#every moment of vulnerability feels like its so hard to navigate now

[parkinglothater]

i am just operating this skin suit fr dawg idk whats really going on

#renee rambles in the tags #i have so weirdly paranoid and anxious recently #i have been like constantly questioning all my relationships #like idk what my role is anymore or like how to act at all #i feel like im constantly just putting on a show recently but like idk why #its not like anything specific has changed im just like weirdly self aware #and like questioning if how ppl actually see me and stuff #idk its weird i feel so weird #every moment of vulnerability feels like its so hard to navigate now #like i wandered onto the ice bc i was confident i cld navigate the waters #but once i get there its starts breaking in a million pieces and i just start drowning #but like mentally #i just feel helpless and lost #like i dont know how to really b a person #and like i want to b human i think theyre cool! #i like really dont want to feel excluded #idk im just like #im such an odd place #im just insecure sbt everything recently #</3 #stfu renee

[somejazzinthemorning]

tightrope. 09

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Original Female Character Warning: Mature content. Word Count: ~11K

If you gaze into the void for too long, you will quickly realize that it seems to grow. The sight of the sea at night, both mesmerizing and frightening, is the perfect demonstration of this. There's nothing. It’s nothing. Just an endless void, a vast expanse of blackness that seems ready to swallow you whole.

The boat was moored and the sea danced under and around us. Carlos breathed quietly against my neck and his arms, warm and heavy, were wrapped around me. His gentle breathing and the lazy waves against the yacht lulled me into a half-waking state, where I felt myself float through the boundaries of sleep and wakefulness.

My body was anchored there, but my mind drifted away.

What were we doing? What was I doing?

I shouted these questions into my conscience, and the only answer I got was the warm feeling of being held, the bliss of feeling his breath against my skin, and our scents fused into one.

It was good. It was right. I had no doubts about that.

But what was next? What was going to happen after this?

I had spent the last few years looking back, wanting to go back, and now I couldn't face the future. Old habits die hard, Nonno always says. Despite feeling the present in my skin, my mind was stuck in the past, on the unpleasant goodbyes and the unanswered calls. The hard reality we had to face.

I had to face.

Alone.

A nagging ache ran from the small of my back to the curve of my hip, jolting me back to the moment. Sharp pain. I moved slightly, and Carlos pressed me closer.

I tapped his arm slightly. “You’re squishing me,” I whispered, my voice shaky and tired.

A soft moan escaped his mouth when I got out of his arms. Immediately, as I stood up, the soft breeze became a cold wind, and my whole skin turned to goosebumps. Naked and cold, and under his attentive gaze, I walked to my dress and, after sliding it over my head, I put on my sweater.

When I looked back, Carlos was already up, sliding up his trunks.

“Oh, that face…” he said huskily, walking towards me. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Reality hit me in small waves as I took in his request, and felt the words start lining up in my throat, pricking me like thorns.

“Do you want me to be honest?” I asked.

“Always.”

“You’re gonna hate me for this,” I said in a whisper so low I thought he didn't hear it, but he just shook his head. “I can’t help but think we messed up. I can’t help but feel this…” I paused, not sure how to put into words what I'd been saving inside. One of my hands hovered above my chest. “This…hole in my chest…In less than 48 hours, I'll be back in Madrid, and real life will just do its thing, and…” I looked up. “You know how it goes.”

He nodded, gentle, almost imperceptible. But there it was, a hint of insecurity and vulnerability in his eyes, peeking through a thick wall of self-assurance and confidence. His gaze swept across my face, eyes taking in every one of my features like he was trying to memorize them. I felt trapped there, between his eyes (for the first time not so full of hope) and my restless mind.

He buried his hand in the nape of my neck, navigating to my hair. His scent intoxicated me, nullifying the pain in my throat. My mind was taken by radio silence when our mouths collided.

From then on, every touch, every kiss, every time our eyes met felt like a desperate attempt to imprint each other onto our memories. Deep down, I suspected he felt the same I was feeling. Perhaps he knew exactly what was going through my mind; There was a time I truly believed he knew and understood me even better than I knew myself; maybe that time was coming back.

Or maybe his intense gaze could truly read my thoughts.

For a fleeting moment, as our lips parted for the last time, it felt like a goodbye. But then, as we gazed into each other's eyes, gasping for air and trying to contain the intensity of our emotions, I realized it couldn't possibly be the end.

“Does this feel wrong?” he asked, his nose touching mine. “Does this feel like a mistake?”

I shook my head in response, unable to form words.

“Does it, for you?” I asked, searching his somber eyes.

“No, Eva," he replied, his hand still cradling my neck.

The sadness and sincerity in his voice, when he spoke my name, sent shivers down my spine. The way he pronounced it—with a sweet blend of his deep Spanish accent and a light Italian twist, and with a subtle movement of his lips, tugging up in what seemed like a smile… I wondered if it was just the particular way his lips moved naturally, or if just saying my name made him smile.

“And even if it was,” Carlos broke the silence, again, “the only way I’d wish I hadn’t done it, would be just so I could experience it again for the first time.” His words etched themselves into my skin like a tattoo. I could feel the weight of them settling inside me. “How…" he hesitated, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "How could this be a mistake?"

My fingers wrapped around his fist, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against my skin. I slid my fingers up to his palm, taking his hand in mine, and pulled it away from my lips.

“Because it's you," I murmured, feeling the weight of his hand on mine. "I searched for you everywhere. In every man, every… race… every city I visited.” I paused, taking a deep breath. “I thought about you all the time. I wondered if you thought of me, too. I just wanted that, you know?" I slowly looked up, almost afraid of meeting his eyes. He wasn't frowning, he was patiently listening. "I—”

"Eva—"

"No, let me..." I interrupted him before he had the chance to speak, or the words I was desperately trying to find disappeared from my mind. "You showed up when I thought I was okay with you not being in my life. And you shifted everything. Both literally and figuratively. Rio is leaving. My team is gone. And for the first time in what seems like forever, I'm seeing a version of me I forgot existed. Every time you look at me, I feel like I'm being seen differently. And that doesn't make any sense, I know," I rushed to say, "but that's what your presence makes me feel. You make me remember why I loved waking up at 6 am on Sundays to go karting in the pouring rain until my hands went numb and my lips turned blue."

"And isn't that good?"

"That's so good," I said, exhaling. A hint of a smile showed up on his lips. "But I don't feel like... I mean—I need to be this person. I need to see this version of me when I’m alone. I'm so afraid of going back home and losing all this hope you awakened. I don't want to stop seeing the person you make me want to be the second I find myself alone just because you're no longer around.”

Carlos frowned. "I'm not going anywhere."

"No, that's..." I took a deep breath, and both my hands held his, almost like I needed to be reminded that he was still there. "Rio is leaving and I can't trust you to stay. And now there's no way I can pretend I can deal with the idea of not having or not feeling you again. So, yes, this could have been a mistake."

"You can't trust me to stay?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

"A week isn't remotely enough to heal whatever is going on inside me. This... this didn't help."

"Did it make it worse?"

"No," for some reason, I felt sort of defeated. I took a small break, trying to sort the thoughts rushing inside my mind. "It's just that now, more than ever, I understood I can't fight this."

Carlos looked down, and a quiet chortle came through as he took a small step back. My hands didn't leave his. My eyes followed his face, looking for his gaze. The moonlight brought a new colour to his eyes and softened the shadows on his face. Vulnerability spread over his features.

"We've done that before, Eva. We've done that for years. Fighting this, pushing each other away.” This time, it was him who needed a break, to take a deep breath. I waited. There was fear and pain in my blood, and I was not sure why that was. “Eva, if you knew how many times I wanted to act on this, how many times I waited in front of your door, gaining the courage to ask you out." He paused. "That damn dinner, taking you out for dinner, driving you around the town, making fun of Rio because that's the only way I wouldn't freak out for being out with you alone for the first time…"

I only noticed I chuckled when he did it too.

"You knew it then?" I asked him.

"That I wanted to be with you? That you were just not a friend? Yes, I did."

"And why didn't you act on it?"

He took a deep breath before answering. "Because I was scared. The same fear you're experiencing right now, I felt back then. Our friendship was too important, and I was afraid that if I told you, it would ruin everything. And… my career, your career… And Rio… Then, you started dating someone from your class, and I thought you could never see me in the same way that I saw you. Even when you were single and before I moved away, I didn't have the courage to act on my feelings. I fucked up. Then I moved away, and I was thankful for a while. But I quickly realise there’s not a place in the world that would make me forget about you. And from that realization to realizing that I couldn't force you to settle for less than what you deserved… It happened too quickly. I tried so hard to push those feelings away that I ended up pushing you away.”

"And why now? Why did you show up now?"

"I—I realised I couldn't wait any longer," he said softly.

His voice was barely audible, but it made my heart race. I could feel my pulse beating in my chest, and a mix of resentment and longing filled me.

“I was a coward before,” he continued. “I didn't act on my feelings for you, and I didn't ask you about yours. I thought that you would be better off without me and that I couldn't make you happy. I believed that pushing you away was the right thing to do, but now I know I was wrong. So, I will ask you now: What do you want? What do you need from me?”

Once again, I looked down at his hand, which I was holding tightly. It was what I needed—him. Anywhere in the world, at any given time. To know he will see in me what the dense fog hides inside my being.

“I don't know,” I said, shaking my head. “I really don't know.”

“Love, you can't just leave it at that. You have to give me something to work with here.”

Love.

I could use some of that too.

"Just—" I looked up and met his gaze, and for a moment, I lost myself in the depth of his eyes. They were like diamonds on a dark night. "I just need to know that you still have hope in me. No matter where we are, I just need to know you believe in me. I can’t ask for more.”

Without any hesitation, Carlos pulled me closer and wrapped his arms around me.

"I have all the hope in the world in you,” he whispered into my ear. “There are amazing things waiting for you. And I've lost enough of them."

                                                        * 

With a low thrum of the engine and the sound of glass clinking, we turned back towards the shore. The shoreline emerged in front of us, and the lights along it grew brighter and larger until the mass of light patterns on the dark ground became an array of perfect lines, perfectly arranged in the cliffs.

As we approached, the house that had once been just a blur of light out at sea slowly materialized into a perfect drawing. The engine died down, and the sea breeze mingled with the scent of pine and freshly cut grass. Strong Hispanic and Italian accents, along with the sounds of laughter and banter, wafted down to us with the wind.

It was like something out of a movie scene.

The lights. The sounds of nature and men. The man by my side.

I couldn't take my eyes off him.

Any other day, I would be capable of drawing his face from memory, but that night it all felt so new. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his nose scrunched up when he laughed, and the way his lips curved when he spoke certain words. My name, especially. The way his hand always finds the perfect spot on the small of my back, like it was meant to be there.

As we climbed the steps, one after another, our friends' laughter and voices became more distinct. They were sitting around the table, plates and glasses of wine scattered all around; candles and fairy lights flickering in the darkness. As we emerged from the stairwell, all heads turned to us.

"Oh! Look who decided to join us!" My brother's voice rang out. "Getting bored out there?"

As we approached the dinner table, Carlos's hand remained on my back, sending shivers down my spine. I could feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric of my clothes.

"Just very cold, mate," Carlos replied, giving me a subtle caress before letting go of me and landing the basket on one of the chairs.

"The sunset looked amazing from here," Ana said, her eyes darting between Carlos and me. "It must have been even more amazing out there."

"Yeah, it was beautiful," I said, stepping closer to the dinner table and reaching out for a slice of bread. "But Jesus it was so cold—I'm still shivering. I really need to change out of these clothes before I freeze."

"Go on," Marjorie said. "I think we'll stay home for the night. You've got time."

"Movie night or—?"

"God, no," my brother interrupted me. "Poker. I'll get the chips. Chili, go get the Brandy."

"Ana, can you take care of that?" Carlos asked his sister, motioning to the house with his head. "I need a shower and to rest. I’ll pass tonight.”

"No problem," Ana replied with a nod before she stood and stretched. "What about you, Evita?”

I exchanged a look with Carlos, as subtle as I could. “I think I’m going to pass, too. I need to enjoy one last night of peace. Heard we’re going clubbing tomorrow.”

“Damn yes, we are!” Marjorie exclaimed from her place. “For your information,” her finger traced a line over the men around the table. “No boys allowed, tomorrow.”

Carlos’ thumb moved on my back, pulling my attention to him. One last look and he gave a small nod. “Yeah, we’ll see you guys tomorrow. Have fun.”

“And behave with the drinks,” I completed. “G’night.”

As we turned to head back into the house, I could feel the eyes of our friends following us. The silence became a melody of messy whispers, getting louder as we entered the house. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking, what they were saying.

We'd been dancing around each other for our whole years, and even if we were not totally aware of that, they were.

The inside of the house was quiet in comparison to the boisterous atmosphere outside. After I took the first step up the stairs, I turned to Carlos, walking two steps in front.

"What do you think they think we did out there?"

He stopped for a second, brows furrowing. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. Just… trying to prepare for what to expect, I guess."

"Well, nobody can really know what happened," he said, resuming his walk. "But they probably think we did exactly what we did out there."

“Even my brother?”

“Especially your brother.” I stopped in my tracks, and Carlos, who was a few steps ahead of me, turned around to face me. “Does that change something?”

“I don’t know. Especially my brother? What does that even mean?”

Carlos shrugged. “He’s your brother. He knows you. And he knows me, probably even better than my own sisters. Does that bother you?”

I rested my hand on the railing and leaned my body against it. “It’s not that it bothers me, but…” Carlos nodded, giving me his undivided attention. “It’s just that the expectations… He’s going to work with you. Also…. He’s your best friend. I’m his sister. Don’t you guys have a code for that stuff?”

“I don’t think he cares about that code, Eva,” his lips were trying to suppress a smile. “And even if he does, he’ll just have to suck it up.”

“Right. What about the rest?”

“The rest?”

“Your sisters… Marjorie—”

“I think they noticed I’ve been spending the last few days staring at the office door,” he said softly, extending his hand in my direction. “What if they know?”

“You didn’t know, certainly.”

Carlos chuckled and led me up the stairs, walking in front of me. When we reached the first floor, he let me walk ahead of him. As I looked over my shoulder and caught him still standing near the stairs, he spoke again.

“I didn’t think I deserved it just yet,” he said, walking over to me. “But I can’t say I didn’t think about it.” The confession sent shivers down my neck. “Now go take a shower before I make sure that no one has doubts about anything tomorrow.”

My heart skipped a beat and I turned to face him; his lips were slightly parted and his eyes big and dark. A shower was the last thing on his mind, and suddenly all my worries and concerns dissipated too. I opened my mouth to say something, probably some incoherent mumbling that would get me nowhere, but before I could, his lips crashed onto mine.

And just like the first time, it was desperate.

His hands were everywhere, pulling me closer, pressing me against him. It was passionate and intense. That strange feeling of longing for someone who was right there.

“I really need my shower,” I whispered, trying to pull away from his hands, to no avail. His hands only grabbed me closer.

“Is that some sort of invitation? Do you need help dressing your pyjamas?”

“No,” I giggled. “I can do it alone, you know? I’m not like a certain someone.”

“Certain someone? I wonder who.”

I laughed. “Though night, the other day. I really thought I would have to carry the three of you upstairs.”

“Well, I would have loved to see you try,” Carlos stepped back, crossing his hands over his chest. “But curious about your pyjamas. Do they still have unicorns on them?”

“Negative. Corgis.”

“Corgis?”

“Aham,” I nodded. “Any problem with that?”

“Eva DiMaggio,” he paused. “Will you ever get less weird?”

I rolled my eyes. “Says the guy finding excuses to see me naked. It’s not been an hour. Are you that needy?" I teased him.

Carlos chuckled. “Maybe,” he said with a smirk. “But it’s not like you’re complaining.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. He was right, I wasn’t complaining. In fact, I was enjoying every moment we had together, even if it was just stolen moments like this.

“Go on,” he said, motioning towards the door. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

"No," I said, just as he was about to turn around and enter his room. "Feel free to visit in about 20 minutes. To see the pyjamas."

Carlos' smirk grew wider as he turned back to face me. "I might just take you up on that offer."

My pyjamas were neatly folded and placed under the pillow. As I approached the bed, the calming scent of lavender filled my senses. Few things have the power to soothe me as lavender does—yoga, music, the roar of a V12 and my recent rekindling of Carlos' presence are the other things on that list.

A tingling sensation hits my skin as I’m enveloped by the soft, freshly laundered fabric of my pyjamas.

I felt comfortable, at peace. Body and soul.

It was an odd feeling. Too strange to ignore.

When I entered the bathroom, the reflection staring back at me looked almost as perplexed as I felt. The slight redness in my cheeks, probably caused by the alcohol or the sun, popped up when a knock on the door cut through the silence.

“In here!” I called out.

The sound of the door opening and closing and slow, lazy steps followed. In a matter of seconds, Carlos joined me, standing beside me in the mirror, leaning against the bathroom door. The fluorescent light from above illuminated his chiselled abs. I couldn't help but notice how revealing his sweatpants were.

"Are you going to stare at me all night?" I said, my mouth full of toothpaste, focusing my gaze on his, through the mirror.

He smirked, his eyes flicking down to my shorts. "Not at you. At the corgis. Adorable.”

I scoffed, spitting out toothpaste into the sink. “Very smooth, Sainz, very smooth.”

The sound of water hitting the sink filled the room, and Carlos's laugh mingled with the sound. I just smiled and splashed the cold water over my skin while he watched me intently, analyzing every gesture of mine. As I picked up my cleanser and pumped the foam into my hands, his eyes and hands travelled to the small array of bottles on the sink.

“These are all for your face?” he asked, intrigued.

“Almost all of them, yes,” I replied.

“At once? All of this?”

I nodded, laying my finger on top of my toner. “This one always comes before any of these,” I explained, as my finger made a circular motion over all of my serums and oils. Carlos nodded, intrigued by the information. “These have rules. More complicated, but… They don’t matter. In the end, always, moisturizer.”

“And this one?” he reached out and touched my face, taking out a bit of the foam from my cleanser.

“Just some cleanser,” I said, giggling. He nodded, but the expression of a confused golden retriever didn’t leave his face. I could feel myself melting. “Just to clean the skin,” I completed. “Wanna try?”

Carlos extended both hands towards me, and soon both of our hands were filled with foam. We turned to the mirror, each one focusing on our own task. As he closed his eyes in pleasure, I couldn't help but watch him. His full lips were parted, and the way his long fingers lathered and moved over his face was so gentle. My fight-or-flight response was about to kick in. A siren blared in my mind. I wasn't ready for this. I didn't want to get to this point: lowering my walls and welcoming him inside. And yet, I found myself doing just that, each time allowing him to go further and stay longer.

As he opened his eyes again, he caught my eye in the mirror, and I could tell he noticed my look. He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile forming on his lips.

"You like what you see?" he teased.

“Yes, I can’t resist men who do skincare, especially if they’re half-naked in my bathroom,” I picked up my serum. “It’s my weak spot.”

Carlos laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Good to know,” he said, rinsing off the foam from his face. “Maybe I’ll have to make this a regular thing.”

I shook my head, trying to hide the smile on my face. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

He chuckled. “It’s a bit too late for that.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't deny the warmth that spread through me at his words. Maybe I was getting too comfortable, but that thought was pushed aside as I focused on the familiar routine of my skincare. Carlos let go of the towel he was using and leaned against the counter, looking at me. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, and I knew he was up to something.

"What now?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Can I try some of that too?" he asked, a sly smile playing on his lips.

“Ahm…” I wasn't sure where that sudden interest came from, but I couldn't deny such a request. “Yeah. Sure. Why not? Sit down.”

He complied, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. I squirted some serum into my fingers and walked towards him. As I got closer, he opened his legs inviting me to stand between them.

“This one is for fine lines and wrinkles. You don’t actually need this,” I said, bringing my fingers to his cheeks.

Once again, he closed his eyes. “I think I do. My face is an important asset, you know?”

“More important than skill, these days,” I teased.

He chuckled. “Like you would know.”

“I’m still a fan.” I paused. My thumbs massaged his forehead, tracing a line above his eyebrows. I couldn’t help but notice the line of his eyelashes, casting a shadow under his eyes, the curve of his lips shaping a tender smile. “And I’m on social media. I know what people say.”

He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting mine. “Oh, if half my followers knew what I’m doing right now.”

I smiled. “Half of them would probably be jealous.”

He chuckled. “Well, yeah. To compensate for half that would think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Balance, right?”

He nodded, smiling. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my belly through the buttons of my shirt. It felt oddly intimate but comfortable and familiar. I had barely any more product to massage into his skin, but the softness of his cheeks kept me hostage. He had a strong presence. Masculine features, and strong lines on his face, yet he had the prettiest eyelashes and lips any girl would die for. He was pretty.

So pretty.

"So, how does it feel?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"Amazing," he replied, his voice low and husky. “You’re good at this.”

The silence grew deeper, and with it, the need to fill the air with mindless chatter slowly disappeared. His presence alone was enough to calm me down. I reached for the moisturizer from the counter and squirted a dollop into my hands. As I began applying it to his face, I could feel the tension in his forehead begin to ease. His breathing had evened out, and his skin glowed under the soft bathroom light.

"You're all done. Ready for bed," I said, breaking the peaceful silence.

"Not yet," he replied softly, standing up to grab the moisturizer from my hand. "Let me return the favour," he added, motioning towards the seat I had just occupied.

I couldn't refuse his offer, as my body moved on its own accord. The sense of intimacy and tranquillity was overpowering any other emotion rushing through me. As I sat down and leaned my head back, I watched him pick up the tube and squirt the product in his hands. He smelled good, fresh and warm, and I closed my eyes as his fingers touched my skin. With a sigh, I let go of any tension.

"You need to be cared for too," he said, his voice low and gentle, running his fingers over my cheekbones.

His touch felt like feathers, so soft and gentle. As he neared my lips with his thumb, he stopped, and I opened my eyes. I knew that feeling too well. The weight of his thumb near my chin, slowly approaching my lips. Tempting.

"Can I kiss you goodnight?" he asked in a whisper.

A nod was all I could manage. "Please do," I replied.

Satisfaction and relief flashed in her eyes, and her lips curved into a smile. God, this man had me in the palm of his hand. How could he think I would say no? How could I say no when his kisses taste and feel like a storm fading over the horizon, like waves inside ceasing existence, emptying the tide and revealing parts of me I wouldn't previously claim as my own?

We stood there in silence for a moment, the tension between us palpable until Carlos cleared his throat and pulled away from me.

"I think it’s time I let you sleep," he said, his voice a little rough. But instead of letting me go, he held me closer. "You're joining us for golf tomorrow, right?"

"To days in a row?" I protested. But then again, when had Carlos ever not gotten what he wanted? He gave me that special look of his and suddenly I found myself nodding. "I'll bring my Kindle."

"You wouldn’t dare,” he stepped forward once more, just to kiss my forehead. “I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight then," I said, barely above a whisper.

"Goodnight," he replied, giving me a small smile before turning and walking away.

The silence of the room was almost deafening, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness as I collapsed onto the bed.

I reached for my phone, and before I knew it, I was scrolling through social media, mindlessly absorbing every post and photo that came my way. It wasn't until my phone vibrated with a message that I looked up from the screen.

My dad.

We will talk once you’re in Madrid.

And then it was all back.

                                                        * 

As I moved my head, the refreshing breeze greeted me, relieving my eyes of the tangled locks of hair that had been obstructing my view. The day was relatively cooler than the previous ones, and the sky was painted with a mix of grey and white clouds. It seemed like the island was getting ready to say goodbye. Even though, the sight of the lush green grass of the course stretching out before me, with its scattered sand traps and water hazards, composed a breathtaking view.

I looked around once more, taking it all in. I was not ready to let the sunshine go.

On my right, Carlos was getting ready to take his last shot. The morning had been pleasant. Rio and Marjorie were now to the side, distracting one another. Marjorie was a pile of anxiety, that morning. She missed her kids and the kids missed her.

I never saw Olivia cry as much as she did when we called my mother during breakfast. Not even Rio’s antics made the little kid smile. That had put a toll on Marjorie’s mood for the whole morning.

My dad had put one on me with the text he had sent me the night before and the conversation he had that morning. The conversation didn’t move on from the “We’ll talk later, enjoy the time out.”

My mind was elsewhere, clearly.

Anxiety resided in my gut, craving a huge hole in my stomach. Surprisingly, golf had helped.

Carlos swung his club, the hush it made cutting through the air and the mutated thumb of it meeting the ball made me turn to him once more. Gracefully, the ball curved in the air, landing not too far from the hole. It would be my job to seal the deal.

"Ah," he grunted, holding his club loosely. "Nearly missed it.”

“It looks nice,” I remarked, walking towards the cart and expecting him to follow me. However, Carlos didn’t respond, his attention diverted elsewhere. "You’ll get your hole-in-one next time—Are you listening?"

"Sorry,” he turned to me. “I'm just—Can you see that?" he asked, pointing towards the horizon.

Following the path from his index to the horizon, I approached him. Nothing. I squinted my eyes, trying to figure out what he was referring to. “What, exactly?”

"There's something there. Moving," he replied, his excitement palpable.

I followed him down the hill, holding my club. "A mole?"

"Probably," he said, his strides becoming longer as he approached the hole. Peeking its head out of the hole, we saw a tiny ball of dark brown fur, looking up at us with its beady black eyes. It seemed out of place amidst the immaculate green grass, as if it had crawled from a completely different world. I couldn't resist taking out my phone and snapping a quick photo.

"Look at it," Carlos said, grinning widely. Adorable. How can a grown-ass man be this adorable? "It's so cute!"

He took out his phone as well, and I sat down on the grass, watching him. Wide grin, big eyes, the long hair curving over the brim of his hat… a kid. And then, his voice—that goofy voice I hadn't heard in years.

"Hello there, Mr. Mole," he said, looking at me over his shoulder. I couldn't help but laugh as he carried on a one-sided conversation with the tiny animal. "Welcome to the golf course! Do you like it here? Are you planning on staying?"

I giggled, shaking my head as I leaned back on my arms. "I can’t believe I’m witnessing this. You're ridiculous."

"Don't listen to her, Mr. Mole.” He grinned at me, pocketing his phone, and then turned his attention back to the mole. “She's just jealous of your adorable little nose."

“Should I be offended by that?”

“Eh…” he leaned his head, shrugging. “I would pick my battles better if I were you.”

I chuckled, feeling the tension of my worries slowly dissipating. The moment of lightheartedness made me momentarily forget about my concerns. It was nice there. Easy. And yet, he never stopped being an enigma to me, even having known him since we were kids. There were moments when he seemed like a completely different person.

Like now.

He looked so intense, so focused. His eyes never left mine, and I found myself struggling to maintain eye contact.

“Are you okay?” he asked, sitting down near the hole.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, averting my gaze and focusing on the little animal, already hidden in the dirt, only its bottom visible. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You tell me,” he replied, the corner of his lips curling up in a small smile. “You’ve been distant all morning. Not a good look on you.”

People always tell me I’m not a great liar—something about my too-bright eyes and how easy they are to read. Carlos was one of those people. He had a way of seeing right through me, even when I didn’t want him to.

“Too many long nights in a row. I need a good night of sleep,” he didn’t seem convinced by my excuse. Carlos licked his lips and got up, offering me a hand. As soon as we were standing in front of one another, he raised his eyebrow. “And my dad,” I admitted. “He’s been… strange.”

“Strange how?”

“You know how he is. Lately, he’s been worse. More distant. And I don’t know if I'm imagining things or—” I trailed off. “The point is that he’s being weird and making me anxious.”

“Is this about the email from last night? The one Rio mentioned?”

I nodded. “Yup. Racing stuff.”

Carlos tried to hide his smile, but a fragment of it lay on his lips, tainting his eyes and making them shine. “What racing stuff?”

“A meeting with Deborah Mayer,” this time, his grin expanded wide. “Don’t get your hopes high, Sainz. Just a talk. And I don’t know if I’ll get it.”

“I’m just happy to see you acting on it. The idea of you in an office doesn’t make sense to me,” he shrugged, walking towards the ball. “Racing shouldn’t be a hobby.” He pointed his club to me. “Not for you, at least.”

“Let’s finish this hole, shall we?” I mumbled, taking my stance and aligning my club with the ball. “Can’t fail this one. I rather eat the ball than lose to those two.”

Carlos looked up towards the hill, where Marjorie and Rio waited by the cart. I felt the weight of his gaze when he looked back at me.

“Yesterday you told me I make you want to be better,” he closed the distance between us and stood in front of me. His fist grabbed his club with a strength that didn’t reflect itself in the light and adoring gaze of his eyes. God. I wanted to fill them with pride. “Let me help you do it.”

“No—” I shook my head, raising my hand and shaking it too. “No. Don’t—I don’t need that.”

“Don’t be so proud.”

“It’s not pride. Or stubbornness, before you go that way,” I tilted my head to the side. “I’ve done it alone until here, I can do it from here.”

“But you don’t need to. You’re not alone.”

Silence.

Three seconds of peace and utter tranquillity, and then anxiety hit me in the chest, like the waves against the shoreline. A feeling way too familiar. Way too powerful to ignore. My heart hammered in my chest, my blood rushed in my ears.

I glanced at him for a second, he was looking at me. Waiting.

What did he want me to say?

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t focus if you keep talking.”

“And I can’t help you if you keep ignoring me,” his voice was soft and soothing. Like a music box winding down.

I looked up. His shadow covered me almost completely.

“I forgot how fucking annoying you are.” Carlos offered me a smile but his gaze remained serious. “Can we finish this up and talk after lunch?”

The shadow over me didn’t move, and Carlos didn’t make any sound until I heard a long exhale and the ruffle of his sneakers walking over the green.

“Sure. Go ahead.” Deafet and tired, he walked to my right. “Easy on those wrists,” After repositioning my hands, I looked up for approval. He was smirking, “I know I test your patience, but we don’t need that kind of strength right now.”

"Is that so?"

"The hole is less than 10 meters away,” Carlos pointed like it was obvious and I couldn’t not chuckle at his answer.

“I was talking about the I know I test your patience part.”

It would have been hard not to smile at him at that moment. His eyes were wide and pleading, although a small curve of his lips suggested that he wanted to smile as well. It was impossible not to smile when Carlos Sainz smiled at you with such genuine affection in his eyes and his heart that you might even believe that he would do anything for you.

“Go ahead, Eva. Hit it. We’ll talk later.”

“As you say, professor,” I said, swinging my club and hitting the ball towards the hole. The ball rolled slowly across the grass, falling into the hole with a soft plunk. "See?! This is what happens when you don't bother me about emails or my posture.”

"Eh! Come on..." He moved his hands dramatically and it was clear that he was spending too much time with my brother lately. "If I hadn't, you wouldn't have been able to hole this one out."

"Admit it," I said, moving forward in mock indignation. "It was all an excuse to grab my hips.” I winked at him coyly. “I won't judge."

“Always a flirt, aren’t you?”

“Look at you,” I said, leaning on my club, again. “Can you blame me?”

There was a thing about Carlos Sainz I'd completely forgotten. How easily his expression shifts. A small shift can change the atmosphere around him. The dark strands of hair that fall over his eyes make them seem impossibly deep, the perfect setting for a pair of long lashes to rest against. His eyebrows are slightly uneven, but they fit with the rest of his face perfectly. As if he's been sculpted out of clay and left to stand beside me like a sculpture in some museum garden. It takes as much time for him to take a step and blink as it does for my heart to go out of rhythm.

And that's exactly what happened there. I could feel the tension grow inside and around me, my chest imploding at the same time.

But with a shake of his head, it all went away — his face softened and he shook his head before picking up the ball from the hole and sliding it into his pocket, "You're a bad influence," he joked, before extending his hand to me and signalling to follow him. "Let's go distract them."

Under the slim shadow cast by a palm tree, Marjorie observed her husband. Rio was a couple of steps away, ready to teed his back and take his last shot. Carlos sat down on the driver’s seat of our cart and attentively observed my brother. The ball flew off down in an awkward arc. Before it even hit the green, a dissatisfied grunt was heard.

“You can start celebrating,” he said, walking back to us. “Fucking wind.”

                                                        * 

The afternoon and the night flew by as if they were minutes and the clock had no patience to wait for us to find time to be alone. That day, Marjorie and Rio joined us in our snorkelling attempt and later that night, Ana did not take no for an answer when it came to going clubbing. With each passing second, the reminder I would leave soon and the bubble would burst.

Nevertheless, he was always around.

His gaze was on me when I was cooking lunch with the girls. His arms protectively wrapped around me as we rode the jetskis around the house, almost like he was begging me to not leave. On that night, his eyes lingered on mine one more second than necessary before I got up off the couch and headed to the club with his sisters and Marjorie.

I wanted him, just one last time before reality hit, and reality was a couple of hours away.

Just a night of sleep, breakfast and a short ride to the airport away.

So, I fell asleep thinking of him and tracing with my fingertips all the places he had kissed and adored, replaying his tender touch in my mind, wishing for him to be there when I opened my eyes, to take over and replace my desperate caresses with his passionate touch. The memories blended into a dream and a restful, peaceful sleep.

Like all mornings in Costa Del Pins, my room was taken by the sunlight when I woke up.

The expectation was that this time, I was awakened by the yellow hue of the Mediterranean summer, not the ring of my alarm. I remembered dreaming about Carlos. I remembered the too many glasses of sangria and all the shots Ana had brought to the table.

I had missed this. This was summer just like I remembered it.

Wine and laughter and long dinners by the sea, that stretch until the night and the sleep take the best out of us. Ana and her darling smile. The sun and the salt and the sweat.

The thin white sheets were twisted around my legs, holding me in place. I stared at the white ceiling, enjoying the shadows of the waving curtains drawn on it—the movements as soft as the sea waves. I didn’t want to leave.

Everything seemed to work in the same way in Mallorca. Everyone seemed to vibe at the same frequency. And Carlos was there. He wouldn’t be in Madrid.

My phone vibrated on the nightstand. I kicked off the sheets, trying to pry them from my legs.

“come here when you wake up”

And despite not wanting to leave the bed, my limbs moved alone. My bare feet touched the cold floor when they slid to the floor, barely touching down as I rose from bed. And still drowsy from sleep, and feeling in my body everything that had happened the day before, I walked over across the hall.

His door was slightly open. All the other doors of the hallway were closed.

I knocked, nonetheless.

“Hi,” I whispered, entering his room.

Laying in bed, he gave me a lazy smile. It was impossible to not feel my entire self melting at the view. Arm underneath his head. Puffy eyes. The stubble. The hazy morning light accentuated his features, making them ascend to the category of a classic painting.

“Morning,” he replied, slowly sitting up.

The sheet crumbled at his waist, revealing his naked torso. I sat at the foot of his bed. My silk shorts contrasted against the white bed linen.

“No morning run today?”

“No…” He shook his head and then yawned. “I mean—yes. I was waiting for you, but I think I fell asleep waiting for your alarm.”

“You hear my alarm from here?” He nodded, dragging his hands over his face, stopping to rub his eyes. “That’s why you leave the door open?” Once again, he nodded. “I turned it off, today. I needed to sleep.”

His hardened body softened as he eyed me up with a faint smile grazing across his lips.

“At what time is the flight?”

“Around four.”

He nodded. “And when will I see you again?”

“I don’t know…” I crossed my legs and tilted my head. “Monza? I’ll be there, for sure.”

Instantly, the man in front of me shook his head. “Monza? That’s in almost a month.”

“I know. I mean—” I paused. “We can try to meet before, but you have your stuff, too. Monza is the only promise I can make.”

“Zandvoort,” he suggested. “For my birthday.”

His birthday. The 1st of September. Amanda’s event was in September, around that date if I was not mistaken. Carlos squinted his eyes, probably because I was already giving him a negative answer with my expression.

“I think I have a work thing. In Berlin.”

“Berlin is not that far…” He raised his eyebrow, the corner of his lips tugging up. His pretty face was on the verge of making me give in. “Come ooon... You can get from one city to another in less than two hours.”

I dropped my shoulders. God, this man.

“But I can’t promi—”

“I don’t need you to promise me anything,” he interrupted me. And then, his voice softened. “I need you to try.”

Fighting him had no use when he smiled that way.

“Fine. I’ll try.”

“See?” He smiled and called me closer with his hands. “That’s all I need to hear.”

Crawling over the sheets, still warm from his body heat and smelling like him, I made my way closer. The aroma of his skin lingered in the air and my nostrils flared as I took it all in. I could live in his embrace forever. I could live wrapped in one of these sheets. His arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer and mitigating the gap between us.

Inches apart, his eyes locked onto mine. My heart pounded against my chest—a reminder that I hadn’t yet learned how to deal with this man’s antics. Deep down, I wished to never get used to it.

“Here’s another thing…” he said, in a soft whisper.

I brought my hands to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each breath he took. “What?”

“I’ll be flying over Europe. And so will you. Madrid, Maranello, Milan… and for the races. Tell me where you are, and I’ll get to you.” He paused. “I once expected you to be the one to drop everything and follow me around. It was not fair," he admitted with a sincerity that caught me off guard. "But now, I know what not to do. I can drop my stuff off once in a while and go to you. And you’ll need to let me do it. Okay?"

With those big brown eyes staring back at me, all I could do was nod. "Okay," I managed to whisper.

“And that’s something I want you to promise.”

“What?”

“That you will let me get closer.” Carlos leaned in, his lips hovering over mine. “Physically, mentally, emotionally.”

Breaths mingling, hot and heavy, tension building between us. I closed my eyes and succumbed to the moment, letting his lips capture mine.

Sleepy. Slow. Kinda sloppy.

“I can promise to try,” I said, eyes closed to savour the sensation of his lips down my jaw.

“Good enough for now,” he murmured; his hands roamed over my body, tracing the curves and lines of my skin. Every touch felt electric, sending shivers down my spine.

I moaned softly against his lips, feeling his smile against mine.

“We need to stop,” I put both my hands on his chest. “I need to go pack.”

He let out a low groan, his hands still roaming over my body. “Right,” he said, his voice husky. “We need. But because we're going out for breakfast. Go get dressed before my sister catches you awake and steals you away once more.”

                                                        * 

The melody of the waves washed over my senses the second he opened the car door, carried by a tiny breeze that made my hair dance against my neck. Before moving away from the car, he looked back at me, his sleepy eyes squinting to battle the bright sun. We were parked not too far from the market and I could sense the aroma of fruits and flowers.

We walked together, feeling the morning sun warming up our skin, the rhythm of our feet pounding against the pavement in perfect unison. The world around us began to blur, and all that was left was the sound of our voices and the rhythm of our conversation, light and carefree, about rocks, flowers and the two wild cats sleeping on a bench.

Reality seemed a foreign concept when he was involved.

Eventually, our steps brought us to the bakery. Two clay pots with brightly coloured flowers were placed outside, on both sides of the door. As we stepped through, we were met with a cosy atmosphere, with three families sitting around, enjoying their breakfast and a lazy dog snoozing away underneath the fan. On the counter, near the register, were three carton boxes with familiar purple ribbons.

The bakery. The croissants.

“Do you wanna sit, or—” he asked me, looking over his shoulder.

“We can sit,” I didn’t let him finish the question. “I appreciate the air conditioning.”

He chuckled, turning back to me and placing his hand on the small of my back. I walked to a booth in the corner of the bakery, sitting on the sofa facing the window. The view was breathtaking—the sea was a bright blue that expanded itself until the tenuous line on the horizon. Sharp cliffs surrounded the beach in front, framing the crowded sand. I moved my eyes to Carlos when he sat in front of me, a smile being automatically drawn on my lips as he took off his hat and passed his fingers through the sweaty strands of his hair.

“It’s terrible, no?” He asked, making me immediately frown. “I just cut it before France.”

“And it was an absolute crime,” my words came wrapped in a small laugh.

“Do you like it long?” Once again, he passed his hands on his hair, the locks easily followed the lines his fingers were drawing.

“I do,” I nodded. “And I like your beard, too. It’s a shame you shaved it today.”

He chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time we meet,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.

From my right, the figure of a round lady appeared. Her silver-grey hair was meticulously braided over her shoulder and tied with a delicate purple elastic at the end, a perfect contrast to the vibrant blue and yellow tie-dye apron that draped over her beautiful floral print dress. When she spotted Carlos, her face lit up in recognition and a warm smile spread across her lips. Her hands clasped together in front of her chest, beaming with joy as he turned to her.

“Buenos dias,” her voice was gentle, kind and inviting. “What should I get for you two?” She asked. “Despite the croissants Carlitos usually chooses of course.”

Carlos gazed at the woman expectantly, and asked, "What would you like?" He added with a hopeful smile, "The cinnamon rolls I brought you the other day were good too, no?"

The woman nodded thoughtfully, her heavy gaze studying me. “It’s a new recipe,” she said, her voice full of anticipation. “I’m still trying to perfect it.”

“Oh, I—” my gaze shifted from one to the other, both of them looking at me expectantly. “I loved them, I wouldn’t change a thing. You can bring me one for now, actually. And an espresso, por favor.”

The woman nodded, her eyes glistening with pride from my compliment. “And you for? The same thing?”

He smiled and shook his head. "Yes, that can be. Just bring me a water bottle, too."

The woman nodded and made her way to the kitchen, humming a melody under her breath. Carlos and I exchanged a smile, and soon the scent of freshly made croissants and cinnamon rolls filled the air.

“Rupert is gonna kick your ass when he finds out how much sugar you’ve been eating,” I said, my fingers fidgeting with the napkin.

He chuckled, his eyes still on the kitchen door. "Maybe," he said, his voice low and almost inaudible. "But I think I'm allowed one last splurge before I head back home."

“One last splurge? You’ll spend, at least, five more days in here.”

Carlos leaned back in his seat, his fingers fidgeting with a sugar pack while he looked at me. “My dad can be a bit controlling. He says I won’t fit my seat, otherwise.”

“Well, if you keep eating croissants for breakfast, I’m afraid he’s not wrong.”

Carlos laughed, his gaze flickering out the window before returning to me. “Well, then I guess I’ll have to make the most of it while I can.”

I leaned back on the sofa, feeling the cool air of the air conditioning caress my skin. “You know, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a place like this. No worries, just the sea and the sun.”

Carlos leaned forward, his eyes intense as they bore into mine. “That sounds too easy for you. You would get bored.”

It was not a lie. I would get bored. I needed the challenge, the compressibility but... These last few days? The bubble we had constructed without noticing? I needed a bit of that, too—the slow living I never thought would be a fit for me.

“Don’t you wish for this, sometimes? I know you love your job and everything it implies but… don’t you wish to be home, sometimes?”

“Of course,” the woman returned with our drinks and pastries, placing them on the table with a gentle smile. Carlos broke his sentence to thank her, and then his attention diverted to me, again. “Of course, I want to be home. I love Italy and I feel welcome in Maranello, but it’s not home.”

“And Ferrari?” I heard a confused “hm?” coming from his lips. I moved in my seat until I felt the words lining up correctly in my throat. “How do you know you’ve made the right choice? At first, how did you know it was right to join McLaren?”

He looked at me, surprised by my sudden question, and then back at the croissant he was pinching “I didn’t have much choice, to be honest.”

“Okay,” I paused. “What about Ferrari?”

"It was my dream," he said quietly. Right. "You will never know, Eva," he said, his gaze meeting mine briefly before his expression became unreadable again. "I guess you just have to trust your gut. There’s no right or wrong, and you can think a certain team is right for you and your goals, you can dream about that team for years, but you can never be sure if you are stepping into a dream or a nightmare until you are too deep into it."

My grandmother used to often tell me that condemnations can be disguised as blessings, and I couldn't help but think of her words at that moment. No matter how much you plan, God has already something sorted out for you.

"You know what they say," he said. "The only way to know is to take a leap of faith."

I nodded, the words resonating deep in my core. I let out a deep breath, my gaze fixed on the passing landscape, the big stain of blue appearing interrupted between the branches of the trees planted between us and the sea.

“But why the sudden doubt?” Carlos asked. I turned my head to him. “You seemed excited yesterday, talking about Mayer.”

“All this wait is making me second guess myself," I said, the words coming out almost involuntarily. "I mean, what if it’s not the right move?"

Carlos shook his head. "You can't do that…. Second guess yourself like that," he said. "Iron Dames is an excellent fit for you. Explore the field, try new stuff, meet new people. Test things.” He paused for a second. “If it’s not right for you, you step out.”

“Okay, but—” I could see his forehead crease and he slowly tilted his head. “Won’t I be losing a year if it’s not right?”

“No, you will still learn something.” I relaxed my body against the comfortable seat; Carlos kept going. “But if it’s right and you run away from it because you’re afraid? It’s just a lost opportunity.”

For a brief moment, the bakery seemed to go silent, his words lingered inside, ricocheting on the walls and meeting me. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “No need to thank me.” I couldn't help but smile back, the warmth of his presence acting like an elixir and calming my nerves.

We kept talking about the possibilities, about faith and about trusting our guts. Carlos filled me up on the things I had missed, brief stories about race weekends and vacations I did not witness with him.

He was eager to share.

To fit me in his stories.

Carlos told every story with a tenacity I hadn’t felt in a while, sharing even the smallest detail, as if he wanted to bring me there, to take in the sights and sounds of the journeys. Even though I appreciated it, and it brought me joy to hear him talk, it filled me with a longing for the days I used to be able to witness it firsthand.

The thrill of the race weekend, the tensions of the hours before the race and the joyful hugs at the end. The smell of his cologne mingled with the rubber. The vision of his sweaty hair moulded by the helmet. The way his arms tightly wrapped around me in a hug after the race, like since the moment we last saw each other in the garage for a quick goodbye, he had been scared that he would never be able to do it again.

It didn't surprise me when he mentioned golf at least three times, and Lando even more times than that. He told me about his burgers and the ongoing competition amongst Team 55, the people in Maranello and how I could actually be a good help to bring some life into his apartment.

I told him about my recurrent work trips to London and Milan, the amazing trip my family had done to Scotland and how excited I was about going to Fuji with WEC, just a few weeks from then.

Between all that, the thought that I wished I had met him differently, or that we could just be different people.

Two strangers in London. Or Madrid. Two strangers who bump into each other on a street or a crowded bar, find each other in a city where the cobblestone streets are lined with pubs and cafés and double-decker buses drive by. See our reflections shining against the wet asphalt. Kiss him in a crowded bar and dance with him under the frenetic lights. To be as anonymous as anyone else dancing around. To feel the earth rumble under our feet as we walk down dark alleys, taking a shortcut under the cover of darkness.

To go through all the motions and emotions and fall in love again, in slow motion, slow enough to take in every detail I let go of.

And, this time, to not let go.

So, I'm baaaack! I'm alive! I really want to apologize for the time it took me to post this one, but the last weeks were really difficult. I'm going better, now, but I can't promise to be back next with with another chapter. I'm so sorry for the wait. Hope you still remember me. All the love! 🤍

#Tightrope #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz fanfic #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #fanf1ction #f1 fanfic #driver x you #f1 driver x you #f1 driver x reader #driver x reader #carlos sainz fluff #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz angst

[skepticbeliever-bookclub]

Hiya shippers & readers!

Just as we're feeling a fresh breath of life into our shipper souls thanks to the return of our boys going on fun dates, our book club raffle winner pitched a very familiar theme we hadn't had a chance to revisit in years. Casefic! We wanted them detecting; we wanted them navigating a mystery and with ten nominations pouring in, we found one that many of us had been saving for a special treat A Thread of Lavender by breathtaken.

This brilliantly crafted noir fic, set in the 1950's during the worst of the Lavender Scare, positions Ryan the PI, still so very much Ryan in all his endearing qualities and flaws, in a juxtaposition of trying to get his job done and wavering under the influence of his best friend and partner Shane. We as a book club agreed that-- with its very well-researched setting, plot execution and the author's unflinching look at what it was to be queer in this era and how that speaks to our experiences now--this particular casefic deserves a ribbon in the hall of fame of its genre.

Rating: M

Summary:

In the two years they’ve been in this business, Ryan’s heard countless husbands and wives tell the tale of their spouse’s infidelity, and this one’s textbook: the late nights at the office, the flimsy excuses. A receipt in his wallet from a downtown jewelry store, for a hundred dollar purchase he never told her about.

“I just need proof.” Miss Esposito is wringing her gloves in her lap, but her voice is clear and resolute, her dark eyes dry. “Then I can hang him out to dry.” For the first time since she walked in their door, she looks anxious. “Please—Ryan. Get me those pictures.”

Book Club Thoughts

I definitely felt like this one hit different in a number of ways and it could stand on its own as an original but I want to compliment [the author] deeply on their use of Ryan's quirks to imbue the plot with what we needed in a protagonist

one thing i love about [the author's] fic in general and this on especially is that they have no fear (at least that's apparent) in being realistic about writing how hard it was for queer people in this time period and piece and not shying away from bringing in alcoholism and other classic tropes of the genre

I'm both incredibly unfamiliar with the genre and the time period, but there's something so evocative and vivid about the prose, that it was very easy to feel the setting, very cinematic

yes i love an AU that is Seamless, where there are little easter eggs of irl for us to find but it's really different in key ways

It paints a picture in the mind both the glitz and glamour, and the desperation bubbling under its the surface, that characterized old Hollywood and the city that surrounded it. Efficiently creating atmosphere all without giving off the slightest hint of purple prose

i definitely think sometimes with the historical fic, especially the tinsworth of it all, can get a leeeeetle (or a lot) ooc so it's always a treat to have one that doesn't

overall i just got so absorbed in this world and every scene i pictured was in black and white. loved ryan's focus on Queers and that kind of like… fascination and confusion about it all. shane's stalwart beliefs and ryan's acceptance of it even when he didn't Get It. ryan's big brave hero moment and the vulnerability. augh. just a REALLY GOOD READ

WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN US FOR OUR NEXT DISCUSSION? CHECK OUT THE FAQ, AND SEND US AN ASK! IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR FIC RECS, PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR READS, NOMINEES AND BOOK CLUB REC LISTS!

#shyan #shyan fic #otp: we took an oath #skeptic believer #au detectives #case fic #read of the week #sbbookclub

[denimbex1986]

'When Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s romantic ballad “The Power of Love” plays and the scene fades to the twinkling night sky, director Andrew Haigh leaves you with profound emotional emptiness.

Pinpointing that precise emotion is a challenge. With dialogue inspired by the saddest parts of your childhood, did All of Us Strangers evoke devastation? Once you made it through the film’s vivid depictions of grief, did you walk away with a stronger understanding of love? Or did you come away with the terrifying realization that loneliness can plague us all?

In All of Us Strangers, loosely based on Taichi Yamada’s 1987 novel, Haigh ties these emotions together then slowly unravels their consequence: distance resulting from unresolved grief. How do you revisit the memories when there’s so much you wish you said? How do you move on?

Haigh explored all of this and more through lonely screenwriter Adam, played by Andrew Scott, who lives in an eerily empty high-rise on the outskirts of London. Adam struggles to write about his past despite routinely visiting his childhood home. A home where his parents, portrayed by Claire Foy and Jamie Bell, are living peacefully — just as they were 30 years ago before they died in a car crash.

Back at his London high-rise, Adam begins a romance with his cryptic neighbour Harry, portrayed by Paul Mescal. As Top of the Pops reruns play in the background, Harry shows up at Adam’s door in the middle of the night, nursing a bottle of whiskey and an irresistible charm.

All of Us Strangers uses fantasy as a vessel for the all-too-real emotions of grief. And maybe that’s what makes it so effective — examining grief by suspending belief. A big part of grieving is wondering what could have been, and how the person you lost would react to the person you are now.

Adam displays layered complexity through profound loneliness, his eyes always a little hollow and vulnerable. He elicits youthful innocence in an adult body as he begins to unwind his childhood trauma. In the film’s most tender moments, Adam’s vulnerability is present whether crawling into bed to snuggle with his parents, or coming out as gay to his trying-to-be-understanding mother.

Adam’s relationship with his parents fuels the film’s melancholic pace. Scott’s purity paired with Bell’s melting hard exterior complements the warm moments between Foy and Scott.

Scott avidly navigates Adam’s need to open himself to love with nervous tremors and sheepish disposition, and coming to the realization that the loneliness from his childhood is not something he can simply brush off.

Loneliness plagues Harry, too. He is far from perfect, but that doesn’t steer Adam away. In Adam’s mind, his lover is a little like himself: lonely but craving intimacy. A specific type of loneliness perfect for Mescal’s character, whose stare and brilliant smile mask a lingering sensitivity.

Together, Adam and Harry present not a romanticized loneliness, but rather a startling truth to its impact.

“‘Oh thanks, it happened a long time ago,’” Adam says to Harry about his parents’ death. “’I don’t think that really matters,’” Harry reassures.

Despite the characters’ hollow lives and their empty high-rise apartment complex, All of Us Strangers overflows with insurmountable feeling. Melancholia seeps from every aching line of dialogue, and the shadows of Adam’s past linger in frames of mirrors or train windows reflecting his 12-year-old self.

Always powerful but never emotionally manipulative, All of Us Strangers is the rare kind of story that leaves a permanent, haunting trace. A fitting result for a film about the lingering ability of grief.'

#Andrew Haigh #Frankie Goes to Hollywood #The Power of Love #All of Us Strangers #Strangers #Taichi Yamada #Andrew Scott #Paul Mescal #Claire Foy #Jamie Bell

[scribble-dribble-writes]

This written work is a little different to the ones I share here, but I felt the urge to put it out for some reason haha. It's my take on 'trust'. I've had a lot of people tell me recently that I should be more open and vulnerable, that concept is so weird. Like how do I go around just spilling everything that's dear to me to a stranger who literally has no interest in my life and then sit to watch them dissect it, to tell me how I need to feel and process it. But the moment you say no, they shift to talk about your 'trust issues' which I find very funny.

And I have a feeling this might give comfort to those who might find themselves in the same boat as me. To them I want to say what my mum told me in the morning, that it's ok to take time. To sit with yourself and build it up. (Maybe that's why I love Wakanda Forever)

That movie has single handedly put on screen a way to deal with these complex emotions tied to grief as a woman, that's it ok to be messy and feel angry for the past and how things have turned out, but you can process it and deal with it in your stride. I rewatch it so often for it's story but more so because it feels cathartic and I feel seen through these characters and their pain.

So let me know if you like this or not, haha I can once in a while share a couple others like these. 💖💖💖💖💖

Ryan Coogler this one's for you!! You've sparked my love for writing again ✨

Ps. I used to do drama in highschool so I just had to read this poem like it's a monologue 🤣

Trust is a flimsy thing

Its astonishing that as a kid,

the concept of trust is an abstract idea.

A lunch shared, best friends for life,

and you navigate through the phases,

get hurt in different places.

A scraped knee, a bruised eye,

a broken heart, a damaged ego.

It varies, the innocence fades,

our playground sporks are replaced with knives

and words, that cut deeper than most,

to leave wounds that never close,

that you may be eighty, to still harbor the pain

when no one showed up to your party.

The narrative shifts,

from friends to frenemies to enemies,

people begin to fail and there's no alternative to it.

You trust, it breaks, ductape it together to try again,

but now you encase it in platinum,

make it hard to get, to live in a castle

that becomes a prison,

when people cry out to tell you

not to bottle it in,

but you own a lot of bottles.

Better to have them contained, cold and frozen,

rather than share it, only for them to get drunk in it.

To then have critise its smell and acidity.

All my tears are tart and my memories sweet,

this vineyard is only for me to use.

Because when its shared, its never a secret

and with it, my privacy ripped like a veil.

With every step you get closer,

to see the real thing, to see the real me

and thats were trust becomes a flimsy thing.

I want to give it to you

but the past paints a different view.

One of betrayal and chaos

and the truth surfaces,

I don't want to be hurt again,

I don't want to be played again.

So I'll hold it out to you,

but clench it deep within my fingers,

so i can see you try and fail.

That in the end,

I'll live in my castle with the walls full of bottles,

like a skittish animal afraid of passing lights,

cause that's all it is, trust is a flimsy thing.

Once torn, its turns to rags,

that you use out of pity to wipe old paintbrushes

and say it had once been a decadent gown,

passed down for centuries,

only to see it reduced to nothing.

Cause value is arbitary and worth is self defined,

trust is a cellopane that holds these together.

It's a bubble that pops when your friend lies,

a bridge that burns when you cry,

because love can be unconditional,

but trust needs to be built out of cobblestone.

It needs time and care and effort.

So when I get critised for being slow to renovate

and quick to judge,

its only because my trust lays in shreds.

I need people who know to knit, to patch and stitch

cause with anyone else, rags with turn to threads.

Trust is a flimsy thing,

because its two way street,

you can't fix it on your own.

❤️❤️❤️

#writing #my poem #poetry #wakanda forever is a masterpiece #wakanda forever #namor #shuri black panther #grief #ryan coogler #my art #trust #shuri x namor #namor x shuri

[hodisblog]

Final Presentation & Submission

Tutors' Feedback

Both Yana and Selena appreciated the background and concept of my design. As my work was done digitally, conveying the organic and raw elements of my design was lacking. This would have been achieved by more raw practices that would be integrated into my final work (they emphasised the early work I undertook in the conceptual development stages (the one I pinned up on my board as process work). I love this point and feel this is a very important lesson I need to learn. Doing my work digitally is a good way for me to be able to bring my design to life in a way I don't feel I am capable of doing by hand, however, it does strip it away from my thumbprint and organic creation that is so vital to both the concept and the final product. another point that was brought up in response to my work was the functionality of the pool while menstruating women bathe in it. Although I have given the functional parts of my design a lot of thought regarding functionality, I see how I should have done a better job at explaining the functional part behind my design and how it is a place for women to menstruate in and bleed freely. however, it is not only designed for that very purpose. elements of my design such as the toilets/bleeding rooms are specifically designed for free bleeding, but the rest of my design is for women to enjoy and use throughout every stage of their menstrual cycle. I would however think of the pool waters cleansing elements and of the more technical parts of hygiene and comfort carried out throughout my design. The last point that was brought up was the lack of context in my sections and floor plans. As this is my first time ever navigating my way through them without proper guidance I felt I didn't quite know how to communicate the surroundings of my design into my floor plans and sections. After seeing other people's work I now see how I could have done that in a way that better communicates what's around the building and how my design responds to its surroundings.

Personal Reflection

firstly, wow! (*large sigh*) I cannot believe I finally reached this moment. I am very proud of myself for the amount of time and effort this project required of me. I worked consecutively every single day from mis-sem until today, sometimes into the very late hours of the night or even early mornings. But I couldn't feel prouder about myself and my work. I am extremely bonded with my project and feel I have managed to communicate myself, my values and my designs throughout the whole thing. I feel I stayed true to myself throughout this semester. doing so allowed me to produce work that truly speaks to me, and that I am happy to work very hard on. this semester taught me so much about every aspect of spatial design. Even though I wished some parts were refined in order to allow better focus and more time to produce the final project, I absolutely loved the brief and cannot wait to see what next year holds for me.

Things I want to point out to myself that i wish to improve going into my second year

Starting the physical process of work earlier on. This is probably the hardest thing for me. I am great at getting inspiration and gathering materials, but when it comes to getting hands-on I procrastinate due to fear of failure to produce good-enough work. this includes anything that isn't done digitally (model making, lab work, physical research and exploration etc).

Get more creative in ways of expressing my creativity. even though I feel uncomfortable expressing myself in ways that are vulnerable to me, I like to try and push myself further and find a better, more holistic approach to expressing my creativity.

Produce more physical work. I really want to utilise my short time at AUT to learn more about ways to create my design. Whenever I use the labs I get so much more inspired and connected to my projects, not to mention how much I learn about the materiality and production process.

Prioritise resting more. no matter how stressed I feel throughout the day, resting allows more recourses and helps me regain perspective about my work and process. I must keep this in mind and try implementing this more.

Re-visit the brief before submission. I forgot to pin up photos of my model on my board. And although my model isn’t as relevant to my final presentation I missed that as I was too caught up on the main points that I completely missed that requirement even though it was right there.

to sum up, I am very proud of myself and the work and process it took to produce it. I cannot wait till year 2!

[tashakay]

What I think of as Chapter One

At 11:11 am, on a day that would forever change my life, the world seemed to stand still. I had just given birth to a baby girl, a dream I had only conceived of weeks before her arrival. They tell me she was born gray, her first breath a moment of pure vulnerability. Meanwhile, I had a gaping hole in my midsection, a surgical necessity. The surgeon, in a hurry to close me up, lost count of the gauze he used after slicing me open. I was awake through this ordeal, yet my memory of it remains hazy.

In the recovery room, they finally brought her to me, this tiny new life that was now my responsibility. I remember scribbling in the paper journal my dear friend Anita had given me, "I still don't feel like a mom." It was there, in those early moments, that my journey into motherhood truly began.

Learning to breastfeed in the hospital was a learning curve, and during those five days of stay, I reveled in the attention and the feeling of being heard. But as I held my newborn daughter, I wondered, "So now what?" How would I navigate this new role? I was determined to be a good mother and build a wonderful life with her father. However, little did I know that our desires for that life would diverge.

I often describe myself as a builder, an employee who thrives on creating and moving on to the next new thing. It's a trait that may have been born from my years working temp jobs, which, looking back, I now appreciate. At the time, though, I yearned for the stability of a traditional college education and a long-term job like everyone else.

In those early days, I would often take my daughter for photoshoots, capturing every moment of her growing up. She was, and still is, a physically beautiful person with her sparkling eyes, plump cheeks, and luscious lips. She didn't intend to be my best friend, but she became just that. There were times when I couldn't adequately care for her, like when we had to move back in with my mother and stepfather for her first nine months. I longed for single motherhood, where I could work and care for us both, free from the judgment of others.

Despite the challenges, I cherished those moments with her, reading to her whatever I could find, from food labels to billboards. I remember the day she recognized the letter A on a billboard that read "TAILOR" when she was just two years old. Those small, precious moments bonded us further.

Our friendship deepened as she grew into a woman. Separations due to travel, school, and work often brought tears, and I feared missing something crucial. Our bond was evident, especially when she cried real tears for me after dropping her off at college. Knowing that I was her first love, and that she still loved me with all her heart, brought me immeasurable comfort.

I've witnessed other mothers of Black girls who were too hard on their daughters. I knew that society and culture would try to harden my girls, so I resolved not to contribute to that. In recent years, reflecting on my choices as their caregiver, I've acknowledged moments of regrettable behavior. But I'm grateful for the gifts of forgiveness and repentance, and my children's resilience astounds me.

I believe that as they journey toward healing, I must be a part of that process, offering support in whatever way they desire. It's a stark contrast to parents who defensively claim, "I did the best I could." I reject that notion. We, as parents, have a universal responsibility to guide and protect our children. They exist for us, not the other way around.

Instead of seeking validation for our shortcomings, we must acknowledge our role in shaping their lives, understanding that "doing our best" doesn't excuse harm or neglect. I set early goals to raise my children as happy, healthy, well-rounded citizens of the world, guided by my faith and the principles of the Bible.

I hope this revision captures the essence of your story while enhancing its readability and flow. If you have specific sections you'd like further refinement on or if you'd like to continue the narrative, please feel free to let me know.

[kyleledfordswriting]

It was two days before the one-year anniversary of the death of the guitarist of my old band, and I was feeling all kinds of emotions. I was still trying to process the loss of my friend when I heard the news of another death. This time, it was my high school buddy who had invited me into my first-ever band.

Working in the music scene can take a serious emotional toll on you, especially when you're surrounded by vulnerable souls and vice-filled environments. It's like a recipe for disaster. As I reflect on my own experiences, I realize just how lucky I am to have made it this far without meeting a similar fate. I mean, I could have easily been in their shoes if I hadn't been careful.

The thing is, it's not just about luck. I need to start taking my own mortality seriously and think about my safety as I continue to navigate this path. It's easy to get caught up in the music and the partying, but I can't forget that I'm not invincible. It's time to start making some changes before it's too late.

The feeling of loss and death is amplified by my recent separation. It was a conscious uncoupling, we said. As if that would somehow soften the blow. But let me tell you, there's no such thing as a pain-free breakup. No amount of mindfulness or self-reflection can fully prepare you for the feeling of loss that comes with the end of a relationship.

At first, I thought I was handling it well. I was calm, cool, and collected. But as the days turned into weeks, I started to feel the weight of it all. The joy, the love, the adventure - it was all gone. And in its place was an emptiness that seemed to seep into every corner of my life.

It wasn't until later that I realized what I was feeling was grief. The stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance - I was experiencing them all. And it was no wonder, really. I had become addicted to the feelings that came with being in our relationship, and now that it was over, I didn't know how to cope.

To make matters worse, I had lost more than just a partner. I had lost a friend group too. The people we used to hang out with together were no longer interested in spending time with me.

It was hard to see my ex still hanging out with them, laughing and joking like nothing had changed.

So here I was, alone and adrift, trying to navigate this new reality. It was a scary and uncertain place to be, but I knew I had to find a way through it. Because in the end, as the saying goes, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. And I was determined to come out the other side of this breakup a better, stronger, more resilient person.

At first, I thought I’d try dating. I mean, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do after a breakup? But as I scrolled through dating apps, swiping left and right, I realized something. I wasn’t really interested in dating. I was just trying to distract myself from the pain of losing my relationship and my friends.

So I decided to take a different path. Instead of looking for a new romance, I started looking for new connections. I wanted to find people who I could talk to about what I was going through. People who wouldn’t judge me or try to fix me, but who would just listen and offer their own perspectives.

It hasn’t been easy. Making new friends as an adult is a weird and sometimes awkward experience. But slowly, I’ve started to build new relationships. I’ve met people through work, through hobbies, and through mutual friends. And you know what? It’s been good for my soul.

I’m not saying that I’m over my breakup or the loss of my old friend group. But I’m starting to see that there’s life beyond those things. That there are people out there who are worth getting to know. And who knows - maybe someday, I’ll even find someone worth swiping right for.

It's not every day you wake up and realize you're not as cool as you thought you were. I had one of those moments after having some deep and heartfelt conversations with new friends. I had to openly and honestly look at how difficult it was for me to process the trauma of having had a miscarriage.

You see, in my past relationships, the idea of having children was never seriously considered, or was completely off the table. So I had never even imagined what emotional space going down that path could exist within.

That all changed when my last partner said to me that they wanted to take out their birth control and have children with me. It was a bombshell. I was surprised at how I immediately knew I was 100% on board. The child that we could make together was such a beautiful expression of love and creation in my mind. The future of my life came into focus, and there seemed to be a true feeling of meaning and purpose to all of the experiences I had lived through up to that point.

When we started to tell our friends and family, I was so proud. I felt like I had accomplished something, even though I hadn't done anything yet. I remember sharing the news around my day job workplace, and the support of my co-workers was so empowering. It was like I had become part of an exclusive club, one that I never knew existed.

But then something happened. Something I never could have imagined.

We lost the baby. It was devastating. It was like someone had punched me in the gut, and I couldn't catch my breath. All of a sudden, my life had lost all meaning and purpose. I was lost in a sea of grief, and I didn't know how to get out.

I had to take a step back and reassess everything. I had to look at myself and my life in a way that I had never done before. It wasn't easy, but it was necessary. And it's still a work in progress. But I'm getting there. I'm slowly starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. And I know that one day, I'll be able to look back on this experience and see it as just another chapter in my life. But for now, it's a chapter that I'm still living, and one that I'm still trying to make sense of.

It was a crushing blow when our plans for a child were ripped away by the unfortunate miscarriage. The enthusiasm, love, and sense of purpose that we had felt just moments before were suddenly replaced with spiraling negative emotions. I struggled to cope with the loss of our potential future, but I can only imagine what my partner was going through. As a woman, the trauma of a miscarriage must run deeper than any man could understand.

At first, I tried to remain calm and rational when my partner brought up the idea of separating. But in reality, I was in a state of shock and denial. I hadn't fully processed the loss of our relationship in the context of losing our child. Our baby would have been seven months old at that point. It was hard to wrap my head around the fact that in such a short period of time, my partner went from being so enthusiastic about having a child to not wanting any children at all.

Was it the trauma of the loss that affected us in different ways? Or was it something I had done? As a partner and a potential husband, had I failed to be the best version of myself for them? These were the questions that plagued me as I tried to come to terms with our new reality.

It all started when I had a sudden realization, like a bolt of lightning striking my brain. I became fixated on every single criticism, argument, and difficulty that had ever arisen in my relationship. I wanted to identify any potential toxic traits and do everything in my power to combat them, to change my sense of self, and embark on a journey of self-improvement.

But why? Why did I feel the need to go down this path? My ex had made it abundantly clear that they were not interested in working on our issues, that therapy was not an option, and that there was no way forward. And yet, I couldn't shake this feeling of needing to better myself, to be the best version of myself possible. Was it to make up for past mistakes and be the father I never got to be? Was it for a future partner? Or was it just for myself?

These were difficult and perplexing questions that I found myself grappling with. It was like a hamster wheel in my brain that I couldn't escape from. Every criticism, every argument, every difficult moment in our relationship seemed to swirl around in my head, demanding my attention and focus.

As I delved deeper into this journey of self-improvement, I couldn't help but wonder if I was just fooling myself. Was this obsession with bettering myself just a misguided attempt to correct the mistakes of the past? Or was it something more, something that would truly benefit me in the long run?

These were the questions that haunted me, that kept me up at night. And yet, despite the uncertainty and the fear, I knew that I had to keep going. I had to keep pushing myself to be the best version of myself, to overcome my past mistakes and strive for a better future.

It wasn't going to be easy, that much I knew. But I was ready for the challenge. I was ready to face my demons head-on and emerge stronger and better than ever before.

It's like trying to untangle a knot of microphone cables - a frustrating, overwhelming mess that seems to grow with each passing moment. That's how I feel about my life right now. But amidst the chaos, I've found a glimmer of hope in the act of accountability.

It's not easy to admit when you're wrong. It's even harder to face the consequences of those wrongs. But I've come to realize that there's something liberating about owning up to my mistakes, flaws, and faults. It's like shedding a layer of heavy, suffocating guilt that's been weighing me down for years.

Don't get me wrong, it's not a quick fix. It's not like I can just say "I'm sorry" and expect everything to magically fall into place. But there's something empowering about taking responsibility for my actions and being proactive in finding a way forward.

Right now, my life feels like a jigsaw puzzle with too many missing pieces. I've lost friends, band mates, a relationship, and even a child. Each loss feels like a gaping hole in my heart, a reminder of all the things that could have been.

But amidst the pain, there's a glimmer of hope. By facing my faults and taking accountability, I'm slowly finding a path forward. It's not always clear, and it's definitely not easy, but it's a step in the right direction.

So here I am, trying to make sense of this messy, confusing world. I can't bring back the people I've lost, or undo the mistakes I've made. But I can hold onto their memories, process my grief, make new friends, and continue to work on myself. It's not a perfect solution, but it's a start. And sometimes, that's all we can hope for.

[wearywinchester]

Accidents

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Even on the simplest of hunts, accidents happen.

Requested by Anonymous: "Don't hurt yourself again..."

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: mentions of injury, blood, fluff, kissing

You let out a soft sigh as you slumped back against the seat of the Impala, quiet as you clutched your side. It ached and it burned across your ribs, wrapping around to your back in a way that made it hard to forget it was there. You were aware of the light splotches of a rosy red that stained through your shirt, something you covered with your jacket the moment you saw it. The less Dean knew, the better.

There was a lack of conversation as you drove down the road, one lined with plenty of trees for seemingly miles. The sun had since dipped down for the day, the sky a darkened shade of blues as the clouds started to roll in, the heightening breeze sifting through the half-open windows and it blew cool against your heated skin. There was a storm coming in, that was for sure. Queen played low on the radio, followed by Zeppelin, followed by Dean’s favorite song to sing when he gets the chance to, Cherry Pie.

He hadn’t sung it this time though, not really. You saw the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth and the snort that sounded from his lips. You saw him turn the volume up a little and you heard him hum along to bits and pieces of the chorus, but he didn’t sing along just to see your eye roll and your inevitable smile. He didn’t do any of that this time, just hummed.

You didn’t know why, but you didn’t question it either as you wrapped your arms around yourself. You were too busy holding back the tears that threatened to spill down your cheeks in waves that came and went, the pressure behind your eyes remaining consistent. There wasn’t really anything to cry about, you knew that, but that didn’t stop your emotions from running in every direction and trying to get the best of you.

The hunt hadn’t gone terribly, having been cut and dry unlike most have been as of late, but you couldn’t help but think about the conversation you’d had right before it.

“Dean, why are you looking at me like that again?” You say, a huff leaving your lips as a knowing smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

“You know why,” he says, brow raised as he shuts the car door and purses his lips over the roof of the car at you before you meet at the trunk. “Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart. Sam’s got a broken ankle back at Jodie’s, so we’re down a guy.”

You tilt your head to the side, that familiar smile still very much there on your lips.

“We’ll get the job done, Dean. We always do.” He rolls his eyes and lets out a chuckle that was only half humorous, shaking his head before returning his gaze back to you. You shift on your feet, arms crossing over your chest as you look up at him. “What? It’s true and you know it, Winchester.”

“Yeah I know it’s true,” he starts, tucking his gun in his belt before tugging his shirt back over it. “But that’s not the point.”

“Then what is it?”

His expression softens for a moment as a flash of vulnerability splays across his face before it hardens just a fraction to try and hide it, watching as he takes a step closer. Your gaze turns more curious by the second as your brows furrow, tipping your head back just a little more.

“Don’t hurt yourself again,” he says, quieter than before.

The sight of your smile has his eyes rolling and his lips pursing once more, those dimples appearing that you loved oh so much despite the fact that they reflected the discontent behind them. But your smile remained, if not widened some, a glimmer in your eyes that eased the tension in his shoulders just a bit.

“Is this your way of caring about me, Dean?” You ask, voice only holding a mere drop of teasing in it as you gaze up at him.

“I’m serious, Y/n/n,” he huffs, but you don’t miss the way he bites the inside of his cheek and inevitably fails at hiding his grin at your words.

“I know you are,” you say, grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze as you lean on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek. When you drop back down to your heels you see the way he relaxes just a fraction, your hand dropping from his as you spin on your heel and walk ahead of him as he stands in place for a moment more. “I’ll try and be careful.”

You don’t see the smile on his lips in that moment, or the way it drops in favor of furrowed brows and parted lips as soon as he realizes what you said.

“What do you mean you’ll try?”

To be fair, you did try to be careful. You always tried to be, but it just didn’t work in your favor this time and now here you are, sitting in the Impala with a scrape who knows how bad on your ribs because you’d yet to look at it. You’d yet to even tell Dean about it and you wanted to keep it that way.

He’d walked away from that hunt with an angry red and purple bruise on his cheekbone, and a minor cut in his eyebrow. He was relieved with how simple the hunt had gone without the extra help of Sam and you weren’t about to ruin it by making him worry over an injury you told him you wouldn’t get.

The pain in your side was numbing, it was nagging and persistent, worsening with each rub of your shirt over it. It brought you discomfort that made it all the more difficult to sit still like you wanted to. You knew it couldn’t have been a big deal, not something to panic over. Because with a sly glance downward you’d noticed that the stain on your shirt had yet to get bigger than it was half an hour ago when you first caught a glimpse of it.

Your goal was to slip into the bathroom once you got back to Jodie’s, it was a fair excuse to say you’d wanted to take a shower. You could clean yourself up and stuff your dirtied shirt in your duffel bag and hope to get the stains out later. It was fool proof when you thought about it.

But not this time.

“So sweetheart?” He asks, breaking the near silence.

“Hm?”

It’s quiet for a few moments as you let out a soft sigh, hearing him clear his throat.

“When were you planning on telling me you got yourself hurt back there?” He asks, the knowing tone in his voice having you biting the inside of your cheek, turning your head to look at him.

He can feel your gaze, turning his head to meet it as he raises his brow and quirks the corner of his mouth up ever so slightly. It was a hint of a smile that stayed on his lips as he looked ahead once more, a smile that only held half its humor just to try and lighten the mood, to try and help distract himself from the anger and worry bubbling away in the very pit of his stomach.

He wasn’t blind to the way you’d been holding your side ever since the hunt was over, on and off. He saw the you-shaped dent in the wall from where that werewolf must have thrown you before he was able to step in. He saw what it looked like and he knew you better than to think you’d just get up and brush it off, he knew better than to believe that after that, you’d just get up without a scratch from it. Not with the very way your face scrunches ever so slightly when you move.

He knows.

Your lips purse and you heave a sigh, knowing full well you’d been caught. He figured you out and you knew he would.

“You get all broody, protective, tough guy on me, Dean!” You defend, your need to hide it quickly dissolving in that moment.

“Broody, protective, tough guy? The hell does that mean?” He asks, faux offense weaving around his every word as he turns onto Jodie’s street. “What do I look like, Incredible Hulk?”

“Yes, Dean. That’s exactly who you are. You frown and you huff the moment I get even just a little scratch,” you say, glancing over to see his narrowed gaze and pursed lips.

“So you admit you’re hurt?” You huff softly, turning to face forward as you bite your upper lip. He knows your silence all too well, that feeling that’s bubbling in his stomach moving closer to boiling over as he watches the way you clench your jaw. “Dammit, Y/n.”

He parked the car in her driveway, turning the headlights off before cutting the engine. You’re quick to get out despite the jolt of pain shooting around your side at the action, quiet to close the door because it was far too late for her or Sam to be up.

You know he’s not happy with the way you’re brushing things off, you can see it in the tension in his own jaw from anger that’s not quite directed at you as much as it is at the situation. You can see it in the way he watches you walk, cautious and a bit stiff and it only tightens the clench of his teeth as he waits for you by the door.

You went ahead and snagged the keys at some point or another, and he knows just why it is you did that. He knows it’s because you wanted to walk ahead and disappear off to the spare bedroom you shared before he could keep you from doing so. He knows your stubbornness like the back of his hand. You’re not that hard to read.

The house is quiet when you walk in, dark save for the lamp she’d left in for the two of you to navigate given the hour. You heard him lock up behind you, and you could feel the way he’d been hot on your tail as you made your way to your room.

You could feel the way his hand enveloped yours, at how he tugged you into the bathroom before you could go any further.

A huff leaves your lips when he turns the light on and closes the door behind him, shrugging his jacket off and rolling up the sleeves of his flannel. “Dean, I can do it myself—”

“Yeah, and you hate it. So if you wanna argue and wake everybody up, by all means go right ahead. But I’m patchin’ you up regardless.”

His voice was quiet despite the frustration in his tone, opening the door of the small closet and grabbing the first aid kit on the top shelf. Your shoulders slump and you pull your jacket off, looking up at him with furrowed brows and he only shakes his head, the beginnings of a smile on his lips and your habit of being more stubborn than he is.

“Let me take a look at it, sweetheart,” he says, his words softer.

You make a face then, reluctant for him to see the damage that’d been done because you yourself hadn’t even seen it. But, after a moment you tug up on the hem of your shirt, the fabric peeling away from it uncomfortably leaving you to scrunch up your face ever so slightly. You observe his expression, seeing the way his eyes move right to it, at the way his teeth press tight together behind his cheek when he clenches his jaw.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s…” he starts, sighing as he brushes the pad of his thumb across it lightly. “It’s not bad, but I still don’t like it.”

You turn your body and catch sight of it in the mirror, at the scrape over your ribs that wrapped around your side curving front to back in an irritated scratch. It’d been an angry red color, what little blood there was having smeared across it.

You turn back to him with a quiet sigh, catching the softness taking hold of his expression now that he knew it wasn’t quite so bad. Enough to make worry radiate through him in waves but he knew that’d happen no matter what.

He was quiet as he took a dampened wash cloth and blotted it over your side, gaze flickering to yours ever so often. He recognizes that pout anywhere, the one that pulls at his heart, the one that you’re never aware you have when it sits on your lips.

“I should’ve punched fangs square in the jaw for this,” he mumbles, trying his best to clean it without hurting you too much more.

A smile tugs at your lips then, beaming and bright as the softness of your laughter puffs out through your nose. It has him raising his eyebrow in curiosity, amusement soon following because whenever you’ve got that grin on your lips he finds it hard not to do the very same.

“You put him six feet under, De. I think that’s much more than a famous Winchester punch in the face,” you said, watching the corners of his mouth curls upwards in a smile.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” you say, looking up at him as he shakes his head at your words.

“I would say I can’t believe you tried to hide this from me, but I can,” he says, careful as he wipes around the edges.

“I would say you’re not much better,” you counter, pulling a narrower stare from him.

He knows you’re right, you always are, but that doesn’t mean he wants you to do it too. He wants better for you than he does himself and that’s how he’ll always want it to be. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t argue, because he knows he’s got nothing to argue on that. He couldn’t find it in himself to do it anyway with the smile you’ve got sitting pretty on your lips.

He brings the bandage up to his mouth, ripping the packaging open with his teeth before tossing the crinkled wrapper in the garbage. He’s gentle as he smooths it over your side, hands calloused and warm when they touch your skin. He tugs your shirt back down then, the crease between his brows something you reach up to swipe your thumb over tenderly.

He dips down to rest his forehead against yours, noses brushing softly as you share mingled breaths. “Do me a favor?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me next time,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against yours softly, pulling away before kissing you once more. “It doesn’t make you any less tough.”

His smile presses against your lips, yours soon to do the same and he knows exactly what that means.

You pull away and look up at him, his eyes bouncing between yours and to your lips before lifting to meet your gaze again in that moment. He can tell by the way you’ve got that grin on your lips that there’s something teasing on the tip of your tongue.

“For the record, you are a broody, protective tough guy,” you say.

There it is.

He rolls his eyes at your words, arms circling around your waist with caution of the wound you’ve got, pulling you in closer.

“Yeah, yeah. Stop pickin’ on me, sweetheart.”

His words are mumbled against your lips, soft as they hold just a little bit of offense as his laughter brushes warm and fleeting over them, just as quickly muffled by the kiss he presses to them.

He knows that’s what he is, and he knows that’s what he’ll always be.

—

Tags: @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @elegantbutedgy @humanmistakes @campingmonkey @agalliasi @deandaydreaming @lanea-1 @akshi8278 @kidd3ath

#dean winchester #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x you

[ddarker-dreams]

Saturnine. Yan Chrollo x Reader [SMUT]

Tags/warnings: Dubcon, oral sex, creampie, my brain melting, condescending ???, Chrollo always has smth to say Word count: 2.2k. Note: it is finally done .

When gazing into the mirror, it should be easy to recognize the reflection staring back as your own. It’s the sight you’ve seen your entire life. Maybe the light in your eyes is less noticeable and your smiles no longer appear genuine, but in the end, it still physically bears your image.

You shiver at the chilly air kissing your bare skin, goosebumps erupting at the lack of clothing. Thin fabric clings tightly around your body, sheer and intricate in its lace design, yet astonishingly soft to the touch. It accentuates the swell of your chest, the black as midnight fabric stopping just shy above your midriff. A matching thong connects to sheer thigh highs through a garter belt to complete the set. Never in your life can you recall wearing such a lascivious outfit. Nor did you think you’d ever wear one for him.

Covering your exposed cleavage with your arms, you lower your head, fingernails pressing so harshly against your skin that it hurts. The pain serves to ground you in reality, proof that this is happening and not a dream.

“Did I… do this right?” You murmur, not used to how Chrollo is wordlessly assessing your trembling figure. Normally the air is full of conversation, equal parts rigid and provocative, a verbal game you’ve been forced to navigate. You still prefer the mind games over this maddening silence. You’re convinced he can hear the way your heart pounds viciously as if it was attempting to free itself from your body altogether, the current stress it’s under too much to withstand.

Chrollo moves a step closer and you take a deep, shaky breath. Grey eyes rake over your body, like a predator monitoring its prey, inspecting every inch of you. He spreads his fingers against your stomach, coarse fingers gliding over your skin, gradually moving upwards.

“Mm. You did perfectly.” His voice is rich and husky against your ear, spoken lowly so that only you may hear it. When his fingers reach their intended target, he cups your chest and lays his head on your shoulder. You watch his actions in the reflection of the mirror, glossy lips parting but no words managing to form on your tongue. Emotions swirl within you like an unrelenting vortex. Repulsion. Frustration. Shame. That it came to this, lowering yourself to a level you never wanted to be reduced to.

While you ruminate in your misery, Chrollo presses featherlight kisses from the crook of your neck to your jaw. His lips are soft and well taken care of, curling into a smile at how your pulse quickens. There are numerous mysterious surrounding Chrollo, but you do not doubt that he’s enjoying himself now. Your attention is brought back to his hands on your chest and how he kneads them. A blush ignites when you feel something hard press brush your ass, already guessing what it is.

“S-so you’re going to,” you struggle to get out, releasing a gasp when he suddenly pinches your nipple, “Keep… keep your promise, right?”

The clarification is for your peace of mind. An internal justification is necessary to continue with this illicit act, doubts plaguing your mind. You feel his chest rumble against your back, a deep chuckle leaving him. Regret comes swiftly, knowing that anytime you speak to Chrollo his responses sting deep, piercing your skin and festering.

One of his hands comes to your jaw, tilting your head back to look at him. The proximity has your eyes wide as a doe, his warm breath fanning against your face, dark tresses of hair tickling your face. His grip is tight but not painful. A not so subtle reminder of the Phantom Troupe leader’s innate strength, that goes beyond any measurement your mind could conjure up. Your squeeze your eyes shut when he leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the edge of your lips.

“What if I don’t?” Chrollo’s question has you frowning, eyelids fluttering open so you can shoot him a glare. He stares back unfazed, amusement visible from his closed mouth smile and relaxed posture, clearly not feeling intimidated by your little show. You decide to give it some thought, knowing he’ll scrutinize your response if not chosen carefully. Though, it’s admittedly difficult to concentrate when your face is burning up and his hand is still groping your chest.

Swallowing thickly, you arrive at a half-decent comeback. “I’ll… I’ll hate you.”

It sounded far better in your head.

Chrollo raises an eyebrow at your rebuttal but decides to entertain it. “Don’t you already?”

“I’ll hate you even more,” comes your reply, stumbling out before you could think it over. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, he doesn’t take visible offense. Instead, the bastard laughs again. Affectionately, Chrollo brushes his knuckles over your cheek, mirth dancing in his eyes.

“Even more, huh,” he hums, your nonsensical ramblings sounding worse when repeated back. “If that’s the threat I’m contending with, then I’ll be sure to stick to my word.”

You’re not exactly reassured by this, but decide to leave it for now. Suddenly, Chrollo steps back, freeing you from his grip. Before you can ask about what he’s doing, his hands start loosening his belt. Ah. So the time for negotiating is over. His dress pants fall, revealing a prominent bulge pushing against his briefs.

“Now get on your knees for me.”

It wasn’t a request. You do as he says, hyper-aware of how he’s staring at you, the tile from your shared master bedroom cold against your shins. To save what little modesty you have remaining, you readjust your bra so your chest no longer threatens to spill out. Heartbeat picking up in pace, you lift a shaky hand, palming his crotch through the fabric. 

The muscles in his thighs tighten, yet every other aspect of him remains thoroughly composed. Playing with the waistband, you slowly pull it down, revealing Chrollo’s half-hard member. It’s long, around six inches when erect, with a prominent vein that you’ve learned is rather sensitive. Precum is already leaking from the head, a sight that worsens the blush on your face.

Chrollo runs his hands through your hair, a quiet sigh leaving his lips. You pick up on the unspoken encouragement to not keep him waiting. Readjusting yourself into a more comfortable position, you take his dick fully into your hands, giving it a tentative stroke to test the waters. No verbal response. He’s excellent at maintaining his composure, creepy as it may be. Pumping his cock from the base, you bow your head down, eyelids fluttering shut as you kiss and lick the tip. That earns you a sharp inhale and a tightened grip but nothing else. Wetting your lips with your tongue, you continue licking the tip while jerking him off, noting that his cum has a slight salty taste to it.

Now that your confidence has somewhat been built up, you part your lips to take more of him in, getting adjusted to his size. Chrollo lets out a shaky exhale, fingers curling deeper into your hair. It’s difficult to get into a solid rhythm as your anxiety is unrelenting. Being so vulnerable in front of a person whose hands, which are now intertwined with your hair, have slaughtered countless people. 

He could do the same to you at any time, you think, despite his insistence for not wanting to. Hollowing out your cheeks, you manage to take more of him in, stopping just shy as not to activate your gag reflex. It makes your stomach churn when he lovingly strokes your cheek, looking down at you with eyes glazed over with crazed lust. Of course, he wouldn’t make this easy on you and act different — he continues with the delusion that this is love.

“Eager, now are we?” Chrollo laughs breathlessly. You decide to ignore the comment, too focused on having him finish so you can move on with your night. The low groans and whispers of your name are starting to affect you, a factor that only adds to your shame.. Pangs of heat are building up in between your legs, which you subconsciously rub together in a feeble attempt to relieve yourself. Chrollo quietly groans, content at the sight, dick twitching in your mouth. You wish he hadn’t noticed just how turned on you’re growing — not that you’re surprised with how unfairly observant he is — fully prepared for more scathing comments.

“I’m glad you stopped being so stubborn,” he pushes himself deeper into your mouth, gripping your head tightly enough not to let you move away, “So I can finally have my way with you.”

You wince at how he forces his dick down your throat, tears stinging the corners of your eyes and lungs screaming for air. Chrollo drinks in the sight, shuddering, bucking his hips, and pulling your face as tight against him as he can. You figure his release is getting closer from how erratic his movements are growing. At least it’ll be over soon. This line of thought is interrupted as he pulls away, saliva and cum connecting your mouth to his dick in a thin line, which has you frowning. Relishing the opportunity to regain yourself, your lungs greedily gulp in air, and you cough from his previous actions.

Chrollo extends a hand out to you which you hesitantly accept. The more human side is starting to show, his skin sheening with sweat, bare chest heaving for air much like yours, and black tresses sticking to the sides of his face. Your lips part, intending to ask why he stopped. He places both his just hands below your ass, hoisting you up as if you weighed nothing. Yelping, you struggle and cling to him as not to fall, eyes wide with confusion.

“W-what—”

“Wrap your legs around me,” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead and you do as he says, scared that you’ll fall otherwise. “Mm. Good girl.”

Chrollo carries you over to the wall, your back pressing against the hard surface and feeling its coolness on your bare skin. After thinking about it for a moment, you understand what it is he intends to do next, tightening your grip around him. He positions the head of his cock against your opening, smiling at how wet you are. At least he’s too focused to comment on your current state. You look to the side, not wanting to see the pleased expression you know is on his face.

“I’ll take care of you after,” Chrollo promises, slowly pushing himself inside you. You take a deep breath, gripping his shoulders tightly, fingernails digging into his skin. At least he’s allowing you to adjust. You yelp when he grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging it so that you look him dead in the eye. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Hm?”

A half-choked out moan leaves your lips as he fills you, feeling his sizeable length stretching you out.

“Y-yes,” You pant, carnal desire outweighing any solid reasoning at the moment. Chrollo continues to pound relentlessly into your cunt, burying his face in your neck. He’s coming undone, fucking you with a strength that has you breathless. You catch occasional guttural groans of your name and don’t want to admit how nice it sounds.

“I always knew you’d come around.” 

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixed in with his grunts and your moans. Squeezing your ass, his thrusts grow erratic, before he finally stills. Chrollo releases deep inside you, pulling you down onto him, hot ropes of cum filling you and seeping out.

He grits his teeth, shuddering at his release. All is still for a moment aside from your heavy chests. Chrollo gathers himself before you do, slowly pulling himself out. You feel his cum as it drips out of you and bite your lip at the possible implications. Everything is so warm and your body feels terribly sore, having to clutch onto him for stability when he puts you back down. Chrollo doesn’t seem to mind this, laughing as he runs his hands through your mousled hair.

“How precious.”

You yelp when he picks you up, bridal style this time, your face pressing against his chest.

“It looks like you needed some help there, dear.” Chrollo hums, placing you down onto the bed with a gentleness you weren’t used to. There’s no way any normal human could be this collected already. Taking deep breaths, you attempt to calm yourself, not wanting to be completely undone before him. Chrollo watches with intrigue while you do so, his eyes piercing through your trembling body. When you finally manage to get your breathing steady, he gently pushes your shoulders down and spreads your legs.

“Now, about that promise of mine,” he presses open-mouthed kisses from your ankle to your thighs, “I intend to keep it. We’ll keep going until you’re no longer able to stand.”

#chrollo lucilfer #chrollo x reader #chrollo imagine #chrollo lucilfer imagine #chrollo #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere #yandere x reader #not sfw #tw: dubcon #yandere hunter x hunter #hunter x hunter imagine #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #my stuff

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Contact Comfort

Spencer Reid x (gender neutral) Reader

Word Count: ~2000

Warnings: None, really? Emotional hurt/comfort and sorta like a touch starved deal doing on, but it’s pretty thoroughly fluffy and sugary-sweet. 

A/N: For the “bed sharing” square on my @cmbingo​ card! 

Title is from the referenced psych study, because I’m a dork. 

“One sec,” you call, wincing at how thick and nasal your voice sounds.

You wipe your cheeks hastily as you sit up. It’ll be obvious anyway, though; wouldn’t take a profiler to notice your tear tracks and blotchy face. 

It’s Spencer. Of course it is — because he’s the last person you want to see you like this, when you’re all snotty and puffy and gross. 

His eyes go wide and solemn when he sees your face, genuinely distressed. There’s that empathy again, the too-big heart that everyone seems to overlook in favor of his big brain. You love him for it. 

Well, you love him for a lot of things. 

“Hi,” he says quietly. “I was going to just ask if you were okay, but… I guess I don’t actually need to ask now.” 

You let out a watery little chuckle. “Guess not.” 

“You want some company?” He looks hopeful, almost, and then seems to catch himself, dropping his gaze with a shrug. “I understand if you just want your space, though.” 

If it was anyone else, you absolutely would not want company right now. But it’s Spencer, so. You pretty much always want him around. 

“I was just about to turn on some shitty TV because it felt too quiet in here, honestly. Company would be really nice.” 

He gives you a quick twitch of a half-smile as he steps past you, and after you close the door, there’s a pause where you both stand there and look at each other, Spencer suddenly shy as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, in a thin unhappy voice. 

“Not really. Just… one of those days. One of those cases.” 

“Can I do anything to help?”  

You hesitate, because it seems like such an immature thing to say out loud, but you’re too tired to be anything other than honest.

“I could use a hug.”  

Spencer’s expression goes all soft and sweet, and your cheeks feel hot under the drying salt water as he steps closer. He wraps his arms around you, and you bury your face in his chest and try to inhale. Your exhale is a ragged little shudder, and you fist both hands in the back of Spencer’s cardigan as you cling to him, feeling raw and sensitive and so very young. 

He lets out a quiet, shaky sigh of his own, squeezing you tighter. 

How long has it been since anybody hugged you like this? It’s like the contact — the warmth of him — the pressure of his arms around your shoulders — the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek — is lifting some massive weight you never realized you were carrying. All you want in the entire world is to hold him tight, take the comfort while you can, but you know you should pull away. 

He hesitates for a second before releasing you, like maybe he doesn’t want to let go either. 

Then he’s stepping back, hands in his pockets, slightly pink-cheeked as he bounces on the balls of his feet and gives you one of his frog-faced not-quite-smiles. 

“You said something about shitty television?” he asks. “Or maybe we could watch some television that’s not actually shitty?” 

“That sounds perfect.”

Turns out Planet Earth is on, which is the rare overlap in your and Spencer’s tastes, and it’s not until you’re eagerly toeing off your shoes that you realize the bed is the only seating option. 

Spencer sits cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his fists, and he stays as close to the edge of the bed as physically possible. You lean back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, feeling the need to hunch over, like you could physically protect your heart. 

Then again, it’s much too late for that. You knew your heart was in trouble the moment you met Spencer. 

Today, especially, you already feel vulnerable, like all your carefully-constructed walls cracked open the second you let yourself cry, and now you’re just ripped-open and bare. You need a good night’s sleep and a long, hot shower before you’ll be able to go about your life as a professional, fully-functional, grown-up human again. Right now you’re just kind of a mess.  

“I know there’s the germ thing,” you blurt out, without looking at Spencer. “But —” 

His laugh sounds crackly and nervous, but relieved, like maybe he’d been holding his breath. “Come here.” 

You give him a grateful smile as you scoot closer to each other, and apparently you’d been so worried about your own swollen eyes earlier that you hadn’t noticed the fatigue evident in every drawn, wan line of his face. 

Not that he isn’t still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

You duck tentatively under Spencer’s arm, and it’s not like you’re cuddling, exactly, because there’s still an inch or so of space between your hips and legs… but the bony plane of his chest, between collarbone and heart, makes a surprisingly perfect pillow. You pull the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, tucking them under your chin, curling up.

The moment feels delicate, like a soap bubble that you could burst if you simply breathe too loudly, and you hold yourself stiffly, at first, not wanting to move any closer for fear of pushing a boundary. It feels like you’re glowing at the points where your bodies are touching; the warm weight of his arm feels like bright spring sunshine across your upper back. His palm on the round of your shoulder is thawing away the last chilly bits of your self-consciousness. 

When the commercial break starts, Spencer says, “Do you ever think about how little physical contact the average single adult experiences on a regular basis?” His voice is quiet and almost sheepish. 

You smile. “Yeah, I’ve considered it.” 

“Especially when we live away from our families,” Spencer says wistfully. 

You can feel the vibration of his words in his chest. You shift, making yourself more comfortable, feeling dazed and dumb with his proximity.

“The monkeys. I feel like — you know?” 

“Harlow. I know exactly what you mean.”

Trust him to get that from your ridiculously vague mumbling.  

“Except they’re babies,” you add. 

“The emotional benefits of physical touch don’t decrease just because we get older,” he says softly. “It’s just that the fear of judgement makes it difficult to be honest.”

There’s silence for a minute as the show starts again, and David Attenborough says something about sloths. Spencer’s thumb strokes your shoulder gently, back and forth, soothing. It’s hypnotic, and the tension drains from your muscles, leaving you more relaxed than you’ve felt in a long time. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

You swallow hard. “For what?” 

“Being honest.” 

There’s no reason for your eyes to be stinging like this, but they are. “I should be thanking you.”

“Nothing to thank me for. This is… really nice.” 

“Yeah. It really is.” 

He’s quiet again. 

Spencer smells like vanilla and old books — although the latter might just be your imagination, something to do with the power of mental association — Spencer could probably explain the science behind that. Your brain has them inextricably linked, though. You’ve caught hints of that smell before, but never up close like this. 

The softness of the worn knit of his cardigan makes you want to rub your cheek against it like a cat. His arm, skinny as it may be, feels like protection — like you’re safe here. 

After the brutal violence of the case and the emotional turbulence of the day, this quiet, golden moment is even more breathtakingly peaceful by contrast. It doesn’t feel real. 

It’s too good to last. This isn’t yours. It’s not going to last, no matter how right it feels, and your chest already aches with the idea of letting him go.    

You try to appreciate it while you can, to remember every sensation, but your body is leaden, exhausted down to the bone, completely drained of whatever adrenaline-stubbornness-caffeine combination was keeping you running until now. Spencer’s thumb rubs invisible circles on your shoulder, and he breathes evenly, and you feel safe. 

You’re asleep before the next commercial break. 

A distant car alarm wakes you, sometime later. In the handful of seconds before it’s turned off, you come to without opening your eyes, trying to remember where you are and who you’re with. The smell of vanilla makes you relax instinctively, before you can process why. 

Spencer has all but melted against you in his sleep, soft and boneless. He’s got both arms around you now, holding you close, his breath tickling your forehead. Then he stirs, and you can feel the moment he realizes where he is, because his muscles go tense as he freezes. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs hoarsely. He’s barely audible over the infomercial voices coming from the TV. “I didn’t mean to — sorry. I’ll go.” 

And before you can think better of it, you whisper, “Don’t.” 

He’s still frozen, and silent for a second that feels like an eternity. “You mean —”

“I don’t want you to leave. Stay.” 

Honesty seems to be your default setting tonight, and anyway, you can tell without looking at a clock that it’s long past midnight, well into the early-morning hours where boundaries and reservations and reality don’t seem to follow their usual laws. You can’t lie to him (or to yourself) right now. 

Spencer’s voice cracks as he says, “Okay. I’ll just — let me get the light.”

You don’t open your eyes as he slips away. This all seems like a dream, and the sharp bright lamp light might make it dissolve around you. You might wake up. 

The TV goes quiet, and when you tug at the hotel comforter, sliding between cool sheets fully clothed, the barely-there rasp of moving fabric sounds loud in its absence. 

Spencer turns off the lamp, and you open your eyes. You can just see his shape as he navigates the dark room, negative space on a charcoal backdrop, but as your vision adjusts, you can see a faint suggestion of his features in the blue-black. 

You feel it, though, when his weight makes the springs of the old mattress dip. You’d expected him to lie on his back again, but instead his face is just inches from yours when his cheek comes to rest on the pillow. You feel the way he’s breathing, quick and shallow and nervous. You feel your heart kick in your ribs, thudding so loud he must be able to hear it. 

He reaches out slowly, hooking an arm around your ribs, and pauses with just the very tips of his spidery fingers touching your back, between your shoulder blades: five soft points of contact that you feel so intensely they might as well be electrode pads connecting you to a defibrillator. 

This is crossing a line, and you both know it. 

It’s not a sexual touch, it’s not that sort of thrill going through you, but something about this feels profoundly intimate. That intimacy is almost more shocking than lust might’ve been, and it’s much more dangerous. It’s the sort of closeness you don’t walk away from unscathed.  

Spencer’s fingers flutter, butterfly-wing delicate, like one or the other of you might be trembling. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” he whispers. 

“Yes.”  

Maybe you’re both trembling. 

His palm comes to rest on your back, easing you closer, and you shift, settle, readjust. He pulls back and tilts his head just long enough to brush his lips over your temple, soft and sweet, before tucking you neatly under his chin, where you fit like you were meant to be there, with your nose nudging at the gap between his collar and the delicate skin of his throat.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, sounding just as awed as you feel. 

“Sweet dreams, Spencer.” 

.

.

.

If you enjoyed this, please reblog or leave a message! 

More Criminal Minds fic is here. 

#cmbingo21 #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader

[no-droids]

Just the Translator

Part Ten of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7.6K

Warnings:  There is rough sex in this.  THERE IS ROUGH SEX IN THIS.  Do NOT read if that offends you.  There is also more anal stuff—NO FUCKING (not yet).  Uh, canon-typical violence, grumpy Din Djarin, some fluffy moments, Baby Yoda being a little troublemaker, bit of a cliffhanger ending BUT NOT TO WORRY PALS I ALREADY GOT QUITE A BIT OF THE NEXT PART WRITTEN

A/N: ***Please take a second to visit this googledoc, in it are useful links regarding the BLM protests and what we can do to help. Here is a separate link to where I originally addressed this and shared more thoughts***

***

Whelp.  At least you’re in a good mood. 

In contrast, Din and the kid have been causing problems all morning, the both of them.  Like two… two annoying, middle-aged children competing to see which one is less mature.

The smaller of the two, and older (most likely) is bouncing with energy.  Acting a complete fool.  Ready and willing to launch out of his restricting little sphere at any second, a bright green bundle of energy that slept way too well last night and is just rubbing it in at this point.  He was fine earlier—checking out of the inn, picking up some food at a local market, riding in the Crest as it navigated towards the most isolated sector on this planet—but the hike to this field has been like pulling teeth.

In fact, Din is currently wearing a singular gauntlet on his left hand for that very reason—so this child’s hyper ass could be contained within the hovering, reflective prison.  He’s restless, though, continuing to act out.  At one point you suggest just letting him walk to let some energy out like yesterday, even if he slows the group down with his tiny little legs.  Once you let the little menace out on parole though, he just continues to veer off in his own direction and irritate his dad even further.

And, oh stars—his dad.

Din has barely said a word, only answering with short responses when directly prompted and spending most of his energy just silently stewing inside his own little grumpy teapot on his head.  The helmet is the only other piece of armor he’s donning besides the lone vambrace, and you’re surprised steam hasn’t started whistling through the top of it with how frustrated he is, how many times you’ve seen him curl his hands with impatience. At first it was amusing, though you know better than to tease him about it right now.  You keep your mouth shut and try your best to wrangle the kid, doing everything you can to be helpful while also steering clear of unintentionally exacerbating his silent irritation, knowing Din isn’t in the mood for jokes after being interrupted at a very crucial moment last night.  The sun shines directly on the front of his helmet and blinds you with every single annoyed step, so you follow just far enough behind him and try to use his enormous refrigerator of a body to shield your eyes.

At first it was amusing.  But then the baby catches sight of a gorgeously patterned butterfly floating through the field that he probably wants to snack on for breakfast, and he breaks off from your entourage once more with a quiet little coo that should strike pure terror into the hearts of small animals everywhere.

Immediately you’re turning to go get him—but then a large hand quickly snatches the front of your shirt before you can take a single step, pulling until you’re colliding with an unarmored chest with an oof.  

A bare hand catches your jaw and tightens until you’re staring deep into the thin blade of his visor, before Din whispers rough through the modulator, “As soon as he falls asleep.”

That’s all he says.  And then he’s releasing you and letting you stumble back towards his wayward son a whole lot less amused than you were before, and a whole lot more achy.  The baby shenanigans are far less amusing too.

“You’re killing me here, kiddo,” you breathe after quickly catching up with him, having to bend in half to lead him back towards his impatient dad. 

His hot, moody… incredibly well endowed dad, thick arms crossed tight over his chest as he waits for your return.

The monster’s hand lifts high above him as his three fingers cling to just one of yours, the baggy brown sack exposing his pudgy little green elbow as he follows next to you with a waddle.  It’s slow going, but at some point he decides to pull himself up onto your wrist and you catch him, cradling him in your arms before quickly hurrying back to Din.

Thankfully he begins to calm down a little after that.  As you three eventually find a spot in the endlessly breezy field to settle into, the kid clamors back into his shield while Din carelessly drops the dark bag of supplies he carried from the Crest into the tall grass.  You twist your back to let some of the stiffness out, rotating your arms to encourage more movement as he approaches.

“Same thing as yesterday,” he gruffs when he’s in reach, patting his chest again with a bare hand.  “Hard as you can.”

“My… My hands hurt,” you eventually admit, not wanting to frustrate him even more and hoping you would be able to work on blocking today instead, but Din just nods while you gently brush your thumb along your sore knuckles.

“That’ll happen until it doesn’t,” he tells you quietly, reaching out to touch your elbow in a quick, awkward gesture of comfort and then dropping his arm to his side.  Short, but not unkind.  “Push through.  You can do it.”

You nod, knowing that’s probably the very best motivation you’ll get from him.  His beliefs, condensed down to quick, stunted sentences, presented with such unwavering surety that they must be truths.  Weirdly, it works wonders for you.  Maybe it’s just the person it’s coming from.

You drop into stance and then slam your fist into his chest before he’s ready, and Din steps back on impact with a small grunt while you bite your lip to silence your own noise from the pain reverberating up your arm. 

“Good,” he huffs nonetheless, rubbing the spot on his chest he’s historically designated as target practice.  “Good.  You’re… hitting harder than yesterday.  That’s… fuck.  Good.”

“Good?”  You ask lowly, chancing a quick look over at the kid.  Who blinks directly back at you, wide-eyed and staring purposefully from his crib.  You deflate just a little bit at the sight of him still wide awake, and Din’s fists are clenched by his sides when you turn back to him.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the pent up tightness in his body as you spend the next couple hours throwing more hits at him, different types.  Left hooks, right hooks, crosses, jabs, elbow strikes, palm heels.  He was absolutely right though—the more you make contact with him, the less you begin to feel the pain, until it eventually feels like nothing at all to you.

But then, at one point, you pull your hardened fist back, aimed and focused directly on that same spot on his chest once more—when suddenly his hand flashes up and he flicks his finger against the lower part of your open ribcage. 

He barely puts any strength into it at all—it’s the pressure you’d use to tap someone on the shoulder if you were trying to get their attention, but for some reason the incredibly well-placed reminder throws you.  A little fucking touch like that shouldn’t hurt nearly as much as it does, but you nearly tip sideways and have to catch your footing with how dizzy it makes you.

“That’s what’s called a liver shot,” Din tells you calmly, watching you wrap your hand around your ribcage and wince at the lingering pain through gritted teeth.  “Keep your arm down like I told you.  That’ll happen every time you wanna get lazy with me, little chicken wing.”

You hiss and shake your head a little bit, trying to clear the fog, and then purposefully tuck both arms tight to your sides.  But then—

His hand flashes up again and taps the side of your face this time—not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you flinch on instinct and take a step back.  “That arm stays up.”

Your quick huff of air is suppressed.  Somewhat censored—it doesn’t duly portray the sharp flare of annoyance you experience.  You do exactly what he says, however, and keep your arms in position in front of you.

But then you jerk back and sputter angrily when the tips of his fingers lightly connect with your cheek once more.  “Stop that!  My hands are up!”

“Then why’d you let me do it?”  He asks, stepping up as you retreat to poke you square in your chest.  “Stop letting me do it.”

He goes to tap your face again, but this time your forearm comes up to swat his away before he can make contact, and he seems pleased for the moment.  Din steps back and hits his chest again.  “Come on.”

He lets you get in just a few more blows before coming at you again.  You smack his hand away and then go to throw another punch, but he’s quick.  He cheats—goes for you twice in a row when you’re not expecting it, and taps the vulnerable spot on your side for the second time today.  It hits you like a bullet and takes you a second to snap out of the abrupt shot of pain.

“Come on,” Din taunts once more, curling his mismatched fingers at you—one hand leathered and the other tan and bare.  He sounds like he’s grinning under the helmet, starting to enjoy this way too fucking much.  It makes your blood boil, makes you just stand there like an idiot for a few seconds and fume at his audacity.

Apparently you take too long getting pissed off at him.  He comes at you first, going for your side again, but you shove his arm out of the way with a growl.  Except his other arm flashes and you react instantly, ducking under the wide, careful swipe aimed for your cheek and then zeroing in on the same exact spot below his ribs he’s been torturing you with all day, the one left wide open while his arm misses its mark.

Except—yours isn’t a tap, or a flick.  It’s a hard uppercut.

Air rushes through the modulator as he groans and stumbles sideways, gasping and trying to steady himself.  Triumph surges through your veins as you watch him, shaking your hand out at your side to quickly encourage the numbness away, your knuckles not yet used to hitting bone.  He clutches his side and shakes the helmet violently in an effort to regain himself, breathing hard through the filter and—

The visor instantly jerks to you and you’re already taking a step back on instinct, adrenaline roaring.  He snaps upright as you continue to retreat—until you trip over yourself and plunge to the grass.

A reflection catches in your peripheral, and you whip your head to the side to see the kid completely passed out in his metallic cradle, eyes closed and mouth drooping a bit.  The sight shoots pure exhilaration through you, but it’s nothing compared to the thrill of only seeing him there for a split second before chrome shields instantly slide shut over his head.

You look back to Din just in time to see him dropping his gloved hand back down to his side and taking quick steps towards you—and you react without thinking.  You scramble over on your hands and knees and then launch forwards before you’re even halfway off the ground, finding your feet as you stumble into a run and hearing footsteps pick up behind you.

Maker, it’s been ages since you’ve run like this.  You don’t even know why you’re running—you just do, it just feels like you should.  Your body barrels through tall grass and your heart thunders faster than the sound of your pumping legs, louder than the wind whipping through your ears.  You don’t know if he purposefully allows you to get this far or if you’re genuinely quick—

—nope.  Nope, you’re not quick, because he suddenly bursts into a sprint behind you and gains way too much ground way too quickly.  You try to break left as soon as you realize what’s happening, but he’s too fast and hooks an arm around your stomach just before you’re out of reach.  Din yanks you back to his chest as he twists around and takes you both to the ground, his shoulder blades slamming down first and softening your landing with his whole body and a grunt, skidding you both to a halt in the endlessly wavy field.

The wind is knocked out of you regardless.  You try and struggle off of him but the positioning makes it almost impossible—your abdominal muscles are no match for the strength of his arms wrapped around your stomach, keeping your body pinned tight to his as you wrestle to lift against him in the grass.

“Fight harder,” Din growls raggedly in your ear, and your pussy seizes with need when you feel how rock hard he is against your ass.  It encourages you—you make a rough sound towards the sky and then lift against him with all your strength, and your elbow comes down hard into his ribcage.  Air whooshes out of him and his arms loosen just slightly.  You’re able to wiggle off him and start crawling away, but then he heaves over and snatches at your pant leg—

Which means you pull them down yourself as you keep clawing yourself forward by your arms, raw excitement coursing through your veins, the fabric pulling tight over your ass and then bunching around your thighs.  You squeal and flounder and kick at him—but Din just grabs at your ankle and then pins your leg to the ground, pushing up and using your calves to clamor on top of you with brute strength, catching your underwear and ripping them down too.  Your heart pounds and your pussy just about floods itself hearing him dig in his pants to pull his cock out, his breath coming heavy through the helmet.

Maker, you’re so fucking ready for it.  You keep struggling just because your body is telling you to, but nothing close to the word ‘stop’ ever leaves your mouth, never even comes to mind.  You feel wetness slicking your inner thighs as Din grunts and plants an arm next to your head, his bare hand shooting out to hover in front of your face.  You flinch—but he keeps it there, palm open in front of your lips in silent expectation.

“Wet or dry,” he snarls when you don’t immediately react.  “I don’t give a shit.”

Still, his hand stays right in front of your face long enough to let you make up your mind.

And… not lick it.

After a moment, Din makes a sound that drops another wave of white hot arousal down through your stomach—a furious, growly noise that resembles distorted static passing through the filter.  He angles his cock against your opening and when you hear him muttering angrily, you think he’s scolding you for it.  Calling you dirty under his breath, promising you you’ll regret saying that in a second.  But no—he’s—

“Perfect.  Perfect little girl, fucking perfect,” Din hisses darkly, pushing into your soaking entrance without anything but your slick to ease his way.  “H-How are you—s-so fuck—ing—”

Oh Maker, you turn your head into the grass and cry out through the delicious, blissful intrusion, pushing your hips back against his—and Din curses as he quickly bottoms out, making sure he lurches fully into you before his hands find out exactly where they want to be.  They land on your lower back and he mounts up, pinning your body hard to the ground with almost his full weight.  It means you can rip out as much grass with your useless arms as you want—he doesn’t even give you a single moment now that he’s successfully rooted you to the crushed greenery.  You bloom for him all the same, as soon as Din pulls out with a wet sound and then starts fucking you strong and steady.

It’s sharp.  Biting.  Even the pleasure has a hard edge to it, completely paralyzing you even if you could struggle in this position.  His hands are pushing down so hard that the ground digs into your tummy and makes his cock angle and slam right into your g-spot each and every time.  You want to moan out your ecstasy but he’s wringing the air from your lungs with every shattering swing of his hips back and forth, quickly speeding up as he goes and taking out a full night’s worth of deprivation on you.

“Ngh.  Take.  Cock.  So.  Fucking.  Good—” Din grits with every mean thrust, the staccato growls of praise getting lost in the echoing, rhythmic clap of his hips.  You can’t fucking breathe—the pleasure is too overwhelming, your face is pressed into the grass, he’s got almost all his weight on you.  You’re helpless to do anything besides close your eyes, furrow your brows, drop your jaw, and just let him own your body in the middle of this beautiful oasis.  The heavy, wild thrusts steal every sense away from you, any ability to think beyond the fractured piece of heaven he’s striking inside you over and over.  You don’t even feel him grabbing your asscheeks and spreading them—

Somebody makes a pitiful, breathless whine—it’s you, you realize.  You make that sound, because worn leather lands right on the entrance he was denied last night and shamelessly breaches it before anything else can interrupt him.

“Tight,” he hisses, slowly sinking his thumb all the way down to the knuckle while you clench your eyes shut and choke out his name, “—f-fucking tight—”

His cock pulses inside you and you bear down as hard as you can on it in return, trying to get accustomed to being penetrated in two places at once.  He doesn’t move his thumb after that—he just keeps it there, deep inside you while he continues wrecking you with the brutal hammering of his hips from behind. 

Still—the impropriety of it starts to burn you up, how… dirty it is.  Getting the life fucked out of you in broad daylight, in the middle of a wide open field, the thickest finger he has buried deep in your ass, helpless to do anything else besides lay here and let him—you feel yourself start to clamp down, steadily getting tighter and tighter around the intrusions while he grits out hard curses and keeps giving it to you through the rapid build.

His name—you start repeating it into the ground like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.  The word scrapes from your throat over and over, and you try to pull at the grass but your hands are clenched into fists and you can’t seem to remember which muscles to use to open them.

“You like this?”  You’re able to hear him grit from above you.  “Like when I—fuck—when I fuck you l-like this?  When I just.  H-Hold you down and take—” he chokes, “—take what I w-want—”

You can’t respond, but fuck yes, you do.  The kindling spark inside you suddenly flares up and starts to spread through your body like wildfire, tightening, tightening, tightening, but then—

He’s so pent up—Din cums.

Devastatingly early.

The savage thrusts suddenly stutter to a halt and the gasp he takes in sounds like it physically hurts him.  Like the orgasm is just ripped out of him.  His hold turns to steel on you, as if he thinks you can somehow get away right now, and Din cums deep inside your spasming cunt with a shuddering, desperate groan of your name. 

It’s like it drains everything from him—he slumps, just conscious enough to slowly ease his thumb out of your tight asshole, and then he collapses in the grass next to you.  You stay there for just a second and shake next to him, muscles feeling like they’re creaking even while just laying on the ground like this, completely motionless.

“Shit—was that—”  Din pants, turning and scooting over to you to brush your hair out of your face with his bare hand, “was that… okay?  Do you… do you need…?”

You’re still so submissive, still so high on the overwhelming rush of pleasure, your mouth opens and croaks out a response without your permission.  “It was good.”

“Yeah?”  He huffs, dropping back on the grass and trying to catch his breath.  “Good.”

And… it’s true.  It was good, it was absolutely fucking amazing.  So overpowering, such a hard fuck that you almost don’t think about the fact that you didn’t actually cum from it.  The thought doesn’t really even register with you fully, not yet.

Eventually you both push yourselves up, each of you equally lacking in energy, just in different ways.  Din looks like he’s drunk—unbalanced and dizzy while he removes his glove and stuffs it into one of his pockets, before carefully tucking his spent cock back in his trousers.  In contrast, you’re nothing more than another trembling blade of grass in an enormous landscape of them, flimsy and yielding to the powerful, rippling wind as you attempt to adjust your clothing.

It’s fine, you tell yourself on the slow, quiet walk back.  Sex doesn’t always need to end in a fiery orgasm.  Sometimes a rough pounding hits the spot, scratches that itch.  You feel like you’re a newborn blurg trying to balance your oddly proportioned weight on two noodle legs as Din’s hand patiently guides you from your lower back, and a bright flare of arousal arcs through you feeling how gentle his hold is compared to the way his cum is steadily leaking from your throbbing, aching cunt.

You don’t need to cum every single time he fucks you.  It’s fine.

***

Upon returning to the sight of the unbothered, napping kid, you both decide to walk a bit more, and you learn your lesson this time.  The sun glints bright against Din’s left side while traveling in this direction, so you stick purposefully to his right the entire time.

In the meantime, you share easy conversation and attempt to regain some semblance of control over your still slightly… restless body.  Slowly but surely, your feverish arousal for him dims and fades to the backburner, replaced instead by… softer, quieter feelings.  There’s not a solid word for it, not really.  If you were mixing on a palette, you’d start out with a base of gentle contentment and then add a big dollop of affection, diluted with silence until it’s a swirling, pastel… color you don’t have a name for, but cherish all the same.

The baby wakes up about halfway through the afternoon hike, and he’s better now too.  Eventually your ragtag party finds a place to settle for the night—a small clearing in the field at the edge of a thick forest.  There’s a sizable log and boulder situated relatively close together, with a wide open space to make a fire in the center.

Din disappears for a bit to go get some firewood from the looming forest while you entertain the kid; the log is tilted perfectly to allow you both to watch the sunset, and you easily converse with the riveting baby talk as if he’s an absolute genius.

“I’m not so sure about that, honestly,” you tell him diplomatically, receiving nothing but unintelligible babbles in response as he climbs all over you.  “Well, no actually, because there’s two major schools of thought concerning that, the first being—”

He pops up in front of your face to interrupt you heatedly and you scoff, rolling your eyes over the loud gibberish.  “Look, I’d appreciate it if we could tone down the passive-aggressiveness, okay?  If we can’t have a respectful discussi—”

Three green fingers settle over your lips and you gasp at the nerve of him, forced to let him continue to ramble on your lap about absolutely nothing at all, the size of his ego soon growing to match the size of his ears.

“Hear that, shiny?”  You turn your head and ask his father upon his eventual return, and Din grunts distractedly as he dumps the firewood down and rummages around in the bag for a lighter.  Tilting your head back towards the kid, you prompt him with a raised brow.  “Tell him what you just told me.”

The baby bursts into more nonsense, encouraged by your attention, and Din crouches down to set the wood into position in the dusky twilight glow while saying nothing at all, and it somehow manages to pass as listening intently.

It continues to go on like that far longer than you expected it would, the baby apparently having quite the bone to pick about something that’s been on his mind, and one point you have to rest your hand over his mouth so he finally stops babbling.  “Hey, that’s not very nice,” you scold him quietly.  “I’m sure his face is perfectly normal under there.”

The helmet turns just slightly towards you, unamused while you snort at your own joke for a little bit. 

“I didn’t say it,” you remind him after far too long of just celebrating your own hilarity, clearing your throat through the stifled chuckles.  “I’m just translating.”

“Oh yeah?”  He eventually murmurs, beginning to ignite some of the crumpled twigs at the center of the pile, and if you worked at it, you could probably convince yourself he’s sharing your gentle smile.  More muted than yours perhaps, but beautiful and easy on his face, fitting him simply and perfectly.  “What did… What did he say I look like?”

You would’ve shot something ridiculous back at him, something snarky and facetious, but you stop short.  You catch it—underneath his voice, it sounds… timid, almost.  Uncertain.  It makes you take just a second in responding.

“Brown eyes,” you tell him after a moment, and Din doesn’t visibly react, just continues to slowly add small branches to kindle the flame.  It’s so quiet out here, but it’s different from hyperspace quiet.  This quiet is… natural.  Warm, and.  Free.  Fleeting, allowed to roam.  In a way that hyperspace just feels compact, stifling.  “He said you have… brown eyes.  And a… a strong bone structure, striking features.  A sharp, chiseled jaw, dark facial hair.  And, uh.  He also said…”

Din keeps silently feeding the fire until it’s crackling and bright, and then he settles back on his butt next to it, both elbows resting on his knees, not moving the visor towards you but waiting for you to finish regardless. 

The stunning backdrop gives way to a stunning surge of bravery.

“He said you make a bunch of faces under there that nobody ever sees,” you say softly, blinking at Din in the fading twilight while the kid sits silently in your lap.  “That you’re an open book.  Behind a metal wall.  And you have a really nice smile, I bet—he bets… he bets you probably do it more often than anyone realizes.  And your… your hair starts to curl when you let it grow long, and.  And you’re almost guaranteed to be drop dead gorgeous under there, and it’s a real fucking shame that you’ve probably never had anyone tell you it.”

Din tilts his helmet at you, looks at you for a long time—long enough for blood to rush to your cheeks and for you to get fidgety.  But when he finally does respond, his voice is gentle through the modulator.  “He said that.”

You mhm at him quickly, nodding your head and turning away as casually as you can, heart beating incredibly fast for some reason.  “Just the translator.”

A lovely silence soon blankets the both of you, a warmth permeating through to your bones that has nothing to do with the steadily growing fire.

***

A little while later, the kid has retired to his reflective cradle and the dancing flames are the only source of light besides the bright moon hanging directly overhead.  Din sits with his back to the large boulder and digs through the bag, pulling out all sorts of food you picked up before leaving the village this morning and handing them to you.  Something red and unfocused flashes oddly against the curve of his helmet when he reaches his hand back in, but it’s only for a second—he’s already pushing more food at you and filling your arms with bags of dried meats, fresh fruit, and loaves of bread.

“Stars,” you whisper under your breath, examining the feast in the flickering firelight.  “Here, take—take some of this, it’s too much.”

“There’s more in here,” he counters lowly, zipping the bag and dropping it somewhere on the other side of his body.  “The kid hasn’t eaten all day.  Might crawl away and catch himself a Gungan later if you don’t feed him soon.”

“No, I mean—” you let all the food drop into your lap and start sorting the items, “—you need to eat.  What do you want?  There’s plenty.”

“I’m not hungry,” he answers, far too quickly to have actually taken a moment to check.  “Just give me whatever you two don’t eat when you’re finished, I’ll put it back in the bag.”

Okay, if he’s gonna play it like this, you’ll just have to choose for him.  You’ve already dedicated at least two bags of dried meat to the kid, which takes care of him.  So, you take an extended moment to methodically find the ripest fruit in the bunch, the one with the most squish to it, and then search for the softest loaf of bread, not caring that Din is silently watching you.  You gather both of them in your arms and then pluck three bags of meat from the pile, before depositing all of them back into his lap.

“Eat,” you urge quietly, grabbing another portion of food for yourself, heavy on the fruit.  “Don’t inhale it.  Please.”

With that, you grab the kid’s food and then scoop the little guy up from his shield with your free arm, standing and walking to the other side of the fire.  You carefully plop yourself down with your back purposefully to Din, the kid happily finding a place on your lap with his back to you and reaching six little fingers out for the food.

You start eating, and after a moment, you smile around the large bites of fruit at the sound of metal clinking against stone.  The baby, of course, refuses to even open the bag of dried meat you set in front of him, so you roll your eyes and do it yourself, hoping he’ll at least eat like an adult and give you some time to feed yourself.  But no—the fifty year old creep demands to be hand fed, and any other day, you wouldn’t have let him get away with it.

Today, you’re just really fucking.  Happy.

You’re unbelievably happy.  Having spent a few days on this gorgeous planet, your two favorite people in the galaxy with you.  It fills your heart with air.

You start out quiet, praying you aren’t bothering Din as he (hopefully) continues to relax and enjoy his food behind you.  You begin humming your favorite melody under the sound of the crackling flames, the source of heat burning pleasantly against the curve of your lower back, setting another piece of dried meat into the kid’s cute little mouth and only just slightly annoyed that he refuses to do this himself.  Admittedly though, you do love babying him, especially when he shows you his adorable little chompers.

One bite for him, two bites for you.  That’s the deal, even though you’re hungry and you deserve way more than double his food intake rate.  You try to be quiet enough that your gentle humming will get lost with the fire between you and Din, and he never says anything or tells you to cut it out, so you just continue to let your cheerful mood provide a quiet soundtrack to the moonlit evening.

Even better, you and the kid actually finish snacking before he does, and you’re more than willing to wait for him, thrilled that this is actually happening.  It’s so simple, such a throwaway thing, but.  Knowing he used to eat his meals as quick as he can and now he’s comfortable enough to just take a second and enjoy it… you don’t know, there’s something inherently meaningful about it, something that you specifically notice.  Something about this, about sitting around a fire and sharing a meal together for the first time—even with your back turned to him, it just feels… familial.  In a way.  More than it’s ever felt before.

You have a little moment.  It’s nice.  You drop your head back and gaze up at the night sky, in awe of how different the stars look from this side of the galaxy and remembering how far you’ve come.  The kid follows suit, leaning back against your tummy and blinking silently at the universe, the star-speckled sky reflecting in his gigantic dark eyes.

He starts to doze after awhile, listening to you hum softly to yourself, but the noise of a helmet finally lifting from the boulder and most likely fitting itself back in its rightful place snaps him awake just enough.  The kid pushes off you and waddles over to his dad, and you scoot yourself back over to your little log while he unceremoniously clamors up onto Din’s thighs.

Admittedly, it’s really fucking cute.  The visor moves just enough to watch him plop his little green butt down and find a comfy position on his lap, not helping but not preventing the movement either.  A heartwarming, silent kind of tolerance hardened men have for innocent little creatures that makes you bite your lip to hide your smile.  What a softie.

You sit there in companionable quiet, staring deep into the dancing firelight and losing track of time just a bit.  They’re hypnotic, the flames.  Crackling and popping, warming just the forward-facing parts of you and nearly burning your cheeks, but you love it.  Breathing in the woodsy campfire air, hearing the gentle breeze float through the field surrounding you, the quiet forest waving dark and deep in the distance.  The midnight sky stretches long above you and the stars seem… brighter than they were on Arvala-7.  They probably aren’t—that planet is practically abandoned and has almost no light pollution whatsoever compared to Naboo, but… maybe it’s because now they feel… in reach.  Something you can touch.  Interact with.  Something you can cover your eyes, blindly point at, and then say—that one.  That’s where we should go next.

After awhile—you have no idea how long—you blink your gaze over to Din and startle to find the helmet facing you directly, shamelessly, the kid completely passed out on his lap as the flames reflect in the visor.

Without intending to, you’re already thinking back to earlier today.  How quickly he bolted after you, how strong he was bringing you to the ground, pinning you under him and taking what was so rudely denied to him last night.

You didn’t actually finish, and you can still feel it simmering down low.  Din’s cum has been steadily leaking from you all day, and while you eventually became successful at blocking out the sensation, it suddenly slams to the forefront of your mind again.  The visor pierces deep into you while you start to squirm just a bit against the rough log pressed into your back.  You can still feel him when you flex your lower muscles, and you bite your lip and do it repeatedly while blinking at him, waiting, squeezing your thighs together and loving the reminder.

He still hasn’t said anything to you, and you start to get antsy under his stare.  Your body works itself up even more, fueled by the flames reflecting in his helmet.  After a few more moments of silent tension, you’ve finally had enough.

“Din,” you whisper, trying not to make it sound like a whine and his head quickly lifts when you didn’t even realize it was slightly tipped forward.  The helmet rolls back in a drowsy little circle, as if his neck is suddenly remembering the weight burdening it.  Embarrassment instantly floods you.  “Oh.  Shit.  I’m so stupid.  I’m sor—”

Only he’s already pushing himself up with his free arm, lethargic and drunk with exhaustion, not saying a single word as he sets the conked out kid in the cradle and closes the shield over his sleepy little head with the push of a button.

You bite your lip as he drags himself over to you, swinging a leg behind you and then dropping down without any ceremony, firmly inserting himself between the uncomfortable log and your back.  Your butt is shoved forward from the sudden displacement but he’s not done.  Din wraps both his arms around you and pulls, dragging you up onto his long torso while his legs close under you and you’re off the ground completely.

Oh Maker, he’s already thousands of times more comfortable than sleeping up against the log would be.  He makes the best bed in the galaxy, big and warm and firm under you, letting you stretch out long on him.  You lounge on his lap and drop your head to his shoulder, resting your arms on top of his as they drape heavy across your belly.

“Sorry,” he gruffs, voice low and rough through the modulator.  The filter rings sharp through your ear when it’s pressed up against his helmet like this.  “Just need a few hours.  Didn’t… didn't sleep great last night.”

You close your eyes and internally scold yourself, now taking responsibility for his lack of rest for the past two days.  Shit.  You don’t actively respond, feeling slightly put out, but your body is of another mind altogether.  It still continues trundling down the steep slope you shoved it towards earlier, when you stupidly thought he was giving you eyes under the helmet instead of him being passed out cold.  You wiggle against him just slightly under the guise of finding a comfortable position, but it has unintentional consequences.

You breathe out a soft sigh when your hips move over his cock, biting your lip at the sensation but trying so hard to stop it in its tracks.  He’s exhausted, and he already fucked the life out of you today, there’s no way he’ll want to go again this soon.  Except—then he shifts and mmms low in his throat.

“And you,” Din murmurs quietly, reaching a hand down to slowly push under your pants, “need to start being more honest with me.”

“What are you t—oh, stars,” you whisper, your body shuddering as one of his thick fingers slowly dips into your slit.

“Shit, you’re wet,” he groans, sinking his hand down lower to feel remnants of himself still easing its way out of you.  Your lashes flutter as your jaw drops, and his cock gets hard against your spine almost immediately.  “You’re fucking… soaked.  I—I asked if you came and you said yeah,” he whispers low to you, but you shake your head.  “Why’d you lie to me abo—”

“No, no—” you protest breathlessly, “—you asked if it was okay, and then I said—”

“You said it was good.  It’s not good if you didn’t cum,” he grunts quietly, and the tip of his finger now drawing tight circles over your clit makes it damn near impossible to argue.  “I didn’t fuck you right if you didn’t cum.  You should be fucked right.”

“Maker, you fuck me exactly how I need to be fucked,” you whimper, tilting your head until your lips are pressed against the curve of his helmet while his hand steadily works under your pants.  “And—oh, fuck, that’s… h-however you need to fuck me.”

“Fuck—obedient little thing…” he huffs, starting to rub harder over your clit.  “What I need is for you to cum.  From now on, you’ll tell me.  Say yes.”

“Yes,” you moan into the beskar, your eyes fluttering back at the slowly building pressure.

“Say, ‘yes, Din,’” he breathes.

“Yes, Din,” you dutifully repeat, lifting your hips up against his hand, and he groans softly through the modulator.

“Say, ‘Din, I need something to cum on’,” he whispers.

You’re delirious, you don’t even catch it before most of it is already out of your mouth.  “Din, I need something to c—” you cut off but he’s already reaching down between your bodies to ease his cock out, before yanking your pants down your ass just enough to position himself up against your entrance.

He rocks his hips up and he slides in easier than ever before, and you… don’t know what you’re expecting, but he surprises you nonetheless.  He doesn’t start thrusting into you at all.  Even though he’s rock hard inside you, thick and pulsing and breaking you open, he doesn’t move a single inch.  He just keeps himself there, continuing to rub circles around your clit and giving you exactly what he prompted you to ask for.

Something to cum on.

Your body tenses and squeezes him, and Din shushes you before you realize you were making noise.  His free hand comes up to settle tight over your mouth and guide you turn your head away from his helmet.  At first you think it’s because your heavy breathing was probably fogging the visor up, but no—his fingers leave your pussy for a split second and you hear him maneuver himself out of it.  The hollow noise it makes thunking to the ground is beginning to become your favorite sound in this universe.

But then of course, Din buries his face into your neck and starts talking again, whispering low praises behind your ear with that bassy, dark chocolate rasp, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing.  His fingers return to your cunt to slowly rub your clit and his cock throbs hotter than sin inside you, building your pleasure into a strong, slow crescendo.

You start to whimper unintentionally, but his hand is wrapped tight around your mouth, muting and confining the desperate sounds to your throat.  His finger presses down harder on your clit and his cock flexes inside you.

“That’s it, sw—sweet girl,” Din mutters, his voice interrupted by his own staccato breaths and tight gasps the longer he talks you through it, the longer he keeps himself perfectly still while engulfed in your drenched, fluttering cunt.  “That’s—that’s it, I can feel it c-coming.  Fuck—make it good for me, give me a good one—”

His words shove you right over a cliff you didn’t even realize was there until you were dangling over the steep drop for an extended moment like a cartoon.  Everything squeezes around him unbearably tight—your hands dig into his forearms, your back arches up against him, your pussy constricts his thick cock until you feel like you’re hurting the both of you with it, and Din’s breath catches next to your ear while you’re both suspended in thin air for a split second—

—before you’re convulsing in pure bliss, flooding his cock with cum while he rasps out, “good girl,” into the crook of your neck and rocks his hips up into yours.  The few heavenly inches of movement hits something jaw-dropping inside you and nearly makes you scream against his palm, launching your body even higher into mind-bending rapture.  Fucking Maker, you cum hard for him, on him, around him.  You downright drown his cock in your pleasure, suffocate it and work out the aching tightness in your pussy all over him until you feel like you can’t breathe anymore.

“Mmm…” Din murmurs quietly, continuing to circle your swollen clit hard through the shattering aftershocks.  His voice is deep and sinful and vibrates your whole back with its frequency, but something underneath it also sounds as if he’s considering, before he seems to land on an answer to a wordless question he just asked himself.  “…One more.”

And, like the fucking Maker himself commanded it, another blazing hot wave of fire suddenly rips you apart and sends you spasming rhythmically around the throbbing cock buried inside you once again.  This one wrings you completely dry, robbing you of every sense.  The ragged whine you make behind his hand must be too loud—his fingers quickly tighten around your jaw and lock down, keeping you as still as possible while you give him everything you have to give.

Eventually the sparks die out and you’re left a shell of what you once were, clamping down hard on him and shuddering your bliss at the night sky.  He lays there silently under you, holding you as you fall back down to reality.  Your breathing is a mess and so is everything below your waist, and your whole body jerks when Din carefully slides his hand from your pussy and rubs gently over your thighs, your tummy, your chest.

“That was…” you croak out, trying to remember how to speak, “ … g-good.”

“Go to sleep,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses against the side of your neck.  You can hear the gentle grin he’s hiding from you, knowing he completely incapacitated you.

“But what about—” you start to protest, when Din’s teeth sink into your flesh and your pussy seizes up tight around him, making him choke a hoarse little groan into your skin.

After a moment, he eases his throbbing cock out of you, and he resets your clothing while you whimper in distress.  “Go to sleep,” Din murmurs, before softly kissing your neck once more, and your eyes slowly droop against your will.  Fuck, his body beats a king size mattress any day of the week.  “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

***

He…

He isn’t.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #smut #reader insert #fanfic #star wars

[fruitcoops]

So your writing is amazing!💕 I love the communication you show even during the spicy times, and the aftercare. If you wanted, maybe do a fic earlier on of coops learning to navigate the drop or aftercare and maybe not communicating well and maybe some slight upset but they figure it out and talk about it later and it's a growing experience for them both? It takes time and effort to learn your partner and thier needs and you do a wonderful job writing those things!

What an interesting idea! Thanks for sending it in, I hope you enjoy it! Coops credit, of course, goes to @lumosinlove

You can read a similar fic here!

TW for subdrop

A small drop of sweat rolled down Remus’ spine as he pulled out, shushing Sirius softly before settling back on top of him. He combed his fingers through midnight curls and let the whines still slipping through Sirius’ clenched teeth wash over him. “Talk to me, love,” he said against Sirius’ cheek, gently pulling his jaw until the muscles released.

“Je—” He swallowed hard and licked his puffy lips. “Je t’aime. Je t’aime, mon coeur—”

Remus didn’t understand the tumble of slurred French that followed, but if Sirius was as fucked-out as he looked, that was hardly a surprise. His beautiful stormcloud eyes were glassy and a bit unfocused; his chest hitched with unsteady breaths as he clutched at Remus’ shoulders. “Baby,” Remus interrupted, not much above a whisper. Sirius fell silent immediately and closed his eyes with a shiver. “Baby, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I love you.” Sirius’ voice broke as he finally made eye contact.

Remus laughed under his breath and kissed him, little more than a brush of lips. “Love you, too. I’m going to get some water and a washcloth.”

“Non.”

“Why not? You don’t like the feeling of lube on your legs.”

“Reste.” Stay. Sirius’ whole face looked vulnerable, like some poor kicked puppy. It broke Remus’ heart a little.

“Baby, I’m just going to the bathroom and back. You can see me the whole time.”

“Reste avec moi.”

“Two seconds,” Remus promised, untangling himself from jellied limbs; Sirius made a sad whimpering sound, and he paused. “Sirius? Are you alright?”

“Reste,” he repeated again, weak fingers tugging at Remus’ wrist. He was golden and pink against the white sheets—a true vision if Remus ever saw one.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, running his thumb along the divot of his collarbone. Post-orgasm cuddles were one of his favorite parts of sex, but he knew Sirius would be cranky and uncomfortable if he didn’t grab a washcloth within the next few minutes; water was also an essential for them both. “I’ll keep the door open and be right back, okay?” Remus leaned back and nudged their noses together with a reassuring smile. “You’ll get your snuggles, baby, don’t worry.”

He hummed to himself as he filled a waterbottle and went to the bathroom, splashing water on his face to avoid dripping sweat into his eye. It was almost muscle memory as he fell into the usual routine.

After a moment of silence, Sirius rustled around before going quiet again. Remus shook his head with a smile as he grabbed chapstick and a washcloth—always such an impatient cuddlebug, that one.

“See, I wasn’t even—Sirius?” He hesitated as he left the bathroom, staring at the lump of covers in sheer confusion. Sirius’ back was facing him, and he had bundled himself into a blanket cocoon the way he only did when he was really upset. “What happened?”

The cocoon didn’t answer.

Worry crept its way up his neck and he sat on the edge of the bed, setting aside everything but the damp cloth. He placed it gently on the back of Sirius’ neck, but he flinched away at the touch and Remus quickly backpedaled. “Sirius, are you okay?”

“Je vais bien,” he mumbled.

Remus tucked his legs up onto the mattress and laid a careful hand on the vague curve of Sirius’ shoulder; he didn’t wince. “Honey, you’re scaring me. Did I hurt you?”

“You left.”

He sounded absolutely shattered, and guilt reared up in Remus’ stomach. “I’m sorry. I thought—I thought I was being helpful.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I told you, I was getting a washcloth like I always do.” Pieces started clicking into place. “Sirius, could you understand me?”

The answering silence told him everything he needed to know.

“Oh, love,” he whispered, scooting closer until he could curl around Sirius’ back and kiss his temple. “Please tell me if you don’t understand next time. I’m sorry, I should have checked. Can you come out so we can clean up a little and go to bed?”

He heard a slight sniffle as Sirius shifted. “I feel weird.”

“What kind of weird?”

“I don’t…dizzy, a little? And—and sticky, and itchy. My brain feels…stuck.”

“C’mere.” Remus tugged on the corner of the blankets until Sirius allowed him some space to peel them away and slide underneath, creating a protective arc against his back. He draped an arm over his waist and rubbed small circles on his ribs, then kissed the top notch of his spine. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” Relief laced the confused edges of his voice and Remus relaxed by a few degrees.

“Thank you. I’m going to wash your neck now, if that sounds good.” Sirius nodded. “Alright. Tell me if you start feeling better, yeah?”

“I will.”

Remus worked in silence for a few minutes, running the washcloth in smooth strokes along the planes of Sirius’ back before he slowly made his way around to his chest and thighs. Sirius hummed from time to time, pressing himself back into Remus like he wanted to be absorbed entirely. His temperature dropped from “burning up” to “comfortable space heater” and Remus set aside the cloth to pet his hair, tucking each wild curl into its usual place and keeping it out of his eyes.

“This is nice,” Sirius said at last, though the exhausted happiness in his voice was almost palpable. “This—I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I still feel floaty, but it’s good.” He squirmed around onto his side with a sigh; Remus scanned his face for any signs of pain, but saw nothing besides a sweet flush and the last fleeting remnants of tension between his brows. It wasn’t quite as breathtaking as the sheer bliss he had seen last, but it was Sirius, so it was beautiful.

He reached out and ran the pad of his index finger along every angle and bone. “What can I do to help you come down?”

“Hold me.”

Sirius didn’t have to suggest it twice. He fit so well against Remus’ chest, hiding his face in the dip of his shoulder and winding their legs together like they were made for it. Made for it. Remus liked that idea. He laid one palm flat between Sirius’ shoulder blades and the other over his lower back, keeping him close and comfortable. Water could wait. Cuddles came first.

#remus lupin #sirius black #coops #wolfstar #fanfic #my fic #lumosinlove #sweater weather #subdrop

[vvideonasties]

clear-cut

"Good morning," Jon says.

"Um," Martin replies.

Jon then realises that him holding a pair of scissors so close to his eyes not long after ranting about gouging them out would be rather concerning at first glance. 

word count: 2k

pairing: jonmartin

warnings: discussion of canon related trauma, thoughts about body autonomy

While rifling through the kitchen drawers, Jon is unsurprised by the plethora of blades Daisy owns. There’s every kind of knife you could fathom and, thankfully, a few pairs of scissors. Grabbing what appears to be the sharpest pair (though they all look pretty damn sharp), he heads to the bathroom. He clutches the white of the porcelain sink and stares into the mirror impassively. 

He used to actually quite like his long hair. He’d play with it while he was working, twirling the thick locks around his fingers and untangling knots absentmindedly. When he’d get frustrated he’d pull it out of its tie and tug at it. It was a strange way to ground himself. 

Now, though. It’s been used too much for other people’s gain, has been in too many people’s hands for it to truly belong to him. The gravity it provided began to dissipate when Daisy attacked him - she’d grabbed a chunk of it and used it to yank back his head to expose the vulnerable expanse of his neck. As he’d stood there under the mercy of her blade, shaking and pleading, the stinging in his scalp lingered the entire time. It only got worse from there - the awful attempt at tenderness displayed by the Stranger as Nikola brushed aside a few strands to gain access to more flesh, to paste moisturiser onto it with her stiff fingers. The dirt he couldn’t quite scrub out of it after he left the Buried, even when he sat in the tub for hours on end. Even when the water began to run clear, he could still feel the clumps weighing him down, making his head loll to the side with it.

After all that, it wasn’t much to him. He’d wash it, dry it, tie it up. Try not to think of it. 

Jon stares down at the gleaming scissors in the sink determinedly. Cutting it off won’t solve much, if anything at all, but it would make him feel a little more comfortable. It’s one of the only things he can control about himself at the moment. If he doesn’t like the way it looks, then fine. It’ll grow back. 

His hand flexes and clenches into a fist. Tighten, relax, tighten, relax. 

He reaches for the scissors and holds a piece of hair in front of his face, the blades open, hungry, ready to receive. 

Then there comes a short, polite cough. He turns to see Martin standing just outside the bathroom, eyes a little wider than normal. 

"Good morning," Jon says.

"Um," Martin replies.

Jon then realises that him holding a pair of scissors so close to his eyes not long after ranting about gouging them out would be rather concerning at first glance. 

“I’m cutting my hair,” he clarifies, and Martin seems to relax at that. 

“Okay.” A pause. “Why?”

He puts down the scissors and shrugs, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

“Just felt like it,” he says, which is kind of true. “Not particularly attached to it anymore.”

Martin hums, taking him at his word. He walks over on socked feet, close enough that Jon can feel the heat radiating from him. There’s a brief moment where his hands pass over the scissors.

“I could help?”

Jon turns to face him completely, brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, it’s just that I have experience? Kind of? I cut my own, and I used to cut my mum’s as well...” Martin’s mouth twists downwards at that, and Jon just frowns harder. “I won’t give you my mum’s style, I promise!” He jokes weakly. It falls flat, and the whole atmosphere feels stilted. 

“Okay. Why not.”

“...Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt your whole-”

“It’s fine. I could use some help reaching the back anyway.” As much as he just wants to lop all of it off, he doesn’t want it to look messy. 

Martin seems to brighten, probably at the relief of having something to focus on, and he walks off to grab a chair from the small dining table as Jon hovers awkwardly. He positions it in the living room, close to the small TV they’ve been using sporadically. They’ve been steadily working their way through the small cabinet full of DVDs underneath it. However, Jon isn’t exactly sure how long they’re going to be staying, so they might have to...ration them. The week they’ve been here hasn’t exactly been the most vibrant when it comes to entertainment. Maybe one day they’ll relent and open up the dusty box of Monopoly. That could very well be a major test of their relationship, though. 

At least, Jon thinks this is a relationship. They haven’t talked about it all that much. All that mattered in the beginning was escaping the Lonely, leaving London, then getting settled here. They’re fumbling around blindly in the dark, and all Jon knows is he wants to hold onto Martin as tightly as possible. 

That little train of thought is interrupted by the small clink of Martin taking the scissors off of the sink and grabbing a towel from the rack. He gestures to the chair, inviting Jon to sit, and when he does so he feels the towel being gently wrapped around his shoulders. 

There’s the brief sensation of Jon’s hair being pulled at, only slightly, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Okay?” Martin whispers. He understands without knowing, somehow, and Jon is glad that he can’t see the way his face is taut with apprehension, tinged with pain. 

“Okay,” he whispers back, trying to emulate Martin’s tone. 

“Can I use your tie?” His voice is still soft, and Jon should feel patronised, but he mostly feels soothed. “Just so it’s easier to cut through.”

Jon wordlessly removes the tie from his wrist and hands it over. He tries to hide the little shiver that passes over him when their fingers brush. Martin begins to hum a tune as he gathers the hair up into one handful (not like they did, he would never, it’s Martin, always so good to him), then creates a loose ponytail that falls to his shoulders. 

“Fine so far?” Jon nods tentatively. “Alright then.” 

There’s the distinct sound of the blades opening, and in one fluid motion Jon feels the weight he’d been carrying leave him. 

“There.” Martin comes into view, holding the thick, dark ponytail aloft, smiling crookedly. 

“Oh,” he croaks. “That’s...a lot.” His hand comes up to brush his the side of his head, then travels down and grasps at thin air where hair was a second ago. The cut seems to stop at his jaw, the small strands remaining ghosting over his skin. 

“It is. Can I keep going?”

Jon, hand still close to his head, makes a noise of assent. Martin takes a second to throw away what’s been cut then returns. He sinks his hands into Jon's scalp, massaging the tension out of it, and Jon makes an unbidden noise of satisfaction that causes his motions to still.

"God, sorry, did I hurt-"

"No! No, it's okay. It felt nice." It felt really nice. 

Martin clicks his tongue and continues for a while longer, fingers digging into Jon’s scalp over and over in a wonderful, rhythmic motion until Jon is practically boneless and falling asleep in the chair. He wonders if there’s a not-weird way to ask for this again outside of a hair cutting context. 

“So how short are we going here? You kind of have a bob right now,” Martin laughs. 

Jon hadn’t really thought about that. He just wanted it off, away, binned and out of his face. He shrugs. “I don’t know, short? Whatever you think will suit me.”

“Any hairstyle would suit you,” Martin points out, like it’s nothing. Jon smiles. “But I’ll do my best.” 

A few moments of Martin muttering to himself and circling around the chair is followed by the coolness of the dual blades against the curve of Jon’s ear, the shhk of them pressing together giving him goosebumps. He clearly has done this many times before, given the confident way he navigates the scissors. Jon certainly couldn’t have done this alone, at least not without making a fool out of himself. Martin brushes some hair away from the nape of his neck. His hands are very warm. 

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with short hair.”

Jon turns to him, puzzled. “Really?”

The thing with Jon is, when he cares about someone a lot, he tends to insert them in all of his memories, assuming that they’ve always been around (he also has the memory of a goldfish, but he’s sure that’s a whole other thing). Martin has become such an integral part of his life, standing neatly by his side like it’s nothing. Like he was meant to be there and always has. 

“It has been quite a few years now, I suppose. Last I remember it was this short I was still in research.” When he goes to touch his head again he notes that he can feel for his ears without having to move a mountain of hair aside.

“Better late than never, I guess! I’m gonna move to the front now.”

Martin has to position himself at an awkward angle to use the scissors properly, his back practically curved into a C shape. His gaze is focused and intense, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Hair falls on Jon’s face as he snips, making him wrinkle his nose and grimace.

“Sorry. You can wash it off soon.”

Jon nods minutely. Then he sneezes. Martin just smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, then continues. 

He remembers why he rarely went to get a professional haircut now. That strange intimacy that comes with someone being so close to you - a stranger - it always disturbed him. The idle chatter that made him grit his teeth, how they’d act like they knew him. Then he didn’t have the time or energy to cut it himself after...everything. 

Now he’s looking at Martin, though. It’s odd, yes. Intimate? Definitely. He doesn’t know whether to close his eyes or keep them open. But he’s always found it very hard to turn his gaze away from Martin regardless.

His eyes are a lovely shade of deep blue, and he has far too many scars alongside the smattering of freckles on his face. He looks tired. Very much so. There’s crows feet at the corners of his eyes and lines on his forehead. He notes absently that he actually has a thick beard, too. Of course he noticed it beforehand - he’s felt it scratching the back of his neck when he wakes in the morning with Martin’s arms around him - but it’s worth pointing out. It makes him look much older, especially since the grey in it seems to be overtaking the red. 

Martin stands up straight and runs his hands through Jon’s hair a few times before standing back, head tilted to the side. 

“I think we’re done. It’s not amazing, but.”

Jon is already shrugging off the towel and heading to the bathroom mirror, feeling weirdly nervous. 

He certainly looks different. Unfortunately, though he searched high and low for them, Daisy doesn’t own any clippers. Martin did the best he could with what he had - he’s kept it a bit longer towards the front, some strands grazing his forehead, but the rest is cropped closely to his scalp. Jon tentatively touches it and leans forward. He tries to grasp a chunk of it, see if it’s long enough to pull. He fails. 

“It’s perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Jon says firmly. “It’s just what I needed.” He walks back over to Martin and wraps his arms around him instinctively, sighing with contentment when he responds in kind. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles into Martin’s t-shirt. 

“Of course.” Martin is stroking the back of his neck gently. “You look very handsome.”

Jon’s face burns at the compliment, and he chooses to hide it further rather than reply. They stand there for a while, hair scattered around the floor like autumn leaves, and it feels like a new beginning. 

#lil writes #jonmartin #ive been thinking a lot about hair and people's relationship to their hair recently. like. why it means so much to some of us #and it morphed into this #hair is one of the few things we can control since its physical and mostly our own #idk i just feel like its a good way for jon to reclaim some part of himself. it certainly feels that way for me so maybe i am Projecting #anyways! take it! #i was actually gonna write a sequel about martin and his hair but focusing on the hc i have that he grows a beard in s4 so he doesnt have- #to see his own face as much. but lets see how this one is received first! #tumblr is such a bad place to post fic because feedback is so sparse. god. #ILL SHUT UP NOW BYE #oh wait i need to tag #the magnus archives

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Big Steps // Draco Malfoy

Request: Hello! Can I request a Draco x reader that’s maybe a year after the war and him and the reader are moving into a cozy little apartment together and he’s working towards being a Healer? I’m loving happy Draco and you write him so beautifully. 💜 - anon

A/N: I haven’t written for HP and Draco in what feels like forever! This isn't very long at all. I hope you don’t mind, I just thought I would ease myself back into writing Draco! 

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff, cute, worries, talks of big steps, mentions of the second wizarding war, trainee healer draco, happy draco

Word count: 1.3k

Countless boxes littered the floor; so many that it was almost impossible to see the floor and it was becoming more and more of a task to navigate your way through your new home.

The focus for the current moment was the wall across from the three windows that line your living room; that brighten the whole place. On this wall was to be a collection of pictures with plans for it to be added to the longer you live here.

“What do you think?” Draco asks, tone soft as he holds the picture up, “Is it straight?”

Focusing your attention on the picture, you suggest, “Move it to the right a little more.”

Following your instruction, Draco adjusts the picture to the right that little bit. “There!” You all but shout, “There is perfect.”

Draco hangs the picture on the wall before taking a step back. He returns to your side, hand automatically seeking its place at the bottom of your back. Draco sighs; it’s not resigned, it’s not upset. For the first time in a long time, he is happy and he is content.

For a moment, the both of you are silent as you gaze at the picture. It’s an image of the both of you from only a few months ago, snapped by Narcissa on one of her many walks through her garden. She had spied the both of you napping in the late morning sun; your head resting on Draco’s strong shoulder as his hand ran through your hair. Without your knowledge, Narcissa had taken a photo of the moment, unable to help herself. Upon the announcement of your moving in together, Narcissa had the image framed and gifted to you.

There was a lot to love about your small home, but this picture was your most treasured.

“What are we doing with all your books? Which do you need first?” You ask Draco, kneeling to open the box on your left.

“The ones on the reading list for the training programme have a red sticker on their back cover so I didn’t have to remember all their titles…” Draco admits sheepishly, kneeling down across from you to tackle another box of books. The both of you big enough readers that your small flat is going to look like a library soon enough.

“Draco Malfoy, Healer Extraordinaire,” You laugh, hauling two large volumes on the properties of healing potions and spells from the box and setting them to one side.

“Hey!” Draco protests, “I’m going to be an excellent Healer.”

Beaming at the blonde, you answer, “I know you are. You’re going to be the best Healer there can be.”

Dark pink paints Draco’s cheeks as he refocuses his attention on his own box, picking out book by book to eventually put on the shelves nearby the door. He knew that the next few months were going to be hard; the beginning of the Healer training programme at St. Mungo’s was notorious for either making or breaking a Healer. Draco would be the first to admit that he’s scared shitless by what is going to be asked of him, but this has been his career choice since the late nights in Hogwarts library where you would stay up with him so Draco could get extra revision time in. You would be there to meet him after any and all training sessions with Madame Pomfrey; questions ready on the tip of your tongue to make sure that the information had set in.

He was ready for this. He had you to thank for it.

Draco takes a moment; he takes a single moment in the chaos of moving into his new home that he now shares with you, to simply watch you. The last year had been about healing; about recovering from the collective loss felt by the wizarding community but Draco had to come terms with the guilt that accompanied such grief. How many deaths had he been responsible for? He did not know; he did not want to know. Instead, he worked on bettering himself, becoming the man he was happy to see in the mirror.

Draco watches you finish unpacking your box of books; he watches you turn to window, watching the afternoon sun travel across the sky. They had moved in the early morning, knowing full well the amount they had to unpack.

Draco’s serene smile soon turns to a frown of worry as he sees you reach for a plant pot, a vacant look on your face as your eyes seem troubled. He had seen this look before; he had seen you worry countless times – over him, over exams, over whether you were going to live to the next day. He knew what that look meant.

The worries that have plagued your mind become louder; niggling at the back of your mind, forcing their way to the front until they are all that you seem to think about. Frowning, you reach for a potted plant, deciding whether to place it on the coffee table or the windowsill.

“Darling,” Draco calls, “What’s wrong?”

“This is a big step, Draco,” You murmur, holding the plant pot close to your chest.

Vulnerability shines bright in Draco’s grey eyes as he nods his agreement. “It is a big step. It’s a huge step. We’re barely a year out of school and after what happened, I didn’t think we would ever get to a place where we could make this step.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for such a step? I don’t want you to regret this in a months’ time…”

The added meaning isn’t said but it’s loud in the room. You don’t want him to regret you in a months’ time; you remain scared for the moment that Draco will one day wake up and realise what a mistake he has made – throwing in his lot with you. It’s never voiced, and perhaps that is why the feeling is so terrifying.

“Hey,” Draco whispers; his voice gentle as he takes the plant pot from you, placing it on a nearby box. “What makes you think I’m going to regret any of this?”

Whether it is the emotions of the day combined with the lack of sleep from the night before, tears begin to collect in your eyes, threatening to spill over. “We’re barely out of school; barely out of a war. Draco, you’re just beginning to train as a Healer…”

“And I’ll have you there for every late night and for every cram session. Love,” He sighs, “I am not going to wake up in a month and suddenly regret this decision. I think we’ve earned this tiny bit of peace. I think we deserve a little time where the only thing we need to worry about is who is cooking dinner. This is the start of our future; this small flat and these big steps.”

Sniffling, you murmur, “You really aren’t going to regret this?”

Draco’s hands come up to caress your face; holding your face gently. The position means you have no choice but to look into his grey eyes as he promises his future tied with yours. He doesn’t let you look away as he states all the things he is looking forward to doing now that you live together. By the end of his tirade, he smiles wistfully, “I have a lot to regret. I have done a lot of things I am not proud of, but I cannot find it in myself to regret you. You are the light in the dark; the thing that brings me back. I know that if I have a nightmare, you are there to vanquish the beasts. I could never regret you.”

“I love you,” You answer, unable to form the rights words to correctly cover the depth of your feelings for the blonde haired man in front of you.

“I love you too,” He answers, kissing you lightly, “Now, let’s get on with unpacking. I have a feeling it’s a takeaway tonight.”

Groaning happily, you let Draco lead you the pile of boxes. Your fears and worries practically all gone as you tear open the box that is labelled ‘bedroom’.

By the time the final box is unpacked, the big step doesn’t feel so big after all.

*****

Draco Malfoy Taglist: @the--queen-of-hell @obx-beach @obxmxybxnk @sycathorn-slush @dracomalfoyswifey @kashishwrites @justmesadgirl​ @detroitobsessed​ @aspiringsloth20​ @just-a-belgian-girl​ @lahoete​ @minty-malfoy​ @fallinallinmendes​ @ravenclawbitch426​ @ochrythum​ @beiahadid​ @gryffindors-weasley​ @dracosathenaeum​ @belladaises​

Only tagging my draco taglist for now! I hope you all don't mind, I just thought that since it has been so long since I posted a HP fic, I didn't want to bother anyone on my general other than those who had requested a specific character tag!

#draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #draco malfoy imagines #draco malfoy imagine #Draco Malfoy

[gotnofucks]

Sweet Tooth

Paring: Lee Bodecker x Reader

Summary: Sheriff, you and his sweet tooth.

Words: 2.2k

Warning: Smut, weird smut, mushy smut, 18+ ONLY

A/N: Goddamn you all! I didn’t know I’d be writing another Bodecker after finishing SMS but damn are you all relentless. Here is your soft!chubby!sheriff. Combining two requests here. Hope you Hoe-deckers like it.

MASTERLIST

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You drove to your fiancé’s house, smoothening the dress once you got out. You had put a lot of time in styling your hair today. Lee would be meeting your parents for the first time, and you were already nervous about it. Your father had not been happy to know that you were marrying a man who didn’t even bother to ask his permission. Things only went south when you pointed out that the only permission he needed to marry you was yours.

You were hoping your mother would mediate the meeting tonight and were glad your brother couldn’t make it, because that meeting would have spelled disaster. You were only doing this tonight because it was customary to do so, and because you couldn’t put it off anymore. Earrings dangling in your ear, you bounced inside the house.

“Lee, I’m here.” You said. You loved his house, with the fluffy rugs and candy wrappers between the couch cushions that crinkled when you got handsy over them. This would soon be your home too; you’ll be moving in your stuff in the next few weeks. Navigating the hall, you reached Lee’s bedroom and saw the door ajar. He was standing in front of the mirror, looking at himself. You don’t think he had even noticed you walk in, so intensely did he stare at his reflection.

“Honey?” You called and his eyes met yours in the mirror, sadness floating in them.

“Why are you marrying me?” He asked.

You tilted your head, not knowing what was going on.

“Lee? Hon, what’s wrong?” You asked as you saw him looking in the mirror again. You had never seen him look so vulnerable, and the look in his eyes tugged at your heart. You set your bag down on the table and joined him in front of the mirror, holding his hand. His face was flushed, and you felt like he was seconds away from breaking down.

“Why are you marrying me?” He asked again and you breathed deeply.

“Because I love you.” You answered him, putting a hand on his cheek. He leaned into your touch, nose bumping your palm.

“How can you love me? I mean, look at me!” He exclaimed, pushing away and spreading his arms, showing his body. “You deserve someone handsome, someone who doesn’t have a lump of mass hanging on his front.”

Your exhaled, finally understanding the situation. It was not the first time his insecurities had come into play, but so far, they had been well hidden and rare. You’d see him tighten his hold on your hand when you’d walk across other men in parks, or how he would tighten his belt more than necessary when meeting your friends. You would see him throwing away his chocolates and candies, trying to be like ‘other men’.

You knew you would have to deal with this delicately because Lee was a proud man. He had a hard exterior that shaded his soft inside, and one wrong move could bruise his tender ego. Pursing your lips at him, you deliberately moved into his space, letting your body rub against his soft belly. Yours arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled him down, letting your mouth meet his in a deep kiss.

“Lee Bodecker, you are the most gorgeous man I have ever seen. I love you because you carry a blanket in your car because you know I get cold easily. I love you because you massage my feet after I remove my heels. I love you because you carry me in your arms wherever I wish. I love you because you kiss me in a way that gives me a taste of heaven. I love all of you Lee, including this mass of lump as you called it because its you.”

He sagged against you, heart right below your ear as his arms circled you, pulling you harder into him and his head resting on yours. You let your hands run through his hair, caress his head then back and in the end squeeze his butt. That got him to laugh a little, and if he sniffled you didn’t mention it.

“You love me then, even if I eat enough candies to stick my teeth together?” He asked.

You looked at him with a smile that made his heart flutter like an excited butterfly.

“I love you for it. I’d much rather you eat those sugar lollies if they keep you from the bottle. Not to mention you have by far the most deliciously kissable lips in this fucking town.”

His lips began twitching, eyes returning to their mischievous glint that you loved. He bent down to give you one of those delicious kisses, his mouth tasting of chocolate. You moaned and ground yourself against him, his bulge hardening against your thigh. Pulling away he growled, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip and you squealed, the taste of him and blood filling your mouth.

“What will your papa say when he knows you’re marrying a man who’s had you in every possible position before marriage, eh?” He teased and you pulled on his collar to lick his neck.

“Don’t worry, we’ll tell them we’re marrying because I comprised your virtue.”

He started laughing, a happy laughing that made his belly jiggle. Kissing your nose, he cupped your face, running his fingers through your now ruined hair.

“And what if your mommy finds me…lacking?”

You could feel how much it bothered him, the thought of your parents. He had been trying to learn everything about them, to earn their approval despite you telling him it didn’t matter. But you would be damned if you let anyone make the love of your life feel inadequate.

“Lee, I’m marrying you, not their opinion. They can pronounce you the Devil and I will sin the rest of my life away so I make way home to hell and you after I die. I love you my dear, with every last part of me.”

Love and passion rose in you like a giant wave and you impulsively tossed away your earrings. You neared him, his face a look of awe.

“You know what, we’ve put off this meeting for months. Maybe a few more days won’t hurt.”

He kissed you hard, humming in agreement and picking you up by the waist and carrying you to his bed. Your bed.

“How can I ever thank you for being in my life” He murmured, and you smirked.

“You can start by worshiping the lumps of flesh on my body” You said, letting your dress fall away to reveal your bare body. His eyes darkened and he unbuttoned his shirt, unveiling what was to you a body made to provide comfort and pleasure. You fondled him, carefully, softly, teasingly. He worshiped you and later that night you showed him how much you appreciate him.

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You writhed, moaning as Lee’s tongue weaved magic between your legs. Whoever said marriage got boring after a while had never met Lee Bodecker. The noises he made turned you on almost as much as his tongue thrusting in your heat and you clawed at your husband’s back, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Oh god, oh fuck Lee!” You shout and fell off the cliff, heat bursting from you. Lee lapped at your juice, slurping like a man thirsty in desert. You panted with a satisfied, completely sexed up look on your face. His chin was dripping with your essence and you clenched around nothing.

“Fuck!” Lee suddenly exclaimed, looking with wide eyes at your still drenched pussy. You jumped up, wondering if you got your period but found no blood on your thighs.

“What?” You asked and Lee stuttered, running a hand through his damp hair.

“I uh, I lost the jolly rancher.” He said and you blinked.

“What?”

“I lost the jolly rancher. Inside you.”

You struggled for a moment to understand what he said before screeching. You jumped off the bed and started bouncing on your toes, trying to dislodge the candy from your cunt.

“What the fuck Lee! Why would you put a candy in me? Get it out. Get it out!” You shout and you husband paced around you, trying to bend his head and see if it fell out of you.

“I like the taste of it on you!” He said in defense and you growled in anger. He looked at your helplessly, watching you jump and bounce until he finally took your hand and tugged you to a stop.

“Lay back on the bed, let me search.” He said and you shot him a look before doing as he said. Spreading your legs his fingers probed your entrance, wiggling inside you. You suppressed a moan, reminding yourself that this was not for pleasure. Your spongy flesh within quivered at his touch and you ground your teeth, curses hissed at him from between them.

“How deep are you?” He asked in frustration, eyes level with your most intimate part. You almost suggested he should go get his flashlight when his fingers brushed against a small object inside you. Carefully plucking it between his thumb and finger, he pulled out the wet candy and showed it to you triumphantly.

“You bastard, what if we didn’t find it? Do you have any idea how embarrassing it would have been to ask a doctor to remove it!” You complained but Lee didn’t give a fuck. His eyes heated over, becoming almost liquid as he pinned you down with his stare. You whimpered pathetically when he placed the candy before his lips, tongue coming out to swirl around it and then popping it in his mouth, licking his fingers clean of the remaining juice.

“They can make as many new flavors as they want, but god if the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted is you.” He bent over you, mouth meeting yours and his tongue transferred the candy to you, the flavor of it mixing with the natural musk of you and Lee’s lips. You moaned indecently, anger dissipating as heat bloomed between your legs again.

God bless the moment you agreed to marry this horny bastard.

+++++

You thought you were being sneaky, but your husband was not a Sheriff for nothing. He could smell a lie from miles away, and as he glared at you with folded arms you felt like a child being scolded.

“Did you steal from me?” He asked again and you shook your head like before, widening your eyes in a show of innocence. He raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced.

“I’m sure you must have forgotten.” You commented and Lee banged his fists on the table.

“You know I count my candies! You stole them. I left 9 in the drawer, now there are 6.” He accused and you stood up, mimicking him and banging the table too, angry as well.

“You can’t prove shit! What’s your evidence?” You countered and Lee growled. He came around the table and tugged you to his chest, eyes gleaming dangerously.

“I know that when I leave home you drink my juice and top the rest with water. I know when you tamper with my secret stash because you fucking left bite marks in the chocolate bar. You are a shitty criminal my wife.”

He glowered at you and you finally pouted in surrender. You hugged him, letting your ear rest over his heart. One finger tracing patterns on his chest you peeked up at him, eyes wide and innocent.

“You always eat them alone. I want some too, but you are bad at sharing.” You said. Lee looked down at your thoughtfully, a snort escaping him and he nuzzled your head. Rocking you in his arms he lifted you on the table, grabbing your knees and spreading them apart, stepping between your open legs.

“You insane woman, I’m sharing my life with you. If you wanted my candy you only needed to ask.” Saying that he brought out a candy from his pocket and unwrapping it popped it in your mouth. You hollowed your cheeks as you sucked on it, a moan escaping you at the tangy taste and Lee’s eyes darkened with lust, knowing that expression from when you suck on him. It was stupid really, but he felt jealous of the candy in your mouth. He licked his lips as he watched you suck, pants tightening.

It was like you could read his thoughts and you giggled. Pushing the candy to one side of your mouth so your cheek bulged out, you pulled Lee into a kiss, his tongue quickly sweeping inside to lick at the sweet.

“You don’t need to be jealous Sheriff. These candies may be tasty, but lord knows my favorite lolly lies in your pants”

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Drabbles Masterlist

#lee bodecker x reader #lee bodecker #soft!lee bodecker #fluff #body postivity