#this is well enough worded for me to post it let's GO

[jordiemeow]

CHALLENGERS ANNIVERSARY BOT RELEASE ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

04/05/25

happy terribly late challengersversary!! and thank u for 1k followers that's insane i adore u all. crazy to me how fun of a place this has become and i can’t believe it’s been an entire year since the movie came out omg. shoutout to tashi duncan for bringing us all together to fujo out like this. yeah x10!!

also dropped the android bots temporarily bc i know a few people got reqs for them for this release! they'll be out in the future but i wanna make a tashi one too so i can post them all at once :) as usual all bots are gender neutral unless specified otherwise.

enjoy! <3

ART TASHI PATRICK

ATP art x tashi x patrick x user

One coach is strenuous enough. Two gives you a headache. But three people barking orders at you for hours every day… it's enough to drive any sane person crazy. Especially when your coaches are known to get a little more... handsy, than what should really be appropriate.

ART AND PATRICK

THREE'S A CROWD art x patrick x user

Three's a crowd. or, at least, it should be. The three of you are thick as thieves—both your boyfriends, and each other's best friends. But you see the way they look at each other, the way they get a little too lost in each other when you're all tangled up in bed together. They aren't as discreet as they think they are. Your poor little repressed white boys.

UNOFFICIAL THIRD art x patrick x user

Moving into a rural town with no stable job probably wasn't the smartest decision you've ever made. But two of the local farmers are friendly enough to offer you a job helping around their farm. Two boyfriends, Art and Patrick, who seem just a little too keen to keep you around for a monogamous couple.

TRUTH OR DARE art x patrick x user

It's always Patrick, isn't it? None of you are surprised when he proposes a game of truth or dare the summer before college starts, sitting out in the sand in front of his parent's beach house. Aow bad could it possibly go? (Spoiler: very.)

ART DONALDSON

KIDS HAVING KIDS art donaldson x user (m4f)

Meeting Art in your freshman year of college was great. He had the potential to be a perfect boyfriend—you just never expected it all to happen so quickly. Fast forward to two years later and the pair of you are juggling an unplanned baby, your future careers, and enough homework to drown in. at least you have each other.

ALTAR BOY art donaldson x user

Art's a good Christian boy. Says his prayers before bed every night, serves as his father's altar boy when he's preaching, and wears his purity ring as if it's a physical part of him. Which is why he feels real guilty about all the thoughts his brain is conjuring up about the new kid in town. And against his better judgement, he finds himself seeking you out more and more.

IMPOTENT art donaldson x user

It's embarrassing. Thirty-two years old and he struggles to get it up. Patrick says it's normal for a man of his lifestyle, but he knows he's just saying that to make him feel better. And with you, his young new partner, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He can't just keep making excuses when you try to take it further; one man only needs to run to the bathroom so much. Maybe it's time to finally come clean.

MERYTON BALL art donaldson x user (m4f)

When your mother mentions a new young man moving into netherfield park, you don't think too much of it. An eligible bachelor that all the girls will be swarming to at the first event he shows his face at, no doubt. But the man in question, Art Donaldson, seems to take a shine to you, and you can't possible turn down such a sweet, bashful smile.

SLIP OF THE TONGUE art donaldson x user (m4f)

Well, this is very awkward. In the heat of the moment, with you perched atop him and your bodies slick with sweat, Art accidentally let the word mommy slip. He's never been so mortified in his life; it's never a term you've discussed using, and the surprise on your face was clear. Embarrassed, he takes to avoiding you after that—but you're his girlfriend. He can't ignore you forever.

JUST A TRIM art donaldson x user

Just a trim. That's what you said when you plucked the pair of hair scissors out of your bag and made your husband sit down at your kitchen table with a towel draped over his shoulders. But, as you run your fingers through his curls, you can't help but think how handsome he'd look with his hair cut a little shorter. How much more mature he'd look without those boyish ringlets.

TRINKETS art donaldson x user

Art normally keeps to himself—he's accidentally lured more than a few pure souls to their demise with his siren song over the course of his life. Now, he watches from afar, transfixed by the humans along the shore that come to swim or play in the rock pools. When you move into one of the houses by the shore, he thinks you're absolutely wonderful. He's too shy to talk to you, of course, but that doesn't stop him from leaving little gifts for you: trinkets he's discovered from sunken ships or on the ocean bed. And then one night the moonlight emboldens him enough to find you on the shore.

PATRICK ZWEIG

BOY DAD patrick zweig x user (m4f)

Your baby daddy is a real pain. The kind that doesn't even bat an eye when your son comes home saying swear words after the spending the weekend with him, and texts you to confirm details he should know about his five-year-old. At the end of the day, though, your kid loves him. Maybe you still love him, too.

DESK CLUMP patrick zweig x user

Once upon a time, Patrick Zweig was destined for greatness. Now, in his mid-twenties, he's found himself working a shitty desk job for a sales company he couldn't care less about. Amidst all the dullness and depression of the modern office, at least he has you to make him feel better about himself. That one weird co-worker who he shares a desk clump with and looks considerably more miserable than him. Plus, you're kinda cute.

GIRL DAD patrick zweig x user (m4f)

When you told your friends you were pregnant, they weren't sure whether to congratulate you or pat you on the back and tell you everything would work out. "Are you sure?" Your mother had asked, when you delivered the news. But despite everyone's doubts about the father, Patrick has proven himself; he's settled down, and after years of being alone, he has a family to come home to. Doesn't mean he isn't still the same idiot you fell in love with.

NUISANCE patrick zweig x user

One of your roommates is a total nuisance. Art is clean enough, but Patrick is a slob. Probably because he grew up with a maid to clean after his ass and Art to keep their room tidy enough for inspections at the Academy... he also has no sense of space and just never leaves you the fuck alone.

WEIRDO patrick zweig x user

Patrick isn't really sure what it is about you. Maybe it's the fact that you don't care about putting up an image to impress him. Maybe it's the way you look adorable with your glasses on and your nose in a book. Either way, he's just completely smitten with you. You're a weirdo... but you're his weirdo.

SINGLE MOTHER patrick zweig x user (m4f)

The moment you brought up having a toddler, Patrick should have booked it. He was sorely tempted, mind you—it's a lot of commitment getting involved with a woman that already has a kid. He's never been the settling down type in the first place. But he really likes you, and after being introduced to your son, he realises he likes him too. Ugh. What a predicament.

TASHI DUNCAN

WHO WOULDN'T BE? tashi duncan x user

Is it a little snaky of you? Yeah, probably. But Patrick just isn't good enough for her! you tell yourself you're doing her a favour. As her best friend, it's your job to steer her away from her asshole of a boyfriend, even if that involves telling a few white lies.

SOLAR POWER tashi duncan x user

Tashi doesn't really get much time to just relax. If she isn't playing tennis, she's at press conferences or sponsorship meetings. She's the most hard-working person you know, especially at her age. So you're a little surprised when she suggests a trip to the beach... but there's no way you're turning down seeing her all chilled out in a bikini.

TUTORIAL tashi duncan x user

When you start seeing Art, your lack of experience doesn't even cross your mind. He seems like an innocent enough guy to you, after all. But when your best friend keeps telling you stories patrick has passed out about all the people art has been with at the academy, maybe you get a little insecure. And maybe you've been whining about it to Tashi for the last few weeks. So, eventually, she caves—she can teach you a few things. It's not as if her boyfriend will mind. He'll just be mad he isn't there to watch.

SUNSHINE tashi duncan x user

After her injury, Tashi was miserable. The first few weeks of working with her, she was cold and snappy, the opposite of your warm smiles and encouraging words. Barely said a word to you unless it was to tell you she was fine or to fuck off. But she's taking it out on the wrong person. You're only trying to help, after all—it's your job. So eventually she warms up to you, and the hostile greetings eventually turn into smiles and coffee placed on your desk before you begin her sessions. She's still a little moody sometimes, though.

COVER GIRL tashi duncan x user

The name 'Tashi Duncan' is quickly becoming known by everyone in the modelling world. Dhe's been on the cover of Vogue, inspired a whole new Chanel collection. With her face on half the billboards in the country, she doesn't have the time to be answering calls and sending emails, so she takes on an assistant: you. The job pays well, and it's a good way into the industry, but... she's a lot more of a brat than you were expecting when you took the job.

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @gracelynnx @femme-lusts @voidsuites @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @m4lodr4ma @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @pittsick @strfallz @artspats @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @elsieblogs

[unluckilyimnot]

Bed chem – trafalgar law

You have nightmares and happen to bump into your captain in the middle of the night. ~2k

Note: first one piece post, not the last, i just restart reading it. made this late last night. My bsf told me it was nice so here it is

main m.list | m.list | rules

It was the middle of the night when you woke up from yet another nightmare. You’re gasping for air, having a hard time collecting your thoughts and grounding yourself. Tears peak at the corner of your eyes – you need to get away from this feeling. So you get up, not bothering to put some pants on based on the hour and go looking for a glass of water. Chills can be seen on your arms, but you swear yourself you’ll be quick. You walk fast around the ship you know now like the back of your hand, you’re not really looking, not bothering turning the light on – until you hit into someone right in front of the kitchen.

“Shit.” You cursed before you can even make sense of who’s in front of you. He turned on the light, that way can finally see your captain, bare chest, making his way to the kitchen as well – you figured. If you had a hard time grounding yourself, hitting your nose right in Law’s chest was very efficient. You didn’t mention how he’s dressed, neither does he for you. There’s just a knowing look between you two.

“Couldn’t sleep too ?” you ask, walking in the kitchen and getting your needed glass of water while he took an apple.

“No.” He waited a moment, enough for you to finish your glass in one go, before asking, absently. “Nightmares ?”

There’s a long silence, more comfortable than you’d expected. He knows what he’s talking about, you don’t need to hear him saying it – you just know. That’s probably not the first time he hears you wandering around the Polar Tang at night, and it’s certainly not the first time you hear him either. You’re always awake around the same hours, but it’s the first time you ran into each other.

“Yes.” You answer in the same tone.

He nods, taking a knife, then sits at the table. There’s chills on his back as well, but he doesn’t seem to care. You look away quickly, not wanting to face him when you just checked him out. You pulled another glass from the shelf, filling them both before sitting next to him. You lean slowly on the table ; your hands couldn’t reach the other side, but you still liked to try. You don’t really know why you sat next to him when you usually don’t even bother to check on him, but finding yourself in the same room as him, in the middle of the night, felt a little intimate. You liked it : sitting in silence, giving him a glass of water he didn’t ask for. It felt right.

Without a word, Law handed you an apple’s slice. You looked at it for a second, blinking twice before taking it. You took a bite, eyes glimmering at the sweet taste before he ate one himself. It goes on for a while. Law gave you another one after finishing his, and so on, until the apple was done.

“You want more ?” he asked roughly, his voice was deeper than usual from the late hour. When you shook your head he got up and threw it away, leaving the knife and both glasses  in the sink and leaned on the counter. You knew he was staring at your back, probably dying to ask something, just like you, but wouldn’t dare. Then he moves again, his hand brushing along your shoulders.

“Come with me,” he whispers, as if talking would push you over the edge. It wouldn’t, but you didn’t say anything. You look up at him, not knowing where this was going. A small frown formed on your face, making him roll his eyes.

“I’m not gonna eat you,” he snored before patting your shoulder gently.

You got up this time, following him in the dark hallway to his cabin. You stopped by the door, not daring to take a step ahead. There’s a twisted feeling in your guts, you’re not sure you can walk through the door and then leave the same. Law turns back to look at you.

“Let’s stay awake together, if neither of us can sleep,” he clears things out quickly, of course, but it still feels weird. Yet, you take that step and walk into his cabin as he closes the door behind you.

You don’t really know what to do at first, and now you feel really self-aware ; you regret the small pair of shorts you could’ve easily put on. Noticing you fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, he showed you his blanket, authorizing you to lay in his bed as he puts on a shirt before sitting at his desk. So you do. Let the warmth engulf you, drowning in his scent – you feel safe, finally, and your body understood it faster than you because you yawned quietly.

You're laying on your side, rolled into his blanket, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can I sleep here ?”

“Sure,” he said softly after a moment, you can tell he wants to ask something else but isn’t sure. You fight to keep your eyes open for a few more minutes.

“Do you mind if I join ?”

“No.” You didn’t hesitate, maybe because you’re already half asleep. “It’s your bed.”

You hear him chuckles, but it’s far away already. Your eyes close slowly and you hold the sheet a little closer. You’re not even fully asleep when you feel his arms pulling you up and bringing you up to the pillow before he lays next to you. There’s space between you, but he’s radiating so much heat, you’re drawn to him like a moth to light. You don’t remember touching him, not really. You think you do but you can imagine it totally as well. You fall asleep with the weird feeling of his arm around your waist.

When you wake up the next morning, the sun is piercing through the round porthole falling right to your face. You roll away from it, hitting Law's arm. He’s covering his eyes but slowly moving as well. Your eyes are still half closed when you catch his also half asleep eyes. He groaned, stretching his arms above his head even if his limbs hit the wall. You pull the blanket closer to your face, hiding the small blush you can feel coming dangerously to your face.

He’s hot. His hair is a mess, his eyes shine with sleep after he yawns. It feels like cheating, seeing him so vulnerable. He doesn’t say anything, neither do you, not yet. He gets up before you, only putting pants on before giving you a shirt – longer than the one you wear at the moment, so you can go back to your cabin and change.

“I’ll make your coffee,” he says, finally, his voice still deep and rough from sleep.

Something flips inside you. You bury your head in your pillow before nodding. You hear the door close behind him and sigh, before groaning in the pillow. You take your head out of it, gasping for air a little, feeling so flustered. It feels weird thinking about it, you don’t even dare talking about it ! But it was nice. You slept well, you were hot all night, not curled up on yourself. It was comforting having him close, being able to touch him and hear him breathe. You shake your head. You don’t want to think about it.

But you do. It doesn’t leave your mind all day. You kept thinking about his arm around your waist you’re sure you didn’t imagine. How you just fell on him in the middle of the night, how he wanted to sleep at the same time as you, how you two woke up at the same time… You couldn’t help but think you two match each other too much.

Of course you noticed how well rested he looked as well, it didn’t go unnoticed by anyone in fact. He’s less on edge, a bit less firm in his words, he laughed at one of Sachi’s jokes – almost made the man choke on air. It wasn’t just you, he slept way better as well.

Yet neither of you mentioned it. You go on your days like you usually do, without looking at each other more than necessary, without lingering touch. It didn’t change anything, after all. Right ? It was a one time thing, you wanted to believe it.

Until you woke up again in the middle of the night later the same week. You went for a glass of water, like usual, but this time you stayed a little longer in the kitchen, waiting. You felt silly, but you kept your eyes on the ocean on the other side of the porthole with your glass still in hand. Until you hear him walking around the corner, the barely marked stop in his track when he sees the lights on before you imagine him walking in.

“You again ?” he chuckles but there’s no fun in his voice, only a strange softness you didn’t expect. Or maybe you did. You don’t want to think about it. You turned his way, smiling at him.

“Who else ?”

He’s still bare chest, he can still see the beginning of your ass because your shirt barely covers it but you don’t mind. He walks to you, stealing your glass from your hand before filling it and drinking.

“Nightmares ?” It’s your time to ask now as you stare softly his way. He turned around and leaned on the counter next to you, crossing his arms.

“Didn’t have time to fall asleep yet,” he cleared, but didn’t say he didn’t have some. You whine at his words.

“It’s three in the morning, captain,” you nagged. “You should try at least.”

“’Cause you do ? Then why are you here, almost every night, at the same time ?” there’s a mocking smirk on his lips – he’s not buying it.

“Well, yes, I do sleep. I’m just the best at it,” you pout a little, before laughing lightly. There’s nothing to laugh about, but the conversation made you laugh anyway. You miss the light in his eyes, and you for sure would never think his heart would ache at the sound. And yet. 

“We have a really good bed chem, Law,” you confessed after some time. You’re now leaned on the counter, leaving your head on your arms. He doesn’t dare look at you, you guess, because he’s suddenly stiff beside you. “We wake up at the same hours in the night. Fell asleep at the same time the other night, and woke up together as well,” you comment, not sure if you expected him to speak or not. “It felt nice,” you confessed, finally. “I slept well that night.”

He can see you half naked by now, but that’s only fair in your opinion. His eyes linger on your for a second before looking away and finishing his glass. “Yeah, me too.”

Your heart skips a beat at his word and you can’t help the smile on your lips.

“Can I sleep with you tonight ?” you ask, confidence showing up out of nowhere.

“Sure.”

He’s distant, not looking your way anymore as he pushes himself off the counter but he waits for you by the door, and he lets you choose the pillow you prefer. And he pulls you to his chest when you turn your back to him after saying goodnight this time, holding your waist so close to him you can barely move. But it’s fine, you’re not arguing that, not when you fell asleep so easily ; not when all your nightmares go away when he’s near.  

I might do another part, idk yet. Ace is gonna have his version too hihi. Let's me know if you liked it!

[silens-oro]

Well Enough Alone: Baby Blurb #5

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Animal Kingdom Masterlist Pope x Hawk Playlist Well Enough Alone Baby AU Masterlist

General Synopsis: Hawk and Pope have a rivalry going -all in good fun, of course. Word Count: .9k Content Warning: no warnings. this is sweet from start to finish. AN: back to back posts because I love you. please comment & reblog :)

“Have you thought about any names?” Pope rasped out one night while they were in bed, tucked under the covers and cuddled together. His hand always found its home on her rounding stomach, and it was a constant source of comfort for Hawk. 

“A few. You?” She tilted her head back to look up at him. 

“Yeah.” Pope was nervous about what Hawk would think. “I got a few.”

“Girl names?” Hawk questioned with a knowing smile. A bashful grin lifted the corners of Pope’s mouth as he breathed out the affirmative. “You’re so sure they’re gonna be a girl?”

“It is. I can feel it.” He said as if he was saying the sky was blue.

“Which is crazy because I’m the one who’s pregnant here.” Hawk laughed out. 

“So what, you’ve got boy names picked out?” He asked with a brow raised in challenge. And it wasn’t that Hawk wanted to be a boy mom in particular (her skin crawled when she thought of Smurf). It had become a tiny, well meaning rivalry between her and Pope as they settled into their new roles and they both wanted to be right. It was a win either way, but bragging rights were bragging rights. 

“I sure do. How about this,” Hawk grunted as she rotated to face him. Pope’s hand moved to support her hip so she wouldn’t put weight on her stomach. “We both narrow our lists down and if the baby is a boy I get to pick the name, and if they’re a girl, you get to pick?” 

“You’d let me name the baby?” Pope’s face was all soft vulnerability and it made Hawk’s heart flutter something fierce. Yes, she was the one who was pregnant, but he immediately jumped into his role as a father to be and their collective protector in all things (more so than when it was just Hawk and Lena he had to keep an eye on) and Hawk include him in everything if he wanted to be included in, especially naming the baby. 

And he did want to be included. 

Desperately so. 

“Of course, but there will be a vetting process to narrow down the two names for each that we’ll go through together. Whatever names remain that we both like, the winner will get to choose.” 

“Deal.” Pope kissed her forehead and Hawk reciprocated by tenderly kissing his lips, then his chest as she got comfortable against his side. 

The following night, Pope brought the subject of baby names back up while they were getting ready to go to bed. Hawk was in the en-suite brushing her teeth when he brought the conversation back up. 

“I’ve narrowed my list down.” Hawk’s head peaked around the doorway, her toothbrush dangling from her mouth. She made a sound that he assumed was ‘and?’, so he continued. 

“I like Thalia…or Iris.”

“Botanical names?” Hawk questioned after she spit out a mouthful of toothpaste, rinsing her toothbrush off.

“Too on the nose?” She could hear the self consciousness seeping through his question as she swished with mouthwash. 

“Not at all.” She reassured him as she stepped out of the bathroom and over to Pope’s side of the bed. He was sitting with his legs over the side and she inserted herself between his knees, her hands coming up to cradle his jaw, his ears nestled between her thumbs and index fingers as she soothed the flesh of his cheekbones with her thumbs. 

The way Pope leaned into her touch never got old to Hawk -when he’d close his eyes and sigh, like she was taking a weight off of him, it was euphoric to her. “Both are beautiful names and I’d be very happy with either one.”

“Yeah?” He placed a chaste kiss to one of her palms as the tips of her fingers toyed with the hair that curled behind his ears. 

“Mhm,” Hawk leaned down to kiss him, letting her lips linger for a moment. “It’ll be a real shame, though, when we find out the baby’s a boy.” She teased. “I’m thinking of either Micah or Lewis.”

“Good names…”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’…” Hawk narrowed her eyes. 

“But we won’t be needing Micah or Lewis.” She rolled her eyes playfully. "Not this time, anyway." Hawk leveled Pope with a look.

“This time? You want more?"

"Only if you want them." He said softly, leaning down to kiss her covered bump.

"Let's just get through this one first, then we'll talk about the possibility of more of your spawn running around this place. Besides, only a few more days until we find out I’m right about this one.” Pope guided Hawk on top of him, straddling his waist as he rubbed her back. “God, you have no idea how good that feels.” Hawk jolted, eyes wide and a sound of surprise flew from her lips. Pope’s eyes widened in panic when her hands came down to rest just to the right of her belly button. 

“Everything okay?” Pope was getting ready to lift her with him when a smile broke out on Hawk’s face. Wordlessly, she grabbed his hand and brought it to where hers was. Nothing happened for a few moments, and then…Pope gasped, pressing his palm more firmly against her. 

“Feel that?” Hawk’s smile beamed down at Pope as he kept flirting his eyes between hers and where his hand was held. The baby kicked once more, and if Pope wasn’t concentrating on it, he would’ve missed it. 

“Oh my god.” He breathed out. Hawk laughed, bringing her forehead down to his. “Shh," He silenced her, craning his neck between them as he started at her bump, then lifted his head back to lay on the pillow. "She said she liked Thalia out of the two, by the way.” Hawk cackled, pulling away, but Pope kept his hand on her, feeling another kick. “See?” 

“You are insufferable.” Hawk giggled against his lips. 

[fudgebuggyy]

H E L L I C O N I A S P R I N G

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bob x Thunderbolts!Yelena

Tags: Post-Canon, Thunderbolts Team Members Live in the Watchtower, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Thunderbolts SPOILERS contained!, Implied/Referenced Past Drug Addiction

Word count: 3,186

Chapters: 1/2

Summary: Three months have passed since the Void descended upon New York, and Yelena is getting used to the life her sister led--dealing with PR agents and working in a team she's only recently learned to tolerate.

And then there's the Bob thing. And the Bob thing is super fucking complicated.

Robert Reynolds wasn’t Sentry.

Robert Reynolds wasn’t the Void.

Three months after New York had been swallowed by a nightmarish blanket of psychological agony, Robert Reynolds was, once again, just Bob. And Just Bob liked boring French New Wave movies and Depeche Mode and pictures of baby Highland cows. He had a scar on his left knee from where he blew it out as a teenager, drunk on a bike in the suburbs. How about you? How many bones have you broken? (Possibly every single one and possibly twice, Yelena had told him; an answer that always seemed to thrill him in some freakish way, that boyish giddiness that overcame grown men showing off their scars).

Bob hated when people chewed with their mouths open. He was a surprisingly good cook and a surprisingly good singer (the latter she had only found out after catching him sneaking a smoke on the Watchtower’s helipad, quietly singing Al Green). He liked stacking french fries inside his burgers in neat rows like a Jenga Tower. He’d been a Buddhist for three years. He made a mean Lasagna alla Bolognese. He liked Jane Kenyon, Allen Ginsberg—from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine. He played the guitar (kind of). He knew how to jumpstart a car (pretty well, actually). He liked chess.

He had a tiny sun tattooed in the dip below his right ankle, a corny memento he'd gotten in Thailand, in a place that doubled as a shoe repair shop, by a half-blind woman who didn’t seem to mind that some white boy was tripping his balls on shrooms he’d stolen from loaded tourists at the Full Moon Party, their tote bags left unattended on a lounger.

Bob had spent most of his life high, bridging the sober gaps with odd jobs and side hustles and jail. He’d stolen from everyone who’d cared about him enough to let him into their lives. Even from his mother: monogrammed silver cufflinks that had belonged to his grandfather, a decorated war vet who'd had a habit of blaming all his problems on immigrants and women.

Yelena collected Bob’s little revelations inside herself. She’d pluck them from him like a magpie lining her nest. Where'd you go to school? Tell me again about those limestone cathedrals on Railay Beach, the rainforest in Taman Negara. What was your brother's name? Did you really run track? You must've been very slow. 

For someone who claimed to be “average white trash”, Robert Reynolds had lived a strangely extraordinary life. Civilian, yes. But extraordinary.

Lately Yelena had been catching herself watching him more than usual—Bob, in his hoodies and scuffed sneakers, tousled hair and boyish slouch, the secret packet of American Spirits peeking out of his back pocket—standing there being all strange and extraordinary. He was always around, puttering in the background like a housecat and only emerging fully to greet the team whenever they piled in from the helipad, busied by another one of their stupid arguments only made more stupid by the fact that they all lived in the same building now. She didn't remember when she'd started looking forward to it, to him. His small smile whenever he caught her looking. 

Hesitant, bashful.

Bob had the kind of face you could excavate things from, his thoughts so thick they were tangible. Yelena imagined sometimes, plucking the viscous globs of shame from it whenever he assumed he’d said something wrong; the sadness when he thought no one could see; the unmistakable mounds of happiness that bunched around his cheeks, blooming splotchy-red and delightful, crinkled at his eyes, whenever she made him laugh.

She liked making him laugh. That throaty lilting hiccup. He had a kind laugh. He had a kind face. Yelena didn’t remember the last time she’d met someone genuinely kind, someone who liked boring French New Wave movies and Depeche Mode and pictures of baby Highland cows.

Someone who could slam her into the ceiling with a swoop of his hand, and then tear the Winter Soldier’s vibranium arm right out of its socket. 

Robert Reynolds wasn’t Sentry, he wasn’t the Void—but he had been. He would be again.

It was a thought that hummed inside of her like the whistle before a bomb hit.

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

They stuck him in a cell for a month.

A safety precaution, Valentina had called it, ensuring Bob didn’t…change again. And he didn’t at first: no floating, no super-strength, no telekinesis or freaky eyes. For a month, they watched and they waited, while they underwent the grueling process of heroification. It turned out Valentina had a knack for cleaning up. She was the magician; they were the feral rabbits in her very skinny, very expensive silk top hat.

Life was a barrage of press conferences and image consultations and government endorsements and merchandising and PR agents pondering on what uniform trousers gave Yelena the most “appropriate” amount of ass. Everything was to be practical but presentable, assertive but inoffensive.

Walker knew the drill, Bucky tolerated it, Alexei flourished under the attention like he was running for prime minister of a very tiny Eastern European country, mustache and bravado and all. Yelena was glad to have Ava around, who’d spent a large chunk of her life in a box and who’d called Valentina’s PR agents incompetent parasitic dildos after they asked if she wanted a uniform with cleavage when they shot for their Wheaties commercial.

By the time Bob was trusted enough to wander around the Watchtower freely—having regained barely enough telekinesis to lift a fork—each sleeve of the team’s new uniforms donned a red A. (And their asses were all deemed appropriate.)

To call themselves a team still felt like a gross exaggeration. Their togetherness was built on shaky forbearance and the mutual agreement to neither murder each other in their sleep, nor the conveniently placed news anchors stationed at street corners during assignments in the city.

Because there was another rule to add to the plethora of rules that secured their existence as the New Avengers: fight like heroes.

And fighting like a hero meant fighting clean, and if you didn’t fight clean enough, someone would be sent to clean up after you. No more sloppily tossed nail bombs, no more torture, no more nailing bad guys to the wall by their junk (much to Yelena’s dismay). Murder was a big no-no. Death was to be doled out only when explicitly necessary, and there were only so many excuses Yelena could come up with during debrief to try and explain away her mounting tower of corpses, according to Valentina, who loved hyperbole as much as she loved making Yelena's life a living nightmare now that annoyance was the only way she could make the team pay for the cataclysmic inconvenience they've caused her since not dying in a desert warehouse.  

They had to think about optics now, that and public likability. Apparently the public was picky about who they wanted to be saved by.

The world could see them now, see them fully, from all angles, up close, even when they least expected it or wanted it to. 

Was this what it had been like for Natasha?

Natasha, the performer. Sleek and graceful and unknowable, even to those who loved her most.

There was something to be said about the weight of living up to someone else's potential.

Sometimes Yelena swore she felt her here, this tower like a cruel echo chamber with its zig-zag of steel beams and vibranium-enhanced windows designed to withstand the impact of missiles. How it fortified them from Manhattan’s spiky skyline, from the streets below, teeming with cars and people like blood cells, going places, being alive, pacified by the thought that there was a group of chosen heroes watching over them like gods. 

Would things change if they discovered those heroes were nothing but a pack of reformed, rebranded ex-criminals?

Did Natasha have trouble sleeping too? Had she felt the unfathomable weight of responsibility flattening her until she couldn't fucking breathe? Had she snuck to the kitchen at night, sat on the island, and destroyed a whole tub of ice cream, wondering when life would finally slow down? 

“The infamous ice cream thief,” a voice said behind her.

Yelena had heard Bob long before he’d stepped into the kitchen, his steady gait that dragged just a little. She thought maybe it was a habit, a remnant of a different time, of rubber strings and spoons over flames. She wondered about when he would be strong enough to fly again. She didn’t like wondering about that.

Not bothering to look up, Yelena scraped as much ice cream as she could, lifting the tub to her mouth to shovel the rest of it down before she’d be forced to share.

“You know, you could've just asked.” Bob said.

“True. But that would eliminate the thrill of stealing,” Yelena mumbled, mouth full.

Valentina had them on a strict “hero diet” as well, meaning all the snacks came from Bob, who had a knack for befriending possibly anyone, and who’d managed to get one of Valentina's assistants to help him stock up on the most god-awful American junk they could smuggle through the door. Alexei had started calling Bob their calorie dealer.

Rounding the island, Bob leaned against the counter opposite from her, backlit by the oily bulbs of the range hood. He was in a T-shirt and sweats, barefoot. His hair had been freshly cut. 

Was Valentina getting him ready for the cameras? Already?

Yelena stared at the way his hair swirled gently along his brow, his cheek, soft downy brown. He looked like a long nap, the kind that left you foggy afterwards. 

“Good. You didn’t go blonde again. Supremely silly by the way,” Yelena said, earning her a snort and an awkward shuffling of feet.

“No, yeah. I looked like a dollar store Fabio Lanzoni.”

“Who?”

“Oh, he was on, like, books. Book covers. You know, like, romance books—Bodice rippers? Gentle Rogue?”

“Gentle Rogue?” Yelena laughed, trying to imagine Bob on the cover of a romance book. “Very 80’s porno.”

“They were way worse. My aunt had a whole collection. Pretty sure it’s the only reason I learned how to read.” He shook his head. “So, uh—is this an eating alone in the kitchen type situation or do you want company?”

She swallowed, felt stupid for feeling…shy? Was she feeling fucking shy? Around Robert of all people? 

“Well,” Yelena said, “seeing I’ve finished the Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Chunk, I’d maybe let you stay if you shared something from your commissary.”

“Oh, it’s sharing now?”

“I’m willing to trade.” She tapped the spoon on the kitchen island, thinking. Then, “I’ll teach you how to use those nunchucks.”

Bob blinked.

“Come on, I saw you take them from the training deck. You’re very bad at stealing.”

"Okay, I didn’t steal them, I—borrowed—”

“What do you do? Do you just whip them around in your room?” Yelena leaned forward, voice low. “Do you watch Youtube tutorials, Bob?”

“What do you want?”

“Cheetos.” She grinned, quite pleased with herself.

He looked at the empty tub of ice cream, snorted again, then stepped closer. A move so fast she wondered if any of them really knew how much of his powers had actually returned. Looming between her parted legs, blotting out the light. An arcane panic swelled within her so quickly she grappled to push it down—until she didn't have to anymore. And she breathed in, and she breathed out, and he smelled like a fresh shower, like deodorant. Lemongrass? The heat of him like this. Fuck. Sometimes, just sometimes she thought of what that heat would feel like if she slipped her finger past the hem of his sweaters, flattened her hand against his naked stomach, the soft trail of fuzz below—

Bob blinked, his eyelids twitching the way they did whenever he got nervous, which was always, always, and he was so fucking sweet when he was nervous. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze before clumsily crouching down between her legs, letting her heart slam up her throat before she had time to realize he was just rummaging through the cupboard below her, shoving pots and pans aside to get to his stash.

“Just need to—” His shoulder bumped her ankle. “Sorry.”

When he emerged with the requested bag of Cheetos, he shot her a dopey smile, shaking it in the air. “Deal?”

She slid down the kitchen island, making a show of landing fluidly on her feet. The drop in height made her flounder a little. Tilting her head up, she snatched the bag too fast for him to register, fingers grazing his, and she had to clear her throat before she spoke: “Deal.”

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

“So what was it this time?” Bob asked.

They were sitting on the floor of the freshly renovated lounge, by the windows separating them from the nasty cold of a New York winter.

Everything still smelled new and leathery beneath the loom of the giant light fixture that hung like a planet in the dark. It was a space meant for important people, doing important things. She found solace in the fact that Bob seemed to feel just as uncomfortable being in it as she did, when the lights were on and another party was thrown, and servers whizzed around with trays of tiny food she’d scarf down in two bites and skinny flutes of champagne she couldn’t drink.

It was surprisingly peaceful when it was empty. Yelena liked the tower at night. Liminal. An eerie kind of nostalgia she couldn’t quite place.

After tossing a Cheeto in the air and catching it in her mouth, she turned towards Bob, chewing. “Hm?”

“What kept you up this time?” he repeated.

“Just, you know,” she shrugged, “imposter syndrome…and the burden of mortal stewardship…and, like, the fear of insufficiency…and also the weight of the responsibility of keeping a whole country safe from the intergalactic threat of literally anything. You know. The usual.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s, that’s pretty…weighty.” Bob nodded.

She didn’t want to tell him that it was Natasha who kept her tossing and turning most nights. But her sister was a ghost she couldn’t face completely, and especially not with him.

Clearing her throat, she pointed a Cheeto at him, aiming. She tossed it. He missed tremendously. “You?” she asked.

“Uh—” Bob shrugged, picking up the Cheeto from the floor, looking at it for a moment. “I just really fucking miss being high.”

Yelena laughed like a gunshot, tipping her head back with the force of it. She liked when he was honest. She liked when he said fuck. She was like a child endlessly thrilled by others' deviousness. And Bob, surprisingly, had been quite devious.

“Trying to ride it out.” He shrugged. “Distraction helps.”

“Okay,” Yelena coughed, nodded, lifting another Cheeto and tossing it at his mouth. He caught it this time, chewing on it triumphantly. “Let’s distract you then. Tell me more about your voyages.”

“Voyages?” Now Bob laughed. He always laughed when Yelena said it like that. Do you mean my meth-fueled meandering?

He didn’t see them as voyages or adventures. But they were to Yelena. Bob, the unlikely wayfarer of a psychedelic trek across the globe, with nothing but a donkey-eared passport in his pocket. He had a very peculiar talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and somehow not dying. 

“What about yours?” he countered.

“Mine? Mine are just—mission go. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Knee to the face. Bomb. Mission complete.” She pantomimed someone choking to death. “At least yours are super weird.”

“Oh, good to know. Thought you enjoyed them for the ethical quandary.”

“Tell me about Phnom Pen. You didn’t finish last time.”

He snorted. She liked his snorts. “You mean the chicken race?”

“Yeah, of course I mean the chicken race, Bob. It’s a chicken race. You think I’d forget about the chicken race?" She lifted her brows. "Super weird!"

Yelena knew Bob thought of his time before the Sentry Project as pretty miserable, but his stories weren’t all bad, speckled with moments where he hadn’t been so high he couldn’t remember, small audacious moments that had taken him by surprise. As if even now, he had trouble accepting that life hadn't always been out to punish him. 

He’d told her of the places and the people he’d met, people like him, people not like him at all, people from all over. He'd told her the longest time he’d ever been sober was in Cambodia, riding out the bouts of withdrawal on an air-mattress in a garage, taken in by a farmer’s son who’d found him face-down in the rice paddies, half-coherent after a two-week stint in Battambang. I stayed in town for a while. Won some cash gambling and I bought them a new fridge. Learned how to make the best red curry you'll ever eat in your life. 

“Come on, tell me about the racing chickens,” Yelena said, her head slumped against the window. She blinked expectantly. And so Bob told her about the chicken race, and he told her about what happened after the chicken race, and what happened after that and then after that, until he couldn’t remember. Or didn’t want to.

They were quiet for a while, staring out the window, the sheet of lights that seemed to spill out forever. 

"What if we’d met back then?” Yelena said, a little woozy from sleepiness. She felt younger like this. She didn't remember the last time she'd felt like this around someone.  

“You wouldn’t have wanted that. Trust me,” he said.

“I do,” she said. Trust you. Is that a bad thing?

“Still.” Her leg slid towards him. “I think I would’ve liked to have known you sooner.”

It wasn’t true, not completely.

She meant another version of her meeting another version of him in another version of life, where all they worried about was what hostel to stay at next, how to scrounge up enough money for a flight back home, where they met at a dive bar on a beach or a hiking trail to some ancient monastery where all the white backpackers went to feel better about the choices they’d made. 

But in this version of life, this version of her pressed her socked foot against this version of him. And he wasn’t Sentry, and he wasn’t the Void, not right now and not for this. He was warm, and the city lights painted him in faint, vaporous lines, and his chest was broad when he wasn’t slouching, his hands big and sure and smooth, a little clammy at times but she didn’t mind. I don’t mind. And his face, his open face so full of things.

This time, it wasn’t a thought she spotted there; it was a feeling so unmistakable, trembling from its own heat:

Yearning

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

Yelena Belova was Russian after all.

Here was a feeling she knew like no other.

[benispunk]

Safety Net

logan howlett x reader

Logan experiences a rage episode.

A/N: hello everyone!!!! am I back??? well...I guess we can kinda say that? So, life hasn't been good, like, at all, and a whileeee ago I saw a post about mental health and Logan and I saw the "rage episodes" part and I cannot find this post anymore which is killing me ughhhh but ANYWAY, this is my rendition of a rage episode. this was very therapeutic to write because of the things I went through recently and over the past few years as I have witnessed someone in my family have a rage episode like the one depicted in this fic. I really hope I do not offend anyone with this??? cause this is based on personal memory and also I've done a lot of research on it and as I said, I felt lots of different emotions while writing this....anyway...I hope you have a good time?? reading this or like...you didn't choke on your tears or whatever. my exams are ALMOST over which means....more fics soon?? see you!!

Masterlist

Logan never thought he’d make it this far.

He wasn’t the type for relationships—not real ones, not the kind that lasted. The ones he’d had before were brief, messy, and built on things that never stuck. But Y/N was different. She didn’t just put up with him; she understood him in ways that no one ever had. And somehow, despite everything, she was still here.

He didn’t say it much—not in words, anyway—but he cared about her. More than he should. More than he knew how to handle. He’d show it in other ways instead. Walking her home when she worked late. Holding her a little tighter in his sleep when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Memorizing the way she took her coffee, the songs she hummed under her breath, the way her nose scrunched up when she was thinking.

She saw through all of it.

"You’re not as grumpy as you think you are," she’d teased him once, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his forearm.

He’d just snorted, shaking his head. "You sure about that?"

"Mhm. You just pretend to be."

And maybe she was right. Maybe, with her, he didn’t feel the need to pretend so much.

Which is why, one night, tangled up together in her apartment, she had said something that stuck with him.

"I was thinking… maybe one day, we could live together."

It wasn’t a question, not really. Just an idea, something she had tossed out so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But Logan had frozen for just a second too long, and she must have noticed because she quickly added, "Not now, obviously. Just, you know… one day. If you’d want that."

He forced himself to relax, to keep his voice even. "Yeah… someday."

That had been enough for her. She had smiled, kissed him, and let it go.

But he didn’t.

It stayed with him, gnawed at him from the inside out. Someday. What did that even mean? A month? A year? What if she asked again? What if she expected something from him?

What if he said yes and fucked everything up?

At first, he managed to push the thought aside.

Days passed, and nothing changed. They still met up when they could, still spent nights tangled in each other’s arms, still fell into that easy rhythm that had become so natural.

But then, the idea started sticking.

It crept up in quiet moments—when he was alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling. When Y/N texted him goodnight, and he imagined what it would be like if she was just… there.

And that’s when it started. The overthinking. The doubts. The realization of everything that could go wrong.

Logan had never had anything that lasted. Not a home. Not a real future. Not someone who stayed. And if he let himself believe—even for a second—that this could work, that he could have something good, then he’d just be setting himself up for the inevitable.

Because eventually, he would hurt her.

Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But he knew himself. He knew what he was.

His nightmares alone were enough proof of that.

The thought of waking up next to her after one of those nights—claws unsheathed, sheets shredded, breath ragged—made his stomach twist. What if he lashed out? What if she got caught in it?

What if one of his rage episodes got out of hand?

No.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So when months later she asked about it again—actually asked—he hesitated.

They were sitting on her couch, her legs thrown over his lap, a movie playing in the background. It was the kind of easy, quiet moment that usually put him at ease. But this time, he could feel her looking at him, like she was weighing her words before speaking.

"You never really answered me before," she said finally. "Do you actually want us to live together?"

Logan’s jaw tightened. He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, like she was scared of his answer.

He should have told her the truth. That it had been eating him alive for months. That he wanted to say yes, but his fear screamed louder than anything else.

Instead, he said, "I just need some time to think about it."

Y/N’s expression didn’t change. She just nodded slowly, studying him in that way that made his skin itch.

"Okay," she said, like she didn’t believe him.

And then she squeezed his hand. Just briefly. A small, warm reassurance.

But to Logan, it didn’t change anything.

He could only see what he thought was disappointment behind her understanding. He convinced himself she was just trying to be strong about it, pretending it didn’t hurt her when really, she was just waiting for him to figure himself out.

The guilt settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

That’s how it started.

The beginning is always subtle. He stayed out later, made excuses when she asked to meet up. His texts became shorter, more infrequent. He spent more time alone in his apartment, staring at the walls, trapped inside his own head.

And the longer it went on, the worse it got.

Logan convinced himself it was nothing. He was just thinking. That’s all.

But the thoughts never stopped.

Every time Y/N messaged him, guilt curled in his stomach like a sickness. He’d stare at his phone for minutes at a time, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before locking the screen and tossing it onto the couch.

He didn’t want to ignore her. But if he answered, he’d have to talk, and if he talked, she’d hear it in his voice—how torn he was, how he could barely keep himself together. And he couldn’t let that happen.

So he let the distance grow.

He told himself it was for her own good. That he was doing her a favor.

That lie worked for about a week.

Then came the restlessness.

The apartment, always too small, started feeling like a cage. Logan found himself pacing the length of it, muscles coiled so tight they ached. He tried training to burn it off—push-ups until his arms gave out, running until he couldn't feel his legs—but it didn’t help.

The frustration built like pressure under his skin, like a ticking bomb he couldn’t disarm.

And worst of all, he felt it creeping up—an old, familiar feeling, something he’d kept at bay for months.

The anger.

It started small. A twitch in his fingers. A tightness in his jaw. A heat in his chest that never fully went away.

The second week, it got worse.

His hands trembled when he wasn’t paying attention. His breathing came too fast, too shallow, like something was crawling under his skin. He felt his temper snap quicker, his patience wear thinner.

And then, one morning, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized himself.

Dark circles burned under his eyes. His face was drawn, sharp, his shoulders tense. He looked haunted.

It was getting bad. Too bad.

He needed to see Y/N.

The thought hit him like a slap. His first instinct was to shove it down, bury it under everything else, but it wouldn’t leave.

He missed her. But worse than that—he needed her.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because what if he showed up, and she looked at him the way he looked at himself?

What if she finally saw him for what he really was?

A monster. A wreck. A lost cause.

The fear made his blood run cold.

The first punch isn’t planned.

One second, he’s gripping the sink, breath ragged, jaw locked so tight it aches. The next, his fist slams into the mirror with a force that shatters it instantly.

Glass rains down like ice. Tiny shards bite into his knuckles, but he barely feels it.

His chest heaves. His heartbeat pounds against his ribs. He stares at his own fractured reflection—his face split into a dozen broken pieces, each one warped, wrong.

It’s not enough.

The rage claws higher, burning his veins, crushing his ribs. He steps back, breathing sharp and uneven. He moves away from the bathroom, into his small living room. And then he snaps.

The lamp goes flying first. It crashes against the far wall, exploding into pieces. The chair follows. He barely registers the sound it makes as it shatters.

His claws threaten to unsheathe, but he fights it—barely.

Instead, he tears through the apartment with nothing but his hands.

The table gets overturned. Books get ripped from shelves. His dresser—too heavy, too solid—takes three violent attempts before it topples over with a thunderous crack.

Still, it’s not enough.

He needs to break something. To hurt something. To feel it.

His breathing is ragged, his vision tunneling. His hands tangle in his own hair, yanking, as if he could pull himself out of his own skin.

The storm inside him is suffocating.

It doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left standing.

And then, silence.

His shoulders tremble. His hands curl into fists at his sides, still shaking.

He looks around, blinking through the haze, and finally sees it—

The wreckage.

His apartment is destroyed.

He stares, breath coming too fast, too shallow. His head is spinning. His chest aches.

What have I done?

The thought slams into him, knocking the air from his lungs.

He wants to scream. To punch something again. To disappear.

And then—

A soft knock.

His stomach drops.

He goes rigid, pulse hammering in his ears. He barely has time to process before her voice follows—gentle, uncertain.

"Logan?"

No. No, no, no.

She can’t be here. Not now. Not when the air still vibrates with rage. Not when his body still hums with it.

He staggers back, breath shaking, trying to make sense of anything.

She knocks again. "I know you’re here."

Panic surges through him.

He grips the edge of the still standing counter, heart hammering. Think. Think.

But his mind is blank.

She can’t see this. She can’t see him.

But she’s already here.

And it’s too late.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. If he stays completely still, maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll assume he’s out and walk away.

But then—

His phone rings.

The sound shatters the silence like a gunshot.

His stomach drops.

Shit.

His body jolts into motion, eyes darting wildly through the wreckage. Where the hell is it? He moves without thinking, shoving aside broken furniture, tossing clothes and debris out of the way. His hands are unsteady, frantic, as he digs through the mess.

The ringing continues.

Come on, come on—

His fingers finally close around the device, and he scrambles to turn it off, but—

The damage is done.

Outside, Y/N goes silent.

A few seconds pass, then—

"...Logan?" Her voice is softer now. Knowing.

His chest tightens.

He grips the phone so hard it creaks in his hand. His breathing is too loud, his pulse a hammer against his skull.

She knows.

"Logan, open the door."

No. No, no, she can’t.

"You can’t come in," he blurts out, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, tries to steady himself, but it’s useless. His hands are still shaking. His entire body is.

"Please." Her voice is so gentle it cuts through him like a blade.

"Just—just go home, alright?" He forces the words out, presses his back against the door like he can physically hold her out. "I’m fine."

He knows how it sounds. Knows she doesn’t believe it.

"Logan…"

There’s something in her tone—something aching—that makes his stomach twist.

"You’re not fine," she says, quiet but firm. "Please. Just let me in."

He squeezes his eyes shut. His head is spinning.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t see this.

But she is.

And deep down, he knows. She’s the better option. She always has been. And with a sharp breath, his fingers fumble with the lock.

The second it clicks, the door opens.

And Y/N steps inside.

The air was thick with dust and the sharp scent of splintered wood.

The apartment—once messy in a charming, lived-in way—was destroyed. Furniture overturned, glass shattered across the floor.

In the middle of it all stood Logan. Frozen. Shaking. Like an animal cornered after ripping itself apart.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Her heart ached so violently in her chest it almost knocked the air from her lungs, but she didn’t hesitate.

Carefully stepping over the broken glass, she made her way to him. Her hands reached out—gentle, slow—like approaching something fragile.

“Logan,” she breathed.

He flinched at her voice. His hands, bloody and trembling, curled into fists at his sides, as if trying to hold himself together. He wouldn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

But Y/N wasn't afraid. Not of him. Never of him.

She checked his hands first, ghosting her fingers over his knuckles, over shallow cuts that were already starting to heal. It didn’t matter—they could have hurt. She still touched him with the same care she would have used on something broken beyond repair.

“Come here,” she whispered, finding a chair that hadn’t been completely wrecked. She kicked aside some debris, made enough space, then turned back to him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to breathe.

So she went to him and she led him by the hand—gently, so gently—until he sat down with a heavy, defeated thud.

Y/N disappeared into the kitchen for a second, somehow finding a clean cloth and wetting it with cold water. When she came back, Logan hadn't moved. His eyes were empty, far away, like he wasn’t really there.

Kneeling in front of him, she pressed the damp cloth to his face, wiping away the blood, the dirt, the sweat.

He flinched again at first—then, slowly, surrendered to her touch. His head bowed forward, his whole body trembling under her hands. Tears fell down his cheeks. Silent. Endless. He didn’t even seem to notice them.

Y/N caught every tear with the cloth, and when that wasn’t enough, with the soft brush of her thumb against his skin. She kissed the corner of his mouth so lightly he barely felt it, her hands cradling his face like he was something precious.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, over and over again. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Logan let out a breath that sounded like it hurt to release. His shoulders collapsed inward, and for a moment, he leaned into her, desperate and broken. But even then, even shattered, a part of him tried to pull away. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

“You shouldn’t be,” he rasped, voice thick with guilt and misery.

Y/N’s heart twisted, but she didn’t loosen her hold. She shook her head and pressed her forehead gently to his. Her hands threaded through his hair, slow and steady, grounding him.

"I’ll always be here," she whispered.

And that—That broke him all over again.

Logan choked on a sob, rough and ugly, and Y/N gathered him close. She guided him toward the bedroom, somehow navigating the wreckage without letting go of him, like if she let go, he might fall apart completely.

They reached the bed—half wrecked but still standing—and she urged him to sit.

He obeyed, dazed and exhausted.

She climbed behind him, pulling him against her chest, holding him the way you would hold someone drowning. Her hands never stopped moving—through his hair, over his face, down his chest—silent promises written into every touch.

Logan tried to speak—tried to tell her he was sorry, that he was dangerous, that he should be alone—but the words tangled in his throat.

Instead, he cried.

For everything he was.

For everything he wasn’t.

For everything he was terrified to lose.

And she listened. Patient. Endless.

Her tears fell into his hair as she presses soft kisses there and whispered, “I’ve got you, Logan. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in days—maybe longer—he believed her.

He stayed there, trembling in her arms, every breath a struggle. He was exhausted—but he couldn’t close his eyes. Couldn’t let himself fall into sleep, not yet. Not when every part of him screamed that he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

Y/N must have sensed it—the way he was still locked in the fight, even as his body sagged against her. Because after a long moment, she leaned back just enough to look at him, her fingers brushing through his hair again, slow and soothing.

"Logan," she said softly, "let’s go to my place, okay?"

Her voice was a balm, warm and certain, like she was offering him a lifeline he didn’t think he deserved.

"We’ll come back here when you're ready," she promised. "We'll clean up together. But right now, you need a place that feels safe."

Safe.

The word hit him like a punch.

Logan stiffened, guilt flaring so hard it made his stomach churn. He shook his head, tearing away from her touch even though it hurt to do it.

"I can’t," he rasped, his voice cracking. "I’ll... I'll just wreck that too."

Y/N’s chest squeezed painfully. Logan’s fists curled again, self-hatred bleeding out of every line of his body.

"I could—" he swallowed hard, his throat burning, "I could hurt you."

He didn’t say again. But it was there, unspoken.

He was a monster. A ticking bomb. Someone who could tear everything good apart without even meaning to.

But Y/N. She just reached for him again, steady and unwavering, like a lighthouse cutting through the storm.

"You won’t," she said, firm but gentle. "You won't because you're not alone. Because you don’t have to fight this alone anymore."

She squeezed his hand, grounding him back into her.

"And even if you still don’t believe it," she whispered, "even if you push me away, even if you try to shut me out... I’m not leaving you, Logan. Not now. Not ever."

Logan’s breathing hitched. He shook his head again, broken. "You don’t get it," he choked out. "I’m not... I'm not worth it. You should walk away. You should've walked away the second you saw—" He gestured weakly at the wreckage, at the wreck of himself.

But Y/N only moved closer. Closer until he couldn't look anywhere without seeing her. Feeling her.

"I saw you," she said, voice thick with emotion. "Not the mess. You."

That shattered something deep in him. Not in a violent way. In a way that stripped him down to the raw truth beneath all the pain: He needed her. He wanted her. He loved her more than he even knew how to say.

And she loved him right back, with a kind of love so fierce it scared him more than anything else in the world. But it also saved him.

Slowly, hesitantly, Logan reached for her again. His hand fisted in the back of her shirt like he was terrified she might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And when she leaned into him, wrapping him up in her arms again, he buried his face in her neck, letting himself finally, finally fall into her.

Maybe he didn’t deserve her. Maybe he never would.

But she was here. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.

She kept her arms around him for a long moment, just breathing with him. When she finally pulled back, it was only to cup his face in both hands, her thumb brushing gently across his cheek.

"Stay here," she whispered. "Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back."

Logan didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just nodded faintly, like a man barely clinging to the surface.

Y/N kissed his forehead so softly it made his chest ache, then she stood up, stepping carefully over the wreckage as she made her way back into the main room. He watched her go, guilt gnawing at him.

In the living room, Y/N moved quickly but carefully. She picked up the sharp shards of the broken mirror first, wrapping them in a towel before tossing them safely into the trash. She pushed splintered wood and broken glass out of the pathways, clearing a narrow, safe space from the bedroom to the front door. She closed the shattered shutters as best she could, dimming the room so that when Logan would come back here later, it wouldn't feel so raw. So exposed.

She worked with quiet determination, her heart breaking a little more every time she caught sight of the destruction. Not because she cared about the mess, but because she could feel how much pain Logan must've been in to cause it.

When she was satisfied that nothing dangerous remained, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Logan was still sitting exactly where she left him, on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped and hands loosely clenched in his lap.

Y/N’s heart squeezed.

She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she moved around the room, finding a worn duffel bag tucked under the bed. She gently packed what she could: clothes that weren’t destroyed, a couple of small things she knew mattered to him.

In the bathroom, it was harder—cracked tiles, broken shelves—but she found his toothbrush, some of his toiletries, a couple of personal items, and tucked them into the bag too.

The whole time, Logan stayed silent, waiting on the edge of the bed.

It felt unreal. Like he wasn’t sure any of this was happening. Like any second now, she’d realize who he really was and walk out that door forever.

But she didn’t. She zipped the bag closed, slinging it over her shoulder and when she turned to him, her expression was still soft. Still his.

"Alright," she said gently. "Let’s go."

Logan hesitated, his body locked between guilt and the pull of her voice. But then she held out her hand to him and after a long, trembling second, Logan reached out and took it.

Her fingers wrapped tightly around his, like a promise.

She led him out of the bedroom, guiding him carefully around the worst of the wreckage she’d cleared, never letting go of his hand. Out the door. Out of the prison his fear had made.

The walk to Y/N’s apartment was quiet.

She kept a steady hand on Logan the whole time, whether it was gripping his hand, brushing his arm, or gently guiding him through doors and up steps.

Logan didn’t speak. He felt hollowed out and brittle, like if she let go of him even for a second, he might just blow away with the night wind.

When they finally reached her door, she unlocked it quickly, ushering him inside with a tenderness that made his throat ache.

The apartment smelled like her. Warm. Safe.

Home.

She kicked off her shoes by the entrance but didn’t ask him to do the same. Instead, she led him straight to the couch, easing him down carefully like he might break if she moved him too fast.

"Stay right here," she said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'll be back in a second."

He nodded numbly, watching her flit around the small space. She pulled out a fresh blanket, fluffed a pillow behind him, checked the thermostat to make sure the place was warm enough. Every move was made with him in mind—with the kind of care he didn’t think he deserved.

And maybe he didn't. Maybe he was fooling himself to think he could have this. Have her.

As she moved into her bedroom to grab some extra clothes he could borrow, Logan’s eyes wandered without meaning to.

Her apartment was small but filled with life—books, photos, cozy little touches everywhere. He caught sight of something pinned to the fridge and frowned. He pushed himself up a little and squinted.

It was a photo. Worn and creased from being touched so often.

It was him. Him and her.

A candid photo from some random night he barely remembered, probably taken when they'd gone out for drinks with some of her friends. In it, he was looking off to the side, a rare, unguarded smile on his face. And she was laughing, leaning into him like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there. Someone had drawn a little heart under the picture.

Logan's chest tightened so hard it hurt. He hadn't even known she had that picture.

Y/N came back just then, carrying some sweatpants and a soft hoodie, but paused when she saw him up, looking at the fridge.

"Logan?" she said gently, setting the clothes down.

He shook his head, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Trying to breathe past the crushing guilt and the unbearable love that wrapped around him like chains. He sat back down on the couch.

"I..." he started hoarsely. He dragged a hand down his face, then gritted out, "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her hands again, forcing him to look at her.

"Listen to me," she whispered, voice trembling but sure. "You’re not a monster. You’re not broken beyond saving. You are good, Logan. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore."

He squeezed his eyes shut, a broken sound escaping him—part sob, part plea.

"I could hurt you," he rasped. "I could—"

"You won't," she said fiercely. "I trust you. I know you."

Her thumbs brushed away the tears he didn't even realize were falling again.

For a long, trembling moment, Logan didn’t move. Didn't even breathe.

And then, like a man surrendering a battle he never wanted to fight in the first place, he leaned into her touch. Collapsed against her.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe he wasn't beyond saving.

Not as long as she was here. Not as long as she was holding him like this.

Logan’s body was heavy against hers, all tense lines and shuddering breaths. For a moment, he let himself rest there, forehead pressed to her shoulder, letting her hands ground him—gentle strokes along his back, soothing circles at the nape of his neck.

But then, as always, the guilt clawed its way back up his throat.

He shifted, starting to pull away.

"I—I should go," he muttered roughly, not even knowing where he thought he could go in this state. "I’ll just—I’ll sleep on the floor. Or— or the couch."

Y/N immediately tightened her hold.

"What are you talking about..." she said, firm but gentle, her hands sliding up to cradle his face again. "You're not going anywhere."

He shook his head, a pained sound escaping him, "You don’t—You shouldn't have to—" His voice cracked under the weight of it. "Look at me, Y/N."

"I am," she whispered, her thumb stroking just beneath his eye, brushing away a tear. "And all I see is the man I love."

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing ragged.

She didn’t let him turn away. Didn’t let him fall back into that pit.

"You're staying right here," she said again, softer this time, like a promise. "With me."

For a second, he was frozen.

Then Y/N pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there.

"Come on," she murmured against his skin. "Let’s get you comfortable, alright?"

He nodded weakly, too exhausted to resist anymore.

She helped him out of his ruined jacket, guiding him with slow, careful movements like he was made of glass. He let her pull the sleeves down his arms, let her tug the hoodie over his head. Every touch was tender, every glance full of nothing but care and patience.

She handed him the fresh sweatpants and shirt she'd found earlier, giving him the dignity of changing in the bathroom if he wanted— but he just stood there, trembling, needing her near.

So she stayed. Helping him change, steadying his shaking hands when they fumbled with the fabric.

Once he was in clean clothes, Y/N led him to her bed.

The second he sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight, he seemed to lose what little strength he had left. He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders heaving with silent breaths.

Y/N knelt down again in front of him, brushing her fingers through his hair with infinite gentleness.

"You’re safe now," she whispered. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Logan swallowed hard, blinking back another wave of tears. He was so fucking tired. Of fighting. Of hurting.

Tired of believing he didn’t deserve this.

Slowly—so slowly—he lifted his head.

And she was there. Still there. Still looking at him like he was worth staying for.

"I’ll stay," he rasped, voice breaking.

Her smile trembled, but it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Good," she breathed, wiping another tear from his cheek. "That's all I want."

She climbed into bed beside him, pulling the blankets over them, never once letting go of his hand.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Logan let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

XXX

feel free to comment if you want a part 2 or any other request!!

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Deleted the first post, then added to it. Now I like it more!

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

A threat in home?

★ It started with someone, or something, tearing through people's gardens at night. Then it turned to knocking over trashcans and scattering garbage around Home. After that, things started going missing.

★ You knew something had to be done once mail started getting stolen out of mailboxes. Poor Eddie was in hysterics. "What kind of monster would do this!" he cried. Poppy, wide eyed and shaken, attempted to sooth him. Clearly the neighbors needed help.

★ What kind of friend let's a creature ravage through the neighborhood? No. You had to do something. This has gone on for long enough. Don't bother telling anyone, because it might scare them. Especially Poppy or Eddie.

★ It happened at night, when everyone retreated inside their homes and wouldn't dare to leave. The cover of night provided the perfect opportunity for you to act. You heard it first, thin claws clicking against stone.

★ The creature looked like a raccoon, but bigger and made of stained grey fabric. It had the appearance of a well-loved stuffie. Its hands were thin and nimble. A sharp claw at the end of each finger. Before you could react in any meaningful way, it bolted. Running toward the trees and into the night.

★ Grabbing a wooden bat, you chased it. Adrenaline flooding your veins. As you ran, you followed the sound of sticks breaking beneath the creature's feet. It was fact. But you were faster.

★ The creature made a crack sound as you smashed the bat against its midsection. Did this thing have bones? Its hands reached out to grab at you. Leaving thin, red, lines on your skin where its claws met with flesh.

★ Blood dripping down your arm and onto the handle of the bat. You pulled away. Breath shallow, heart pounding, gripping the bat with all intention of killing this thing. It tried to grab you again. But this time you yank yourself away.

★ Swinging the makeshift weapon again, wood collided with whatever hid behind the fabric. Causing it to let out an ungodly screech you're sure woke up a few neighbors, the fabric of its mouth ripped open. Revealing a set of teeth that caught you off guard.

★ It didn't bleed. But you did. And now it's your turn to run. You don’t wait for it to recover. You don’t wait to see what happens next. The point had been made. Don't come back. In the morning you'll look worse for wear. But at least the problem is gone. For now.

★ Poppy was too scared to leave her home, so she called you on the telephone. "Oh dear, I was getting worried! Are you alright? I... I heard something. Did you hear it too?" You could lie. Or you could tell her what happened.

★ In the morning you look worse for wear. Scratches line your arms and bruises have begun to form. You don't even wake up until 11 AM. The sound of knocking at your door pulling you out of sleep. "Nighbor? Are you home?"

★ Opening the door, you find Eddie with a letter in his hand. His smile quickly changing into a look of concern as he sees the state you're in. Without a hint of hesitation, Eddie guides you back inside while asking what happened.

★ Frank does his best to treat the cuts. Thankfully you mentioned how to do this, and he wrote it down. The entire time he chastises you for being so reckless. "Honestly, first you go out during night." He pauses to put a band aid on your arm. "Then you get into a fight! What would possess you to do something as stupid as that?!?"

★ Then as word of you getting hurt spread across Home. One by one people started to visit you. Julie came to give you a get well soon card, partnered with many hugs. Barnaby showed up with Wally. And Sally came over to ask if it was you she heard last night.

[ramp-it-up]

Muse: Four

Muse Three | Muse Masterlist | Muse Five

Summary: This is the one. The one where decisions are made. Words are said. The end or the beginning of you and Ari.

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model! Reader

Word count: 3 K

A/N: Muse will be a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this the second one. We’re gonna hear from them at least every week. 😏 . This AU is tangential to the Peach and Knock You Down verses. If this drabble makes you angry, let me know! I love reblogs, replies, asks and likes. Let me have it! :)

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Angst. Art Curator Ari. Plus sized model Reader, dating app life, casual sex, Dominant Ari, Missed connections, yearning, the green eyed monster, late night confessions, oral (f recieving), fingering, hint of breeding kink, size kink, nipple obsession, nipple play, protected sex, the 'L' word (finally).

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

--------

Two days later, you were shooting inside one of the most beautiful spaces you’d ever worked in. It was a gallery so beautiful it felt dangerous ot breathe. A curated reverence hung in the air, the kind that made you instinctively speak softer and move slower.

But you were on edge, because you hadn’t known the shoot would be here. 

No one had said Red Sea Gallery. The one owned by Ari Levinson. Just: White walls, natural light. Tribeca-adjacent. Minimal set.

When you put the address your agent sent you into your maps app and the name popped up, you were gobsmacked. You tried to prepare yourself in the two hours notice you had before the shoot, but you weren’t.

There were the standard issue floor-to-ceiling windows, along with the scent of clean wood, old paint, and history. What was unexpected was the way the afternoon light struck a sculpture in the corner, a piece too raw to be just decoration or inventory. 

It was too intimate not to notice.

You stared at it, knowing that he had chosen it, and how much more you understood about Ari because of it. There was something about the shape of the metal, the tension in the curve, the heat in the cold material. It was alive somehow.

It was you come undone.

Your stylist, Misty, snapped her fingers. 

“Hey. Earth to supermodel. Time to get into look number three.”

You nodded, throat dry. “Right. Sorry.”

But as you changed in the makeshift dressing area, pulling silk up over your hips, you couldn’t stop staring at the sculpture.

Couldn’t stop feeling him.

Ari had studied your face in the dark, and he’d whispered, “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Yeah. Well, you fucking knew now.

You posed for the camera like everything was fine. Hip cocked, chin high, face set to neutral.

But inside, everything churned.

And then, you saw a flicker out of the corner of your eye. You turned your head just in time to catch a shadow slipping past the far end of the gallery. The figure was tall and broad with a confident stride. 

Ari.

You didn’t need to see his face.

Your heart rate spiked, your skin prickled, and your body betrayed you all over again. But by the time you crossed the floor barefoot and barely covered, the hallway was empty.

He was gone, just a ghost of cologne in the air.

The photographer called your name.

You turned back slowly, with one last glance at the metal sculpture, gazing at the raw emotion rendered in steel.

You hadn’t spoken to Ari in days.

He hadn’t texted. You hadn’t called.

And still, the city kept folding you into each other’s orbits.

Near.

But not enough.

—----

Ari hadn’t meant to stay, it was going to just be a fifteen-minute walkthrough before tomorrow’s showing, nothing more. But the moment he heard the shutter snap and then heard your laugh, Ari stopped breathing.

He knew that you were here in his gallery and in his world. That world tilted a little bit.

His adrenaline spiked as he ducked into the shadows between exhibits, watching you from there. You were barefoot, bare-shouldered and bathed in golden light, wearing a gown that clung to your body like a second skin.

You were fucking good at your job, and Ari was witnessing first hand the work that went into producing those gorgeous pictures. You were professional and poised, but he knew the passion that lay underneath.

Ari’s fingers became fists at his sides because he had touched that fire, he’d tasted it. And now, all he could do was watch as he starved for you, every nerve stretched thin, every breath hard to take.

It had been days, not weeks or months, but he felt too long deprived of the sight of you. Even though he’d decided not to contact you again after that night that felt like war.

You turned slightly, your hips angled, one hand at your waist, and the light hit you just right. Like you’d been lit by God himself.

Those lips. That jaw. That hourglass silhouette that curved into him like a puzzle piece, you were amazing.

His hands had memorized every inch of that body, but at the moment he couldn’t move to touch you, couldn’t speak to you, couldn’t even fucking blink your image out of his brain.

The photographer said something about “more edge,” and you smirked, dropping your chin just enough to make mischief with your gaze.

It wasn’t meant for Ari. But fuck, he felt it. 

Ari stayed in the shadows just long enough to carve your image into his bloodstream.

Then he turned and left, silently bleeding for you.

—--

You weren’t trying to be on your phone, but it buzzed three drinks deep at some rooftop party, where the music was loud and the faces were blurred by flash and too much champagne. 

The second your screen lit up, you sensed it.

A DM. Then another. You tapped through. And there he was.

Ari Levinson. Black sweater. Cocky smile. Calm, cool, and collected.

A woman with mile-long legs and too much lip gloss draped herself over him, laughing into his shoulder in the boomerang video.

Made so you could watch it over and over again.

Ari didn’t touch her; he barely looked at her. But he didn’t move away either. 

And that was enough.

You locked your phone, shoved it under your thigh, forcing your lips into a smile when your friend slid another drink your way.

“You good?”

You lied. “Peachy.”

It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t own him. You didn’t even call him yours.

But all you could see was him, the man who once kissed you so hard you forgot your own name.

The man who made you feel.

And now he was somewhere else and you were losing your mind in an Uber home, crafting and deleting half a dozen texts you’d never send.

you looked good tonight

Delete.

was she worth it?

Delete.

i can't stop thinking about your mouth

Delete. Delete. Delete.

—--

Ari left that rooftop party ten minutes after that girl posted him.

He didn’t even say goodbye because he hadn’t wanted to be there. He hadn’t wanted anyone but you. And when he saw your name light up his notifications, saw that you’d watched, well shit, it made him feel sick.

Because he knew what you’d think, and it wasn’t the truth. The truth was you were already under his skin; you were already it for him.

He didn't know why that was so important to him, but it was.

You were.

—-

The knock came at 1:42 a.m.

You were scared, because you knew it was someone who could hurt you.

You knew it was Ari.

You padded barefoot to the door, one hand trembling against the wood as you peeked through the peephole. Ari was there in a Tribeca Festival hoodie, his hands deep in his pockets and his jaw tight.

You opened the door and didn’t say a word. Neither did he. For a moment, the city noise poured in behind him and then you stepped back.

He walked in like he was home. And you let him.

—--

You didn’t speak.

Just closed the door behind him and walked into the kitchen like he hadn’t shown up at nearly two am with that whole brooding/penitent thing going on.

You opened the fridge, poured a glass of water and sipped. You should have been an actress.

Ari stayed where he was, near the door, hoodie pushed back, hands in his pockets, eyes never leaving you.

You didn’t spare him a glance.

“Thought you were busy tonight,” you said evenly.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I was,” he said finally.

You set the glass down, still not looking at him.

“Saw the party,” you added. “Looked like fun.”

Nothing in your tone gave you away. Not the way your chest was tight, not the sting behind your eyes, not the taste of jealousy in your mouth.

"Didn’t stay long," he said finally.

The laugh that escaped you was bitter and broken.

"Long enough."

You turned, and there he was, suddenly in front of you, so close you could feel his heat.

"You were watching," he said quietly.

You glared up at him.

"Is that why you’re here? Because I saw?"

"I’m here because the second I saw your name on that story, I felt like I couldn’t fucking breathe."

You stared at him and saw that he wasn’t untouched. He wasn’t fine. He was fucking wrecked.

"You think you know what I’m feeling?" you said, voice cracking.

"I know exactly what you’re feeling," he said, "because it’s the same thing I’m feeling."

The words landed because they were true. Because he was the one person who saw through all your practiced detachment and soft cruelty. Even after so little time.

It was lightning in the bottle, finding the one who looked at you, read your bullshit and still wanted more. On a dating app no less.

Fuck your life.

You walked past him toward the couch, brushing too close on purpose. 

“You think you know me,” you said, sitting down and crossing your legs slowly.

“But I don’t own you Ari. You're free to do what you want. And she looked like a good time.”

You shrugged.

“You showing up somewhere with her is none of my business.”

Ari bristled.

“I didn’t show up with her. I went alone. I left alone.”

You blinked as he crouched in front of you, his hands on the edge of the cushion, one knee brushing your thigh.

“And I’m here now. With you. Because all I could think about was you sitting here, alone. Wondering what it meant. Wondering if I was fucking her. Wondering if I’d moved on.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He reached up, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I haven’t. I can’t. You’re in my fucking bloodstream," Ari said.

"And I can’t rip you out."

He bent and pressed his forehead to your knee and just breathed.

Your fingers hovered above his head for one breath. Then two. And then you gave in. They slid into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and his whole body tensed, like he hadn’t expected you to touch him, like he was braced for a shove instead of tenderness.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. And when your hand tightened, just slightly, he looked up.

Those eyes. God, those eyes. Those eyes gutted you the way they looked at you like you were the one who might disappear if he blinked.

You leaned in just enough to make him meet you halfway. And when his mouth met yours, it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t greedy.

It was devastating. You couldn't pretend any more.

You broke the kiss only to whisper, “I hated seeing you with her.”

His head dropped, breath ragged against your knee.

“I didn’t touch her,” he rasped. “I haven’t touched anyone.”

You tilted his chin up. “Why?”

His answer came without hesitation. 

“Because I can’t get you out of my fucking head. When I look, I can’t see anyone else but you. I don't want anyone else."

That was when you lost it. The dam broke. You grabbed his hair, dragging his mouth to yours. 

The kiss wasn't sweet. It was needy. It was desperate. Your teeth, hands, and mouths were ferocious, and still, it wasn’t enough; it would never be enough.

"Tell me you hate me," he whispered against your mouth.

You kissed him harder.

"Tell me you don’t feel this."

You gasped, "I can’t."

You kissed him again.

"I don’t want to feel anything.” 

“I know.”

“And I still fucking do.”

“I know that too.”

Ari groaned against your lips, the sound low and primal, and it shot straight through you. His hand found the hem of your tank top and found the warm skin underneath.

You shuddered and gripped the front of his hoodie, yanking him closer and when the kiss broke and you gasped for air, he pressed his forehead to yours.

"You are so fucking stubborn," he whispered.

"I know," you rasped.

His hand slid up your ribcage and weighed your breast, thumb tracing your areola.

"Still want you," he said. "Even when it hurts."

He pinched your nipple to emphasize his point. You grabbed his jaw, palm dragging over his beard.

"Show me," you whispered.

Ari groaned and peeled your top over your head with shaking hands, tossing it somewhere neither of you cared about. You stripped his hoodie and t-shirt off too, tugging him closer by his broad shoulders, breathing him in, burying your face in his throat for one dizzying second.

Ari turned and sat on the couch, lifting you onto his lap. Your knees sunk into the cushions on beside his thighs and your bodies crashed together. He kissed down your throat, stopping at your pounding pulse to bite down gently. And when you felt the huge ridge of his cock through his jeans, you moaned helplessly.

"You drive me insane," he  whispered into your skin.

“Can’t fucking breathe without thinking about you."

You whimpered and arched into his touch while his thumbs circled your nipples until you were gasping in his lap.

"Ari," you moaned.

He kissed every inch of you he could reach.

"I’m here," he said. "I’m right here."

He carried you up to your bedroom, and the way he looked at you when he laid you on your bed made your heart ache. When he slid your panties down your legs, he kissed the inside of your ankle, then your calf, your knee, working his way up your body like he had all the time in the world.

You tangled your fingers in his hair and whimpered when he kissed between your thighs.

"Need to taste you," Ari stated. And then he did.

His tongue licked into you as his hands pinned your hips down when you tried to buck them up into his face, feeling like a desperate slut for him. Ari was an expert at making you feel good; his tongue was perfect on your clit and licking inside your folds, and his fingers fucked you open, lighting you up from the inside out, over and over, until you were a trembling, trembling, moaning mess under him.

You came hard, gasping his name, nails clawing at the sheets, and he didn’t stop tasting you until you came down. Then, he kissed up your body, planting open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, and your throat.

At this point you were beyond feral, and you yanked at his jeans, needing more, needing him. He stripped them off, pushed his boxers down, and there he was, thick, hard, beautiful, aching, and dripping for you.

"Condom," you panted.

"Fuck…. Okay, yeah."

He scrambled for his jeans, hands shaking, and you couldn’t help but smile; wild and wrecked looked good on him. He rolled it on, kissed you again and then he guided the broad tip of his cock to your snug, slippery entrance and eased inside you.

You both gasped. He was so fucking big. Ari destroyed you so good.

It wasn’t just physical. It was everything. All the denial. All the want. All the feelings. It all combined to have your cunt slowly pulsing around him already.

Once fully inside you, he stayed still, forehead pressed to yours, giving you, and himself, time.

"You good?" he whispered, his voice wavering as your cunt pulsed around him. He was so close already.

It had never been like this.

The question was strange. He'd never cared this much while he was fucking you. But this time, it wasn’t just fucking.

You nodded, eyes burning.

"Move," you said.

And he rocked into you slowly at first, like he was savoring every second. You clung to him, nails dragging down his back, thighs tightening around his waist, making involuntary whimpers and ragged gasps.

His fingers glided over your clit and the pleasure exploded in a rich, crazy rush.

"Ari," you sobbed.

"I know, Baby," he panted against your neck. "I know. Feels so damn good."

He kissed your jaw, your temple, and your mouth like he couldn’t get enough. You rode his thick cock as his fingers spun your climax higher and higher as you tipped over the precipice again, crying out, your cunt locking down around him.

He groaned and thrust harder, losing control. It was the quickest he would ever come with you.

"Can’t…fuck…can't hold on..." he gasped.

You grabbed his face, made him look at you.

"Come inside me," you whispered. "Please."

This wasn't about the condom. It was the sentiment.

Ari's brain blanked, his whole body shuddered, and he buried his face against your throat and let go, hips jerking, mouth open in a silent cry.

You held him through it. And when it was over, he didn’t move. Just stayed pressed against you, still inside you, breathing hard.

"Don’t leave," you whispered into his hair.

He made a broken sound,  half a laugh, half a sob.

"I’m not going anywhere, Muse." he said.

"Not anymore."

—---

You woke tangled in Ari, your cheek pressed to his bare chest, his arm heavy across your waist, his breath steady against your hair. For a second, you just laid there, afraid to move. But then, his fingers moved up and down the curve of your spine.

You swallowed hard and shifted slightly, feeling him stir against you, realizing that he was hard again.

God, you were wrecked for him. Beyond reason. And beyond pride.

You tilted your head back to look at him, and saw that he was already awake, watching you. You opened your mouth to say something, something stupid. Something defensive. 

To make a joke. To make it light. To pretend it didn’t mean everything. But Ari beat you to it. 

His voice was rough with warning.

“Don’t run from me.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea. It was a command.

Your chest hurt because God, you wanted to run.

It would be safer. Easier. But you couldn’t run from him anymore.

You dragged your hand up his chest, feeling the rough patch of hair and the steady thump of his heart.

“You make it really fucking hard to breathe,” you whispered.

Ari smiled and kissed the corner of your mouth. Your cheekbone. Your eyelid.

And then he rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, keeping you locked against him as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer. You buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing him instead of air.

And then he said it, the words that split the world wide open.

“I’m in love with you.”

Like it was simple. Like you could just say shit like that.

You froze.

But he didn’t flinch, backpedal, or give you a single out. He just held you.

Like what he’d just said wasn’t terrifying.

And now you were crying, hot rivulets of your tears running down his neck.

You pulled back just enough to see his beautiful, stubborn, stupid face, and you gave him the only thing you had left.

You whispered it back, trembling and scared.

“I’m in love with you too.”

-----

oh. my. god. wbu?

Muse Five

[perplexingly]

ok i'm not very good with words & this is kind of embarrassing for me so i hope this is coherent LOL but. i wanted to thank you for uh. well just posting your art i guess.

i could say i've been in a few years long slump but the truth is i've been in an art slump since i aged out of pre-teenness and grew awareness. i've kind of hated art for years, not just my final product but just the entire process of it. it made me miserable. and yet i felt compelled to do it despite that, despite knowing it would just make me miserable, because idk... i'm an artist? or i want to be? but. it still made me miserable. and to be honest i was reaching the point where i wanted to just give up on art completely because constantly comparing myself & constantly feeling like shit everytime i picked up a pencil just wasn't worth it anymore.

and then! i stumbled upon your art. to be honest i'm a little embarrassed i can't remember which specific piece it was. i have a feeling it was probably istvan, or istenry related (😅) but i can't remember. i do remember how much it struck me though. your work, i mean. your entire style. hope this doesn't sound weird lmao but after that first piece landing on my dash, i just felt compelled to look through your entire blog; and i did! and i only fell more & more in love with your art. i don't think i have the words to explain it, i don't even know if i could even if i did. there's just something about it that i adore even in like the smallest barebones sketch, or wip. what i'm saying is that you very quickly became my new favorite artist haha.

i've been inspired before, like brief rushes or whatever only for it to die immediately because i.. hated it lol. i hated what i made. and i assumed the, quite honestly, constant wave of inspiration your art gave me would be the same. and then it wasn't.

i really don't even like, know how to explain why. i'm not even sure if there is a why? but there's just something about your art that made me want to try, like *actually* try and draw something i love. and then i drew. and for the first time in years, even after weeks passed, i still not only loved the finished product but the entire process as well. and then i did it again. and again. and it was still happening, i still loved what i was making & for even more first times, even when i saw work that was very clearly technically better, i didn't care! for the first time other peoples works, including some of my friends, wasn't just a tool for me to feel worse about myself & my own work, it was just something i could enjoy & that was it.

i don't really understand it to be honest? but i do know that even though it was like, completely indirect, you honestly deserve most if not literally All of the credit for this. it never crossed my mind someone's art could be SO good it would cure my inferiority, and then i started following you and exactly that happened!

so. um yeah kind of a very long message Sorry about that. but basically what i'm trying to say is:

thank you i guess? for making art so beautiful it's enough to rewire someone's brain into falling in love with art all over again. i'm so serious i really do not think i would've been able to ever even like imagine doing that without your art inspiring me. to be honest i think if i hadn't just happened to be online the exact time someone i was following just happened to reblog from you, i have a feeling i really would've just given up art completely: so thank you, really.

i get the vibe from some of your more personal posts that things aren't really going the best right now which, admittedly i can't help with but. i really hope things turn around for you soon. you only deserve great things. ❤️

Omggg I'm so happy for you, it's such a wonderful feeling when you're in love with the art process 🥰 I'm glad you didn't quit art! There's that entire view that art is suffering but when you let go and just draw what you enjoy there's no feeling like it 🥰

Also thank you so much for such a heartfelt message, and for the wishes, you're most kind 🙇‍♀️ I hope all goes well for you too!

[yumiyawning]

sensitive!Reader x blunt!Ushijima

cw: afab!reader, post-timeskip, established relationship, kinda smutty. . .(literally ushijima going down on reader), eater!Ushijima save me!!!, fluff, weight talk (?), well ya'll got the gist with dialogues...

ও blunt!Ushijima who watches you, eyes filled with awe and love, as your thighs shake on each side of his head, as you cum. You always looked pretty in his opinion, but right now? What a sight for sore eyes you were. All flushed and panting and whimpering, overstimulated by the way his tongue rapidly circled your clit while coming down.

ও blunt!Ushijima who, unknowingly start groping your thighs to bring you closer to his face, deeming you to not be wrecked enough, when he notices it: your thighs have gotten plushier, bigger, and oh— so warm; Ushijima's masculine features form a frown, not a displeased one— oh no, no. A focused one; the one's you'd typically see him with when playing volleyball.

ও blunt!Ushijima who glances up at you, when you asked him what was wrong, oh so innocently. How could he explain to you, that you gaining weight, somehow turned him on, beyond explanation? "Your thighs are....pleasant." This made your eyebrow raise, confused and slightly amused by his choice of wording. "...Pleasant? How so?" you asked, curious, and pulling him closer to you by his back.

ও blunt!Ushijima who, reluctantly, accepts your move and lets you pull him up and brings you in for a searing kiss, almost making you forget about your question. However, he pulls away with a grunt, remembering about your question and glances down at your thighs, a slight blush decorating his chiselled cheekbones. "...They've gotten bigger. I like it" He says, bluntly, as if he hadn't just had a flash-fantasy of them choking his face.

ও blunt!Ushijima whose head tilts in confusion when you blush and stammer about you feeling insecure about your weight lately. "...Oh— I, uh, I— thank you..?" You answer, quite stunned and taken aback. He nods and hovers over you, hunger crystal clear in his eyes, latching his mouth to your neck, and grabbing your waist, before pulling your thighs over his waist, pressing his manhood closer to your drooling pussy. "Let me show how much I do."

ও blunt!Ushijima, who after blowing out your back, massages your thighs lightly, making circle motions with his palms. However, you do suspect it to be more for his own enjoyment, rather than yours, considering how he hums into the skin of your neck. Can you blame him tho? He just found out, he loves his girl chubby, and is on the edge of feeding you veerryy throughly, for the rest of your relationship. :(

彡AN: GAWD, THIS WAS SOOOOOOO HARD TO WRITE....this is also my first EVER writing smut so..... 😥😥 kinda nervous on your impressions guys. by the way (not me yapping bye) my "bf" actually just wanted to plant his seeds in my secret garden so... 😰😰 yeah. anyway lmk what ya'll think, love ya'll!! eat, sleep and drink well!! MWAH <3

𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽: @the0ishere, @nekomaniac, @wordsofelie (guys send me a message if you get tagged, i don't bite i pinky promise)

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: "Still Monster" by Enhypen (lomls UGHHH 💔🗣)

[cryingatwindermerepeaks]

Little!Jackie - Defence

Credits for this go to the incredible anon who gave me the idea earlier today (we need to pick out an anon emoji for you if you’d like it!) and is set in the post crash au I’ve been writing about a bit recently (a name for the au itself is still pending) hope you guys enjoy!!

Notes -> little!jackie, cg!nat, post!crash au, agere, bed wetting, pull-ups, trauma, blood, very vague allusions to an eating disorder

Word count: 2078

They’d missed a lot of things while they were in the wilderness. Graduating, the release of the Nintendo 64, too many movies to count. Some things they couldn’t do much about - graduating was just something that wouldn’t be on the table for any of them. But god willing they could definitely catch up on some missed movies. Tonight, Matilda. Jackie had never been a big fan of movies, always finding herself distracted halfway through. She didn’t mind it too much right now though, too tired to do anything else and content sipping her hot chocolate on the couch squished up between Mari and Shauna. The hot chocolate was settling warmly in her stomach, and the mug she was very carefully holding in two hands was beginning to run out. Jackie didn’t usually have hot chocolate, before the crash she’d never have let herself touch the stuff, but now things like sugar and calories seemed to matter a lot less.

Deciding she could miss a few moments of Matilda, Jackie wiggled herself out from under the blanket she’d been sharing with the other girls. “Anyone else want a second cup?” She offered, wanting to use her best manners. There were a few mugs held out in her direction but as Jackie was reaching to grab them her eyes fixated on Tai and Van. They were sharing a look. The kind of look that made Jackie’s stomach ache with anxiety because she didn’t understand it but she knew it was about her.

“Jax, maybe that’s not a great idea,” Van suggested softly - though to Jackie her voice sounded to be just dripping with malice. Shame filled her body quickly, a burning sensation starting in her chest and spreading like wildfire till it was all she could feel. Her eyes started to water against her own volition. Jackie did not like what Van was insinuating. She hated that any of them knew about her… bedtime predicament, she hated even more that any of them thought they had the right to talk about it! She felt exposed, targeted - everyone’s eyes were on her. Stupid, she thought, stupid, stupid baby.

“I’m not a baby,” Jackie huffed, eyes contracting tightly in defiance as she tried her best to bare lazers right into Van. How could she? How could any of them even begin to think they knew anything about her or what she went through.

“Oh, Jackie, that’s not what I was-“ Van was trying to sweep in with a cleanup crew but it was too late. Jackie could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks and she just felt so mad!

“Who are you to tell me what I can do anyway?” She huffed, her fists tightening around the mug handles. “You’re just as stupid and pathetic,” she seethed. It felt like her whole body was shaking with anger. “I don’t need you to baby me! I’m not some stupid bedwetting baby like some people.” She didn’t mean it, not really, or maybe she did - Jackie wasn’t sure anymore. Everything just felt so fuzzy and painful. Her ears were ringing loudly, the same buzzing that filled her whole body. It was all too much. She wasn’t even looking at Van anymore, her eyes fixating on a random spot off in the distance. She stomped her foot, so they’d know just how angry she was with… well… everyone. It wasn’t enough. Her hands unclamped without a single warning, the mugs dropping to the floor and sending out a shattering crack which pulled Jackie out of her head enough to catch the cries coming from around the room. She let her eyes shift over hesitantly. Oh. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. Everyone was crying, or, if they weren’t crying, they looked like they were about to jump her. Even Shauna. Especially Shauna. Lottie was curled up on the floor, hands clamped over her ears, rocking back and forth. Jackie hadn’t meant for this to happen. Her heart hammered heavily in her chest, dread growing fast. She turned back to look at Tai and Van, hoping to find some of the parental sympathy she was used to. But nothing. They just look disappointed, maybe even disgusted. This was bad. Bad, bad, bad. Jackie was bad. Every part of her body ached with terror. She needed to get away, quickly, before they all realised just how truly awful she was and sent her away forever. Jackie ran right over the shattered ceramic on the living room floor, she didn’t care that it hurt. She just had to get out of there.

Jackie’s room was on the second floor, sandwiched between Shauna’s and Nat’s. At first she’d wanted to share with Shauna, but she’d very quickly become grateful that the other girl had insisted they needed their own space. Their own privacy. Jackie knew a thing or two about needing that right now. She dropped down onto her and slithered under her bed. It was gross and the dust clung to her shirt and clouded up in her face. Despite that - it was safe. She was safe. No one was going to find her here - no one could look at her, no one could yell at her, and no one could humiliate her. Jackie’s foot hurt, she couldn’t remember why, but it was suddenly the only thing she could think about and she was crying all over again. She felt pathetic, defeated. She could fight and kick and scream as much as she wanted but at the end of the day she was just tragic and boring and insecure. And everyone knew it. Jackie sucked in a heavy breath, pulling way too much dust into her mouth at the same time. She couldn’t stop crying - just confirming everyone’s suspicions about how much of a cry baby she was.

Jackie stayed under the bed even when her head hurt so much from crying she thought it might explode, her muscles ached from staying still and her foot still hurt. Just when she thought she might have to live under her bed like an ugly troll from a fairytale for the rest of her life, her bedroom door creaked open. Jackie craned her neck a little to look at who it was. Nat’s heavy work boots made a soft padding sound as they crossed Jackie’s hardwood floor. She watched as Nat quietly sat down beside the bed, leaning back against the bedside table with her knees tucked up to her chest. “Jax, you in here?” Nat called out, her voice soft and untelling of any anger. Not that Jackie was expecting anger from Nat, who hadn’t actually been there when everything had gone down. She must’ve only just got home from work, which meant it was 9:30 and Jackie was really supposed to be in bed by now. Jackie grumbled softly in response.

There was a moment of stillness where Jackie thought maybe she was just imagining Nat, but then she saw Nat’s hand, cold but safe, reaching out under the bed. She took it, because even if she did want to hide forever, she couldn’t help but ache for the comfort. “Van told me what happened. No one is mad at you, Jackie,” Nat explained softly, knowing instinctively where Jackie’s mind would go. “You gave everyone a fright and you used some not very nice words, which you’ll have to apologise for, but it doesn’t make you a bad kid.”

Jackie sniffled, using her hand that wasn’t holding Nat’s to wipe her face. “You don’t have to hide, ok? It’s safe to make mistakes here.” Nat squeezed her hand, trying desperately to ease the girl out from under her bed. “Will you come out so we can have some cuddles?” Nat offered, knowing how much of a sucker the regressed girl was for affection.

Jackie squirmed a bit under the bed, poking her head out from under the bottom of the covers. “Hey kid,” Nat smiled warmly.

“Hi,” Jackie mumbled back, keeping her eyes away from Nat’s. “Natty?”

“Yeah Jax?”

“Is there… something wrong with me?” Her voice wavered as she spoke, shame creeping into every syllable.

“Jackie…” Nat sighed, pain blooming in her chest for the younger girl. “No. No, there is nothing wrong with you,” she promised. Nat pulled Jackie’s hand up towards her, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. “There’s nothing wrong with having accidents, Sweetheart. Especially given everything you’ve been through.” Jackie wiggled out from under the bed at the reassurance. Her shoulders were pulled up tensely but she shuffled into Nat’s arms and once she was there she started to feel a little bit less like the world was ending.

Nat rearranged them carefully, pulling Jackie’s legs up into her lap so she could cradle her just like a real baby. That’s when she noticed the dark red spot blaring against Jackie’s white sock. “Shit, what happened here, Jax?” Jackie looked down, suddenly realising why her foot had been hurting. Oh. Memories of the smashed mugs came back to her and Jackie started to feel pressure build up behind her eyes all over again. “Hey, hey, it’s ok,” Nat bounced Jackie on her knee as she used a hand to tug the sock off. Inspecting the injury, Nat tutted. “Just a little cut, nothing we can’t fix up with a Band-Aid.”

“Can I pick which one?” Jackie asks hopefully.

“Yeah, ‘course you can.”

Nat picked Jackie up - which was not easy considering they were roughly the same size. But she didn’t complain, not one bit, and it made Jackie feel safe. “Of course you don’t have to walk, princess, you’ve got an owie and I get to look out for you.” Nat sat Jackie down on the edge of the bathtub before opening up the bathroom cabinet and pulling out a couple boxes of kids bandaids. She held them out to Jackie, letting the smaller girl pick the ones she wanted. After a moment of deliberation, a good distraction while Nat wiped the blood away, Jackie’s decided on a Band-Aid with Belle on it. “Why’d you pick her?” Nat asked, as she placed the Band-Aid over the little cut.

“She ‘meminds me of Shaunie,” Jackie explained. Then, she paused, fresh tears appearing in her eyes. “Shauna mad?”

“Oh Jackie…” Nat sighed, cupping Jackie’s cheeks in her hands. “Shauna isn’t mad at you. No one is, ok? We all love you very much.”

“Lot was cryin’ tho, an’ I said mean things to Van,” Jackie hiccuped between tears.

Nat pulled herself up onto the edge of the bathtub and sat beside Jackie. “She did, and you did. But that doesn’t mean they don’t love you. You’re tired, Sweetheart, you didn’t mean it.” Jackie sucked in a harsh breath, she was tired. Nat wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.“

-

Jackie couldn’t find it in herself to care when Nat reached straight for the drawer where she’d been silently leaving the pull-ups for months now. She did insist that Nat turn around while she changed, but Nat was already doing that anyway so the demand died on her tongue.

“I never got another cup of hot choc’late,” Jackie mumbled with a soft pout once she was tucked in tightly under her blankets. Nat laughed softly, brushing a hand through Jackie’s hair.

“Sippy cup or bottle?”

“Bottle.”

Nat left and returned not too long after with one of the baby bottles (unofficially they were Lottie’s but she never minded sharing) filled with warm hot chocolate. “Here you go kid, drink up.” Jackie beamed - reaching for the bottle with both hands and eagerly bringing it to her lips. Nat went to turn out the lights and suddenly Jackie felt like crying all over again.

“Stay?” She asked sheepishly - guilt trickling in at the request as she knew Nat probably just wanted to get out of her work clothes and go to bed. But Nat didn’t complain. She switched off the light and crossed back over to Jackie’s bed.

“Sure thing Princess,” She hummed as she flicked on the soft fairy lights that were wrapped around Jackie’s bed frame. Jackie shuffled over and Nat slipped onto the edge of the bed, wordlessly taking the bottle into her own hands so Jackie could focus on cuddling her stuffed bunny, Alice, to her chest. “Goodnight Jax,” Nat whispered softly.

“Ni ni Natty,” Jackie yawned, moments before she slipped off to sleep.

[m-jelly]

Hi Jelly, can I request a Levi x Physical Therapist reader? Please I've been dying someone to write to this😭 it's always been "other medical worker x levi". I'm a Physical Therapy student, so if u make this it would make my day so much😭🫶.

Small info^^

Physical Therapy they focused on restoring, maintaining, and improving a person's ability to move and function. (Ex: after severe injury or surgery physical therapist help the patient to regain their strength, mobility and etc.)

Do it on canon world pls🥹 (I'm a sucker for canon verse aot x reader)

(It's ok to refuse it^^)

Hello, funny enough I've done this sort of concept before. I did one where the physio was in the ocean with Levi and it was post war! Also, had physio myself, but thank you for explaining for those who don't know what it is.

First my ankle, then my heart.

Levi x fem reader

Canon world, happens after Levi saves Mikasa from female titan, fluff, romance, falling in love, becoming a couple.

Levi has to get physiotherapy after hurting his foot and ankle when saving Mikasa from the female titan. Reluctant at first, he begins to adore his sessions because of you.

"Tch, waste of time." Levi stared at the referral in his hand. "Stupid order."

"Captain Levi?"

Levi flicked his gaze up and felt his anger melt away. The beauty you held was mesmerising to him. He felt breathless, and all thoughts evaporated from his mind. A strong blush consumed his cheeks, he wasn't sure what to do or say to you.

You moved closer to him. "Captain Levi?" Your smile was like seeing beyond the walls and the vast blue sky again. "Everything okay?"

Levi flinched a little. "Tch, fine."

"Are you sure?" You crouched before him and looked up with your darling doe eyes through your pretty lashes. "Let me guess, you thought this was all stupid, huh? I get that a lot. Trust me, okay? You're in good hands and we'll take it at your pace."

"Sure." He released a long sigh, you had no idea the things you were doing to him. Your voice was even like a choir of birds singing on a summer's day. "Let's do this."

You rose to your feet and led him to your office with a beautiful fresh perfume following you. "Today we'll go over the basics and things to do at home. I'll have a look at how your ankle is fairing as well." You sat down and picked up Levi's file. "Please, take a seat."

Levi plopped down into his chair as he felt compelled by you, he was sure you could tell him to do anything and he'd do it. "Tch, hope there's no embarrassing shit in that file."

You hummed a laugh. "All good stuff, Captain. Physically, you're incredible and you heal so fast. I'm impressed."

That was a good thing, right? He impressed you. Maybe there was some hope you'd find it attractive. "Thanks. Could you call me Levi?"

You closed his file and smiled at him, it was like looking at a field of flowers swaying in a light breeze. "Of course. So, Levi." His cheeks burned at your words. "We're going to do a few stretches so I can see how your ankle is. Please, don't push yourself."

He nodded. "Got it."

"Shoes off and let's begin!"

Levi followed your instructions like his whole world depended on it. He was happy and in his own world until you started touching his ankle and asking questions. He stuttered as he answered you and felt his whole body flush at your soft touch. His heart sank a little because you had to be like this with other men, but he hoped that maybe this time he was special.

The room began to fill with laughter as Levi cracked a few jokes just so he could see you happy. He chuckled when you fired a few back and the two of you got lost in each other. There was just something so magnetic between the two of you like you were drawn to each other.

Levi came to every appointment and made sure he was on time. He started bringing gifts for you and you gave him a few things back. When you worked together the touches began to linger and when you parted gazes were longing.

One day he was doing his resisted plantar flexion, and you were sat behind him on the floor helping him get the band right in his hands. Your hands ran down his arms and he just shivered under your touch. He knew what he was doing, he'd done this plenty of times but he encouraged the contact.

When you spoke against his ear telling him to point his foot up and down, he just wanted to turn around and kiss you. He felt like his heart must have been beating so loud that you could hear it. He flinched when you moved away and felt your warmth leave him.

His cheeks burned when you were by his feet helping him move the band to do resisted eversion. He liked the way you touched him and he really liked how your top was low-cut, which wasn't normal for you, and he could see your ample chest.

You looked up at Levi through your lashes and smiled as you encouraged him. When Levi paused due to overwhelming thoughts and feelings, you frowned a bit. "Levi? Everything okay?"

He shook his head. "No, it's not okay."

"Has your ankle gone bad?" You gently held his ankles. "We can stop."

"No, it's not that." He gulped hard as your thumbs lightly rubbed his skin.

"Well, what's wrong?" You tilted your head slightly. "I want to help."

He looked away. "Tch, shit. I can't fucking stop thinking about kissing you." He put his head in his hands and groaned. "Shit, I'm sorry. I shouldn't...I'm sorry."

"Why don't you?"

Levi looked up as you nibbled your lip. "What?"

You moved closer to him and ran your hand up his leg. "Well, what if I don't want you to hold back. What if I want a kiss too. So, why don't you?"

Levi eyed your lips. "I ah...never really...umm..."

You sat right up to him and caressed his cheek. "It's okay, just go with how you feel." You leaned closer and tilted your head. "I can help."

Levi's lips tingled as his heart raced. Finally, he was going to kiss you, he'd been dreaming of this moment for so long. When your lips touched his, he felt like he was free like when he saw the blue sky for the first time, or when he saw those birds flying above him as he rode out of the walls. Your lips were so warm and soft, he just wanted more.

Levi wrapped his arms around you and pulled you onto his lap. As your bodies touched he felt his body burn with pleasure, a kind of pleasure he'd never experienced before. When your tongue entered his mouth, it was like a fire surged through him and the world faded out. He forgot all about why he was there and just enjoyed being with you.

You pulled back from his lips as your cheeks burned. "You...wow..." You hummed a laugh. "Ah, you need to stop coming to see me as your physiotherapist."

Levi's eyes widened. "What? Why?"

You hummed a laugh. "Cause I want to pursue a relationship with you and I can't really do that with a patient."

He blushed hard. "Oh, yeah you're right." He cleared his throat. "I would like to be a couple. How about sessions at my home?"

You smirked. "Levi, you naughty man."

He went even redder when he realised what he said. "I! I uh!"

You kissed his cheek. "I know what you meant, but you're fun to tease."

He huffed. "Brat." He hummed a bit. "So, can I take you on a date tonight?"

You kissed him. "Yes."

Tags under

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @nbinairyn @bts-spnlvr12 @darkstarlight82 @emilyyyy-08 @levistealeaf @pelicanpizza @hideandgopeep @notgoodforlife @demonic-bird @searriously @dreamerofthewest @abiatackerman @minminroie

[reality-warp]

A word from Rella concerning AI, binding and selling fics, and Book 3 of Rávamë's Bane

Hey folks,

I’m treating this post as a bit of a blanket PSA for all those who read my work and follow me here, but I’ll also be copying the message over to AO3 once Book 3 of Rávamë's Bane goes up. Before anyone gets spooked, all is well, I am well, and I’m still happily working on the first 5 chapters of Amabilis Insania. However there are a few glaring subjects that have sprung up in the fandom space that I can’t really ignore. The fanfic community as a whole has changed a lot in the past decade I've been part of it, and given some of the unpleasant stuff I’ve seen going on in just the past year, I wanted to cover some housekeeping points ahead of posting the next RB book.

1.) Please don’t ever bind and sell fanfics.  Profiting from fanfiction in any way is completely illegal, and puts the entire community at risk.  I’m lucky enough that I’m a relatively small fish in the fanfic pond, so no one has sold bound copies of my story specifically (that I know of). However, I know several folks who have had their work bound and sold without their knowledge, and have had to take their fics down completely to stop it happening (which royally sucks). If you see any fanfics being sold on sites like Etsy, please do report them — they are absolutely not supposed to be there. And if you want a bound copy of a fic for personal use, I'd really encourage you to learn to bind them yourself. There's a tonne of tutorials out there, it’s pretty fun and easy to learn (I picked it up in a couple of weeks) and it doesn’t take as many materials as you’d imagine. Side note: I have made typesets of LM and CM for myself and friends, but honestly, I’m reluctant to share them publicly now given all the above. That said, if you really want a copy of LM or CM for personal use only, you can message me directly on Tumblr and I can maybe look into making a watermarked version to share on request.

2.) In light of the recent news that AO3 was scraped to create a generative AI dataset, I’ve decided I’ll only be posting the final RB book to AO3 from now on. On top of that, all my fics will be restricted to users with AO3 accounts only. I really don’t want to do this as it cuts off guest users from enjoying the story too, but for now it’s the only way to protect my work from being scrapped again. I don’t believe this will be a one-time occurrence given how carelessly AI is being used right now, and I feel very strongly that no one’s work should be used in model training without their consent.

The vast majority of you in my comments, asks and kudos are genuinely wonderful, and I’m so damned grateful that you aren’t a part of the issues above. However, with all that in mind, let me be absolutely clear just for the public record…

!!TRLD: This Is The Important Bit!! You do not, and will never have my consent to: - use any of my writing in generative AI (this includes making AI-generated fanworks, or scraping my fics for training AI models) - bind and sell any of my fanfics (profiting from fanfiction is completely illegal, and puts it at risk for us all)  - profit in any way from any of my work that I have publicly shared online (this includes putting my fics on recommendation lists behind paywalls, or selling my fics in the form of typesets or bound copies)

If you do any variation of the above despite knowing the risk it poses to the entire fanfic community, I respectfully hope you spend the rest of your life in clothes that smell damp no matter how much you run them through the dryer.

To the rest of you; a genuine thank you for making the community what it is. And thank you for making the RB comments section specifically such a joyful place to be.

I promise my next post/update will be less grim.

Until then,

Rella x

[tgmsunmontue]

You look like a bad idea... 14/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - based on this idea here. Bradley is not a naval aviator. Canon deaths (it starts at Ice's funeral). Addiction and alcoholism (and recovery) mentions.

PART ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN

(FYI Part 13 was only posted a couple of days ago, so you may have missed it.)

PART FOURTEEN

                He feels shaky and he’s sure it must be the shock. Shock that he’s alive and back on the carrier and not dying in a ball of heat and flame. He’s going to have nightmares. He knows already he’s going to have so many fucking nightmares because the last few hours have provided enough fodder for the rest of his life. Fucking hell.

                He’s alive.

                Oh.

                Oh he’s going to be sick.

                “Uh…”

                The corpsman is putting a container in front of him and Jake supposes he must look as good as he feels, if people can tell he’s about to empty out the contents of his stomach. He looks at his hands and they’re trembling. The corpsman takes the container and Jake mumbles his apologies under his breath and gets a pat to the arm for his troubles. He’s hooked up to a couple of monitors, can tell his oxygen saturation, pulse and blood pressure are all outside normal ranges but they are slowly creeping back there.

                “Fuck…”

                “You okay Lieutenant?”

                He looks to the side and Maverick is sitting there on another bed, legs swinging freely and he looks the picture of health and Jake hates him a little bit right in that moment. He doesn’t look like he’s experienced several near-death events one after the other.

                “Fine. Sir.”

                “Hmm. Yes. You definitely look fine.”

                Jake’s eyes narrow, wonders if he’s reading too much into the words, or tone. He wonders how much he could get away with right now and then blame it on his concussion. He’s already thrown Maverick out of the Hard Deck once and he lets himself imagine throwing him overboard here.

                “Now, I know you’re not feeling the greatest, but I really feel I need to ask –”

                “It’s none of your business sir.”

                “Let me ask my damn question Lieutenant.”

                Jake’s mouth clicks shut, but he can feel a muscle in his jaw twitching in irritation.

                “What kind of relationship do you think I have with my godson?”

                Jake blinks. Frowns. What the hell type of question is that? It’s not the one he was expecting.

                “Uh. I’m sorry sir?”

                “I’ll repeat myself. Change a couple of words. What kind of relationship do you think I have with Bradley?” Jake stiffens, wonders where the hell this is meant to be going. “Bradley, who is my godson…”

                “Oh.”

                “Lieutenant… Hangman. What kind of relationship do you think Bradley and I have?”

                “None at the moment.”

                Maverick pulls a face at that, and Jake feels a little vindictive, a little mean.

                “You didn’t know he was my godson. So. What kind of relationship do you think we had?”

                “I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess sir.”

                “Try. Because I’m sensing you’re thinking it was something it definitely wasn’t.”

                Jake huffs out an annoyed breath, because of course the man is right. He still feels like he’s going to throw up and he reaches out a hand for an empty container which the corpsman hands him, no doubt watching him and Maverick equally.

                “The way Bradley talks about you… well… to you. And you saying you had apologies to make… kind of thought he was using me to get back at you. That you were exes.”

                There. It’s out there. He can now have all his bad choices picked over and told how he’s gone wrong at every turn. Fucking great.

                “Not an unreasonable assumption I suppose, given the evidence you had. An incorrect one though.”

                “Yeah, no shit,” Jake mutters. “Sir,” he adds with a small eyeroll; Maverick simply seems amused.

                “Well. You said there was nothing with Bradley. Does your answer change now, knowing that I’m not his,” Maverick pulls a face. “Ex.”

                “Sir. With all due respect I really don’t know. I have met Bradley all of… three times now,” Jake says, and the fact that it’s only three startles him a little, because he feels like he’s made a big impact on Jake’s life with very little time. “I just… I want to know whether you’ll try and stand in my way either with regards to my career or with seeking something… more with Bradley.”

                “Only three times? Really?”

                “Yes. Really.”

                “Huh. Interesting.” Jake desperately wants to ask what is interesting, but he needs to throw up again, although there’s not much let in his stomach and he accepts the small cup of water from the Corpsman and nods very carefully to indicate he’s heard the instructions to sip slowly. “I… I have no influence at all on Bradley’s life. Haven’t for years. He’s made sure of that. And I won’t do anything to negatively impact your career.” Maverick pulls a face then and Jake wonders at it. “I mean I’ll try not to negatively impact your career, but whispers are that you disobeyed direct orders and came back to cover me…”

                “Uh. Yes sir.”

                There’s no point in not admitting it, it will all come out in the debrief anyway. And he has another three air-to-air kills to his name, even if he was a back seater for two of them. More nightmare fodder.

                “Well, I can’t say I don’t appreciate it Lieutenant. You might regret it, but you have my gratitude. As for Bradley, I wish you well. He’s… he’s a good man. Despite what he may think, I do want him to be happy.”

                “Yes sir.”

[glassbxttless]

You don't see me requesting this...

Rye with chicken, and cheddar. And anything else you might want.

I've been thinking about it since you posted it.

Thank you <33333333333

It Was Only A Kiss

tommy gallagher (warfare) x fem!reader

word count: 4.1k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from (getaapologist) | You’ve got a weekend you need to spend with your family, who definitely think you have a boyfriend. So you ask Tommy to step in.

warnings: He does mention he’s a SEAL in here. There’s some kissing. Tommy’s falling in love whether he wants to or not. He wears his dress blues to a wedding. The typical fake dating romp. Very brief research was done, if it’s not accurate, it’s not accurate. Just enjoy it for what it is.

notes: this sandwich got a little out of hand! but order up for Tara! I had this queued for later this week but I couldn’t help myself anymore. Thanks to the girlies™️ for helping me pick which of these to post first. Big thank you to you, darling and to @keeryhours for reading this over. And big thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing (:

If you had ever wondered what setting yourself on fire felt like, you would guess it would be akin to asking Tommy Gallagher to be your fake date for the weekend. 

You had spent almost an hour pacing the small length of your living room, right in front of the coffee table. You were muttering half-formed speeches under your breath trying to work up the courage to just tell him, while Tommy sat quietly on your couch. He was watching you with a confused frown— the kind he got when he was trying really hard to be patient even though he had no idea what was going on. The kind that meant he was worried deep down in his bones, and not just about the hole you’re most definitely walking into the floorboards. Finally, you stop pacing and plant yourself in front of him. You breathe in, pressing a hand to your forehead worriedly as you let it all tumble out, “I really need you to fake date me.”

Tommy blinks and opens his mouth. But closes it when he isn’t sure what to say. “You need me to… what?”

You groan, dragging the hand that was placed on your forehead down your face. “Okay, that sounds bad. Like really bad. Please hear me out? Let me explain it.”

He just nods, his eyes wide and lips parted slightly, like he was bracing for impact. His ears are tinged red and the freckles dusted across his nose are hidden by a fresh new swell of pink. 

You start pacing again, words beginning to tumble out in a rush. “My family thinks I have a boyfriend. I know. I know. It’s this stupid thing— I didn’t even really lie! I just… didn’t correct them when they assumed! That’s not lying? And now my older sister’s wedding is this weekend, and if I show up alone, it’s gonna be a whole thing— pity looks, lectures, ‘maybe you should lower your standards’ speeches, all of it. I can’t even take thinking about all of that right now.”

Tommy’s brow knit together like he’s trying to make sense of the word vomit you’ve dumped right into his lap, “And you want… me? To be your fake boyfriend.”

You stopped in front of him again, two feet and a coffee table away, feeling like you were about two seconds from spontaneous combustion. “Please Tommy? You’re literally my best option. My only option. We’re already friends, you’re nice, handsome, and you’re convincing! It’s just a couple days, yeah? And then we come back here and everything’s back to normal.” But you watch as Tommy hesitates. He’s chewing on his bottom lip. Ears starting to turn a shade of red you didn’t even know was possible— which you know Tommy well enough by now to know that this was a sure sign he was overthinking it. Your eyes start to soften and you sigh. You could almost see the battle within his chest; he was probably worried it would make things weird between the two of you, probably sure you deserved someone cooler. Why would you ask him of all people? Why not Sam? Why not the bartender Kev you’d been seeing a few weeks back? Scratch that. He remembers now, Kev used your apartment as a bachelor pad. But underneath all the worry, the screaming thought in his head… he’s really just terrified because somewhere deep down, Tommy has had a crush on you since the day you’d met, so a lot longer than he liked admitting to himself.

You think you can see the moment he decides, like something clicks and the redness in his face just washes away. He gives you a tiny, lopsided smile. The same one that always makes your heart do stupid little weird gymnastics deep in your chest. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, voice a little hoarse. You aren’t sure if it’s from the mental anguish he went just went through or from dry mouth. “I’ll do it.”

Relief floods your veins and you flop down next to him on the couch. You turn your head to look at him, a grin spreading across your face as you throw your arms around his neck. He goes stiff for half a second, long enough for you to notice— his hands hovering awkwardly before they finally settle against the small of your back. From the way you have him pulled close, you could feel his heart hammering against his own ribs. “You’re a lifesaver, Tommy,” you mumbled into his hoodie, squeezing your eyes shut. And he just laughs, shaking his head. He kisses the top of your head and gives you one good squeeze with those arms wrapped around you and then you let him go.  

That’s how he finds himself standing side by side with you on your parents porch days later. Your hand was hovering just above the doorbell, sucking in a breath, each of your nerve endings buzzing like livewires under your skin. “You ready?” you ask, voice barely over a whisper as you glance up at Tommy.

He shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, just for somewhere to put them. “As ready as I’ll ever be to lie to a whole bunch of strangers.” He grumbles and knocks into your hip lightly, the force enough to make you stumble and hit the doorbell. 

“They’re not strangers,” you huff and roll your eyes, a smile playing at your lips. “They’re just really judgmental. Just… Be yourself, yeah? I like you. They’ll love you.” Tommy knows deep down you don’t mean anything by that. But it still turns his cheeks pink and gives him hope that you thought about him more than you let on. But before he could respond, the front door swings open— and your mom nearly tackles you both into a tight hug.

“There’s my baby!” She holds you tight, and kisses your temple before her eyes settle onto Tommy, “and the boyfriend!” she practically squeals, pushing you to the side. Tommy’s yanked into a hug before he could even process it. You watch as panic flashes across his face for half a second. And then you smile as he melts a bit and awkwardly bends slightly and hugs her back. “Oh, you’re so handsome,” your mom gushed, giving his cheek a playful pat as she pulls away. Tommy stands up straight, “And so tall! Good job, sweetheart.” Now it’s your turn for heat to creep up the back of your neck as Tommy just stands there, looking dazed and confused. He’s smiling like he’s just happy to be here with you. No matter the circumstances. Fake boyfriend? He’ll be the best fake boyfriend ever, even if it kills him, as long as he gets to see you smile for three days straight.

Your dad appears in the doorway next, giving Tommy a once-over— sizing him up like a general inspecting new recruits. And that makes him a little nervous. He squares his shoulders a bit and lifts his chin, a confidence you’d almost never seen in Tommy exuding out. Fake it till you make it, baby. You’ve heard him say it so many times. “Strong handshake, boy?” Your dad asks gruffly, sticking out his hand. Tommy reaches out, still quiet and manages to grip your father’s hand firmly enough that he gives a small nod of approval. Then came the inevitable question tumbling from his lips. “So, what do you do for a living, son?”

Tommy lets go of his hand, suddenly feeling a whole lot smaller as he rubs the back of his neck, a faint flush creeping up from his collar. He won’t look him in the eyes. He’s looking at you. Waiting for the nod that they’re safe. He’s waiting for you to let him know it’s okay. So you smile, so soft it helps him calm himself down, and then you nod. So Tommy takes a deep breath and then brings his eyes back to your dads. “Uh… I’m a SEAL. The Navy kind.”

The silence that grew over the four of you standing there on the porch stretched larger and larger. But your mom, the first one to gasp. The sound rattled around in your head like you’d just introduced her to a fucking movie star. And your dad’s eyebrows shot up so fast they practically hit his hairline. “Well, damn!” your dad barks out a laugh and lands a slap against Tommy’s back again. 

Tommy chuckles, pink-cheeked and awkward, a smile on his lips as he mumbles, “It’s not really that dramatic, I promise.”

But it didn’t matter as you lead him inside and away from your parents’ grasp. Your family was smitten with him. Your mom leaned over to you, whispering, topping it off with a wink— like Tommy wasn’t right beside you and could see and hear every move she made. “He’s a keeper.” You looked at Tommy, standing there beside you. A shy smile permanently etched onto his features under the weight of all the attention, and something squeezed tight in your chest at your mother’s words.

Yeah. He is. Even if you couldn’t. 

The rehearsal dinner later that evening was somehow even worse than you’d imagined it being. You tried sticking to the plan, the one you’d laid out in the car over that 10 hour drive home. You’d keep it to light hand-holding, flirty smiles, maybe a forehead kiss if someone was really watching. It was no big deal. But then one of your aunts, a few glasses too deep in the wine served for dinner, claps her hands like commanding a show. Which brings on an onslaught of giggles from her and your cousins, “Come on, you two! Let’s see a kiss!”

Everyone’s eyes are on you two now. And a wave of attention slams into you like a damn freight train. You turn to Tommy, eyes wide. He turns redder than a tomato in real-time. You almost feel sorry for dragging him into this. But he puts on a smile, gives you a little nod— okay, he’s good. You know he’s good now. But your family is relentless and is already chanting— Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!— so Tommy does the only thing he can think of to keep the charade going. He slides an arm around your waist, pulls your chair closer to his, and kisses you. It was supposed to be quick, just an innocent little kiss. Sell the lie and move on. But when his mouth brushes yours— careful, his lips soft— Everyone around you seems to fade away. The hand that had snaked its way around your waist, settles against your hip, grounding you both right there. You could feel the tremor in his fingers. It lasted maybe three seconds, but that was long enough to wreck him.

When you pull back, you shoot him a little smile. Tommy just sits there next to you, staring at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him. The whole room fills with laughter, giggles, and words of love, but he barely heard it. All he could think about was the way your lips felt against his. The way that kiss cracked his heart open wide and had it beating wildly in his chest.

That night, you offer him your bed— you didn’t mind sharing. But fuck he wasn’t crawling into a twin bed with you, having to press himself up against you in ways that certainly would not help him hide this ever growing problem inside his chest. So he just shakes his head and grabs the extra blanket and pillow to set up camp on the floor. “You sure?” you asked softly, raising an eyebrow as you pull your duvet up over your waist. 

You watch as he tosses the pillow down onto the shag rug next to your bed. He lowers himself down with a huff and rolls to his back before covering himself with that comically short and pink blanket. Tommy just smiles— it’s soft and shy. A smile he only reserves for you— He lets out a chuckle and then nods, “Yeah. ‘S your bed. I’m good down here.” He stretches out on the floor. And then he folds his arms under his head, staring up at the ceiling. 

You reach over to flip the lamp off. “Goodnight Tommy.” You mumble softly, letting yourself relax against the mattress. And it doesn’t take long before sleep wraps around you. The house was dark and quiet at this hour. He could hear your breathing, soft and even in the bed above him. It was the only sound he could really focus on.

So Tommy tries to tell himself to calm down. To will all of the thoughts plaguing him away. This was just pretend for you. None of it meant anything. But his head was spinning now. That kiss had certainly felt real. Maybe even more real than the few girls he had sworn he’d loved in his short twenty years. You had felt real. His arm wrapped around your waist, hand on your hip. His lips against yours. If he makes it out of this weekend he’ll never forget about that kiss. And lying here now, wrapped up in blankets that smelled entirely too much like you, it hits him like a sucker punch right to the chest, he wasn’t just nursing a crush anymore. He was completely, stupidly, helplessly in love with you.

And he really had no idea how he was supposed to keep pretending for two more days when all he wanted to do was make it real. So Tommy takes one last glance at your sleeping form above him. He knows he’s gotta get a grip. You don’t love him like that. You’re just friends. Nothing more. And he rolls onto his side, his back to you, willing himself to sleep until the buzz of his alarm. 

You wake up later than intended. There’s a soft rustle of blankets being kicked to and fro, and the faint sound of someone moving about the room. Back and forth from suitcase to closet, to suitcase to closet. Blinking sleepily, you push yourself up on your elbows, using one hand to rub the remaining traces of sleep from your eyes. You grin when you see Tommy— he’s already dressed in a white undershirt and dress pants. He’s shrugging a jacket up on his shoulders and fussing awkwardly with the buttons, like he’s never worn something so regal before. You rub your eyes, much like Bugs Bunny, and take another look. You nearly choke at what you see.

Tommy Gallagher was in his Navy dress blues.

The jacket clings to his shoulders. His chest looked even bigger in it than it did in those too-tight t-shirts he likes to lounge around in. He looks like he could probably carry you and half the wedding guests on his back without even breaking a sweat. The sleeves strain just slightly around his biceps and the gold buttons on the cuffs gleam under the soft morning light. But your gawking session is over too soon, when he catches you staring and immediately flushes red.

“You’re up,” he mumbles, glancing down at his hands fumbling with the buttons on his jacket, like he could somehow disappear into the carpet if he kept his gaze away from you.

You grinned sleepily, stretching lazily, much like a house cat. “Oh, I’m up alright. Look at you, Gallagher.” Your laugh is quiet and teasing. 

Tommy can feel his cheeks heat up as he grumbles under his breath. He tugs at the jacket collar like it’s choking him. “It’s.. It’s not a big deal. Alright? Only reason I’m wearin’ this is ‘cause I don’t fit in my other suits anymore.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting your lip at the thought. Tommy’s other suits too tight to shrug on over those broad shoulders. “You filled out that much, no?”

Tommy sighs like you’ve just punched him in the stomach and he ducks his head. His cheeks are burning brighter and he’s trying anything to hide that right now. “It’s not my fault, okay?” he mutters and sighs. “SEALs’ll either make you big or kill you. Guess I got the big part.”

You laugh softly, shaking your own head. Then you slip off that little twin bed, tug your pajama shorts down just a bit and cross the room to stand in front of him. His eyes flick up to yours for a moment and you reach out to fix the slightly crooked medal on his chest. He freezes under your touch— God, you were trying to kill him. He can’t do this. His breath hitching so subtly when your fingers brush against his chest, that if you weren’t standing this close, you would’ve missed it. “There,” you said softly, smoothing the fabric against his arms. “You look perfect, Tommy.”

Those hazel eyes jerk up to meet yours, and for a second, he swears the whole world was holding its breath. He could lean in right now, kiss you like he’s been thinking about since yesterday. He could— But then your phone buzzes with a loud reminder— The wedding, the one you’re doing all this God forsaken fake dating for, starts in two hours— and just like that, the moment between you is long gone. You both move slowly at first, not really wanting to peel away from one another. Tommy clears his throat and reaches for his shoes as he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. You grab your dress and makeup bag and pretend your heart wasn’t doing cartwheels inside your chest. You almost kissed Tommy. Not for your family. Not for show. Just for you. 

The ceremony was beautiful— even if it was a little overwhelming. Tommy didn’t leave your side once, just like you’d asked. His hand rested on the small of your back the entire time, a steady and reassuring presence. Giving you something to melt into. You caught a few of your relatives shooting you heart-eyes from across the pews, mostly your aunts and great aunts. Your mom gives you a little thumbs-up, with a smile so exaggerated it makes you snort out loud. When you lean over whispering into Tommy’s ear, “Congratulations Tommy, you’re officially Mom’s new favorite son-in-law,” he nearly chokes. His hand tightens slightly at your back— it’s barely noticeable— but you feel the way he shifted, like he was struggling to stay still. Like all it would take is one more word to have him giggling and smiling just like you’re used to. So you decide to push just a little more. “You know,” you look down at the way you’d placed your hand against his chest. It’s all for show, of course, “if this were real, they’d probably be planning our wedding already.”

Tommy pulls away at those words, like they burned as they hit him. You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, confused. And you’re just in time to catch him mumbling something about needing air as he pulls away from you and steps outside.

Your heart sank. Shit. Maybe you’d pushed him too far. Maybe the whole fake dating thing was getting to him the way you hadn’t expected. It surely was getting to you in a way you hadn’t expected. You were seeing him as more than just that goofy friend that crashed on your couch when he had a little too much to drink, or snuck your favorite candy into the movies, or remembered you liked tulips and not roses better than any of your dates had ever remembered before. But that’s what friends are supposed to be like, right?

You wait a few minutes— giving him a bit of space, pretending you weren’t internally panicking, you put on a smile, tell family members who ask that Tommy just went outside for a moment— And then you’re slipping outside yourself. You scan the Church’s courtyard until you spot him leaning against a tree. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, staring at the ground like it had personally offended him.

You approach him slowly, carefully, like you shouldn’t even be awarded with his presence right now. You hurt him, somehow. “Hey,” you smile weakly, the words coming out a bit sadder than you intend. Tommy looks up when he hears you— and the raw, open look in his eyes nearly knocks the breath out of you. “I’m sorry for what I said inside,” you reach out to him, but think better against it. So you move to just lean against the tree as well. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just only joking—”

“No, it’s not that,” he cuts you off quickly, voice rough. He’s about to cry and you fucking hate it.

You hesitate, crossing your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands were shaking. You look up at the leaves above you, taking just a few moments to bask in the way the sun heats everything up around you, the way the birds chirp and sing, and then you sigh. “Then what is it?”

Tommy let out a shaky breath, stealing another glance at you as he’s pushing off the tree. “It’s just…” He scrubbed a hand over his hair, the overgrown buzzcut had grown on you. He thinks, It’s now or never. If he doesn’t get this out, he never will. “This isn’t pretend for me, okay?”

Your heart stops right there in your chest. He swallows hard, looking like he was about to bolt, he wants to. God, he wants to. He wants to run and hide like he never agreed to this fucking shit— but he forces himself to stay put right there. He doesn’t move an inch, afraid to even breathe. Just like he was trained to do. But then he forces himself to look you in the eye, to take a deep breath. “I had a crush on you before all this,” he admits softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Thought I could handle it… For you. Thought… y’know, i’ll fake it, have a few laughs, no big deal. You’d get what you wanted out of it and you’d be happy.” He shakes his head, giving a shaky little laugh. He tilts his head up a bit, to stop the tears threatening to slip. “But now I’m standing here thinking about what it’d be like to do this for real. To kiss you and not have to stop. To kiss you when no one’s watching. To wake up next to you for the rest of my fucking life. And I can’t… I can’t fake that anymore. My chest feels like it’s going to explode.”

The world tilts on its axis. You push off the tree and take a step toward him. Your chest was aching so badly it felt like your heart might split in two.

You wanted that too. You take a moment to try and recall each time Tommy looked a little too long. How it would feel warm from your chest straight to your toes. You recall each passing brush of Tommy’s hand and how it had set your nerves alive like fireworks. Maybe you’d wanted this longer than you’d even realized.

“Tommy…” He steps closer too. He’s nervous, his hands are hovering at your waist like he was asking permission without words.

“I’m fallin’ in love with you, okay?” he says, so soft you barely caught it over the breeze. “Might already be there. So you’ve gotta say the word. Tell me to get lost. Please.”

You didn’t really think about your next actions. You just grab him by the front of his dress blues jacket, careful of the pins and you pull him down into a kiss. This one wasn’t for show, it was just you and Tommy out here. This one was everything he hadn’t been able to say in words, every long glance he’d given over the last few years, every nervous laugh he used to cover up how red his cheeks were from watching you cut vegetables, every time his hand brushed yours like he wanted to hold it but he was just too fucking scared. Tommy kissed you like he was starving for it. One of his hands slides up to cradle your jaw, the other wraps around your waist and hauls you so close there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.

When you finally pull back, you’re both gasping. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t believe this was real. “Still wanna be my fake date tonight?” you ask softly, a giggle threatening to leave your lips.

He laughs, breathless and wrecked. “Only if you’ll let me be your real one after.”

You smiled wider and kissed him again right there next to that tree. You kissed him like there was never a doubt in your mind that this was where you’d end up. Because there wasn’t a doubt, not anymore.

tags ;; @peachyproserpina @getaapologist

[tanobatcher]

heyyyy!! looking for a hurt/comfort + angst + soft!Hunter fic where the f!reader starts to notice how overstimulated he gets sometimes. how he winces at loud noises, flinches under bright lights, or rubs his temples when he gets overstimulated. she gently asks about it one day, but he brushes it off like it’s nothing. but later she finds him alone in his quarters, trying to quietly ride out a brutal headache caused by sensory overload. this time, she doesn’t ask any questions. she just helps him. maybe she dims the lights, speaks softly, massages his scalp, sits beside him in silence. something intimate but comforting like that. would love if he eventually lets his guard down, maybe whispers something like “you don’t have to do this,” and she responds, “you don’t have to deal with it alone.” just all the soft, quiet vulnerability stuff. thank you <3

waves

hunter x fem reader

summary: basically what the request says lolz sorry writing summaries is actually my worst nightmare so i will take advantage of the detailed-ness (??) above <33

warnings: none

a/n: i decided to make this more pabu civilian brainrot because post tbb finale life is all i think about tbh. also sorry for the delay on this, im wrapping up finals season 🥲

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚

You haven’t seen Hunter in a while. A little over one day, to be exact, but that feels like a long time when his presence is usually so noticeable across this tightly acquainted island. It’s unfair to say that he and his brothers stick out like sore thumbs in any crowd, and yet, it’s also true. There must be a different reason why your eyes always search for his specifically, though, lighting up when you’re successful. For this same reason, a pestering observation has caught your attention during moments he believes go largely unnoticed or ignored.

He’s oddly sensitive, not just to the weather but also to sounds that often fall into background noise for you and anyone else. He doesn’t like being in the sun for too long, only holding out for Omega when she spends her afternoons at the beach. “Did you sleep well?” You frequently ask him whenever he’s near enough for a conversation. And to this, he often shrugs before answering, “Better than what we’re used to.”

“It’s quiet here,” you would say back, thinking that makes this place the easiest in the galaxy, “Is it quiet for you, too?”

But again, it’s only quieter than what he’s used to. He doesn’t bother explaining that it’s almost too quiet, for he can hear skittering footsteps and the brush of wind against walls much better than the average person. He doesn’t bother telling you that he’s far from normal in that way, simply dealing with the noise as he always does. His discomfort extends beyond little irritations that he’s lived with his entire life, though. Sometimes, you find yourself craning your neck to look for him when he disappears like he needs a break from…everything. The last time you followed to ask if he was okay was the last time you tried to talk to him.

And now, according to “intel” you extracted from word of mouth, he’s holed up in his room on an exceptionally bright and hot summer day. There’s no response when you knock on his door, but you know he’s inside. The silence is worrisome, just like his sporadic absences, so you gently twist the knob while saying, “Hunter? It’s me.”

The room isn’t dark enough for you to miss the shape of his figure lying on the floor with his arm draped over his face. You’re unsure if he’s aware that you’re even here, standing under the dim light as all your questions about why he’s not outside like everyone else drain away. These curiosities are only replaced with more concern. He’s so still and calm, but he looks like he’s in pain. You frown, not knowing what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. Kneeling before him, you reach forward to touch his cheek, stopping when he catches your wrist in his other hand.

His eyes are still closed, and his voice is hoarse when he tells you, “Leave. Please.”

You ignore the way your stomach hollows out at this, wiggling yourself free from his grip to touch the back of your hand to his forehead. His temperature isn’t particularly alarming. Touching him might have been a mistake, though, because you can’t bring yourself to pull away anymore. You’re hesitant as you sit on the floor with him, gently pulling his head into your lap before swiping some of his messy hair out of his face. His eyebrows twitch in reaction, but he doesn’t fight you off like you expected. He lets you run your fingers through his hair, silent other than the sigh he exhales when you begin rubbing circles along his temples.

Some sunshine casting across the floor draws your attention away from his face to his window. The curtains are slightly strewn apart, letting this sliver of light paint a long line through the hardwood. You’re about to get up to close it more tightly when he notices your hands have slowed down and whispers, “Don’t stop.”

You relax your posture again, shifting him even closer as you whisper back, “I just want to close the window.”

He opens his eyes and looks up at you. “It’s fine.”

His stare makes you squirm, so you turn away from him a bit and sweep your gaze across his room. It’s emptier than you thought, with most of his belongings packed away in boxes and left to your imagination. Perhaps he still isn’t fully settled in yet. Your thoughts are startled when his fingers brush against your jaw, lingering until you glance at him in surprise. He meets your eyes with a certain heaviness behind his own before closing them, sinking into your touch despite his instinct to push you away before. It doesn’t seem like he’s fully processed this moment, maybe treating it like a dream as he simply breathes at the pace of your touch. Slow and patient, waiting for nothing in particular except for more.

“What happened?” You ask quietly, “Why are you down here?”

“Just dizzy.”

“You didn’t fall over, did you?” You slip your hands into his hair again, feeling for any signs of collision.

“No,” he nearly smiles, “But that feels good.”

Your cheeks warm, and the room is silent once again from your lack of response. You’re unsure how to carry this conversation forward until you look at him again and decide you don’t need to. He appears to be more at peace than just a few moments ago, as the lines across his face loosen like the rest of him. You feel that you can watch him this closely forever. Minutes pass into the double digits from the time you lose track of until you notice that his breathing is now a little quieter and shallower. Maybe he’s close to falling asleep, so you try to figure that out for yourself without disturbing him. Leaning downward, your heart seizes in your chest when your mouth positions itself to be hovering over his. He looks even prettier up close, where you can see the dark coloring of his tattoo absorbed into his tan skin. There are some creased indentations here and there, too, and you imagine him laughing loudly with his family—people he might have less trouble opening up to, at least. You’d like to be one of those people, one day.

Your next decision surprises even you as you press your lips to his forehead so lightly that you don’t think he feels it. Not until you pull back a bit and find his eyes open, heavy-lidded but still staring at you. Your faces are still close as you murmur, “Let’s get you back in bed.”

He doesn’t protest as you sit him up slowly. You pause before guiding him toward his bed, realizing that he’s far from weightless. Still, you manage, and he rolls onto his side with a slight groan. You assume he’s not watching you cross the room to close his curtains, but his eyes follow your movements despite pulling against his fatigue. They’re sealed shut when you return to his bedside, sitting at the edge of the mattress while wondering if you’re taking up too much space already. Pushing his hair back from his forehead, you trail a gentle caress down the side of his face and look at him closely.

“Does this happen often?” You murmur.

He adjusts his position so that he’s lying on his back now, which forces your hand to fall toward his chest. Blowing out a breath, he answers, “More or less.”

A frown tugs at your lips at this. “How do you deal with it?”

“I just wait it out. It comes and goes.”

“I see.”

Pressing his head back into his pillow, he sighs and says, “I’m fine now. You don’t have to stick around.”

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you reply.

He opens his mouth to respond, wincing sharply instead of saying whatever he had in mind. Startled, you shift forward and cup his face with both hands, swiping your thumbs back and forth to soothe him out of whatever is bothering him at the moment. He’s breathing a little heavier now, staring at you as he calms the rise and fall of his chest. You don’t say anything as you lean over him and begin rubbing his temples again, occasionally stroking his hair since he seems to like that. The silence must feel better for him, too, since he finds the energy to rasp, “You don’t have to do this.”

You steal a touch to the tip of his nose while reassuring him, “You don’t have to deal with this alone.”

He closes his eyes and releases a halfhearted chuckle. “It’s nice outside.”

“It’s nice in here, too. I…like what you’ve done with the place.”

“You can skip the flattery,” he mutters under his breath.

“No,” you stifle your laugh, “No, I mean it. Truly.”

“Uh-huh.”

You let him have the last word, smiling to yourself as the lines on his face relax more and more from the passing time. Any twitches of discomfort don’t slip under your radar, to which you respond with a soft whisper that reminds him you’re here. At one point, you find yourself curled up beside him while brushing your hand across his cheek and skimming the wilder parts of his hair. There’s enough space between your bodies for you to know he’s probably not planning on touching you in return—maybe he isn’t even thinking about it. Or so you believe when you pause, believing he’s sound asleep and safe from his pain. Just when you’re about to retreat, he reaches quickly and laces your fingers together before placing your joined hands in front of his lips. You feel the ghost of a kiss against your knuckles, but it spreads flaming goosebumps through your skin as if it’s something more.

You think you’re quiet enough when your breath hitches, but he hears and opens his eyes. He sees you so clearly despite the hazy darkness. Your vision hasn’t fully adjusted to capture the dark pupils staring right at you, seemingly telling you something you’re not sure you understand beyond this moment. Nonetheless, you feel his observation—his desire to keep you close. And he feels you, skin to skin, with only your palms and pulses. He feels your heartbeat quicken and leap, somehow controlling what he doesn’t know he has full access to. He feels your body like it's his own, vaguely hearing the ocean below pulling and crashing in the distance. In waves that collide before subsiding, like the way he imagines you. So near, and yet so far from the distance he tries to create himself. You would cross any island to prove him wrong, though. And you’d stay right there with him.

[aperrywilliams]

1000 Times (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader) - Part I

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Author Masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader.

Summary: Your mom is getting married, and you have to come back to your hometown for the wedding. There is a little problem, though: you told her months ago you have a boyfriend, and now she wants to meet him at the wedding. Your best friend, Spencer, who happens to be the guy you are in love with, too, offers to help you with your problem. If you say yes, will things work out like they are supposed to?

Word Count - Part I: 4.6k.

Warnings: Fluff/Angst/Smut/Angst/Fluff (I think that order is correct). Minors DNI. The smut is not detailed and mostly implied (Part II). Reader and Spencer are idiots in love. Reader’s dad died. Reader has poor and unhealthy family relationships, especially with her mom. Cheating is mentioned (in a past Reader’s relationship). There are discussions about child trauma. If I forgot something, let me know. I tried to use (Y/N) only when necessary. I really tried.

A/N: I’m not a big fan of the fake relationship trope, but the idea of Spencer and Reader struggling to figure out and communicate each other's true feelings got me to give it a shot. Three parts, just because I didn't want to post 15k in one go. Tell me your thoughts.

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'Eyes on the ground But I can't look up now I don't wanna give it away My secret In another life, my teeth and tongue Would speak aloud what until now I've only sung.'

-

People usually can define you as a joyful person who offers words of encouragement to anyone who needs them. Everyone loves your sense of humor, and your laughter is so contagious that it's hard to be sad around you.

But today, Spencer notices something is off, not only because he is a good profiler but also because he always focuses all his attention on you, no matter where or when.

To say that Spencer has a crush on you is an understatement. After having known each other for 4 years and being friends almost from day one, it's virtually evident to everyone - except you - that Spencer is madly in love with you. Although he will never act on it, he's content knowing you consider him your best friend. It has to be enough for him.

As you're sitting at your desk, your eyes are lost in the first page of one of the files you need to go over. You scan the words, but you're not paying any attention. You're so distracted that you don't realize when Spencer stands next to you with two cups of coffee.

"Good morning," he says, voice soft because he knows your head is somewhere else.

Hearing his voice makes you immediately look up at him. The frown creasing on your face morphs into a more relaxed expression.

"Morning, Spencer."

Knowing he has your attention, Spencer places one cup of steamy coffee on your desk.

"I thought you might need it."

"Thank you. You are my lifesaver." You take the cup between your hands. The smell is so inviting that you don't care if it is still hot; you take a sip nonetheless.

Having Spencer around can make any moment a better one, even if your mood is sad or sour. Even though Spencer can read you well enough to know something is off with you today.

"Will you tell me what's bothering you?"

You huff, a pout forming on your lips. Of course, Spencer Reid would notice.

"Is it that obvious?"

Spencer considers his answer for a moment.

"If I lie, will make it better?"

"Maybe?"

"So, no. It's not that obvious."

A groan escapes your lips because you don't want to feel bitter, much less spread it to others.

"Great."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

You shake your head. "I don't think so. I mean -" You look around and see your coworkers already at their desks. "I don't feel as if opening up here could be a good idea."

Spencer nods in understanding.

"We can go for a walk if you want. I don't think Hotch would mind since today is only paperwork," he offers. You look at Spencer gratefully for having someone like him as a friend. And even though you would prefer having him as something more than a friend, you'll never tell him that. You won't risk your friendship with Spencer because if you lose him, it will be unbearable to you.

"Okay. Good idea."

Once you're walking across the park, Spencer tries to address the topic again. You pause for a moment, thinking about how to explain yourself. Stopping at a bench under a big tree, you take a seat, bouncing your legs as you collect your thoughts. Spencer sits next to you and waits. He won't pressure you. You know he won't.

"It's silly," you start with a humorless laugh. "Pretty silly, to be honest."

"I don't think it's silly if you feel bothered about that. You can tell me," Spencer reassures. You sigh in defeat.

"My mom called me yesterday."

Spencer knows that family is a hard topic for you. The times you have talked about it, you have made clear that your relationship with your mom and older brothers has never been pretty good—the opposite, actually. After your dad passed away when you were fifteen, living in that house became unbearable to you. As your brothers took care of the family business and wealth, your mom pressured you to live the role of a high-birth girl who is well-behaved and looking for a rich man to marry.

The moment you told her your plans to join the Academy—and not the Diplomatic Academy—your mom made your life a living hell, so much so that you decided to leave your hometown at seventeen years old. With no money, you made your way into minor jobs until you could apply to the FBI. Only years later, after you were fully settled, did you reconnect with them, but you have never put a foot in that house since you left.

And although your mother finally accepted that you had made your own decisions, she has never stopped criticizing you for them.

Despite everything you have gone through, you still love your family, even if you don't share the same interests or expectations in life.

"Your mom? What's her demand this time?"

Spencer knows—because you always talk to him about it—that your mom calls you only when she needs something from you. Not money, for sure, but anything related to keeping the facade of a dream family to the people she relates to in high society. The last time was when one of your brother's father-in-law passed away one year ago, and she insisted on you to be there. But every time, you had dodged her requests, arguing about your job being demanding enough of your time.

"That's the thing. This time is something 'big.' She is going to marry. Next month," you blurt out. Spencer's eyes widen in shock.

"What? Does she have a boyfriend? You never mentioned one that I recall."

"Because I didn't know she had one," you shrug. "I mean, after Dad died, she married again, but I thought since her last divorce from Alan, she got the memo about how marriage doesn't mix well with her narcissistic self."

Spencer hums in contemplation.

"And she wants you there, isn't she?"

"Yep. And I'm afraid I should be there this time."

Spencer doesn't say anything, but the frown on his face tells you he's not a fan of the idea.

"I know what you are thinking. Believe me, I'm not thrilled about going there and seeing all those people, but I never came back after all these years, and despite everything, she's my mom. I guess I just need to prepare for it mentally," you shrug, trying to convince yourself that it is not a big deal.

A month has to be enough time to prepare, right?

"I get it. I'm not judging you. It's just I worry, you know? Your family hasn't been nice to you. Especially your mom."

Spencer's concern isn't unfounded. Since he's known you and started to be your friend, he's seen every single time after any call or text you get from your mom or brothers how your mood changes because of something awful they say.

"I'll be fine. I lived there for years, and I survived; what would do a full weekend of self-centered people ready to jump at the minimum gossip like hunger sharks?" you joke to light the mood. Spencer doesn't seem amused, though.

"That's not a nice thing to picture, if I have to be honest."

You chuckle at the scowl on Spencer's face.

"I know, but seriously, I'll be fine. Thanks for worrying about me, though."

-

You'll be flying to your hometown in three days, and all the arrangements are done. You got permission from Hotch not to work since Thursday, so you can have enough time to catch an early flight. You bought two beautiful dresses - for the rehearsal and the actual wedding - shoes and chose some accessories that suit you nicely. You wanted to book a hotel room, but your mom didn't allow it, arguing that all the guests would be spending the weekend at the family house—a mansion, to be precise.

In the afternoon, Spencer catches you looking at your phone in the breaking room. The frown on your face tells him you're not reading something good. When you notice his presence, a huff leaves your lips.

"Spencer, I'm so stupid," you lament, flopping in a chair next to you. Spencer furrows an eyebrow.

"What? Why are you saying that?"

"Because I am!"

"You must enlighten me because I don't follow."

Spencer sits by your side to wait for your elaboration.

"I lied to my mom some time ago. I told her I had a boyfriend. I know it is stupid, but she didn't stop bothering me about it and insisted she wanted me to meet some guys she knew, so I told her I already had one. Obviously, my mom didn't forget it because now she wants me to bring him to the wedding." You hide your face with both hands in pure embarrassment. "I'm an adult, for fuck sake! I just should have told her the truth."

As a man of logic, Spencer thinks of an efficient way to end your misery: "Why don't you tell her you broke up with him?"

It's not that you haven't thought of it, but the reason not to consider that option troubles you almost way worse than having to tell her the truth in the first place. And Spencer catches your hesitation.

"It will be worse, isn't it?"

You nod. "I mean, I'm already hearing in my head the speech about how I can't have a normal life or a normal relationship, how incapable I am of leading my life, not like my brothers, and on and on. I know it shouldn't affect me after all these years, but—" you trail off.

"It hurts you nonetheless." Spencer finishes for you.

"Yeah," you concede with a sharp exhale.

Spencer pats your knee, a gesture you're used to when he wants to comfort you without words needed. Despite the silence, though, Spencer's brain goes into overdrive. He wants to help. He hates seeing you conflicted or in pain. If he could take everything that hurts you off of your shoulders and carry it with him instead, he would do it without any complaint.

After a brief silence, Spencer verbalizes the idea fluttering in his brain.

"I can go with you," he blurts out. Your head snaps up to him in no time.

"What?"

"I can be your boyfriend. I mean, your fake boyfriend," he corrects immediately, trying to hide the blush after what he would call a slip. Although he's sure you didn't notice.

You take in his words; it never occurred to you Spencer would be offering to do something like that. It's so sweet of him, but you can't take in his proposal; it's unfair to him.

"Spencer, no! I can't let you do that."

Spencer anticipates you'll oppose the idea because he knows you are used to fixing your problems on your own, without people's help.

That's why your answer doesn't surprise him, and if he wants to convince you, he will have to use all his tricks.

Spencer crosses his arms over his chest with a scoff.

"Why not? So bad prospect of a boyfriend I am to you?"

Your eyes widen in surprise. The last thing you want is to offend your best friend. And much less in that specific matter.

"No! That's not what I meant. It's just I don't want to expose you to these people. It would be unfair to ruin your weekend."

"Who says it would ruin it? I'll be spending time with you. Free food, no work, in a mansion? I see it like gain if you ask me."

You roll your eyes. You have known stubborn people and Spencer Reid.

"Even if you have to pretend to be my boyfriend in front of everyone? Are you forgetting that little detail, mister anti-PDA?" You ask, raising a teasing eyebrow.

Spencer scoffs, trying to hide the flush on his fave due to the prospect of those implications.

"Are you misjudging my talents playing a role?"

The smirk on your face mirrors Spencer's.

"You have them?"

Spencer mocks fake hurt at your comeback.

"Ouch. Okay, maybe I'm not so socially skilled, but I can play a good role if I propose it."

"Overachiever," you grumble, making Spencer laugh.

"Well? It's a limited offer, so take it or leave it."

You know he's not serious about withdrawing his proposal, but you are still contemplating the scenarios.

Having him by your side in a stressful situation like this one sounds good. Pretending to be more than friends? Maybe not that much. But how bad can it be, anyway? You'll find out in three days.

"Okay, 'boyfriend.' Time to ask for vacation time and pack your suitcase."

-

On the flight to your hometown, you use the time to tell Spencer about the people you're sure will be at the wedding, recounting stories about them you recall from your childhood. Spencer absorbs the names, relationships, and background stories as if he were studying for a case.

You talk about uncles, aunts, cousins, husbands, wives, and a bunch of other people who are apparently quite wealthy and well-connected. Spencer knew your family had money, but you rarely gave much detail about it. From everything you're sharing during the flight, Spencer concludes that your family is one of the most important and wealthy in your hometown. The contrast between that fact and your actual personality is contradictory, to say the least.

The moment you're both in front of the family mansion, you can't hide the anxiety filling your body. Spencer notices and reaches you with one arm around your shoulder, kissing your temple.

"Hey. You are not alone in this, okay?" Spencer mumbles, and you nod, grounding yourself with a deep exhale before ringing the bell.

When the doors open, a well-dressed older man emerges. You recognize him immediately. He is Andrew, the family butler since you were a baby.

"Miss (Y/L/N), welcome back," Andrew greets you at the door. You smile at him.

"It's nice to see you, Andrew. Uh, this is Spencer Reid, my fri- my boyfriend."

Jeez, 'boyfriend' sounds weird rolling off your tongue.

"Welcome, sir. Please let me take your suitcases to your room." Andrew offers, already grabbing your luggage and inviting you inside.

"Andrew? Is that my daughter?" Your mom calls from the open living room. A tremor runs down your spine, and Spencer squeezes your hand as you both peek into the room where she is.

"Hi, Mom."

"Honey! It's really you! I thought you would be here at night," she says, standing from the chair to greet you with a soft hug.

"I asked for an extra day off," you explain. Not that your mom cares what you're saying anyway; she is already looking at Spencer from head to toe.

"You must be the boyfriend," she muses.

"Mom, he's Spencer Reid, my boyfriend."

Maybe you can get used to calling him that way after all.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. (Y/L/N)." Spencer offers his hand, and your mom complies, extending hers and giving it a light squeeze.

"Please, call me Ann. Besides, my last name will change again in two days anyway. Are you from the Reids of New Scottia?"

Spencer looks confused at first. You roll your eyes. Of course, your mom would ask something like that.

"Uh, my family is from Vegas, actually."

"Vegas? Uh. How picturesque. I'm assuming you are not a gambler, are you?"

"Mom-" you warn.

"Oh, no, no. I'm not. I prefer other ways to spend my free time," Spencer explains, and your mom hums.

"Good to know. God forbids this girl to get involved with someone like that. For another scandal, we already have enough with your cousins," she says, looking at you.

"Mom, the comment is unnecessary," you complain.

"Of course not! If I told you what your cousin Nolan did with his family's heritage, his grandfather, may he rest in peace, would be completely shocked."

Clearly, you're not in the mood to entertain the gossip your mom wants to share, so you try to change the subject.

"Is Lincoln home yet?"

"Yes, your brother arrived this morning with Rose and the little ones. Your nephews are so grown up. Of course, you probably don't know since you barely knew them when they were born."

You already feel a migraine coming on. Spencer, seeing your discomfort, intervenes, asking your mom random questions about the house, and she seems happy to answer.

At some point, your mom checks the wall clock.

"Okay, I'm sure we can talk more later. For now, go upstairs to settle and rest from your flight. I still have to make some arrangements for the rehearsal dinner."

Grateful for the break your mom gives you both, you nod and head for the stairs with Spencer.

As you walk to your bedroom, you can't help but examine the walls to see how changed they are from how you remembered. You haven't put a foot in this house in almost ten years, and some kind of unsettling nostalgia sets in your stomach. If Spencer notices your quietness, he doesn't say anything. With a reassuring hand on your lower back, he navigates with you through the halls that end in an open space with several doors around. In a corner, there is the door of your old room.

As you get inside, you are face-to-face with what could be the image of a time capsule. The room doesn't seem changed at all. There is some new furniture here and there, but it's like it has been frozen in time.

"Damn," you mumble. "It's like if I never left."

Spencer looks around and spots some things that scream 'you': a bookshelf full of classics, an old wood desk perched in front of a window with a fantastic view of the gardens, and a big picture of you and your dad on top of it. The bedside tables have lamps emanating a soft, warm glow, and the bedframe has simple old wood patterns. In a corner, a little sofa with cozy blankets atop.

You sit at the edge of the bed, taking in everything. Spencer sits by your side, examining your body language.

"Are you okay?"

You don't know how to respond. Are you? You are supposed to be. It's not a big deal, just a room full of memories. But why do you feel like you're drowning?

When the tears start to stream down, a pair of stronger arms envelop you in a tight embrace.

"It's okay. You are okay," Spencer repeats over and over. You let yourself go and sob in his arms.

You don't know how long you stay like this, but as the tears subside, you feel a little lighter. Spencer keeps soothingly rubbing your back.

"Thank you, Spencer. I didn't know this would hit me so hard," you muffle the words before parting from his embrace.

"You don't have to thank me. I'm here for you."

How could you not have feelings for him? Spencer is the epitome of the man of your dreams. And that's why you think he's out of your league.

Now that you feel more collected, you decide it's time to unpack. It's not that different from when you are on cases and share a room with Spencer. Usually, there are two beds. The ones there are not; you share the bed while keeping some respectful distance. This time should be the same, right?

While you unpack, you tell Spencer about what's coming. One of your brothers - Lincoln - will probably be at dinner, while the other - Ralph - will arrive tomorrow before the rehearsal.

After a shower and a little nap, you're ready to go downstairs.

At the dinner table, you already see your mom sitting at the head of the table, and your soon-to-be stepfather, Dylan, is on the opposite side. Lincoln and his wife, Rose, are sitting together. In front of them remain two empty seats; you take the one next to your mom, and Spencer takes the one next to Dylan.

And even if dinner is already served, your mom and Lincoln are more interested in interrogating you and Spencer than eating.

"So, it is working with the FBI so demanding, as my sister is used to say?"

You only glare at Lincoln. Of course, neither your brothers nor your mom believe you have a real job that could consume so much time. For them, you only spend your time wasting people's paid taxes, running with a gun attached to your hip.

Spencer clears his throat. "It is. Actually, statistics say that field agents working at Quantico spend more than 80% of their time on physical and mental extenuating tasks and only 20% on routine ones."

"Using data to justify yourself?" Lincoln jokes, and Spencer's eyebrows furrow. You roll your eyes and are about to say something when your brother laughs. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Actually, it's good to hear someone who uses evidence and not intuition for everything."

You do as you don't hear him, although Spencer looks at your reaction from the corner of his eye.

"And how is it to work with your girlfriend?" Dylan asks. "Even if I would like to spend all day with Ann, I'm sure she would be bored at the end of the first day at my job," he laughs. Your mom scoffs.

"Darling, I would be bored at the beginning of the work day." All laugh at your mom's intervention, minus you and Spencer, who only observe if the question to him remains.

On cue, Dylan's eyes shift to Spencer, who, after sipping his glass of water, proceeds to answer.

"It's pretty good to work with her. (Y/N) is an excellent agent and profiler. It's a privilege having her in the BAU. We're partners, and we watch our backs."

You can't help but feel your heart flutter when you hear Spencer talk about you with such respect.

"Look at that, Lincoln, they are so in love," Rose intervenes this time. Her comment makes you and Spencer blush at the sudden attention.

"Yeah. Who would have known my sister could be that lovable," your brother says, gaining an elbow punch from his wife.

"Behave, kids," your mom warns. You only roll your eyes for the umpteenth time in the night.

After dinner, you can't stop Dylan and Lincoln from kidnapping Spencer for a 'man's talk,' as you have to settle to stay with your mom and sister-in-law to catch up. It's like you were sixteen again, and you hate it.

The group conversation dies quickly, though, as Rose excuses herself to check on your nieces before bedtime. When you're left with your mom, you start asking questions about the wedding so she won't have a chance to focus on you. She happily obliges, telling you about all the details.

From time to time, your gaze shifts to Spencer, who is doing his best to keep up with your brother and Dylan. When he looks in your direction and catches you staring, he winks at you. The sole gesture makes the butterflies in your stomach go crazy. You smile back, making an effort to mask the flush you know there is in your cheeks.

The night finally settles, and everyone decides to go to bed. Tomorrow is the rehearsal, and most of the guests will arrive, too. It will be a busy day.

You and Spencer, hand in hand, say goodnight to everyone and retire to your bedroom.

Once you plop on the bed, you let out a relieved sigh. "I apologize for the superficial topics at dinner. I know it can be not-so-stimulating to talk about people as rich and shallow as my mom."

Spencer is listening to you while hanging his jacket and placing his shoes on the rack.

"You don't have to apologize for that. All families have their topics. I'm not going to judge."

You snort. "100% sure you were the only one in that room not judging anything," you chuckle. "You are too good for your own good, Spencer."

"You think so? Dylan seems nice."

"Wait until he ties the knot on Saturday," you anticipate. "The last ounce of goodness in him will die that day." Spencer shakes his head, chuckling.

"It's like the poor man is dammed for the only fact of joining your family."

You shrug. "I don't have proof, but I don't have doubts either."

Spencer calls the first dibs on showering while you stay in bed, scrolling down your phone. Would it be a good idea to get called for a case right now? If that happens, you will never hear the end of it from your mom. So far, things have gone well. You and Spencer already survived the first family dinner. You should be proud.

When you're ready to take your turn showering, Spencer, already clad in his pajamas, is happily scanning your bookshelf for a book to pick.

"If you want something accurate to engage in our current predicament, 'Animal Farm' is the one," you suggest before disappearing into the bathroom. You still can hear Spencer's snort.

After the nightly routine is done, you and Spencer are in bed. He is still flipping pages from Orwell's book while you plug your phone into the charger and switch off your light.

"Will you set the alarm, or do I set mine?" Spencer asks, closing the book and leaving it on the bedside table.

"I did it already," you reply, getting comfortable under the covers.

"Good," Spencer murmurs, mimicking your actions.

You both lie on your sides, facing each other, but barely making out if the other has eyes open or not. The room is lit only by a tiny ray of moonlight that peeks through the curtains. A smile creeps onto your face. The scene feels so domestic that it's difficult to think of you and Spencer as not being a couple. You feel so comfortable by his side, and you can tell he feels the same. Are you misreading this relationship? Sometimes, you think your feelings might be reciprocated, but the idea doesn't go so far when your rational side tells you Spencer never could look at you differently than a friend.

"Spencer?" you murmur into the darkness after a while, thinking maybe he's already asleep.

"Uhm?" Spencer raps, lost in his thoughts.

"Thank you. For everything." And you mean it. And not only for agreeing to be by your side this weekend while you face a complicated part of your life. It's much more than that. It always has been.

"Anything for you," Spencer whispers. 'The love of my life,' he wants to add but doesn't dare to say out loud.

The silence envelops the room again, and this time, none of you breaks it. The long day finally catches up with you both, and moments later, you succumb to slumber.

-

'Kiss me goodnight Like a good friend might I'll do the same Won't mean it 'Cause love is a cage These words on a page Carry the pain They don't free it In another life, I wouldn't need to Console me as I resign to release you.'

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