing her all the love or else, kay? i luv u lyssbug ♡

nsfw drabble—what the ask says, lol. dom!reader x sub!ellie, bratty!ellie, horndog!ellie acting up in public, praise & degradation, restraints ("scratchy rope"), fingering + oral, slight spanking (like once), edging, overstimulation...all e! receiving. this is so filthy i'm almost embarrassed...jfc. ++ 2k wc.

it had all started during dinner with your friends, earlier in the evening. your group was tucked into a corner booth, sharing stories and spouting nonsense like usual. you had noticed something…off, about ellie tonight, to say the least. not that she ever was miss sunshine, but her attitude all throughout was surly, dishing out tons of lip for the most innocuous comments and tamest teases.

you shot her a side-long glance and quirked your brow while your friends were distracted, trying to decipher the stick clearly lodged up her ass. ellie stares dead ahead, chewing on her lip, intent on avoiding your silent wrath.

you let it slide. for the moment.

but then, a few minutes later, the hand she’d casually snaked behind you—resting harmlessly on your hip—suddenly tightened. her fingers dug in without warning, then slid down your thigh in one brash sweep, topped with a cocky little squeeze. you’d have leapt from your seat and yelped had it not been for your audience. 

she liked to keep a hand on you, but this? the deliberately possessive gesture was far too much for a dinner with your unassuming friends.

“ellie? what the fuck is wrong with you tonight?” you turn on her the second the restaurant door clicks shut behind you two, ready to head back to your place.

ellie gives you an eyeroll. “jesus. dramatic much? i have no clue what you’re talking about.”

oh. that wasn’t going to work on you, not one bit. you tugged at her shirt sleeve, yanking her to face you. “ellie..”

her green-speckled eyes flicked to yours, paired with the rush of pink blossoming on her cheeks that told on her. her insolence? the brattiness? it had all been an act. a test to goad your patience.

“so what? i just got bored, okay? i wanted to go home.”

“and what, ellie? go home and do what?” your lips tipped into a sly smirk. “you need something, baby?”

ellie’s throat bobs, like she can’t convince herself to admit to you what she had really been craving all night long. that she was needy for. you lean in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“you wanted to act like a brat tonight? just to get my attention?”

a pause. a heartbeat. her silence is answer enough.

“mm. cute.”

ellie avoids eye contact, fisting her pajama shorts, shifting uncomfortably against herself. she's mumbling under her breath—a feeble attempt to preserve some dignity. she starts to shrug off her clothes, not even attempting to hide her neediness under the previously defined attitude. 

you give in.“yeah, okay. but turn around. ass up ellie, c'mon now.” 

and now you're here, with ellie's body bare as the day she was born beneath you, her pert ass up in the air and pretty face shoved into the first pillow you grabbed. her wrists are tied and fighting against the scratchy restraints. you eye her dripping hole and trace your hand along the curve of her back, pushing her arch deeper.

the dim lamplight highlights just how badly she needs you, globs of glistening slick running down the back of her exposed freckly thighs, legs trembling ever so slightly. you can hear her whimpering already, if you strain.

“need me that bad, huh? wow, such a slut.” you sneer at the girl, taunting her to work her up even more. when the degrading name hits ellie's ears, she keens forward, mewling into the fabric, hands madly fidgeting against the rope. her tone is already raw, needy, and you haven't even touched her yet. 

“will you do it already?” she asks you, twisting her torso around so she can glare daggers your way; or at least that's what energy she thinks she's giving off. ellie's willow green eyes are watering and her mouth is pursed, her doll-like features knitted into a purely pathetic expression. you were having a hard time not giving in and pleasing her, but the way she acted still hung heavy at the forefront of your mind. 

“we're gonna do this my way, alright? be patient.” to emphasize the seriousness of your words, you give her a light smack on her ass cheek, to act as a warning. she yelps at the sudden contact, but keeps pushing. ellie was so full of attitude sometimes, you wonder where it all fits within her frame. she turns back to stuff her face in the pillow and grumbles, “fuck you, you've got me tied up and all bent over like this…jeez. the least you could is—fuck me, ahh—!!” you cut her off by shoving your middle two digits inside her sopping pussy, filling her up to the knuckle.

your own tone deepens, and you warn her again. but more sternly, “watch your mouth.”

“mmf- fine. just— keep going, please.” you could almost hear her eyes rolling back in her skull, even though you couldn't see her face.

your mouth curls into a mean smirk at her immediate submission, she was so easy to mold and you loved that about her. little touches would send her into the state immediately; toying with her was just the most fun. you're grateful she's turned away, because seeing how much you're enjoying this would cause her to hold back—and that's the very last thing you'd ever want. after all, her pleasure is your pleasure. every whine, every moan and whimper and cry…pure divinity.

ellie's breathing picks up, you see her shift in position as well, ever so slightly, just so she could covertly get you in deeper. her statuesque arch wanes while she pushes her perky chest into the mattress, her bent knees shifting further apart, simultaneously angling the front of her pelvis more outward for you.

such a feisty being, who knew she was such a whore for you?

she sighs at your intrusion, lightly squirming to get some friction. wordlessly, you let her, your free hand joining and making contact with her swollen bud—the most gentle touch on top, lighter than a feather or a summer breeze. her facade cracks even more, “please- more, i need it,”

but because ellie is, well, ellie, she summons what little fight in her she has left to throw at you with a light toss of her ass, “hahh—c'mon, you know you want to.”

your patience thins, and you exercise your control over her by bending your fingers inside her to find the spongy spot that makes her drool and you poke at it—she cracks.

dribbles of sweet slick continue to pour out of her and coat your hand, paired with whiny, high pitched moans. “thats it, fuck- yeah—right there…right there…mmh…”

you're almost concerned she's somehow going to break the restraints holding her wrists together, the way she's wiggling about. you continue your onslaught inside her, the squelching sounds of her soaked core damn near overpowering her inconsolable cries into the pillow.

she begins to shake and beg you even louder than before, “please—fuck- , yeah! ah, ah, ah-!” you watch her intently and feel the way her velvety walls clench around your digits, so you know she's close to the sweet release she's been craving all this time. you on the other hand, wanted to fuck with her some more—literally and figuratively. her stressed hole pulses, almost trapping your fingers inside her and she pushes back against you, impudently leaking like a faucet.

a moan gets caught in her throat but before she has a chance to fall off that pleasurable edge you pull out—leaving her empty and squeezing around nothing but air. she slurs into the pillow, her voice breaking mid-sob, “what the fuck...you evil bitch, i was about to cum…” oh she was pissed. 

her body trembles once more, but more from the sexual craving than anything else. “you will, you will. patience, babe. remember?” you lean forward on top of her so your chest is flush against her clammy, speckled back and you whisper, “we're doing this my way.”

she sighs and gives up protesting, you hear a little sound of defeat. with a fed up groan, “i'm sorry, okay? jeez, fuck. i'll be more patient.”

“good girl, that's what i wanted to hear.” you clap your palms around the swell of her hips, pulling her ass towards you. time to get your meal. you bury your face in her heat, your mouth filling with the sweet taste of her syrupy anticipation.

your nose prods at her tight hole while your tongue works away at her cushy folds, your hands kneading her supple thighs and keeping her nice and spread wide for you. and ellie? she's just about losing her damn mind. squealing and shivering— the sensations reverberating through her.

the earlier teasing had made her so sensitive, you could feel her core fluttering against your skilled mouth already. bordering on screaming, she writhes and deepens her catlike arch even more, showcasing flexibility you didn't know she possessed. 

she was still burying her face into the pillow, soaking it with salty tears and crying into it like a bitch in heat. you finally gave her throbbing clit some attention, pressing on the burning bundle of nerves with the pad of your thumb. whatever she's trying to tell you has morphed into unintelligible babbles paired with the most raunchy whines, you didn't understand a thing. but you knew how to read her body language. she was about to reach the peak once more, her cries turning shrill and needy at the overstimulation. her taste is getting stronger too, going from dainty and saccharine to rich and ambrosial; yet another telltale sign.

“fuck! wait— ohmygod…hhhhn” she careens forward again, succumbing to the mind-numbing pleasure. the orgasm rips through her lithe frame, ricocheting at such a force that would make armored knights submit. her warm release bubbles out of her overworked pussy and coats your face, coming out in ragged spurts. the pillow does next to nothing when it comes to muffling her noises, she was still so, so loud. the lungs on this woman, you thought.

pistoning your tongue in and out of her, simultaneously rubbing her flushed clit works her through the waves of ecstasy—but you weren't done yet.

you ease up on the pressure but keep your caresses the same speed, until within no time at all she shrieks and squirts all over you, slick dripping down your fingers and her legs, even running down your neck.

the scene was so animalistic, so raw and lustful, it was almost shameful. at this point she's wrung of all she can produce, shaking like a leaf and weakly weeping. you snapped out of your pussydrunk haze, smoothing your palms over her rather tense muscles. 

ellie looks angelic. laid on the bed like this, ass to the heavens, a sheen of sweat coating her speckled body—as ethereal as can be. 

you quickly undo the rope around her wrists, bending over to kiss the sore, irritated skin. taking notice of her deep breathing, she seemed at peace now—all fucked out. definitely learned her lesson. 

you soothe some more, “did so good for me els, so good.” 

she moves into a comfortable position and lets you cuddle up with her, giggling like her head is in the clouds. 

but of course, her attitude returns momentarily. “had i known that was my ‘punishment’ for being silly,” she adds air quotes around the stressed word, “i'd act up even more.”

she was being cocky, considering the way she was certainly conjuring up a noise complaint and sniveling like crazy.

a guffaw tears itself from you. did she really want to hold you to that?

taglist: @limerlove @ch6douin @sapphic-ovaries @astro-cat2 @littlefallenangel111 @witchyblade @sinfulprayerss @lvlymicha @sunnsh1ne @marsworlddd @caszzine @ashaynep @angelynn-nicole @aylabv02108 @melsmunch @e11williamsgf @imdrowningindespair @sevyscoven @culuvr @meow4510 @antobooh @valiantcycleflower @flowrmoth @liddysflyer @fortune777 @brunaedn @infiniteinquiries @mimasroom2 @thekill3randthefinalgirl @kissyslut @autisticintr0vert @mellifluousgirll @uhhscarr @sozvuchiy @kaykeryyy @zzombiegirl @jbimsorry @dearangxl @spncrrdlvr @thatgyalfisher @moony143 @vahnilla @ally-all-around @roseannih @viscupcakezz @ustakesis @lovelyy-moonlight @xysbree @abbysunderwear @i-dont-know-00 @lyzaxoxo

[spaceyaemonds]

god i love this premise, it’s so hilarious that Jack would wind up with a young baby mama. It’d be fun to think of this as pre-canon. So she can kinda fit in the whole first season, like a super young mom coming in to treat a burn or something with a little kid, she’s being seen by a resident whose like so unaware and then boom, Jack walks in and the gossip/stares start. I think Jack can’t really ignore what it looks like but would be annoyed by the stares but ultimately wouldn’t care. And she would just be like *shrugs* “he’s super hot”

Also I am eagerly waiting on the hilarious interaction of Jack telling Robby and Dana. “What’s worse than knocking up your one night stand?” “Um, she’s 23.” “Jesus Christ”

Or maybe when they go out they keep calling Jack grandpa. Or just the heavy looks when they see this very young milf smile around Jack. Just the heavy stares from Robby and Dana as they watch this young family grow lol.

I also think they could have this really cute but kinda dysfunctional family dynamic. Yes they have a healthy coparenting relationship. Dad is teaching the kid survival skills and taking him on camping excursions where they test said survival skills. Yes Mom is chill as hell, and spills tea about the crazy office dynamics while she crafts with her kid. And lowkey loves being a hot mom. Like yes mom and dad sometimes smash because they have needs and it’s just less mess and complication when they have this somewhat dysfunctional FWB situation, that has potential to blossom into something bigger.

Anyways I love this mini series it’s serious feeding me, that man is so fine with the salt and pepper hair. I can’t wait to read more.

hi friend!!! i am so so glad you have been enjoying this mini series!!!! i have loved sharing it with everyone here!! omg same, i am so obsessed with him he makes me SICKKK!

ahh!! i have a lot to say on this so answering under the cut!!

it is very funny to imagine jack getting off of shift on the day and hours into the day reader shows up in the ed with their (fat, because i love fat babies) baby, maybe two years old. baby slipped and bumped their head, and she doesn’t want to bother jack so she takes baby alone. she somehow misses robby and dana, ends up with whitaker, of all people. maybe perlah or princess notice baby abbot’s name on the board, immediately tell dana, who makes a quick call to jack. whitaker goes to check over the baby, and jack immediately jerks the door open, “get the hell away from my kid.” and whitaker just looks between reader, the baby, and jack, on the verge of throwing up. santos and mel are right outside when they hear everything and immediately are all 😮👀

dana and robby’s reactions are as expected. dana is majorly side eyeing, and robby is just like “jesus christ! twenty-three?!?!” and jack doesn’t even really try to defend himself. standing there like a puppy getting scolded lol.

i like to think that reader very often gets hit on, guys closer in age to her walking up to her when she’s with jack and baby abbot at the park, asking if her dad can keep an eye on the baby and maybe they can grab dinner. it always makes her laugh, and infuriates jack, has him mumbling all kinds of stuff like “sure, dad can watch baby.” because he understands that she’s a beautiful girl, but he can’t deny the jealousy he feels when people hit on her in front of him.

jack loves nothing more than spending time with his baby. more often than not, after a hard shift, he finds his way to her house, just asking to take a peek at baby but ends up sleeping on the floor next to the crib. and more often than not, he spends his nights off there, ending up in readers bed. he isn’t interested in seeing anyone else, and she can’t imagine dating when there’s so much tension and longing between her and jack.

i think it takes some time, but they do eventually end up together. they’ve lowkey just been together, though, just not official. jack never felt the need to try to put a label on it because he’s worried about “forcing” her into something she doesn’t want. he knows how he feels, and though is never 100% on how exactly she feels, he knows there’s something there. i also don’t think they ever really officially date. i like to imagine jack maybe just slips a ring on her finger one night, and they get married not long after!

[slutzforbueckers]

Hi!! Omg I love your writing so much and I was wondering if you could please write soft paige x reader maybe were their married or dating and are cooking in there house together and then maybe soft smut 🙂‍↕️ I just feel like it would be so cute 😩🫶

morning light- p.b x fem!reader

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: fluff & smut

synopsis: a glimpse of what it’s like being married to paige.

a/n: thank you mllll <3333

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

you had heard her before you saw her, a soft shuffle of socks sliding lazily across the hardwood floor, followed by a gentle creak of the hallway as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. there was something familiar—almost rhythmic—about the way paige moved in the mornings, like she was still half-dreaming, existing in that warm, in-between space of sleep and wakefulness.

you didn’t need to turn around to know the look on her face. you could picture it perfectly: eyelids still heavy with sleep, hair messily piled on top of her head, and a sleepy pout tugging at her lips, the kind she wore when she wasn’t quite ready to join the world yet. she always emerged like that on sundays—untouched by alarms, schedules, or the outside world, wearing whatever hoodie had ended up closest to her side of the bed.

“good morning.” she mumbled, voice low and raspy. her arms snaked around your waist from behind, her body pressing gently against your back as her chin rested on your shoulder. the heat of her skin seeped through the soft cotton of the hoodie, her warmth wrapping around you in a way that made your shoulders relax, the kind of comfort you could never quite explain to anyone but her.

you smiled to yourself, continuing to stir the pancake batter in the ceramic bowl in front of you. “morning, honey. sleep okay?”

“i would’ve slept longer if the bed wasn’t cold,” she replied, lips brushing your shoulder. “why do you wake up so early?”

“some of us enjoy being productive,” you teased, glancing at her over your shoulder. her eyes were still only half-open, and her cheeks were flushed in that endearing way they always were right after she woke up.

“and some of us don’t believe in suffering,” she yawned dramatically, then gave you a half-smirk. “you’re lucky you’re cute or I’d report this level of morning energy as a crime.”

you chuckled, leaning your weight into her a little. “you say that, but you always find your way into the kitchen the second you smell pancakes.”

“because you put drugs in them. love drugs. secret wife drugs,” she muttered, letting go of your waist only to snatch a peeled banana from the counter. “you cook like someone who’s trying to trap me.”

you raised an eyebrow and turned to face her. “you literally proposed to me.”

she shrugged, her smile widening. “you wore that dress that day. you know the one. i had no choice.”

“unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, biting down a grin. “go make yourself useful and set the table or something.”

but instead of moving, she took a big bite of banana and hopped onto the counter, legs swinging gently. “nope. i’m just here for moral support and affection.”

you shook your head, laughing softly. it was always like this—easy and calm. being married to paige didn’t feel like some milestone or huge lifestyle shift, it felt like coming home. every day. in moments like this, with music playing low from your phone on the counter, the sizzle of bacon beginning behind you, and her leaning toward you like she couldn’t physically stay away, you realized how much peace she brought to your life.

she watched you stir the batter with narrowed eyes, like she was analyzing your every move, and then tilted her head. “can I flip the pancakes this time?”

you hesitated. “you burnt them the last time.”

her jaw dropped in mock offense. “that’s slander. i was trying a new technique.”

“you literally walked away mid-flip to answer a facetime from kk.”

“that was an emergency,” she defended, crossing her arms, and you raised your eyebrows as you waited to hear what she came up with. “she wanted to know which sneakers to wear.”

you could only shake your head as you handed her the spatula with an amused sigh. “fine, you can flip. i want golden brown, not charcoal art.”

“yes ma'am,” she saluted dramatically, hopping down and taking position in front of the stove like she was about to enter the culinary olympics. you let her have her moment. she hovered over the pan with intense focus, biting her lip as she waited for the right moment. when she finally flipped the pancake, it landed perfectly, and she turned toward you, triumphant. “boom. pancake goddess unlocked.”

“you flip one pancake and suddenly you’re martha stewart?” you teased.

“better,” she said, leaning toward you, proud grin in full effect. “i’m paige bueckers, wife of the year, pancake flipper extraordinaire.”

you walked up to her, wrapping your arms around her waist, and kissed her lips. “you’re also dramatic.”

she leaned into your embrace without hesitation, resting her hands on your waist. her body melted against you, and for a moment, the playfulness gave way to quiet. there was something sacred about how she stilled in your arms, how her breath slowed like she felt safest right there. she turned her face slightly toward yours and spoke softly, “i love this. you and me.”

you kissed her cheek, gently. “me too.”

once breakfast was fully underway, the kitchen was alive with the smells of sizzling bacon and the rich aroma of coffee lingering in the air. paige, having declared herself a master chef after her pancake win, insisted on cracking the eggs, and you watched her do so with intense concentration—tongue peeking out from the corner of her mouth in the most endearing way.

“you’re staring,” she said without looking up, carefully dropping the yolk into the bowl.

“you’re cute,” you said simply. she paused to glance at you, cheeks flushing slightly despite her usual confidence.

“you’re obsessed with me.”

“guilty,” you agreed. she grinned and turned back to the eggs, but her shoulders were a little more relaxed now, and you noticed her humming under her breath—a soft rnb melody that drifted lazily between you like smoke curling in the sunlight. she moved around the kitchen barefoot, and there was something painfully beautiful about the image.

you plated the food together in quiet harmony, bumping hips a few times as you navigated the small space. at one point, she wrapped an arm around your waist and just held you there for a second while you reached up to grab two mugs from the cabinet. her touch wasn’t rushed or even particularly purposeful—it was just hers. warm. steady. like she couldn’t not be touching you.

you ate outside on the small patio table, birds chirping from somewhere in the trees beyond your fence. paige sat across from you with her legs pulled up in the chair, one hand holding her fork, the other stretched toward yours across the table. she kept stealing bites off your plate, smiling innocently every time you glared at her. there was a smear of syrup at the corner of her mouth, and you leaned over to wipe it away with your thumb, only for her to catch your wrist and kiss the pad of your finger, eyes locked with yours the whole time.

conversation came easy, as it always did. she talked about off-season training ideas, about how much she missed the girls, about wanting to visit your families together next weekend. you told her about a book you were reading, about a funny video you saw, about how you’d dreamed of mornings like this when you were younger—before you even knew her name.

after breakfast, she helped you rinse the dishes, her hip bumping yours playfully. she sang loudly and off-key as she dried the plates, and you joined her, laughing until your stomach hurt. she danced around the kitchen with a dishrag like it was a microphone, then twirled you into her arms like it was the middle of a wedding. she dipped you dramatically, nearly dropping you in the process, but the laughter between you made it worth the stumble.

and when the kitchen was clean, and the sun had risen higher in the sky, and the rest of the world started to buzz awake, the two of you curled up on the couch under the same throw blanket, her head resting on your shoulder and your fingers gently tracing circles on her thigh. no words were needed. no plans. just this. just her. she turned her face toward you, eyes soft, and murmured, “i’d do this with you every morning for the rest of my life.”

you looked down at her, heart aching in the best way, and smiled. “good thing you married me, then.”

her lips found yours again, slow and sure, and you knew in that moment that you’d never stop choosing her. paige's hands roamed under your shirt, her palms laying flat on your skin as she guided you onto your back.

"can I show you how much i love you?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. you nodded, breathless, and she kissed you again. you lifted up slightly so she could pull your shirt off, leaving you in nothing but your panties. her lips trailed down your neck as she moved lower, settling between your legs. the feeling of her lips against your skin was electric, but still slow—slow enough to make you shiver, slow enough that you could feel every brush of her lips, every tender touch, as though it was the first time.

with each kiss she placed on your body, you felt more and more like you were melting into her, becoming one with the softness of her love. her hands were gentle as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your thighs until you were able to kick them off. there was nothing harsh or rushed about it—just her, loving you in the most tender way.

paige placed a soft kiss to your thigh, then to your clit. you were already soaked and she had barely touched you. it didn't matter how many times you did this, it still felt like something new with her every time. you tangled your fingers in her hair, your heart racing as she continued, her touch as delicate as ever, taking the time to explore you without any sense of urgency.

her mouth worked at your clit, gentle sucks that had your eyes fluttering shut. she brought her fingers up and gathered your slick before pressing them in, two at a time because she knew you could take it. you gasped her name, back arching slightly, and you could already feel yourself teetering on the edge.

your breath hitched slightly, looking down to see paige already studying you. your eyes met, soft and unguarded. it wasn’t long before your hips were jerking forward, chasing the pleasure. a strangled breath left your lips, your fingers gripping her hair like it was the only thing keeping you on earth. you whined out her name as everything came to a head, the knot in your stomach unraveling.

paige worked you through it and when she finally pulled back, her eyes met yours again, full of adoration. she moved up your body and rested her forehead against yours. "you’re everything to me," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

you smiled, tracing her jawline with your thumb, and tilted your head, brushing your lips against hers. "and you’re everything to me, paige."

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

[phiralovesloki]

Some points I think need to be restated and emphasized here:

ChatGPT and similar wreck the environment.

It is hard in today's capitalist, fascist, bullshit society to live in a way that is neutral of beneficial to the environment. However, there are few examples as starkly black and white as this one. You are straight up destroying the environment in a real tangible way for benefits that people have been trying to explain to you are not real.

Learn to do stuff, for fuck's sake.

Learn to make a fuckin' grocery list. Learn to write an essay. Learn to write an email. Learn to do the math. If you're going to use something to assist you, there are plenty of methods of assistance that are not ChatGPT. You can use a calculator. You can ask a teacher or a colleague for help. Websites exist to help you figure out what to make for dinner. LEARN TO DO STUFF.

ChatGPT is not a search engine and I don't think you know what a search engine is.

I truly feel like I came from a different universe on this one. A search engine does not exist to answer your questions for you. It exists to help you search through available materials and resources; it's why Millennials got so good at "google-fu" and figuring out the right search terms, an ability that is now almost worthless because Google doesn't actually work anymore. And now Google does try to answer your questions, using its own AI, and the answers are often wrong.

But again, search engines were never meant to answer your questions directly. They were meant to help you do research, and not even necessarily fancy-pants research-research; I'm talking about, "how do I grow tomatoes on my back porch" research.

ChatGPT is wrong.

You can't trust anything it generates. If you ask it a question that you don't already know the answer to--something people insist they need it for!--then you cannot know if you were given accurate information. This is as simple as the math demonstrated above, or silly things like how many rocks people should eat, or how many "r"s are in the word "strawberry."

If you don't already know the information, you can't be sure ChatGPT generates anything correct. And if you do already know the information, then you're literally just wasting water.

Basically, instead of learning to just do things, or asking for help, or figuring out how to do basic research, people are wasting gallons of water to be given something that is just as likely to be completely false or nonsensical as it is to be accurate or useful.

[jaesblogstuff]

He doesn't listen I fear.

You know those instances where you’re a kid at school and your parents have to pick you up from school because you’re sick. That reminds me of Simon only time he’s much more stubborn and doesn’t take no for an answer most times.

⸻

You told him not to go in.

That morning, watching him drag his shirt over trembling fingers, you knew something was off. His shoulders slumped just a little too far, his voice caught in his throat when he said, “Just tired, that’s all.” And the heat rolling off of him when you touched his forehead—hellfire, even then.

“You should sit this one out, Simon,” you said quietly. “You’re running a fever.”

He grunted. Kissed your temple. “I’ve had worse.”

You didn’t argue. Not really. You just watched him lace up his boots and walk out the door like the stubborn bastard he is.

⸻

It doesn’t take long.

He holds out through briefing. Through training updates. Through a round of morning paperwork where he stares at the same page for twenty straight minutes. Nobody says anything, yet, but Price is watching him closely. Always is.

Then it happens.

Mid-conversation, Simon loses his balance. He rights himself fast—too fast, but not before his hand slaps against the edge of the table for support. He’s pale beneath the mask, which makes the red flush on his neck stand out even more.

“Riley.” Price’s voice cuts through the air. Calm. Measured. “Med bay. Now.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up, son.”

Simon opens his mouth to argue again—but sways instead.

Price sighs. “That’s it. You’re done. You’re no good to anyone like this. Go. And we’re calling your emergency contact.” you

“No—no, I’m good,” he rasps.

“Not asking, mate.”

⸻

The number they dial is the only one listed.

Just “Mrs. Riley – Home.”

When you answer the call, your voice is calm but laced with expectation. You excused yourself from the meeting you were in. “Let me guess. He didn’t make it through the morning.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, “That’d be correct, ma’am. Captain Price here. I’m sorry to call out of the blue. He’s in the med bay now—won’t let anyone near him. We’d like you to come collect him.”

You’re already getting your keys. “I told him this morning to —. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

And you are.

⸻

The base is quiet when you arrive—at least the part they bring you through. You’re escorted by a corporal who keeps glancing at you like he doesn’t know what to make of you. Neat coat. Composed expression. Eyes like polished glass. You move like someone used to command, but not in the military sense—something quieter. Older.

They don’t know who you are, not really. They’ve heard of “the missus.” Simon’s muttered references. A few quiet mentions of home, of normalcy. But none of them have seen you before.

Until now.

You step into the med bay and everything shifts.

There’s Simon—half-sitting on the cot, mask still on but sweat plastering his shirt to his back. He looks miserable. Barely holding himself upright. The medic stands a few feet away, clearly not trying to get too close.

You don’t speak loudly. You don’t need to.

“Simon.”

His head lifts.

The change is instant.

His shoulders relax. His breathing slows. He looks at you like salvation has just walked in wearing your coat.

“Love,” he croaks. “Didn’t want them to call you.”

You walk straight to him, planting yourself at his side.

“You should’ve stayed home.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re delirious.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Lets you rest your hand against his forehead. His skin is scorching. You look at him for a long second, then reach to gently peel the mask up and off.

The medics blink. Soap, lingering in the hall, actually stares.

You’re the only one he lets touch him like that.

“Let’s go,” you murmur. “Now.”

And he follows.

Like a shadow. Like a man undone.

Nobody says a word as you lead him out—his massive form leaning on you like he’s hollowed out, his head bowed slightly, his steps heavy but obedient. He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t argue.

The sergeant at the desk stares openly. One of the privates murmurs under their breath, “That’s Mrs. Riley?”

Price just nods once to himself, looking quietly satisfied. “Told you she was the only one who could get through to him.”

⸻

He’s out before you hit the highway.

One arm folded against the window, cheek pressed to his sleeve, breath slow and raspy. His body sinks into the passenger seat like it’s the first safe place he’s had all day.

You glance over at him, your fingers tight on the wheel. A small sigh escapes your chest.

“You never listen,” you whisper. “But I’ll always come get you.”

[billiesleftboobie]

Notice me

Billie eilish x reader

Summary: Billie is exhausted after a long day craving for comfort but feels ignored instead

Warnings: angst, fluff(?), reader is a writer (idk if thats a warning tbh) hurt/comfort

a/n: Hellooo! After a long time I'm back at writing. I had time cause I'm sick and I got struck with inspiration suddenly so here I am. Once again I apologise for any grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language!

Shoulders slumped, back aching, Billie slammed the front door shut. She dropped her big bag onto the floor with a thud. It had been the longest day—interview after interview after interview. Everything seemed to go wrong, like the whole universe was aginst her.

From burning her finger while making breakfast, to finding a stain on a freshly washed outfit she wanted to wear today. It had all started to pile up and grow her frustration.

Then there was the interviews. Usually she doesn't mind them but she had been tired and grumpy all day and had to force a smile on her face for every single one of them, answering the same questions about her latest album and tour over and over again.

A long, exhausted sigh left Billie's lips as she leans aginst the closed front door. She kicked her shoes off, not caring to put them away neatly. Her whole expression just screamed exhaustion and frustration. All she wanted to do was curl up in your arms and sleep.

Billie picked her heavy bag up again and slung it on her achy shoulder. She was on a mission to find you.

The whole house was dimly lit and quiet, creating a calming environment for Billie's overwhelmed mind. With heavy steps, she made her way upstairs to your shared bedroom. She slowly and quietly opened the door assuming you'd be asleep by now. Billie's long day had stretched untill midnight.

But there you were, sitting on your shared bed, under the covers, a laptop in your lap, typing away with a focused look on your face. Your hair was pulled messily away from your face with a silk scrunchie. You had on a (Billie's) hoodie that was almost swallowing you whole.

Billie stood there for a second kind of expecting you to say something—or at least look up from your screen. But nothing.

Billie, tired of waiting, walked into the dark room, only lit by your laptop. She flopped down onto the bed next to you with a heavy sigh.

For a brief second you glanced at your exhausted girlfriend laying face-first on top of the soft, plush matress untill your eyes darted to your screen again. "Hi babe"

"Hey..." Billie responded, her voice muffled by the matress. She groaned and rolled over so she could see her girlfriend. All she wanted and needed was to be comforted, held and to sleep.

Billie looked at you, but you weren't looking at her. Just your screen while your fingers dance on the keyboard. "My day was awful.." Billie finally said.

"Thats good..." you replied, typing in more words, clearly not listening enough to realize what Billie had actually said. Your mind was filled with finishing this chapter with the creative flow that had striked you.

Billie scoffed. "Are you kidding? You're not even listening to me," Her lips form into a frown, her eyebrows furrow with frustration. When you didn't move or respond, Billie's chest tightend. Her mouth was slightly open, she felt helpless. All she needed right now was a little atenttion from the one person she trusted the most. But you seemed to be more interested in your book.

She knew you weren't doing it on purpose—you'd never do that, but when you get hit with inspiration, it's like the whole world shuts down around you and all you can see and think are words, sentences and scenarios on your laptop screen.

Billie gave up, clearly too tired for this. She stood up from the bed and went to get ready to sleep. She took off the clothes she wore all day, slid off the great amount of rings on her fingers and dropped every piece of jewlery she had on onto her vanity, not bothering to organize them. Billie felt mentally heavy after being ignored by you and all she could think about was sleeping and getting this day over.

She pulled on a comfortable t-shirt and then made her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and do her nightly skincare routine even though exhaustion pulled at her tired limbs.

Eventually Billie flopped back on the bed, turned away from you and curled up with the blankets on her side.

Eventually the sound of typing slowed down on your side of the bed, the creative buzz leaving your body. You shutted your laptop after saving what you had written today. You put your laptop aside and sat up a bit. A yawn escaped your lips, and you turned to look at Billie. Your eyebrows furrowed seeing Billie's still form. She looked like she was sleeping but it was obvious she wasn't.

"Billie?"

Billie's shoulders were hunched, her breathing was slow, pretending like she was asleep. You felt awful; guilt pooled in your chest. You didn't mean to ignore her or make her feel like she was in second place from your novel. You had just wanted to finish your chapter and then give all of your atenttion to Billie but it had taken longer than expected.

"Come on I know you aren't asleep... talk to me..." you reach and arm out and gently caress Billie's side.

"Look. I'm sorry, baby I didn't mean to ignore you I was just too focused on my novel.." you tried to explain, hoping Billie would understand and forgive you. You had a flicker of hope inside of you, a hopeful flicker that yearned for forgiveness.

"It's whatever.." Billie's voice was small, and it was hurt. It wasn't "whatever" to you. You scooted closer to her and wrapped an arm around her form. "Please talk to me.."

Billie hesitated at first, but then finally she opened up "I just needed some comfort. I had a horrible day and I got ignored..."

You let her words sink in, the slience around you felt like it was closing in. You took a deep breath. You felt so awful it ached in your chest and you'd do anything to make up for your mistakes.

"I.." You started out, but the words were stuck in your throat. "I've been.. I know I've been writing alot recently.. I've been so caught up in it I seem to forget everything happening around me but thats no excuse to not notice you.. and your exhaustion and needs.."

You took a deep breath. "But I want you to understand that you mean so much more to me than that whole damn book okay? You mean the world to me Billie and I'd never in a million years want to make you feel ignored"

Billie shifts in my arms, turning around to face me. There was a glimmer of understanding and forgiveness in her eyes. Billie knew you all too well, you'd always put her before anything and you never meant to ignore her on purpose. After that long day she just needed some atenttion and when you were focused with something else for a while it made her feel even more torn.

"I'm not mad at you.. I just wanted you"

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. Relief rushed through you and a small smile found its way to your lips. You wrapped your arms tighter around Billie and kissed her forehead gently.

"And now you have me."

a/n: feel free to leave requests if you'd like me to write something :)

[httpuckdrop]

PANCAKES – QH43

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x reader

Genre: fluff, suggestive

Warnings: mentions of sexual activities

Author's note: tried something new here with the style aaaaa I think I might be growing out of the lower caps and tiny letters vibe! Not sure! Either way, hope you enjoy this :)

Last night was… definitely something.

It usually did end up like this, to be fair. Whenever Quinn had been away for too long on a road trip, with only pictures and videos of you to satisfy his needs, it was common for him to get like this. Needing to take his time, savoring every moment, feeling every inch of your skin under his palms before he got anywhere close to content.

Not that you minded; you would do anything and everything for him to feel good, especially after such a long period of work. You assumed he would be worn out and sore from all of the games, and yet, surprisingly enough, he had all the stamina and strength to go the whole night if that had been what he wanted.

However, he enjoyed it just as much when he got to pull you up to his chest, nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and cuddle you close for hours.

The following morning, apparently you were the sore and tired one, seeing as you were the only one left in Quinn's big bed at 10am. You didn't want to properly wake up, but you also wanted to spend every second of the day with your boyfriend before he was swept up by his work again. Therefore, you pushed yourself out of bed, tiptoeing over to the drawer by the wall and picking out a pair of boxers to step into. Then, you slipped on the black Canucks shirt Quinn had worn the day before, the fabric covering every love bite he'd scattered from your chest to the insides of your thighs, before making your way through the apartment.

You found your lover in the kitchen, his lean back muscles twitching with his every move. Your nose filled with the aroma of those vanilla protein pancakes he insisted on making instead of regular pancakes – even on his off days, he was so insistent on keeping up his dietary goals – and hunger rumbled in your stomach instantly.

You made your way over to his side in just a few quick strides. "Good morning," you hummed, smiling up at him.

"Morning, sleepyhead." One of Quinn's hands reached for your side as he leaned down to capture your lips in a lazy kiss. Maybe he was just as tired as you, after all. "You slept like a rock," he commented once you parted.

You chuckled, leaning into his side. "Well, what can I say? You wore me out."

"Don't say it like it's a bad thing," he said with a shake of his head. "You enjoyed it."

"Confident, are we now?"

Quinn merely shrugged, flipping the pancakes in the pan before answering. "You sure sounded like you enjoyed it. Think the whole neighborhood can attest to that."

Your cheeks grew so hot they were practically burning, and you turned your face to hide it in his bare chest. "That was foul," you mumbled, letting out a groan against his skin when your boyfriend chuckled. "I don't want your neighbors to know that kind of stuff about me."

You felt a pair of lips against the top of your head and an arm drape around your waist, holding you close. "At least they know you're well taken care of."

After a few moments of comfortable silence, with only the crackling of the pancakes filling the room, you parted from him and instead turned your back to the counter next to the stove. After hoisting yourself up on top of it, Quinn didn't waste any time before stepping between your legs, one calloused palm finding your knee. The other hand reached for a can of whipped cream by the bowl of pancake batter.

"Have you tried this one before? I've never seen it before," he said, popping the lid off and shaking it a couple of times. Then, he tapped your lips with the nozzle. "Open up."

Your lips began curving up in a grin, yet you leaned back slightly and shook your head. "You’re too cheesy, I swear to god," you mumbled back, but Quinn wasn't giving up.

"Come on, just play along with me." He sprayed a little bit of cream on his index finger, quickly spreading it down your nose. You were just about to complain when he added: "It's not usually this difficult to get you to open your mouth for me…"

You gasped. "Quinn!"

"It most certainly wasn't this hard last night." He chuckled at the sight of you wiping your nose clean, reaching forward to give him some payback, but he reacted quickly, grabbing your wrist in his hand and holding it still. "In fact, you were quite eager to get your mouth on me, if I remember correctly."

Your cheeks were tinged with a deep red color now, either from frustration or embarrassment. "I swear, I'm going to kill you if you don't-"

You weren't even allowed to finish the sentence before your boyfriend had leaned down to crash his lips against yours. You sighed involuntarily against his lips, feeling some of the tension leaving your body already. You reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down to your height as you kissed him back.

The kiss was sweet and slow, a complete contrast from the heated way you'd kissed just a few hours ago. He tasted like mint from his toothpaste and his mouth was warm, just like his bare shoulders when you brushed your hands along them. He ran his tongue along the seam of your lips, his hands reaching for your hips to pull them up against his, and a small moan escaped from your lips as a result – a sound that went straight down to his core. He nipped at your bottom lip before gently sliding his tongue into your mouth, humming contently when your tongue battled with his.

"Wait, no, don't tempt me," he mumbled eventually, pulling away ever so slightly to instead trail his kisses down your jaw. "You're making me want to go back to the bedroom and..."

You chuckled, hooking your legs over his hips and caging him in. "Doesn't sound too bad," you answered, head tilting back slightly to give him better access. "Think we might need to fuel up, though."

His answer came in the form of a groan, your words making him suddenly remember the pancakes he had been focused on before you arrived. "You know you're eating yours without whipped cream, though. Just because you acted like an ass."

"Hey!"

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

you shouldn't be (down here with me)

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Rating: M (for mature, nonsexual content)

Notes: This popped into my head this morning and wouldn't leave me alone so here you go; not beta read.

Warnings: Reader has suicidal thoughts; reader has a breakdown; Jack Abbot's A+ Coping Skills; Jack Abbot's insistence in eye contact; canon-typical medical chat; bed sharing

Summary: When you're almost shot at work, your body snaps into autopilot as your mind goes into overdrive. Jack has always recognized parts of himself in you—he knows a mind teetering on the edge when he sees one.

I was gonna let him do it

"Another four of dilauded."

I was gonna let him do it

Your movements are automatic. You can feel the nervy glances thrown to you every few seconds. You know they're all waiting for you to crack, to say that you need a minute, to sub in for you so you can rip off your PPE, run to the bathroom, lose it.

I was gonna let him do it

You can't blame them—you had a gun pointed at your head half an hour ago. They don't know that you'd almost been resigned to it in that moment.

I was gonna let him do it

"Call surgery, let them know he's stabilized."

You turn, pick the phone up, dial, pause, relay the message.

I was gonna let him do it

--

"You alright?" Ellis asks as you pull your bloody PPE off, tucking it into the in by the door. You shrug, nod, hold your hand out for the spray of purell from the wall-mounted dispenser as you head for central. You pointedly ignore North Two, where the man is being held as the cops talk to him.

"Doing okay, champ?" It's Shen this time, and his use of 'champ' garners him a sidelong glance and a raised brow. He takes your muted wrath in the spirit with which it's meant, holds both hands up in easement before he skirts around you to finish filling out a chart.

You stop at your computer, leaning over it logging and eyeing the results of a blood test on a case earlier in the shift. You feel someone stop beside you, figure that they'll move on their way, that they're waiting for someone to clear before they move again.

I was gonna let him do it

When the presence lingers, you don't have to look up to see who it is. You know that a simple nod will send him on his way for at least a few minutes, but you don't think you can look at him, not right now.

"Something I can do for you, Dr. Abbot?"

Your smart question is met with silence, and you pull in a deep breath through your nose. You brace yourself before you pull yourself up to your full height, meeting his eye.

You know immediately that it's a mistake.

Jack is looking at you the way he looks at a troubling case—discerning, dissecting; trying to pinpoint where the pain is, what fix he can apply, prescribe.

"You're not sending me home." It's meant as a request, but it comes out as a plea. You know that your firmness missed the mark when his head tips to the side, just a little. His eyes dart to North Two, hold there for a moment.

"Tell me what you need."

"To be here," You insist, "To work." To not think about it

A short nod, just enough to let you know that you're good to get back to your job. You bow back over your computer, expect Jack to leave. But—

"If you change your mind—"

"I won't." You're too tired to be embarrassed by the fact that you answered too fast. And as Abbot turns away, you just catch on his sigh, his mutter of, "No, you won't."

--

When his hand lands on your lower back on your way out of the ER, you figure he's just keeping you moving—maybe to sop you from turning around and making this shift a double, or to help you avoid the couple of news vans and reporters that have pulled up.

You let him steer, even as that steady pressure keeps up for block after block. You don't even realize where you are until Abbot stops, fishes into his pocket for a set of keys. You look up at the unfamiliar door, mind racing as Abbot unlocks it. He turns to you, holds it open, waits.

You should tell him off. What the fuck was he thinking, bringing you back to his place like some stray puppy? Never mind the fact that this man is your boss, that this is wholly inappropriate.

You should go back to your apartment, shower, get into bed. Maybe schedule an emergency appointment with your therapist.

But you also know that you probably shouldn't be alone right now. Your apartment will be too quiet; your head will be too loud. That was half the reason you'd insisted on staying at work. You glance down the block, consider, then slide past him and step inside.

--

You take your time looking around—eyeing the books, the mail, the photos, the knick knacks—the little things that make somewhere home. You turn back to Jack just in time to see hm changing his shoes, putting a high-backed house shoe on where his boot usually covers his prosthetic.

Neither of you speak as you put your bag down and he takes your jacket. He disappears down the hall of the apartment, returns with a stack of fabric. You take it, cataloguing a towel, a washcloth, a pair of sweatpants, a shirt.

"First door on the left. Put your clothes in the hamper in there, I'll wash 'em." He nods toward the hall. "Go on."

--

You expect yourself to break down the second the warm water hits your skin. But as you stand in the steam, the toll on your body takes precedent. Your head is pounding; your feet are throbbing; your back and neck ache.

I was gonna let him do it

You draw in a deep breath, bracing your hands on the wall to ground yourself.

I almost let him do it

Your jaw tightens, stomach churning as you think back.

Gun muzzles were always described as cold, but this one was warm—probably from being tucked against the man's body. You can still feel the weight, the press of it, the slight waver and brush as his hand had shook. You can hear the click of the safety.

Your mind had gone quiet in that moment.

You'd just leaned in, and told the man that he'd only be making your shift better.

It had been enough to shock the both of you.

It had caught him off-guard long enough for you to try and disarm him, to call for security as the the two of you had struggled, sending the gun skittering under the bed as the treatment bay filled with security, fellow residents. Ahmad had the guy in a headlock in seconds; Abbot was between you and them before you could blink. When he'd asked you what had happened, all you'd managed was to point toward the bed, to say, "Gun."

The cops had tried to give admitting shit for it, but you'd waved them off, insisted, "He didn't seem—When he came back, he wasn't like that. I was trying to assess him. I must've moved too fast, he freaked. They couldn't have known, they didn't do anything wrong, so don't—don't."

Shen had tried to talk you into going home; Ellis had bombarded you with questions. Abbot told them to back off. He hadn't asked you if you were alright; he hadn't tried to make you go home, either.

"Where are you going next?" He'd asked. You'd just nodded toward the board, answered, "Hyperkalemia, South Three," and gone on your way.

--

You can smell coffee when you step out of the bathroom. You glance back in, making sure you clothes are safely tucked into the hamper before heading back into the living room. Jack passes you on the way, hands you a tv remote, says, "Mugs are on the counter."

"Thanks."

You get yourself a cup of coffee, tuck yourself into the corner of his couch. You consider the remote for a moment before setting it on the coffee table.

I was gonna let him do it...Wasn't I?

Were you? What the hell would that have done to everyone around you? Were you so far gone that you hadn't thought about how it would effect everyone else in the department? What would the patients have done when they'd heard the pop? You know your fellow doctors would've come running—what if he hadn't stopped with you?

Your lower lip wobbles. Tears prickle at your eyes, and the well of panic and fear and resignation that you'd been waiting for spill over. You sit with the mug of coffee in your hands, letting go to swipe at tears and sniffle every few seconds.

You've calmed by the time Jack comes back out. You know that you look hellish; your burning eyes must be red-rimmed, bloodshot. He sits down on the other end of the couch, nods toward the tv.

"Nothin'?"

"Feel free," You croak. Jack huffs, picking up the remote and turning it on. You listen to the tv as he flips through a few channels. You glance between it and him a couple of times.

"You're not gonna try to get me to get some sleep?" You ask.

"Do you want to sleep?"

"God no."

"Okay," Jack gives a small shrug. "I can never turn it off right after a shift."

"...Huh."

"What?" He frowns, glancing toward you.

"Just uh...Implies that you're ever able to turn it off...At all."

A smile unwittingly pulls at your lips as Jack rolls his eyes, turning back to the tv. You lean back against the couch, scrubbing your hand across your eyes. The sounds of a baseball game make you pick your head up, brow furrowing as you squint at the tv.

"There's a game on a eight in the morning?"

"I recorded it."

Your mouth forms a small 'o' as you nod.

"We can watch something else," Jack adds.

"No. No, this is good."

--

You don't focus much on the game. Now and again, the tears flow, and you let them run quietly until they ebb. You dab them with your borrowed shirt sleeve.

Jack manages to wait until the seventh inning stretch before he asks:

"You talking to anyone?"

"I have a therapist."

"You speak to 'em regularly?"

"Mhm."

"They know about this?"

"About what?"

When he doesn't answer, you glance toward him. You expect open reproach, but Jack watches you with patience—and maybe a little pity. You push a sigh through your nose as you turn back to the tv.

"I talk to her about the day to day stuff, you know, not the...Grippy sock stuff."

"So you don't think about this every day."

"No."

Jack hums; you see him nod in your periphery.

"I had a bad day," You hurry to add, "We all have them."

"Not bad enough to tell someone threatening to shoot you that they're about to make your shift better."

Your head snaps to Jack, stunned—you'd omitted that from your report. But he just tips his head, shakes it again.

"I was one exam room over. I put two and two together when you pointed out the gun."

A lump forms in your throat as you burn with shame and embarrassment.

"I didn't—" It bursts out of you as the tears well again. "I wasn't—No one was supposed to know—"

Jack's across the couch in a second, pulling you into his chest as you sob. His hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb sweeping your nape as you shake against him. You feel his breath against your hair; you think you feel the pressure of a kiss, but it's gone as soon as you register it.

"C'mon." It's a soft urging as you slowly calm.

"Where 'm I going?" Your tongue feels heavy; your voice is thick from your crying.

"To get some sleep."

"I'll sleep here."

"You'll get better rest in a bed."

"I'm not taking your bed, Jack."

"You'll be more comfortable."

"I don't care. They need you in working at the Pitt."

Jack's hand slides around your neck to gently grasp your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"We need you, too." His hold on you stays firm as you try to look away, bu he won't let you. He gives a small nod, searching your eyes. "I need you. Okay?"

You muster a small, short nod, sniffling.

"I'm still not taking your bed."

He sighs, but it doesn't stop the smile growing on his lips.

"Stubborn little so-and-so," He mutters before pushing himself off of the couch, holding a hand out to you. "Come on."

You take it, letting him lead you down the apartment hall again. You take a cursory look around his bedroom as you had his living room a few hours ago. You climb ungracefully into the neatly made bed, snuggling under the covers.

Jack takes a moment longer, drawing the blackout curtains closed, leaving only his bedside lamp to light the room. You roll onto your side, tucking your hands under your head, watching the play of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he leans down, removing his prosthetic and massaging the skin there for a moment.

He glances back and gives a small smile when he spots you watching him.

"All set?"

"Not gonna read me a bedtime story?"

He snorts, reaching out and shutting off the lamp before shuffling under the covers himself.

"Keep it up and you're sleeping on the couch."

You smile into the darkness as he settles down beside you. You can feel him watching you—maybe waiting for you to fall apart again, to offer reassurance.

"...Sorry I cried on you," You mumble.

"I prefer it to having a patient pee on me."

"Oh, well in that case—happy to oblige."

Your eyelids flutter as his hand smooths over your cheek. "Get some sleep."

"Mmkay."

You hold your breath as his hand slides down your cheek, over your shoulder, trailing down your arm. As his fingers skim across yours, you impulsively catch hold of his hand. You're certain he'll give your hand a squeeze before pulling away, but Jack goes still, and you fall asleep with your fingers tangled together.

--

"Hungry?"

You nod, shuffling closer to the table where a pizza box is laid out on his small table.

It had been strange to wake up alone in a bed that wasn't yours, and it had taken a few moments to remember where you were, and how you'd gotten here. Your freshly washed clothing had been neatly folded and waiting for you when you woke up, but you'd stayed in your borrowed clothing.

"You up long?" You ask, sitting at his table.

"Mm," He shrugs. "A bit."

You narrow your eyes slightly, fishing your phone out of your pocket to eye the time.

"How long was I asleep?"

"You got a good five hours."

You grunt, taking a slice leaning back in your seat, muttering, "New weekly record."

"What do you usually do when you can't sleep?"

"I don't know. Read?"

"You need some new hobbies."

"11-8, we've got a report of an assailant with a knife–"

You glance over as Jack hurries to stand, watching him go into the living room and switch something off. Your brows raise as he comes back, amused by the way he studiously avoids your eye and settles back in.

"...Was that a police scanner?" You ask knowingly. His answering grunt is enough, and you stifle a laugh. "So let me get this straight: you hang out listening to the police scanner like you're fricking Batman, but I need some new hobbies?"

"Alright."

"Are you actually fighting crime when you're off shift? It would explain your go-bag."

"I like to be prepared."

"Uh-huh." You smile as Jack shakes his head, picking at a piece of pepperoni on his slice. "Thanks for letting me crash."

"Sure. You needed sleep."

"I mean...I mean crash-crash."

"Just glad you came in."

"You didn't think I would?"

"Wasn't sure." Jack takes a bit, leans back in his seat. You don't have to look to know that he's watching you; to be able to feel him winding up. You figure you're going to get a speech, but—

"Tell me next time you feel like that."

You wince, wind up to argue, but Jack holds a hand up to stop the argument.

"I don't need to know what you're thinking word-for-word. But tell me if it's getting...You know."

"Scary?"

"Does it feel scary?"

You consider it, picking at the crust on the slice. "...Last night did."

"A man put a gun to your head. That would scare anybody."

"...Yeah." You draw in a deep breath. "I'll tell you if you tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"When you're thinking about going to the roof." You think for a moment that you've gone too far; Jack's brows pop up, jaw muscle ticking as he clenches it. You wait for him to tell you that you've overstayed your welcome, o give him back his clothes, take your half-eaten slice and get out.

But instead he leans across the table and holds his hand out. Deal.

You take hold of his hand, pump it once, and you both settle back to finish eating.

--

"You coming in tonight?"

You give him a knowing glance as you pull your jacket on, and he smiles, nodding.

"I figured you would," He adds, "Never hurts to ask."

"I guess."

"You could take the day. Everyone would understand."

"I need to get back in there."

"Exposure therapy."

"Something like that."

You pick your bag up, slinging it over your shoulder. "I know I said it before, but thank you. Seriously. I don't, uh..." You trail off, looking around his entry way. "I don't know what the last few hours would've looked like if I'd gone home."

Jack closes the gap between you, tipping his head to catch your eye, and smiling when you do.

"Anytime."

And from anyone else, you'd think they were just trying to console you, but in that moment, you know that he means it. You nod, reaching out and giving his arm a gentle squeeze and a pat before turning away.

"See you in a couple'a hours."

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; 

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[writingwithcolor]

The protagonist of my story is pressured into killing, should I refrain from making her Jewish to avoid stereotyping?

@run-remi-run asks:

Hello, I'm developing a teen character living in Michigan and have been considering making her/her family Jewish; however I'm worried they'll fall into the evil Jewish person stereotype. The teen is the protagonist of her story, but she is pressured into killing at least one person. I understand that villains in media being portrayed as Jewish or with Jewish features has furthered antisemitism, and I understand my character isn't exempt from this just because I see her in a positive light. Should I refrain from making her Jewish?

This doesn't fit the stereotype

If the whole idea is that she’s pressured into doing bad things, that doesn’t fit the stereotype or trope at all because the trope has us as evil masterminds but in your scenario she’s the one being manipulated. The negative trope isn’t just “Jewish person does something bad” it’s a lot more specific than that. -Shira

Any Michigan influences?

Commenting strictly as a Michigan resident: is there any reason why you included the character’s Michigander origins in your question? Is there something about Michigan that’s influencing how you think a Jewish character might be depicted or viewed by others in your story? I’m asking not to be interrogatory, but out of curiosity and need for clarification.

–Jess

Evil Jewish person stereotype

Shira’s answer speaks directly to this and a lot more concisely, but I wanted to take a minute and go deeper into the phrase “Evil Jewish person stereotype,” for the sake of helping break down what’s actually happening and why it works the ways that it does.

There are two forces at work here, not unrelated to each other but not identical either. One is the portrayal of evil characters using tropes that suggest Jewish coding, and the other is a cultural suspicion of Jewish people’s motives and actions. They’re two sides of the same coin, perhaps, but I’d like to look at them separately, since the difference--that one refers to fictional characters and the other to actual people--matters in the context of reading and writing fiction.

Jewish coding in Villain characters

There are aspects of a character’s physical appearance that can suggest Jewishness even as we acknowledge that Jewish individuals don’t necessarily match those looks. Those might include a hooked nose, hair that is curly or red, a sallow complexion, an angular face. These attributes are not inherently bad: a text portraying them is antisemitic when these attributes are a visual signal of bad motives or are only present in bad characters and not good ones. Although not at issue here, it’s worth noting that these attributes can also raise questions in settings where all Jewish characters have them, because the flip side of these attributes being used to denote Jewishness is the erasure of Jewish people who don’t have these looks. 

 There are also aspects of a character’s personality that are repetitions of historical accusations against Jews, justifications for violence or persecution rather than reflections of genuine events. These might include greed, arrogance, bloodthirstiness, and a willingness to hurt or kill children for personal gain. These tropes have accrued over centuries in spite of the fact that every single one of them runs counter to any genuine Jewish values because ultimately, they’re not based on real-world actions by real-life Jewish people, but a product of leader after leader over time riling up their followers into dehumanizing a minority population, for the usual reasons people have for dehumanizing minority populations. 

Jewish coding in villain characters is not necessarily the same as stereotyping Jewish people as being evil. It does however support and maintain unconscious antisemitic biases. That is to say, when you meet someone who is Jewish, you’re not necessarily thinking “Mother Gothel was coded with Jewish tropes so this Jewish person probably is evil,” but if someone shows you a picture of a person with a hooked nose and curly hair and says “this person is greedy and hurts children,” exposure to Mother Gothel and other fictional villains on the same model might make you less likely to say “That doesn’t sound right.” 

Meanwhile, back in Michigan

Like Shira said, your character is not the mastermind of the murder she’s being forced into. Rather, she’s a victim of whatever character or circumstance is forcing her into it. As long as that’s apparent in your narrative, you’re not supporting an existing harmful trope or stereotype. I would treat the concept differently if this were, for instance, a dark narrative of a remorseless killer. In the current climate I would also advise against any imagery of a Jewish person of any age or agency killing a child or person of color of any kind, as that is the latest iteration of the medieval blood libel in modern times.  I would even have pause in this situation, where she’s not the author of her own act but does commit it, if she does not experience remorse or if she enjoys doing it. What matters here is her motive. 

If this character is Jewish, then that’s going to affect her approach to the incident in certain ways. While Christian and Christian-influenced secular culture regard “good” and “bad” as the ultimate thing to worry about, even at the cost of martyrdom or murder, Judaism places life as the highest value. There are very few of the laws and customs of Jewish life that one is not expected to break in order to avoid death, but one of those is murder. Now, Jewish characters make choices that aren’t perfectly consistent with Jewish law all the time, so what I’m asking is not to not write this, but to write it on purpose.

What does it do to your character?

Who is she before and after?

How many of us could truly choose to die rather than kill in her situation?

Does she own perhaps a necklace or decor item with the word “חי” on it?

What does seeing it do to her?

In what other ways does her Jewishness make her interesting and relevant as a character?

If it’s just curly hair and matzah ball soup on an otherwise Christian character, why bother. But if you’re willing to put in the time to research Jewish attitudes toward life and death and how they differ--even and especially in a teenager’s schema--from the Christian and Christian-influenced majority conception, then there’s room for an interesting narrative here. 

-Meir 

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown: Planets in The Ninth House

☉ Sun in the Ninth House You aren’t satisfied with simply existing, you need to understand why you’re here. There’s a fire in you that refuses to settle, that keeps pushing you toward something bigger, brighter, more meaningful. You want to find yourself in faraway places, in deep conversations, in the stretch of becoming more than what you were handed. You’re chasing purpose, not applause, and you’ll keep going until you find the truth that makes you feel alive.

☽ Moon in the Ninth House You’re searching for a belief you can rest inside. For a truth that doesn’t just sound good, but feels like home. Your soul needs more than logic, it needs faith, vision, wonder. You carry your questions like prayers, hoping the sky will answer. And even when you don’t know where you’re going, you keep walking, because something in you believes there’s a place where your spirit will finally exhale and say, “This. This is where I belong.”

☿ Mercury in the Ninth House You need to understand everything. Not in a shallow way, but deeply from the inside out. You question the world like it’s a puzzle you were born to solve. You chase philosophies, languages, systems of thought, not just to be right, but to feel anchored. You want your mind to roam, to leap into unfamiliar places and come back changed. For you, knowledge isn’t a destination, it’s a journey that turns questions into doors.

♀ Venus in the Ninth House You fall in love with what expands you. With cultures, ideas, and people that open something inside you you didn’t know was closed. You long for beauty that feels eternal, love that feels like a philosophy, not a performance. You want to be inspired, not just wanted. And wherever you go, you’re hoping to find something that mirrors your own ideals, something that feels like poetry and truth at once.

♂ Mars in the Ninth House You are driven by a need to go beyond. There’s a restless spark inside you that pushes you toward experiences that shake your limits. You’d rather leap than wait. You chase intensity in the form of expansion, not chaos, but challenge. You don’t want safety, you want aliveness. You want to feel the wind against your face and the thrill of standing at the edge of what you once believed was possible.

♃ Jupiter in the Ninth House You live with your arms open to the sky. There’s a wild optimism in your bones, a belief that life is meant to be more than survival. You seek experiences that lift you, teachings that grow you, paths that widen your world. You trust in something higher, even when you don’t know its name. And wherever you go, you carry the quiet knowing that the universe is not working against you, it’s calling you forward.

♄ Saturn in the Ninth House You want to believe, but you need to build your belief from stone. You don’t trust blindly, you test every truth until it earns your loyalty. Your path to meaning is not fast or easy, but it’s real. You may carry doubt like a shadow, but that doubt carves you into someone solid. When you do find what you believe in, you hold it like a vow. Not loud, not flashy, but lifelong.

♅ Uranus in the Ninth House You were never meant to walk anyone else’s path. You don’t just question the rules, you rewire them. You search for truth in the cracks of tradition, in the sparks of rebellion, in the freedom to think and live for yourself. You don’t want a map. You want the thrill of making your own way. And if your beliefs shake others... GOOD. That means you’re still alive.

♆ Neptune in the Ninth House You’re not looking for answers, you’re looking for wonder. For the feeling of dissolving into something divine, something infinite. You want to believe in more than what you can touch. You long for dreams that stretch beyond this world, for connections that feel cosmic. Sometimes you drift, sometimes you get lost, but even in the fog, you trust that your soul knows the way.

♇ Pluto in the Ninth House You don’t just want purpose, you want to be transformed by it. You are drawn to truths that shatter, to teachings that undo what you thought you knew. You crave meaning that burns through your bones and leaves you reborn. You are not afraid of the darkness that comes with seeking, you know that real understanding often requires letting go of who you were. And you’re willing to go that deep.