redpool2

fic recs

[redpool2]

Clarissa, 23, she/her.

You could also follow my main @redpool

This is my sideblog for all the fic recs. I'll only post fic recs.

Anything I post between the 12:00 a.m. and 7 a.m. can't be held against me.

fic recs = general tag recommendations (everything).

fic masterlist = fic series masterlist.

masterlist recs = usually a writers whole masterlist.

jaybird = anything Jason Todd related (including polyam fics).

sanji baby!!! = anything Sanji related (including polyam fics).

eskel <3 = anything Eskel related fics.

dex = anything for Dex Poindexter

drac recs = anything Dracule Mihawk related (including polyam fics).

higgs = anything Higgs Monaghan related fics.

kotallo = anything Kotallo related fics.

ghostmaker = anything Ghostmaker related.

asscreed = any AC related fics.

jjk = jujutsu kaisen related fics.

wrenchie = Wrench related fics.

mosshead = anything Roronoa Zoro related

eustASS = anything Eustass Kid related

mk = anything Mortal Kombat related.

fire fist = anything Portgas D. Ace related

law = anything Trafalgar D. Water Law related

connor = anything Ratonhnhaké:ton (Connor) related.

barto = anything Bartolomeo related.

one piece = just a collective tag for all one piece fics.

paulie = anything for Paulie.

dispatch = anything for Dispatch characters.

date everything = anything for the characters in Date Everything!

cregan = anything for Cregan Stark

enzo & kai = a tag for all Enzo St. John & Kai Parker fic's, (not in a ship way, just to keep track because they're both my favourite)

akotsk = mainly just Dunk & Lyonel

the pitt = anything for anyone from The Pitt

leon = anything regarding Leon S. Kennedy

multifandom, just random stuff.

[fluentmoviequoter]

On Each Other?

Pairing: Shawn Spencer x fem!librarian!reader

Summary: Shawn Spencer tries to impress you while solving a case in your library. You don't believe in psychics and Lassie doesn't believe Shawn has a chance with you. After the case is solved, Lassie learns how wrong he is.

Warnings/Word Count: canon typical case elements, Buffy the Vampire reference, allusion to illicit drugs, banter, fluff. 1.3k+ words, requested

Psych Masterlist | Masterlist Directory | Request Info | Taglist

It takes less than fifteen minutes for your usual routine to disappear, and you begin understanding Giles’s grumpy disposition every time Buffy enters the school library. When your arrived at the library this morning for work, you didn’t expect the library to become a crime scene. Even as the called the police, you worried about what they might do to the sacred space. If only you could channel your favourite Agatha Christie character or amateur sleuth and solve this yourself.

“Hi, I’m Detective Juliet O’Hara,” a woman in a pantsuit says, smiling from the other side of the desk.

You glance at the time on your computer and nod slowly. “I thought response times were worse than this.”

“Not when the crime is committed in a government-funded building,” her partner interjects. “I have officers speaking to everyone else who was in the library at the time of your 911 call, and they’ll be free to leave soon.”

“What happened?” you inquire.

“Quick, Gus, what’s your favourite book?” a man asks as he enters the library.

Detective Lassiter sighs at his arrival. Detective O’Hara calls, “Shawn!” and beckons him over. “This is Shawn Spencer; he’s a psychic consultant for the SBPD.”

Shawn smiles at you, offering his hand as he repeats, “Shawn. I’ve been told I’m better than any book boyfriend.”

You shake his hand even as you argue, “There is no way anyone has ever said that to you or any other flesh and blood man.”

Lassiter snorts, then turns away from the desk to direct the officers just arriving.

“Well, how many of those book boyfriends have solved over fifty crimes without a badge?”

“That is impressive,” you admit. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe in psychics.”

Shawn’s smile drops as his brows draw together. He tips his head to the side and questions, “Then why can I see us going on a date later?”

Your lips quirk up at that, and Shawn smiles like he won some kind of prize. He tells you that he’ll be back later, then asks Juliet to show him what she’s seen so far. You’re left alone with Gus at the desk, both watching as Shawn stops every few steps to see if you’re still looking at him.

“This is hard to watch,” Gus murmurs.

“Well, what is your favourite book, Gus?” you inquire.

“How mad will you be if I say I don’t know?”

“Not mad. Just disappointed.”

“That’s much, much worse.”

Shawn Spencer is very obviously trying to impress you as he works the case. He lifts a finger to his head and announces he knows how the victim got to the library, watching you as he launches into fantastical details of his so-called ‘vision.’ Later, he stands on a table to declare someone lied on their witness statement. Eventually, he decides that the location has little to do with the crime. Each time he discovers or ‘divines’ something, you become the sole object of his attention.

“I’m still not convinced you’re a psychic,” you mutter when he returns to your desk.

Smiling, Shawn leans over your desk and whispers, “But I have your attention.”

“Are people often able to ignore you?” you wonder.

“I care less about if they’re able to and more about if they do,” he confesses.

“Then why are you so interested in whether I pay attention to you?”

“I already told you, sweetheart,” he flirts, “I can see a future between us. In fact, I can see lots between us.”

“Spencer!” Lassiter barks. “Your hunch—”

“Divination,” Shawn corrects.

“Shut up and let me finish,” Lassie replies. “Seems you were right about the vic not driving here.”

“How’d he get here then? The closest bus stop is two miles away and there isn’t a bus that runs that early,” you muse.

Shawn looks at you, his eyes narrowing as he thinks. “What’s he a victim of?” he whispers.

“Battery and theft, apparently,” you reply, though it seems he should already know that.

Shawn pushes off your desk and mumbles, “Unless there's more.”

“Hi,” Shawn greets, setting his chin on his crossed arms atop your desk. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” you respond, focused on the paperwork you’re completing, since there are no patrons to serve. “You?”

“Do you have a favourite book?”

“Of course I do. A couple, actually.”

“Okay.” Shawn nods, then asks, “Suggest a random book, please?”

“Why?”

“You’re making this hard, my love.”

“And you’re laying it on thick.”

“Shawn,” Gus calls as he approaches the desk. He pauses to look at you and say, “Hello.”

“Hi, Gus,” you answer.

“Shawn, if you know what happened, you should tell them. Lassie’s getting antsy.”

Shawn groans, then glances at you to ensure you’re still watching him.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Shawn yells, drawing the attention of everyone in the library. “And the esteemed K9 Officer Hercules, of course. I can see the victim arriving at the library, but not this morning! No, he came last night, arriving just after closing. He spent the night under the cover of the patio, then wandered through the park before sunrise so no one would know he had trespassed.”

“Why?” Juliet interjects.

“He had to be here at a specific time this morning,” Shawn continues, “but not for books or the state-of-the-art computer library!”

“State-of-the-art is incredibly generous,” you whisper to Gus, temporarily distracting Shawn from solving the case.

“Your suspect had a meeting with the victim to purchase illegal goods. Selling items with no car is hard, but public transportation remains a reliable enough mode of transportation,” Shawn concludes. “So, if you look through the victim’s phone, you’ll find a name of someone he was supposed to meet.”

The officer logging the evidence taps the phone’s screen through the plastic bag it’s secured in several times, then reads, “Bela Darla.”

“The kid from Nemo beat that big guy up?” Gus jokes.

“Her first name was Darla,” you remind him.

“No, it’s an anagram,” Shawn realizes. He stares at the closest shelf briefly, then suggests, “Abel Adlar.”

“He’s been arrested a few times,” one of the uniformed officers says. “Last time was about six months ago for agg assault. Before that, mal mish.”

“Put out an APB,” Lassiter instructs. “I’ll work on a warrant.”

“Well done, Shawn,” Juliet applauds.

Shawn takes a dramatic bow, then walks to your desk. “Would you like to get dinner with me?” he asks.

Lassiter approaches behind him and rolls his eyes.

“I’ll have to ask my husband,” you hum, moving a book rather than looking at him.

Lassie’s eyes widen comically as he looks from Shawn to you and back at Shawn.

“I sense I know what he’ll say,” Shawn continues lowly. “So, are you in?”

Lassie swallows, looking as if he’s about to pass out. You roll your eyes and finally look at Shawn.

“Knock it off, Shawn,” you say. “Someone is going to think we’re actually cheating on each other.”

 “On- on each other?!” Lassiter exclaims.

Shawn doesn’t look away from you to brag, “Oh, yeah, we’re married.”

“He doesn’t always act like it,” you add, rounding the desk.

Shawn smiles and wraps an arm around you, glancing at Lassie to check, “I didn’t mention she’s my wife?”

“No!” Lassie yells. “You left that out!”

“Why do you care?” Gus wonders.

“Because I thought Shawn was harassing an innocent civilian and I’d have to deal with it.”

“Wait, so does that mean I’m no longer an innocent civilian?” you inquire.

Lassie gestures between you and Shawn and explains, “You chose him, so… no.”

“Detective Lassiter?” you call before he steps back. “Thanks for working the case.”

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles as he turns.

“So, will you go to dinner with me?” Shawn asks before brushing his lips against your cheek.

“Gus said he’d buy me dinner. Maybe next time?” you answer innocently.

“Fine, we can get Mexican with Gus,” Shawn sighs.

“I didn’t invite you,” Gus jokes as you walk toward the door. “And I never said Mexican food.”

“But you were thinking it,” Shawn says, tapping his temple.

“You’re not a psychic,” you remind him.

“I… I was thinking Mexican,” Gus admits.

“Behold my power!” Shawn declares.

“We’re beholding,” you assure him. “Now get in the car so we can eat.”

Shawn Spencer Taglist🏷️ @itzpixiebabe @localpanicattack @greygatorgaygator @book-nerd-fan-girl @freeforalways @redpool @lortheswiftie

x reader Taglist🏷️ @kmc1989 @anonymousmuffinbear @outpostsworld

[nickygalitzine]

nicholas galitzine as adam glenn

[angelsthorns]

★ THAT BOY IS A REAL PUSSY PLEASER ── spencer "spider" white !

pairing - spider x fem!reader

Spider couldn't stop eating you out every chance he got, whether you two were at school, his place or a party. You could've literally been anywhere and he would still find a way to just get a slight taste, a wise fellow could even say he's pussy drunk. And the thing is that you absolutely love it.

cw: oral (f!receiving), pet names (princess, ange), swearing, semi public sex, maybe some grammar errors

You were so needy all day, aching for some contact, and the fact that you were at a party right now, with no other than Spider, alcohol already in your system, was making this need even worse.

And that's how you found yourself sprawled at the foot of Dusty's bed, dress pulled up to your waist, with Spider between your legs.

"please spider... " you pleaded out, hands gripping the white sheets. The feeling of Spider's breath fanning over your thighs was driving you crazy.

"patience, princess," he said, softly kissing your left knee, his lips then suddenly hovering over your soaking core. "let me have some fun. "

He didn't dive back in, no, he began to slowly kiss your inner things, torturing you. His lips were soft, almost reverent, as he placed a kiss high up on your right thigh. He lingered there, breathing you in, before moving agonizingly slow to place an identical kiss in the same spot on your left thigh.

Moving his head back to look into your eyes, he then placed a kiss onto your clit, over the fabric of your panties, maintaining eye contact.

Your breath hitched, your hand softly grabbing onto his hair. "stop teasing," you pouted, wanting to feel more. He listened, his finger hooking into the sides of your panties, dragging them down to your ankles.

He took both of his thumbs opening up your entrance, pussy clenching around nothing. "fuck, clenching around nothing huh. " he then took his time licking up a stripe. He groaned at the taste, licking again and again. "all this for me?" Your hummed a small mhm, meanwhile your hand tightened onto the sheets and the other onto his hair. A soft, strangled groan pours forward into your cunt, making you toss your head back in ecstasy. Motivating him to lick, once again, faster this time.

“fuck—so good Spider, so good just for me.” pulling his pretty blonde hair, whining. Your eyes began to roll up into the back of your head, already beginning to feel fucked out.

Spider began to lap at your cunt, going from slow to fast and back to slow. Savoring every last bit of your cunts juices. He then added a finger, curling it. You moaned at the feeling, your pussy clenching around his finger, thighs crushing his head, feeling yourself get closer.

He pushed his finger in and out dragging it against your walls, his mouth wrapping around your clit, sucking on it. You screamed out "fuck! feels too good!!" your hips began to move on their own. Spider took this as an opportunity to add a second finger, curving it just right for your back to arch. "hngh—can't take it anymore, " crying out as he sucked your clit harder, fingers plunging deeper in and out, stretching your slick pussy open, as his tongue flicked relentlessly over your swollen clit. The wet sounds of his mouth devouring you filled the room, mixed with the sounds of your whimpers and moans.

"that's it, baby," he murmured against your folds, voice vibrating through your core. He sucked harder on your clit, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. his fingers pumped faster, knuckles brushing your entrance with each thrust. Your walls fluttered around him, gripping tight, desperate for more as heat coiled low in your belly.

You bucked against his face, thighs quivering as they clamped around his ears, but he didn't stop. His free hand gripped your hip, holding you steady, forcing you to take every lick, every suck, every deep slide of his fingers. The pressure built unbearably, your breaths coming in ragged pants, fingers yanking at his blonde strands.

He groaned into you, the sound low and hungry, fucking you with his fingers even harder. Juices coating his hand and chin, dripping down to the sheets, as he devoured your cunt like a man starved. Your back arched off the bed, toes curling. "i'm going to—"

You shattered, orgasm ripping through you, pussy spasming wildly around his fingers. He didn't stop, still sucking your clit through your orgasm, drawing out every shudder, every cry that tore from your throat. He groaned, lapping up your release as it flooded his mouth, his fingers slowing to a gentle thrust, milking every last drop of ecstasy from your body and cleaning you up with his tongue.

"je t'aime, mon ange." he whispered, pulling out his fingers. He pulled your panties up and dress down. He then stood up and sat on the bed next to you, softly playing with your hair.

"you think Dusty's gonna be mad?" you look up at him, smiling. He let out a loud snort.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Dean nad his girl being loud in bed and being confronted about it

Longer fics are coming, but for now let's go with this little blurb

Summary: You and Dean get called out for being loud in bed

Warnings: mention of sex, mention of moaning and other sounds,

The boys lost count of how many times they’ve heard or walked in on you and Dean having sex. In the shower, in the kitchen, on the couch, the pool table, the backyard, and even in Dean’s room. That one was entirely Tucker’s fault for walking in without knocking, though. They already had to deal with their roommate’s shameless nudity and lack of care for closing doors, this sex thing was getting too much. 

All heads turned toward the door when the one they were all waiting for walked in with you over his shoulder while announcing that you would be ready for the gym session in about an hour or so.

‘’Wait up, Don Juan. You didn’t get my texts?’’ Logan called out from the living room where he, Garrett and Tucker were sitting. ‘’I said house meeting at 4pm.’’  

With his other hand, Dean checked his phone, seeing Logan’s message. He had read it. He just brushed it off when you called and asked to have late lunch together. 

‘’That was a serious thing?’’ 

‘’Yes,’’ replied Logan. 

‘’Since when do we do house meetings?’’ 

‘’Since now.’’

Dean glanced at you, then back to Logan. ‘’Can we raincheck? Because we were supposed to—’’ 

‘’No,’’ all three boys said at the same time.

A beat of silence followed and Dean set you down. He didn’t carry you through campus like that. Just up the stairs of the house after you mentioned that you were wearing a brand new lingerie set. 

You looked between them, then back to Dean. ‘’It’s okay. I can go wait upstairs.’’ 

‘’Actually,’’ Garrett cut in. ‘’This is about you too.’’ 

A frown drew between your eyebrows. You didn’t even live there. 

‘’Mostly him,’’ Tucker corrected, pointing at Dean. ‘’But you're involved.’’

Was this about the box of cookies you finished and put back in the cupboards the other night? Or the hair in the shower? Because Logan always complained about the clogged shower drain and having to fix it. As if they didn’t all have hair too… 

Without asking questions, you followed Dean to the couch and sat down.

‘’What did we do?" the latter asked, wanting to get this over with quickly. 

The three roommates exchanged looks.

Then Tucker threw his hands in the air. ‘’You have got to stop treating this house like it's a honeymoon suite.’’

‘’We're all happy you found each other. Great. Wonderful. Love that for you,’’ Logan continued, explaining what Tucker meant. ‘’But some of us would like to walk into our own kitchen without wondering if we're about to see something that’s gonna make us regret that 11pm cereal craving.’’

Dean laughed. ‘’You guys are being dramatic.’’

‘’Am I?’’ Tucker shot back, raising a dark eyebrow. 

‘’You’re worse than rabbits during mating season.’’ 

‘’Don’t compare my girlfriend to a rodent,’’ Dean warned Logan, pointing a finger at him.

You shrugged. ‘’I take no offense. Rabbits are cute and very intelligent little beings.’’ 

‘’And stop leaving doors open,’’ Garrett added. ‘’We already have to see it in the locker rooms, we don’t need more exposure to your naked self.’’

‘’Fine. I’ll close the bathroom door when I shower. Are we done?’’ 

‘’No.’’ 

Dean slouched deeper into the couch, one arm draped around your shoulders. ‘’Fine. Continue your presentation.’’

‘’Thank you.’’ Logan pointed at him. ‘’Second issue: the noise.’’ 

Dean opened his mouth to protest again, but Logan raised a hand, silencing him with the kind of authority usually reserved for coaches and angry mothers.

Garrett nodded gravely beside him like this was an official courtroom testimony. ‘’The noise,’’ he repeated.

You knew the walls were thin, but once you were in the moment you kind of forget about it. And it’s not like there’s innocent ears in the house. You were all adults with an active sex life. You’ve heard girls moaning and their gruntings from all of the bedrooms. 

‘’Don’t act all innocent,’’ you said, your eyes falling on Logan. ‘’Dean’s room is right next to yours. We can hear you too.’’ 

At that, Dean squeezed your thigh proudly. Under your sweet appearance, there was a girl who didn’t bite her tongue. 

‘’Do you want to hear the playback? Because I can—’’ the blond added, loving how the tables had turned around. 

‘’That won’t be necessary,’’ Logan interrupted, making the other boys laugh. 

Dean grinned, that cocky, unbothered smirk he wore like a second skin. ‘’See? She's got a point. We're not the only ones being loud in this house.’’

Tucker rubbed his temples like he was suddenly aging ten years per minute. This house meeting was not going anywhere… 

══════════════════

Off Campus taglist: @f1rewhiskey @formula1-motogpfan @schinug @skyesthebomb @mads-writes-vibes @harls-sturn @fangirl93 @parker-barnes-af @thedarkqueenofavalon @kootiestillidie @taliescapes @kmc1989 @glndacore @aestramjackson @ilocuras24 @daiiverse @themarvelousbee @Hagarsays @leilareads58

[crazyk-imagine]

Stealing is Not the Answer, but It Could Be

Pairing: Shawn Spencer x Detective!reader

Characters: Shawn Spencer, Detective!reader, Burton "Gus" Guster, Chief Vicks, Carlton Lassiter, Buzz McNab

Warnings: Fluff, humor, Shawn being Shawn, Gus and reade being besties, Shawn trying to use his Shawn psych, Shawn trying to steal something, reader putting Shawn in his place, Shawn and Gus doing shenanigans

Word Count: 615

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You walk into the department, aiming for chief Vicks office when you hear an alarming statement from your favorite chaotic duo.

“Sometimes I think it would be easier to steal something than ask for it,” Shawn blurts out.

You owlishly blink, wondering if you heard that correctly.

“That is both frightening and alarming, Shawn.”

He turns to face you, putting on an innocent face. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree.”

You look over his head to see what his buddy’s expression is. “Gus?”

He nods, gesturing to you. “I’m with her.”

“What? Gus? Aw, come on.”

He shakes his head, “I am not agreeing with you on stealing. Last time I agreed with you, we wound up in jail.”

“That was here though!”

He turns towards Shawn, “Lassie kept us there for five hours.”

“Yes, but then Buzz let us out.”

Gus shakes his head, “no, I’m not going back in there.” He stands up, whispering in your ear, “I almost had to pee in front of the other people locked up. You know how I feel about that.”

You nod, patting his shoulder to comfort him. “I know, Gus. I know.”

“Well, this has been nice.” Shawn tries to slip past you, “I’ll be off now.”

You shake your head. “Not so fast.” You hook your arm in his and pull him back. “Where do you think you’re going with the chief's favorite figurine?”

He yanks his arm from you, “how dare you! How could you even- okay, that was a little dramatic even for me but look at it.” He presses his face against the fish figurine. “It’s so cute.”

You shake your head, “put it back.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “It was just a harmless little prank."

“Harmless or not, you tried to steal in a police station, how smart is that?”

“You tell him.”

“Can it, Gus.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shawn snorts, “ma’am? What are in the 1950’s and you're the little harmless housewife?”

“No, it’s called I have respect for those who are in a higher power than me.”

You smile at him, “thank you, Gus.”

The doors open.

“Anything I can help you three with?”

“Actually-”

You cut the psychic off and grab his arm. “Nope, thanks, chief. Keep being awesome.”

You sit him down at his dad’s desk and stand in front of him, holding a pen and a piece of paper. “Now make with your chicken scratch and write, stealing is not the answer fifty times.”

He opens his mouth to whine.

“Whine and I’ll add twenty-five.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile, patting his shoulders, “attaboy.”

Gus covers his mouth to hide his amusement.

“Come on, Gus. Let’s go make like Shawn’s humor and scram.”

-

“Hey! Where are you two going?”

“To get some jerk chicken and a pineapple smoothie.”

“I want to come!”

“No!”

“That sounds amazing,” the pharmaceutical rep adds.

“I know right.” You close the door only to be hit with a breeze before the car shakes.

“Here. Now let’s go.”

You grab the paper. “Wow, you already, did it?”

You look in the left corner, “wait- nineteen- this is from when we were fourteen.”

“You never specified when I had to write it.”

“Shawn that’s not- that’s actually really good, you got me.”

He lets out a victory chuckle. “See, Gus. I told you; it would work.”

You gasp, “how dare you. Gus, I thought we were besties.”

“Uh- you see the thing is-”

You shake your head, “no. I’ve been betrayed enough.”

You lean against your arm, watching the world go by as he drives, unable to hide your smile as Shawn tries to bug you and tell you it was all him.  

-

Tag list

@kmc1989

[blank-potato]

my kid's better than your kid

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

“Listen here, Captain Suburbia,” you sneer. “Anyone with two functioning eyes could see your kid bodychecked mine like it was hockey practice.” “Well, the ref didn’t see it that way. So move on,” he snaps back without missing a beat. “Absolutely not! This is about accountability.” “There’s no need to give my kid a red card just because your kid—” John starts, hands gesturing like he's trying to explain away a traffic ticket. “Don’t even finish that sentence,” you fire back, jabbing a finger at his chest. “If you even imply that she was overreacting, I swear I’ll—” He holds up his hands, that smug look never leaving his face. “Hey, relax. Just saying, maybe things wouldn’t get so dramatic if you stayed on your side of the field.” You narrow your eyes. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.” Or You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, Fluff, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Smut, Meet-Ugly, Hair Pulling, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex (female receiving), Vaginal Sex, Breeding Kink, Sexual Overstimulation, No Superhero AU, Drunken Kissing, Dead Spouse (I killed off his wife oop), John being a Good Dad, Ava Starr cameo

WC: 12.0k

A/N: I feel like John would be one of those dads who's coaching from the sidelines at their kids' game, so I wrote this. I'm also obsessed with him right now so expect more fics

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

Some might call you intense or insane.

A little crazy, definitely.

There’s a fire in you, always has been, and when it comes to your daughter, you didn’t play around. Every aspect of her life was important to you, especially her Saturday morning soccer games.

Though you didn’t know what intense was until you saw that dickhead across the field. Blonde hair, a trimmed beard, built like he probably hits the gym four times a week. His biceps flexed under his white shirt every time he threw his arms up at the ref, which, to be fair, was often.

If he weren’t so obnoxious, you might even find him hot, but you totally don’t find him hot. He was pumped up, red in the face, and just as invested in the game as you were. Pacing like a coach who got fired but still showed up anyway. He was shouting directions, clapping like his kid was about to be scouted, and cheering like it was the World Cup and not just a rec league game on a patchy field behind a middle school.

He was showing you up, so you started cheering louder for your kid. Because if this is a competition, you're damn well not losing it.

“That’s it, Lily! Give ‘em hell!” You shout, your daughter just smiles at you and goes back to playing, used to your competitive nature.

The man takes notice of you and looks at you like he isn’t also acting like a lunatic before cheering even louder. That rubbed you the wrong way. What gave him the right to look at you like you were the problem?

Then it happens.

You watch as your daughter gets slide-tackled for no reason.

And the ref? Doing fuck all about it.

“What was that call, ref?” you shout, already on your feet.

“I—” the ref starts, backing up as you approach. 

You trudge towards him, angry but trying to maintain a look of composed fury, like you weren't two seconds from setting the field on fire. 

The ref was used to your antics, and now every time he saw you storming towards him, he’d be sure that he’d be going home with a headache.

“No yellow or red card? She got slide-tackled,” you bark.

“It’s—”

“She didn’t even have the ball!” you snap, the words ripping out of you like they’ve been waiting. You’re so fired up, so high on rage and love and disbelief, you swear you could take flight.

“It was an accident, so there’s no need for that,” a voice cuts in, calm and condescending in the worst possible way.

You turn, and it’s him, the guy from across the field. The look on his face, the matter-of-fact tone, the casual smugness oozing off him like cologne. You hate him instantly. It was that easy.

“I’m guessing that was your son that ran over my daughter,” you say, each word clipped like you’re trying not to launch them at his face.

“Ran over?” he snorts. “Talk about an exaggeration.”

“It’s soccer, these things happen. You don’t have to throw a tantrum just because your kid's team is down two,” he adds, smirking like he thinks this is witty banter and not a declaration of war.

You scoff, hands on hips, already stepping into his space. The ref backs off like a man realising he’s standing between two charging bulls. This wasn’t a sideline spat; this was two planets colliding, and he wanted no part of the fallout.

“Listen here, Captain Suburbia,” you sneer. “Anyone with two functioning eyes could see your kid bodychecked mine like it was hockey practice.”

“Well, the ref didn’t see it that way. So move on,” he snaps back without missing a beat.

“Absolutely not! This is about accountability.”

“There’s no need to give my kid a red card just because your kid—” John starts, hands gesturing like he's trying to explain away a traffic ticket.

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” you fire back, jabbing a finger at his chest. “If you even imply that she was overreacting, I swear I’ll—”

He holds up his hands, that smug look never leaving his face. “Hey, relax. Just saying, maybe things wouldn’t get so dramatic if you stayed on your side of the field.”

You narrow your eyes. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.”

“That’s it! Take this off the field,” the ref finally blurts, hands up, voice cracking. “The kids have a match to play!”

You exhale sharply and hard through your nose, fists clenched at your sides. You try to calm yourself down, jaw tight, heart pounding. You sit and look out at your daughter, brushing grass off her knees and already back in position. 

She's tougher than you give her credit, but that didn’t change the fact that you wanted to put that guy’s head in the ground. 

After the game, her team, the Honeybees, lost after a few missed goals and lots of questionable calls, but your daughter was still laughing with her friends, unfazed in the way only kids can be.

You, however, were still stewing in quiet indignation when you spotted the world’s biggest jackass, in your humble, entirely accurate opinion, making his way toward you.

“Oh. It’s you,” you say, arms crossed automatically.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your loss,” he says, all fake sincerity, like he wasn’t two seconds away from being shoved into a juice box cooler.

“How mature.”

“I try,” he replies with that same maddening, self-satisfied grin.

You narrow your eyes, ready for whatever condescending nonsense he might say next. If he says “good effort”, you’re swinging. Choosing not to let him fuck with you, you tell him what’s what. 

“Your team only won because of the ref’s bad calls,” you say, arms still crossed, tone sharp enough to slice fruit.

“Oh really?” he replies, lifting an eyebrow like he’s genuinely amused. Like this is his idea of foreplay.

“Yeah. My kid was dynamite out there.”

“So was mine,” he says back instantly.

“I mean, sure, but my kid has the most assists on her team,” you say, trying to keep your cool, even as your voice edges higher.

“Assists,” he echoes, nodding slowly. “Not goals.”

You blink at him. “Are we seriously doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says with mock innocence, hands raised like he’s never been petty in his life.

You press your lips together, biting your tongue so hard it might bruise. You didn’t want to, you really didn’t want to, but it slips out anyway.

“My kid can out-pass, out-hustle, and outplay any other kid on that field.”

He grins like he’s been waiting for this.

“Well, my kid can run circles around your kid while tying his cleats.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Alright then, my kid was able to run a full field drill without missing a pass when she was five.”

“Well, mine could do cone drills backwards while coaching his teammate through theirs.”

Your eye twitches at that and he delights in seeing you so bothered.

“Lily has a killer left foot and once scored a hat trick with a stomach bug.”

“And Tommy is a human wall on defence.”

“Oh, please. Lily once did a bicycle kick and landed on her feet. What’s Tommy got?” You say, crossing your arms. 

“Perfect attendance and a clean penalty record.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at ‘clean penalty record’ but you keep it moving.

“Lily brings orange slices for the whole team.”

“Tommy brings strategy diagrams and pep talks.”

You pause, blinking. “Are we… bragging about how nice our kids are now?”

“Seems like it.”

You both go quiet for a beat, then he adds with a smirk, “Still doesn’t mean your kid’s better. I think you should admit to defeat.”

You step forward, just enough to make a point. “I’ll admit defeat when the Honeybees start losing because of their own mistakes, not because your future linebacker throws elbows like he’s in a bar fight.”

He actually laughs, and it’s a little too charming for your liking. Before you can wrestle with what that means, you hear a voice. 

“Dad!” his son calls from across the field, waving dramatically. “Hurry up, you promised we’d get ice cream!”

He glances over his shoulder, then looks back at you with that same smug glint in his eye.

“Again, enjoy your loss,” he says, already turning. “And get used to it. The season’s still young.”

You narrow your eyes. “Until next time, Captain Suburbia.”

He chuckles and starts to walk away, but pauses, turns back with a smirk plastered on his face.

“John,” he says. “My name is John.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

“Uh, what are you doing?” 

“Hiding.”

“From?” Your friend, Ava, says as she looks around for the apparent danger. 

“John.”

Ever since that day, you were livid with the dickhead you knew as John Walker. You had never hated someone so much from just one meeting. You never wanted to see him again, but you did while shopping.

Ava takes a peek, “Oh, the hot soccer dad? Which one is he?”

You never described him as hot but Ava figured from the way you were losing your mind over him, you thought he was. 

“Blonde, beard, tall and wearing a blue shirt.”

Ava sees him in the fruit and veg aisle and hums in approval, “Is he single? He’s right up your alley, no?”

You nudge her arm. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn't see him with anyone at the game…” You say your voice drifting off before you're back to your senses. “Whether or not he's single is irrelevant! He’s a complete asshole.”

“Just because he's an asshole doesn’t mean he’s not good in bed.”

The death glare you give her is intense and could be considered lethal, but she laughs it off. 

“Let’s be honest, if you weren’t attracted to him, you wouldn’t be so riled up.”

“Oh, please, I’m not into evil blonde men.”

Is he hot? Yes. But his evilness outweighs the hotness. 

“Well, the evil blonde man is coming your way.”

You look towards the end of the aisle to see that Ava was right, so you immediately duck down behind a tower of soup cans. 

“Please come out from over there,” Ava whispers but you protest, hoping you can camouflage yourself and become one with the cans.

Ten seconds pass, and you hear your name in that familiar voice and know you’ve been caught.

“Oh. Hi.”

Your attempt at being nonchalant is honestly pitiful, but not more pitiful than him knowing you were hiding from him.

“Don’t mind me, go back to whatever this is,” He says, gesturing to your hunched-over, goblin-like stance. He reaches over you and grabs a can off the shelf, walking off without another word. 

“See? No need to panic. He was perfectly civil,” Ava chimes in.

“Only because he caught me in a state of weakness. He has the upper hand, and he’s already plotting against me. I can feel it.”

“He’s a soccer dad, not a supervillain,” Ava sighs, helping you off the floor, concerned about the effect he was having on you, but then again, she was always concerned about you. You regularly lose your mind at your daughter’s soccer games so she has just cause. 

“I need to grab the wine, I’ll meet you at the checkout,” Ava says, and you nod, letting her walk off. 

You had to circle back around to get the limited edition coffee you had become obsessed with anyway. You get to the aisle and your eyes widen when you realise that there’s only one left. Your hand flies to grab it, you can already imagine it in your trolley, and it looks good. It looks happy, like it's ready to be at home in your pantry.

But at the same time, another hand wraps around it, the hand belonging to John, because fate was still playing in your face. 

“You.”

You thought you were done with him for the day. Clearly, the universe had other plans.

John raises an eyebrow, not letting go. “Come on. Be a gentleman and give it to me,” You say, trying to force a smile. 

Your grip tightens, so does his.

“I don’t think so,” he says smoothly, as if he weren’t just on the verge of sparking a full-blown aisle standoff. “It’s the last one.”

“I know.”

“I’ll have to go across town for another,” You say, your eyebrows knitting together. 

“Cry about it.”

You tug on it a little, but he doesn’t budge. The item wobbles dangerously between your hands.

“Are you even trying?” he asks. He was so good at being a smug bastard, you wonder if he was born like this or if he honed this craft. You open your mouth to really let him have it, but you don’t even get the chance. 

Without another word, he snatches it clean from your hand in one smooth move, drops it into his trolley like he just won Olympic gold, and starts walking away, whistling.

You stand there, mildly offended but mostly impressed.

“Oh no, you did not just—” you march after him.

“Too slow, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder without turning around. “Better luck next time.”

“I hope it’s expired!” you shout after him.

You stop walking and watch as he struts off with your coffee like he was the King of Aisle Seven, you were planning his downfall in at least three different ways.

And two of them involved shopping carts.

After the grocery store incident, you were looking forward to having a reprieve from John Walker. But it was like fate or something more evil was forcing the two of you together. You have a PTA meeting the next night, and who do you see there but John, who was now becoming a permanent fixture in your life. 

You sigh and sit in the only empty seat, which was next to him.

“Let’s not even speak,” You suggest you say as soon as your butt hits the seat.

“Fine with me,” John replies as he crosses his arms, looking away from you. 

You sit there tapping your foot. It was almost painful being silent when everyone else was having conversations. Especially when you were next to a thief. You didn’t even get the opportunity to yell at him properly for swiping your coffee.

You finally break, “What you did yesterday was shitty.”

“And I thought we weren’t going to speak.”

“I’ll be sick if I don’t call out injustice when I see it.”

John laughs, and you want to strangle him. “You’re still thinking about that? I’m constantly on your mind, aren’t I?”

You shift in your seat, feeling the heat climbing up the back of your neck. How dare he even suggest that? Yes, you were thinking about him, but only about all the ways you wanted to destroy him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap under your breath.

The meeting starts before he can muster up a comeback. You catch yourself zoning out as the agenda drags on, filled with tedious updates about the bake sale and a desperate plea for chaperones for the 3rd-grade trip to Lake Maribelle.

You swing your leg absentmindedly and accidentally bump his shin. It’s genuinely an accident.

“Did you just kick me?” he whispers.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t taking up half the space with your big—”

“You’re unbelievable—” He interrupts, turning his body to face you.

“—gangly legs, then you wouldn’t have gotten hit,” You whisper your sentence over his.

Your whispered bickering is only interrupted by the teacher at the front calling both your names.

“You’ll help chaperone the trip to Lake Maribelle?”

With all those expectant eyes on you, how could either of you say no?

“Yeah…”

“Of course…”

You both reply sheepishly at the same time.

“Great, I’ll sign the two of you up.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

Stepping onto the bus, you watch as Lily disappears to go sit with her friend, leaving you with a slight pang of loneliness. You head to the front and slump into your seat, next to who else but John, because you can’t even be surprised. You really needed to start arriving at places earlier to avoid sitting next to him, but here you were.

It’s a four-hour ride, and you can already feel your exhaustion creeping in. You try to keep yourself alert, but your eyes are heavy. Before you know it, your head tilts to the side, falling onto his shoulder.

John glances down at you, noticing how tired you look. He’s always been perceptive like that. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts slightly to give you more space. But when he feels you drift further, he gently shifts, adjusting his posture. His shoulder feels like a small slice of comfort amidst the exhaustion.

He lets you use his shoulder the whole ride. You looked quite peaceful when you weren’t trying to rip his head off, quite beautiful too. John catches the thought and tosses it out. He couldn’t be caught slipping, you were his mortal enemy after all.

The bus reaches the camp, and suddenly, it jerks to a stop. Your head flies forward, but before you can react, John’s hand shoots out, catching your forehead in the palm of his hand just in time.

“Thanks,” you mumble, a little embarrassed but too tired to really care.

He just hums in response, his fingers lightly grazing your skin for just a second longer than necessary. “Quick reflexes.”

Hoping off the bus, you notice the camp leaders waiting to greet the kids. You stand off to the side ensuring everyone gets off the bus when you notice one of the teachers, Miss. Lucas, sidling up next to John, laughing a little too loudly at something he barely said. Your eyes narrow without even realising it, and your fist subconsciously tightens. It’s like a sudden surge of irritation hits you.

The worst part is that you don’t even know why you're so bothered. You’re pretty sure it's just your general distaste for him as a person, and anything he does seems to irritate you. That felt like the easiest explanation. No need to dig deeper into that nagging feeling in your chest, like someone’s poking it with a stick. You shake it off, willing yourself to focus on something else, anything else.

After you get the kids all settled in for the first activity, though, it hits you like a ton of bricks. The exhaustion. You’re winded in a way you don’t remember being before. You try to shake it off, but it’s clear that you’ve reached your limit for the day. This trip wasn’t as easy as you thought it would be, and now, even a simple walk feels like you’ve run a marathon.

You take a deep breath, looking around for a moment to regain your composure. There's no need to make a bigger deal out of it. Just power through, you tell yourself. But it’s harder than you expected, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s more than just the physical exhaustion that's weighing on you.

But at least John was out of sight. You didn’t have to see him on the nature walk or the obstacle course, but you’d have to supervise the canoeing together. You make it out there first, sitting on the dock as the kids are getting in the canoes with the instructors. A smile tugs at your lips as you see how excited Lily is, her face lighting up as she waits for her turn, then spotting you in the crowd. She waves enthusiastically, and you wave back, your heart swelling just a little at the sight of her so happy.

“Nice day out,” John says, looking out at the water. You’re shaken to your core. Not just because you didn’t hear him walk up, but because of what he said. What was this? A normal conversation starter?

You open your mouth to respond, but you're cut off by Miss. Lucas' syrupy voice slicing through the moment like a dull butter knife.

“It really is, and John, you really should wear sunglasses. With how blue your eyes are, the way the sun hits them is just distracting,” she purrs, twirling a lock of her overly straightened hair.

It’s laced with flirtation and just enough condescension to make your skin crawl.

You roll your eyes — hard.

John notices.

“What? You don’t like the sun?” he asks, amused now, that sharp gaze flicking to you like he already knows he’s poking the bear.

“I like the sun,” you answer evenly.

“Then what were you rolling your eyes at, huh?”

You’re so tempted to say exactly what’s on your mind. To call out Miss. Lucas’s thinly veiled thirst trap of a compliment, but you catch yourself. The last thing you need is her holding some petty grudge against Lily over adult nonsense.

So instead, you force a too-sweet smile and say, “None of your business.”

He chuckles, clearly entertained.

Miss. Lucas doesn’t seem to notice any of it. She’s still lingering like a wasp at a picnic.

John tilts his head, a grin still playing at his lips. “Touchy.”

Stepping into your space, he does that thing, that infuriating thing, where he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to break any rules.

You guys just couldn’t seem to be near each other without someone stepping over the invisible line.

“And you’re observant,” you shoot back, voice low. “Someone might think you’re a little obsessed.”

His brow lifts. “Is that right?”

“You know what? I’m sorry, I'm being rude. Let me ask you this,” you say, your voice sweet and dangerous all at once, “Do you like water?”

“What kind of question is—?”

Splash.

He never finishes.

You shove him clean off the dock, and he crashes into the freezing lake with a satisfying crash. A few heads turn at the sound, followed by laughter, mostly from the kids.

John surfaces, sputtering, slicking his hair back with both hands as he glares up at you like a betrayed golden retriever.

“It’s freezing!” he shouts.

“Oh no,” you gasp dramatically, hand to your chest. “Is it? I had no idea.”

He blinks the water from his eyes, slow and deliberate, before gripping the edge of the dock with both hands and pulling himself up in one smooth, effortless motion.

It’s… a problem.

You might hate the man, scratch that, you definitely hate the man, but God help you, he had the audacity to look good doing literally anything. The sunlight caught the drops of water rolling down his arms, his shirt plastered to the ridges of his abs and the degenerate part of your brain wanting to see them with his shirt off. 

His hair dripped, tousled and messy in a way that looked too perfect to be accidental. It was like watching someone climb out of a cologne commercial.

You bite your lip instinctively, then immediately cover it up with a cough and a scowl.

He strides toward you, soaking wet, every squelching footstep a declaration of petty war. You’re forced to crane your neck to meet his eyes as he stops in front of you.

“You’re lucky,” he says, water still dripping from his sleeves, “that one of us knows how to act like an adult.”

You raise your eyebrows, lips twitching despite yourself. “You sure it’s you?”

He huffs a humourless laugh, then turns and walks down the dock toward the cabins, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints and a hundred silent thoughts you’re too proud to say out loud.

You watch him go and tell yourself it’s because you want to see if there’s the off chance he falls in. 

Definitely not because of the view.

You’re watching your back the rest of the day, fully expecting some form of petty revenge. A frog in your shoe, a cold fish under your pillow, maybe even your toothbrush mysteriously tasting like lake water. But nothing happens.

No pranks. No payback.

You’re in the clear.

Now, sitting by the campfire, the sky a hazy lavender above the treeline, things feel… calm. The kids are running wild around the open field, fireflies blinking to life as marshmallows roast and someone strums a guitar softly in the distance.

“Hi,” a small voice says beside you.

You turn and see Tommy, John’s son, standing there with a hesitant smile.

“Hey, having fun?” you ask, shifting to make room.

He nods and sits next to you, pulling his knees up to his chest. “The nature walk was pretty cool, and me and my friends loved  the obstacle course. And the canoeing was fun too… even though you pushed my dad in the lake.”

You groan lightly, a hand going to your face. “Yeah, about that…”

The guilt hits, a pang of embarrassment. You knew your behaviour was juvenile. Funny, sure, but maybe not your finest moment, especially in front of the kids.

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It was pretty funny,” Tommy admits, “And I know you and my dad have problems.”

You feel even more ashamed that it was bleeding into your kids' lives too.

“My dad can be a lot,” he says, kicking a pebble with the toe of his shoe. “But he’s just… I don’t know. He tries really hard. Especially for me.”

It helped you understand John a little better. The bluster, the sarcasm, the stubborn streak a mile wide… It wasn’t just pride or ego. It was effort. The kind that comes from someone trying to do right, even if it comes out messy. You could appreciate that because you were the same way.

And if he’d raised such a polite kid, then he couldn’t be all bad. Not even close.

“Have you seen him, by the way?” Tommy asks.

“Not lately,” you say, then gesture toward the table behind you. “But you can have some marshmallows while you wait, if you want.”

“Sure!” he says, lighting up as he grabs a stick and starts roasting.

John comes back to see something he wasn't expecting. The bane of his existence, laughing with his son and roasting marshmallows. Tommy didn’t warm up to most people that easily, so when he sees him lighting up with you, his opinion of you shifts. Maybe you weren’t an evil witch. 

You still got a bucket of freezing lake water poured over you the next morning, though. 

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You’re out running errands, finally—blissfully—alone. Lily’s spending the weekend at your parents' place, which meant you had time to catch your breath, clean without stepping on glitter, and maybe finally recover from the whirlwind that was the school trip.

You understood John better. You still thought he was annoyingly smug, sure, but maybe not completely irredeemable.

But you weren’t getting ahead of yourself. He was still the same cocky asshole you met yelling across a soccer field... right?

Just as you’re mulling that over, tongue in cheek, deciding if you’d imagined all the softness, you feel your car begin to slow down.

“What the—?”

You frown, tapping the gas. Nothing. A few panicked beeps. Then a sputter.

You manage to pull off to the side of the road just as the engine completely gives out, your car coasting to a reluctant stop.

“No, no, no!” you shout, slamming your palms against the steering wheel.

This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not when you finally had a few hours of peace and you were this close to getting Thai food and going home to binge terrible reality TV.

With a heavy sigh, you get out and open the bonnet, even though you have no idea what you’re looking for. Wires? Steam? A glowing red light labeled you’re screwed?

You’re standing there, staring blankly into the guts of your car, when you hear it, a car slowing down behind you and parking behind you. 

You barely glance back, already waving them off. “Thanks, I’m good—”

But then you hear a too-familiar voice say, “Well, that doesn’t look promising.”

Of course.

You turn around slowly.

And there he is.

John Walker, ladies and gentlemen. 

“Need a hand?” he asks, already strolling over like he’s been waiting his whole life to rescue you.

“I uh…” You start becasure you’re so tempted to say “I got this” but the moment your eyes look back at whatever the fuck is going on in your car, you sigh.

“Do you have a toolbox?” he’d asked.

“Yeah, it’s in the boot,” you’d said, thinking nothing of it.

Then he came back, popped the hood, and casually peeled his shirt off with a warning: “Don’t read into anything. I just don’t want grease on my shirt.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you replied, a little too quickly.

You didn’t say anything, but that sure as hell didn’t stop you from watching. Because damn. The man was all broad shoulders, and strong arms that had no business looking that good twisting bolts.

You could’ve watched him work all day.

“Try starting it,” he called, interrupting your horny thoughts.

You slid back into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine roared to life. It’s a miracle.

“Thank you, seriously.”

He leaned over the hood, smug smile fully loaded. “No problem. That should get you moving, but you definitely need to take this to a garage. I can come with you, if you want.”

Seeing the way your face contorts, he follows up with an explanation before you start berating him again. 

“You’ll need a ride home after, won’t you?”

“Oh, true… I guess I’ll take you up on your offer. I mean as long as I'm not keeping you from Tommy, am I?” You say as you watch him put his shirt back on.

“No, he's at his grandparents’ place.”

“Oh same with Lily,” You admit.

“Guess we have some errands to run together then.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You arrive back home in his car and say “Home sweet home,” because you didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about. Ever since you watched him fix your car, haggle down the price of your repair with the mechanic and drive you home, you’d been in a bit of a daze. A ‘John Walker is the perfect man’ daze to be exact.

“Do you ... wanna come in?” You say, the words escaping you, but what you didn’t expect was his reply.

“Sure.”

You welcome him in, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest as John casually walks around your house. 

It was clean, for once and cosy too, filled with little signs of your life with Lily. Pictures lined the walls: school plays, messy birthday parties, soccer games. Her drawings were stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets.

“This you?” John asks, voice tinged with amusement.

You turn to see him holding a framed photo from the shelf, a younger you, maybe around Lily’s age, standing proudly in a baseball uniform, cap askew and a dirt-smudged grin on your face.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Yeah. I peaked in Little League.”

He chuckles, eyes still on the photo. “You look like you were about to take someone out at home plate.”

“I probably did.”

He glances over at you, that familiar smirk on his face. “Not much has changed then.”

You snort. “Are you calling me aggressive?”

“I’m saying I’d definitely want you on my team,” he replies, setting the photo down gently. “You were a force to be reckoned with, no doubt,” he says with a chuckle.

“Always.”

“Are there more?” he asks, leaning a little closer with that annoyingly charming glint in his eye.

You cross your arms, sitting back a little as you narrow your eyes. “Nuh uh. We are not going through my baby pictures.”

“Yes, we are.”

And five minutes later, you were both on the couch with a photo album spread across your lap.

“You even look like a soccer ball in this one,” he teases, pointing to a photo of you in a puffy striped onesie.

“I bet you were an ugly baby,” you fire back, sticking your tongue out at him.

“I’ll have you know I was adorable. Practically a Gerber baby.”

He flips a page and pauses. “Is this you or Lily?”

“That’s Lily,” you say, your smile softening.

“She looks just like you.”

“I like to call her my twin,” you laugh. “And she hates it.”

Time ticks by, and you barely even notice it. The room has dimmed with the setting sun, shadows creeping in, and a warmth building low in your stomach. You’ve been flipping through photo albums for what must’ve been hours, laughing and teasing each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Then you hear it, John’s stomach growling, loud and unmistakable. You glance at him, and he’s already giving you a sheepish smile. Clearly, you’re both thinking the same thing.

“I was going to order Thai,” you say casually. “If you wanted to stay for dinner.”

He hesitates for only a second. “I’d like that.”

Later, the two of you are curled up on the couch, takeout containers spread between you, Real Housewives playing in the background. The chaotic drama on screen contrasts with the quiet ease between you.

It had been so long since you’d just relaxed like this with someone—someone who wasn’t Ava or Lily. And it felt good. Easy. Right.

“I have a suggestion, feel free to say no.”

“Hit me,” John says, leaning back against the couch, one arm draped over the cushion behind you.

You bite back a grin. “I have a bottle of whiskey that’s begging to be opened. Wanna throw on some music and help me put it out of its misery?”

He lifts an eyebrow, a slow smile creeping onto his face. “Why not?”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You shouldn’t drink around him. At this point, you were touchy and honestly just saying shit for the sake of saying shit. You’re not too drunk but definitely tipsy enough to say whatever comes to your mind. 

“I haven’t seen Tommy’s mom around. Did you guys split up?” you blurt out, half-curious, half-dreading the answer. You feel a drop in the atmosphere as his hands seem to tighten on the glass. 

“Sorry, you don’t need to answer. That was weird of me to ask…” You're trying to backtrack as quickly as possible.

“Oh no, it’s okay, she uh,” he says quietly. “She passed a few years ago.”

You pause, your posture softening. “I’m so sorry…”

“It’s alright,” he says, voice low but steady. “Still tough without her, but we manage.”

He glances down, like he’s trying to ground himself before continuing.

“I’d like to say I was a good husband, but I was always away in the army. I could’ve been better before she…” He trails off, eyes now solely focused on the liquid swirling in his glass. 

You stay quiet, wanting to listen rather than rush in. 

“When I came back from my last tour, she was already sick. But for a while, we were okay. We were happy. Then she got worse. It was hard seeing her like that when she was so full of life before I left. I felt like I had missed so much, and when she…” He pauses again, his voice catching in his throat like he was being choked. 

“Tommy’s the only thing that kept me going after. I’m always scared I’ll mess things up with him and miss the important stuff. That I already am.”

He exhales sharply, almost laughing at himself. “Shit. Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“Not at all,” you say gently, shaking your head. “And I can tell you’re a good dad. Anyone can. He's such a sweet kid and he adores you.”

He looks at you then, and for once, there’s no smirk, no one-liner. Just quiet gratitude.

“Thanks,” he says. “That means more than you know.”

You both take another drink, the burn lingering in your throat like something you don’t mind holding onto for a while.

“What about you? I noticed there aren’t any pictures of Lily’s dad around,” he asks, voice softer now, like he’s not just making conversation anymore.

“We got divorced ages ago. He was a total disaster.”

You let out a dry laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

 “We got married too young, had Lily, got divorced two years in and… I honestly can’t even remember the last time he showed up for her. No birthday messages, no calls. Nothing.”

You pause, trying not to let the anger twist your words.

“It’s a shame because she’s so amazing,” you add, staring into your glass. “And her dad doesn't give her the time of day and never has. She deserves so much better than that, and I wish I could be everything for her, but I…”

John’s quiet, listening. Really listening, giving you the space that you gave him. 

“It’s hard doing it on your own,” you say, looking up at him. “I know you get that.”

He nods slowly, then offers a small, warm smile. “It’s his loss. She’s a kick-ass kid with a pretty kick-ass mom.”

You laugh, the real kind this time.

“I genuinely thought you were about to fight me the day we met,” he says, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

You grin. “I was about to fight you.”

“Very hot.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling and, for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel exhausting to let someone in.

“Okay, Mr. Tight-White-Shirt,” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks instantly. “Ah, so you were ogling me that day.”

Damn. You walked right into that one.

“A woman can’t appreciate the male form?” you say, all mock innocence.

John laughs, shaking his head as he takes another drink. The music shifts, a different song now, low and smooth, some classic jazz number that’s always sounded like warmth and memory and late nights.

You perk up instantly. “John, we have to dance.”

He blinks. “What?”

“C’mon!”

Before he can argue, you’re already pulling him to his feet drunkenly. He hesitates for half a second, then relents because, of course, he does. His hands find your waist, cautious at first, and you wrap your arms around his neck as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I can’t remember the last time I slow danced,” you murmur against his chest.

“Same,” John says quietly. “In all honesty, it was… probably my wedding.”

 “Damn, me too,” You let out a low laugh. “Did you go all out?”

“We tried,” he nods. “We had lessons and everything. I remember practising in our tiny apartment, knocking over chairs and swearing a ton.”

She grins. “I bet you were shit.”

John, very much in ‘John’ fashion, gasps. “Correction, I was the shit.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna show you. Get ready to be dipped.”

Your eyes widen as you look up at him, suspicion written all over your face. “No way. You’ll drop me.”

He smirks. “I won’t. Trust me. I’m strong and very capable.”

Before you can protest again, he spins you, just fast enough to make your stomach flip. And you squeal, laughing as you come back into his arms.

“See?” he says, proud as hell. “Didn’t hurt a hair on your pretty head.”

You’re still laughing, slightly breathless, heart thudding in your chest for reasons that have very little to do with the dancing.

“I hate to say it,” you murmur, “but that was quite smooth.”

“Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might think you like me.”

You look up at him and realise, you’ve never been this close to him, unless you count getting in his face at a soccer match, but this was different. It was a whole new type of tension. 

“Whatever…” you say, but it comes out with no bite. Not even close.

Maybe because you’re tipsy, but under the dim lighting of your living room, with the jazz still murmuring in the background and that stupid, crooked smile on his face.

You reach up, fingers brushing his cheek before you even fully realise what you're doing.

“I like your beard,” you blurt out, your thumb lightly grazing the line of it.

He blinks, surprised, not because of what you said, but because of how gently you said it.

“Yeah?” he says, voice a little quieter now.

He’s not able to get another word out before you’re kissing him, soft and tender. His hands cup your face as he kisses you like there’s a magnet pulling you to him. Your hands roaming over each other’s bodies, hands desperate to touch skin. He lifts you off the floor, your lips not breaking contact. You wrap your legs around his waist and his hands cup your ass as he walks you over to a wall. Pressing you against it and kissing your neck like he’s trying to consume you. “Oh, John…”

Breathing heavily and looking into each other’s eyes.“Upstairs, first door on the right.”

Your back hits the wall again, but gently this time, his lips brushing over yours before pulling back just enough to ask, “You sure?”

You nod, breathless. “Go.”

He carries you like it’s effortless, one hand steady beneath your thigh, the other gripping the bannister as he takes the stairs two at a time.

Reaching the top, he kicks the door open with his foot. The room is dim, the late evening light bleeding through the curtains, but neither of you cares. You pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. His mouth is on yours again before it hits the ground.

You fall into the bed together, tangled and wild and urgent, but with something else beneath it all. Something tender. Like every kiss and touch is catching up on lost time you didn’t even know you missed.

“Mind if I leave marks?”

“You can,” You gasp out and he goes to work, biting and sucking your skin. In all honesty, your drunk brain needed a memento, a way to remind sober-you that this wasn’t some sex dream. 

You feel his strong hands wrap around your wrists, and he squeezes them. Not enough to hurt, but enough for you to feel his presence. 

“I want you,” John breathes and it sounds so good hearing it. Like you had both finally done away with pretense and given in to what you wanted to do since you met which was rip your clothes off and fuck eachother senseless. 

He starts kissing his way down your body, taking  his sweet time in making you feel good. Reveling in the way you react to him.

When he reaches your panties, he doesn’t hesitate to tug them off his teeth and the sight of him doing that nearly kills you. 

He starts eating you out like a man possessed, his beard tickling your inner thighs. He needs your pussy on his face and he needs it now. As he licks and sucks, driving you insane, your legs start slowly closing, trying to shy away from how good it felt. He catches them, prying them back open. 

“Keep them open for me.”

You nod but he wants more than that.

“Tell me.”

“I’ll keep my legs open for you,” You say and you think you’d do the splits on his face if he wanted. 

“Good girl,” he smirks before going back to ruining you. It had been too long since you felt like this, but even then, you had never felt like this. You were feverish and sensitive, fighting to keep yourself sane. You never recall feeling like you were dying of happiness when anyone else had gone down on you. Must be the John Walker effect.

The more you struggle and shake, the more pressure he applies. His hand rests on your stomach to hold you in place as he sucks on your clit.

Feeling the pleasure growing, you instantly try to muffle your moans with your fist. He moves his mouth away from your aching core and reaches up with one of his hands, moving your fist away. You look at him with reverence and surprise.

“You don’t need to hide…” He says, his other hand still moving inside you, “I want to hear you.”

You don’t speak right away. You just look at him, this man who had once driven you absolutely insane, who now felt like the only person who could see through all the armour.

“I’m not used to being seen,” you finally whisper.

“I know,” John says, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “But I see you.”

He moves back into position between your legs, and you let him have every moan you have. 

“John!” 

You finish, back arching, legs trembling and clenching down on his head with your thighs so hard you’re scared you might kill him. 

But he doesn't stop, instead going faster. “H-hey!” You moan out as you kick your legs around, which he clearly takes as a challenge.

Wrangling your legs and pinning them over your head, your body now in the shape of a backwards C.

“You’re lucky I’m not tying you up,” John comments and you shiver at how good that sounds. 

He gets up on his knees, continuing to lick at your trembling folds as he fingers you even faster, adding a third finger that had you moaning in desperation.

It's like he's set your whole body on fire, the feeling of your lost orgasm threatening to push you straight into another one.

“John, it’s so…” You croak, your eyes focusing and unfocusing. “Think I’m gonna cum again.”

At this point, your voice is hoarse, each touch he’s giving you making you scream and cry out like you’ve never done before. 

“Yeah? You wanna be a good girl and cum for me?”

You nod, your eyes gassy with tears, “Wanna be your…your good girl.”

You could feel something coming, as he goes back to sucking on your clit, his fingers massaging your G-spot. 

It only takes a few moments before you're letting your body relax and squirt all over his fingers, the pleasure washing over you in waves. You’re too undone to make a noise, breathing heavily and choking on air. There are a few seconds where you think you’ve died.

He unfolds you, and you lie back down on the bed, needing him instantly. 

“John,” You whine, reaching out for him, and he’s right there, pulling you into his arms and taking care of you.

“What about you?” You ask. He had just about taken you to heaven and believe me you wanted to return the favour.

“Next time.”

Your heart flutters with the thought of a ‘next time’.

“Okay,” You snuggle against him and fall asleep together in pure bliss.  

You wake up in the morning, expecting to feel John’s arms around you. But there's no one there. You sit up and look around, but find nothing. No note explaining where he was and his car's no longer in the driveway.

You came to the conclusion, he woke up, saw you and decided that it was a mistake. It was disappointing but you’re used to being disappointed.

So much for ‘I see you’. 

So much for ‘next time’.

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

The next couple of days are a blur, it’s back to business as usual. Soccer practice, laundry, answering emails with a fake sense of urgency. To anyone else, it seemed like nothing had changed, but not to your daughter.

“I saw Tommy yesterday,” she says casually as she sets her backpack down.

“Oh? How is he?” you ask, trying to sound neutral.

“Great, but his dad didn’t look too happy…”

Your ears perk up at that. He was also miserable? Good. It was his fault anyway… wasn’t it?

“You don’t look happy either.”

You flinch at how blunt she is. You should’ve known, there was no hiding anything from her. She might only be a kid, but she could read you like a book.

“Lily…” you start, but she cuts you off with the maturity of someone far beyond her years.

“Just be adults and talk to him…”

“It's not that simple,” Your voice is shaky with uncertainty. You're not even sure you'd be able to speak if you were face-to-face with him again.

“Well you need to especially since I’m going over to Tommy’s today.”

“You what?” you say, nearly falling out of your chair.

“You said I could,” she adds quickly. “Last week, before… whatever this is.”

Damn it. She was right. You had completely blanked on that. It was before the whole thing with John went bust.

You were conflicted with how you felt about John, but you wouldn’t let your issues affect her. 

“Fine, go get your stuff. We leave in five.”

You drive over to his place, your heart dropping lower and lower as you get closer to his house. Your fingers grip your steering wheel like it’s your lifeline. 

“You’re not coming in to say hi?” Lily asks almost incredulously.

“I think it’s best I don’t. I’ll be here at 6 to pick you up. Have fun!”

Lily doesn’t say anything at first; she just looks at you, brows raised, lips pursed like she’s debating whether or not to push. Was that what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of your judging looks? You didn't like it one bit. 

But in the end, she sighs, unbuckles her seatbelt, and grabs her bag. “You two are so dramatic.”

He sees her first, ruffles her hair, then his gaze shifts past her, locking with yours through the windshield. It only lasts a second, but it’s enough. You look away first.

Then you drive off, trying not to think about him. 

Hours pass, John is very much on your mind the entire time, and before you know it, you’re back at his house to pick up Lily. Walking your way up the driveway, you feel your nerves creeping in. You hesitate a second before ringing the doorbell.

“Hey,” John greets you, opening the door—and he looks just as good as the last time you saw him, maybe even better.

“Hey yourself,” you reply awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

There's the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs, and then Tommy appears, greeting you with a wide grin.

“It’s time to go already?” Lily calls from behind him, voice dripping with faux innocence. She was laying it on thick.

Before you can answer, Tommy jumps in. “Can you and Lily stay for dinner?”

“I don’t know…” You start, unsure how to say no politely.

“Dad, convince her. We’re having your famous spagbol,” Tommy adds, eyes hopeful.

You catch the look on his face—so earnest, so excited—and then turn to John. An easy smile creeps onto your face despite yourself. 

“Famous, huh?”

John smirks. “It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

By the time dinner is ready, it feels easy with him, dangerously easy. You sit around the table with him and the kids, laughing between bites of spaghetti, the kind of domestic quiet that used to feel foreign now curling around you like a blanket. It felt so right. But still, there’s that persistent whisper in the back of your mind — If he wanted this, really wanted this, he would’ve stayed that night.

Before you can spiral too deep into your own thoughts, Tommy pipes up brightly, “Can Lily and I have a sleepover?”

You glance at John, caught off guard. “Lily and I should really get going, plus Lily doesn’t have anything to change into.”

“I brought clothes and my toothbrush,” Lily says far too quickly.

You narrow your eyes. “And why did you do that if you were just supposed to stay for the afternoon?”

Lily and Tommy exchange a look — a guilty, sheepish look that screams we planned this.

John chuckles under his breath, clearly catching on. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says, glancing at you. “I could set up a spot for Lily in Tommy’s room.”

“You should stay too!” Tommy adds enthusiastically, eyes shining with innocent matchmaking energy.

“I don’t have any pyjamas to sleep in, Tom,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

“You can borrow my dad’s!” he says like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

You blink. These kids were really committing to the bit.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude…” You begin, your voice a little quieter, your gaze flicking to John.

“You wouldn’t be,” he says, meeting your eyes. “I have a guest room. It’s yours if you want it.”

His voice is calm, but there’s something soft in it. An invitation. Like he wanted you to stay. 

“It’s decided then,” Your daughter interjects before you can try to squirm out of it.

You had been tricked by two 9-year-olds; this was a new low. 

The hours drifted by as you sat in the living room, all watching a movie together.

Your eyes were fixed on the screen, but all you could think about was John. The fact that sitting just a few feet away, but still felt so far away. 

Though if you had turned your head to look at him, you would’ve seen him looking back at you. His gaze would tell you everything you wanted to hear, but alas, that isn’t fate’s plan. 

The movie ends, and the kids groan when John tells them it’s time for bed. It’s a whirlwind, as they rush around tuckering themselves out. Entering Tommy’s room, you go over to Lily, who’s already in bed, ready for you to tuck her in. You pull the blanket up to Lily’s chin, smoothing her hair like you do most nights, your voice soft in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

“Remember, be an adult,” Lily says, reminding you not to be a coward, essentially. 

“Goodnight, Lil,” You reply before kissing her forehead. Maybe, just maybe, you’d consider her words. 

“Goodnight, Mom,” she murmurs, already half-dreaming.

You stand slowly, and as you turn to leave, you notice Tommy looking at you. His eyes are peeking out from under his blanket, lids heavy but alert.

You pause. “Do you want me to tuck you in, too?”

He hesitates, then gives the smallest nod, like he’s not quite sure he should, but wants to anyway.

You gently and carefully tuck him into his covers like you had with Lily. “There,” you whisper. “Comfy?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing one eye. “Thanks, Mom.”

You’re shocked hearing him call you ‘Mom’. You glance down at him, already drifting off, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, completely unaware of the weight his words carried.

You swallow and manage a quiet, “Goodnight,” brushing his hair back gently before slipping out of the room. What you don’t know is that on the other side of the hallway, just out of sight, John is standing perfectly still.

He’d heard it too.

He didn’t know how to respond to it either, wasn’t sure what it meant or what came next, but for now, he was just… happy. Happy that his son felt safe with you. 

Later that night, you lie flat on your back, staring at the ceiling of the guest room, your thoughts louder than the quiet hum of the house. The shadows shift with the streetlight outside, but your mind stays frozen. You were wearing his shirt, and he was on your mind. It smelled like him, and you could imagine his arms around you. You bury your face in it, wishing that he was with you and not in a room down the hallway. 

You needed to confront what happened that night. You hadn’t talked about it since. It lingered like static between you, unspoken but never forgotten. And you couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter, not when it meant everything. 

You needed to know if he wanted you when you’re both sober.

So, gathering every ounce of courage, you throw off the blanket, slide quietly out of bed, and make your way down the hall to his room. The floor feels colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just your nerves.

You stop in front of his door.

Raise your fist.

And then… freeze.

You stand there for what feels like forever, five minutes, at least, your knuckles hovering midair. Your heart pounds loud enough to fill the silence, your thoughts racing. What if he didn’t feel the same? What if that night was just a mistake?

Suddenly, the door swings open, and it startles the living hell out of you — your fist, already midair, connects squarely with his face.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper-shout, eyes wide as John stumbles back, one hand instantly flying to his nose.

“Shit,” he groans, squinting in pain and trying to blink away the surprise. “You can throw quite a punch.”

“Oh my god, John. Holy fuck. I am so, so sorry,” you ramble, panic surging through you as you hover uselessly in front of him. “Let me get ice, I’ll fix it… just, don’t die.”

You spin around and scuttle off toward the kitchen, trying to keep your footsteps light even though your heart’s thudding like a drum solo. The freezer is a disaster. No ice trays. Who doesn’t have ice trays?

You spot something. Grab it.

Moments later, you return with a sheepish expression and a frozen bag clutched in your hand.

“I couldn’t find an ice tray,” you mutter, pressing the bag gently to his face, “so I got peas.”

You sit down with him on the bed, holding the bag of peas to his nose. “That won’t bruise or anything, right?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Worried about my handsome face, are you?” John jokes, and you’re just glad he has a sense of humour about it. 

You groan and drop your forehead onto his shoulder, mortified. “This was not how I pictured this going.”

His hand gently touches the small of your back. “You were coming to talk to me, right? About… us?”

You nod against him. “Yeah. Before I assaulted you.”

“Let’s start there,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes with a crooked smile. “Because I was kinda hoping we’d finally talk about it too.”

“Really? It didn’t feel like that since you ran,” you say, voice low. You were trying not to sound hurt, but you were. He weighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders and moves his bag of peas off his face to look at you.

“You’re right to be mad. I just… I panicked when I woke up next to you.”

“You were regretful,” you say, attempting to finish his sentence. His eyes widen, and his mouth parts like he’s about to protest.

“No, no—that’s not it at all. I was scared. That if you saw me when you woke up, you’d think it was a mistake.”

He takes a breath, shuffling closer. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You’re such a pain in the ass, always calling me out and keeping me on my toes. But also kind, and funny, and you make me feel so… alive.”

His hand lifts gently, your cheek resting against his palm. It feels perfect, like this is what fate had in store all along.

“I'm an idiot for running but I do like you. I’m falling for you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, heart racing. “I’m falling for you, too, John Walker.”

Pulling him in, your hands still cold and wet from holding the bag of peas, but he doesn’t care. You kiss him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright—like if you stop, everything might collapse around you. 

The two of you pull your clothes off each other's bodies but there's no rush. Each layer that comes off brings you that much closer together.

Now completely naked you sit in front of him and you can see why he has all that confidence. His fingers tangle in your hair and he's about to kiss you when you stop him.

“Will they hear?”

“There's a couple rooms between us, they won't hear as long as you're not too loud.”

“We both know that's going to be a challenge,”You say, recalling the way you were hollering when he ate you out. You're surprised that none of your neighbours issued a noise complaint.

“You need to try or I'll have to find something to gag you with,” John suggests, his voice low and sultry.

“Don't threaten me with a good time.”

He pressures you back into the bed and bites your neck hard enough to leave a big mark.

“You better hope no one asks about that.”

“Let them ask, you can explain to them exactly what I did to you.”

The marks don't stop there. By the time he's done you look like you've been attacked by a wild animal. Hickeys and love bites littered all over your skin, each one a testament of John's desire for you.

“Need you inside me,” You pant out already guiding him towards you with your legs. 

He looks down at you with hooded eyes the anticipation eating you alive before he wraps his arms around you and carries you off the bed.

“Where are we—?” You start but don't finish as you notice he's plopped you down right in front of a mirror.

It's the perfect solution for when someone wants to fuck you from behind and see you fall apart of their cock. Thank everything for whoever invented mirrors.

He lightly kicks your feet apart, hands gliding up your body before resting on your boobs.

You getting back against him, trying to feel him and needing him to fuck the daylights out of you. It had been long enough and you were tired of waiting. 

“Impatient, aren't you?”

“I just need you. Don't make me suffer,” You pout, the mirror capturing the needy look in your eyes. 

“Well, who am I to say no to you?” He says before lining himself up with your entrance and pushing in.

Anticipating the screen you were about to let out, he covers your mouth with his hand.  Only the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing in the room. 

“Look at yourself, look at how quickly you feel apart for me,” John whispers against your ear. And he was right. You were a complete mess after only a few thrusts, eyes watery as your neck arches into him.

“So good,” You manage to get out without screaming. He grabs you by the hair, exposing your neck too him as he gives you a few more hickeys for good measure. Rocking your hips into you as he paints your neck with his lips.

Suddenly, your hips are being lifted into the air as he wraps his arms around you as if getting ready to suplex you. The way he starts fucking you is just as disorientating as a suplex would be. He's hitting your sensitive spot dead on turning your legs to jelly as they dangle in the air.

He's manhandling like you're a doll and you love it, especially when you can see it all happening in the mirror. The way his veins on his arms were popping with effort as he milks his cock with your pussy like you're a fleshlight.

“That's it, breed me, John.”

Hearing you say that only made him double his efforts.

“Is that what you want? Want me to get you pregnant?” John says, his fingers gripping your hips, clearly excited at the prospect. You nod desperately like you need to have it or you'll die.

You gasp, whimper, cry and reaching out for anything to keep you quiet.

“N-need you to fill me up,” You stutter out, “Need your cum in me.”

Then you're given a brief break when he pulls you back from the mirror, tossing you back into the bed. But two seconds don't even pass before he's feeding his cock back into your needy hole.

“J-john!”

You squeal a little too loudly and never you know it his hand is on your chin guiding your own panties in your mouth. 

“Such a pretty sight,” John says as he cages you, fingers intertwining as he pins you against the bed.

 You know you won't be able to keep going much longer. Wrecked doesn't even begin to describe what you were and your orgasm was about to knock you into a whole new dimension.

Feeling his cock twitch, you lock your legs around his waist and he finishes deep inside of you which triggers your own orgasm. His hot cum fills you up, painting your fluttering walls as he effectively breeds you.

The both of you lay there catching your breath as your orgasms pulse through you. This was what life was about; having sex with hot single dads. 

You come back to your senses, just barely and have an evil idea.

Seeing the opportunity fate had presented you for payback, you flip your positions climbing on top of him and riding him into overstimulation. A strangled cry that was supposed to be your name falling from his lips. 

“Baby…” John whimpers as his body tenses up, abs contracting like he's already about to cum again.

You could get used to having him at your mercy, bottom lip trembling as he tries to keep it together. 

“I like seeing you like this. So desperate for me and only me.” You pulling him to your lips by his hair. He groans but he's into it, he'd let you have your way with him just as much as you let him have his way with you.

“Only you,” He replies and you believe it. 

Your hand away from his hair, letting John's head hit the mattress, before going in and leaving your own string of love bites. He bites his lip, all but writhing under your soft touch. 

“Someone might see those.”

“Then you can explain to them what I did,” You say throwing his words back in his face.

You keep fucking until you tire yourselves out, your bodies sticky and heaving. It was as good as you imagined it would be and you're kicking yourself for not giving in earlier.

John's hand rests on your thigh tracing little patterns as you play with his hair when he asks a very pertinent question.

“Are you on birth control?”

Your eyes widen when you realise you are in fact not on birth control. With the downright sad lack of sex you were having before John walked into your life there was no reason to be on it.

“No”, You gulp,“We'll talk about it in the morning?”

John hums in agreement and holds you against his chest in a vice grip that screams “You're mine.”

In the morning, you’re happy to feel John’s arms still wrapped around you, his face pressed against your shoulder, his breath slow and even. Peaceful.

“Who wants pancakes?” you call out, later in the kitchen, sliding a golden stack onto the table with a grin.

You have a slow, sweet morning breakfast—the kind where everyone’s still in pyjamas, laughing over spilt flour and slightly burnt edges.

“Oh! Let me go get the syrup. Can you show me where it is, Tommy?” you ask.

Tommy nods enthusiastically, hopping up and heading toward the pantry with you, eager to help you find it.

Back at the table, Lily narrows her eyes at John, clearly sizing him up. Then, dead serious, she delivers:

“If you hurt my mom, you die. Understood?”

John blinks, caught off guard for a second, but then a slow smile tugs at his lips. He knew exactly where she got that intensity from.

“Understood.”

“Good,” Lily says, her expression finally softening. “You make great spagbol so I'd hate to have to kill you.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

It’s been a few months since you and John started dating — the kind of comfortable, lived-in months where you had keys to each other's places, regularly took the kids out together, and fell asleep on the couch on each other. 

Unlocking the door, John and Tommy step inside, and they’re immediately hit with the scent of burnt toast, a low hum of music, and the unmistakable energy of mild chaos. They were here to pick you and Lily up to carpool to the Saturday morning game, but it looked like they’d walked into a warzone, and at least it smelled like pancakes.

“Morning!” Tommy calls out as he looks around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. 

“Oh hi, guys,” you pant out from somewhere in the kitchen, out of breath and flustered. He doesn’t need to be able to see you to know you’re going through it.

Lily’s sitting at the dining room table, calmly sipping orange juice like she’s been through this before. Tommy runs over and sits beside Lily, swiping a pancake off her plate.

“Mom’s having a meltdown,” she says, totally unbothered. “It’s pretty intense. She yelled at the coffee machine.”

John raises an eyebrow and walks to the kitchen, and there you are, wearing one sock and a hoodie that you actually stole from John, batter on your cheek, surrounded by open containers and the remnants of pancake making.

“It’s so good to see you,” You cry as you practically jump into his arms. You let go of him so you can continue your spiral when he stops you. 

“Honey, you’re running around like a headless chicken. Let me help,” John offers.

You hesitate, then sigh and reach into the mess on the counter and pull out a hairbrush. “Can you finish braiding Lil’s hair for me? She’s lost her lucky cleats, and I need to find them before we leave.”

“On it.”

He kisses your forehead, warm and steady, before heading into the kitchen.

Lily watches him approach with guarded suspicion. “Please don’t mess this up.”

John grins. “Don’t worry, I’m a professional.”

He ruffles her hair on purpose, just to rile her up, and she bats his hand away with a huff and a laugh. 

Meanwhile, you’re darting around the house in full-on panic mom mode — lifting couch cushions, checking under the bed, even inside the fridge for some reason (you never know), until finally, you spot the missing shoes. Inside her toy chest, naturally, buried under a plastic tiara and two mismatched Barbie legs.

You walk back into the dining room to the sound of laughter, Tommy’s head thrown back as John tells some ridiculous story, funny voices and all. Lily’s giggling along too as he finishes tying off the braid with surprising skill.

You lean against the doorframe, heart swelling. It’s loud, it’s messy, but it’s yours. And in that moment, it hits you: this is what happy looks like.

“Found it,” you say, holding the shoes up triumphantly.

John looks up, grinning. “See? I told you everything would come together.”

You smile at him. This is perfect; he’s perfect.

“Are we ready to go?” you call out, grabbing your bag and keys.

They respond in a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Almost!” as shoes squeak across the floor.

Clambering into the car like a small tornado, Tommy buckles in and grins over at Lily. “Losing team’s parent buys ice cream,” he declares.

“Ohhh, bold move,” you say, raising your eyebrows in the rearview mirror.

“Looks like you’re buying ice cream,” John says smugly, sliding into the driver's seat, glancing at you like he already knows today’s outcome.

“In your dreams,” you shoot back, smirking as you start the engine.

This was the kind of happiness that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention—and all it took was yelling at a hot dad at a soccer game.

Main Masterlist || Marvel Masterlist

[snoopysupe]

stopp now i’m thinking about reader teasing clark about how fat and juicy his ass is and how edible it looks in his superman suit and clark being absolutely mortified with embarrassment but he loves it ofc 😝

anon u sound like sir mix-a-lot and it got me

BABY GOT BACK — Clark Kent

pairing: clark kent x wife!reader. content: silly fluff. clark is getting his suit altered and his wife praises his shelf of an ass (wc: 905.)

“It’s enormous.” 

Martha Kent stifles a laugh as she inspects her handiwork up close. The three of you—Clark, Martha and you—had been in Ma’s sewing room for the better half of an hour, surrounded by commissioned dresses for the Smallville prom-goers that she altered on the side; whilst Clark had his infamous suit re-fitted.

He had always been strong per se, but Clark had begun working out at the gym within the apartment complex and, well, his bodily assets had grown with sturdy muscle, making it a hard task to wriggle into the suit with haste. 

You, sat on a stool, with one leg crossed over the other had been there for moral support. Other than that, you weren’t required but the Kent family had a hard time peeling themselves away from you.

(Sort of made sense with Clark’s inability to detach himself when his own mother ushered you into the sewing room to keep her company.) 

Clark turns to look at you from where he is standing, and warns, “Honey.” 

“Seriously, Clark,” you start in a tone of astonishment whilst your eyes are cast downward, “It’s massive.”

Your husband throws his mother an apologetic look from where he is standing, because—as much as he loved this aspect of you—he was married to a woman with zero filter, or means to bite her tongue. You say it how you see it, and what you had been seeing was the protruding backend of your husband; with or without the cape. 

Sure, he had his frustrations whilst tugging at the suit in previous circumstances and you had just assumed muscular thighs were to blame. When you’re around your significant other more or less all the time, the changes can sometimes go amiss. Now? Now you could see why Ma had to retrieve the additional scraps of Clark’s Kryptonian blanket from his baby days. 

You blink at the sight of it. His Daily Planet getup of a baggy suit was the probable cause for his suddenly well-rounded backside slipping under the radar. 

(Even seeing him naked, you don’t recall it ever being that big.) 

“What are you squatting?” you ask openly, brows in a pinch. 

Clark takes a breath for patience. He loves you, to the core, but your mouth knew no bounds when you became fixated on one singular thing. 

He chooses to bypass your question by diverting his attention to Ma and asking her about the alterations and if there were any further fittings he was required to do before the pair of you return to Metropolis after a short weekend stay at the Kent Farm. 

Ma adjusts the red cape on her son’s shoulders, “Some more fabric on the backside, baby. That won’t take more than a night for your Ma.” she lilts with innocence.

You, on the other hand—from where Clark can see you in the reflection of the floor length mirror—press your lips together to conceal the bubble of amusement from Ma’s honesty. 

When Clark throws you a petulant look, mortified by your behaviour, you gesture that you’ve zipped your lips from any further prodding whilst Ma’s ears were in the room. 

“I’ll go get the boots.” Ma says in her sweet midwestern twang. She pats Clark’s chest in passing before she passes you where she lovingly pats your cheek as she trudges out of the room. 

It goes quiet. In a foreboding, mischievous type of way. Clark clears his throat, shifting from one foot to the other whilst inspecting the talented craftsmanship of his Ma; where as you slowly turn your head, unable to land your attention anywhere but your husband’s curvaceous behind. 

Clark spots you from the mirror, trying his upmost hardest to contain the small quirk at the corner of his lips.

He couldn’t always push down the desire to appreciate when you showered him in praise in your own roundabout way. Even if it had his cheeks turn bright pink with embarrassment. 

Deep down, Clark thoroughly enjoyed the added attention. (He wouldn’t admit it at this present moment thought.) 

A glint of silver catches his eye on the floor where his Ma had accidentally dropped a pin from her pin cushion. He bends at the waist to pluck it from the wooden floorboard before an unlikely stabbing in someone’s foot happens. 

As soon as he’s bent, you stretch from the stool and slot two fingers between his vulnerable cheeks; making Clark shoot upright with a yelp. 

He grabs your wrist, “What the hey, honey. Cut it out.” He sounds a little irritated this time, so you back down with no visible shame on your features when you fully sit back onto the up-cycled stool. 

“Can’t a woman dote on her husband?” 

“You’re not doting. You’re harassing.” Clark grumbles with the pin rolled between his fingers. 

Your voice is laced with playfulness, “Your lobster is so juicy, baby.” 

Clark folds instantaneously. Your humour tangled with a poor show of flirtatious skills made for quite the hammer that could crack Clark’s—sometimes—moody exterior. His chuckle is low, head shaking at your words as he tries to conjure up a new conversation to steer your chatterbox-self into. 

He lets you roll with one more punch by encouraging it with, “You really think it looks big in the suit?” 

“Oh—” You gesture with your hands to emphasise the largeness of his ass, “—Baby, you have no idea.” 

[fluentmoviequoter]

We Don't Have to Make Sense

Pairing: Shawn Spencer x stoic!fem!consultant!reader

Summary: Shawn Spencer takes a liking to you when you're put on the same case. He continues pursuing you even though you're stoic and unreadable. Amidst the team's attempts to keep you separated, Shawn reveals that you have history beyond this case.

Warnings/Word Count: r is a full-time digital forensic consultant, flirty!Shawn, Juliet and Lassie get tired of him, Gus knows all, fluff. 1.6k+ words, requested

Psych Masterlist | Masterlist Directory | Request Info | Taglist

Your seat shakes when Officer McNab jumps up, pumping his hands over his head as the other officers surrounding your desk exclaim with varied levels of excitement and intrigue. Apparently finding recently deleted folders in a suspected serial killer’s computer is all it takes for the police officers you share a station with to finally learn your name. Yet, even as the people occupying your office celebrate the victory, you never look away from the screen, don’t so much as crack a smile, just send the evidence to the lead detective and go about your work.

“Aren’t you excited?” McNab asks.

“Of course,” you answer. “But I do this every day; it’s not particularly special to me to find something like this.”

“That’s… so cool,” he muses happily.

“Thanks.”

“Everybody out!” Detective Lassiter barks from your doorway. “Computer Brain, we need you.”

“New nickname,” you murmur as you lock your computer. “I think you could do better, Lassie.”

“I’ll get right on it,” he deadpans.

Sitting in a dark bedroom wearing paper coveralls and gloves, you scroll through a computer still running Windows 95. Neither Detective Lassiter nor Detective O’Hara told you exactly why the computer needed to be searched — ‘and dissected’ Lassie added, but you remain unsure as to what that means — but it’s your job and it’s fun, so you do it without question.

“You found something?” Lassie checks when you remove your hand from the mouse.

“Nope,” you answer flatly. “Just waiting for it to load.”

“How old is that anyway?” Jules wonders.

“I’m pretty sure Y2K wasn’t a thing yet when this was turned on the first time.”

“Lassie!” someone yells from the front of the house.

He sighs, rolls his eyes, and walks down the hall. Juliet steps into the room with you, mindful of your space as she looks at the screen.

“You can watch,” you tell her, leaning closer to the monitor when the screen loads. “Contrary to the belief of some, I’m not a horrifically mean individual.”

“People think that?” Jules murmurs, stepping closer to your side. “I don’t. I just didn’t want to bother you.”

“Thanks, detective,” you respond. “I found some encrypted files. Want me to get into them?”

“Yes, please.”

“Murder and mayhem but no invitation for Shawn and Gus,” Shawn Spencer sighs as he looks longingly into the room you’re in. “I see how it is.”

“What are you doing here, Shawn?” Jules inquires. “We didn’t call for a consult on this.”

“Just me,” you add.

Shawn shifts, his smile widening as he looks at you. “You work in that closet in the station,” he realizes. “Digital… something.”

“Digital forensic consultant,” you say, scrolling through a list of folders. “According to my nametag, at least.”

“And what exactly do you do?”

“Basic version — I hack into stuff to find things no one else can get to.”

“Oh. That’s cool.” Shawn nods, tapping the corner of the desk. “I meant what do you do when you’re not at work? You like going to dinner or watching The Mentalist?”

You don’t bother looking up at Shawn or responding. Instead, you type a series of commands into the computer, then turn the screen toward Juliet. “Is this helpful?” you ask when a photo of a journal loads.

“It certainly is,” she assures you. “According to that, we need to find his office and his work equipment. Thank you so much!”

“You’re very impressive,” Shawn says after Juliet leaves.

“It’s my job.”

“Mm. I said you, not what you did.”

Finally, you look away from the computer to see Shawn. He smiles like he expects something, and his smile only brightens when you ask, “Did you need something?”

“I’m sorry,” Juliet offers. “Patrol said they found the laptop.”

“No worries,” you assure her, sitting in the shade of an unmarked cruiser. “I’ll be here until I’m useful again.”

“You’re always useful,” Shawn Spencer says, suddenly appearing beside you.

You hum, dropping your head back as your eyes close. Shawn inches closer to you, glad he convinced the officer who showed up while he was snooping to mention the missing laptop.

“Is it hard?” Shawn asks breathily. “Being SBPD’s prettiest?”

“Shawn,” Juliet warns softly. “Stop.”

“I’m not feeling any vibrations — neither good nor bad. So, I’ll sit with the digital forensic consultant until you’re ready for us.”

“Don’t bother her.”

“I would never, Juliet.”

Shawn crosses his ankles and sits beside you, sighing contentedly when Juliet walks away.

“I meant what I said before,” he admits. “If you’re ever free for dinner and the joy that is Robin Tunney as Theresa Jane, you know where to find me.”

“Computer Brain!” Lassie yells. “Found a cellphone!”

“That’s my cue,” you say as you stand, ignoring Shawn’s offered hand. “Good luck with those vibrations.”

Shawn nods, watching you walk toward the scene. “I’m feeling some vibrations now,” he whispers.

Two days into the case, Shawn has all but attached himself to you. He follows you around, flirts with you, and simply smiles when you remain quiet. Gus lectured him last night, warning him that your stoic façade is a clear indication that you aren’t interested. Still, Shawn found you first thing this morning and made himself comfortable in your space, uncaring that you didn’t say a word to him.

Now, he’s in your office, sitting opposite you and spinning in a desk chair while you work. The door is standing open while you try to get into the email account listed on the suspect’s cell phone.

Outside, Gus and Juliet watch you while Lassie complains about Shawn interjecting himself into the case.

“What should we do?” Juliet asks. “She seems so… Actually, I have no idea how she seems.”

“She’s impossible to read,” Gus agrees. “Yet the psychic can’t tell that his flirting isn’t doing a thing.”

“If he distracts her from the case, I will personally remove him,” Lassie interrupts.

“Remove him from what?” Juliet clarifies. “The case?”

Lassie shrugs, then says, “Sure. The case.”

Gus turns away from your open door, drawing Lassie and Juliet’s attention. “We should separate them,” he suggests. “It’s the only way to preserve our sanity and make sure she can keep doing her job.”

“Not a bad idea,” Lassie concedes. “Let’s…”

They turn together, all silencing when they see Shawn draped across the back of your chair, watching the screen over your shoulder as he asks questions that get no more than five words in response.

“Maybe we need a plan B,” Juliet muses.

“I found it!” Shawn yells when you enter an empty office three floors above the city.

Nodding, you walk past him to examine the laptop sitting open on the only desk in the office. There’s a subtle indent on the top, one that makes you think someone used the device to steady a rifle.

“Stolen rifle, contract hit, and disposal of the body,” you say as your fingers move on the keyboard. “Evidence of all of that would be helpful, right?”

“Helpful?” Juliet repeats. “It would ensure this guy gets convicted. More than helpful.”

“That’s good,” you hum. “Because I found all of it.”

“All of it?” Lassie asks dumbly. “You found—”

“Photos of the rifle, wire transfer from a Cayman Islands account, a map with a seemingly random dot on it shared anonymously, and what I think is rifle recoil damage,” you explain, gesturing to the laptop screen.

“You’re a genius!” Shawn exclaims, wrapping his arms around your shoulders in a tight hug.

“Spencer!” Lassie snaps. “Get off. Leave her alone before I arrest you for harassment.”

Shawn tightens his grip on you, lifting a brow. “Dude,” he scoffs. “Lay off.”

“No. I’ve had about enough of you following her around, trying to distract her, talking and talking and talking, when she clearly couldn’t care less!”

“Weren’t you married?” Shawn asks, shaking his head. “Just let me hang out with my wife!”

You blink, remaining impassive as Juliet and Lassie freeze, wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the explanation of Shawn’s behavior. Silently, Juliet looks at you.

Assuming she’s looking for confirmation of what Shawn said, you mutter, “Yeah, we’re married.”

“No,” Lassie says.

Shawn lifts one hand from your shoulder and asks, “No? What does that mean?”

“Just… no.”

Gus walks into the office, straightening his tie as he inquires, “What’d I miss?”

“They’re married!” Juliet exclaims, pointing between you and Shawn, who has wrapped himself farther around you in the seconds she wasn’t looking.

“I warned you,” Gus reminds her with a shrug. “I told you to keep them separated.”

“You knew they were married and didn’t tell us?” Lassie checks. “Guster, I thought we’d made progress.”

“Progress?” Gus exclaims.

“No, you two don’t make any sense!” Lassie yells, pointing at you.

You nod in agreement. Your personalities are vastly different — Shawn’s base mode is flamboyant, while you remain steady, stoic, and unreadable no matter what comes. Despite your behavior and appearance, you love Shawn and every compliment, every word, every touch, it all affects you.

“Don’t have to,” you point out with a shrug.

“Don’t have to what?” Juliet asks.

“We don’t have to make sense,” Shawn explains, fully aware of what you meant. “Now, I suggest you either look away or encourage my wife to leave with me.”

“He will make out with her right in front of us, he has no shame,” Gus warns.

“Get out,” Lassie demands. “But, uh, thanks, Computer Brain.”

“You got it,” you reply over your shoulder as Shawn ushers you toward the door. “Call next time you need me.”

“Leave the boyfriend at home.”

“Husband!” Shawn corrects.

“One step at a time, Spencer.”

Shawn Spencer Taglist 🏷️ @itzpixiebabe @localpanicattack @greygatorgaygator @book-nerd-fan-girl

x reader Taglist 🏷️ @anonymousmuffinbear @kmc1989

[fluentmoviequoter]

Forever Trio

Pairing: Shawn Spencer x fem!reader

Summary: You, Shawn, and Gus have been best friends your whole lives. Even when Shawn finally confesses his love for you, Gus is at your sides, part of the forever trio.

Warnings/Word Count: flashback, banter, mention of a possessed object, love confession, fluff. 2.0k+ words, requested

Psych Masterlist | Masterlist Directory | Request Info | Taglist

20 Years Ago

“It takes two teams,” Gus repeated, his hands spread at his sides as Shawn readied the water hose. “That means we need an even number of players.”

“I could beat both of you,” Shawn scoffed. “We’re a trio, Gus, just tell us how to play.”

“Fine,” Gus sighed. “Does that mean you want to be on a team by yourself?”

“You don’t even know how to play,” you reminded Shawn. “Maybe Gus should be a solo team since he knows what we’re doing.”

Shawn looked at you then at Gus. He nodded once and agreed, “You and me versus Gus.”

“Shawn!” Henry called from the back porch. “The Smiths are back from vacation. I’m sure they’d like to play.”

You expected Gus to agree, considering how adamant he was a few seconds ago that you needed another person.

“No, thanks,” he called with Shawn.

“Guys,” Henry began, leaning on the porch rail. “Just because you are friends doesn’t mean that you can’t let other people close. After you grow up, you’ll go different directions, meet new people.”

“Actually, we won’t,” Shawn interrupted. “I’m not going to college, so I’ll just live with one of them.”

“And the Smith kids always try to take over,” Gus grumbled.

“My point is you should try to include other people, make other friends,” Henry explained. “As close as you are now, you may not be a trio forever.”

Present Day

“How many?” the hostess at the beachside restaurant asks.

Shawn looks over his shoulder, his brows drawing together when he sees Detectives O’Hara and Lassiter exiting an unmarked cruiser.

“Three, I guess,” Shawn answers.

“Is a table on the patio alright?”

“That’s fine.”

“Follow me,” the hostess invites. “I’ll show the rest of your party in when they arrive. Are you visiting Santa Barbara?”

“No, I live here,” Shawn answers. “Again. I grew up here, left for a while, came back.”

“The city seems to have that pull. Someone will be over shortly for drinks and appetizers.”

“Thanks.”

Shawn sits as she turns to return to the door, his gaze straying to the ocean briefly. The last time he ate here was after high school graduation, with you on one side and Gus on the other. A faded photo of the three of you smiling cheek-to-cheek is tucked in his wallet, a reminder of your trio accompanying everywhere he goes. It’s also a reminder of what he failed to do, all he failed to admit, and what it cost him.

“Dude, how’d you get a patio seat?” Gus asks, sliding into the chair opposite him. “I thought you had to make reservations for this!”

Smiling, Shawn lifts a shoulder. “She offered it.”

Gus sobers, leaning forward conspiratorially to ask, “Did you flirt to get it?”

“No! I said I needed a table for three and she offered it.”

“Fine, fine,” Gus concedes, returning to his initial position. “You didn’t give her a ride?”

“No, he didn’t,” you interrupt before thanking the hostess.

Shawn and Gus both stand, reaching for the same chair to pull it out for you.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “I told Shawn that I’d love to ride his motorcycle this close to the beach, but he won’t let me.”

“I don’t have a helmet for you,” he says as if it explains everything. “Every time I try to go get one, my dad ropes me into some stupid project.”

You nod, then look at Gus to ask, “Have I changed since elementary school?”

“Only in the ways that count,” he answers.

“That was a good answer,” you applaud. “Has Shawn?”

Gus narrows his eyes, then decides, “He found better hair gel.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shawn inquires.

“Nothing,” you tell him, patting his shoulder kindly. “It’s just funny that you have the same excuses now as you did then.”

“But I didn’t have a bike. A sexy, manly bike.”

“No, you had a Schwinn with streamers,” Gus agrees.

“Why do you know bike brand names?” Shawn wonders.

“Oh, speaking of brands,” you interject. “I got invited to a work thing — by invited, I mean I was told to go — so I can’t do dinner Friday.”

“But we were going to watch Real Genius after!” Shawn reminds you.

“If I didn’t have to go to this thing, I wouldn’t. Rain check on Real Genius? Maybe we can double feature Top Secret next weekend?”

“Sold,” Gus agrees.

“You’re sure you can’t get out of it?” Shawn pouts as he asks, and you can’t help but smile at him.

“My boss gave me a company credit card to buy an outfit for this thing,” you muse. “Can’t get out of it.”

Shawn nods slowly, then advises, “Buy something expensive.”

“Of course I will.”

“Uh, Shawn?” Detective O’Hara calls from the doorway. “Do you have a minute?”

“No,” Shawn replies, laying his arm across the back of your chair. “Call during business hours.”

“It’s kind of urgent,” she adds.

“Spencer, if you want to get paid, grab Guster and let’s go,” Lassie barks.

“It’s okay,” you tell Shawn. “We’ll order in next weekend.”

“Do you need a ride?” Gus checks. “You can take the blueberry.”

“I’m good,” you assure them. “Be safe.”

Shawn taps your back as he stands, and Gus wraps you in a side hug before he follows the detectives out of the restaurant.

“You have to tell her eventually,” Gus whispers to Shawn as the hostess waves at him.

“Something about this restaurant makes it impossible,” Shawn complains.

“Then do it somewhere else. It’s been twenty years, you’ve had time to rehearse saying I’m in love with you.”

“Then why haven’t you told Halle Berry you’re in love with her?” Shawn challenges.

Gus clicks his tongue and retorts, “C’mon, son.”

Friday afternoon, Shawn and Gus are sitting in the Psych office with reruns playing in the background. The case has closed, and with your plans interfering with movie night, they’re not sure what to do.

“What’s with the depressing lights?” you ask, standing in the doorway with your chin tipped to examine the sad string lights stretched across the wall.

“Whoa,” Shawn breathes out, his eyes widening as he looks at your outfit.

“They’re cats,” Gus says, reaching up to tap one of the flickering lights.

“You- you’re wearing that to the work thing?” Shawn asks lowly.

You look down at your outfit, spreading your hands over your hips worriedly. “Is it too much?”

“You look great,” Gus assures.

“You’re perfect,” Shawn agrees softly. He blinks, then amends, “You look perfect.”

“Thanks,” you breathe out. “I stopped by to check if you’re going on Sunday?”

“Going where?” Shawn checks.

“Lunch at your dad’s? He sent me a text about it.”

“He didn’t text me.”

Gus raises a brow and checks, “Did you pay your cellphone bill this month?”

“You’re telling me I have to pay to buy the phone and keep paying to use it? That’s robbery.”

Shaking his head, Gus tells you, “We’ll be there.”

“I’ll see you then,” you reply with a chuckle. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

Shawn nods and watches you leave, staring at the door for too long after it closes.

“You’re hopeless,” Gus mumbles.

“I have an idea,” Shawn says.

“No. No ideas after 5 p.m. on Fridays.”

“We should crash the work thing she’s going to. We can wear those suits you bought—”

“The holiday suits?”

“They’re suits, Gus. You know you want to.”

“I don’t want to risk ruining something important to her,” Gus corrects. “She likes her job and us showing up dressed like elves from the South Pole could jeopardize that.”

“Fine,” Shawn agrees. “Then what do you suggest we do?”

“Same thing I’ve been telling you to do for a decade. Tell her how you feel.”

“Great idea, Gus. Really, excellent. But how am I supposed to do that?” Shawn questions.

Gus blows out a breath, then suggests, “Pick a day and just do it.”

“That’s not even half of a plan, Gus.”

Turns out challenging Gus to making a foolproof plan was a stroke of genius. By the early hours of the morning, they had a minute-by-minute, word-for-word plan that would allow Shawn to admit his feelings for you after lunch at his dad’s on Sunday. Shawn pushed for an extended deadline, but Gus argued he’d had years already and hadn’t made them count.

The plan is what makes Shawn slam the door in your face when you knock Saturday night. Quickly, he realizes his mistake and pulls it open again.

“Bad time?” you check.

“No, not at all. Come in,” he encourages.

“I’m sorry for dropping by like this but I couldn’t sleep and I… I knew you’d be awake,” you explain sheepishly.

“It’s fine,” Shawn promises. “Gus is here, too. He’s making hot cocoa.”

“Am I interrupting?”

“You couldn’t interrupt if you tried. We’re a trio, remember?”

Smiling, you follow Shawn into his apartment’s small kitchen. Gus offers to make you something, tells Shawn to get out of his way, then suggests a movie marathon.

“Ooh, should we watch the greatest box office hits of the 80s?” you ask.

“I have something to say first,” Shawn blurts out.

Gus pauses, his cocoa stirring forgotten as he looks at Shawn.

“I know, you think 80s Val Kilmer deserves more love,” you joke.

“I think you deserve more love,” Shawn says.

“From Shawn,” Gus adds, stepping forward. “Specifically.”

“Right,” Shawn agrees. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Sure.”

“What- what are you saying?” you whisper.

“I’m saying that I’m in love with you,” Shawn answers.

“He has been since we were kids,” Gus says.

“Since we were… this is what you’ve been keeping secret from me?!” you exclaim.

“You knew we were keeping a secret?” Gus repeats.

“Of course! I spent every waking minute of the first ten years of my life with you two, I know when you're keeping something from me. I thought it was something stupid like you lost my Cabbage Patch doll.”

“I… I accidentally convinced your parents it was possessed,” Shawn admits. “Sorry.”

You shake your head and murmur, “I found it two days later in the attic; I’ve had it the whole time.”

“So, can we get back to what we were saying?” Shawn checks.

You nod, looking between Shawn and Gus.

“I’ve loved you for so long that I don’t remember what it’s like not to love you.”

“I don’t remember what he was like before, either,” Gus realizes. He seems to be talking to himself rather than you when he wonders, “Has he always been insufferable when you had to leave?”

“If there’s any chance you might be able to love me too,” Shawn continues, “then I want to try. We can do all the corny couple stuff like going to the fair and winning each other prizes. I’ll have Gus play ski ball for you.”

“You are good at ski ball,” you tell Gus.

“And we can go on dates and watch movies, and Gus will be there too.”

“Shawn,” you interrupt, stepping forward to place your hand on his chest. “I don’t think I would be able to love you too. I know I can.”

Shawn’s eyes widen, and he looks toward Gus to ask, “Did she…?”

“She did,” Gus answers, his lip quivering.

“Don’t cry,” you and Shawn say together.

“It just- it’s just been so long.”

“Shawn, I love you,” you promise, taking his hand. “And Gus, I love you differently, but we’ll always be a trio.”

Shawn pulls you against his chest, hugging you tightly. You feel his arm extend, and then Gus joins the hug. Wrapped together, standing in Shawn’s tiny kitchen, you know this is how it was supposed to be. Shawn’s plan may have had more grandeur, but this is perfect.

“Ooh, Gus,” Shawn says past you. “We should get candy to celebrate.”

“Skittles?” you check.

“Obviously,” they both scoff.

“Are we going to drink the hot cocoa?”

“Later,” Gus answers.

Shawn nods, tightening his grip on you and Gus. His trio. Forever.

Shawn Spencer Taglist🏷️ @itzpixiebabe @localpanicattack @greygatorgaygator @book-nerd-fan-girl

x reader Taglist🏷️ @kmc1989 @anonymousmuffinbear

[fluentmoviequoter]

Bombastic

Pairing: Shawn Spencer x fem!wife!teacher!reader

Summary: When a bomb threat is delivered to your classroom, you call your husband Shawn rather than the police. He finds the author of the note while flirting with you. He's a good multitasker.

Warnings/Word Count: brief angst, bomb threat, fluff, banter, comfort. 2.3k+ words, requested.

Psych Masterlist | Masterlist Directory | Request Info | Taglist

Stopping, you keep your finger extended toward the board as you sigh. “Is it an important question?” you ask before glancing toward the student not only holding their hand above their head but waving it back and forth.

“It is,” she answers seriously, steepling her fingers beneath her chin. “What does it mean when a, um… a man buys you something?”

“A man?” you repeat.

“Fine, a boy.”

Shaking your head, you fight to keep your smile hidden. “I have no idea.”

“But you’re married!” someone else argues.

“I am. And my husband’s best friend buys us very nice things. We’re moving on.”

“I actually have more questions now.”

“Are they pertinent to the lesson?” you check.

“Mm… not exactly.”

“Then we’re moving on.”

When you turn toward the board again, an envelope slides under your classroom door. Your students gasp, some oohing and ahhing. The last time something appeared in your classroom unannounced, it was from your husband. Your class had a much better time than they should have that day.

Unfolding this letter, however, you quickly realize that today is different. Much different.

“What’s it say?” someone demands.

You don’t look up, but you know they’ve closed their notebooks, and you have their entire attention.

“Is it a love letter?” another asks.

“Uh…” You read the note again, then check, “Do any of you have cellphones on you? You’re not in trouble, please be honest.”

“No. Most of them are in our lockers. Paris had hers taken in homeroom when she got a Snapchat,” a student in the back row answers.

“Snitch,” Paris, you assume, grumbles.

Nodding, you move to your desk, the paper wrinkling in your grasp. “I have to make a call. I need all of you to be quiet, okay?”

“You got it. But what does the letter say?”

No cops, less pops. Everything drops from mountaintops. The bomb is hidden, soon you’ll all be did in.

You smile, tensing your arm so you don’t shake. “Nothing,” you lie. “Now quiet, or you can’t eavesdrop.”

“State,” Gus insists.

“Nope,” Shawn answers.

“Does it start with S?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to say anything else?”

“Nope.”

Gus clicks his tongue, slowing at a stop sign. “I really have to guess?” Shawn nods once in his peripheral, so Gus inhales, knowing he’s already lost.

“P?”

“Nope.”

“Z?”

“Z? Really?” Shawn checks, incredulous. “Tell me one word that starts with Z.”

“Zebra,” Gus replies immediately.

Shawn frowns, watching an empty school bus drive by. “Name one more.”

“Zipper.”

“Okay, maybe-”

“Zombie, zodiac, zoo, zero, zoom.”

“You know a lot of words,” Shawn interrupts. “What do you want? A medal?”

“I want you to tell me where I’m going.”

“Oh. Right. Take your next left.”

“My next… Shawn! This is State Street!”

Shawn leans forward against the seatbelt, narrowing his eyes at the street sign. “I’ll be- my bad, buddy. I really thought it said Pineapple.”

“How do you misread state as pineapple?”

“Just follow the school bus,” Shawn replies, gesturing toward the windshield.

“The school bus out in the middle of the day,” Gus mumbles as he turns. “I should have gone to work today.”

Shawn rolls his eyes before Jane’s Theme from The Mentalist begins playing from his phone. He shifts in the seat, pulling his phone from his pocket with a smile.

“I think I’m seeing a future,” Shawn greets, “of you and me.”

“She has the patience of a saint,” Gus sighs.

“Whoa, whoa, what?” Shawn asks. “Are you… What is happening right now?”

Gus glances at Shawn, who is staring at the dashboard with a familiar look. “Are we going to the school?” he checks.

Shawn sends him a thumbs up, listening intently to the caller. Gus would have known from the ringtone, the greeting, or the concern in Shawn’s expression, but all three together make it abundantly obvious — Shawn is talking to you.

“I don’t have a tie,” Shawn says suddenly, looking down at his shirt. “Is that a problem?”

He pulls the phone from his ear and taps it against his leg.

“Something wrong?” Gus wonders.

“She said she wanted me to come give a lecture,” Shawn murmurs. “So, yeah, something’s wrong.”

“Maybe they’re talking about personal hygiene,” Gus taunts. “And the kids want to learn about the difference between too much and way too much hair gel.”

“I’m going to let that slide because she sounded different,” Shawn replies.

“Different how?”

“I don’t want to say the s word, but…”

“You don’t like to say any s words, apparently,” Gus complains.

“She sounded scared, Gus,” Shawn admits softly. “Can you drive a little faster?”

Gus’s brows draw together. “Yeah,” he answers, pressing the accelerator toward the floor.

Pacing from the locked door to the window, you nod along with the class’s group retelling of how Paris lost her phone this morning.

“Is there anything you could do to get it back?” one of them inquires.

“Yeah, I’ll get it during my free period,” you reply, looking out the window.

“Are you okay?” Paris asks.

A sudden knock on the door makes you flinch, but you saw Gus’s car parked behind yours, so you know it’s Shawn.

“Good afternoon,” Gus greets, raising a hand toward the kids when he enters.

“Mr. Guster!” several of the boys exclaim, raising their hands for fist bumps.

“Wassup?!”

Shawn, however, grabs your arm and pulls you into the hallway. “Talk,” he demands.

You don’t. Instead, you pass him the note that was slipped under your door twenty minutes ago.

“This is a bomb threat,” he says after reading it.

“Yeah, I deduced that much. Terrible grammar, though.”

Shawn drops the hand holding the threat, raising his other hand toward your face. You sigh, used to his antics.

“I’ll figure out where it came from,” he vows, tapping his thumb against your chin.

You nod, dropping your eyes quickly to the note. Blue ink on the back that you hadn’t noticed before lines the corners.

“Shawn,” you whisper.

“Oh,” he breathes out, twisting the paper to read the words.

“Think you can do it before the bell rings in an hour?” you ask.

“Or we could pull the fire alarm and get everyone out,” Shawn suggests.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“No. But I’d very much like it if you would get out of here. Just in case.”

“I’m not leaving, Shawn.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand against his jaw. “I was afraid you’d say that. Now, I need you to smile or I won’t be able to focus.”

You laugh at his request, which makes Shawn’s shoulders drop.

“Now I can solve this,” he promises. “Where’d the threat come from?”

“Someone slid it under the door,” you answer. “I didn’t see anything through the window.”

“An invisible threateneer,” Shawn muses.

“Do you need anything else from me?”

“Obviously,” Shawn answers.

“Anything related to this case?”

Shawn looks into your classroom and confesses, “Not yet.”

You lead him into the classroom, nodding your thanks when he locks the door. If Shawn calls the police — which the threat warned against — you’ll allow it. You trust Shawn with your life, the kids’ lives, and the future. You wouldn’t have married him if that weren’t true.

“Mr. Spencer!” the kids exclaim.

“Hold your applause, young people,” Shawn jokes, holding his hands up. “Ready? Okay, I’m getting something. Paris, you’ll get your phone back, stop picking at your fingers. Jack, it’s too late to study for a test you took last period. You two in the back, whispering about your first date won’t make the Crab Shack any more impressive.”

“May we applaud you now?” Jack asks.

Shawn takes a small bow and answers, “Only if you must.”

Gus steps to your side, fiddling with a wrapper from the candy bucket you keep in your classroom. “Are you okay?”

You turn away from the kids and whisper, “There’s a bomb threat. Shawn has it.”

“Another one?”

“There was another?” you clarify.

“The other side of the county, yesterday,” Gus explains. “The last update mentioned something about a social media pact.”

“Which means there could be more,” you add. “Unless Shawn figures it out.”

“What are you teaching us today?” Jack asks Shawn.

“I… didn’t get that far in the car,” Shawn responds. “Is there anyone absent from this class today?”

“No,” you answer. “But a student transferred into my class then immediately moved back out.”

“A mistake on their part.” Shawn pauses, smiling proudly when the class oohs. “I need this student’s name.”

“I’ll look into the social media pact,” Gus murmurs, taking your seat to use your laptop.

“It’s on Reddit,” Paris calls. “If you’re talking about the bomb thing.”

You, Shawn, and Gus, as well as most of the students, look at Paris. She wouldn’t have been on your list of suspects.

“My ex sent it to me, bragging that he got access,” she explains. “I reported him to, uh, Detective Lass- Lassie? Something like that.”

“Absolutely fantastic,” Shawn grumbles. “I don’t say this for the same reasons as usual, but we need to call Lassie.”

“Paris, do you have it?” you ask. “From where he sent it to you?”

“I do. It’s on my phone.”

You reach past Gus to get your keys. “I’ll go get her phone from the teachers’ lounge.”

“That’s where you take our contraband?!” someone exclaims.

“Gus, go with her,” Shawn instructs.

Gus looks up, prepared to argue. But then he sees Shawn’s face and immediately agrees.

“He’s got nothing,” Gus tells you in the hallway.

“Not yet,” you agree. “Maybe I should have just called the police and hoped for the best.”

“I admire your trust in him. I don’t understand it, but I admire it.”

Smiling, you point out, “You trust him too. Even if you don’t want people to see it.”

Gus rolls his eyes, then holds the door open for you after you unlock it.

“Wow,” Gus murmurs. “This is nice.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, looking through the bin of confiscated items. “It usually smells better.”

Gus chuckles, then sniffs toward the corner.

“Super sniffer?” you joke.

“It smells like hydrogen peroxide,” Gus says. “It’s a powerful oxidizer.”

You turn away from the bin, Paris’s phone in your hand. “Isn’t it also super explosive?”

“In high concentrations,” Gus agrees. Immediately, he seems to realize what you’re implying. “We need to go.”

Running out of the lounge, you don’t bother locking the door.

“Why are you out of breath?” Shawn asks when you walk into your classroom.

“We found it,” you tell him.

“Yeah, teacher’s lounge,” Shawn says, sitting on your desk. “Why do you think I sent the super sniffer?”

“What if it had detonated?” Gus demands.

“It can’t. There’s no detonator, they’re all fake,” Shawn explains. “And I used your teacher email to bring the suspect to us. And the ringleader.” He pauses, then turns towards the kids to ask, “Is that term limited to circuses?”

“It’s high school, Mr. Spencer,” Jack replies. “It’s quite literally the same thing.”

“I like that kid,” Shawn tells you.

“Uh, you asked to see us?” two students announce as they step inside. “We don’t take your class, though.”

“No, but you went to the class of tomfoolery, didn’t you?” Shawn begins, standing from your desk. He lifts his hand to his temple then. “One of you decided that you weren’t getting enough attention at home. The other bought into the first’s spiel that a fake bomb threat would make you some kind of god amongst your peers.”

“Who’s who?” you check, blocking the door with Gus.

Shawn looks rapidly between the two boys, pointing in opposite directions. He waits until you open the door for Lassie and Juliet to announce, “Bad haircut is just a pawn. Worse haircut is the ringleader.”

“That’s offensive,” bad haircut mumbles.

“And there’s a bomb in the teachers’ lounge,” worse haircut threatens.

“Not anymore,” Lassie interrupts. “You’re both under arrest but shut up because you’re minors.”

“I turned eighteen last week,” worse haircut argues, allowing Juliet to handcuff him.

Lassie smiles. “That is terrific news. Happy birthday.”

Your class cheers as they walk out of the room. The loudspeaker crackles before the principal dismisses school for the day. Your students high-five and fist bump Gus and Shawn on their way out, except for Paris, who apologizes to you for not saying something sooner.

“Let’s go home,” you decide, pulling your bag over your shoulder.

“I’ll drive,” Gus offers. “You’ve had a long day.”

“I can drive,” Shawn interrupts. “You’re my wife, remember?”

“Oh, really?” you ask, tipping your head in faux confusion. “I just assumed since Gus bought me dinner last night-”

“It was fast food!” Shawn argues, stomping his foot. “That doesn’t even count.”

“You’re right,” you concede, patting Shawn’s shoulder. “I’m the third wheel in your bromance.”

“I would kiss you to shut you up if Lassie weren’t lurking in the corner.”

“I’m looking for evidence,” Lassie — who you didn’t see return — defends. “If I didn’t have to hear this, I wouldn’t.”

“You’re welcome,” Shawn and Gus tell him.

Lassie looks at you to offer, “I am so sorry.”

Shrugging, you explain, “I’m used to it.”

“Bomb threat is a new one,” Shawn muses on the way to the parking lot. “I’ll take any excuse to see someone so bombastic.”

“Wow,” Gus drawls. “That was horrific.”

“And a little insensitive,” you agree.

“I can be sensitive, if you want,” Shawn whispers, leaning toward you. “I can be anything you want.”

“Then be someone who can drive me home and get me ice cream,” you request.

“Is the ice cream available to the driver?”

“If he’s good.”

Shawn nods rapidly, opening the passenger-side door for you. “I can be so good,” he promises.

Lassie walks by, scowling as he mumbles, “All he’s missing is the tail.”

“Don’t,” you and Gus warn before Shawn can comment.

“Wow. I love you guys, too,” he murmurs.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Sensible Relationship

Pairing: Michael Holt x fem!autistic!reader

Summary: You love bugs and arachnids. Michael loves gadgets and avoiding people. On the surface, you seem completely opposite, but when people begin realizing that you're together, the sensibility of your relationship becomes evident.

Warnings/Word Count: bugs and spiders, probably inaccurate depiction of autism, brief angst, fluff, slight protective!Terrific; 1.2k+ words, requested

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“Hi, Anansi,” you hum, turning your hand over as you drag a red marker over the sketchpad spread open on the desk.

Her soft fur brushes over your wrist as she climbs onto your arm. Bopping your head to the music playing through your headphones, you don’t hear someone knock on the door. An alert pops up on the computer monitor that there’s a visitor, so you pause the music and stand, ensuring that Anansi remains safe on your shoulder as you walk.

“Oh,” Max Lord says, stepping back when you open the door. “You’re here.”

You nod, your smile dropping at his disappointed response.

“Sorry,” he offers. “I was looking for Michael. Have you seen him?”

“He went to get coffee with Hawkgirl,” you answer softly.

“Thanks.”

You nod again, then push the door closed. Before you restart your music, another alert appears on Michael’s monitor, this one a message straight from Superman.

“It’s not from Earth,” you confirm, clutching your knees as you sit awkwardly but comfortably beside the unmoving creature. “It looks like a haptopoda, a plesiorio, but it’s an extinct genus.”

“Were they… this big?” Superman asks.

You laugh as you stand, wiping your palms on your hoodie before you clutch your backpack straps. “Of course not, Superman. They were spiders.”

He smiles as he nods, then offers to take you back to Lord Tech. You look down at the ladybug print watch Green Lantern got you for your birthday and shake your head.

“It’s okay, I have somewhere to be,” you explain.

“Well, thank you for the help,” Superman says. He offers his hand as he adds, “I always know who to call for stuff like this.”

Stuff like this? you think as he flies away. You can’t linger on what it means for long before you remember that there’s a new digital arachnid journal posting this afternoon.

“Don’t touch it,” Mr. Terrific snaps.

Guy lifts his hands, grumbling under his breath as he takes a step back.

“It’s probably not poisonous,” Kendra argues.

“Probably not?” Terrific repeats. “You don’t say.”

Kendra waves, then sits in Mr. Terrific’s chair in the Hall of Justice. The construction crew left when the alarm went off, and now the Justice Gang has been left alone to figure out what caused it. The appearance of an oversized beetle in an air vent certainly didn’t help their mission.

“Hi!” you call as you enter the building.

“Hey, bug girl,” Guy greets, smiling when you frown at the nickname. “It’s a term of endearment,” he assures you, “I provide them to my weirdest acquaintances.”

“Still mean,” you argue under your breath. “Where is it?”

“Why do you get so excited when we tell you about a bug?” Kendra wonders, twisting in the chair to keep you in sight.

“Because bugs are incredible!” you gush, dropping your backpack beside the air vent Mr. Terrific leads you to. “They have so much personality and incredible capabilities. They’re kind of like superheroes in the animal kingdom.”

Guy covers his mouth to stifle a laugh, rolling his eyes when you pull a tablet out of your bag. You tap the screen a few times, then tip your head dramatically to look at the winged creature sitting in the metal vent.

“I think this is a smaller version of the thing Superman found yesterday,” you announce.

“You saw Superman yesterday?” Mr. Terrific asks, his brows raising as he crosses his arms.

“What does that mean?” Guy inquires simultaneously.

“I don’t think they’re from earth,” you explain, “so it could mean there was a rift or some sort of portal. I doubt it’s a new species native to Metropolis, and haptopodas aren’t going to come back any time soon. It’s a weird theory, I know, but it’s the only one that makes sense.”

“I understood the last part,” Kendra interjects, “and I think we should call someone with more experience dealing with aliens.”

“I deal with aliens,” Guy brags.

“Yeah, but Superman is an alien.”

“I could run some tests on it,” you offer as you stand.

Guy and Kendra turn back to you with disgusted looks, to which you simply shrug and bend forward to get your backpack. Mr. Terrific steps toward you, knocking your hand aside softly before he lifts the bag. He grunts at the weight, shaking his head at you.

“Can we go to the museum in Central City next weekend?” you ask. “They have a new exhibit called Spiky, Hairy, Shiny with electron cross-scans of tarantula cells!”

“Ugh,” Guy shudders. “Tarantulas are creepy.”

“They are not!” you argue, personally offended. “Anansi is the sweetest animal ever. Nicer than Krypto, and dogs are supposed to be man’s best friend.”

“Who is Anansi?” Kendra asks.

Mr. Terrific answers for you, pointing to the tarantula on his keyboard. You frown at the backpack, wondering how she got out of the clear case you made her. Regardless, you ignore Kendra’s scream and scoop Anansi into your hands.

“You are so weird,” Guy complains again, wiping his arms like there are more bugs.

“Easy,” Mr. Terrific warns.

He sets the backpack on his desk and opens the case so you can return Anansi to safety. When it’s closed, he rubs your back kindly, whispering a promise that she’s okay.

“Oh my gosh,” Kendra mumbles.

You look up, your brows furrowing at the shocked looks on Kendra and Guy’s faces.

“No,” Guy whispers. “Well…”

“Yeah,” Kendra sighs, like she’s agreeing with him. “That makes sense.”

“Are you done?” Mr. Terrific snaps.

“How long have you two been dating?” Kendra asks.

Mr. Terrific shakes his head, leading you toward the door before you can reply.

“But,” you begin, pushing against him.

“Walk out now and we’ll go to Central City,” he murmurs. So, you walk out.

“Gary and the other Superman robots confirmed that it’s from another planet,” Superman tells you.

You pull your jacket tighter around you and nod, looking at the walls made of ice. There are no bugs here, that’s for sure.

“What about how they’re getting here?” Mr. Terrific asks, stepping closer to you when he sees you shiver.

“Not sure yet, but it seems to be some of portal tube?” Superman shrugs, then looks pointedly at the lack of space between you and Michael. “What are you doing?”

“Shivering,” you answer. “It’s freezing.”

“No, I mean, why are you so close?”

“Because it’s cold,” Michael reiterates.

“No, that’s not—you’re dating? Since when?” He rushes forward as he speaks, and you shift uncomfortably, ready to go home and finish reading the journal you started last night before falling asleep on Michael’s shoulder.

“We’ll talk later,” Michael offers, wrapping his arm around you.

“No problem,” Superman agrees. “I’m happy for you.”

You thank Superman, then rush out. When you get home and make yourself comfortable beside the terrarium where Anansi is getting to know her new friends, you turn on the playlist Michael made for you. He comes to find you hours later, holding you close as you tell him everything you learned.

Michael wakes to a text from Max: Heard you’re dating my little weirdo genius. Finally.

You shift closer to him in your sleep, and Michael traces the shape of a spider on your arm.

[fluentmoviequoter]

not broken

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader

Summary: Jason can't handle physical touch, yet another thing the Lazarus Pit ripped away from him. When he notices you at a gala, he becomes enamored with the way you keep people out of your space. You offer him a reminder that neither of you are broken.

Warnings/Word Count: touch starvation (r & Jay), mentions of throwing up/dry heaving, panic attacks, assault, angst, Harley, good dad Bruce, fluff, comfort. 4.5k+ words

Jason Todd Taglist: @kmc1989 @person-005 @stilestotherescue @peachyfckingkeen @natashamea18 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @ilocuras24

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When Jason first realized that he couldn’t handle being touched after emerging from the Lazarus Pit, it was the least of concerns. He was solely focused on revenge, more concerned with the fates of those who wronged him than his own health or welfare. That’s why, several years later, Jason can barely remember what it’s like to be touched.

Now, standing on a rooftop near Arkham, Jason taps his gloved fingers against his thigh. He got hit last night and Bruce forced him to go see Leslie. She’s taken every precaution to not touch him directly because despite his best efforts, she could see how much it affected him. Long ago, when he was laid out on her floor with a broken rib and a concussion, she’d asked him about the touch starvation — it was the night he learned his particular affliction had a name. Blaming it on the concussion, Jason admitted that it wasn’t just being touched. He can’t handle touching people either. It’s yet another thing that the Lazarus Pit stole from him.

Since then, he’s tried everything the internet recommended; self-soothing techniques made him anxious and uncomfortable, martial arts was never going to work so he gave up on any alternatives, he refused to try therapy, and self-compassion often had the opposite effect.

“Hiya!” Harley exclaims, jumping into his view.

Jason steps back and sighs. He should have heard her coming. “Harley,” he greets calmly, as if his heart rate didn’t increase at her sudden appearance.

She walks a slow circle around him, tapping her chin.

“I don’t like this,” he grumbles when she comes back into view.

“You’re self-soothing, big guy,” she points out. “But based on how tense you have those big, yummy, hangable shoulders, I’m thinkin’ it ain’t workin’.”

“Hangable?” Jason repeats.

“Now,” Harley continues, leaning against the chimney stack behind her. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Why would I tell you if something was going on?” Jason challenges, rolling his shoulders back.

“Bluebird trusts me. We talked about his relationship with Oracle last night. Ya know I’m marryin’ them?”

“I… don’t even want to know,” Jason decides. “Look, I’m busy, Harley.”

“Yeah, you look real busy, Big Red.”

Jason sighs, shaking his head as he looks toward Harley.

“I’m a professional,” Harley reminds him.

“A professional pain in my-” With another sigh, Jason considers telling her the truth. It won’t change anything to tell her. “I’m touch starved,” he admits softly. “But it- it’s not just the pins and needles or the pain that people talk about. I get sick or I just shut down and it won’t go away.”

“How long’s it been like that?”

Jason looks at Harley. Maybe he should sugarcoat it, focus on the Lazarus Pit rather than why he ended up there. But she’s strong. Stronger than him probably. Harley Quinn isn’t haunted by the Joker like he is. “Since him,” Jason says. “When I came back after that warehouse, I just couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t want to at first. Then it was like this.”

Harley purses her lips as she thinks. As expected, she didn’t even flinch at the mention of the Joker. “What have you tried?”

“What makes you think I’ve tried anything?”

“Because you’re Batman’s son. You don’t like help, so you try to fix every problem on your own. So, what have you tried?”

His jaw tenses before he murmurs, “Weighted blanket, self-massage, a martial arts class, regular phone calls, self-compassion.”

“All supposed to stimulate oxytocin,” Harley agrees. “Wait, regular phone calls? With who?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Bluebird. What didn’t work?”

“None of it worked!” Jason exclaims.

“Red, sweetheart, I’m going to tell you the truth.”

“That’ll be new.”

Harley rolls her eyes and pushes off the chimney. “You’re not touch starved. An aversion to touch that intense is something more. It may never go away. If you don’t learn to live with it, it will destroy you from the inside.”

Jason takes a shaky breath beneath the helmet. “What are you doing here?” Jason wonders.

“Oh! Bats asked me to let you know that Killer Croc got tranq’ed by Ivy earlier so you’re wastin’ your time out here.”

“Fantastic,” Jason grumbles as he turns. “Thanks, Harls.”

“Anytime! Hey, if you decide you want to try being hugged again, Bluebird needs a best man!”

As he jumps down onto the fire escape, Jason wonders if he can accept what Harley told him. Maybe if he just takes it slow and gets out of his head about it, everything will be alright.

Taking it slow doesn’t work. The following night, Jason is forced to attend a gala at the manor. Wearing a suit presented by Alfred, his hands, neck, and face are exposed. He’s gotten so used to wearing his gear that the mere reality of having skin exposed unsettles him.

“Damian,” Jason hisses from the corner. “C’mere.”

Damian rushes to Jason’s side, only listening because the alternative is having his cheeks pinched by another overdressed woman.

“We can help each other,” Jason tells him.

Damian grimaces, then looks around the crowded room. “How?” he inquires.

“You don’t want to talk, I don’t want to be touched, but we have to stay. Any idea what a buffer does?”

“Of course I know what a buffer is, Todd. I’ve received more education in my life than you did in all your years of attending Gotham’s dismal schools.”

“Okay, yes or no would’a sufficed,” Jason interrupts. “Look, we just stick together for tonight, okay? I’m not asking to become your best friend.”

“I would have refused such an offer,” Damian says, his chin raised. “As it stands, your plan, albeit vague, is one I can agree to.”

“Great,” Jason sighs. “Then let’s survive this thing.”

They linger in the corner for as long as they can, but it’s Gotham, and rich Gothammites seem to have a sixth sense for discomfort. So, they’re drawn from the shadows and pulled into a conversation about Bruce and his recent appearances in the media.

Damian looks up at Jason when someone asks them if they know whether Bruce is dating anyone, and when he catches his older brother’s eyes, he gestures downward. Jason bends at his waist to hear Damian whisper, “Here’s our chance.”

Jason nods, then stands and says, “Excuse us.”

He leads Damian through the room and up the stairs. In the safety of the manor’s library, they each take a chair and release a relieved breath.

“Hey, room’s taken,” Dick calls from behind a shelf.

“If you did not wish to be disturbed, you should’ve locked the door,” Damian points out without moving.

“Oh, hi, Dami,” Dick calls. He peeks around the edge of the shelf and asks, “Want a book?”

“Something that requires logical and deductive thinking, please,” Damian replies.

“Jay?” Dick asks as he starts looking.

“What are you doing in here?” Jason asks instead of answering.

“Babs didn’t show, so I saw no reason to stay.”

Jason rolls his eyes before Dick appears with two books in hand.

“Kingdom of Fantasy #5: Volcano of Fire,” Damian reads from the cover. “Grayson, this is a children’s book.”

“It’s about a reporter who goes on adventures and solves mysteries,” Dick explains. “Give it a chance.”

“They’re not bad,” Jason agrees. “He’s going to hate the typeset, though.”

“Incompetence,” Damian mumbles to himself as he turns to the second page.

“For you,” Dick offers.

Jason takes the offered book without hesitation. His fingers brush the side of Dick’s palm, and his hearing goes static. Dick is saying something about the book or Barbara, or maybe both, but Jason can’t hear him. He drops the book as he stands. His brothers call after him as he rushes out of the library, but he can’t respond. Jason’s heart pounds in his ears, his skin feels as if it’s too small for the rest of his body, and his stomach churns. He escapes into a bedroom with an en suite and locks the door behind him. A measly lock won’t stop Dick or Damian from following him, but if they decide to, it will give him time. Jason leans against the wall, his palm burning as if it is on fire.

Jason turns and runs into the bathroom. Hunched over the toilet, he gags. The memory of Dick’s unexpected touch lingers as he dry heaves. Jason tries to think back, accept the touch in his mind, but it only worsens the dread and misery.

Twenty minutes later, his stomach calms. Jason drops his forehead against the cool tile of the shower and takes a deep breath. He presses his hands to his legs, but even his own touch causes him to squirm now.

“Jay?” Dick calls from the hallway. “Jay, I’m sorry. Can I come in?”

Jason stands, unsteady on his feet as he moves toward the sink. He splashes cold water on his face, but it’s pointless. Nothing will fix this. Nothing will fix him.

Dick steps inside when Jason opens the door, but he keeps his distance and stays quiet. Damian slips in before Jason closes the door again, his nose buried in the book he initially refused.

“I can’t handle touch,” Jason offers without being asked. Dick will worry about him if he doesn’t say anything and, for some reason, Jason doesn’t want to inflict that on his brother. “Since I came out of the pit, it just… I can’t.”

“All touch?” Dick inquires.

Jason nods, then tells him what he told Harley. Despite trying everything he can think of, what he found online, what both Harley and Leslie suggested, he cannot learn to give or accept physical touch again. It’s been years. He’s past saving.

“So, what happens?” Dick wonders.

“It depends. Leslie said it was normal to experience a ‘range of adverse effects.’ Sometimes I can’t move for a minute afterward, sometimes I get really sick, there have been a few times where I just shut down.”

Dick nods, understanding and not judging. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“I don’t think so.” Jason tugs his tie, then unbuttons the top of his shirt, desperately trying to feel like himself again.

“Have you told Bruce?”

“No. And I don’t plan to.”

“He’ll understand.” Jason prepares to argue, but Dick cuts him off to explain, “When he took me in, Bruce was touch starved. He’d try to comfort me but I could see the hesitation, you know? One night, I crawled onto his bed because I’d had a nightmare and he held me. I could feel the stages he went through, from that rigid, pain-induced paralysis to when he finally felt okay. I understand that it’s not the same thing, but Bruce will get it.”

“And if he tries to fix me?”

“I’ll let Stephanie redecorate his bedroom while he’s on patrol.”

Jason smiles at the idea, then nods. He doesn’t go out of his way to talk to Bruce, but if it comes up naturally, he’ll share the struggle and hope for the best.

Dick glances at his watch and decides, “Let’s get out of here.”

Jason follows Dick down the stairs, staying just close enough that it’s clear they’re moving together but not getting close enough to accidentally touch him again. As they move through the gala, with Damian reading his book as he follows Dick’s steps, Jason sees something. You’re sitting at a table alone, holding your hands neatly in your lap and looking at the charity information cards that most donors toss on the floor. There’s no one around you; instead, a sense of peace and separation surrounds you and separates you from the rest of the party.

Jason doesn’t have time to speak to you, but he commits you to memory, intrigued and distracted for the rest of the night.

Bruce finds out about Jason's predicament because he’s the world’s greatest detective and because Jason had to end patrol early after he carried a kid to safety. Those dots weren’t hard to connect, and Bruce beats himself up a little for not noticing sooner.

“Your gear is sufficient?” Bruce checks as he sits at the computer in his study.

“Yeah,” Jason answers. “I added some stuff to it so there’s no exposed skin. The few people who noticed decided it was for intimidation or keeping my identity a secret. I, uh, I didn’t correct them.”

“Good, good,” Bruce murmurs. He opens a clothing website, then pushes the chair back to allow Jason to see it. “These clothes are lightweight and made from single fabrics.”

“Okay… What does that mean?”

“The designer created them for his son. He couldn’t find clothes that didn’t irritate or overstimulate his son, so he made an entire line from underwear to coats, all handcrafted. I’ve been wearing them for years.”

“Really?” Jason asks softly, leaning forward to see the screen. “You think they’d help?”

“I think they’d take one burden off your shoulders. Do the clothes you wear now bother you in any way?”

Jason nods, not meeting Bruce’s eyes.

“Then, I’d suggest you try them.”

“Do you think… never mind.”

Bruce turns away from the computer entirely, a silent invitation for Jason to ask his question.

“The pit took a lot from me. Now, this… Did it take away all of my humanity?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I see you, Jason. Not the missing pieces. I see the boy who runs into a burning apartment to save a child, the boy who puts the safety of an entire city above his own, the boy who holds the entire trust of The Hill. I see my son, Jason, and I always will, whether you accept physical touch or not.”

Jason should say something, reply to the kindness Bruce just offered him. Instead he asks, “Is nine dollars expensive for underwear?”

Bruce barks a laugh and shifts the mouse toward Jason. “Go crazy,” he invites. “It’s on me.”

Wearing a new outfit comprised entirely of the clothes Bruce bought him, Jason holds the door open for a family entering the diner. He waits until they’re clear of the doorway to step inside. He’s earlier than usual, so he’s surprised to find that many of the booths are occupied.

Jason makes his way to the back and takes the booth closest to the kitchen. Shifting to sit by the wall, he pushes the menu away and waits.

“I’m working on it,” Marlene, the waitress who is always here no matter what time Jason comes in, promises. “Get you anything while you wait?”

“Coffee, when you have time? Thanks,” Jason answers.

Marlene nods kindly, then moves to take a plate to a man sitting at the bar. While he waits, he folds a paper napkin into the shape of a bat. Damian found an origami book in the library and insisted on teaching someone. He then swore never to teach Jason anything ever again because it took too long. Jason looks up when the bell over the door chimes.

You smile and wave at Marlene as you walk inside. Without hesitation or thought, you walk to the booth beside Jason’s and sit. You pull a notebook out of your bag and start writing, in your own world. Jason looks back at the door, thinking about how you came in. You moved around the family still standing in the way, trying to decide who gets to sit where in the booth, skirted around a waitress, and kept space around you with every intentional step. It was as if you were dancing: practiced, perfected, and purposeful. He wonders both why you’ve chosen to conduct yourself this way and if he could learn to do the same with such grace and ease.

By the time Jason gets his coffee and food, you’re finishing the pie you ordered and closing your notebook. You pay Marlene by sliding cash across the counter, invite her to keep the change, thank her, and leave. Yet again, Jason finds himself thinking of you long after you’re out of sight.

The next week goes well. Jason’s new wardrobe does keep him cool and comfortable in a way he hadn’t realized he needed and he manages to get through every patrol without incident. Then, he gets invited to a gala. Bruce has learned that last-minute invites are more effective in getting Jason and the others to arrive, and Jason thinks he’s sick with the power. The only grace in the invitation is that Bruce presents Jason with a suit that has matching gloves. Dick and Duke offer to wear gloves as well, claiming it will make it a fashion statement so no one asks about it.

Jason's annoyed rumbling only silences when he sees you at the gala. You’re standing at the side of the staircase, your fingers linked behind your back and your eyes tracking a specific waiter.

Someone approaches you then, smiling and confident as he offers his hand. Jason’s eyes narrow as he watches, but you smile and nod, politely declining his handshake. The man seems undeterred and certainly not offended. He slides his hand into his pocket and gives you space as he continues speaking.

“What are we watching?” Tim asks, seeming to spawn at Jason’s side. “Oh, a girl. You know her?”

“Not yet,” Jason answers.

“Confident,” Tim muses. “Disgusting.”

“Do you know her?”

Tim falls quiet for a moment, then offers your name. “Saw her picture on the guest list.”

“Who is she? A donor?”

“No clue. Ask Bruce to introduce you.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

Gotham’s gala season is in full swing with two to three parties every week. Luckily, Bruce only makes the boys attend those he hosts. Yet, Jason finds himself tagging along to a few others, always searching the crowd for you before making an early exit. He watches you from a distance, in awe of how you preserve your personal space without making it obvious, graciously decline handshakes without offending anyone, and control conversations with an easy smile.

He’s never seen you touch someone or be touched by someone, and it makes him realize that Bruce was right. His humanity doesn’t begin and end with physical touch.

At a Wayne Foundation Gala, you’re leaning against the wall and shifting your weight from left to right. Jason noticed that you were wearing a new dress when he entered, one he hadn’t seen before, but then his attention shifted to you.

You straighten suddenly, looking out into the crowd as someone moves toward you. Jason flinches when Damian comes into view, barreling straight toward you. He takes your hand, clutching your fingers against his palms. Jason’s breath catches and his shoulders stiffen as he watches your face for a reaction.

“Hi,” you say when a woman approaches.

She stops to look at Damian. “Oh, I was just going to ask Mr. Wayne a few questions,” she explains.

“Well, I asked him to dance, if you don’t mind to wait.”

“Of course.”

The woman nods once, then disappears into the crowd again. Damian takes a quick breath, and you keep your hand in his when you turn toward him. Whatever you tell him calms him down quickly. He goes upstairs after thanking you and isn’t seen again during the gala.

Jason finds himself moving toward you. He doesn’t get close, just lingers at the boundary of your personal space. No one approaches you, people respect that you don’t want to shake hands or be hugged, and it makes Jason breathe easier. Now he realizes why Damian was so quick to run to you for shelter. Part of him wishes he could do the same.

“Can I ask a question?” you ask during the next gala.

Jason jerks his head up quickly, surprised to hear you address him.

“Sure,” he answers tightly.

“Is there actually a rule against wearing the same dress to more than one gala per year?”

“I’ve never had a problem with it.”

You laugh at his joke, and Jason smiles. He inches closer to you to allow someone to pass behind him.

“I don’t think so,” he tells you. “I’ve seen some people get made fun of for repeat outfits, but it’s mostly the ones already facing criticism for one reason or another.”

“So, I could get away with it because I’m perfect?” you tease.

“Precisely.”

You’re walking home from the diner late one night when someone lands on the sidewalk, directly in your path. You look up at the roofline high above your head, then back at Red Hood, who has straightened and is now staring at you.

“Did that hurt?” you wonder.

“Uh, no- no, ma’am,” he rambles. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

He looks down the empty street, then at the dark alley you were about to pass. “Are you walking alone? At this time of night?” Red Hood inquires.

“Yeah, I got drawn into something I was working on and lost track of time,” you explain sheepishly. “I’m not too far.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

You glance at Red Hood’s gloved hand, outstretched in the direction you had been walking. He seems familiar, but you shake your head to clear the question and agree. You walk in comfortable silence until you reach your home.

“Thank you,” you say as you stand in the doorway. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks. Be careful, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll try. Most a girl can do in Gotham, right?”

“Precisely,” he answers, a little sarcastic before he shoots a grappling hook above his head, waves, and disappears.

“Precisely,” you repeat, smiling as you close the door. “Where have I heard that before?”

The next few weeks of galas and events go smoothly. You and Jason get to know one another, bonding over being outsiders together. He finds that your company is even better than he dreamed it would be. Even between parties, he texts you, answers calls from you on the first ring just to hear your voice. If his brothers, or Bruce, for that matter, realize what he is doing, he may have to move to Metropolis.

“I forgot how terrible this is,” you whisper during Bruce’s last gala.

Because it’s his final time hosting this year, the manor is crawling with reporters hoping to get a big break or stumble upon the story of the year. The crowd is bigger than the others, too, adding to the stress of the evening.

“If you need a break, we can go upstairs,” Jason offers. “Or you can go wander, Bruce won’t mind.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Todd,” a reporter calls.

“No comment,” Jason replies immediately.

The reporter nods, then turns to his camera man and grumbles something about media training.

“It’s that easy, huh?”

“When they’re already a little scared to talk to you, yeah,” Jason answers. “One of my brothers is flagging me down, I’ll be right back.”

“Sure,” you reply.

“Want anything? A drink? One-way ticket to Fiji?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

Jason nods, then times his steps with the movement of the people around him to reach Tim. Luke and Helena found something in the Narrows, Tim explains while Jason glances back at you.

“Stop talking,” Jason demands when he sees someone standing too close to you. “Who is that?”

“Derek something, I think, new reporter at the Gazette,” Tim answers. “I thought you didn’t know her.”

“I didn’t,” Jason answers before he rushes back through the crowd.

“Let go,” you demand when the reporter grabs your wrist. Your voice is shaky, and he’s determined to get an answer to whatever he asked while Jason was gone.

“You heard her,” Jason interjects lowly. “Let go.”

“I thought you were the man of no comments,” the reporter taunts. “Let us finish here.”

Jason grasps the back of the man’s collar in a gloved hand. When his grasp on your wrist loosens, Jason snatches him backward, then shoves him against the wall of the staircase. They’re out of sight from most of the party, but you look over your shoulder uneasily regardless.

“Jason,” you whisper.

Ignoring you, Jason turns the man so his back is to the wall. He raises his hands to the man’s shoulders, shoving him back as he moves his fingers toward the man’s throat.

“I’m sorry, man,” the reporter says quickly. “I’ll go, I’ll leave and not write the story.”

“Little late,” Jason replies.

“Jason, it’s fine,” you interrupt, moving to his side. “He let me go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I let her go.”

“Shut up,” you tell the reporter, keeping your eyes on Jason. “Don’t do this. He’s not worth it.”

Jason glances at you, and when he sees the fear in your eyes, he lets go. The reporter takes a deep inhale, then clutches his neck and runs toward the front door.

“Can we talk?” you ask, gesturing toward the stairs.

Nodding, Jason begins walking. You follow him up the stairs, down a long corridor, and up to the roof. He doesn’t speak as he holds the door open for you, letting you decide what happens.

You find a bench at the edge of the roof, overlooking the garden, and sit. There’s a gargoyle to your right and another at the far corner of the house, but you look at Jason instead.

With a sigh, he sinks to the other end of the bench, leaving room between you for his benefit and yours. Neither of you speak for several minutes, simply watching the night sky and listening to the sounds of the gala below.

Jason waits, tense in anticipation of whatever you’ll say. Fear is a powerful decision-maker, and the look in your eyes downstairs was unmistakable. Jason may have lost the most important relationship he’s had in years.

“It hurts,” you admit, still looking up. Jason turns toward you, watching your lips move as you continue, “The doctor said it was touch starvation at first, but I think it’s more than that. The pins and needles don’t go away. Maybe I’m messed up, maybe it’s not my fault and I was touched by the wrong people at the wrong time… I don’t know why, but I know it’s not my fault.”

“Do you know who I am?” Jason asks softly.

You turn, looking pointedly at his gloves as you say, “I think so.”

“Everything feels like him,” Jason murmurs. “Even the sheets in the manor took me back there, his hands on me while he- while he laughed. I kept thinking it would get better.”

“It doesn’t mean we’re broken.”

“Then what are we?”

You meet his eyes and smile as you shrug. “People who know what their love language isn’t, I suppose.”

“You let Damian touch you,” Jason remembers suddenly.

“Yeah, and I hated it. But I also know that the woman trying to talk to him is a miserable old hag who would have made him do something you’d all get in trouble for.”

“How much do you know?” Jason asks carefully.

“Bruce invites me for a reason,” you reply without truly answering.

Jason hums. He could press, get answers, but it doesn’t seem worth it. “You really believe we’re not broken?”

“Absolutely.”

You shift to face Jason and you both embrace the space between you and what it means. Sitting quietly on the roof, nothing else matters.

“Do you believe me?” you whisper after a while. “Or do you need Harley to explain it to you again?”

Jason has even more questions now, but instead of asking, he looks into your eyes and says, “You make me feel less broken. Is that enough?”

You hum, then smile and decide, “It’s a start.”

[fluentmoviequoter]

affects me

Pairing: Shawn Spencer x fem!wife!historian!reader

Summary: A murder case involving historic artifacts draws your attention. Your husband pulls you into the case, flirting with you nearly everytime he speaks. One of the SBPD detectives fails to convince Shawn to control himself, and you remind your husband that you love him the way he is.

Warnings/Word Count: flirting, cuddling, fluff, canon typical case details, Shawn hits on his wife, Lassie threatens Shawn. 2.2k+ words, requested

Psych Masterlist | Masterlist Directory | Request Info | Taglist

“Are you listening to me?”

You blink, thinking back to one of the first times you were alone with your father-in-law.

“You seem like a good person; responsible, well put-together,” he had complimented. “My son will be a terrible influence on you. You’ll wake up one day and poof! The good qualities are gone, filed down to nothing.”

You hadn’t believed him then, but as your mind urges you to say No, why would I when I know more than you? you realize that he was right. Your husband really is a bad influence. He’s lucky he’s cute.

Your coworker snaps in front of your face. “Are you listening?” he repeats.

“Yes, I’m listening,” you sigh. Yet, when your phone buzzes, you lift a finger to ask him to wait. The alert on the screen is far more interesting than whatever Carl was telling you. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“What kind of emergency can a historian have mid-day on a Tuesday?” he calls after you.

You wave over your shoulder and leave the office. You’re to your car before you remember that Carl quit last month, and you don’t know the new guy’s name.

“Wow, he really is a bad influence,” you murmur to yourself as you start your car.

Shawn is pacing in the Psych office, crime scene photos strewn over his desk and Gus’s. He taps a ceramic vase sitting on the fridge, then steps over a clay tray half-tucked beneath his desk.

“You’ve got nothing,” Gus accuses, smiling as he links his fingers behind his head. “You have no idea what happened in that locker.”

“I have an idea,” Shawn argues. He drops his voice to add, “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Great, I’ll call Juliet and tell her you can’t come up with an answer that’s translatable to this realm. That sounds like something you’d say, right?”

“Wait!” Shawn yells, stomping his foot. “I just… I need to make a call.”

“To whom?” Gus wonders. “The original owner of the collection? No, wait, the sculptor? Why not see if you can contact the models?”

Shawn rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, or this mountain made of women whose husbands have died,” he mumbles, tapping his forehead.

“It’s called a widow’s peak, Shawn.”

“Is that not what I just said? You gotta listen, Guster.”

“Fine. Then who are you calling?”

Shawn smiles, his shoulders straight as he pulls his phone from his pocket. “My wife.”

He taps the screen, then flinches when someone knocks on the wall of the office. Gus waves before Shawn gasps excitedly.

“You’re so hot,” Shawn sighs, blinking slowly as he looks at your outfit.

“Okay,” you reply with a nod. “I heard about the murder. Are you on the case?”

“How’d you hear about it?” Gus wonders.

“Because she’s brilliant!” Shawn answers for you. “She’s beautiful, and smart, and so hot.”

“You already said that part,” you point out. Walking toward his desk, you tap one of the crime scene photos. “So, the crime scene is a private storage locker filled with historic artifacts, right?”

“Mostly pottery,” Gus adds. “There was a kiln in the back corner.”

You nod, lifting the photo of the kiln. “It hasn’t been used.”

“What?” Shawn asks, pressing his chest to your side and looking at your face rather than the picture.

You tip your chin and smile at him. “I’ve seen a lot of kilns. This one hasn’t been used.”

“Then that makes Lassie’s theory about making fake artifacts as stupid as I thought it was,” Shawn mumbles. “Hey, let’s go tell him.”

Gus stands, used to Shawn's antics when he drags you toward the door. You sigh, accepting his direction.

“I’m sorry,” Detective Lassiter interrupts. “Who are you exactly? Why should we trust anything you say?” He turns toward Shawn to warn, “Your advocating for her isn’t enough.”

“I’d never cause advocation for her,” Shawn scoffs. “She deserves all the good things.”

“Advocate means to support the fact that she can do it; you’re thinking of adversity,” Gus interjects.

“You are an adversity!”

“I’m a historian,” you answer. “Wrote my thesis on historical artifacts. Given the state of the crime scene, I thought I might be able to offer something.”

Lassiter nods, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Shawn’s head tips as he evaluates the detective’s body language. He’s hesitant to accept your help – or even to believe you – purely because you walked into the station with Shawn Spencer.

“Not to mention she’s gorgeous,” Shawn flirts, winking at you. “I mean, I don’t hear most of what she says because it’s more fun to watch her talk.”

Lassiter shifts, his jaw twitching. You don’t react to Shawn’s comments; instead, you walk to the case board and tap the inventory of the scene.

“These vases are part of a set. There’s one missing,” you explain. “No way someone would separate a singular part of it. Something with this value, they’re not splitting it at all.”

“What’s the value?” Juliet asks.

Exhaling, you estimate, “Two million? Only if it’s complete.”

“If you’re offering your services, we’ll compensate you for any useful consultation you can provide,” Chief Vick offers.

You nod, then turn back to the case board. Detective O’Hara and the Chief can see your abilities, but it’s clear that Lassiter will remain skeptical. It’s the least of your concerns, even when you feel Shawn’s eyes following your every step.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” you whisper.

“That body doesn’t-” Shawn begins.

“Will you please stop?” Gus pleads, pointing to the box of evidence bags on Juliet’s desk. “Focus, Shawn.”

“Someday, you’ll meet a beautiful woman, and you’ll understand, Gus,” Shawn sighs, patting his back.

“You’re about to understand my fist in your teeth.”

“The violence has to stop, Gus.”

Behind Shawn, Lassie steps closer to the board, his eyes flittering between you and the photos taped up.

“What doesn’t make sense?” he inquires.

“This is a large production kiln,” you say, tapping the picture of it. “28-inch diameter, I think… Retail for these is $3,500 to $7,000. Why pay that much for something and then put it in a locker where it just collects dust? I mean, it’s surrounded by millions of dollars’ worth of historic artifacts and everything is reduced to trinkets.”

“Could you sell this stuff?” Lassie asks. “Legally, I mean.”

“Yeah. Get it appraised and prove that it’s all legitimate and yes, you can sell it.”

“Well, there’s one thing,” Lassie begins carefully. He looks over his shoulder, ensures that Shawn isn’t looking, then pulls a folder off his desk. “The true owner of the locker was retired, doesn't get out much. He mentioned that the kiln was a gift. He paid his neighbor’s son to put it in storage for him; had no idea what else was in the locker.”

Your brows draw together at that information. “But the items weren’t reported stolen?”

“No, they weren’t.”

“Could you get the bills of sale for everything?” you inquire. “Find out if the same person acquired all of them?”

Shawn walks to your side, his fingers dragging from your wrist up to your elbow. He inhales deeply, then presents an evidence bag. “What is this?” he asks.

Lassiter scolds him, trying to take the bag from him.

“Crazing,” you murmur.

“What?” Lassie asks, while Shawn says, “Crazy for you.”

“Crazing,” you repeat, carefully taking the bag. “These cracks in the glaze, where it kind of looks like a- a map or a network. It’s caused by moisture expansion over the years. This isn’t modeling clay; it’s earthenware.”

“Which means what?” Gus asks.

“Earthenware is heavy... What was the murder weapon?”

“Your beauty could be a weapon,” Shawn flirts.

“Zip it, Spencer,” Lassie snaps. “According to the autopsy, blunt force, crushed… blah, blah, here. Murder weapon believed to be flattened disk-shaped object with force over 2,300 Newtons of force.”

“Can I see the scene?” you request. “I’m not making guarantees, but I think you might have your murder weapon.”

Shawn nods and takes your hand. “Shotgun!”

“No, Spencer,” Lassie replies. “You and Guster go with O’Hara. We’ll meet you there.”

Shawn gasps, pressing his hand to his chest. “You would separate me from my one true love? The woman who, through time, space, and lifetimes-”

“Go.”

You nod, then follow Lassiter to his car. He taps his fingers on the wheel as he drives, glancing at you as you read the case report in the passenger seat.

“I can make him stop,” Lassiter blurts out.

“Who? What?” you question, looking away from the papers.

“You haven’t responded to a single one of Spencer’s advances. If he won’t stop with asking, I can make him.”

“Hmm…” You return your attention to the responding officers’ evaluation of the crime scene. “He’ll keep flirting,” you argue. “If he’s still doing it five years into marriage, I don’t think he’ll stop any time soon.”

The car pulls to the right, leading Lassie to pull it back into the lane quickly. He’s wide-eyed, his jaw slack as he slows at a stop sign. “You- he- marriage?” he stutters.

A knock on the window precedes the passenger door being pulled open.

“Hi, honey,” Shawn greets, bending at his waist and offering his hand.

“You’re married?” Lassie exclaims, fighting with his seatbelt to get out. He points at Shawn over the top of the car. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“We’re not really… What part of our relationship was supposed to make me think you wanted to know?” Shawn questions, his arm around your waist.

“Should we maybe solve the case?” you remind them. “And then you can do whatever this is later?”

“Right, yeah, sure,” Lassie mumbles. “Uh, sorry for confronting you, I guess.”

“Confronting?” Shawn whispers as you walk to the storage locker.

“He offered to make you stop flirting with me,” you explain.

“Immmmmmpossible,” Shawn argues.

“Trust us,” Gus interrupts, “we know.”

You step into the open locker and pull the tray out of the kiln. It’s spotless on top, but when you flip it, scratches and a deep red substance beneath the seam draw the attention of every cop here with you.

Your husband sighs after Lassie takes the murder weapon. “I think you just got prettier,” he sighs.

“Does that mean the guy who moved the kiln in here did it?” Jules asks.

“Where did all the historic artifacts come from?” you remind them. Carefully, you flip a bagged vase and examine the bottom. “They’re real, but… maybe not as old as they first appeared.”

“Forgeries?” Gus clarifies. “White collar to murder is a bit of a leap.”

“Not if you feel entitled to the profits,” you hum. On your knees, you point to the base of the kiln. “Name on the storage locker is Peter Trumbell. Trumbell kiln, Trumbell pottery from the nineteenth century. The vase set isn't complete because he hasn't finished it.”

“Reverse nepotism,” Shawn says. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet. “You're so smart.”

“I’ll write up an arrest warrant and send it to the judge,” Jules offers. “Thanks for your help.”

“Thank you,” Lassie agrees. He nods, pulling his hands out of his pockets just to slide them back in. “Sorry again.”

“What do you think he was going to do to me?” Shawn asks after Lassie leaves.

“Nothing I haven’t thought of doing,” Gus groans. “Are you guys making dinner?”

“You’re going to invite yourself over either way, why bother asking?”

You bump Shawn’s ribs with your arm. “Yes, Gus. And you’re always welcome.”

Gus fist bumps you, drops his hand before Shawn can participate, and leaves the storage locker. Left alone in the crime scene, you turn toward your husband.

“Why do you act so uninterested?” Shawn asks.

“Say the fourth word again.”

“The fourth word again.” You frown, and Shawn pulls your joined hands toward his face, tipping his chin like he was punched. “Sorry. Act.”

“It’s an act,” you say, leaning into his space. “Of course your flirting affects me, my love.”

Shawn giggles, bouncing in place. “Do you want to make out in this crime scene now?”

“No. Let’s go home.”

“Here,” Gus says, passing you an envelope on his way to your kitchen.

“What’s that?” Shawn asks.

“A letter from Detective Lassiter,” you murmur as you read it. “Generic thank you, apology for doubting me… and another offer to keep my husband in line.”

“I’m in your line,” Shawn says against your shoulder.

“You’re in her personal space,” Gus argues around a spoon.

“Our personal space,” Shawn corrects. “You’ll understand when you’re married.”

“You know I’d stop if you asked, right?” Shawn asks.

“Stop what?” you reply.

He looks down, squinting at the blanket over you both. His arms and legs are wrapped around you, his chin on your shoulder.

Brushing a kiss over his cheekbone, you answer, “I know. That’s why I’ve never asked.”

Shawn takes a deep breath, squeezing you tighter. “I’m going to kiss your face now,” he warns.

You nod seriously. “I’m ready.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Your laugh dies against his lips, your hand pushing beneath his shirt as you move together. While you may not rush to work another case with him anytime soon, you’ll never get tired of this. If this is where it leads, Shawn can flirt with you every chance he gets.

[lalalovelyly]

The Perils of Betrothal to a Man So Pretty He Must Be Gay

Valarr targaryen x foreigner reader

Synopsys: In which your fiance is so perfect he MUST be gay.

Word count: 3.4k

The first time you saw your betrothed, you thought the maester had slipped something into your wine.

It was the only logical explanation.

Prince Valarr Targaryen stood in the middle of the Red Keep's throne room, flanked by his father, the Crown Prince Baelor Breakspear, and his grandfather, King Daeron II. He was dressed in black velvet, the Targaryen three-headed dragon picked out in rubies on his doublet. He was tall and lean, with the broad shoulders of a man who trained with a sword but the posture of someone who had never carried anything heavier than a book of poetry in his life.

And his face.

Gods be good, his face.

It wasn't just that he was handsome. Plenty of men in the Free Cities were handsome. You had grown up surrounded by the sons of magisters and merchants, men who preened and posed and thought very highly of themselves. No, this was different. This was obscene.

His skin was fair and clear, not a single blemish or scar to be seen. His dark brown hair caught the light, and threaded through it like a bolt of lightning frozen in time was a streak of silver-gold so bright it looked like spun metal. He looked like he spent his mornings being bathed in milk and his afternoons having rose petals gently buffed across his cheeks.

But it was his eyes that truly undid you.

They were… wrong.

One was blue. A clear, summer-sky blue that belonged on a painting of the Maiden.

The other was brown. Warm, rich, and dark.

It was the most beautiful mistake you had ever seen.

He caught you staring from across the room, and that mismatched gaze locked onto yours like he had been waiting for you his entire life. His lips—soft, pink, unfairly well-shaped lips—curved into a smile that was gentle, warm, and so genuine it made your chest ache.

You immediately looked away and decided you were going to be sick.

---

The engagement had been arranged for months before you ever met. Your father, a wealthy merchant from one of the Free Cities with more coin than titles, had jumped at the chance to marry his daughter into the royal family of Westeros. You had agreed because you were a practical girl who understood that life was about trading one set of problems for another.

You had expected a Targaryen prince.

You had not expected this.

The first week of your stay in King's Landing was a blur of introductions, formal dinners, and whispered conversations in corners. And through all of it, Valarr was there.

At the feast welcoming you to court, he sat beside you and asked you questions about your home. Not the polite, surface-level questions you were used to—"Do you like it here?" "Is the weather much different?"—but real questions. What did the markets smell like in the morning? What songs did the children sing in the streets? What was your favorite spot to sit and think?"

You told him about a quiet garden behind your father's estate, tucked away from the noise, where you used to read and pretend you were someone else. He listened with those mismatched eyes fixed on your face, and when you finished, he said, "I should like to see it someday. You'll have to show me."

You almost choked on your wine.

The next day, he found you in the library. You hadn't told him you were going there. You hadn't told anyone. But there he was, sliding into the chair across from you with a book of his own, as if you had planned it.

"Don't mind me," he said softly, already opening his book. "I won't disturb you."

He didn't. He sat there for two hours, reading quietly, occasionally glancing up to check on you like you were a flower he was trying to grow. When you finally closed your book, he closed his at the exact same moment.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked.

"I… yes. Thank you."

He smiled. That same warm, gentle smile. "Good. I'll see you at dinner?"

And he left, and you sat there in the sudden silence, trying to figure out what had just happened.

---

It continued like that for weeks.

Valarr was always there. Not in an overwhelming way, not in a smothering way, but in a way that made you feel like the sun had decided to follow you around just to keep you warm. He brought you little things—a pastry from the kitchens he thought you might like, a flower he'd picked in the gardens, a book he'd heard you mention. He never made demands. He never pushed. He just… existed near you, quietly, contentedly.

And the way he looked at you.

Gods, the way he looked at you.

When you walked into a room, his attention snapped to you like you were the only person in existence. When you spoke, he listened like every word was a secret he'd been waiting his whole life to hear. When other ladies at court tried to catch his eye, batting their lashes and leaning in too close, he would give them a polite, distant smile and then immediately find you in the crowd, as if checking to make sure you were still there.

It was perfect.

It was terrifying.

Because you were a practical girl, and practical girls knew that things this perfect did not exist. There had to be a catch. There had to be something wrong with him, some hidden flaw that would explain why this beautiful, kind, attentive prince was acting like you had hung the moon.

You started watching him more closely.

He was too clean. Every time you saw him, his nails were immaculate, his hair perfectly arranged, his clothes without a single wrinkle or stain. When he sat, he arranged himself gracefully, like he was posing for a portrait. When he walked, he moved with a fluid elegance that made the other knights look like clumsy oxen.

He was too pretty. Men weren't supposed to look like that. Men were supposed to have rough hands and scars and stubble. Valarr looked like he could be carved from marble and displayed in a temple.

He was too kind. He never raised his voice, never lost his temper, never made a crude joke or leered at a serving girl. He treated everyone with the same gentle courtesy, from the highest lord to the lowest stable boy.

And he never, ever looked at other women.

Not once.

Not a single glance.

You had grown up watching men. You knew how they operated. You'd seen your father's business partners let their eyes wander over pretty servants. You'd seen the sons of magisters whisper and nudge each other when a beautiful woman passed by. You'd seen husbands at parties forget their wives existed the moment a dancer took the floor.

Valarr didn't do any of that.

He looked at you. Only you. Always you.

It was suspicious.

It was highly suspicious.

---

The thought crept into your mind one night as you lay in bed, staring at the canopy above you.

What if he wasn't interested in women at all?

It made perfect sense. It explained everything. His lack of interest in other ladies. His meticulous grooming. His gentle, almost feminine beauty. The way he seemed more comfortable in the library than in the training yard. The way he looked at you with such devotion—not with desire, but with the fondness of a dear friend.

Oh, gods.

He was using you as a beard.

You sat up in bed, your heart pounding. It was so obvious now. The arranged marriage was perfect for him. He got a wife to satisfy the court, to produce heirs, to make him look normal. And in return, you got… what? A lifetime of being married to a man who would never truly want you? A lifetime of wondering why you weren't enough?

The next morning, you watched him like a hawk.

He came to breakfast looking particularly lovely, his hair still slightly damp from washing, the silver streak gleaming. He smiled at you and asked how you slept.

"Fine," you said flatly.

His brow furrowed slightly, a tiny crease appearing between those mismatched eyes. "You look tired. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

He didn't push. He never pushed. He just accepted your answer and moved on, pouring your tea and sliding it across the table toward you.

Later, you saw him talking to one of the younger knights, Ser something-or-other with nice cheekbones. They stood close together, heads bent in conversation, and Valarr laughed at something the knight said. Laughed! And touched his arm!

You felt your stomach drop through the floor.

That evening, a lady of the court—some Tarly or Florent or something—approached Valarr at a small gathering. She was pretty, in a conventional way, with dark hair and a sweet smile. She touched his sleeve and said something that made him smile politely.

He didn't lean in. He didn't linger. He extracted himself from the conversation as gracefully as possible and came straight to your side.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Did you want to go for a walk? The gardens are lovely in the evening."

Normally, this would have made your heart flutter. Now, it just made you sad.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" you asked, nodding toward the lady he'd just left. "She seemed… interested."

Valarr glanced back, then looked at you with genuine confusion. "She was just being polite. I'd much rather be with you."

---

The paranoia grew like a weed.

You started noticing things you were sure you'd missed before. The way Valarr's voice softened when he talked to certain men. The way he seemed to light up around his brother and cousins, laughing and joking with an ease he didn't show around the ladies of the court. The way he dressed—elegant, refined, artistic. He probably was artistic. He probably wrote poetry. Beautiful, romantic poetry that he would never share with you because it wasn't about you.

One afternoon, you found him in the gardens with his younger brother, Matarys. The two of them were sitting on a bench, talking quietly, and Valarr had his hand on Matarys's shoulder in a way that looked so tender.

Your heart shattered a little.

Of course. Of course he was close with his brother. That made sense. But the way he looked at Matarys—with such warmth, such affection—

Wait.

No.

That was his brother.

You were losing your mind.

---

Now you were sitting in the gardens of the Red Keep, watching your absurdly beautiful fiancé across the lawn, and your brain was slowly, methodically, driving itself insane.

"Look at him," you muttered to your handmaiden, a sharp-eyed girl named Melessa who had grown up with you and was therefore contractually obligated to listen to your nonsense.

Melessa looked. "I am looking. He's reading a book under a tree. It's very exciting. What's the title? I must know."

"He's sitting perfectly," you hissed. "Look at his posture. His back is straight. His hands are placed delicately on the pages. He's not slouching. No man slouches that perfectly, Melessa."

"Perhaps he has good breeding?"

"No." You shook your head firmly. "No, it's more than that. He cares. He cares about how he looks when he reads. He probably practices."

"YN, the man looks at you like you hung the moon. He barely speaks to anyone else when you're in the room. Last week at dinner, you dropped your napkin and he picked it up before it hit the ground. He's fast. That's not the behavior of a disinterested man."

"It's the behavior of a well-trained man," you argued. "Think about it. He's the grandson of the king. He's been raised in court. He knows how to act. He knows how to play the part. He's playing the perfect fiancé so well that no one will ever suspect that he doesn't actually want—"

"Want what? A wife? Because he's getting one. That's you. And he seems very excited about it."

"Too excited." You nodded sagely. "That's the clue. No man is that excited to get married unless he's hiding something."

From across the garden, as if sensing he was being discussed, Valarr looked up from his book. His blue eye and his brown eye found you instantly, and that soft, kind smile spread across his unfairly pretty face. He raised a hand in a small wave.

Your heart did a thing. A very inconvenient thing. You hated that thing.

You waved back, a small, tight motion.

"See?" You hissed to Melessa. "Look at him wave. It's elegant. It's refined. It's like he practiced waving in a mirror."

"Most people don't need to practice waving."

"A gay man would!"

Valarr closed his book and stood, brushing non-existent dust from his immaculate clothing. He was wearing a deep blue doublet today, embroidered with silver thread, and it matched the blue of his left eye perfectly. The brown of his right eye matched nothing because there was nothing in the world that shade of warm, perfect brown except his eye itself.

You decided to confront him.

Not directly, of course. You weren't a monster. But you needed to know. You needed to understand what you were getting into. If you were going to spend the rest of your life as a convenient cover for a prince who secretly preferred the company of men, you deserved to know the truth.

You chose your next walk in the gardens.

It was a beautiful day, the sun warm and golden, the flowers in full bloom. Valarr walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed, and he was telling you about some book he'd read, his voice soft and melodic.

"Valarr," you interrupted.

He stopped immediately, turning to face you with that attentive expression you'd come to know so well. "Yes?"

"I need to ask you something."

"Anything."

You took a deep breath. "You're very… kind to me."

His lips curved into a small smile. "You make it easy to be kind."

You ignored the flutter in your chest. "But I've noticed that you're not… that you don't…" You trailed off, losing your nerve.

"Don't what?"

You blurted it out before you could stop yourself. "Do you even like women?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Valarr stared at you. His mismatched eyes went wide, then wider, and then his face did something complicated that you couldn't quite read. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I'm sorry," he said slowly, "I don't think I heard you correctly. It sounded like you asked if I liked women."

"I did."

"You're asking if I, your betrothed, the man who is going to marry you and spend the rest of his life with you, like women?"

"Yes."

Another pause.

"Y/N," he said carefully, "I spend every moment I can in your company. I think about you constantly. I notice when you're tired, when you're happy, when you're worried. I brought you a pastry yesterday because you mentioned you liked sweet things. I had the kitchens make it specially. I noticed you liked sweet things because I pay attention to everything about you."

You nodded slowly. "I know. That's part of the problem."

"That's part of the problem?"

"You're too attentive. Too perfect. You never look at other women. You're always so clean and well-dressed and pretty. It's like you're trying too hard to be the perfect husband, and I thought—" You stopped, suddenly aware of how insane you sounded.

"You thought…?"

You sighed. "I thought maybe you were using me as a cover. Because you're actually interested in men."

Valarr blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then he started to laugh.

It wasn't a polite chuckle or a restrained snicker. It was a full-bodied, helpless laugh that bent him double and made his shoulders shake. He laughed until tears formed in those mismatched eyes, until he had to brace himself against a nearby tree to stay upright.

"It's not funny," you protested, your cheeks burning.

"It's a little funny," he gasped. "Gods, Y/N. You think I'm gay?"

"I don't know! You're very pretty!"

"Thank you?"

"It's not a compliment! It's suspicious! Men shouldn't be that pretty!"

He straightened up, still grinning, and stepped closer to you. "Let me ask you something. Have you ever seen me look at another woman the way I look at you?"

You thought about it. "No."

"Have you ever seen me seek out anyone else's company the way I seek out yours?"

"No."

"Have you ever wondered why I spend so much time in the library when I could be anywhere else in the castle?"

You frowned. "Because you like reading?"

"Because you like reading. Because I noticed on your first day here that you gravitated toward the library, and I wanted to be wherever you were." He moved closer still, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eye, the way the blue one seemed to hold the sky. "I'm not gay, Y/N. I'm not using you as a cover. I'm not secretly pining for some knight or squire or"—he waved a hand vaguely—"anyone else."

"Then why are you so—"

"Pretty?" He grinned. "Blood, I suppose. My father is handsome. My mother was beautiful. The silver streak is a Targaryen trait." He reached out and took your hand, his fingers warm and solid against yours. "As for why I'm so attentive, so focused on you, so uninterested in other women…" He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. "Isn't it obvious?"

You stared at him.

He stared back, still holding your hand, still smiling that gentle, devastating smile.

"I'm an idiot," you whispered.

"A little bit," he agreed. "But a very sweet idiot. My favorite idiot."

"You're not upset?"

"I'm delighted. Do you know how long I've wondered what was going on in that head of yours? How many times I've caught you watching me with that suspicious little frown?" He laughed again, softer this time. "I thought you didn't like me. I thought you were looking for ways to get out of the engagement."

"No! I mean, I like you. I like you too much. That's the problem."

"Ah." He nodded sagely. "So you like me too much, and therefore I must be gay. That's sound logic."

"Shut up."

He tugged you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. "Make me."

You should have been embarrassed. You should have been mortified. But standing there in the gardens, with the sun warm on your face and Valarr looking at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked, you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

"You really do only have eyes for me?" you asked quietly.

"Always." He touched your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. "From the moment I saw you in the throne room. You were trying so hard to look unimpressed, and I thought, 'There she is. There's my wife.'"

"You thought that?"

"I thought that." He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "And for the record, I take care of myself because my mother taught me that presenting yourself well shows respect for the people around you. I'm clean because I don't like feeling dirty. I'm pretty, apparently, because the gods have a sense of humor. And I don't look at other women because why would I? I have you."

You kissed him.

It was probably improper. You were in the gardens, in broad daylight, where anyone could see. But you didn't care. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and when you finally broke apart, you were both smiling like idiots.

"So," he said, his voice slightly breathless, "does this mean you're not going to accuse me of being gay anymore?"

"No promises."

He laughed again, bright and warm, and tucked your hand into the crook of his arm. "Fair enough. Come on. Let's go find something to eat. I noticed you barely touched your breakfast this morning, and I know you like the lemon cakes."

You leaned into him as you walked, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

He wasn't gay.

He was just perfect.

And apparently, perfect was exactly what you needed.

[celestialwyvern]

SOFT SPOT - Aerion Targaryen

SUMMARY - Having met as children and reuniting once you've grown into a woman, Aerion's previous suspicion of you grows into the softest spot imaginable.

CONTAINS - pure fluff, reader is extremely kind, aerion is only kind to reader, classic sunshine x grumpy

A/N - i personally couldn't stop giggling while writing the "pastry" scene. Ughh i need him

The blazing sun over Summerhall was unforgiving, but it did nothing to melt the sour disposition of Prince Aerion.

At barely ten name days old, the boy was already terror embodied. He sat on a smooth rock by the edge of the river, a fishing rod held tight in his small, tense hands.

His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.

“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.

Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.

Instead, he saw you.

You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.

While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.

You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.

“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”

“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.

You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”

“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.

But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”

Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.

You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.

The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.

Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.

“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”

Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.

Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.

But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”

Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.

“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”

“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.

Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.

Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.

Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.

From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.

To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.

He waited for you to finally lose your cool.

But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.

You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.

A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.

“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”

You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.

An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.

Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.

“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”

“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.

Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.

“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”

You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.

“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”

He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.

“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”

“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”

The room went silent before you spoke again.

“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”

The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.

A breathless laugh escaped him.

“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.

He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.’ Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”

“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.

He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”

“Of course,” you smiled.

As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.

Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.

The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.

You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.

“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”

“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”

“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”

“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.

The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.

Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.

Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.

“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.

“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.

“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.

Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.

You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”

“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.

That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.

During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.

He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.

“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.

Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.

“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”

His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.

The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.

Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.

Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.

A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.

You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.

Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.

“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”

Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.

Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.

Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.

You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.

Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.

However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.

The feast was deafeningly loud.

You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.

Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.

He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.

Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.

But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.

He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.

“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”

“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”

Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.

His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.

The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.

You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”

Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”

Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.

“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”

“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.

A faint smile broke across his face. “Watch me,” he repeated, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder. “Now hold still and let me fix it.”

[entitled-fangirl]

Southern rose.

Cregan Stark x Lannister wife!reader

Summary: Cregan's wife is a spoiled thing. He loves it.

Masterlist

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From the moment you stepped into Winterfell, you whined. 

He couldn't exactly blame you. The North isn't the most welcoming environment— especially for a more Southern grown flower like you. In fact, he starts to find it amusing. 

His little southern rose is too delicate for his homeland. 

"Why must the castle be made of such cold stone?" You whine. 

He pulls you in closer, spooning you in the bed with the furs atop the both of you. His hand is hot to the touch and large and firm against your stomach to keep you there. You have a tendency to squirm. 

"'S just an evening chill. It will pass," he murmurs low in your ear. 

"Every night?" You huff, emphasizing your point with a shift of your hips. 

He groans lowly when your ass presses against his length. His arm wraps around you tighter until you're utterly stuck in his hold. "If you'd hold still, I could share my warmth with you. As I do every night you whine."

Truth be told, he sweats under the heavy furs every night. You had insisted on them, and he wanted to sleep with you. Small price to pay, he tells himself. 

Especially when you'd finally fall asleep and unconsciously curl into his side. 

"I do not whine," you proceed to whine.

You go to say more, but you hear and feel his low chuckling. 

You huff, pulling his hand off of you. You make a dramatic show of scooting to the other side of the bed. It's cold. You ignore it at first. You can't show weakness. 

But his laughing doesn't stop. "My stubborn girl. C'mere."

But you don't move. You throw one glare his way then turn your back and pull the cold covers tight around you.

It's silence as his laughter settles. "C'mon," he finally settles on. "Don't want my southern flower wilting in the cold tonight. Come back now."

"I'm sleeping here."

He sighs, though it's full of love. "You're angry with me?"

"Yes."

"Mm. Cold?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Quite the predicament." He runs a hand over his growing stubble. "If I apologize, is that enough to make you come back over here?"

You pause. Turn to look over your shoulder at him. "Maybe."

"Forgive me then," he coos. 

Even in the dark, you can see the glimmer of amusement in his hazy colored eyes. But you have no fight left in you and you're cold.

So you let him scoop you back up and drag you across the bed until you're right back where you started. 

And now that you think about it, it is a lot warmer against him like this. 

What were you complaining about again?

You sigh in content and close your eyes. 

"'S what I thought," he says to himself.

Your eyes open. "What?"

He doesn't pretend. "Good night, my love." He kisses the side of your head. "Sleep well."

…

"Father wrote me," you chirp, inviting yourself into your husband's solar. A neat letter laid in your hand with a familiar Lannister seal broken atop it. "He told me that his lioness is expecting cubs. Isn't that wonderful?"

Cregan looked up at him you from his paperwork. He blinked once. Then twice. "'S alright," he settled on. In truth, he didn't care of the news at all. 

Your face fell a bit. "Did you not hear me? Cubs."

"My love," he says carefully. "I care not for matters of those against the crown. I have permitted your brother's writings but I do not have to pretend I am overjoyed to hear of more lions that will be slaughtered should a battle commence."

You take a long time to think. You look back over the letter with a more tainted viewpoint than before. "They must be killed?"

"If he brings them into battle as Lannisters have done in the past, yes."

"Well." Your eyes water. "What if he does not? What if he keeps them hidden? Safe? As pets?"

"My darling love." He reached out his hand and drawls you to sit on his desk before him. He sighs and rubs at your hips. "A lion is no pet. They are unpredictable and dangerous. It is a strong house sigil. But to own them—"

"What of your direwolf?" You cry. "It is large and intimidating."

"Dark Night is uncaged. He proves no threat to me and my house. He can read me well. A lion cannot do that."

Big tears pool in your eyes and his heart immediately thumps harder. "My girl." He wipes them as they fall. "Ease your broken heart."

"They are only cubs." You hiccup and lean into his touch. "They have done no wrong."

"It is a curse, I know," he comforts. "Lots of things happen that way. Just the wrong place and the wrong time."

"Can I write? To Father. Can I tell him not to use them?"

Cregan knows exactly how this will go: You will beg Jason. He will lie and agree to ease your poor aching heart and to make Cregan no longer suspicious of the Lannister's war efforts.  Then, in battle, lions will be slain. 

It would happen regardless of what you wrote to your father.

He watched another tear fall down the tracks on your face from the previous ones. And he nods. 

You run off quickly to try to correct this and save the lives of innocent animals. 

He knows it's truly in vain. And when he or his men must kill them, he'll make sure you never hear of it.

But he knows it's the only way your little bleeding heart can sleep tonight.

….

Dark Night lays at your feet, nuzzling against your leg every now and then to get your attention. 

Cregan sits across from you. He's still looking over letters and pages, just in comfort outside of his solar. 

You still don't look up by the third time the dire wolf has nuzzled you. So he nips. 

You whimper. It didn't break skin or cause you tremendous pain. But it was a surprising prick.

Cregan barely looks at the thing and lets out a low growl from his throat to reprimand him.

Dark Night whines and lays down once more.

"Needy thing," he sighs with the shake of his head. "Scare you?"

You nod. "I do not like it when he does that."

"He's only playing. Is that right, boy?"

"Your Northern ideas of play are much harsher," you scoff. "I hate it."

He looks back to his letters. "You do not hate it."

"I do," you insist.

A small flicker of his eyes— swarming with mischief. "You do not hate Northern play."

You catch his meaning and flush. And he was right. This morning, you didn't seem to mind 'northern play' at all.

"You are all savages." You set your embroidery aside and stand. "Heartless and cold and… and…"

"Yes?" He grins.

"And… and I don't like it!"

You watch him do everything he can to hold back just how funny he thinks you are. He only gives a quirk of his brow. "You don't like it?"

"No," you snap. "And I don't like you! Or… your dog… or…" You look around. "Or this rug!"

"Oh?" He looks down at it— the bear skin rug from the animal he caught himself a few weeks after your wedding. "You told me you loved it."

"Well… I lied!" 

He watches you storm out, knowing you didn't mean a word you were saying. That was the Southerner in you talking. 

It made him want to coddle you more. Just to see what lengths you go to.

…

He let you sit and pout in your room for a while before coming to collect you.

He stood outside your closed door, sighing to himself. The things he did for love.

Opening the door, he saw you sitting on the floor in front of the hearth. You didn't look up at him. "And like that, the room is colder."

He scoffed. "Stubborn girl. C'mere and look at me."

"Why? So you can gloat?"

He stopped behind you. "You think I want to gloat?"

"No," you answer honestly. He'd never been one to think better of himself. That was one northern trait you did appreciate of him.

There's a tap of something hitting the table behind you and you turn.

There's a tray he'd just sat down. Lemon cakes and a nice glass of wine. Over the back of the settee he'd walked by was richly colored fabrics. 

"What is this?"

He shrugs. "If you don't want it, I can take it back—"

"Stop!" You sit up more now. "It can… it can stay."

His brow tilts. "Can I?"

You nod. 

He sits on the settee and waves his hand at you. You obey without a second thought, coming into his lap. 

"Thought about you," he admits, brushing your hair from your face. "I miss you during the day. Wish you'd visit me more often."

"They told me it was unbecoming of the Lady Stark to bother you while you work."

"Who told you that?"

You sigh. "Northerners. You know, my father let me speak to him at any time of the day in Casterly Rock."

"I know it," he agrees. "'S how you became so fucking spoiled." You grow defensive, but he quickly soothes it with a brush of his hand. "So are you going to visit me more or not, little garden rose?"

You hum in thought. "I will, but I have some requirements."

"Aye, I figured. Go on then. Name your terms." He pulls you closer, having a hand on your back to keep you from pulling away. "Tell me what you want."

"Well, I want a new dress to start. A brighter one of those fabrics. The colors here are too drab." 

He hums, nuzzling his nose against your neck now. 

"And I want… I want a horse of my own. I want to ride like I did at Casterly Rock."

"Too cold for you to ride," he murmurs. It makes a shiver go down your spine. 

"I want a northern horse and I want a heavy cloak so that I can, then." 

He lays a sloppy kiss against your throat. You squirm. "You're not listening to me," you whine.

"I am." He kisses. "Dresses and a horse." Another kiss. "A heavy cloak. What else?"

Your head grows dizzy when his scruff brushes against your skin. "I want…"

"Tell me what you want, wife," he whispers then kisses again. He nips lightly then soothes it with his tongue.

"I want… I want… new perfumes."

He groans at the thought and moves a meaty paw of his up into your hair to force your face up. "You'll have it."

He works across your neck and down to the place where it meets your shoulder. When you feel teeth there, you squirm and whimper. He groans out a 'good girl' when you let him finish the hickey you know will be there for at least a week.

He pulls his face away to look up at you now. His lips are swollen but there's a victory in his eyes. "Anything else?"

When you try to reach up touch the cooling spot at your shoulder, he intercepts and keeps your wrists in his hold. He looks the spot over. And at seeing the color beginning to pull, he grins. "Looks pretty," he tells you.

"And I want you to take me seriously."

The grin pulls into a knowing smile— bright and rare. "I take you very seriously, love."

"You don't! You… You're a brute."

"Mhm." He says as he looks you over.

"You're horrid. Just horrid."

"I know." He draws you in and slips his hands under you. 

You shriek when he picks you up suddenly. "And a barbarian!"

"The worst," he agrees as he carries you to the bed. "The worst I've ever seen."

"I hate the North!"

He plops you down on the furs, making you let out a small 'hmph.' Then, he knocks your knees apart with his own and leans over the bed until you feel his breath upon your face. "You don't hate the North," he purrs.

"No," you whisper back.

"You like the North very much, as barbaric as it is."

"I do."

He lays a kiss to your lips. "I know."

The horse, the dresses, all of it— yours.

He made sure you, his little sensitive southern flower, were the most spoiled thing in the Realm.

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