#fic research always cracks me up

[lowlights]

You Belong with Me

This is dedicated to my beloved @ezrasbirdie who let me force my way into their life and demand to be their friend. Birdie, you are a gift and one of the kindest people I have met. You make every day better!

You Belong with Me

W.C.: 3.1k, no beta sorry

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x female, plus size reader (descriptions are fairly blank though)

Warnings: sex toys, masturbation, praise, rim job and anal play, lingerie, Dieter’s real name is used, P in V sex, cum play, cum eating, lots of dirty talk, reader is in control and the softest dom, Dieter is a subby boy, everyone gets to cum a lot, a smidge of cockwarming, lots of "good boy" talk, reader is female and plus size. Filth and feelings.

**

“Is this a sex thing?”    

“Can’t a guy just blindfold you without it being for sex?” Dieter asks with extra big puppy dog eyes. He knows exactly how to work you after all these months together. 

You scoff. “I mean, not usually, Bravo.” 

“Alright, baby, you got me there,” Dieter chuckles. “Just let me do this? Please?” 

You sigh and turn around so he can wrap the black silk over your eyes, obstructing your view of his sprawling, open-concept living room. He kisses the back of your neck before tying the silk, sending a shiver up your spine. 

He guides you around the corner and through the door into the small study with a pointless Los Angeles fireplace. It was staged perfectly, most likely by some top celeb designer who loved a client with no opinion and a black AmEx card. You had been inside the room precisely one time when Dieter had given you a tour of the house more than eight months ago. 

“Did you blindfold me to walk me 12 feet into the next room?” you wonder as Dieter guides you to a stop. So dramatic. 

He pulls your blindfold off with a soft flourish. “Tada!” he announces. 

Your jaw drops open as you look around the room. Apart from the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that no one will ever read, and an artfully arranged desk with a sleek Mac, there were several small tables draped in luxurious plummy purple silks and blood-red velvets. 

And every surface is covered in sex toys. 

Vibrators, dildos, and plugs in every shape and color. Riding crops, nipple clamps, and what you have to assume is a harness for a strap-on dildo are also on display, along with several items you’ve never seen in your life. You pick up a set of silver handcuffs, lined in black fur, and hold them up for inspection. 

“Dieter, what the fuck is going on?” you question, eyes wide. 

Dieter looks a little unsure as he reaches out to rub his hand nervously along your hip. “Well, I wanted to do something special for your birthday tomorrow. I know you’re not big on getting photographed out together, and thought we might get papped walking out of a sex shop. So, I had them bring the sex shop…here,” he says, gesturing with his head. 

Your heart goes gooey. “Dieter, this is the most bizarrely sweet thing I think you’ve ever done for me,” you confess, still looking around with eyes the size of dinner plates. “Are we supposed to…use all these things?” 

He smiles, a cockeyed grin that’s won you over again and again since your first date. “You remember a couple of weeks ago when you said you wanted to get an assortment of toys and use them on me?” 

As if you could forget that morning he had you sprawled out underneath him, sweaty and boneless after a string of unforgettable orgasms. He had used your toys on you (basically all of them) and you lovingly threatened to get him back. The sensation of his length hardening against your thigh had told you that he loved the idea, although you couldn’t have imagined it happening like this. 

“Yeah,” you say with a coy smile, “I remember.” 

“Wanna pick some out together?” 

You and Dieter walk hand in hand around the room, inspecting every toy and setting aside the ones that look like fun. He explains to you a few of them that you haven’t seen before, and you pick out some items that he’s never tried either. It’s thrilling, and the anticipation of using them makes you giddy with excitement. 

It’s romance, Dieter style. 

** 

Dieter never had a problem letting you take the lead. Some days you needed to be in control, and he loved it. There were times when he liked to pull you apart piece by piece instead. It always worked, the two of you, from the very beginning. You both valued open communication and prioritized each other’s needs, something that still shocked Dieter

Your birthday had been perfection; Dieter had taken care of everything. Spa services brought to the house, lunch with friends at your favorite little cafe, and a movie marathon on the gigantic bean bag in his living room that could easily fit four people. You both know what’s coming next.

“I feel bad now,” he admits, long after the credits have rolled. “I should be making you feel amazing on your birthday. Why did I think this was a good idea?” 

You push his unruly brown curls away from his face, kissing his forehead. “You listened to me and are giving me exactly what I want. How is that not a good idea?” He hums an acknowledgment. 

“Besides, I know exactly what I want to do to you tonight. I’m excited, babe. Are you?” you ask him as you hug him close to you. 

“Fuck yeah I am. Can I make you cum after?” 

“Yes, you can,” you reply with a grin. 

** 

Now, it was time for your final birthday present: Dieter, naked and scrubbed clean, waiting for you on his bed. 

You changed into one of the presents that Dieter had gotten for you: a high-cut black teddy with a cinched waist that made your tits look amazing. You look yourself over in the large mirror, confidence oozing from every pore. This was a newer feeling for you and something for which Dieter was directly responsible. 

You flip off the light and walk out of the bathroom, stopping in the doorway. “Hey, baby. You like?” you inquire, doing a little twirl for the sweet man waiting for you. 

“Oh shit. Yeah.” Dieter has done exactly what you told him to do: he’s made himself comfortable on his bed with not a stitch of clothing on. Despite your instructions that he isn’t allowed to touch himself, he is already half-hard. You might have made him wait out there a few minutes, just to edge him a teeny bit. 

Set out neatly on the bedside table are all the toys that you selected. You saunter over to them, giving Dieter a show as you bend at the waist to inspect them. You hear Dieter murmur expletives under his breath when you give your ass a little wiggle before picking up a tiny bullet vibe. 

You kneel next to him on the bed and kiss him deeply. He’s already hungry, grabbing at your big tits when you lean into him. “Hands at your side, baby,” you command gently. He immediately complies, sending shockwaves of excitement through your body. You’re in control now, fully and completely, and fuck- it feels good. 

“I’m going to tell you exactly what to do, Dieter. If you do everything just as I say, I’m going to reward you. It’s my birthday and I’m in charge, right?” He nods excitedly in response as you straddle his thighs. “Good boy. You’re so good, giving me just what I want.” 

You turn the small silver vibe on, a low rumbling setting, and drag it up from his navel to his collarbone. Goosebumps blossom on his gorgeous skin when you circle his nipples with the vibrating toy. His hands shoot up to your thighs, kneading into the thick flesh there. You immediately pull the vibe up and he whimpers. 

“No touching, remember? I’ll tell you when you can move,” you remind him. “What’s your color, baby?”

“Gr-green. I’m sorry,” he says. 

You immediately bring the vibe back down, much to his relief. “That’s my good boy.” You drag the vibe down across his belly and down the trail of hair to the base of his cock. Dieter whines and does his best to keep his hips still, trying so hard to be good for you. He craves your praise more than he ever has before. His cock is almost fully hard, and you drag the vibe along the underside of it as you watch pre-cum start to bead at the tip. Your teasing is agonizingly slow. 

“Baby, I- if you keep that up I will cum right now,” he moans. He starts to thrust, little stuttered motions, thighs starting to shake. 

You remove the toy and shut it off, tossing it on the bed next to you. Dieter’s hips still their movement but his flushed red cock, nestled against the soft slope of his belly, throbs with need. “Not yet. I wanna show you something else,” you say as you reach for a little blue plug and a bottle of lube.

“Is that for me?” Dieter asks in an excited voice. 

You stand up move to the end of the bed, putting one foot up on the tall mattress so that Dieter can fully see you. You pull your teddy to one side, showing off your gorgeous little pussy as you squeeze some lube on the short plug and position it between your legs. “No, it’s for me. This isn’t just for your ass; I read that you can use it for a vaginal plug too. So I’m going to slide it…ooh, into my warm cunt and stay nice and stretched out for when I let you fuck me tonight. Sound good, Dietz?” 

“Yes. Yes. Oh god, yes.” 

You replace the crotch of your teddy and crawl back over to him, the satisfying fullness making you smile like the cat who caught the canary. “Besides,” you whisper in his ear, “I want it to taste good when you eat me out. That stuff is flavored like cotton candy.” 

Dieter wants to touch himself to badly, it’s evident. His eyebrows furrow in concentration and you see his fists balled at his sides. You lie down next to him, head propped up on your hand, wiggling slightly on your plug. “Look at me,” you command. He obeys. “Look at me and touch yourself.” 

Relief floods his face. “Really? Thank you, oh my god, thank you.” He starts stroking his large cock, swirling his thumb around his thick head. 

“Tell me how it feels, Dieter.” 

“So fucking good. I wish it was your hand.” 

“I know, baby boy. But I wanna watch you. Keep going. So good for me.” 

Dieter never breaks eye contact, hand moving swiftly up and down his cock. His cheeks are tinged pink and as more praise falls from your lips, he gets closer and closer to his peak. You lean over and fit a small little device on your finger, barely bigger than a thimble, and switch it on. 

“Hold on til I say, alright?” you say. 

“I wanna cum, please can I cum? Can I cum? Can I…can I…I’m gonna…” 

You lean over him, kissing him deeply. He moans into your mouth, a filthy pleading sound. You reach down with the tiny finger vibrator and press on that spot right behind his balls. “Dieter Matthew Bradford, you will cum for me right now.”

Your decisive tone, coupled with the use of his real name, sends him over the edge. He spills all over his belly, hips jerking, still never breaking eye contact with you. 

“Yes, good job, my sweet boy. Look at how pretty you look, painted with your pretty cum. Love you so much,” you coo, peppering his lips and perfect nose with kisses. He pants under you and you let him catch his breath before giving him his next command. He tries to speak several times, but the words die in his mouth. He reaches out to you, hands roaming everywhere over your body, and you let him touch all he wants. 

After several minutes, you grab the bottle of lube and another toy. “You did so good, I think you need that reward. Get on your knees, baby boy.” 

Dieter flips over and rests heavy on his forearms, his little ass presented to you. You squeeze a tiny bit of the cool lubrication gel on his skin, watching him shudder as it runs down and collects in the dip of his sweet hole. “Color?” you ask. 

“So green.” 

“Good. Let’s see how that cotton candy lube tastes, hm?” You circle your tongue around his opening before licking a long, wide stripe. He almost collapses at the sensation, and if he could find the words he would praise you himself. But he’s too lost in the sensation of your deft lips and tongue, kissing and licking into him so sweetly. Months ago, he asked if you would ever do something like this- never thinking it would come to fruition. 

Fuck, is it his birthday or yours he wonders to himself. 

It’s filthy, what you’re doing. It feels like it should be wrong, like one of you should protest. But you like it, and you love what it’s doing to Dieter. He’s a writhing, wriggling mess under you. You didn’t have to tell him not to touch his cock, he just knows he isn’t allowed yet. Nevermind the fact that his cock is weeping, further staining the sheets below him. He doesn’t need to touch himself yet, not with your mouth on him like this. Seconds stretch into minutes, both of you lost in pleasure.

You’re not going to let him come like this, though. No, this is just the preamble to what you really want to do. 

When you pull away, depositing one final kiss on his non-existent asscheek, his head whips around. His bottom lip is pouting even more than normal. 

“Don’t worry, it’s just time for the next part,” you reassure him, once against pulling your teddy to the side so that you can remove the plug from your pussy. “Look at how wet you’ve made me, baby. Look how sopping wet this toy is. I bet it would slip right in to your ass so good right now.” 

Dieter lets out a filthy moan as you collect the remaining lube from around his asshole before pushing the toy in to the hilt. He rocks back into the toy, over and over, fucking himself on it while you hold it. 

“Fuck, so filthy. I never knew you were so filthy, I fucking love it,” he babbles. Making sure the toy is secure for the moment, you tell him how you really want to see him. 

“Get on your back and spread your legs for me, okay?” He does so immediately, willingly opening up for you so that you can settle between his thighs. You tuck a thick pillow under his hips so that you have good access, and gently pull the toy out. Dieter is nice and stretched for you. 

“So I read about this one here,” you explain, showing him the next and most expensive toy. “It massages your prostate.” Dieter’s eyebrows shoot up. “But, there’s a twist. I’ll show you.” 

You lube up the toy liberally, wanting to make it as comfy for Dieter as possible. The toy slips in easily, and you take a moment to appreciate how vulnerable this man is for you. It took him a while to be fully open and honest with you, to share every dream and insecurity, and talking about your feelings with someone was never the most comfortable thing for you either. Until he came along, that is. Something just clicked with you both, a cosmic connection that made you want to work through hardships together instead of alone. 

And here he is, as physically vulnerable as possible, waiting for you to tell him what to do next. Looking at you like he wants you, like he would die for you. He loves you, and you love him. Is there anything more vulnerable than that? Probably not. 

You take advantage of the moment and kiss along his thigh. “Alright, baby. See this remote? It controls the toy inside. It doesn’t just control the intensity, but look.” You turn it on low and he immediately moans. “Turn it to one side, or the other,” you demonstrate. “It will vibrate whatever way you tilt it.” 

“Holy shit, where did- who came up with this? Jesus, it feels so good.” You pass the remote over to him and he tries it out. His eyes go wide. 

“Yes, just like that. Baby, you’re in control of it. I want you to find the right spot while I ride you,” you tell him, positioning yourself over his still-hard cock and sinking down onto his thickness. 

“Finally, finally, yes. Oh my god you feel so fucking good, I can’t…oh my god, I can’t last. It feels too good with this,” he says, words tumbling out faster and faster. 

You drag yourself up and down on his cock, over and over. Your thighs already burn and you don’t care at all. He feels amazing, better than any toy, better than any combination of toys. Even after wearing the plug, he still stretches you out to your maximum. 

“Good, you don’t have to last. I want your cum, Dieter. I want you to fill me up and then use that gorgeous mouth of yours to clean up your mess. Do you hear me?” you ask him, breathless. You cunt clenches around him right when he hits the perfect spot with his toy, and he cries out as his seed fills you. You drape yourself over his torso as he comes down, pulling the remote from his hand so you can shut off the toy. You warm his softening cock inside of you until he slips out. 

You leave a trail of kisses along his neck. “You did so good, Dieter. So good. Fuck, that was amazing.” 

Dieter looks down at you, confused. “Wait, are we done? I was looking forward to eating my good girl out. I made a mess of her, and I need to clean up my mess.” He smiles at you, pupils lust-blown. “If you want, that is,” he adds sweetly. 

“Yeah, I want,” you say, rolling off of him and onto your back. He immediately flips over and settles between your legs. 

“Mmm, cotton candy,” he moans as he dives into your slick folds. You blindly reach out, patting the bed until you can reach the remote to the toy again, flipping it on. Dieter jerks upwards. 

You grin impishly at him. “Good boys get to feel good, right, baby?” 

Dieter’s smile matches your own. “Yes ma’am,” he replies, dipping his had back between your legs. He knows just what you like, quickly working you to the edge of your orgasm. 

“Best birthday ever,” you think to yourself, as light explode behind your eyes. 

You tell him that, out loud, somewhere between orgasms three and four. Or maybe it was four and five. 

#HAPPY BIRTHDAY BBY #Dieter bravo #dieter x female reader #plus size reader #filth and feelings #also i know a lot about toys now lol #fic research always cracks me up

[snowshinobi]

hanahaki disease trope captivates me because (as I interpret it) the call is coming from inside the house. bc you see, the solution is easy. the flowers stop trying to tear their way out of your body if you confess your affections or get over them. go do stuff other than hanging out with your doomed crush for a while or speak your feelings: let the flowers see daylight. but sometimes ... catharsis ... is worse.

it's like when Fall Out Boy said "I'll keep my jealousy close 'cause it's all mine" and when Taking Back Sunday said "if it's not keeping you up nights, then what's the point?" these warm, bloody, one-sided feelings might be as close to reciprocal love as you're gonna get. if you flee or confess and aren't loved in return ... you're healed. free of pain. free of flowers. that precious thing you were holding onto so fiercely, for months ... vanishes.

hanahaki studies the compulsions that drive self-destruction. that turn pain into the means to its own end. human resilience is our greatest strength and an agent of literal body horror. hanahaki paints an intentionally romanticized picture of how vital wanting to get better is to actually getting better. as the adage goes, you can't control how you feel, but you can control what you do about it.

healing is terrifying. watching a character reject it until their death is sobering. watching a character choose it when they are at their most scared and sad and hopeless is ... devastating. it makes me press my hands against the walls of my consciousness.

#hanahaki disease #hanahaki #i did no research into the history of the trope. I'm going off what I've picked up through osmosis. def add to/correct these thoughts #as you see fit #i like the common ending where the hanahaki-haver learns that their beloved loves them too. has loved them the entire time even. #it makes me think of how mental illness can trick you into thinking everyone else dislikes you as much as you dislike yourself #when usually there are lots of ppl in your life who care about you a lot. but you can't see it #you have been taught (or ... as in my case ... taught yourself) not to see it #so instead of taking a chance on a love that has always had its door cracked open ... you torture yourself #and the healing process is how you learn to tap on those doors. take a look inside. accept the love you find #and move on if the person doesn't reach back out to you. healthy rejection coping #not this torture spiral of repressed cravings for intimacy #phew. anyway. I've been reading some great hanahaki Genshin fics. keep up the great work yall #snowswords #analysis

[reiderwriter]

Flirting with the FBI

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word count: 7.1k

Request: Hiiii!! This is my first time requesting anything on this app, but Spencer reid has me in a chokehold. So, I was thinking that the reader is the unsub, and she's like this very good hacker who keeps teasing the fbi cause she's bored or something so she keeps sending hints about who she is or where she is but they keep getting nothing on her. And all of this just keeps getting on Spencer's nerves. And so when Spencer finds her, she keeps teasing him and acting like a brat so he "disciplines" her and takes her roughly and maybe a bit of spanking???

Warnings: a lot tbh - mentions of case details, mentions of domestic violence and police brutality, reader is a possible target of a serial killer, bad tech skills from the writer who really couldn't be bothered to do anymore research than the actual CM writing team, rough Dom Spencer, brat reader, sexual innuendo, semi-public sexual play, spanking, dirty talk (good girl, brat etc.) fingering, raw sex/creampie, aftercare, slight dacryphilia (crying kink) and bimbofication.

A/N: My last fic was a heartwarming family fic, and now I'm back to being depraved. Apologies to anyone here for cute fluff 😭

Masterlist

You always thought hacking the FBI mainframe would be hard, but it's one of the easiest things you've done all week.

If they were going to sit around doing nothing while a serial killer ran around in their own backyard, then obviously, they needed a helping hand. Or a helping poem or two.

Getting into their security camera feed was just an added bonus.

You grabbed your bowl of popcorn and settled into your desk chair, clicking open the window to find which room exactly they would gather in to freak out together.

You made sure to get their attention, blacking out all the computers in the office as they ran to a backroom where a very distraught looking blonde woman was sat. She was evidently the go-to tech support of about six agents who quickly ran to her room to figure out what the issue was. It was show time.

“There once was a serial killer,

Who ate boys and girl both for his dinner,

He cut, diced and slashed,

Left the feds quite abashed,

So I leave this message to be clearer”

The poem scrolled onto their screen on a loop, flashing in and out quickly before you let the computer systems relax again.

You thought they'd panic, scramble for a pen or paper or something, but none of the agents moved until the flashing was over.

You watched curiously as an older man took charge of the scene, likely directing the woman at the desk to figure out who you were, where you lived, and what your social security number was. She got to work quickly, and he moved on to the other agents.

None of them had written the poem down. None had even taken a picture, but one man started talking, and for a while, all eyes and attention in the room were focused solely on him. His hands moved as his mouth did, as if he were casting a spell over the room as he spoke. Even more intriguing was the fact that he rarely seemed to make eye contact with any of them as he spoke. He wasn't conversing or giving directions. He was simply talking.

And you really wanted to listen in.

The younger man began to walk and you watched him quickly pace over to a whiteboard, switching from one feed to another as he made his way there, and pick up a pen before notating the poem perfectly.

Whoever this man was, he was making you feel more and more excited about the game of cat and mouse you had begun with the FBI. You weren't entirely sure if he was to be the cat or the mouse, though.

A few days later, they'd seemingly lost the motivation to work, so you again did their job for them.

With another accompanying limerick to help them along, of course.

“There once was a bullpen full of agents,

Who thought they were very surveillant,

But a simply code crack,

And there system did hack,

A young girl who lived quite adjacent.”

This time, you let the words linger on the screen longer, as you slipped your information into their files, leaving more bread crumbs they could follow to the real villain.

The Agent - Doctor, you had since learned - took up his pen once again and scribbled your first poem next to your most recent.

Doctor Spencer Reid. An IQ of 187, three PhDs and however many Bachelor's Degrees, a member of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, and, as you could somehow tell from the grainy security footage, incredibly attractive man.

He was calm, again talking with his hands as he notated, again drawing the rooms attention like he was the sun and everything needed to orbit him to sustain life. You wondered what it would be like to fluster him.

Typing something out quickly, you broke back into the FBI system. It was risky doing it again so soon again, knowing that their tech analyst was already actively hunting you down, cyber-wise. But you couldn't resist.

“The tall, dark and handsome employee,

How I do wish that he could enjoy me,

I would gladly submit,

we match wit for wit,

But he's trying his best to arrest me.”

The BAU team stood silent on the camera before the two women on the team burst into rambunctious laughter. The camera feed was archaic, black and white, and grainy to boot, but even you couldn't miss the red stain against Doctor Spencer Reid's cheeks. A bonus was the other gentlemen subtly posturing, trying to figure out exactly which of them was “tall, dark, and handsome.”

The payoff for that poem was so great that over the course of the next few days, you kept serenading him with love poems among your quick hints about the actual crime being committed.

You'd first suspected the man of being dangerous when you'd seen the state of his wife. 19 domestic disturbance calls in two months, 0 arrests, and 1 very cushy job as a police detective. You'd done some simple computer programming for your local precinct, inputting data from cases into an algorithm that helped track everything easier, so you'd been intimate with cases that he'd handled.

A pattern had emerged, a series of murders of “undesirables,” people the city didn't care about when alive and certainly didn't have the resources to allocate to after their deaths. Prostitutes, the homeless, and runaway foster kids. All missing or dead, all cases handled by the same officer. The officer that lived next door to you and was one beer away from beating his wife into submission 5 days a week.

After your third 911 call, you'd been notified of your contract termination with the precinct. After the tenth, you noticed parole cars driving by every hour.

By call number 19, you were sure it was a miracle he hadn't tried to have you arrested.

So you turned back to the FBI to see what they could do about a man who treated his wife, and basically everyone else, like scum of the earth.

“Please don't get sidetracked by my hacking,

I'm a good girl, your team I am backing,

the killer, you see,

Is right now hunting me,

You're the ones who can do better tracking.”

You watched the tension snap back into place in the office as, for the first time, Spencer Reid was silent at your message. They all got back to work quickly, going over the files you'd dropped in their servers.

That night, Spencer Reid stayed in the office late, reading through piles and piles of files and looking for the connection he needed. You watched in pity, feeling almost guilty that you'd placed this burden on him instead of just approaching them honestly. But you'd called the police before, and it hadn't worked, so getting attention anyway you could was the only way to go.

You watched for so long that you began noticing his small habits. Each time you sensed frustration, he would run a hand through his hair and tug it slightly. When he found something, he leaned in closer to the page, as if his proximity to the words would make them clearer. Finally, he stood and began clearing his files. But you weren't quite ready to sign off yet, the shouting already beginning in the apartment next to yours, so you quickly typed out the first thing that came to mind to get him to stay.

“There once was a doctor called Reid,

Who I simply and truly just need,

I would lie on my back,

And then let him attack,

Any inch of my body with his seed.”

He fumbled the files in his haste to remove your words from his screen, from every screen now in the building, face awash with embarrassment as he looked around for some sign that no one witnessed your words.

Luck was not to be had as the tech analyst - Penelope Garcia - came shooting out of her office to join him in the near empty bullpen, and the older team leader - Aaron Hotchner - also looked out over the bannister from his office as they bore witness to your seduction.

You were driving Spencer Reid crazy.

He'd spent the last two weeks tracking down a serial killer who may or may not exist based on the word of a set of limericks delivered to the BAU through illegal means that had begun unabashedly flirting with him.

This latest limerick was his last straw.

“The cameras are how I can see you,

I do find myself enjoying the view,

His hair is so fine,

I wish he was mine,

The agent with more PhDs than two.”

“Another score, pretty boy, it was about time someone noticed your good looks instead of your brain for once.” Morgan patted him on the shoulder, barely containing his glee and laughter.

“She's watching us through security feed, and that's all you have to say?” he grumbled, writing out this limerick again, the words to the others burned into his brain. “She's playing with me.”

“It sure sounds like she'd enjoy doing just that,” Emily laughed from her desk, “but I think she might be right, Spencer. Every case file she's given us has suspicious activity on it. They're all unsolved, but the victims aren't linked.”

“He's crossing race and gender boundaries, but he's hitting undesirables.”

They had a case because of you. It didn't mean he wouldn't enjoy handcuffing you and putting you in a cell once this was all finished.

“WE'VE GOT ANOTHER ONE,” Penelope shouted from her office, to no avail. If it was at one computer, it was on all of them.

“The agents grew closer by day,

As the killer wanted to escape,

He paced across the floor,

As I watched by his door,

Getting closer than the agents could say.”

He paused then for a second, thinking through each of the limericks in turn and the panic began.

“Closer than… Emily, the officer that took in all of the cases, what was his name?”

“Officer Falstaff, why?”

“I think he might be our killer. And I think he knows she's on to him, or if he doesn't, he will soon.” He stood suddenly, grabbing a file and sprinting to Penelope’s office, Emily and Morgan trailing close behind.

“Spencer, wait-”

“No time. If we want them both alive, we have to move now.”

Throwing the door to Penelope’s room open, he didn't even bother with niceties.

“Can you get her a message?” He demanded, panting from the short run.

“A wha-? Spencer, what are you talking about?”

“Can you send the hacker a message? Or leave her one so she can find it when she comes?”

Penelope swivelled around in her chair once again, doing who-knows-what to answer his question.

“There's no telling what she actually sees in our servers, Spencer, we didn't see any breach in classified files, the only thing she's done is read your personal file and drop us hints.”

His hands closed into fists as he nodded along. “So no?”

“No, Spencer, I'm sorry. Why? Are you starting to grow fond of our little helper.”

“She's not our little helper. She's a criminal. And she'll be dead soon if I don't confirm with her that we have the right guy - excuse me.”

The anger was washing over him now, as he left the room to get some air, getting only as far as the corridor before slamming an open palm into the wall and resting his forehead against it for a moment, just thinking.

The stress of the case was almost too much for him as he turned around and rested his back against the wall, sliding down it until he was sat on the floor. He may have despised you at that moment, but he didn't want you to get yourself killed.

Something nagged him, still, some stress or anger that hadn't yet surfaced, or some case fact he was missing. A glint at the corner of his eye had him looking up to the camera currently trained directly on him.

Computers are useless, he thought to himself, when you can send a letter.

The next time you sat down at your desk, you weren't exactly shocked to see an up close and personal shot of Aaron Hotchner - they'd turned your security stream into a one way facetime and you were sat directly opposite the big boss himself in an interrogation room.

“Checkmate, I guess,” you said, waiting for the man to move.

A signal from behind the camera let him know you were online and watching. He picked up a pen and paper and scribbled down something before holding the note out to you once more.

The name and location of the bastard next door. They'd done it, and now you simply had to drop your evidence, shut down your computer, and wait for the sirens to sound.

You felt slightly sad typing out your last message, knowing that you had no more reason to stay in touch with the team now. Still, you were only human and couldn't resist the chance to say something more.

“Aaron Hotchner and his clever team,

Working with you has been like a dream,

When Reid comes it is wet,

And my mind is all set,

Oh, I do wish that he'd make me cream.”

The camera turned seconds after your message was sent, and there he was, reading intently, frow creased in annoyance as he tried to remain calm. He, too, picked up a pen and paper.

“I have questions,” the paper said when he turned it around. Holding it up for a few seconds before returning his pen to paper. You typed out a message before he could finish dictating his, though.

“When you find me there's lots for me to say,

I can't help simply feeling this way,

Your profile I read,

Can't believe you're a Fed,

I yearn for you all night and day.”

Somehow, the lines between his brow deepened as he quickly scribbled out another message. This one wasn't a question, though. It was simply two words.

He'd written your name on that paper. He'd found you.

You weren't sure if the tingle that ran up your spine was fear or anticipation. One one hand, you'd likely committed multiple felonies in the pursuit of justice, and the SWAT team about to pick up the killer was going to knock for you, too. On the other hand, it was pretty much a given that you would be seeing Spencer Reid in person in the next few hours.

“The Doctor had finally cracked it,

The only identity that could fit,

The pretty young thing,

Who'd been flirting with him,

And was thinking of sitting on his…”

You sent a second message along with the first.

“I couldn't make this one rhyme, Doc. Come and get me.”

The sound of the FBI outside your neighbour's door had you stepping away from the computer finally. It was time to get ready to see him. You stepped out of your robe and into the shower as you waited to be collected and hauled into a police vehicle.

xxx

So far, you were a bit disappointed by the look of the BAU offices. It was smaller than it appeared on the CCTV, and you hadn't exactly given the tour. Unless the whole tour was the wall from the elevators, through the bullpen and straight to interrogation room one. You were also slightly embarrassed that you had yet to be greeted by any of your favourite characters yet. The lead swat officer had led you in some desk agents dropping by to have you fill out some simple documents - waiving your rights and all that. You'd seen not even a single member of the BAU since dropping in two hours ago, but you felt his eyes on you.

You faced the mirror, trying your best to stare straight through it and into the man beyond.

Spencer Reid was there. He had to be. He was too curious to be anywhere else. You smiled at him through the mirror and waited.

You were right, of course. Spencer stood on the opposite side of the one-way window and watched you look for him in every inch of the glass. He watched you squirm when you couldn't find anything, watched you pick at your nails as he made you wait.

He watched you cross and uncross your legs, the short skirt you'd slipped into just before you left providing just enough mystery to catch his eye and his breath.

He was annoyed, frustrated, a little bit impressed, anxious, and - to his peril - turned on.

“Spencer,” Hotch said, breaking the man's concentration. “We can't keep her that much longer. Go in and say something, or I'll cut her loose.”

Reluctantly, he pulled his eyes away and stepped out of the waiting room before letting himself into yours.

“Miss Y/N, my name is Doctor Spencer Reid, I'm a profiler working with the Behavioural An-”

“You're joking, right?” You asked, eyes lighting up, spine straightening as you looked up at the man. “I know who you are, Doc.”

“Please call me Doctor Reid,” he asked, setting down a file on the table and looking over the desk at you.

“Oh, I don't even get your first name.” You lifted your leg and ran it along the side of his until he moved his chair back, just out of reach. You pouted as he began reading through documents, asking you to confirm exactly which technical breaches you were responsible for.

“And the breach at 1:27pm on Thursday 5th-”

“Yes, that was me, too. They were all me, Doc, is that all? Are we finished now?”

“I don't know, are we finished? Can I leave?”

“No,” you shouted, just as he stood up to gather his things. “No, don't go. I want to talk to you.”

He sat back down, finally looking at you instead of words on a page.

“Do you enjoy attention, Miss Y/N?” He asked, voice cold but gaze burning like fire into your skin.

“As much as anyone does.”

“Do you enjoy my attention?” The words hung between you for a few minutes as you watched him carefully, searching for the right answer.

“What do you think, Doc?”

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” he repeated reflexively.

“I know your name,” you smiled, and he finally looked away, breaking contact to regroup for a second.

“We have reason to believe you used your backdoor into our system to access my personal file, is that correct?” It may have been asked as a question, but Spencer Reid already knew the answer.

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

You laughed at the simple question, sure that your behaviour until this point was evidence enough to answer it.

“Why? Because you're attractive and your smart and-”

“Why haven't you used the content of the files as leverage? I've been digging at you for the last half hour, and you have plenty of ammunition to throw back at me, yet you haven't. Why?”

For the first time in a while, you were speechless.

“Oh. Wow. Should I have said something? Would you have felt more comfortable if I were a horrible person using your background to make you feel vulnerable?”

“Why, Y/N?”

You sighed and looked back up at him.

“I'm interested in you. That's it. Honestly, there is nothing in your file more interesting than how you look running your hands through your hair.”

His jaw clenched and unclenched before he let out a sigh.

“So you're a compulsive liar.” He said it so finitely it was like a kick in the teeth.

“Or maybe you're just insecure. I can help with that.”

He shot you another warning look as a grin spread over your lips. Yes, it was very fun to mess with Spencer Reid.

“FBI Agents aren't allowed to sleep with suspects.”

“You want to sleep with me?”

His eyes went wide as he realized his mistake, mouth opening and closing as he tossed another annoyed look in your direction.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Reid quickly bolted out of his seat as Aaron Hotchner entered. The two men shared a nod before the younger man left the room entirely.

“Such a shame, I thought we were really getting somewhere.”

To your surprise, Hotchner’s lips curled up in a laugh as he sat down, straightening his suit.

“Miss Y/N, we've reviewed the information you've given us and taken into account your motives, and the FBI has decided not to prosecute you for your actions.”

You sat for a minute, Hotch doing the same, the both of you caught waiting for each other to say something or continue.

“But?” You prodded, knowing there was more left to say.

“But, we'd ask for your cooperation on cases in the future that require technological man-power. In a consultancy role, of course. You wouldn't be given a badge or a gun or any clearance, and you'd need to be with an agent at all times.”

You tapped your fingers against the desk, trying to figure out if this deal was beneficial or not.

“I'll do it if I can pick the Agent.”

Now, the man was fully smiling at you or giving you what you assumed passed for a smile in his books.

“We had recommended Doctor Reid for the role. Of course, if you're more comfortable with another agent, you can-”

“Doctor Reid is perfect, thank you.”

The man nodded and stood, and you stood with him as he led you quietly out of the room.

A flustered Spencer Reid exited the adjoining room, hurrying to catch Hotch before he really signed his life away to you.

“Hotch, what is this?” He demanded, stopping the man in his tracks. They both paused, turning around and moved a few feet awaywfrom.you whispering out their argument.

You couldn't catch most of it, but you did happen to catch the phrases “man-eater,” “I'm not good with people,” and “Spencer, this will be good for you.” Victory in the end went to Hotch, who promptly turned on his heel and kept walking down the hall.

“I work here now,” you said, grinning up at Spencer.

“No, you don't.”

“According to your boss, I do. And you're my babysitter.”

“You're a criminal. You hacked into the FBI database to leave ominous clues to multiple murders.”

“If you call those ominous clues, I'm curious how people usually flirt with you.”

“They don't. Why…why are we having this conversation?”

He stormed off ahead of you, and you quickened your pace to catch up to him, following him down a familiar hallway to what was obviously tech central at the BAU.

“Spencer, seriously? You're walking around looking like that, and no one hits on you?”

He stopped abruptly, and you ran into his back before he turned around to scowl at you again.

“Can we keep this serious, please?”

“I'm very serious about flirting with you, and I'm stumped why more people aren't.”

“Okay, let's go somewhere and talk,” his hand landed on your waist, readying his grip to forcibly move you if need be.

“I thought that's what we were doing.” Instead of allowing him to move you, you leaned into his touch, stepping closer and raising a hand to his chest, as his head dipped to maintain eye contact.

“No, this isn't talking, this is some weird foreplay I've never heard of, and I'd like you to leave my office if you're going to continue,” the woman sat at the desk exclaimed, horror and amusement fighting a battle for her facial expressions. “I like to keep my office a no trauma zone, so please take a walk to the nearest bed or storage closet or car and you can shove your tongues down each other's throats in peace and out of my sight, please and thank you.”

Spencer tried to step away, but a hand on his tie kept him close and kept his eyes on you. You poked your head out around him and smiled at the other woman.

“Sorry to disturb you. I'm Y/N. Based on the tech, I assume we will be working with each other soon.”

“Oh my gosh, you were, like, my number one most hated person last week. Penelope Garcia, tech analyst.”

“I'm sorry about that. If it makes it any better, it was really hard to get past some of your firewalls. And I couldn't even touch the classified files.”

“Apology accepted, on the condition that you lead young Reid out of my office right now before he explodes.”

You grinned and grabbed the man's hand, sending Penelope a quick goodbye as you pulled him out of the room.

He stumbled behind you for a few moments before catching up and pulling you in a different direction, keeping your hands intertwined as he bee-lined for the elevators and pushed the button to go down.

It arrived, and he pulled you in, not releasing your grip until the doors were fully closed and you were alone.

“Getting me all alone, Doc? What do you have in mind?”

“I'm driving you home.”

“My apartment is a crime scene, and I have no family in the city.”

“What about friends?”

“I've been stalked by a homicidal police officer for the last month and barricaded myself into an apartment. Do you think I have friends?”

His gaze was somewhat softer as he looked at you again. You saw the math happening in his head as he tried to figure out what to do with you. You also saw his brain short circuiting when you wrapped yourself around his arm.

“We're friends now, Doc. Isn't that right?”

“What?”

“We're friends,” you repeated again, tone becoming a little defensive in a pout.

“We are not friends, Y/N. We've known each other for less than 6 hours, and we haven't engaged in any friendly conversation.”

“We've known each other for two weeks, and I've been more than friendly enough for the both of us.”

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Gesturing for you to go first, Spencer hurried you out of the elevator and into the parking garage.

“Trust me, Spencer, deep down, part of you really wants to be friends with me,” you said poking his chest with a finger. You couldn't resist flattening your hand against his surprisingly hard chest and letting the hand drop slightly.

“And an ever deeper down part of you doesn't want to be friends at all,” you smiled at him.

He caught your wrist before it could reach his belt buckle, your unconscious finish line, spinning you around and dragging you to his car.

The biting cold of metal cutting into your wrists was the first indication that maybe Spencer Reid wasn't as easy to mess with as you'd hoped. He closed the handcuffs around your wrists and handed you into the car as you gaped at him.

“Spencer!”

“Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“I’m not a criminal, Spencer, let me go.”

“I'll let you go when you prove to me you can behave.”

You pouted as he strapped you into the car and closed the door, walking around to the passenger side before letting himself in.

“What's next? Are you going to gag me?” You scoffed as he turned over the engine and began backing out of the parking lot.

“No. I think you'd enjoy that too much.”

The drive to Spencer's apartment was long and quiet as you sat pouting in the passenger seat. Every few seconds, you twisted and moved your arms, fidgeting left and right so he could see how much the restraints bothered you. Luckily, he'd handcuffed your hands in front of your body, so you still sat somewhat comfortably, but you didn't want him to know that.

He pulled up to the building and turned off the engine, pulling out his keys.

“Let's go,” he said, not even sparing you a look as he climbed out.

“Spencer, I'm handcuffed. How do I even get out?”

“You'll figure it out. You're a smart girl, right?”

He closed his door and began walking, and you quickly fumbled your way out.

“Spencer… Spencer, your neighbours are going to ask questions about you bringing a handcuffed girl into your apartment!” You whispered at him as you paced behind him, somehow running to catch up with his mere walk.

“I don't have neighbours like you, Y/N. They won't notice a thing.”

“Right, okay. And when you murder a dozen people over a six month period, they won't hack the federal government.” You rolled your eyes as he unlocked the door, taking your arm and finally handing you into the apartment.

It was dark and cold, and you shivered, feeling his body pushed in right behind yours, closing the door before he felt around for the light switch.

When the lights turned on, you blinked, adjusting to the light again as he walked you further into the apartment, hands on your hips as you slowly stumbled forward.

“Can you take the handcuffs off now?” You asked, looking over your shoulder at him.

“And let you touch my things? No.”

You shook off his hands and walked further into the room.

“You know I can still mess with your stuff with my hands tied up like this,” you said, walking to the nearest bookshelf.

“Whoops, look at that,” you said, pulling a book off the shelf and letting it fall to the floor between you with a thud.

“Y/N!” He exclaimed, voice pitched up in exasperation.

“Oh, this stack of books on the ground looks well organized. Oopsie!” You acted out tripping over the books, sending them flying in different directions.

“One more time, Y/N, mess with my stuff one more time-”

You didn't hear the words as you pulled yet another book off his shelf and let it tumble to the ground.

He was on you in seconds, lifting your wrists and pinning them to the top shelf, pressing his body against yours as he stretched you out.

You gasped at both the sudden contact and the tight grip he now had on your hands.

“Tell me, do you actually want to be in control, or do you just think you should want to be in control?”

“What's the difference?”

“The difference is how much you enjoy it. I think you're only being a brat to get a rise out of me. You're doing this because there's no one else in your life that will give you exactly what you crave."

"And what would that be?"

"Attention," he whispered into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Great, thanks for the therapy. Are you going to show me how much I can enjoy relinquishing control now?”

“Brat,” he spat at you.

“Fed,” you spat back.

“You have a problem with law enforcement?” He asked, his breath hitting your ear as you tried not to shiver again at his touch.

“My neighbour was a serial killer whose day job was police brutality," you said, as if the answer was obvious, but Spencer still stared, waiting for true confirmation.

“Yes I have a problem with law enforcement. What, are you going to spank me?”

His eyes lit up, and you suddenly wondered if you'd made a mistake.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“N-No.” You stuttered, but he'd already begun moving you over to his couch.

“It was a joke. Spencer, it was a joke, don't-”

You underestimated his strength as he flipped you around and guided you down over his lap. Keeping your hips raised, he used one hand to hold you down while the other pushed up your tight skirt.

“S-Spencer, I really don't think-”

“Then don't think,” he said, bringing his hand down hard on your ass as you cried out in shock and pain.

“Stop thinking. You think too much, let me do it for you.”

With each hit, your shock grew fuzzy, melting into pleasure as you felt wetness pooling between your thighs.

The doctor you thought would be an easy target was not sadistically returning every teasing word back to you with his hands, letting bruises blossom all over your ass as he delivered painfully arousing strikes.

His hand stopped and he rubbed your ass as you twitched at the gentleness, panties sticking to the folds of your cunt as you absent mindedly pushed up into his touch.

“See, now you're listening,” he said, fingers trailing down to touch you over the sopping undergarments.

With two quick fingers, the crotch of your panties peeled away from your skin and he was plunged deep inside you, fingers pressing in as his thumb found its way to your clit.

“Fuck, Spencer-”

“Doctor Reid. You can use my full title now or you don't get to cum.”

“D-Doctor Reid, please!” His thumb rubbed slowly over your clit bit his fingers didn't move as you shuddered and contracted around them.

“Please what?” He asked, voice light as if he wasn't two knuckles deep in you already.

“Please make me cum, Doctor Reid!”

“Good manners,” he said as he finally began pumping his digits in and out of you, spreading your legs wider as you clawed your hands into his couch cushions to ground yourself in the moment. His spare hands left your wrists, and you felt them again, delivering small, almost cute hits to your ass as you twitched around his fingers, shying away from the painful contact.

“That's it, Y/N, let yourself relax,” he whispered, shifting his weight underneath you as you became aware of the tent in his pants.

Your brain was jello as you tried to bounce back on his fingers, chasing your oncoming orgasm.

“Look at you, trying to cum on my hands. You're just an attention-seeking slut, right?”

His fingers continued ppimg as your tongue hung loosely in your mouth.

“Answer me, or I'll leave you here high and dry, Y/N. Tell me you're an attention seeking slut that's been fingering yourself to the thought of this for weeks.”

“I-I'm an a-atten…tion seeking s-slut,” you stifled a moan and bit back tears as he pressed another finger inside of you. “Spencer I can't I need to cum,” you cried, tears spilling down your cheeks pathetically.

“Say it.”

“I'm an attention seeking s-slut that's been th-thinking about this-”

“Fingering yourself,” he corrected.

“Fingering myself to the thought of this for w-weeks,” you cried, sniffing now as your thighs shook in anticipation.

“What a nasty little slut,” he said as you finally came, your cum running down his fingers as he kept his hands moving.

Your tears were falling freely now as you bit back little sobs and chokes of emotions, the pleasure from the orgasm almost too much to handle.

Underneath you, Spencer shifted, freeing himself from his position and laying you fully down on the sofa as your legs still shook.

“There once was a doctor called Reid,” he said, unzipping his pants as he took up his place behind you.

They were your words, and your body signalled warnings everywhere as his hands pulled your hips up once more, pulling your knees up too to bend under you, laying you face down ass up.

“Who I simply and truly just need.”

He pulled the panties down to the crook of your knees before leaning down over you so he could deliver the next few lines as whispers into your ear.

“I would lie on my back, And then let him attack, Any inch of my body with his seed.”

A weak moan escaped your lips as he sank his cock inside of you, lips still pressed against your ears.

“I don't want you on your back, though. I much prefer you like this.”

His cock slid out of you and returned with a speed and strength that had your eyes rolling back in your head.

He was thick, maybe a little longer than average, and he filled you perfectly using your cum as lubricant.

“Such a good listener, now, Y/N. I like you like this,” he said with a moan, thrusting hard and deep inside of you.

You didn't talk. You could only drool and moan into his couch as he emptied your brain one thrust at a time.

You didn't think about how he wasn't wearing a condom. You didn't think about how he'd spat your words back at you, ready to fill you with his seed. You just sat in a pool of your own pleasure and let Spencer Reid use your body as you'd been begging him to for weeks.

He raised your hips and gave one last thrust, stilling there for a second as he filled your empty body and mind with his cum and his entire being.

If you weren't obsessed with Doctor Spencer Reid before this, you certainly were now.

He pulled out of you quickly, wiping his cock on your skirt before hurrying off to the bathroom to clean up.

Your brain was still absent when he returned, cleaning you off and finally removing the handcuffs. He removed your clothes, replacing them with his spares as he threw the soiled ones into the wash.

When you regained your wits or what was left of them, you were laid out in his bed, wrapped in a blanket and stuffed into a sweater and sweats, fully covered from head to toe. Spencer was picking up his keys and trying his shoelaces.

“Where are you going?’ You asked sleepily, stumbling to the doorway. Your legs were still shaky, and your movement was already limited. You knew that tomorrow, the use of your limbs would be nonexistent.

“Back to the office. Now that you're not around, maybe I'll be able to get some actual work done.”

“Spencer,” you said, forcing him to turn around to look back at you.

Before he could say anything else, you pressed your lips to his, hot and needy, wrapping your arms around his neck as he kissed back, slipping his tongue into your mouth and pressed you into the wall next to the door.

When you both pulled away for breath, you detangled your limbs, smoothing out his shirt and readjusting his tie.

He looked down at you, waiting for you to say something else as you met his gaze, grinning at him.

“I look forward to working with you, Doctor Reid.”

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n

[pandoraslxna]

hi luna, i found ur fics on ao3 and ran my ass to tumblr bc i just needed more of ur writing. you're so talented!!

i was wondering if you could write a lo'ak x reader story similar to the step bro!teyam fic where he makes contact with the sex pollen. it could be step bro!lo'ak or just reader's bsf idm bc i've been thinking abt that fic for agessss and i'd die for a lo'ak version even where reader is the one that touches the pollen instead 😭🫶 pretty pls and thanks in advance （╹◡╹）♡

Forbidden desires

adult Stepbro!Lo‘ak x female omatikaya reader

Words: 3.8k

Summary: Nine times out of ten, when you were sent to one of those old, abandoned RDA outpost facilities, it went just fine. But there's always that tenth time.

Warnings: explicit smut, stepcest (they’re not blood related), sex pollen, cowgirl position, creampie, teasing, praise

Nine times out of ten, when you were sent to one of those old, abandoned RDA outpost facilities, it went just fine. But there's always that tenth time. And of course it’s when your accompanied by your older stepbrother, who somehow seemed to magically attract any kind of danger ever since he was a kid.

Scavenging abandoned laboratories for essential supplies that the clan could use was usually safer than it sounded, but this place, it was far off your usual research zone and Jake- dad, he said you could call him dad. Well dad said, it would be better to not go alone this time, just in case.

The once bustling scientific havens now stands as a relict of the past, slowly succumbing to the relentless embrace of nature. The laboratory emerges from the foliage, structure weathered and worn by time. Moss and ivy clings to the cracked walls, intertwining with rusted metal equipment. Vines creep through broken windows and shattered glass, casting intricate patterns of sunlight onto the decaying floors.

This place smells sharp, metallic, so much like tawtutes [humans] and the rotting smell of death and burnt earth they leave behind. Not exactly a pleasant scent.

Inside, a sense of eerie tranquility fills the air. Dust particles dance in the faint beams of light that manage to pierce through the overgrown canopy. Dilapidated shelves line the walls, remnants of long-forgotten experiments, holding faded vials and forgotten notes.

Lab benches, once polished and pristine, now bear the scars of abandonment papers lay strewn across the floor, their text faded and illegible. The hum of electricity has long been silenced, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the fluttering wings of Riti [Stingbats] that were abruptly woken by the two na‘vi entering the long forgotten building.

Amongst the ruins, you search meticulously, your eyes scanning for useful remnants. You carefully examine cabinets, hoping to uncover unused medicine, bandages, exo packs that are still intact or any other useful tools.

Your stepbrother however, seemed to have other plans in mind.

"You shouldn’t touch that", you said, snatching his wrist mid way of him prodding at what you hoped was a fake skeleton. Lo‘ak let out a chuckle as he gazed down at you, both of his brows raised in amusement as he wriggled his hand free of your hold.

"Relax, tsmuke [sister]. Are you always this uptight when going on your little adventures?"

"I‘m not uptight, Lo‘ak. I‘m being careful", you said, shaking your head. "Jak– Dad taught me to be. You never know what the vrrteps [demons] could possibly be hiding here. And this isn’t an adventure, we‘re here to get supplies!"

"Right, of course. We‘re on a very important mission here", Lo’ak scoffs sarcastically, then proceeds to yank at the skeletons arm and point it in your direction, poking your hip with the boney finger when you roll your eyes at him. "You think they have traps set here to capture cute na‘vi girls? Ohh, isn’t that scary?"

"You’re an idiot", you giggle, swatting the hand away and playfully slapping your stepbrothers arm.

You both then take the steps up to the second floor of the building, and when you round a corner, you stop dead in your tracks. There was a "DO NOT ENTER" sign taped to the door that was slowly starting to peel off.

Experiments on animals or even na‘vi weren’t really uncommon, and you knew the horrors that the RDA was capable of, had heard and seen it yourself, especially in those research laboratories. Which is why you weren’t sure if whatever awaited behind this door was worth the few extra exo packs and bandages.

"We shouldn’t–"

"Oh, yes we should", Lo‘ak is quick to cut you off, all too eager to push the heavy metal door open. A rush of stale air fills your nostrils and you grimace at the smell.

"I should’ve just asked Neteyam to come with me", you mumble under your breath, closely following Lo‘ak into the room, who had a wide, excited grin on his face.

"And miss out on all the real fun?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "Yeah, you two would clearly make the better duo."

Rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help the feeling of unease that grew inside you, your eyes darting around the room, while your stepbrother's curiosity only intensified. Ignoring your trepidation, Lo‘ak stepped forward, drawn to a large, dusty table at the center of the room.

Among the scattered papers and broken equipment laid a few conical flasks, some of them still filled with droplets of a strange liquid.

Turning on your heals you took a quick 360°-spin. The room was small enough to get an overall view in less than a few seconds. There was nothing but this table and broken laboratory equipment. Nothing that seemed to be of worth for the clan, so you glanced back over your shoulder, already heading back to the door as you pleaded, "Lo‘ak, come on. There’s nothing in here, let’s just go back."

Lo’ak however, couldn't resist the temptation to tease you, playfully waving one of the glasses around. "Killjoy", he mutters under his breath, before shouting, "Here, catch", and throwing the conical flask in your direction. You shriek as you jump around to try and catch the glass in time, but it slips right past your fingers.

You both watch it fall like it’s happening in slow motion, until it bursts on the floor and the glass shatters in thousand little pieces.

As soon as the liquid inside makes contact with the tiled floor, it morphs into a small cloud of steam that smells awfully sweet and you end up coughing a few times before sending a glare in Lo‘aks direction. Sucking in a sharp breath, he makes an apologetic face and rushes to your side, careful not to step in any of the glass shards. "Shit, sorry! I‘m so sorry, are you hurt?"

"No, skxawng [moron]. I‘m fine", you clear your throat, "Great mother, you’re acting like such a child sometimes…"

"Yeah, I hear that a lot", he grins and you can’t help but smile at the coy flick of his tail. "C‘mere, can’t let you get hurt or dad will skin me", he murmurs, pointing at the glass, before scooping you into his arms and carrying you out of the room.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips and tickles Lo‘aks neck as you rest your chin on his shoulder. Your heart was still pounding from the scare, harder than you would like to admit. Nuzzling closer to his neck, you allowed your eyes to rest for a moment, just breathing in the natural, soothing scent of his skin, while he carried you downstairs. He smells so much like cedarwood, leather and freshly cut grass, you notice. And something else that you can’t quite put a name on, but it tingles your nostrils and makes goosebumps raise on the nape of your neck.

"You smell good", you mumble the words before you can throughly think them through, while pressing your nose against his throat. Your lips graze his skin and you can feel his upper body stiffen at that. "Was that a weird thing to say?" You ask calmly, almost a little too calm.

There’s a moment of silence before Lo‘ak shakes his head and murmurs a quick, "no."

Back at the main entrance, he gives a light squeeze to your hips, signaling you that he would let you down to your feet now, but your arms wrap around his neck tightly. He just smells so good, you want to stay here for a while longer. Lo‘ak is strong, you know he could effortlessly carry you all day.

"Can you hold me for a while longer?" Your own voice seems so far gone, so far away, you don’t even hear yourself properly, don’t even realize you’re speaking at all. Your skin tingles where Lo‘ak has his arms wrapped around you, and you can’t help but giggle and squirm, pressing yourself closer against him.

"Tanhì [little star], are you… are you okay?"

"Hmh", you hum, crossing your ankles behind his back like a Syaksyuk [prolemuris] clinging to it‘s mother.

"Are you sure?" There’s genuine concern in his voice, one of his hands running up your back, feeling your temperature at the nape of your neck. "You’re kind of burning up a little."

Your response almost sounds like a drunken mumble, "hmm strange. My heart‘s beating pretty fast too." It’s followed by a little giggle, and Lo‘ak frowns.

He‘s not panicking, not yet, but he knows something is wrong. This was really, really not normal behavior for you. He feels your face entirely too close to his pulse point, can feel your nose nuzzling against him, your lips brushing his throat. It’s not a kiss, he tries to make himself believe.

You’re not kissing up and down his throat. You’re not, because that would be wrong. Why would you— and then he feels it. Your tongue. His whole body shivers at the wet glide of your tongue on his throat, and Lo‘ak swallows thickly, before coming back to his senses.

"O-Okay, listen, uhm, I’m gonna put you down now", he scrambles, untangling you from his body to set you down to your feet. Your knees seem a little weak and Lo‘ak can’t help but reach out to hold you steady, ignoring the way it makes you blush and lean in on him again.

It doesn’t take a genius to come to the conclusion that whatever was in that glass container must’ve been some sort of drug or whatever. As soon as the coin drops, Lo‘aks heart fills with guilt. His expression shifts to that of worry and uncertainty as he ponders if calling his father would be a good idea. He knows he has to make sure you’ll be okay, has to get you to the tsahìk, but he knows just as well that dad will most definitely skin him alive if he finds his precious adoptive daughter in this condition.

"I feel weird, Lo'", you snap him out of his train of thoughts. Lo’aks hands are on your upper arms, holding you steady while simultaneously keeping some distance between you and him. His eyes scan you up down, and he almost chokes on his spit as he catches the way you clench your thighs together, squirming, and fiddling with the fabric of your loincloth. "Feels really weird… here", you tell him in a hushed whisper, one of your hands bullying it’s way between your clenched thighs. Your eyes are half lidded and glassy as you stare up at him through your lashes, your cheeks flushed in a dark red.

Now he’s panicking.

"S-Shit", he sputters. His eyes are wide as he adverts his gaze to somewhere, anywhere else but you, trying not to look at his stepsister touching and rubbing herself over her clothes. That’s bad, that’s really, really bad. "Let’s just get you home, yeah? I‘m– I‘m sure there’s a cure to whatever it is that you have."

One quick glance down to see if you had even heard what he just said, and he finds you still clumsily rubbing your hands between your thighs, seeking some sort of relief. "But you", he swallows thickly, "you really need to stop doing that, okay?" Lo’ak knows he doesn’t even sound half convincing, and it takes him more than just a bit of effort to not stare at you right now.

You look back at him under your lashes, bite your bottom lip and shake your head and he knows you’re doing that on purpose— working him up with those helpless little noises, sweet sounds of need and pleasure, thighs clenching and unclenching around your own hand.

"C-Can’t you just help me? Please, I- I need you."

One of your hands then closes around his wrist and before he realizes to where you’re guiding him, his palm cups your still covered cunt. He feels your slick drench the woven coverings under his fingertips and his eyes widen. "Need you here", you plead. "It hurts so bad, Lo‘ak. I‘m so empty."

"I– I can’t, we shouldn’t—" Lo’ak shakes his head, seemingly torn, but suddenly your lips press against his and he just can’t find it in himself to pull away.

Your lips are so soft, softer than he imagined (not that he imagined what kissing you would be like, ever) and the moment Lo‘ak finds himself kissing back you surge forward, the grip around his wrist tightens, urging him to stay right there, teeth nipping at his bottom lip until his lips part and he can taste you, your tongue slipping inside his mouth, your salvia mixing with his.

Your kiss is forceful and he’s so much more into it than he thought he’d ever be. And when you pull back your lips are red and wet, and he knows his mouth is probably a perfect mirror to yours.

"Fuck, tanhì, baby", he whispers, "Gonna get me in trouble…" And in an instant he’s on you again. His tongue tingles as it curls around yours, with drool running down his chin as he backs you up against a tree. You cling to him, desperate and wanting, not letting go of his wrist until he makes you understand that he’s only pulling away to get that damn loincloth out of the way. It nearly rips with the effort of getting it off, but when he finally succeeds you both clumsily pull each other to the ground.

This is wrong, he thinks as he spreads your legs opens. This is so wrong, he thinks as he runs his hands up and down your body, your chest, pushing your top out of the way.

You look so beautiful like this, chest heaving and covered in a thin layer of sweat. Hair messy and eyes dark with lust, pupils so blown it should make him worry, but he can’t bring himself to care when his gaze falls to the space between your thighs where slick oozes out of you in a concerning amount.

"Please- Please put it in, I need you", you slur, spreading your thighs further apart. "Need you inside."

Your pussy looks red and puffy, so sensitive as he runs two digits through your folds and then gently pushes them in. You gasp, but open up perfectly for him. It’s not enough, Lo‘ak can feel it. He curls his fingers, pumps them in and out a few times to hear those sweet moans tumble from your parted lips.

"You have to promise you won’t hate me after this", he says under his breath. His thumb glides over your clit, gently pushing its little hood up to bring the little nub into view and he can almost feel it throb under his touch. "I‘m just helping you out because you asked for it, alright?" Lo‘ak says it as if he’s talking to himself, reassuring that you want this, it’s okay, and maybe it actually is. Peeling his eyes away from the mouthwatering sight between your thighs he finally looks back up at you, swallowing the salvia that has been pooling in his mouth. "Promise you won’t hate me. Please." The restrain is clear in his voice, but he’s nowhere near as needy as you are. "C’mon, baby, say it. Tell me with your words."

"I won’t hate you, Lo‘ak just please–" Suddenly you shove him by the shoulders, rolling over until you’re the one straddling him, pinning him down to the ground. Your hand impatiently reaches between your thighs and feels for his cock, before repositioning it to prod his tip at your entrance. He bucks up into your hand as you give his cock a few pumps, pre-cum dribbling through your fingers.

The sight of him beneath you sends a throb straight to your cunt.

Lo‘ak sucks in a breath just as he’s about to tell you to wait, slow down, but then you‘re already slamming yourself down onto him without remorse. Fuck, it's so easy. Fits right in like a glove; overwhelmingly wet and warm, a terrible combination that scares him.

A punched out moan breaks from his throat as he feels the tightness of your velvety-like walls envelope his length. He’s so deep inside you, he can feel your cervix kissing his tip and it sends a shudder up his spine.

It's almost an out-of-body experience as you get on your haunches and lift yourself up, the head of his cock still nudged against your entrance, and he watches your gleaming lips part before you sink all the way back down again, taking him into the softest, most delicate parts of yourself.

Lo‘ak feels it and knows that he can’t change anything about the way he’s completely surrendering to your control- and he absolutely fucking loves it.

It’s so wrong, but that’s what brings a tingle to his fingertips. So dirty, but that’s what makes heat raise under his skin like a fire burning down a forest.

Lo’ak watches the way your belly contracts visibly, in time with the hitch in your breath at the first few thrusts. Your thighs tense and your fingers finds his braids to anchor yourself, and his hands find your hips and push you down harder on his length and he’s startled to realise how soft you are now, yielding to him in ways he’d never have imagined once. You’re putty in his hands, ridden by nothing but pleasure. A carnal need.

It’s luck that the adventures in Lo’aks life gave or showed him at least a bit of reservoirs of self-control that his karyus [teachers] never thought he had, because after those first few thrusts, you ride him vigorously.

Lo’ak doesn’t know how you’re this in sync, but he knows you want him to fuck you hard and fast. With his hands still gripping your hips tightly, he drives deep and eagerly into your weeping cunt, welcomed by that glorious softness again and again, and you wrap your arms around his neck and meet his thrusts as best as you can.

"Lo‘ak", you draw out his name in a long, pathetic moan, "more, need more!"

"Great mother, you’re greedy, baby," he huffs out in a laugh, grips your hips and holds you down on his cock for a second longer than necessary, just to feel your little cunt pulsate around him. You struggle briefly, before picking up the pace again, bouncing harder than before, but also more uncoordinated.

"S‘just so good," you slur, sounding almost drunk. "You feel so good inside me. Fuck me harder!"

Your tongue lolls out and he catches you mid way, tongues meeting in a hungry, filthy kiss. You taste awfully sweet as you moan into it, and Lo‘ak can’t help but think you would want spurs right now, to urge him on all the more. As if he needs that when you kiss him like this, when you hold him so close he feels your tits, soft and warm and perfect, press against his chest.

His cock throbs and you’re starting to quiver now, distinct from the more deliberate movements you both make. It shows in your breasts, makes your thighs tremble against his sides and makes tremors in your stomach muscles.

For a moment it switches from bouncing to grinding, and Lo‘ak knows what you’re trying to do. You grind and rub your needy little clit against his pubic bone, let out desperate noises of pleasure while you hump him.

Lo‘ak makes a hungry humming noise in return which he feels through his lips, once you break away from the kiss, then a breathy groan when he captures a nipple between his teeth. His tongue swirls around the little nub before he tugs and he enjoys the way you clench around him at this.

One of his hands comes up to palm the other, kneading your soft flesh and twirling a nipple between his digits.

"Come for me", he then says, flat tongue gliding over your breast before goosebumps raise underneath. "Come for me, tsmuke. Do it."

The scream you let out is borderline pornographic. It brings tears to your eyes and nearly tips you off balance if it weren’t for Lo‘ak holding you, fucking you through it with short but deep thrusts that send you gasping for air. "Hmh, there it is. Good girl," he groans, "keep coming for me, baby, just like that. Let it all out for your big bro, yeah? Let me feel how bad you wanted this. Look at me."

You force your eyes to stay on him, watch him as you fall apart, rocking your hips for that little bit of extra friction, and Lo’ak feels all of it. The wetness where you are slipping together, the tightness, the little tremors of your body, the pulse of your clit as it rubs against him.

Lo‘ak doesn’t even realize he’s coming himself because he’s entirely too focused on you. He’s bluntly staring at you, eyes half open, mouth agape. It’s like he is trying to burn the image of your pleasure ridden face and your picture perfect body on top of him into his brain forever. He wants to keep it stored away just for himself, to come back to after this is over because he knows he can’t have you again. Because this can’t happen again.

The wet plap, plap, plap of his thrusts continues until your thighs begin to shake and he’s sure he has emptied even the last drop of his cum into your core. It’s back to just grinding then, wet bodies pressing together, closer and closer until neither of you can’t move anymore.

You’re panting, exhausted and spent, your chest heaving to inhale big gulps of air into your burning lungs. Blinking a few times, Lo‘ak notes that your eyes are halfway back to normal, pupils not as big as they were, your skin feeling less feverish but all the more sticky than before.

Good, that’s good, right?

"You," a pause, he swallows, "you okay?"

Nodding and a little out of breath you confirm it with a quick, breathy, "yeah."

There’s a long, long moment of silence, with just the two of you looking at each other, sweat still pearling at your forehead and messy hair framing your beautiful face. Lo‘ak looks at you like he’s afraid breaking the eye contact would break the spell and you would shove him away and call him disgusting, but you don’t.

"I'm not sorry, you know" he says finally, when he can’t stand it anymore. "I would do it again. For you. I will do it again, in a heartbeat, if I...."

"If you have to," you finish for him.

Lo’ak considers pushing it, considers holding your face and speak more firmly so he could be sure he had your full attention while he tried to make you get it. "Yeah," he says gently instead, risking a half hearted grin that would surely give him away. "If I have to."

#avatar the way of water #avatar #avatar 2 #atwow #Lo’ak #lo’ak fic #lo’ak x female reader #lo’ak x reader #lo’ak x fem!reader #lo’ak x you #lo’ak x y/n #loak x female reader #loak x female reader smut #loak x reader #loak x reader smut #loak x you #loak x omatikaya!reader #loak x y/n #loak x sister!reader #loak #loak sully #atwow loak #avatar loak #loak smut #loak fanfiction #lo’ak sully #lo’ak te suli tsyeyk’itan #lo’ak avatar #atwow lo’ak #lo’ak smut

[il-miele-che-scrive]

Can I request something similar to your latest Lewis smau except y/n is Toto's daughter? It's controversial because she's younger, you know the drill

Sure!! <3 For this one I made Y/n a singer

Btw the song in this fic is made up lol

username1 She's PRECIOUS

username2 Y/n is so me

username3 Honestly that's so reletable

username4 I swear this girl will pet any creature she can, how isn't she scared of catching some disease?

↳username1 Have you ever heard of water? Is the concept of washing your hands familiar to you?

username5 Oh to be a cat pet by Y/n Wolff...

username6 A rich girl petting strays... Imagine how much of a better place the world would be if she put the same energy into some charity work

↳username7 Y/n is known for doing charity work when it comes to animals. Pretty sure some % of her earnings goes to several pet charities, organizations. Not to mention she's been vegan for a few years now

↳username8 Wow immagine if you did your research before commenting

↳username9 i love how Y/n was born into the rich life but has always been humble and used her money to help others

username10 Literally she gets a lot of hate for being a daughter of a billionaire like okay next time she'll choose to be born poor lmao

username11 exactly!! there's a difference between flexing on daddy's money and using your daddy's money for good causes

username9 pretty sure she makes her own money now;)

y/n_wolff Busy day at work 😋 look who I bumped into on the way to the studio!!

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georgerussell63 Look at you finally doing some work

↳y/n_wolff Don't worry, soon I'm back at my 2nd job (I just hang around the paddock looking all pretty and stuff)

georgerussell63 No, thank you ❤️ we don't miss you

lewishamilton Speak for yourself George, Roscoe likes when Y/n babysits him

y/n_wolff Roscoe is the only one who understands me for real 😭

roscoelovescoco Petition for an invitation next time you go to the studio

↳y/n_wolff I swear I sent one, it must've got lost on the way 🥹 the pigeon dropped it or something

roscoelovescoco Still using pigeons? That's not very vegan of you...

y/n_wolff Hey! I pay them, alright? If they didn't want to, they wouldn't do this job...

y/n_wolff (hey everyone this is a joke obv)

username3 Imagine what will happen when the haters see this comment section lol

mercedesamgf1 Can't wait to hear it ❤️

↳y/n_wolff 🫶

oscarpiastri Look at that last pic of Y/n with Lando

↳landonorris fuck you if I was an animal i wouldn't be a cat

y/n_wolff Right, you'd be a worm.

landonorris would you guys still love me if I was a worm?

oscarpiastri No

y/n_wolff No

username1 May this be a love song 🤞I need to her one from Y/n after her terrible breakup last year

↳username2 She had a boyfriend last year??

username1 Yeah, we don't know anything about him besides the fact that he broke her heart... Poor girl deserves some true love

username2 Was it a driver?

username1 I highly doubt it, they wouldn't be able to keep it so private

alex_albon Pls make it singable on track

↳y/n_wolff 😬 well...

alex_albon Y/n...

y/n_wolff It's a love song...

username4 SHE ADMITTED!! IT'S A LOVE SONG!!

↳username5 Our girl is in love again 😭

username4 I just hope he treats her better than her ex. Otherwise imma need to talk to him

maxverstappen1 If you like cats so much you should come over sometime

↳username4 Cats rizz 💀

↳username2 No cuz Max has had a crush on Y/n for so long now and I'd love to see them together

↳y/n_wolff You're a few weeks too late 😂🙈

username3 EXCUSE ME I NEED TO KNOW WHO THE MAN IS

username5 Me too, I just wanna talk... *cracking fingers*

y/n_wolff The one I prayed for out now, let me know your thoughts 🩷🕊️

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georgerussell63 Since when are you so religious?🤨

↳y/n_wolff He changed me ❤️

oscarpiastri Great, another song Lando will make me unwillingly listen to

↳y/n_wolff You love my music, don't lie

landonorris yes he does

oscarpiastri Alright, I know a few songs

y/n_wolff A few songs my ass, I saw that iconic interview where you and Lando sing my songs

landonorris he will never admit it but he was a fan YEARS before he got into f1 and met you

y/n_wolff Not like I stalk his Twitter but I saw a post from 2019 about me, it had like 5 likes and Oscar was one of them lmao

landonorris i knew you had daddy issues but are you okay?

↳y/n_wolff Yeah why?? Wtf??

landonorris well after hearing this song I'm not

username1 "They may judge the age we are, the differences they see, but love knows not of boundaries, it only seeks to be free" MY GIRL IS A POET 😭

username2 I'm not ready to meet this man after hearing "He's walked through fire, faced his fears, but in his heart, there's room for tears" 😭

carmenmmundt Truly in love with the lyrics, they're out of this world, out of this century

↳y/n_wolff Thank you love 🥹

lewishamilton The chorus got me in a chokehold💜

↳y/n_wolff He's the one I prayed for, in the dead of night, a love like ours, hidden from sight. If people knew, they'd say it's wrong, but in his arms I belong🥹

↳username4 What is Lewis doing here...?

username5 Chill, he drives for Mercedes. George also commented in case you didn't notice

username3 Lyrics so beautiful miss girl was born in the wrong generation

↳username2 fr it sounds straight from 20th century poetry, she's too pure for the age of quick tinder hookups

username6 I knew what her father was like but damn...that song screams daddy issues...

↳username7 Y/n said music is her therapy, that's just how she chooses to express her emotions

username8 When are we going to talk about this part of the lyrics?? "In his eyes, reflections of victory, every triumph and mystery. He's raced through life, faced every curve"?? THIS HAS TO BE ABOUT A DRIVER

↳username9 Y/N AND MAX???

username10 me when I'm delusional

↳username11 I wish it was about Max, but it's certainly about an older guy. I mean, Max is a few years older than Y/n, but the song feels like the guy is in his 30s

lewishamilton Summer break = days spent at the beach

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username1 Sir Lewis Hamilton casually adding his boss' daughter to his vacation pics 🤨

↳username2 fr did he think we wouldn't notice?

georgerussell63 Blink twice if Y/n forced you to post the last photo

↳lewishamilton She kindly asked and I agreed.

y/n_wolff Exactly. That's what I do. I ask. Kindly.

username3 SO HER SONG IS ABOUT HIM??

↳username4 Seems like it 🥹

username3 idk how I feel about it tbh... she's too young for him

username5 Yeah imo she'd be better with Max

username4 Shut the hell up guys, let them be happy, there must be a reason they're together

landonorris that's called soft launching, did you know that?

↳y/n_wolff Wdym?? We're just team bonding during the summer break

georgerussell63 Then why wasn't I at the team bonding?

y/n_wolff Uhhhh I'll call you back later, I'm driving through a tunnel 😬

username6 She's too young for him, will have her fun and move onto the next guy (Max?)

↳username7 You're the reason why so many celebs prefer to keep their relationships a secret

username8 WHAT DID TOTO SAY??

↳username6 Does he even know? 💀 AFAIK he doesn't have social media

username8 But it's impossible that he wouldn't know, right...?

y/n_wolff I love you but what is this basic caption?😭

↳lewishamilton I'd rather like to focus on how pretty you look

y/n_wolff I LOVE YOU 😭

landonorris simp

y/n_wolff Stfu Lando, you wish you could hang out with us at the beach

username3 Lmao didn't expect Lando calling the 7 times world champion a simp but here we are

username9 Okay guys but... The girlfriend effect? How will the girlfriend effect work in this case if Lewis is a fashion icon already?

↳username10 There must be a way for an upgrade, there always is

y/n_wolff Sorry, he's all perfect already🫶I guess the gf effect only applies to boys and my man is a real man🗡

maxverstappen1 Have fun ☀️ see you back on track soon

↳username6 Something doesn't feels right seeing Max in this comment section...

username10 Get your shit together, him and Y/n never had a thing, y'all made it all up based on one interview Max gave years ago

mercedesamgf1 🌞😎

y/n_wolff He's the one I prayed for

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lewishamilton I love you babe but what is this basic caption?

↳y/n_wolff You're learning from the best, I see

georgerussell63 Good to know you're still team bonding 👍

↳y/n_wolff Yeah, we bonded really hard last night😌

georgerussell63 TMI

oscarpiastri The last pic 🤓

↳landonorris she's getting bold isn't she

y/n_wolff I don't have reasons to be shy tho, do I?

landonorris girl made one good song and made it her whole personality

↳y/n_wolff This is girlhood, you'd never get it

landonorris btw this is hard launching but in a 'we don't give a fuck' way

↳y/n_wolff Well, we don't 🤷‍♀️

username1 WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LITTLE Y/N😭

↳username2 She grew up 😭

username3 I love how nonchalant they're about it

carmenmmundt Someone's been working out🤭

↳y/n_wolff Now I have a personal trainer 😌

username4 WHAT DID TOTO SAY??

↳username5 Bet we're gonna see much more of smashing his headset after the break

username6 How is she so casual about it? We just found out she's dating LEWIS MF HAMILTON and she's acting like that's nothing

↳username3 I guess it is 'nothing' for her, she's known Lewis since she was really young

username7 That's what's giving me the biggest ick because this man has known her since she was an early teen and suddenly decided to date her?

username3 Yeah but she's in her 20s now, she's a consenting adult

username7 That's not normal, this is the definition of grooming

username3 I'm sorry I'm too european for your bullshit

username8 Lewis said fuck it I'm going to Ferrari next year anyway, might as well shoot my shot 💀

username9 Max Verstappen has been really silent

↳username10 Now he'll compete with Lewis not only for the championship but also for Y/n 😂

username9 It would be such a win

username11 Can y'all MaxY/n shippers shut up? I swear y'all are worse than Lestappen shippers

y/n_wolff Roscoe working hard while his dad socializes with his grandpaw 🥳

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username1 I didn't even realize now that Y/n and Lewis are together it means Toto is Roscoe's grandpaw 😭

georgerussell63 Working hard or hardly working?

↳y/n_wolff No comment...

landonorris really shocked to see toto still gets along with lew

↳username2 Lando saying what we all think lol

↳y/n_wolff Dad was actually happy!!

landonorris does he hope you'll convince lew to stay in mercedes?

y/n_wolff How am I supposed to know 🤷‍♀️ you go talk to him

oscarpiastri New songs when?

↳y/n_wolff Soon!! (I haven't started working on them)

username2 I'm actually happy to see them happy and that Toto accepts Lewis as Y/n's boyfriend

↳username3 It's still weird 💀 imagine calling a 40 year old your 'boyfriend'

username2 People are allowed to find love at any age

username3 Lewis is closer in age to Toto than to Y/n

username2 And? Y/n isn't a child, she's a grown woman, if Lewis is what she wants, who are we to judge?

username3 It's just icky... It's not gonna last long

username4 I still can't stop thinking what could be if Y/n was dating Max 🥹

↳username5 fr my dream couple

username6 Y'all see how Y/n predicted people's reaction in her song? "If people knew, they'd say it's wrong" and y'all can't stop yapping about imaginary grooming or what her and Max could've been

↳username7 Girl should've kept it a secret, I feel sorry for them 🥲

↳username8 But in his arms I belong

y/n_wolff Okay everybody, I didn't want to talk about it, but you give me no choice. Lewis and I are in love, there was no grooming involved, I make my own decisions. I really wanted to cherish our love with my new music, but you make me re-think it. I don't feel excited to share our love with you anymore.

↳lewishamilton Don't worry about them darling ❤️

↳danielricciardo FEA

↳landonorris You have our support guys

↳oscarpiastri Don't let these comments get to you, they don't matter

↳georgerussell63 I know I usually act like a snappy older brother, but I love to see you happy (even if Lewis is the reason)

↳maxverstappen1 Haters are always gonna hate, but they don't deserve your attention

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #F1 smau #Formula one smau #lewis hamilton smau #lewis hamilton social media au #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine

[withloveajaxx]

are you forgetting something?

𓂅 genre: modern! childe, scaramouche, diluc, and xiao x gn! reader fluff

𓂅 warnings: none 

𓂅 summary: how they react when you forget to kiss them or say "i love you" back to them before you leave 

𓂅 notes: HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONEE. here's some smol hcs to kick off 2023 hehe. i've never really written for scaramouche before so forgive me if his characterization is a little off for this fic :"D i'm trying to slowly get back into writing for genshin so i'm going with a classic, fluffy crack prompt that i've always felt like writing ^^ hope you guys enjoy and have a wonderful day ahead!! 

CHILDE

he's dropping you off at your friend's house for your little night out and your rushing to belatedly make yourself a little more presentable 

childe can't help but chuckle when you turn to him asking, "what do you think? do i look alright?" 

"you look beautiful as always, love. now go get in there before your late."

he leans his cheek closer to you, expecting a goodbye peck when you open the door to get out. "take care and call me when you need to get picked up, alright?" when you hum in response he adds, "love you!" 

"yup! see you, ajax!" you reply, getting out and shutting the door. at this, childe is offended, jaw dropping at the lack of a reply and a kiss. 

he thinks this is completely unacceptable. mans literally honks his horn aggressively until you come back to the car, brows furrowed in wordless confusion. 

"excuse me?" he questions you, rolling down the window with a faux pout on his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest. "are you forgetting something?" 

cheeky bastard taps his cheek with raised brows in part question and part demand. "i said i love you too, you know?" 

you can't help but laugh at his absurd behaviour, leaning into the window to finally plant a kiss on his awaiting cheek. his charming smile finally makes its way back onto his features when you accompany your gesture with a, "love you too." 

"mhm. now get in there and have fun. i'll see you later, love.". he can't help the slight blush that dusts his freckle filled cheeks when you peck him one last time, just for good measure, before heading inside the house. god he was so whipped for you. 

SCARAMOUCHE

when you're rushing to leave your shared apartment for a class you were running late for one day, scara is suffering on the couch with his laptop on, research document open and empty. 

he eyes you as you're rushing to gather all your bags and other belongings, making sure you don't trip or hurt yourself in a rush from a distance. 

once you finally have all your things, you turn to see scara, who is already glaring at the blank document on his laptop. 

in usual fashion, he hears you greet him a goodbye with, "i'm heading out now. see you later, kuni." 

in an unusual fashion however, he doesn't hear the familiar and cheerful "i love you!" that escapes your lips once you open the door. 

he coughs loudly and repeatedly when you put even a single foot out the door and levels you with a look that screams "are you stupid?" 

"what?" you ask him obliviously, rechecking all your bags and documents before also asking, "am i forgetting something?"

"yeah. a really important thing," he comments with an unreadably, deadpan face. when a confused silence is all he gets in reply, he sighs, narrowing his eyes at you with a light blush blooming across his cheeks.

"don't make me say it.". it's only then that you realize what you forgot, smiling and laughing lightheartedly with amusement. 

"you're cute kuni." his cheeks flush brighter at the statement. "i love you and take care!". he returns your greeting with an exasparated sigh and a light nod before you go rushing out the door, unable to witness the smallest smile that creeps onto his lips.

DILUC

it's a daily routine for you guys to get ready for school/work together and greet each other with a goodbye kiss once you part ways. 

on a particular day when you had a really important presentation, the walk to your usual parting point was enveloped in a comfortable silence. 

diluc simply held your hand and let you practice your presentation, muttering unintelligible words and phrases under your breath. 

when you finally get to parting ways, diluc takes a moment to encourage you for your presentation. 

"good luck with your speech today, darling. i know you can do it. i'll see you when i get home alright?"

you nod absentmindedly, smiling before routinely pecking diluc's cheek. "mhm. have a good day, luc." 

when you start to walk away, he grabs your wrist gently and unexpectedly, turning you to face him once more. 

"yes, luc?" you ask curiously, intertwining your fingers with his own gingerly. 

"you're forgetting something, love," he chuckles lightly, squeezing your intertwined hands gently. "i love you." 

a soft smile adorns both your features as you give diluc a lingering kiss before replying with your own "i love you", regrettingly parting ways afterwards. 

XIAO

both you and xiao are walking into the school's campus. after a mundane lunch, it was time for both of you to part ways and get to classes. 

he accompanies you to your class, walking with you hand in hand in the school's surprisingly free hallways.

the short stroll is accompanied by a comfortable silence, the lack of a crowd of students creating a peaceful atmosphere. 

it's only when you arrive at your lecture hall that xiao loosens his hold on your hand, gesturing for you to go inside. 

your friends are excitedly waving at you from the other side of the hall, thus you hurry to get to them.

"i'll see you later, okay?" you squeeze his hand reassuringly before looking at your friends with a glimmer of excitement. "bye, xiao!" 

the moment you let go of his hand without your usual goodbye kiss or at least an 'i love you', his hand subconsciously reaches out for yours once again. 

thankfully, you take notice of his action and turn to him once more with a quizzical look on your face. "is something wrong?" you ask him.

he wants to say something about you forgetting to give him a kiss but the thought of saying something so sappy makes his face heat up in embarrassment. you can tell he wants to say something by the unsure look in his eyes, but he holds himself back, shaking his head. "nothing. you should head to class." 

the blush gives him off entirely because you can read him like an open book. his heart skips multiple beats when you lean in and plant a brief kiss on his cheek with a wide smile. "there. love you, and see you later, okay?". his cheeks flare up even more as he replies, "mhm. love you too…"

© withloveajaxx 2023. please do not copy, plagarize, or translate in any way.

#iely's writing #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin impact headcanons #childe x reader #childe x y/n #childe x you #childe headcanons #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you #scaramouche headcanons #diluc x reader #diluc x you #diluc x y/n #diluc headcanons #xiao x reader #xiao x you #xiao x y/n #xiao headcanons #01/01/2023

[effortandmore]

the sleeping hours | knj x f!reader

summary: namjoon thinks there must be infinite versions of the universe, and in every one he’s known, he’s meant to love you. 

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: fluff, smut, angst

au: okay. so this is canon-compliant but also maybe a little bit of a time-travel/multiverse au

warnings/tags: here we go... time travel (kind of), discussions of war, descriptions of famine, talks of anarchy/revolution, descriptions of ww2 germany and nazis, minor character death (not a tannie), implied gun violence, the japanese occupation of korea, sex worker!namjoon, soldier!namjoon, architect!namjoon, idol!namjoon, spy!reader, namjoon has a big dick (ofc), mentions of blood... smut, including: biting, unprotected sex, sex work (this is not the unprotected sex), oral sex (f!receiving), a little bit of cumplay... idk i think that's all but honestly it's not as weird as it sounds i promise

word count: ~12k

a/n: i have wanted to write a songfic for "here i dreamt i was an architect" by the decemberists for... years now. and with my three month vacation from work, i've finally done it! listening to the song will help this make more sense, but essentially there are three verses, and they start like this: "here i dreamt i was a soldier," "here i dreamt i was an architect," & "and in spain i was a spaniard." so, i thought it would be fun to turn that into a story about namjoon and reader across all these different universes. my research for this fic was completely unhinged, and i'm sure i still got some things wrong. if you need translations for any of the dutch, german, or spanish in this, lmk but i think it's pretty readable given context. i hope you like it, but even if you don't, i'm glad i wrote it. thank you so so so much to @ugh-yoongi who assured me this was not too unhinged for the locals—ily and i appreciate you

read on ao3

Namjoon always tells people he doesn’t have dreams, but it’s a lie… Sort of.

If these are dreams, he doesn’t know how billions of people aren’t talking about them like they’re magical experiences, can’t fathom why so many people still don’t believe in multiverse theory.

Lying about it seems infinitely easier than trying to explain it to people. His “dreams,” if that’s what they are, seem so real. He can smell the scents, he can feel the rain and the blood and the orgasm that courses through him when he inevitably, in every single one, finds a version of you. When he wakes up, he can feel the phantom pain, feels like his skin’s just barely dried out from a shower, feels loose and lazy with the pleasure he’d felt while he was asleep. 

So, he says he doesn’t dream, because he’s halfway convinced they’re actually happening, and he has absolutely no clue how to explain that to anyone. He thinks there must be infinite versions of the universe, infinite versions of him. At first, he thought maybe it was a past-lives sort of thing, but he’s lived parallel paths on different parts of the planet during the same time frames. Or, he’s dreamt that he has, anyway… maybe they’re dreams. Maybe not. What he’s sure of, though, is that you must be out there in the universe he lives in—you must exist outside of this near fugue state where he always finds you. If you’re on the streets of Germany during the war, if you’re in Andalucia dancing the flamenco and catching his eye on every twirl… If you’re fleeing with him to Jeju as more and more Japanese soldiers encircle your small farm town… If you’re all of those places, he knows you must be here, too. 

There must be infinite versions of the universe, and in every one he’s known, he’s meant to love you. 

Every dream is different, but the love he feels for you? It’s always the same, and it goes like this: 

Birkenau, Germany — April, 1942

He comes to, and he’s lying in a cot. It’s dark. It would be pitch black, except there’s a crack of light on the floor that’s muted and warm-looking even though the air around him still carries a bit of leftover winter chill. Somehow, he knows there’s a coal shortage this spring because of the war. There’s an everything shortage, really. No coal, no clothes, no food… He can’t think of a time he’d eaten anything but potatoes in days… Namjoon can’t think of anything, really. It’s strange, his memories feel dull, rounded around the edges and blurred out, everything just slightly out of reach. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, maybe it’s hypothermia (he’s a little dramatic), maybe it’s hunger; he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know, because there’s not much to be done about whatever it is. Knowing the future doesn’t always mean you can change it, he thinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

The clothes he is wearing are stiff—they make it hard for him to bend his elbow to reach his own face. There’s a worn crease in his right sleeve from saluting, dirt that will never scrub out on his lapels… his badges and patches do a poor job of covering the wear and tear. Although his brain isn’t fully awake, the thoughts still cloudy, two are clear: he is ready for this war to be over and he is terrified that he is a little in love with the woman lying next to him. 

If someone asked him how he got here, to Birkenau, Germany in the middle of the spring in 1942, he couldn’t tell them (a consequence of for some reason not remembering anything concrete prior to this week at the moment—just feelings and sensations and language and you). He feels as if he doesn’t belong at all and at the same time, as if he’s always existed right here. 

He teases you awake slowly. Whispers sweet nothings to you in a language he finds himself surprisingly fluent in—it’s not his native one. He doesn’t know if it’s yours, either, but he knows you like hearing his voice. Remembers how you ask him to tell you stories of his home, how you hum softly along with the folk songs he sings to you when he thinks you’re almost asleep in his arms. He knows he likes the noises you make as you start to come to, knows you need a soft re-entry into wakefulness or else you’re a little off for the rest of the day. 

You’d both fallen asleep after what some people would call lunch, although the persistent pit in Namjoon’s stomach would argue that. It’s hard to have energy when you can’t really eat, so the two of you do your best to conserve it. 

Tonight, though, tonight he wants to be special. The carnival is in Birkenau this week, maybe longer, but he won’t know. He’ll leave soon, onto the next base, the next battle. It’s a miracle he’s able to go tonight, being a foreign soldier here is dangerous and the demands on him are high. He wears his uniform while he sleeps to stay warm, but doesn’t dare wear it in this town outside of this private and safe space that you’ve carved out for him. It’s been going on for a while, this sneaking away to be with you. There’s another soldier, Seokjin, on his base, who always covers for him. Namjoon doesn’t know how, it’s one of the fuzzy things he can’t figure out. Regardless, he’s here with you now and he knows he’s always grateful to his fellow soldier. And here, he’s someone different. He’s not Namjoon the soldier, he’s Namjoon who loves you, who will give up almost anything to be with you. 

Except the one thing you ask him to. 

He may be grateful to escape for a while, but he is duty-bound—loyal to his country, to the cause. He is, above everything, a soldier, and that cannot change. The Remington on the cheap bedside table is his best friend, and a reminder that this between you is dangerous, that it has a time limit. 

And you? You have to leave, too. He knows it, you know it. It’s not safe for you here, probably just as dangerous as it is for him. 

You don’t wear a uniform, you don’t carry a gun (often), but you move under the cover of the night and you deal in secrets you’re not supposed to know. The work you do is just as important as his—sometimes he thinks it’s probably even moreso. He admires you, adores you, thinks you’re brave and beautiful and brilliant. Maybe he thinks some of those things because of how dangerous you are, because of the risks you’re willing to take. Being with him, hiding him here with you is a big one. 

Beside him, you stir. Your voice is a melody, always lilting, tumbling from one word to the next. “Love you, Namjoon. What time is it, baby?” Later, he won’t know why he never thinks it’s strange that you weave words across several languages. Maybe that’s just how all spies are; and that’s what you are, at the core of it, isn’t it?

“Is it time?” you ask into the darkness. 

“Yes. I need to change and then we can go.” 

“Do you think we’ll find something to eat there?” 

Namjoon smiles even though you can’t see him in the dark. “We will. Sausages and sauerkraut, I’m sure.” He waits for you to make the gagging sound he knows you’re about to. 

You do. “I hate German food,” you complain. “Can’t wait to get out of here once and for all.” 

“They’ll have schnitzel,” he says, trying to make you laugh.

“Germans and their pork,” you say dismissively, “swine for swine.” 

“They’re not all bad.” He means it, but it sounds a little weak when he says it. It’s hard to see the forest for the trees, sometimes. Doesn’t help that the both of you see the worst of people… that the both of you sometimes are the worst of people. 

“Hmm…” you hum, he knows you agree with him. “I know, I'm sorry. I’m just tired. And don’t want to leave you.” 

“I know.” 

“You could come with me. Run away with me, Namjoonie.” 

When you say it, he almost believes it could work. Knows it wouldn’t, knows you’d both end up dead or worse, knows he could never go home, never see his mother again. Knows it would break his heart to bear witness to the secrets you have to keep, to the lives you take. 

He never responds, just lumbers off of the cot and strips his uniform off, trades it for the street clothes you keep here for him. They’re ill-fitting, cheap and scratchy. He loves them because they smell like you, smell like the soap you carry with you from France—lavender from Provence—the one luxury you allow yourself. 

The two of you walk hand in hand through back alleys and quaint cobblestoned neighborhoods, making your way to the carnival. He hears the barkers getting louder the closer you get, promising fun and winnings and love and only happy fortunes told. In reality, there are no happy fortunes here, and you both know that. But Namjoon’s happy to give into the fantasy of it all, just for tonight. Just to see you smile. He’d do anything to see you smile. Except…

“Win me a prize,” you coo sweetly. It’s futile, since you never take anything with you, and later tonight (or very early in the morning), you will leave Birkenau for good—a mission needs completing, and dead or alive, you won’t be back here again. 

“Whatever you want, jagiya.” 

You bounce on your heels in excitement and drag him to a booth, one offering cheap stuffed birds. There are swans, peacocks, parrots, ducks… He doesn’t know what you’re drawn by, but he’ll knock over as many milk jugs as he has to get you what you want. 

“My strong soldier,” you whisper in his ear after he knocks the top three over. It makes him grin, makes him show you his dimples. He loves you so much, loves how you tease and bait him with your words—then with your body in the privacy of your hideaway. Loves your confidence and your unwavering belief. Loves your conviction. “You can do it, Namjoon.” 

He does. 

The final three jugs topple off the ledge. With you by his side, he thinks he can do anything. He knows he can. 

“Wähle eins,” the barker shouts at him, Dutch accent thick in his German.

“De pauw,” you answer immediately in his native tongue, pointing to the top shelf.

The man pulls one of the blue birds down and hands it to you with a smile. You can charm anyone, Namjoon thinks. A skill you’ve honed doing the work you do, he supposes. “Voor de dame,” the huckster says with a bow and a flourish of his hand. 

You giggle as you take it. Namjoon’s enamored with you. 

As the two of you wander (you clutching the peacock tightly under your arm), he watches as you make friends with a fortune teller and charm free pieces of chicken schnitzel from a mustached French man. Your greatest feat is sneaking the two of you onto the ferris wheel. Namjoon’s in awe of how you move—though sleight of hand is usually what he catches you at, you’re not as skilled a pickpocket as you are a liar—how you can weave in and out of a crowd unnoticed, how you can blend in with any surrounding, any language, any group… It’s a skill he wishes he possessed, too. He’s too large, a little lumbering, a little awkward in his long limbs made to feel longer as he loses muscle to months of being malnourished. But somehow, you make him nimble, you make him invisible to everyone but you. He wants to chase that feeling forever, wants to bottle it up and uncork it again when you’re gone, when he’s so desperate with the want of you that he’s got no other solace. 

Bellies unusually full, legs tired, and peacock secured, he leads you back to your basement apartment. He pulls you along to follow a different path to return than the one you took there—a trick he’s learned from you. Don’t give people the opportunity to see your face twice. 

It’s still dark, and you have no electricity, no oil for your lamps, so Namjoon makes love to you by memory. 

He feels so foggy, but this he knows how to do, like he’s done it a million times and will do it a million more until you and he become different versions of the same thing. Maybe you already are. 

Slowly, using time you don’t have, he undresses you. He’s careful with the buttons of your blouse after he slides your cardigan off of your shoulders. Takes time to press his nose into the skin of your neck once it’s exposed, to try and remember the way that you smell, that lavender soap and the iron of the hard bathwater and the danger that rolls off of you in waves. 

When he lets his arms drop from your body, you walk backward toward the cot, unlacing your skirt as you go. Namjoon can’t see you well, but he hears the sounds of the cotton strings being pulled through the gussets, the soft swoosh of it hitting the floor when you shimmy out of it. 

“Come here, Namjoonie,” you whisper. He would, even if you didn’t ask. Wouldn’t be able to help himself. Always pulled to you like a magnet. 

“Yes, jagiya,” he breathes, now trembling fingers removing his own clothes as he moves. When he finally can feel your skin under his hand, he’s fully undressed, thinks you are, too. Lets his fingertips explore your limbs just to confirm. 

You straddle him on the cot, press your thumbs into the meat of his thighs and tell him he’s brave, powerful, that you’re so lucky he’s chosen you. But he knows it wasn’t a choice. Can’t explain it, but he’s always existed for you, would always find you. Couldn’t choose anyone else if he wanted to. 

He doesn’t. 

The way you kiss him feels like forever, but he knows better. Chases something deeper and messier as his heart rate rises. Knows you don’t have time to draw it out, knows he won’t be able to be as gentle with you as you deserve. No one’s ever gentle with you, is what you always tell him. People who know you know how dangerous you are and they treat you accordingly. Except Namjoon. Namjoon who reveres you and knows you and he are cut from the same cloth—the one where you need to fight for what’s right at any cost. It doesn’t make you dangerous to people who don’t deserve the battle scars you dole out, he thinks. It makes you a hero. To him, you are a lionheart. 

Your palms press into his chest above his own heart and you sink onto his length. Every time you’ve been together seems to bleed together for him, but he knows you know exactly how to move to bring him bliss, knows you feel like the god who seems to have abandoned you made the two of you for one another. 

It’s a risk, but he reaches up to pull the thick curtain back just a few millimeters. Wants the sliver of light to illuminate the tendons in your neck with your head thrown back as you ride him. Wants to see the peaks of your nipples, the smooth skin over your ribcage, the mole you have right on the plateau of your collarbone. Wants to let his eyes roll back in his skull, that’s how good you feel, but can’t let himself pull his attention from your body. 

“Come here,” he says quietly, wraps his spindly arms around you and pulls you down so your chest is flush with his. “Be with me,” he almost begs, “look at me, love.” 

Your hands cup his face, and his guide your hips on top of his. 

“I want to feel like this forever,” he thinks he hears you say, and Namjoon can see a tear dripping down your cheek before you lean in to press your lips to his. He licks at your mouth, gets you to open for him, plays melodies along your tongue with his. 

He thinks they’re love songs. 

He hopes you know. 

You’re all tight heat around him, and your nipples brush his chest in time with his tongue brushing yours. Your lavender scent is a balm, your tears drip onto his cheeks from above, and your breaths come shallow and labored as he fucks into you. 

“I think I’ll love you forever,” he says. 

“Mijn schat...” You whisper, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone and smiling the sad kind of smile. Quietly, you tell him that you want to feel him, beg him to move.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t stop. Thrusts into you, lets the sound of his skin against yours get louder and filthier. He knows he should stop. Can’t make himself. “Are you sure?” he asks, but it’s probably too late. 

You’re nodding anyway, letting out a sweet little moan when his fingers find your clit and he comes, deep inside of you. Feels like a claim he shouldn’t be making. Gets one back from you just moments later when you squeeze around his softening cock, shuddering with your release above him. 

Against his chest, you breathe, and he waits for the moment when your inhales align with his. It’s going to be the last time you share the same air, he thinks. 

Your work tonight will be messy. He doesn’t ask what that means, thinks he already knows. Eyes the Remington in his periphery and you give him a tight-lipped confirmation. Yes, you have things you have to do. Yes, they’re worth sacrificing your life if you have to. 

Namjoon spends a lot of time wondering about the balance between sacrifice and selfishness. 

Never seems to decide where he sits on the spectrum. 

Lithe like you are, he should barely feel it when you climb off of him, but it’s a crushing weight. Feels like his heart might be melting, like his lungs can’t expand anymore.

Once you’re dressed—in clothes he’s never seen before, those usually given to people of a different gender, maybe a different time—he watches you toss your skirt into the hearth first, then the clothes you’ve been lending him for your trysts. He watches you find the smallest vial of kerosene and some tinder you’d been collecting and add those, too. It’s as if he can see you in your full vibrancy now: focused on the mission, focused on destroying the you that has existed in this space, the him that has loved you. 

The fire burns more brightly than he could have imagined after all the time you’ve spent together in the dark. It allows him to see the hope in your eyes when you lean down to kiss him one last time. Allows him to see the tears you no longer let fall when you hand him the peacock, press it close to him so he can hold it like a child.

“Why the peacock?” he asks when you turn to leave. It’s the only question he can think of that he suspects you’ll give him an answer to. 

“Immortality, Joonie. You know, the Greeks thought the flesh of the peacock would never decay? Perfect and enduring even in death.” 

“Are you the peacock or am I?” 

“I guess we’ll find out,” you say as you heave open the door.

He shudders with the cold gust and wishes he knew what to say. Wishes he could choose you over his gun. Wishes you would choose him over yours. 

“Until next time, Joonbug,” you say against the wind. 

You pull the door hard behind you, and when it punches shut, Namjoon is startled out of his dream. 

Seoul, South Korea — Present Day

“You gotta stop falling asleep in here, hyung.” Jeongguk’s voice is almost drowned out by Seokjin’s laugh. 

“I covered for you at the last meeting, told them you were chasing down an idea… don’t interrupt a genius… creative flow… you know.” 

Namjoon rubs his eyes and sits up. Of course he’s not in Germany during World War two. Of course he’s in his studio in Gangnam, and apparently he’s slept through a meeting. 

He hates these dreams because he feels so thrown off when he wakes up. The pain of losing you always sticks with him for a while afterwards, makes his whole world tilt about one degree. Not enough to change anyone but him, but more than enough to notice.

He loves the dreams because he gets to be with you—tries not to let that thought be concerning. 

“What’s that smell?” he asks, still half asleep. 

“What smell?”

“Mmm… you know, the lavender smell.” 

“Hyung, are you having a stroke?”

“I think people who have strokes smell toast,” Jin says. 

“Nevermind,” Namjoon sighs as he gets off the couch. “Thanks for covering for me, hyung.” 

“You owe me now.”

“Sure, yeah. Of course.” Agreeing is always easier than arguing with Jin. 

Namjoon’s awake enough now to notice the looks that Jeongguk and Seokjin are passing between each other. He knows they know something’s going on with him, sees how they adjust the ways they move around him after these dreams, when he’s out of sorts and halfway out of commission for a half a day or so. It’s not just them, either. Jimin has tried to talk to him about it, but didn’t get very far. Hoseok knows Namjoon’s had a few bad dreams, but that’s the extent of it.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell them, it’s more that he doesn’t know how to explain it without sounding like he’s completely batshit. Doesn’t know how to tell them that he knows you’re real, that he believes in you the same way he believes in the existence of his sister or his best friend, Heeyoung. It’s part of the problem, really. Because every time he has one of these dreams, he finds himself actually looking for you. In real life. In Seoul. In every city they have a show in. Thought he saw you once in Switzerland, but was too afraid to get close enough to know for sure… Still isn’t sure if he regrets that or not.

It really messes with him when he’s in a city that he’s dreamed you in. Once, in Sevilla, he was too fucked up about it to even leave the hotel room. Tried to explain to one of the managers that something bad had happened last time he was there, but it got complicated when Namjoon couldn’t explain when exactly that was. 

“What’s on your mind, Namjoonie?” Seokjin’s tone is gentler now, cautious. 

“Spain.” 

Another look of concern between Jeongguk and their hyung. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jeongguk asks softly. “Sometimes it helps to talk about things—you taught me that.” 

He can’t help but smile at that. Caught in his own words. And he’s so tired of this, so tired of feeling like no one will understand… he’s tempted. To be honest, he could probably talk about it with Taehyung. Maybe that’s what he should do, he thinks. Tae would listen, wouldn’t judge him. But maybe Jeongguk and Seokjin wouldn’t either. Namjoon has assuredly done more questionable things than possibly believe in a ghost. Or whatever you are. 

He sits back down on the couch. “I’ve been having these weird dreams,” he says. 

“About Spain?” Jeongguk and Seokjin find seats to settle into, too. 

“About a girl, mostly.” 

“Want to tell us about her? Is she Spanish? Is she someone you know?”

“I’m not sure,” Namjoon admits. “She’s whoever I want her to be, I think.” 

Seokjin’s eyebrows almost lift off his face. “Okay, Namjoonie. Why don’t you tell us about these dreams?” 

Namjoon nods. “Well, the one I just woke up from, we were in Germany.”

“All of us?” Jeongguk asks. 

“No, I don’t think so. Just her and me. I think hyung maybe, too, but I never saw him in the dream.” He gestures to Seokjin. 

“But you have these dreams often?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And one of them was in Spain?”

Namjoon’s not sure what they’ll think of him once he tells them, but maybe he doesn’t have to give everything away, he decides. Maybe he can just tell him about one of the dreams and see what they think. 

“Yeah, I can tell you about it if you want.” 

Jeongguk nods eagerly and Jin does, too. He supposes he can’t back out now. 

“Alright… well, here’s what I remember…” 

Andalucia, Spain — Summer, 1913

The heat is relentless. 

Namjoon sweats so much under normal conditions—this is borderline torture. If it were up to him, he’d be back in Sevilla with you, content in the small pension you both scrape together rent for every week. It’s shaded by the orange trees surrounding it, feels safe and private and cool, and most importantly, it’s yours. 

Ronda is less forgiving. Maybe because he doesn’t know it as well, isn’t sure who might be someone to know and who might just be pretending. He’s done this for long enough that he thinks he has a pretty good sense for it, but he’s still sucked into having his time wasted on occasion. Wouldn’t mind it so much except it’s time spent away from you. 

Blas Infante has been yelling on the steps for a while. His throat should be raw, but the adrenaline of agitating the people of Andalucia keeps him fresh, voice ringing clearly through the square. Namjoon has been watching the wealthiest in the crowd drift away, paying attention to where they’re going, making sure he’s got a line on which bars and cafes will be the best to move on to. The time is about right, he thinks. They’ll be a few drinks in and soon the wider crowd will disperse. Wants to make sure he can find a seat at the bar next to someone rich, attractive if possible. If they’re a little desperate that’s even better. 

They probably all will be given the way the political winds are shifting in Andalucia.

As he turns from the crowd, he hears Padre de la Patria Andaluza shout, “the moment has come for the privileged to die!” The remaining crowd roars like the lions on their flags, angry and proud. He agrees with them—as long as he gets his money first. 

When he slides onto the barstool, he makes sure to order his own drink first. Chilled palo cortado says he’s from around here but maybe a little down on his luck, otherwise, he’d be drinking Fundador. 

It’s strange, he knows he grew up poor, but he can’t remember any of the details. It’s as if his whole life before knowing you is completely out of focus. He feels the resentment, though, the frustration of knowing there’s more for the taking if you have the right family, the right education, the right skin color. 

But he’s older now and while it’s there, it’s in the background. Because he knows how to get his share, knows now that it’s also for the taking if you have a nice smile, a silver tongue, and a willingness to do whatever it takes to succeed—including changing your definition of success. Including sacrificing the things you believe in the most. 

Good thing the only thing Namjoon believes in anymore is you, and you’re willing to stick by his side no matter what. 

She’s not anywhere near as attractive to him as you are. She’s round in all the places he likes—soft hips, soft stomach, thick ass, but there’s something with her face. Too drawn, a little gaunt in a way that doesn’t suit her. It’s age maybe, she’s got to be thirty years older than him. 

Age is another one of those tricky things that feels a little elusive to him. 

He thinks he’s around nineteen and she’s probably fifty. Doesn’t care, really, as long as she’s got pesetas. 

She does. A lot of them. 

He fucks her slow in a room above the bar and calls her “Princesa” because she asks him to. Because she’ll pay him more if he does, because he knows how women like her work. It’s been quiet between them since he took her upstairs. They don’t talk about her husband, her children… They don’t talk about you. 

She shifts a little below him and it almost hurts. He’s not used to sex so dry like this—makes it hard to imagine it’s you beneath him. Digs his thumbs into the flesh at her hips and tries to picture you instead, but her noises aren’t as sweet as yours, her skin isn’t as supple. 

At least, he thinks as he thrusts over and over to her guttural cries, he’s doing this for you. For the future the two of you have dreamed of since you were basically kids and he would throw stones at your window after dark to sneak a piece of your attention. He’s fairly certain you almost have enough saved up to escape, to get away from your father and brother who have never once approved of Namjoon. In their eyes, it’s bad enough he’s a foreigner, but then he has the audacity to be poor in addition. 

He wants to give you a good life. There’s still a part of him that thinks someday he can give you an honest one, as well. There’s a part of him that hopes he’s not only his mistakes like your father thinks, that he’s capable of so much more than the world has allowed him to give so far. He thinks you see it, too. He’s pretty sure that’s why you stay. 

As the work drags on, he realizes he’s made a critical mistake—he didn’t ask her how much she’d had to drink, didn’t think to slip the bartender a note to water it down a bit. Feels like she’s never going to come, and he can’t leave a job undone. God, he just wants to get home to you. Wants to take a lavender-laced bath with you and cleanse himself of this sin and the thousand others he’s committed before it. Wants to start on new ones with you. 

The thought of you: in your orange grove, smelling of sun-dried linen and laughing while he chases you… it gives him the will to keep going. 

Ironic that his love for you is the reason his cock is buried in someone else. 

Eventually, she comes, and he lies and says he does, too. Makes quick work of ridding himself of the condom with his back to her. This isn’t the first time he’s lied. Would he sound like too much of a romantic if he said he’s only ever had an orgasm with you? 

For tonight, his patron seems satisfied, romanticism or not. She asks to see him again the following week and he tells her all about how he’d love to, but he just doesn’t have the money, see? So, if she wants to see him, it wouldn’t be possible unless…

She’s more generous than he’s expected. What she gives him to come back to Ronda will pay for a month of your pension. He shoves it in his pockets and tells her he’s going to get them another bottle of sherry from the bar. 

When he slinks out into the finally cool night air, all he feels is relief. He’s going to make it in time to hop the late train back to Sevilla, back to you.

He looks up and down the cobblestone street, taking a second to remember which direction he came from. Notices a man watching him, seems like it should matter, but all that matters is getting back to you. 

Namjoon counts his earnings under the moonlight as the train rumbles through the countryside. It’s enough. He’ll need to count what’s at your home to be absolutely sure, but he thinks it’s enough to get you out of there. You dream of Valencia—of a different kind of orange grove, of thick and salty sea air, of vacations in Madrid or Barcelona, strolling the markets and church grounds. 

He looks out the window at the moon and thinks of how bright your face will be when he tells you the good news. He looks at the stars and hopes they will guide you both faithfully to a better life. 

The train pulls into the station at Sevilla several hours later. Namjoon feels like the time just slipped away, doesn’t quite know how he passed it. Maybe the wine was stronger than he’d first thought… 

It’s quiet in Sevilla at this time of night, but he doesn’t pay too much attention to the bustle in front of him, the same man from outside the bar in Ronda rushing up the road ahead of him. Must be in a hurry to get somewhere—Namjoon can relate, he’s in a hurry to get home to you. His bag is weighed down from the coin he’s bringing home, but oddly enough, he feels lighter than ever knowing he may never have to give himself to someone that isn’t you again. 

It’s freedom.

After years of conning and scraping and scratching to climb out of the poverty he’s known, he finally has hope for something better. Because of you, because you gave him something to believe in and to fight for. 

Tomorrow, he’ll take you to the gardens at the Alcazar, and amongst the flowers and the peacocks you love, he’ll give you the news—tell you it’s finally time. Maybe you can even take the train to the sea that night. 

He loves you so much, owes you everything because he gets all that he needs from your company and your faith in him. 

As he draws nearer to you, dirt road narrowing as he approaches the pension, he hears raised voices. Yours and someone else’s. Maybe more. It’s all he needs to take off running, can’t fathom why you’d need to be fighting with anyone in the orchard after midnight. 

“Namjoon!” you exclaim when you see him sprinting up the road. 

He can hear the fear in your voice, and it only makes him come to you faster. “What is it? What’s going on?” he calls. And then he sees them: your father and your brother, gesturing wildly and yelling. 

“Mija, you know what he’s doing in Ronda? How disgusting he is? How he’s making a fool out of you, making fools out of our family?”

You’re calmer than they deserve, standing your ground with your arms crossed over your chest, full skirts whipping around you in the breeze. You look brave, intimidating, and more beautiful than ever. 

Namjoon starts to understand, realizes he should have known something wasn’t right, that the man in two places would be a problem. Hadn’t let himself believe your father would have had him followed, but why wouldn’t he? 

“You know nothing,” you snap at your father. “Mind your own business, old man. I’m not your family anymore. He’s my family now.” 

Namjoon joins you in front of the pension, stands by your side, wraps an arm around your waist and presses a kiss to your temple. “I think you should leave,” he says to the men facing you. 

Your father spits in his direction, your brother makes rude gestures with both hands. They call him a whore, call him disgusting, claim he’s giving you diseases and ruining you for the god they say you need to meet one day. 

(They still believe, Namjoon never has, and you think you already know god—that he lives in the way the birds call a bright greeting to the morning sun and the flowers bend to offer the bees what they both need to live.)

“Leave,” you say firmly. “We’re leaving for Valencia soon—you’ll never have to see us again. I’ll change my name, no one will know the disgrace you think we’ve brought to the family. Just let us be.” 

And if Namjoon thought the crowd in Ronda was loud, he hadn’t yet had the screams of your father to compare it to. His face is a violent red, his whole body shakes with his anger, and Namjoon feels scared for the first time in a long time. The arm he has around your waist tightens as your brother pulls a revolver from the back of his trousers. 

You are ever courageous—Namjoon can hear your racing heart, but you betray nothing, staring down your brother with iron conviction and pressing in tightly to the man at your side.

“No one will take you from us!” your father yells.

The barrel is pointed straight at the two of you. Namjoon can see your brother’s finger shaking and it’s as if he knows what’s about to happen. He can’t let it, would sacrifice anything for you, already has given up his body and his soul to you in some ways. He’s prepared to do it again. Would never make a choice that wasn’t to protect you. Loves you like you’re oxygen, like he needs you to survive. 

He’s nothing without you, but you can be something without him. So, he moves.

And as Namjoon twists to pull you behind him, a single shot rings out through the Andalucian night, louder than a firecracker. 

Seoul, South Korea — Present Day

“And then what?” Jeongguk asks, leaning so far in he looks like he’ll topple at any second. 

“I don’t know,” Namjoon shrugs, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “That’s when I woke up. I had the window open and I think there was a car accident or one backfiring or something. Startled me awake.” 

“That’s so romantic,” Jeongguk sighs. “Don’t you think, hyung?”

Seokjin nods along. “How often do you dream about her?”

“Every few weeks… for a couple of years now.”

“Shit.”

Namjoon explains how he can’t stop thinking about you for days after the dreams, how you always look different in them but he knows it’s you every time. There’s something in the way you speak to him, in the way you know his mind, in the way you move across each time and space so self-assured and brave and admirable. And then the words just keep coming. He tells them about how he always dreams of you existing at night—never in the morning. Never had a dream where the two of you have made it through the night and woken up together in love with no tragedy befalling you. He almost cries when he tells them how badly he wants to find you, how he knows you must be real, a person he’s just yet to meet… Says he’s not sure he believes in something like soulmates, but that sometimes his chest actually aches with the need to know you, to be with you. Tells them that you’re never perfect in any of his dreams, but you’re perfect for him: a partner in crime, a lover, an intellectual rival, a battleground ally, just always by his side making him sharper and better and happier. Tells them that all he wants is the chance to wake up next to you just once, sunlight and joy and no crisis clapping him awake. Tells them how lonely he is in the mornings. 

When he finally trails off, out of ways to explain that each time he dreams of you, the desire to find you seems that much more urgent, Seokjin and Jeongguk are speechless. Jin looks like the fish he loves, mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Jeongguk is a little teary-eyed and his hand is rubbing careful circles between Namjoon’s shoulder blades. 

“You have to find her, hyung,” Jeongguk says softly. 

“I know.”

“We’ll help you find her, I promise.” 

Namjoon thinks the commitment from Jeongguk is sweet, but doesn’t know how they could possibly help. You look different in every dream, a different voice, name, language… It’s an impossible task made even more challenging by the fact that you probably don’t actually exist. Just a figment of his imagination his brain has made to give him some stress relief, some friendship. He says as much, and he can tell Seokjin agrees with him, but Jeongguk is insistent. At the very least, it’s a little comforting that he’s told them what he feels like is probably his weirdest, deepest secret, and they didn’t laugh at him, didn’t march him upstairs to the company therapist. 

After that day, Namjoon feels a little bit better about everything. Better enough that he doesn’t dream about you for a few weeks, starts to forget to look for you in the face of every person he passes. The best part is that he’s really able to focus on their upcoming tour, and by the time he boards the plane to another continent with the rest of the members, he wonders if he’ll ever dream about you again. 

It’s been long enough that he misses you a little bit, as ridiculous as it sounds. He doesn’t mention that part to Jeongguk or Seokjin.

They touch down in a new city, and Namjoon rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He’d fallen asleep on the flight—no dreams. It’s early, but they don’t get the day to themselves. They’ll eat a snack in the cars on the way to the venue, run a short rehearsal for blocking and then Namjoon will do some foreign-language interviews from the hotel. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls his mask up, trying to mentally prepare himself a little bit for the remainder of the day. And then he smells it, as he steps into the airport, a gentle lavender scent that’s so familiar he thinks he might be imagining it. 

Namjoon stops in his tracks right outside the gate and starts looking. It’s practically instinctual at this point, head on a swivel trying to spot you. It’s so ridiculous and he knows it. But there’s just something… it’s like he knows you’re here. 

Unfortunately, it’s a terrible place to be having a crisis, and he’s literally knocked out of his search when another passenger on their phone runs right into the back of him. 

“Fuck, sorry,” you say, only glancing up from your phone for a second.

Namjoon doesn’t look at you, just flushes with embarrassment as if anyone could possibly know what he’s thinking. Keeps his head down, says, “no problem,” and tells himself that the weird pit in his stomach is nothing and the smell he’s so drawn to is in his head. The you of his dreams isn’t possibly in this airport in a city on the other side of the world. 

He tries to shake it off all afternoon, all evening, but doesn’t think he’s too successful. Thinks he probably fucked up a couple of the interviews, hopes one of his managers would have stopped him if he was too off the mark, though. It’s probably fine. 

That night, for the first time in weeks, he dreams of you. 

Gyeongsangnam-do, South Korea — Summer, 1931

In these most uncertain of times, Namjoon is sure of two things: you are the most beautiful woman he’s ever known, and he is so much in love with you that he feels shaky with it. 

It’s quiet in your father’s farmhouse save for your soft moans. With a rare stroke of luck, your mother and father have left to negotiate with the angry man who owns their land now, and Namjoon has taken advantage of sneaking away from Pukyong’s campus to be with you. He’d come to review plans for a new barn with your father, but finding him gone was a blessing. 

You and Namjoon haven’t been able to find much time alone since he left for Busan. He comes back when he can, which isn’t often, and you sneak out to the edge of the fields to meet him under the moonlight. He’s gotten used to fucking you quietly and in a hurry, helping you brush grass and twigs out of inappropriate places when you’re done. This though, this is a luxury, to be with you in your own bed, in the daylight. To be as loud as you both want—Namjoon could write a dissertation on how nice you sound when he fucks you. 

You’re slick and tight, and you’re the only home Namjoon’s ever really known. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth and watches as you arch your back underneath him, whine a little, tell him not to leave marks where your parents might see. 

Because you’re young and reckless and you’ve both only ever loved each other, he knows he’s got to pull out soon, but it’s hard to remember in the heat of the moment. 

You call him “Namjoonah,” you tell him how good he feels inside you, breathy and sweet, running your fingers through his hair to brush it off of his forehead. It’s gentle, the way you touch him, like he’s something worth taking care of. You say all the nicest things to him when he fucks you—you tell him he’s strong and handsome and so big, you always emphasize, widening your eyes and palming his cock through his trousers. It’s probably giving him a little bit of an ego, he thinks, but he likes it anyway. Being the focus of your attention is so flattering. He always wants your eyes on him, your hands on him, your thoughts about him. You make him greedy and selfless at the same time—he wants everything you’re willing to give him and he wants to give you even more in return. Wishes this fucking war were over so he wouldn’t have to be on edge all the time. Knows he’s lucky not to have been conscripted to the Imperial Army yet, but that it’s probably a matter of time. 

It’s a blessing, being smart, which people have told Namjoon that he is since he can remember. At least they’ve spared him so far because he’s of more use to them at Pukyong, learning how to be the best architect he can be, than he would be as a soldier. Someday, his own father says, he will build castles for a Korean leader, walls to keep the Japanese soldiers out. Those conversations are had in secret, in whispers and gestures. It’s dangerous to be someone like his father, to think there’s a chance for Korean independence, to fight for it in secret… But it’s dangerous to be fucking you into your mattress when your parents could come home any moment, too, and that doesn’t stop Namjoon. 

Like father, like son, as they say. 

He’s sure it’s not a secret that he’s your boyfriend. Your parents know him, invite him for meals, they like him. They think he’s a sweet, smart, college boy who’s going to give their daughter a better life than they can someday, and they’re not wrong. 

Though, he’s also sure they’d like him a lot less if they knew he was a sweet, smart, college boy who loves your body, loves the way your soft thighs feel around his head when he licks at your core, loves the way he can throw your calves over his shoulders and hold you in place as he thrusts home. Loves the small violet bruises he bites into your skin, hidden away under your long skirts and long linen sleeves. Loves how you let him pull out and cover those bruises with his cum, and then especially loves when you run a finger through it and lick it off—when you tell him he tastes good and you thank him for sharing with you. 

They’d think he’s ruined you, and he’d cop to it even though it is absolutely the other way around. 

You come with a sweet, loud moan. Your throat sounds a little raw when you say his name again, which only turns him on more. With a few strokes, he follows you, leaving his release across your stomach and breasts and thinking that if all art looked like you do in this moment, he’d change his major.

Lazily, he lies next to you and pulls you close. You should clean up, you should get dressed, Namjoon should be sitting at the kitchen table studying his drawings with his shoulders back and glasses smart across his nose when your father gets home. You don’t want him to leave though, asking him to stay just a little longer, turning your head to kiss him softly. 

When he wakes up, it’s dark, and he panics. You’re pliant in his arms, still sleeping, and your parents should be home—what if they’ve seen you? What if they know that Namjoon is taking something sweet from you at every opportunity, paying you back with pieces of his heart? 

Maybe it’s time he faces this like an adult, he decides. He’s going to marry you someday anyway, it’s a foregone conclusion. They may not like that you’ve been breaking so many of their rules in secret, but someday you will be his wife, and he will care for all of your family as his own, and hopefully that buys him a little leniency with your father. He kisses your temple and gets out of bed as quietly as he can, pulls his clothes back on, and pads out of your room to meet his fate. 

He spots them immediately, and as soon as he has the thought that he’s going to be sick, he heaves all over your kitchen floor. It’s going to wake you up, but he needs to spare you from the scene. Somehow, he gets their bodies covered before you get up. It’s the best he can do but it’s not enough—the scream you let out is haunting, half shock and half anguish. When you crumple to your knees, he holds you, lets you sob and scream into his chest and rocks you steadily. He doesn’t know what else to do. 

After that day, he files for a leave from school and essentially moves in with you. You use your anger to fuel you, fighting for independence in secret alongside the bravest Koreans Namjoon knows. Your landlord comes around and neither you nor Namjoon even try to hide your rage and disgust. You spit at his feet and he warns you to be polite unless you want to end up like your parents. Namjoon tries to convince you that the old man isn’t even worth your anger, that you’re better off serving your parents’ memory alive than alongside them in a grave. 

As the war picks up, so does conscription. Namjoon thinks he’ll be called any day, but the idea of fighting in the Imperial Army makes him ill. So instead, he makes a plan.

It’s only a matter of months before you’re on the ferry to join him on Jeju. He’s been there, building and fortifying. Perhaps it’s cowardly to cut and run, but he doesn’t care. It’s the only way he can be with you, the only way he can keep you safe. With the farm equipment sold off and a bit of his family’s money, he’s made you a home there, and it’s finally ready for you. 

There’s a tearful reunion on the dock, and it’s followed by a trip to the courthouse to get married. It all happens in a daze, the memories hazy and dim, but the way he felt as he kissed you and made you his wife burns in him bright, bright, bright. 

He makes love to you on the floor of the new cottage that night, slow and sweet. Tries to make you understand how much he’s missed you, how much he loves you. Thinks he succeeds when you tell him you love him as you come, thinks he’s never seen or heard something more beautiful in his whole life. 

Finally, he leads you up the narrow staircase to the room he’s built for you. It’s got a big bed, but not too big, because you always want to be close to him when you sleep. Its wooden floors are made warmer with a rug his mother made for you, a wedding gift. The balcony is small, but he designed it himself, based on a wish you’d told him about, that you’ve always dreamed of a place to read in the mornings. It’s shaded from the eastern sun with a balustrade you can kick your feet up onto. There are crude drawings of your favorite animals carved into the balusters, alternating lions and peacocks. Protection and immortality, built into the home he’s made for the two of you. When you see it, you look like maybe you finally understand the way he cares for you, the way he will do anything he can for as long as he lives to keep you happy and safe. 

You let yourself out there, and light up the night with your happiness. Namjoon watches you from the bed. He’s been on the balcony, and it’s small. He’s not technically the architect he always thought he would be since he’s left school for good, but he tried his best with this design, and then tried even more when he built it for you. 

Maybe he should have seen it coming, maybe he shouldn’t have been so confident. The funny thing about light and sound is that he sees it happen just barely before he hears it. Sees you stumble a little to your right, sees the balcony wobble and thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Then he hears the deafening crack and it’s perfectly timed with his stomach sinking and you disappearing from his view, the balustrade going with you. 

New York City — Present Day

Namjoon wakes up in a cold sweat, the alarm blaring next to him. He hates this feeling—the one immediately after the dreams. At least he has most of the day off. The company always gives them time for the jetlag, supposed to be for sleeping, but he’ll use it to shake himself out of this fog that settles in after the dreams. Maybe the Met this time; he saw the Whitney last time he was here and he sort of wants to get out of Chelsea, anyway—thinks the walk might help him clear his head. 

He sees you when he’s standing in front of a moon jar, wondering to himself what right these people have to even store this piece and then charge people to see it. Wonders if he could get it back to Korea somehow where it belongs, mutters something under his breath about colonialism and notices you smile at that out of the corner of his eye. 

It’s exactly like he’d always thought it would be to see you: immediately he knows. There’s no question. You look different again, not quite like you have in any of his dreams, but you smell the same and you’re wearing a blue and green dress, tight around your figure and flouncy at the hem that reminds him so specifically of a peacock he wants to cry. You smell like fancy French lavender soap and you have a smile that could bring world peace. 

The sight of you makes him freeze. What would he even say? There’s nothing he could tell you that wouldn’t make him sound insane, nothing that he’s willing to admit to a stranger, even if that stranger is you. His heart races and he feels himself start to sweat nervously. He’s been looking for you for years, and when he finally finds you, it sends him into a panic. How perfect for him. 

He can’t stand in front of the same moon jar forever, though, so he swallows his nerves and stands up a little straighter and begins to turn to you, even if just to introduce himself like a normal person. 

Namjoon’s heart sinks when he realizes you’re already gone. 

He’s talking to Jeongguk while he sits on the steps of the Met, phone pressed to his ear. 

“I know it’s her,” he says, sending Jeongguk into a frenzy of questions. 

Namjoon is contemplating the possibility that he’s fucked up his only chance to meet you, when you appear, out of the blue, to take a seat a few feet away from him, he rushes out a “Gotta go, Kookie, bye,” and hangs up as Jeongguk is still talking. 

“Hi,” you say. 

“Hi.” 

“This is probably so weird, but…” You straighten out your skirt and don’t make eye contact. You look equal parts beautiful and nervous. “Do I know you from somewhere?” 

Namjoon gets this question a lot. Usually, it’s fans trying to ‘play it cool’ when they run into him in Seoul, trying to give the impression that they don’t immediately know who he is. And yeah, he thinks he’s more humble than some people less famous than him, hates to assume, but it’s always pretty transparent. But, for as much as he gets this question, as often as he brushes it off with an, “I don’t think so,” and a rushed exit from wherever he’s been recognized, he has no idea how to answer it when it comes to you. So, he just gapes at you. It’s mortifying. 

“Sorry,” you continue. “It’s just that… Well, this is probably gonna sound crazy, but I think I’ve had dreams about you.” 

“Holy shit,” Namjoon says, living up to his reputation as a certified genius and a clever songwriter. 

This response flusters you even more, it’s clear you’re embarrassed. The way your eyes flit around and look for an exit from the situation tells him everything he needs to know. 

“Sorry again,” you groan more than speak. “Nevermind.” 

You start to stand, and Namjoon barely gets his shit together in time to grab your wrist and finally speak. “It’s not weird. I have them, too. The dreams.” 

“No fucking way,” you whisper, your eyes wide.

“Yeah.” Namjoon nods in agreement. “How’d you know it was me?” He asks. 

“Just knew it,” you shrug, wrist still kept tight in his grasp. “I’m not sure. It’s like… you feel the same. You smell like you, too.” 

“Come on,” he says, dropping your wrist finally and standing. “Want to get coffee or something?” 

To his relief, you do. 

It’s awkward at first. Where do you start with someone you feel like you’ve known forever but you’ve never actually met? Namjoon has a million questions he wants to ask you but none of them seem to fully form in his head. It’s bad enough he has to think through how to not be seen with you—his lifestyle adds a whole layer of complication you’d never faced together in his dreams. Eventually, you knock on his hotel room door about ten minutes after he gets in. It had been a little stressful, waiting for you. He made you promise three times you’d actually show up and then on the fourth one, he made you pinky promise. When you took his little finger solemnly, instead of laughing at him, he was finally (mostly) convinced you’d be there. 

And now, here you are, sitting at the little table in his room, clearly trying to be polite and not look at the mess of stuff he’s accumulated in just one night. After all this time wishing he could find you, he’s got no idea what to say to you. 

“So… why the Met?” 

You smile a little sheepish and shake your head. “You’ll think it’s stupid.” 

“I doubt that,” he says, trying to be as reassuring as he can for such a weird situation. 

“I thought it’s where the lion statues were… you know… on the steps. I thought if I went there, maybe you’d be there. I was sure it was you at the airport but by the time I realized it, you were gone. So, I guess it was the only place I could think to look for you where you might look for me, too. But they’re at the library.”

“The lions?”

His confusion seems to make you a little shy; you duck your head and shake it, like you’re telling yourself off before you even explain. “You always say I’m like a lion in the dreams. No matter where we are or what’s happened to us. You say I’m strong and brave and beautiful—”

“A lionheart,” Namjoon whispers. 

“Yeah,” you brighten at that. “Is it like that in your dreams, too?” 

Namjoon tells you it is. And then he tells you about all the dreams he can remember. Not in detail, and not the worst of the bad endings, but enough that the two of you can compare notes. Enough that you realize you’ve been having basically the same dreams, although not at the same time. Both of you have had some the other hasn’t had yet. He loves it when you tell him about one that ended happily, the two of you betrothed in the Joseon era and figuring out how to fall in love. You think it’s supposed to mean something that the two of you are always facing something that’s keeping you apart—you wonder out loud what might keep you apart in reality, too. 

“I hope nothing will,” he says without thinking. 

“You don’t even know me!” You’re laughing, but he’s clearly taken you by surprise. 

“Don’t I, though?” And the mood changes. You swallow thickly and he tries his best not to break eye contact with you even though he thinks you’re so gorgeous he might not make it through the day without passing out. “Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly, but he’s already moving to your side of the table and you’re already scooting your chair back to make space for him. 

You don’t kiss like you do in the dreams. In the dreams, you kiss him like he’s the beginning and end, like you’ll take anything he gives you. There’s something nice about that, makes him feel wanted and strong. In reality, you kiss him like you know it’s the other way around. You’re confident, teasing—you smile against his lips when you do a thing with your tongue that makes him let out a moan. 

In the dreams, he can’t remember ever kissing anyone but you. But now he’s got your lips on his and you’re definitely not the first person he’s kissed by a long shot, but you’re absolutely the best. It’s almost like having something to compare it to makes it even better. 

Maybe there should be some hesitation, but neither of you seem to have any. Not when he pulls you up from the chair so he can kiss you without bending all the way over, not when he walks you back toward the hotel room bed, leaving a trail of tender kisses up your neck and across your jaw in a surprising show of coordination. 

It’s inexplicable, he thinks, how he feels like he’s done this a million times with you before but in the best way. He can kiss you without any of the awkward, nervous, first time worries he normally has. He can trust you without knowing quite why, and that part is probably the weirdest thing about all of this because he can’t trust anyone outside of the members and his family usually. 

“Is it weird I feel like we’ve done this before?” you ask as you run your hands from his shoulders down his arms. 

Namjoon just shakes his head and winds his fingers with yours, leaning in to kiss you again. “No, it’s the same for me,” he says. 

Because of the familiarity, maybe, it’s not urgent when you undress each other. He takes time to appreciate this version of you, the one he’s actually holding in his arms, the one who pinches his side gently and then laughs. “Just making sure you’re real,” you say when he yelps in protest. 

There’s a moment when you’re both naked, standing in front of the bed, when the air feels thick between you. You’re holding his jaw in your palm and he’s got his hands around your back and neither of you speak for a long beat. For him, it just feels incredible to be here with you. He doesn’t care that he has no idea what you do for a living, where you live… Doesn’t know anything about you except that he thinks he has loved you for a long time. Thinks maybe he was put on this planet specifically to love you. Wonders how the two of you could have messed this up so badly in every other universe, but is actually really glad you did, because maybe that’s why you’re finally here with him now. 

“I… I think I love you,” he says timidly. “Makes me feel crazy.” 

You have a tear falling down your cheek, but you’re smiling—Namjoon is pretty sure you’re not supposed to be crying before sex like this, but you seem happy. “S’not crazy, I think I love you, too. I’m so happy I finally found you.” 

“I looked for you in every city,” he confesses before he presses his lips back to yours, then kisses the tears off your cheeks. 

You go soft under him, body pressed into his, and he guides you onto the bed. The two of you laugh into each other’s mouths, mutter how you can’t believe it’s happening, let your breath grow heavier as you take time to learn each other. Namjoon loves it when your lips move against his pulse point, when you get a little rough with him, leaving small bites and bruises in places the stylists won’t give him shit for. You like when he talks to you, tells you how you make him feel, how much he wants to be with you—he whispers right into your ear, the sweetest confessions sandwiched by pure filth that makes your breath hitch and a shiver travel down your spine. 

Namjoon’s dreamed you a hundred ways, in a hundred places, but here, spread naked underneath him in this hotel bed and laughing with him while he fucks you slowly is better than any dream he’s ever had. 

“Can’t believe you’re real, baby,” he breathes as you run your fingertips down his sides. He looks down to see where his cock is moving inside of you, and he thinks this must actually be a dream. You’re perfect, he thinks as he moves fingers to your clit and presses there gently. When you pull him down to kiss you, it feels familiar again. You brush his hair off of his forehead like you’ve done in every one of his dreams, and now he feels like he could cry—he’s just so overwhelmed by you, so in awe just like he knew he would be. Just as he always has been. 

You whisper his name when he makes you come. You tighten around him and dig your nails into his shoulders and Namjoon thinks this is the closest to heaven he might ever get. When you finally work through your orgasm, you encourage him to change positions, to lay on his back and let you ride him. 

The way you know exactly what he likes is magical, that deep grinding of your hips in his lap. You don’t have to ask to know what makes him tick, bringing his hand to your lips as you move, sucking two of his fingers into your mouth and whining around them.

He’s always preferred this to something faster. This way, he gets to watch you, feels like you’re taking your pleasure from him, feels like you’re both getting precisely what you want from each other. He could lift his hips and fuck into you, could hold your waist and get you to bounce on his cock like you’re making a sex tape. But this is better. This is you and him, moving like you’re meant to be connected. 

You absolutely are, he’s sure of it.

It’s a movie script ending when you come again just as he does for the first time—he wishes he could feel all of you when he spills into the condom, wishes he’d found you years ago and built a more tangible history with you. Hopes more than anything that you want to try to do that with him now. 

The two of you clean up with a little bit of shyness; you hide your face as he cleans you carefully with a warm washcloth, and he tries not to let you see him get rid of the condom. It’s not as easy as the dreams where those things sort themselves out, but Namjoon wouldn’t trade these awkward moments for anything. 

There’s not really a need to ask you to stay, he knows somehow that you will, but he asks anyway, preens when you agree and ask to borrow a shirt. 

He can’t really risk room service with you here, but he gets a manager to bring you food (hand stuck shyly through a crack in the door as to not interrupt), and while you eat, he peppers you with questions about your life. Feels like he knows the important things that are the same as in his dreams (he loves you, you’re loyal), but wants to learn all the mundane stuff, too. 

Much later, before the sun rises but after some people would already call it morning, you fall asleep in his arms and he lets himself drift off thinking of lavender and peacocks and falling in love.  

Namjoon’s alarm goes off, and the sun must be high in the sky because the light in the room is a bit muted. It’s the first time in a long time he’s woken up content, hesitates for a second before he remembers why, remembers everything that happened the day before, remembers that you were real and here and in his bed and his arms. He lets himself just exist there for a minute, eyes closed, thinking about what might come next, how he’ll explain you to his family… 

Then it sort of dawns on him that you should be right there, that he fell asleep wrapped around you and now he isn’t. He panics for a split second when he realizes you’re not pressed against him, doesn’t think he could handle it if this was a dream, too. Tries to be rational, but for some reason can’t quite bring himself just to tip his head over and open his eyes. 

Instead, he takes a deep breath, smells hotel laundry detergent and sex and the faintest hint of lavender. He says a silent prayer and then sticks his hand out to the other side of the bed to feel for yours. Thinks he might scream when he doesn’t feel you there immediately.

Namjoon snakes his hand across the sheet and hopes he never has to dream to see you again.

#bts x reader #namjoon x reader #rm x reader #namjoon smut #namjoon angst #namjoon fluff #rm smut #rm fluff #rm angst #bts imagines #namjoon imagine #rm imagine #kvanity #bts smut #bts angst #bts fanfic #namjoon fanfic #rm fanfic

[mazeinthemiroh]

me when i can’t sleep rn so i’m reading ur fics to pass the time 😭 could you do a skz reaction when their s/o has insomnia? i need that in my head :[ thank you!

stray kids reactions to their s/o having insomnia

genre: fluff, slight crack

word count: 0.9k

warnings: none

pls like and reblog if you enjoyed! feel free to request anything &lt;3

bangchan

we all know that bangchan has his fair share of insomnia too. so you are both going to be suffering together <3 no but for real, he understands the struggle and he's most understanding with it. so he knows, as much as he wants you to sleep so you can be healthy, it's not always that easy. so some nights you will stay up working with him, maybe at the studio. he will be working on his music while you'll be catching up with something to do with your work or studies. alternatively, you'll both be in his bed, cuddling each other and binge-watching some anime, before you eventually pass out in each other's arms.

lee know

"if you can't sleep, hug leebit." you find that this is your boyfriend's solution for everything, these days. leebit apparently has magical healing powers and can grant to wish of sleep to those who crave it. obviously, this is not the case. whether you are hugging your little plushie buddy, or you're cuddling into your actual boyfriend, none of that is of any use to you. you still can't sleep. lee know's only solution is to take advantage of the times you are awake to just talk to you, in a soft, gentle, soothing voice. you think this doesn't work at first, but after talking to him for a while, with you in his arms, suddenly your eyelids get heavier....

changbin

being a healthy, strapping young lad himself, he knows sleep is very important. he also values your health very much, almost as much as his own. after 5 minutes of research he realises that exercise during the day can improve someone's sleep schedule. being the gym bro that he is, he jumps at the opportunity and, one day, he drags you to the gym with him. you had no idea how this would help until you got back home after you had been to the gym and done other things after. when it started to get dark outside, your body relaxed easily into your boyfriend's arms as you drifted slowly to sleep.

hyunjin

well, hyunjin starts obsessing over different types of herbal teas you can drink to make you feel sleepy. he stays up all night with you, researching the benefits of chamomile tea, and if lavender or magnolia tea cures insomnia?? he's also into aromatherapy, so probably buys you an air purifier you love him for that. he also suggests yoga and meditation, even offering to start doing it with you with a cute little smile on your face. he loves jumping at the chance to help you in some way, and he values his precious baby :( he just wants you to be healthy and feel better in yourself, and he knows once you've finally found a way to get some sleep, it will do the world of good.

han

haha, you think you're going to get any sleep when han is your boyfriend? no chance! you both are staying up late at night talking about a lot of nonsense. and i mean this is every night. han's brain is so interesting and fun because he can jump from one subject to another, and his energy seems to give you energy. so he isn't exactly helping your insomnia. or at least, at first. you realise that talking to him for hours makes you feel much more relaxed. you have forgotten about your worries, the stress of the upcoming week, the negative feelings that have been bothering you that day. he makes you feel more content, and this happy feeling soon drifts you off into sleep-land.

felix

felix strives to make your sleeping environment as cosy and comfortable as possible. he buys you plushies (of course he gets you a bbokari first <3), really comfy pillows, a little night-light, etc... he will also recommend his favourite asmr channels, but you tend to stick to the asmr that he has actually done, which does seem to help a lot. this is for all when he's away and not physically with you. when he is with you, he will talk to you in a whispered tone, caressing your back and arms and making you as relaxed as possible.

seungmin

okay, so there are two go-to methods of his if you suffer from insomnia. first one being, he will read to you. sometimes if he has sleepless nights, he will listen to a podcast to drift off to sleep. so he knows that his voice might be able to calm you down and relax you enough to sleep. or, he will sing to you :( imagine his soft, gentle voice singing your favourite comfort songs to lull you to sleep. part of him thinks this isn't going to work until he sees you, curled up to his side, finally sleeping. and it's all thanks to his beautiful talent.

jeongin

one time, when you are laying beside him, struggling to get to sleep, he noticed you tossing and turning. so you decided to tell him about your insomnia. jeongin's initial reaction is to book you into sleep therapy or buy you some melatonin to help you. but he knows both of those things take time. so, for now, what he does do is carefully curate a perfect sleep playlist for you. whether it will help or not, he doesn't know. but he wants to at least try for you. and he is so happy when he sees his plan work.

#stray kids #skz #kpop #requested #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #stray kids reactions #stray kids fluff #stray kids scenarios #skz headcanons #skz fluff #skz scenarios #bang chan #bangchan #seo changbin #chan #changbin #lee minho #lee know #lee felix #felix #hyunjin #hwang hyunjin #han jisung #han #kim seungmin #seungmin #jeongin #yang jeongin #kpop fluff

[jacks347]

(Is this stupid enough to be considered a crack fic?? Idk, we're going with it)

To say Hipswitch was surprised to see a woman sitting in his base next to Albus would be an overstatement.

Now, to say he was surprised to see said woman be so...dressed while sipping a cup of tea, that was accurate.

He'd never seen the demon bring back anyone who wore so many layers. Hell, now that he was really thinking about it, he hadn't really seen Albus bring back anyone at all. From the headscarf covering her hair to the skirt that brushed at her ankles and all the fabric and layerage of jewelry in-between, Hipswitch was getting warm just watching her.

The woman turned, smiling politely at him. She was rather pretty, warm brown skin with dark green eyes. Not necessarily someone he'd consider Albus’s type but everyone had their exceptions. "Hello there. You must be Hipswitch." Her voice was quiet and flowed like honey. She reminded Hipswitch of the ladies of the church in town, always speaking softly with inviting smiles. Definitely not Albus’s usual type. What, had he really gotten that bored?

"That I am. And who might you be?" Hipswitch took a seat across from the odd duo, eyes darting between the two in bewilderment. Albus huffed out a laugh, wrapping an arm around the woman's shoulders. "This is Faith. She a, ah, friend of mine." The woman, Faith, rolled her eyes with a small chuckle. "Mm, sure, friend. Let's go with that." She hummed as she took a sip of her tea.

Hipswitch nodded slowly, still going back and forth between them. It was very strange but he couldn't say he didn't appreciate the change. Hell, he welcomed it. Faith was polite, she was far more dressed than he expected, and she seemed very sweet. It almost brought a tear to Hipswitch's eye. "Well it's very nice to meet you. I've gotta say Albus, she's certainly a might better for you than the others from the whore house."

There was an audible beat of silence before it was broken by both a roar of laughter from Albus and a rather impressive spit take from Faith who was now coughing like mad as she tried to regain her composure while Albus was nearly doubled over in hysterics. Hipswitch was left rather confused, not exactly understanding why what he said had caused such a visceral reaction. "Did I say something wrong?"

The statement only made Albus laugh harder as Faith finally recovered, her cheeks flaming red and her face a heavy mask of embarrassment before kicking Albus in the shin. "Stop laughing! I've never been so mortified in all my life." She dropped her face into her hands, shaking her head before pulling herself back up. "How do I put this lightly..." Faith mumbled as Albus’s laughter finally petered off. "Oh Switchy, Faith is a sister paladin." He corrected, making Hipswitch raise an eyebrow in confusion. "A what?"

"A nun." Came a surprised voice, making Hipswitch jump as he turned to find the source of it. "Hey Doc, how long have you been standing there? Almost gave me a heart attack. And how do you know that?" The doctor leaned against the doorframe, staring at Hipswitch with a wide-eyed expression between shock and horror. "When Albus came on I decided to do some research on the medical practices of New Tennessee. Maybe there would be something there to help better treat Albus if I needed to. And well, most of the information was from or about the sister paladins. They're the main form of healthcare, they're essentially priestesses who learn medicine to take of the knight paladins. But they're known to treat anyone who comes to their temples." The realization slowly dawned on Hipswitch, his eyes widening as it did. No wonder she reminded him so much of the women of the church, she was one of them! Oh he fucked up. He fucked up bad.

"So, in case you missed it in that grand fucking speech, you just called a nun a hooker directly to her face." Albus clarified, though he really didn't need to. Faith sighed, the initial embarrassment fading into a kind of indignant rage. "Can I slap him?" Albus snorted a laugh, flashing a sly grin at Hipswitch. "Oo, watch out there Switchy. She's got a mean backhand and I'm almost willing to let her do it. You kind of deserve it." Hipswitch wished he could disappear. "I-I am so sorry ma'am! I would never think of implying you would be that kind of woman, I just assumed-" He spluttered an embarrassed apology, making Albus burst into another round of hysterical laughter as Faith cut him off with a shake of her head. "Don't apologize, I know you didn't mean it. You worked with what you knew, I can't blame you for that. Though I do still want to slap you. And you do kind of deserve it."

Faith got to her feet stiffly, fixing the layers of her outfit and narrowing her eyes at a still laughing Albus. "I think I've seen enough of Maya for one day. I've got to pick Kerano up from school." She leaned down to poke a finger into the warrior's chest. "Don't make me come back out here to check up on you. Had me worried sick for nothing." Albus’s laughter faded as he lightly smacked her hand away. "Gods, yes, I know. I won't, I promise." She nodded with a satisfied huff before turning to the doctor. "I'm glad I could help with your research, you know how to reach me if you have any more questions." "Of course! Thank you again, Sister. It's been very insightful having you here. I should go continue to look over those notes." He turned and headed back into his office as Faith turned to Hipswitch. "And you." Hipswitch gulped, expecting the worst. Maybe that slap Albus had warned him about. "Maybe actually talk to someone before assuming they're some kind of common hooker. I take my faith very seriously and even if I didn't, I'd be far outside of his price range." She smiled warmly before turning on her heel and heading for the door. "See you again boys!"

Albus’s head dropped back onto the couch with a snort. "Outside my price range, she's crazy." He muttered. Hipswitch quietly got up and moved closer to punch Albus in the chest, making the demon wheeze out a breath as his head snapped up to glare at him. "Fucking hell, what was that for?" "For not warning me! I made a damn fool of myself in front of a nun because of you!" "Well, she's not really a nun, she's a priestess." "Regardless! She's a woman of faith and I disrespected her in the worst way possible!" Albus waved his concerns off. "Ah don't sweat it. Give it a week, she'll be laughing over it. It was damn funny." "You're actually the worst, you know that?" "Oh I am well aware Switchy. You're not the first to notice." Hipswitch could only roll his eyes. Why did he have to care about this idiot so much? "Okay but tell me one thing." "Whatcha got Switchy?" "Have you actually slept with her?" "Would you be jealous if I said yes?" "Albus..." Albus chuckled lowly, shaking his head. "Sorry Switchy, this is one time I don't kiss and tell. That's up to you to figure out." He confessed with a shrug. "Out of all the escapades you've rambled on about, this is the one you keep quiet about?" "Faith is different, okay? She...she deserves to not have her story told. So I won't." He defended. Hipswitch sighed in defeat, stepping back. "I'll never understand how your head works." "Good, I don't either. So looks like we'll both be confused."

(...idfk how to end this so this is what you get. Yes I made this entire thing because there is a non-zero chance that Hipswitch would assume Faith is a hooker the first time he met her and that was so damn funny to me)

#its 3am #can you tell #im very tired #but this had to be done #before it drove me insane #so here we are #im going to bed now #goodnight #i think too much #asmr roleplay #good boy audios #gba bastards vs zombies #gba bastard warrior #gba albus #gba faithful #gba hipswitch #gba mahatma #fanfic #fanfic writing #crack fic #fluff

[ajvocals43]

could you write one where dean is just having a rough day and doesn’t want to be alone when he goes to sleep but also doesn’t want to ask the reader to cuddle him because he’s dean💀 like a little fluff and comfort

This is so cute. I'm not used to writing comfort for others but I tried. It kind of took a turn from where I was going originally, but I hope you like it all the same.

What I'm Here For

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count:

Warnings: Mentions of PTSD, slight swearing

A/n: This was shorter than I thought it was going to be and honestly, I got excited about a part of it that I actually ended up using for a different fic so that's another thing.

Ever since Dean’s been back he’s been off. Which is to be expected I guess, I mean… he was in hell. Believe me, Sam and I would never forgive ourselves for not being able to bring him back. I don't know how he survived as long as he did down there. It was to be expected that he’d be pretty traumatized. He tries to play it off but we can see it. The fear behind his eyes, the sadness and the anger. That last one was pretty apparent; specifically when anyone tried to get him to talk about that time. He was always on edge. He closed himself off from us. Until he snapped at Sam which was worrying; because if he wouldn't talk to Sam, he surely wouldn't talk to me. 

 Dean and I’s bond was strong but not as strong as his bond was with his brother. Anyone with common sense knew that the brothers’ bond was stronger than pretty much anything. Our relationship was…complicated to say the least. We both knew that there was something under the surface, there were looks and kisses and…other things… but with everything our lives entailed, we were both too scared to identify it. But even then, apparently we were not great at hiding those feelings, as we’d been told by others.

Multiple times. 

Today had been a great example of that as tension surrounded the house that only the two of us occupied. Sam and Bobby had left earlier on to head to the local library, only to be caught in one of the biggest storms I’d ever seen. They’d called a little earlier to say that they were staying to help with crowd control and they’d head out when the storm passed. Which left me and Dean at Bobby’s house with not much to do. We’d busied ourselves with research on the apocalypse and whatever we could get our hands on about the angels.

Until the power went out. 

Now I was sitting in the kitchen in the dark at… 12am waiting for Dean to get back from checking the main breaker panel out back. The only light came from the fire in the study and the few candles across the floor to ensure that we didn't fall on our faces. It was cold and rainy and windy and dark and he’d refused to let me go with him. It wasn’t a big deal but I didn't want to just sit here like some kind of damsel. But that was a fight I wasn't in the mood to pick tonight.

 A gust of cold wind and rain blew through the house as the door swung open in front of Dean’s shadowed figure. And straight out of a movie, a bolt of lightning shot across the sky, visible through the open doorway. And Dean was just standing there. 

“Is that supposed to be scaring me?” I called from my place in the entryway.

No answer.

“Would you come inside? It's freezing out there!” 

Still no answer.

“Dean?” I was getting impatient. And cold. 

Another lightning bolt cracked across the sky and it was then that I noticed Dean’s figure shaking. It hit me then. “Oh my g- Dean!” I rushed toward him, pulling him into the house and kicking the door shut behind him. I hadn't thought about the PTSD the storm would’ve caused for Dean. His movements were jerky and stiff as I helped him peel the drenched coat and flannel from his arms. I moved him over to the fireplace and went to the kitchen to find something hot to drink. 

 Sometime later I was walking back into the study with two steaming mugs. “Thankfully, Bobby has a gas stove.” I announced. Dean turned around in time for me to hand him one of the mugs. “Careful, it's hot.” 

“Thanks, mom.” Dean grumbled, blowing steam off the top. I chuckled, relieved that he was getting back to normal. It was quiet for a while…well until Dean took a sip. “Ugh. What is this?” 

 I laughed, “it’s tea, Dean.” 

“It’s gross is what it is.” He said, putting his cup down. 

“It’s healthier than alcohol.” I said, taking a sip of my own only to spit it back out. “Nope, that's disgusting.” I put my mug down next to Dean’s, laughing.  

I was relieved to see the tension start to ease from his frame as he joined me in my laughter. “I didn't even know Bobby had tea.” 

“Yeah…probably not the best choice on my part.” I leaned back next to Dean. Because Bobby’s couch was so damn old, I sunk in further than I thought I would, but neither of us said anything. We both shifted around a little before we got comfortable. 

 It was quiet for a while after that. I wasn't going to prod at Dean about the elephant in the room. He would talk about it when he was ready. Plus, I was not in the mood to get into another fight with him right now. We were all the other had for the moment since there was no power and nobody nearby. There wasn't any danger nearby and it was getting late. We both should have headed to bed but I didn't say anything for a while. 

 Until I realized I was starting to fall asleep on the couch. And so was he. We were snuggled pretty close at this point but neither of us mentioned it. I certainly wasn't going to complain about being this close to his warm body. 

"You should go to bed." I said quietly.

“What? No. I’m good.” The exhaustion was slurring his words. But no way was I leaving Dean. That storm was still raging outside. If anything, it’d gotten worse. Dean might’ve acted like he was okay but that didn't mean I had to. He was exhausted but I knew that he wouldn't sleep like this. His nightmares were bad enough and that was if he could fall asleep in the first place. 

"Dean."

 “I’m fine,” he insisted. More lightning lit up the sky, followed by a loud rumbling of thunder and I felt Dean stiffen beside me. I knew by this point that physical contact was the way to get through to him when he was scared. I tried grabbing his hand that rested on his leg but it didn't seem like enough. So I let go and stood up. 

"What are you doing?" he asked.

 “Lay down,” I said. He wasn't going to go to bed by himself. If I left him alone, he would probably just drink and wait for Bobby and Sam. 

"Y/n-"

“Shut up and lay down.” I insisted. “On your side.” I corrected.

The fear was still there but now it was mostly covered with confusion. But he complied, only jumping slightly when more thunder rolled outside. I hesitated for a second but then laid down next to him. I wrapped my arms around him, hoping that he didn't push me away. Well, physically at least.

It took him a second but eventually Dean pulled me into him, tangling our limbs so I couldn't tell where exactly I ended and he began. But I felt him relax again, breathing a sigh into my hair. “Thank you.” he murmured.

 “Don't worry about it.” I said back quietly. “It’s what I’m here for.” I nuzzled my face into his neck, bringing us as close as I could. All I could hope for was that this brought Dean as much comfort as it brought me. Not that I’d tell him but I cared for him more than I had for most people in my life. A lot more than I thought I would. I would do anything to help him. Always.

Masterlist

#deanwinchester #dean winchester #dean fluff #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester fic #supernatural #dean winchester supernatural #dean winchester fanfic #spn

[forever-will-last]

Welcome to the Psych Ward! Fic Masterpost

A collection of one-shots set in a college AU featuring the insane polycule of Regina/Cady/Janis/Karen/Gretchen aka The Psych Ward.

(Each time a new chapter is uploaded, I edit this post and reblog it!)

Today's Chapter (All other chapters under the cut):

Chapter 21: Five Nights at Cady's - Rated E - Cadchen: Cady wants to do some research, and Gretchen is always willing to be her subject.

Chapter 1: Regina George and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day - Rated T - Psych Ward (Regina/Cady/Janis/Karen/Gretchen): Pure crack of Regina getting hit by progressively weirder things throughout the course of the day. Chapter 2: Late Night, Double Feature, Picture Show - Rated M - Psych Ward (Regina/Cady/Janis/Karen/Gretchen): Scary movie night, but only Regina and Janis actually enjoy scary movies. Things get a little spicy.

Chapter 3: (Ac)Counting on You - Rated T - Cadina: Regina’s struggling with accounting and goes to Cady for help.

Chapter 4: Red vs. Blue - Rated M - Nightmare Blunt Rotation (Cady/Regina/Janis): Janis mixes up two batches of brownies and accidentally gives the wrong ones to her girlfriends.

Chapter 5: Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me - Rated E - Regina/Janis/Gretchen: Gretchen suffers the consequences of being a brat during Halloween movie night. Sequel to Chapter 2.

Chapter 6: A+ in Pretty - Rated T - Fetchen: Gretchen and Karen come home from the bar after a few too many shots and get a little sappy.

Chapter 7: Paint Me Like One of Your Girlfriends - Rated E - Rejanis: Janis and Regina get heated with some rough and angry sex.

Chapter 8: Crunchy Tuna Surprise - Rated T - Regret: Gretchen isn't feeling well, so it's Regina’s time to shine in the kitchen. Only problem is, Regina’s recipes are… more slimy than shiny.

Chapter 9: Not Quite the Savannah - Rated T - Cadnis: Janis takes Cady on a surprise date after a tough exam. Part 1 of 3.

Chapter 10: I'M GONNA FIGHT THE SUN! - Rated M - Psych Ward (Regina/Cady/Janis/Karen/Gretchen): Janis is acting really weird, and no one knows why. 

Chapter 11: Clouds and Stars - Rated T - Dream Blunt Rotation (Cady/Gretchen/Karen): It’s Gretchen and Karen’s turn to help Cady relax after her big exam. Part 2 of 3.

Chapter 12: Meet the In-Laws - Rated T - Psych Ward (Regina/Cady/Janis/Karen/Gretchen): It's the first family weekend since the polycule became a full group of five, and it's time for everyone's parents to meet. Well, almost everyone's.

Chapter 13: Apex Predator - Rated E - Cadina: Regina’s got big plans for the grand finale of Cady’s pampering. Part 3 of 3.

Chapter 14: Tiny, Ineffectual Fists - Rated M - Jaren: Janis overhears someone insulting Karen.

Chapter 15: Whistle Janis - Rated E - Jatchen: Janis buys a new toy and wants to try it out with Gretchen.

Chapter 16: At Your Mercy - Rated E - Fetchen: Gretchen’s really pent up on campus, and in desperate need of relief.

Chapter 17: Torrential Downpour - Rated M - Psych Ward (Regina/Cady/Janis/Karen/Gretchen): When it rains like this, there’s no getting away from the past. For Regina, that means a painful reminder of what happened to her back.

Chapter 18: The Circle of Cake - Rated T - Kady: Karen’s latest baking endeavor leads her to make a special gift for Cady.

Chapter 19: Kiss the Cook - Rated M - Cadchen: Cady’s in a frustrating video call, but Gretchen is there to "help."

Chapter 20: Plushie Pandemonium - Rated M - Psych Ward (Regina/Cady/Janis/Karen/Gretchen): Cady’s bummed because she won’t be able to get a limited edition plushie. Her girls decide that simply won’t do.

Chapter 21: Five Nights at Cady's - Rated E - Cadchen: Cady wants to do some research, and Gretchen is always willing to be her subject.

#mean girls #crack fic #one shot collection #mean girls fanfic

[sulkybender]

the poem of you: a Zukka fic

tags: established relationship, hurt Sokka, hurt/comfort, Sokka has OCD, loving and protective Zuko, modern au

He finds Sokka curled on the floor next to the bed and his heart falls.

He always looks like he’s trying to make a shell with his body, a shell against the world he doesn’t have. 

Zuko gets down on his knees, touches his back. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, and Sokka starts to cry. Zuko covers him with his body, protection. The soft weight of Sokka crying underneath, the raggedness of his breath. 

“I’m here,” Zuko says, kissing the back of his neck, that vulnerable place, the short hairs delicate under his touch. “Baby, I’m right here.”

“It’s bad,” he weeps, inarticulate. 

“I know,” Zuko says. “I know. I love you.”

He curls around Sokka and tries, so hard, to protect him. 

—

Sometimes the thoughts are bad; they don’t relent. It’s like being kicked in the head, Sokka tells him, by the same thought over and over. 

Fuckup. 

Fuckup. 

Fuckup. 

He helps Sokka from the floor and tries to be gentle with him. Zuko spoons him in bed, pressing kisses to his hands. His whole body is stiff, delayed, fighting an infection from within. And the infection is Sokka, and the infection is killing Sokka. Or trying its best. 

“I love you so much,” Zuko says, arms slipping around his waist, snug. “You’re my baby, you know that? You’re my turtleduck.”

Sokka is cried out, hunched in on himself, hurting. The shakiness of his breath is painful. Zuko wants to take the pain away. It’s always seemed so unfair that he can’t. 

He would do anything for Sokka, but there’s nothing he can do. 

“You want me to tell you about my day?” he asks, and Sokka nods. 

Sokka is the talker—Zuko isn’t the talker—but Zuko can do this, can talk for him, fill the silences that Sokka’s mind would try to fill with unkind things. 

“Hmm, let’s see.” Zuko noses at his ear, nuzzling kisses. “It was a slow day. Did some client research. Ate a shitty croissant.”

He hums, thinking. 

“I wrote poems for a bit.” He can feel Sokka smile a little. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” Zuko says. 

He falls into silence again for a while, feeling the soft rise and fall of Sokka’s chest. He’s no good at this, the steady patter, the lull of it. He tries to think of other topics but all he can do is wonder how long Sokka was on the floor. 

“What kind of poems?” 

Sokka’s voice is hoarse. 

“Nothing special.” Zuko kisses the back of his neck. “I wrote them on sticky notes and then I hid them in my desk.” He can feel the little motion that means Sokka is laughing, suppressed. “Yeah, yeah. Go on and say it.”

“Nothing,” Sokka says. 

“It’s never nothing.”

“I just love you,” Sokka says, his voice cracking slightly, and Zuko feels warm all over. He could cry. 

“I love you so much it’s crazy,” he says. He cards his fingers through Sokka’s hair. He wants to take care of Sokka so badly. It’s this ache in him all the time. 

“Were the poems about me?” 

Zuko snorts. 

“I wanna know,” Sokka whines. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says. 

“That’s why you love me.”

He rolls over onto his back, smiling up at Zuko. And the smile is hesitant, his eyes still bright from crying, but he looks so handsome Zuko doesn’t know what to do with himself. His hair spills on the pillow, rich brown flecked with gold. He cradles Sokka’s cheek, thumb stroking the line of his jaw. 

He wants to write about the way Sokka’s hair looks, the way his face looks, the particular tilt of it, the thoughtful way his lips purse. He wants to write about wanting to take care of Sokka. Inadequate: his care, his words for it. 

“I would write such shitty love poems about you,” he says. 

“I’d love that,” Sokka says. 

“I’m sure you would.” He kisses Sokka’s head. “Only the shittiest.”

Sokka gestures, a little beckoning movement, and Zuko lies back in his arms, warm, Sokka’s hand protective on his hip. He can feel the tremor in Sokka’s hand, the exhaustion. He’s exhausted himself with the thoughts in his head, been pummeled by them. He’s pummeled still. 

“You’ll read them to me sometime,” Sokka murmurs. 

“I will not.”

“Someday you’re gonna be a famous poet,” Sokka says. “And then I’ll have to see your poems. There’s no avoiding it.”

He’s tracing circles in Zuko’s hipbone, delicate enough to make Zuko shiver with love. He wants to make Sokka dinner; he wants to wash his hair. He wants to do everything, because he can’t do the one thing, the thing that matters. He wants to fall asleep holding Sokka safe from the world. 

“Can we go on a walk later?” Sokka asks, hesitant. “Just to, um.”

It helps when he’s tired, too tired to think circles around himself. Zuko nuzzles him. “Of course, baby. I’d love to walk with you.”

He feels Sokka slump a little in relief. 

“God, you’re fucking lovely, you know that?” he says. 

And Zuko doesn’t know that, because there’s an infection inside him too, the thing that makes him doubt himself. The thing that makes him write poems on sticky notes and hide them away. 

He takes Sokka’s hand, presses it to his cheek. He’ll write a poem someday about that—the feeling of Sokka’s hand on his cheek. 

But he doesn’t have the words for that now. His words are so much less beautiful than that, such ordinary things. 

“You can always ask me to walk with you,” he says. 

And Sokka smiles like it’s a poem anyway. 

#atla #zuko #sokka #zukka #zukka fanfic #ocd #Sokka has ocd #Zuko taking care of Sokka <3

[gilverrwrites]

Never Been Kissed

Pairing: Adam Milligan/GN!Reader

Plot: This is another re-write of an old fic of mine. Canon divergent, where Adam never went to the cage, and instead joined his brothers in the family business. Per Dean’s advice, the reader asks Adam for help with something.

Rating: General

Words: 1086

Please remember: Not to stress about dumb shit.

You look up from the book you've been too distracted to read, and your eyes settle on Adam. He’s sitting at the motel's minuscule excuse for a dining table, flicking through his own book, and occasionally jotting down notes. 

Your mind was reluctantly, but firmly set on Dean's suggestion. 'Suggestion' probably wasn't the correct term, more like a joke. A few weeks ago, you'd let it slip to him that you'd never been kissed, and ever since the teasing has been relentless. You'd begged him not to tell anyone, and he'd kept his word, but you paid the price dearly in whispered jibes or whenever you were alone together. Before leaving to pick up food with Sam, he'd jokingly suggested that you ask Adam to teach you how to kiss. Followed by planting a sloppy one right on your cheek. It had earned some questionable glances from his brothers, but thankfully nobody had questioned it.  

Now you sat on the bed, unable to keep your mind or eyes off the man you were considering asking for help. 

Admittedly, you had more than a bit of a crush on him. He was handsome, and smart, and always knew how to make you laugh. You were confident he wouldn't intentionally make you feel bad for asking. However, the thought of asking, or worse, the idea of being rejected made you want to crawl under a rock. 

"Why don't you take a picture." The sound of his voice veered you from your train of thought. The cheeky smile he gave you immediately made your face heat up. You shuffled back on the bed and attempted to hide behind your book, silently cursing yourself for being caught staring. 

"Sorry." Was all you could manage in response. 

Adam laughed at your response. You watched from the corner of your eye as he stood and crossed the room, stretching as he did so. The weight of his body settling on the end of the bed made the mattress bounce, but you refused to look up at him. 

"Hey." He flicked the side of your foot, trying to garner your attention. "What's up with you? You're acting weird."

"Nothing." You mumble, still refusing to look at him again, too embarrassed by what you'd been thinking. 

"Come on." He continues to nudge your foot. "Talk to me, tell me what's wrong." 

You finally let your book fall into your lap and look up at him, biting your lips as you consider whether or not to come clean. When he raises his eyebrows at you, urging you to talk you decide to take the leap. 

"Okay, fine. If I ask you to help me with something, which you can totally say no to by the way, will you promise not to laugh? Or be mean?" The words spill out. 

Adam's brows furrow at you, and you can tell he's holding back an amused smile as he responds. "I promise… to try." 

You force yourself to maintain eye contact as you continue. 

"Can you… Would you teach me how to…" You trail off, too embarrassed to finish. 

"How to what?" He climbs over the array of research scattered across the bed and sits beside you, leaning back against the headboard. You suck in a breath as you feel his shoulder brush against yours. "I can't help if you don't tell me what it is." 

You force down the urge to cringe at the words you're about to say, closing your eyes as you brace yourself before blurting; "Canyouteachmehowtokiss… please?" 

The room falls silent, a part of you expects him to laugh at you or crack some kind of joke like his brother had done, but nothing. Hesitantly you open your eyes and sneak a quick look at him. 

His face is black, besides the twinge of confusion in his eyes. 

"You've never kissed anyone before?" He asks as you shake your head in reply. "Ever?" 

"No. Never." You frown, his lack of an immediate answer is making you self-conscious. You start to pull your knees up towards your chest, but he stops you, resting a hand on your thigh and guiding your legs back down. 

"Well, I could teach you." He begins, bringing his hand back up to rest under your chin, turning your head to face him completely. He leans in closer as he explains, and your breath hitches. "But it's kind of something that just comes naturally." 

You copy him when he parts his lips and closes his eyes. A moment later you feel his warm lips press against yours. To your own surprise, you're the one who deepens the kiss by leaning in closer, pressing your lips onto his harder. You shiver when he reaches behind your ear, scratching his nails gently against your scalp. 

Adam pulls away briefly, lips ghosting against yours as he speaks. "Open your mouth, just a bit." 

You do as instructed, and Adam traces his tongue across your bottom lip before delving into your mouth. Impulsively, you grab onto his shoulders, pulling him closer. When his tongue moves against yours you imitate the motion, flicking your tongue against his and enjoying the lingering taste of cola. At the same you drop a hand from his shoulder, rubbing it against his chest. Your stomach flips as you feel his lips curl into a smile. 

The sound of a key in the door startles you both, and you shoot away from each other, aware that it will be Sam and Dean returning with food. You bury your head back in your book and Adam strides quickly back to his spot at the table, immediately pretending to scrawl something down.  

"Food." Dean announces as he comes through the door, dumping the greasy brown bag of junk food on the table in front of Adam. Sam follows close behind, heading straight for his laptop and taking the only other chair. 

"Great, I'm starving." Adam states, immediately grabbing the bag and rummaging through it. 

You join the boys at the already crowded table. You attempt to reach over Adam to search for your own food, but he swats you away. Before you can complain he hands you your container, and you clock the folded piece of paper underneath it.   

Sheepishly, you sneak a peek at the contents as you head back to your spot on the bed. The words "We should do that again (;" are jotted on it. You smile to yourself, slipping it into your pocket before sitting down and digging in.

Thank you for your time 💖

#adam milligan x reader #adam milligan #supernatural #supernatural fic #supernatural imagine #supernatural reader insert #adam milligan/reader #gilverrwrites

[any-mouse]

Ra’s Al-Ghul Is Why We Batclan Can’t have Nice Relationships Things.

Ok, so. I am not someone who knows a lot about the DC fandom, but fics and the DCxDP crowd (who are why I’m here) have given me information and research binges have given me more. And here’s a take I haven’t seen about Jason’s death, and why Batman not killing Joker made things dangerous for Robins. Or did it?

Batman could not win. If Ra’s decided the only thing that would get his chosen heir, or at least son-in-law, into killing would be to kill Robin, it’s time to send his assassins in. Batman keeping to the “no-killing” rule is the only thing keeping a bunch of kids and teens from facing down, not the gangs and henchmen of Gotham, but a literal death cult.

Which is one thing that makes me wonder if that’s hadn’t been Ra’s’ plan, only manipulating the Joker into doing it for him. Which casts Batman undoing Nightwing’s killing of Joker in a very different light.

But there are other things that go along with that. And why Ra’s is a bit, fixated, on poor Tim. With how wrathful and brutal Batman became after, everything, it was only a matter of time before someone died. And then all Ra’s has to do is, wait. Drop hints or little reminders of the League, maybe have Talia swing by a few times. Allow the previous rapport to rebuild itself. In the meantime, build up Jason’s rage, anger, betrayal, and then unleash him on Gotham. Watch as the two brutal titans clashed, until Batman kills Red Hood. It would utterly destroy Bruce to have been the one to kill Jason a second time.

But, ah, there is a chance to fix this. The Lazarus Pit. Bruce will do anything to undo this fatal mistake, wrought at his hands and driven by his wrath. And in his grief stricken desperation, as he looks back on his rampage with despair, at all of the people he maimed, crippled, and killed in his agony, in steps Ra’s. Don’t worry, Ra’s has been collecting them. Fixing them. He does not agree with Bruce’s decision to leave, he still does not support Batman’s policies. But he knew it was important to Bruce so he took steps to ensure that no irreparable damage was done. Slowly, carefully, drawing a grateful Batman back into the fold. Wearing away at morals already cracked by grief and rage, using soft words where harshness has failed. Reviving Jason once again, keeping the two of them orbiting each other like binary stars, unable to leave, but always wanting to stay.

And it’s all foiled by one rich brat who’s stealthier than he has any right to be. Tim knows that Batman is going off the rails of sanity at an ever quickening pace. If he’s close enough for good pictures, he’s close enough for first aid and responder calls. So there is A Lot of damage and wreckage left in Batman’s wake, but nothing that isn’t salvageable. Ra’s won’t have a cadre of former henchmen and goons brainwashed into serving as Gotham’s foot soldiers but that would have been secondary. But Tim does more than that. Tim throws himself between Gotham and Batman because no one else will. Tim is a highly intelligent and self-sufficient child. His self-worth is in the toilet, thank you very much Drake bio-donors.

So Tim out-stubborns Batman and glues himself to his side and pulls him back. He cuts off the roaring rampage of revenge. Batman starts healing and Ra’s just can’t have that, oh no. But this is an easy enough fix, and it’s even better than the first plan. After all, loosing the last Robin to a violent villain led them to this point. How much worse would it be, to have started to heal, only to have it happen again? To destabilize that way again? Oh, Batman will never be able to resist, there had always been the possibility that Red Hood would win. Not high, and not an unworkable outcome, but snuffing out yet another Robin would ensure Red Hood would die, and then Ra’s would have another knife to twist Jason to his will. Taking pointer from his killer, not just his name, tsk tsk.

And it’s not like he couldn’t revive Tim as well, play the two of them off against each other and Bruce. Using their enmity and bitterness to wound Bruce, using Bruce to keep the two of them from spiraling out of control in their rivalry, make them resent Bruce for picking sides, rubbing salt into Jason that Bruce cared enough to avenge Tim but not him. Taunting Tim for what Bruce dragged them all into over Jason. Throw Damian into it just when it seemed to be settling into an uneasy dynamic equilibrium. Setting the boys on Blüdhaven, drawing in Bruce. See which way Bruce jumped, to protect Dick from the boys or if Bruce will try and recruit Nightwing for the League.

Ra’s has so much to gain from Joker killing Jason. It wouldn’t be difficult to send in a few assassins disguised as henchmen to plant the idea. Sacrifice a pawn or two, to gain a queen and rook.

#dc extended universe #dc fandom #ra’s al ghul #batman #batfam #league of assassins #bruce wayne #dick grayson #tim drake #damian wayne #damian al ghul #jason todd #red hood #dc joker

[bruh-anator3000]

CAT-astrophic

~~~◇◇◇~~~♡♡♡~~~◇◇◇~~~♡♡♡~~~◇◇◇~~~♡♡♡~~

A/n: *pushes rock I live under over and peeks out of the black abyss* Hey, have you guys seen a Car Wash Miguel fic anywhere? I don't know what happened to it but it's no longer here. Might've escaped... anyways, watch this cat for me while I look? Thanks. And don't mind the hot homeless dude who talks to him, they're bonding. *returns into the depths of the void*

Summary: A hot dude won't stop talking to your cat, it's kind of freaking you out.

WC: 1.7k, edited by google docs...

Pairing: Miguel x GN!Reader

Warnings: crack fic, Spider-cat's real name is Sir Jeffords bc i said so, clueless reader, pro outdoor cat (i'm not actually, keep ur cats safe pls), future-ish?, accidentally snuck in some world building, in Lyla we trust 🙏, Miguel in tight clothing bc I also said so, and wait wtf are you doing with a dead rat miguel, AND WTF IS THIS WHITE STUFF DUDE?!

Also no Spanish bc I've done some research and those who do speak it have asked non-native speaker to avoid it, to prevent bad google translations and maintain respect!

Okay, enjoy~

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You were about to head in for the night when you were not tripped by your cat for his dinner. After a quick search around your apartment, you sighed upon realizing he was still outside. Shrugging on a coat, mismatched slippers, and grabbing a flashlight, you went out to look for him.

Plenty of people told you to keep your cat inside. That it was vital to their health to keep them safe indoors. There were plenty of articles stating the cons of letting a domesticated cat roam freely outside with no supervision. They were also written 80 years ago. The world has changed since then, drastically.

Sure, it would still be smart to keep Sir Jeffords inside. Less late night searches for him, no more worrying if that scratch on his right paw was from running too fast along pavement or something worse. But he came from the life of an alley cat, and no matter what you tried, he had to be out there for a few hours a day. Last time you tried to stop him, he went under your radar for three days. You had a panic attack, worried he didn't love you anymore, but he did eventually come back. Chipper and eager, and he made sure you left his cat door unlocked.

The streets were cleaner than 80 years ago. The people were kinder. The city more accommodating to everyone, even stray animals. Sir Jeffords was mirco chipped, and even if it didn't work for tracking half the time, the shelter folks could scan his neck and drop him back home.

There were no pounds or pest controls anymore, just volunteers who helped poor animals stay warm. And find whoever left them in the streets. It was a crime to leave them now, resulting in 6 months of detention if caught dumping your animal friend into the alleys.

Jeffords was a smart cat. He knew what he was doing. You trusted him. In the event of something bad happening, you made him swore he would come find you right away. Though he couldn't speak, his tail wrapping around your pinky seemed solid enough.

You called out his name, followed by a few 'pspspsps's to really seal the deal. Your flashlight shining in the darker corners of the streets he may be hiding in. Cats and their dark, unreachable corners, Sir Jeffords fell victim to any cozy spot he could barely tuck himself into.

It wasn't until a few blocks away, a little past the bank, when you heard a meow. Very similar to his, you quietly sped your pace, wanting to grab your kitty and go home. The closer you got, it seemed more like he was responding to someone else more than you.

"-and your service is always appreciated." You heard a deep voice whisper. Their voice a grumble echoing through the alley they hid in. "You're one of our best." Your brows pinching together, you turned the corner of the bank, flashlight illuminating your fluffy orange cat. Who was rubbing up against the shin of a random man.

He looked up at you, eyes darkened as he blocked your flashlight with his large hand. They almost seemed red as he stayed squatted, Sir Jeffords head butting his knee. His face pure sharp angles, with a scowl permanently in place. His black shirt a tight, compressing fit. Clinging to each muscle and vein in his arm, stopping halfway down his bicep. His calves just as impressive. His shorts doing nothing but making him look even hotter.

Wait, no. This was a random man, he wasn't hot.

You lowered the light and gave an awkward smile. Seemingly unimpressed, his hardened gaze turned back to your cat. "He's yours?" He asked, voice rumbling low in his chest. With a nod, he added, "He's... cute."

Okay, maybe he was a little hot.

"Right?" Your smile smoothed into something more natural. "He's the cutest cat to ever exist." You lowered yourself down onto your knees with a soft baby call. Sir Jeffords trotting into your lap happily, orange fur swaying with his steps.

Your hand ran through his silky fur. Tension easing from you as you held him close again. Though his three day disappearance had yet to happen again, you still worried. He was your precious baby, after all. The one you shared everything with, and he never once judged.

Your fingers caught on something sticky, stopping short of his lower back. Pulling your hand away, strings of white followed, sticking to your fingertips. The feeling moist and far too clingy for comfort. A disgusted shiver ran up your spine at the horrible sensory.

The man stood then, tossing a tissue at you as he did. His gaze stayed on your cat, never faltering. He pushed his dark hair away from his face, still scowling.

Glancing between your hand and the man that now towered over you, you almost gagged. This wasn't... his, right?

"It was the rat." Like he read your mind, the mysterious stranger held out his other hand. A dead rat laid in his palm.

"That... doesn't make me feel much better." You suppressed another full body shake, quickly wiping your hand off. This guy may be extremely attractive to look at but the longer you stayed there, the more uncomfortable you got. "How would a mouse... And what is this?" You felt yourself getting sick as you held the tissue out, the white stuff now sticking to the paper instead

"Webs. And, it's a rat." He stated with a straight face. More angry at your confusion than anything. "Chased him through some spider webs."

You let out a soft 'oh.' But that didn't explain why he was holding onto the dead rat.

And he let it stay that way. Instead of reading your mind like he had been this entire time, he just... walked off. With a dead animal in his grasp. Without a word.

Your confused gaze turned to your cat, knees beginning to ache from the pressure of concrete beneath. Sir Jeffords purred into your stomach loudly.

"You're not allowed to hang out with that guy, ever again."

...

"Christ!" Miguel tossed the rat at the wall, hearing him curse. The small animal glitched into a grown adult, body morphing sickly. "That..." The villain panted, rubbing at his neck. Bruises from how tightly he was held already forming there. "... was not what I was expecting."

Miguel squatted back down, balancing on his toes as the hologram of regular clothes shifted back into his suit. "You chose to become a rat, in a world whose Spider-Man is a cat." He slammed down a disk, red netting encasing the fool. "That was your own fault."

"It was the only way I could get into the bank!" The villain squeaked. Miguel tuned out almost immediately, eyes turning to his watch. Setting the portal to his universe, and making sure he wasn't needed elsewhere. He entertained the villain in a tacky grey suit with distant hums and 'oh, yeah, uh-huh's. It was best to just let them get it out of their system then try to shut them up.

"And I would've gotten away with it, too! If it weren't for you and your cat!" The shape shifter writhed in the nets.

"Sound like a damn Scooby-Doo villain." Miguel stood up with a huff. He would never admit it, but Hobie used the term so often, he had to look up what he was referencing. Only to end up watching the first few seasons. He had to stop around the third season, a sick sense of deja vu hitting him with a bat. The cartoons reminded him too much of the daughter he never really had.

With a sigh, "Lyla," He called.

The AI appeared before him, wearing a shit eating smirk. He opened his mouth to command something else when she beat him to it. "You should've asked for their number."

"What?" Miguel's head snapped up, eyes wide.

"They were cute, should've asked them on a date." She glitched to his side with a teasing laugh.

"Lyla, I... no." He grumbled, flicking at his watch.

"Oh, you know?" Miguel tried to smack her away, only for her to reappear on his left shoulder. "You should go back, then."

Miguel glared at her, ignoring how the tips of his ears began to burn. "I can't, its-"

"Not a canon event." They said at the same time. Lyla rolling her eyes behind her heart-shaped glasses, Miguel focusing on creating a portal. "You're such a loser, you know that?" She huffed and puffed, spawning with her back turned to him.

He tried to reach out with a heavy breath, but she moved further away. This time sitting with her arms crossed and pouting.

"They were cute." The villain nodded from his fetal position on the ground. Earning a glare from the two. Shrinking further into himself, the shape-shifter apologized.

Miguel thrust his forearms forward, his mantis blades catching on the fabric of time. Ripping them apart with a grunt. Orange and purple twisted in front of him, and he grabbed a hold of the red netting the anomaly was in.

"Meet me back at HQ," He spoke to his AI with a nod. Foot already in the portal, he turned to cast a menacing glance at Lyla. "And do not try anything."

She held up her hands in defense, watching the portal close behind him. It wasn't like she even had to do anything - not anymore. She already slipped his multiversal number into the collar of Spider-Cat. All that needed to happen was you either found it, or it fell out. Lyla just had to wait to see which option would be canon.

~~~◇◇◇~~~♡♡♡~~~◇◇◇~~~♡♡♡~~~◇◇◇~~~♡♡♡~~

Check out my Masterlist!

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x you #miguel x reader #spiderman atsv #miguel o'hara fanfiction #bruh writes #spiderverse fanfic #x you

[mariaofdoranelle]

Look at Us Now - ch. 22

Fic masterlist

I’m too much of a chicken to experience something remotely close to the game Rowaelin played this chapter, so I’m thanking Reddit for the lended knowledge lol. It’s very quick though I just always over-research

Warnings: brief mention of a cult, moderate alcohol intake

Words: 3,3k

They were gonna die in this hellhole, and Aelin was killing Rowan a second time when they met in the afterlife.

They’ve looked everywhere for clues, tried cracking the puzzles, turned every hint inside out. This was a dead end, and Rowan only had one job: pick the fucking lock.

Just one more lock to open this wooden box, and they’d be free.

Aelin’s heartbeat picked up when she heard voices and steps outside. They were coming back. The members of the cult were coming back.

She met Rowan’s agitated stare from across the room, but he didn’t make a fuss, just frowned at the lock and went back to work, his posture rigid.

They were absolutely going to die in this basement, and Aelin wasn’t a fan of losing.

Aelin eyed the pentagram drawn on the floor, a heavy weight on her chest. She needed to do it. There’s no other choice, she repeated to herself as she laid down on it, a sense of emptiness taking over.

"To thee, O mighty Game Master, I offer myself willingly. May my sacrifice be a beacon, lightning the way for those I leave behind in the form of one more hint.”

She heard Rowan rushing her way, but it was done. Her self-sacrifice would give him one more clue, and he’d win this game for them.

“Take me, Master,” she repeated.

“NO!” Rowan fell to his knees before her, his arms wrapped around her waist. “I can’t bear it, Aelin. I can’t.”

She stroked his cheek, nothing but resignation in her eyes. “I’m doing this for you, babe. I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Let me find another way. I will find another way, Aelin—“

“Do you want me to repeat the three hints?” The escape room’s employee said through the speakers, “I know there’s a pentagram on the floor, but you can’t make a human sacrifice in exchange for another one.”

Aelin sighed, her body relaxing against the floor. Her clothes must be dirty with chalk now, and she didn’t even want to leave the game, but it would be a necessary evil. Rowan held out a hand, helping her get up.

“How’s the lock-picking thing?”

Rowan narrowed his eyes at her, humorless. “Reverse-engineering,” he corrected.

She crossed her arms, silently asking him to just answer her already.

He sighed. “Not great.”

Aelin analyzed the box and the padlock locking it, then looked at the card reader at the door. One card. One card was all they needed to win this.

Without thinking, she violently shook the box between her hands.

“What’re you doing?” Rowan said.

“It’s a wooden box. Maybe there’s a crack the card could slip through.”

Rowan froze for a moment, blinking at the scene. Then he held out his hands, “Gimme that.”

“What?”

“It’s a wooden box,” he repeated, his tone low and astonished.

Next thing she knew, he was pressing all sides of the box against the card reader. When the door unlocked, Aelin’s laugh was nothing short of maniac.

“It’s a proximity card!” she shouted while jumping on him for a hug.

“It’s a proximity card,” he echoed, tugging her impossibly closer and kissing the side of her head.

Outside the escape room, the employee looked pissed. “The combination for the lock was on the back of the blinds.”

Rowan looked completely unaffected by the snarky Game Master. “You should put the card in a metal box if you don’t want people doing it my way.”

They were met by a cool breeze outside, the sidewalk damp in a way that indicated that it must’ve rained while they were playing inside. She turned to take a look at Rowan, and he was already studying her. Despite the cloudy weather, something about him—his features, the way he carried himself, or the frequency in which his lips tugged up today—had a lightness to it, something Aelin didn’t know she longed to see so badly.

She squeezed his hand and instead of going somewhere—doing what they were actually supposed to do on a sidewalk—he leaned down and pecked her lips. It was a quiet mid-afternoon anyway, they weren’t slowing anyone down.

He hummed contently in a way he sometimes did after tasting her, cupping her face as if she was something precious.

She chuckled and checked the time. “We don’t have to pick up Maisie for another hour, so…” Aelin looked around, checking if there was somewhere interesting nearby; they had time to explore, but not too much time. She pointed at a quiet pub, wooden-looking in an old-timey way. “Wanna go there?”

It was nice having the day for themselves, no work to attend after working the graveyard shift. And as much as family time was her favorite, it was refreshing to do some adult stuff other than sneaking out from the five-year-old to get some action with Rowan.

After they woke up late in the morning, they decided their first date should have all the things they wouldn’t be able to do with a kid. So far, it included a fancy lunch somewhere they couldn’t even pronounce, some place they wouldn’t trust Maisie to hold the glasses. Then they went to a horror-themed escape room—not exactly romantic, but why not?—and their last stop was this expensive-looking pub.

They’d be back to princesses and Paw Patrol and nursery rhymes within the hour, but Aelin was excited for that too, to hang out with Maisie again. She got too spoiled with this new thing with Rowan, sleeping at his house during his days of custody. Now that she saw her daughter every day, Aelin was struggling to understand how she spent two, three days in a row without her. One sleepover at Auntie Sellene’s and she already missed Maisie like crazy.

The empty pub’s lights were dim, and the vintage furniture mixed with jazz covers of modern songs made Aelin feel like she was in an old movie. Rowan led her to a booth by the wall, and he wouldn’t take his eyes off the cocktail section of the menu.

“You want a drink,” she pointed out.

He frowned at the menu. “They just have a distinct selection, that’s all.”

Biting back a laugh, she nudged him. “Go on. I’ll drive.”

“Just one.”

She smiled. “I know, Buzzard.”

He seemed reluctant at first, but soon enough he was nursing his one whisky cocktail with a bottle of water while Aelin drank some mango juice.

“I was searching something online these days…” Rowan said, fidgeting with his cup.

“What was it?”

“I asked when I should tell my own child that I’m dating their mother. It was the first time Google completely failed me.”

Aelin snorted at the thought of a distressed Rowan searching this on his phone. She can imagine why there aren’t many online articles about their specific situation.

“Did you have a rule?” Aelin asked. “For how long before you introduce someone to Maisie, I mean.”

“Did you?”

“Six months,” she answered, plain and simple. “I never got that far with someone after Maisie, but I’ve had a bit of a relationship disaster because of this, so having the rule beforehand establishes a boundary, you know? In case somebody feels like rushing things.”

Rowan only stared at her, lips flat, looking sullen. He does know that she wouldn’t apply to him the same rules she did to a stranger, right?

“You’re not just ‘somebody’, though,” she added, “You’re her dad. That changes things.”

“Was it Lieutenant Cortland?” Rowan asked, completely changing the point of the conversation. Of everything she said, this was what he focused on?

Aelin crossed her arms, her eyes narrowed at him. “How do you even know I dated him?”

The faint blush on his cheeks must be because of the whiskey. “You told Elide, who told Lorcan, who told me.”

“Yeah, I was talking about Sam,” she finally answered, her back resting against the cushioned seat. “Single parents abide by different rules when dating, and not everyone understands that. He wanted too much too soon, and I wasn’t ready.” There was also the issue that Aelin wasn’t exactly eager to get serious with Sam, but she didn’t feel like adding this part to the conversation.

Rowan nodded, looking down at his half-empty cocktail. He looked almost crestfallen, and Aelin was struggling to understand why.

“So… six months.” He sipped his drink. “You want to wait six months before we tell people?”

Aelin wanted to argue that, technically, they’ve already told people; their best friends fit into the ‘people’ category, but that’s not what he meant. Rowan wanted to be able to kiss her in front of Maisie, feel his parents’ pride when he told them the news, stop pretending they’re not a couple at Maisie’s school so those fucking moms would stop hitting on him.

Gods, she wanted that so bad. Especially the last part.

Still, Aelin and Rowan carried a lot of responsibility together. This little bubble with no questioning of their relationship or putting more expectations on them wouldn’t last forever, but she felt comfortable in it.

Besides, Aelin didn’t like to even entertain the thought of her relationship with Rowan not working out so soon, but if it didn’t… Well, she’d like to keep a last shred of dignity, if only to attend Yulemas at Uncle Orlon’s.

“Not six months,” she finally replied. “It’s not fair to use the same rules with you as I'd use with a stranger.” Aelin grimaced. “Three? I tried asking Yrene, but she wasn’t really helpful.” Therapists and their maddening non-answer answers.

“Three months.” Rowan slowly nodded, his eyes vacant. “One down, two more to go?”

“Sounds good,” Aelin said, and Rowan agreed, but he didn’t look like it sounded good. With a sigh, she rested her chin on his shoulder and held his hand. “We can talk this over again if you realize it doesn’t sound good to you, okay? We can talk anything over again if you feel like we should.”

His answer was a kiss to her forehead.

˜˜

“Three months?!” Lysandra shrieked after Aelin told her about that conversation, and her loud tone earned a few glares from the ladies at the table near them, not that she cared. Still, she lowered her voice to say, “Honey, if I had a man like that, Timmy would be calling him ‘daddy’ by the third month.

“I mean, you could.” Aelin wiggled her eyebrows before taking another bite of her chocolate cake. Rowan was currently with Maisie, Dorian and Fenrys at the adoption event, and she used this kid-free time to try on this new pastry shop with Lys.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “I could what?”

Aelin stirred her coffee, a Cheshire cat grin on her face. “Hunter told Asterin and Asterin told me that Wesley has a crush on you.” And this is completely reliable gossip because Hunter, Asterin’s husband, is close friends with him.

“Oh.”

She frowned. “You don’t sound excited.” Half of the single moms had a crush on Wesley, the widowed single dad. Aelin was part of the other half who didn’t really care about him, but could understand the appeal. And she heard her friend comment about how ‘fine’ Wesley looks more than once. “I thought you’d like to hear that.”

“Well, obviously, I’m flattered.” Lys took a bite of her lemon pie, her chin in her hand while she clamped her lips shut to hide a smile. “But I kind of just started seeing someone.”

Aelin gaped, surprised. “Tell me.”

She didn’t know who he or she was, but she was happy for her. Mala knows the amount of shit she took from Timmy’s dad, some entitled man from Adarlan she hated just from hearing a few stories here and there.

“So, remember that birthday party we went to last month?” Aelin nodded, so Lys continued, “You posted a picture with me. You tagged me in it.”

“As millennial Instagram etiquette requires me to do.”

“Your cousin Aedion followed me, and—“

“No!” Aelin poured all the disgust she felt into that one word, grimacing. “I mean, ew!”

Lys straightened her posture. “I get it if you're upset.”

“Why would I be upset? Because you’re too good for my idiot cousin?” Aelin schooled her face into neutrality and sighed, trying to look a little more serious so she could give Lys a proper response. “Look, it’s fine. Just spare me from the sordid details, and we’re good.”

“Alright.” She relaxed into her chair, looking pleased with that answer.

“So you two are a thing now?”

“Not exactly. We chatted a lot and he asked me out, but I didn’t want to go without checking with you first. But I also didn’t want to make a fuss because of one date, you know? So I went. It was amazing. I blamed it on the sangria for making me see the date through rose-colored glasses. So I went on another one, completely sober, just to make sure. It was so good that I almost begged him to fuck—“

“Fucking Mala!” Aelin’s face morphed back into disgust. “Okay, I get it, it’s new. Good luck with his pineapple pizza obsession.”

To be honest, she wasn’t all that repulsed, and she totally blamed it on Rowan. It was those near-daily nighttime orgasms and early morning cuddles—sometimes orgasms again—getting to her head. Aelin was so happy she felt delirious; and after all Aed and Lys have been through in the dating scene, if they managed to find that as well, she was happy for them.

Said reason for her incredible mood texted her, asking her to drop by his place to talk. As if she’d go anywhere else, being his day of Maisie’s custody. His tone almost made it feel like old times, but Aelin knew better. They had a child together, they always had something to talk about.

Knowing her daughter, the adoption fair must’ve been a total chaos. Aelin told Dorian it was a bad idea to bring Maisie along, but her friend insisted on playing the cool uncle.

She promised that she wouldn’t ask for a dog at the fair, but it was just to set expectations. Maisie’s a puppy-loving five-year-old, it’d be ridiculous to think that she wouldn’t throw a tantrum when he saw countless puppies for adoption.

On the way home, her chest constricted to think of a distressed Rowan trying to wrangle his daughter. He was probably exhausted.

Aelin parked her car outside. She grabbed her key to his house—which they recently traded for practicality—but before she could get to the porch, Rowan jumped out of Maisie’s bedroom window, his hulking figure swaying a little as he landed. He darted her way before she could enter the house.

She grasped his face with both hands and kissed him, and it lit her up from inside out, waking up the fluttery feeling that kept mostly dormant while she was away. “Was this a throwback?” She gave the window a pointed look. “Because if you’re trying to make me think of our first night together…”

When he jumped her bedroom window because she still lived with Uncle Orlon and Darrow. Aelin had no idea she’d think about that night to this day.

Rowan didn’t look overwhelmed by memories of great sexy times, though. The crease between his eyebrows was deeper than usual, his lips tightly pressed together. He took a glance at the window he came through.

“We need to talk.”

He looked serious. Way too serious. Aelin took a step back, his keys still on her hand while her pulse picked up. “Is Maisie alright?”

“Yes!” He grimaced, realizing that his secretiveness freaked her out. “She’s alright, but I did something…”

Aelin tuned him out, her mom instincts taking over. She hurried to his front door, as fast as her breathing, and opened it without listening to Rowan and whatever made his speech frantic. She’d check on Maisie, then she’d pay attention to him.

And that’s when she saw it.

It looked like a hurricane passed through his living room. His coffee table was a mess, full of papers and unopened shopping bags. Pet shop shopping bags. A small, pink carrier was left on the corner, close to some uncleaned dog poop.

He wouldn’t.

Rowan absolutely wouldn’t. Not without telling her first.

Aelin shot her most menacing look of disbelief at him but, to be fair, Rowan held his ground. Her fury never scared him but, right now, she wished otherwise.

The house was absolutely silent, and he didn’t fight her this time when she marched into Maisie’s bedroom.

When she opened the door, her daughter’s wide grin paused the boiling under her skin.

“Hi, Mommy,” she whisper-yelled. There was a small ball of golden fur asleep on the little girl’s arm, so she couldn’t get up to greet Aelin. It was obnoxiously cute. Like meeting a new mom at a maternity ward, but it’s little girls and puppies. “I’ll tell you when Fleetfoot’s awake, so we can play with her.”

Aelin kissed Maisie’s forehead. “I’d love that.” Then she left as quietly as she came in.

He fucking did it, Aelin realized, heat plummeting through her stiff muscles.

“Seriously, Rowan?” she whisper-yelled back in the living room.

He opened his mouth to speak but Aelin beat him to it.

“Are you kidding me right now?” she pointed at the direction of Maisie’s closed bedroom door. “You gave her a dog? And you didn’t think to consult her own mother first?”

“I’m sorry.” Rowan looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “I tried my best bribes—“

She plastered a fake smile on. “Let me guess, they didn’t work.”

Rowan put both hands up, a flicker of relief on his face, like Aelin was finally beginning to understand him. “Yes! And—“

Aelin could only imagine the scene Maisie must’ve caused. Still, she yelled, “And you have no authority over a five-year-old?”

He does. Aelin knows he does, as much as she knows she’s prone to say hurtful things when she’s mad.

“Come on, Aelin, the house is big. It’s staying on my place, I’m taking full financial and caregiving responsibilities—

Aelin tilted her head back, her angry laughter almost berserk. “You fucking bet you are!”

His entire posture deflated, and Rowan had a wounded expression intense enough she looked away.

“Can’t we just talk?” Rowan’s voice was soft in an uneasy way, a mix of hesitancy and vulnerability. “We could go back to Yrene’s pdfs and—“

“Not now.” Aelin crossed her arms. “I’m gonna rage alone at home until I feel empty, and then I’m gonna think about it. Once I’m done thinking about it without wanting to say mean things to you, I’ll let you know.”

“And if you don’t?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Stop feeling angry, I mean.”

She adjusted her purse around her shoulder. “Then I’ll see you in therapy.”

They were still going, though their sessions have been rather uneventful after they got together. Maybe Yrene knew something like this would blow up sometime. Whatever. Aelin’s not the shrink here.

Rowan nodded without meeting her eye, then let her go.

She didn’t even get her car, needing the small trek to her house. Way too small for all the thinking she needed to do, actually.

The chilly wind bit into her bones, and Aelin soon regretted the thin shirt she wore. The street was deserted, the ruffle of the sidewalk trees being the background noise to her thoughts.

Fuck, that dog is cute. No matter how much Aelin raged, how petty she acted, she knew how this would end.

Besides, it wasn’t about the dog. Deep down, Aelin knew why she was upset.

They got together, and when they were starting to feel like an united front, Rowan committed to a decade-long life decision without her. What was up with that?

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