#southern reader

Your first stop was getting Simon freshened up, a shower, a trim, and a haircut. You brought Simon to a truck stop not too far off, it wasn't the most ideal shower space but it was better than nothing, it was clean and offered everything needed. You went in and booked one of the bathrooms for him, you told him to take as long as he needed, it had probably been weeks since his last shower. After he returned, looking much better, you brought him to a barber shop, but he stopped you before going in “Is this necessary? I don't ‘ave money for this. I was on the battlefield soldiers don't just keep cash on them.” You shook your head “it is, you need to look presentable, we want people to like and trust you, a clean look can go a long way. You don't need to worry about money right now, you're supposed to be my fiancé right” you didn't leave him much room to argue.

Even though it was your money you entirely let Simon choose what he wanted to do, he simply trimmed up his hair and tidied it up, he wasn't really used to having his hair out often, it's not like he had a go to hairstyle. He went for a clean shave which was his normal underneath the mask, he had never really liked the way it felt against his skin, especially when wearing a mask. 

Simon was a simple man, back home he had maybe 2 pairs of jeans, a handful of shirts, and like 3 sweatpants for sleeping and working out, really that was everything in his closet. He would've been okay if you got him one pair of jeans and 7 identical shirts for everyday, he was only going to be here for maybe a month. But you weren't that kind of person. You brought Simon into store after store, made him try on everything if something didn't fit right, was uncomfortable, or he simply didn't like the look, you put it right back up. In total Simon got more than 15 shirts that were surprisingly comfortable, more pants than Simon has ever had at once, mostly jeans, cargo pants, or sweatpants, and two different jackets. You asked what style of socks he liked before placing way too many packs of socks into the cart. Simon's face was bright red while you asked what kind of underwear he preferred, yes it was normally but Simon’s never had Simon buy him such personal things.

And Simon thought that was all, shirts, pants, and undergarments but you dragged him into a fancier looking store “you need to look nice when you meet my parents, plus you never know when someone might invite you to a fancy event” which only reminded Simon he had never actually met any of his previous ‘partners’ parents, the relationships were never serious, he was somehow supposed to know exactly how to act and what to say, and the stakes were high. But clearly you weren't worried about any of that as you dragged him through the different kinds of suits, talking about what you think would look best. Simon managed to convince you to only buy one suit with multiple different colored ties. You had completely decided what outfit Simon would wear when he met your parents, casual yet sophisticated you called it. Again Simon thought that was all.

Now you were dragging Simon into a shoe store, Simon had never had more than two pairs of shoes at once, and he always wore them till they weren't even shoes anymore. You let him pick out his own shoes, although you had to heavily persuade him to buy more than one. He got new work boots, casual sneakers, and some fancy shoes (his exact words) you even bought him some slippers he claimed were way too soft.

You guys were officially done with clothes but that didn't mean the shopping was over. You said it needed to look like Simon was completely moving in, which meant he needed more than just clothes. You still needed the essential items like toothbrush/paste, face wash, conditioner/shampoo etc, but after that you headed over to a thrift store. You needed items that seemed used, you got a few little add-ons like some blankets and pillows, a few books, a tea set that you could pass off as a family heirloom, some paintings, a mirror, even a rug. Simon was thoroughly confused, why did you need all this, and why from a thrift store, “it needs to look like we’re bringing things from your home, so we need more than clothes and it needs to look used, everything can't look brand new or people are going to know. It's just a few things.”

Simon helped you rearrange and tie down everything into the bed of the truck, most of the stuff was randomly thrown into boxes which made it easier to tie down. Simon couldn't help feeling bad for you, you were about to lie to everyone around you for Simon, and you're going out of your way to buy Simon so much stuff, he was preparing to apologize when you two got into the car but he opted not to. He already knew you would just brush it off as nothing even though you definitely spent hundreds, maybe even a thousand on him, maybe he could work something out with price, it would definitely seem weird if you were the only one spending money in the relationship, especially with the amount you were spending. Simon planned on calling Price that night once you two got back.

Part 6

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Wife! Reader

Category: Fluff

Summary: The Team finds out Bob is married and wants to meet the missus.

Warnings: Slight allusions to mature content(nothing explicit ever stated though), Reader is described very similarly to Rhea Ripley, Reader and Bob are very much in love, No mention of Y/N used, Southern Reader (she's like all southern ladies sweet like iced tea, but can knock you on your ass if she has too), Express mentions of reader and Bob's Child, Lemme know if I missed any.

Word Count: 1.9K

Notes: This is the second part of 'Meeting the Missus'. I highly recommend reading the first part before reading this. Please enjoy!!! And I will continue to update as I'm able.

Southern black!reader with Clark but her telatale sign that she is into him is that she randomly comes over with a plate of food to his apartment, because she "made extra" and can't possibly eat this all by myself"

Because ya mama always taught you that a way to a mans heart is through his stomach

The more extreme version of this is stopping by his work to drop of some lunch with claims of a big boy like him needs to keep his strength up. Or offering to wip him up something when he says he hasn't eaten anything.

Now he was raised a southern boy, so he would be blushing redder than the tomato's in your garden, because he knows exactly what your doing. He'd be raving about you to his ma and pa over the phone about how his new "friend" keeps bringing him over plates of green beans, cornbread, mash potatoes, baked beans, and so on.

ok ok I tried my best with this one... Also no hate I'm aussie so i tried to use american measurement for heat so just bare with me if it sounds silly😭

Anyway Enjoyyy💗

I'm Not Built For This - P.B

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader GF (Southern)

Type: One Shot (Request)

Warnings: None (Fluff, Minor Swearing)

Word Count: 934

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The first cold morning hits Storrs like a slap in the face — a sharp, bitter, freeze-your-bones kind of cold that every UConn student knows is coming but somehow still surprises them every year.

Except you.

You have no idea what’s coming.

Because you’re from the South.

Real South. Where “cold” means 60 degrees, where snow days happen because of three flurries, and where winter jackets are mostly theoretical.

So when Paige wakes up to the first frosty morning of the year, she’s excited.

She’s smiling, stretching, already grabbing sweatpants.

You, on the other hand?

You’re curled in the blankets like someone tried to assassinate you with temperature.

“Paige?” you whisper, voice half-asleep, half-traumatized. “Somethin’ ain’t right.”

Paige glances over. “What’s wrong?”

“It got colder.” You say it like you’re reporting a crime.

Paige tries not to laugh. “Yeah, babe. It’s winter.”

“No,” you argue, sitting up with wide, horrified eyes. “Winter is like… December. Christmas. Hot cocoa. Snowman stuff. Not November third.”

Paige shrugs and pulls on a hoodie. “This is normal. Pretty mild, actually.”

“Mild?” You throw the blanket off dramatically. “Paige, I can see my breath. INSIDE this room.”

“That’s because I just opened the window.”

“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?”

She smiles, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “Fresh air.”

“That’s not fresh air,” you mumble. “That’s freezer-section air.”

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

It’s the first time Paige has ever seen you wear every layer you own at once. Sweatshirt. Hoodie. Jacket. Another jacket. Paige’s jacket. A scarf you found in the bottom of a drawer. Two pairs of socks. A beanie you stole from Aaliyah.

You look like a marshmallow with legs.

Paige is walking next to you casually — hoodie, sweatpants, hands in pockets — like the weather is a minor inconvenience.

You’re shivering so hard you might actually vibrate into another dimension.

“HOW are you not cold?” you demand, teeth chattering.

Paige shrugs. “Minnesota.”

“I’m callin’ the cops.”

“On who?”

“You. For bein’ weird as fuck.”

Paige laughs, looping her arm through yours so your hands can hide inside her pocket together.

You lean into her immediately. “Baby, I’m dyin’. My bones are cold. My bones.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m Southern. We were not built for this mess.”

Paige grins. “It’s like… forty degrees.”

“FORTY?” Your voice cracks. “Paige, back home we cancel school if it goes below fifty! FIFTY!”

“That’s embarrassing.”

You gasp. “Take that back.”

Paige kisses your cheek again instead. “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

The wind hits you both. You stumble like you’ve been hit by a truck.

Paige doesn’t even blink.

“HOW—” You point at her accusingly. “How are you not even FLINCHIN’?”

“I’ve played in blizzards, babe.”

“I can’t feel my face.”

“You can feel your face.”

“I CAN’T FEEL MY FACE.”

Paige squeezes your hand inside her pocket. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m gonna pass away.”

“You’re not.”

“I AM.”

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The second you walk through the doors, heat blasts you like heaven itself.

You melt.

Actually melt.

Right there on the spot.

Paige watches you peel off your layers like you’re emerging from a cocoon, hair static-y and sticking to your hat.

“Holy shit,” you sigh, dropping onto the nearest bench. “I thought I was gonna meet Jesus on that walk.”

Paige snorts. “You’ll get used to it.”

You stare at her like she’s speaking another language. “There is no ‘used to it.’ There is only sufferin’.”

She sits beside you, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “You know the team’s gonna tease you, right?”

“They already do,” you grumble.

Because the moment the team catches sight of you, wrapped in 300 layers, they lose it.

Aaliyah: “Why do you look like you’re going skiing?” Nika: “She’s gonna pass out from overheating before practice even starts.” KK: “Paige, get your girlfriend a thermal blanket or something—she’s struggling.”

You bury your face in Paige’s shoulder dramatically. “I’m bein’ bullied.”

“You’ll survive,” Paige whispers, rubbing your back with a little smile.

“No, I won’t.” You pop your head back up. “I want… hot chocolate. And a fireplace. And possibly one of those electric blankets old ladies use.”

Aaliyah snorts. “Oh yeah, she’s Southern.”

Paige tugs you closer. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

You perk up. “Promise?”

“Promise.” She kisses your temple. “And later, we can go buy a real coat.”

You nod, relieved. “Thank God.”

Paige’s smile turns teasing. “And maybe boots.”

You groan. “Why does everything have to be insulated here? WHY is this place like Alaska’s cousin?”

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

By the time you two walk home, the sun has set and the temperature has dropped even more.

One gust of wind hits and you INSTANTLY cling to Paige like she’s your sole source of survival.

“TAKE ME HOME,” you whine, clutching her arm. “I’m not gonna make it. Tell my mama I love her.”

Paige is laughing so hard she can barely walk straight. “I’ve never loved you more.”

“I’m glad my suffering entertains you.”

“It does,” she says honestly, pressing her cold nose to your cheek.

You shriek. “PAIGE. I’M FRAGILE.”

“You’re fine.”

“No. I’m not. I’m already freezin’ to death, don’t frickn’ do that”

She wraps both arms around you from behind as you walk, her chin on your shoulder, guiding you forward like a human radiator.

“Better?” she asks.

You nod instantly, melting against her warmth. “Yes. Never let go.”

“Alright, baby.” She replies stifling a chuckle.

“I mean it. I require constant heat.”

Paige smiles into your neck. “Good thing you’ve got me then.”

You grin, cheeks pink from more than the cold. “Yeah,” you whisper, leaning into her completely. “I really do.”

And Paige holds you closer, walking slow, letting you steal all her warmth like she doesn’t mind one bit.

Because she doesn’t.

She loves it.

Chapter One

Series Masterlist! Hello and welcome to my Southern Summer Romance fic, where Task Force 141 is forced to take a vacation in a small, rural town. Tags- Fat reader!, Southern reader!, poly141, established relationship, 141 falls first, but you fall harder, pregnancy (maybe depending on feedback lol), kidnapping, angst, hurt comfort, fat phobia, homophobia, and many more ill add as the story progresses. Notes- I'll be uploading a chapter to this account every Saturday until the fic is finished, and then it'll be published as a whole on Ao3. The town and its people are based on my life in a small rural town, so I hope this isnt too niche. Also, I apologize in advance; I refuse to spell out accents phonetically, so I hope everyone comes off as in character. Hope you enjoy it!

“I just don't think forcin’ us to take a vacation is any different than dischargin’ us.” 

“Soap almost died, John. We won, Markarov is dead, end of story. You boys need a break, and if the only way to give you that is to order you to, then so be it.” 

John sighs, Laswell’s voice crackling through the cheap phone pressed against his ear. The Scotsman’s brush with death still weighed him down, the grunt of pain and splatter of blood still so vivid behind his closed eyes. Even months after the incident. 

“You can't just take us off the field, Laswell. We're not meant for civilian life.” 

Now it was Kate's turn to sigh, the brush of air cutting through the speaker. Even through the poor quality of the call, exhaustion was evident in her voice. 

“Just do me this favor, John. It's just for the summer. Three months.” 

“What are we s’pposed to do then, eh? We have neon targets on our backs, goin’ home isn't an option.” 

There was chatter on the other end, multiple voices in the background. Laswell didn’t answer him immediately, her voice muffled as if she held her hand over the microphone. After a couple of seconds, she cleared her throat. John hated missing all the action. He was still fit to fight. Hell, even Johnny had been declared field ready only a few short weeks ago. 

Just the thought of sitting down and relaxing had him on edge. He needed to be in the middle of everything. He needed to be in the loop. And he knew his boys felt the same. But there was no use in arguing anymore, Kate was hell-bent on their ‘vacation’. 

When she spoke again, John felt his heart sink. “We have a decent safe house in East Texas. The town is small enough that it's not even on a map. See some sights, check out local cuisine, or go fishing. I heard they have a decent fishing lake. You and the boys make a game out of it. I don’t care. Just do something.” 

She didn’t give him enough time to respond before the call disconnected. John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to physically remove the stress induced headache that began to form between his eyes. He leaned back in his office chair, the old metal and leather groaning with the action. He desperately wanted a smoke, but a knock on his office door stopped him from reaching towards the tin in his drawer. 

“Come in.” 

The door opened, and of course, his most curious sergeant poked his head in. 

“What did Laswell want Cap'n'? We got another mission?”

“No, Johnny. Round the other’s up. I have some news to share.” 

Just as Johnny closed the door behind him, John’s phone vibrated on the desk. It was a text from Laswell. Coordinates. 

It really was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

═══════════════════════════════

Trees. 

John was so fucking sick of trees. 

They were everywhere. Lining the road, whizzing past the window of their rental car as they made their way through the dense forest. 

He didn’t even want to call it a road. There were no lines, yellow or white. The asphalt was barely there, covered in either potholes or dirt that made the car shake and rattle even ten miles below the speed limit. 

His boys were quiet. As they had been since he dropped the vacation bomb and sent them packing. John didn’t need to look at them to know they wanted to be here just as much as he did. 

Finally, after what felt like ages, the crumbling road bled into a semi smooth highway. He felt like he could breathe once he saw the familiar line markers of the road. 

Trees were still the only thing that met his eye, broken up by the winding turns that appeared every five seconds. Dirt driveways, beaten and broken mailboxes, and rusty road signs were sprinkled in between, giving the boys a break from the constant drab foliage that withered away in the humid heat. 

Simon cracked the passenger side window, that stifling heat flooding the car in an instant. 

“Bloody hell, Simon. You’re lettin’ all the cold air out!” Kyle griped from the backseat, and he and Johnny were already fanning their sweaty faces. 

“Would you rather be breathin’ my smoke, eh Gaz?” 

The wind drowned out the soft music playing over the radio, Kyle and Johnny grumbling all the while Simon happily puffed on his cigarette. 

John pressed the gas, ignoring his men in favor of reaching the small town, but the road never seemed to end. Eventually, Simon finished his cigarette and rolled the window back up. John relished in the cool air that blasted from the vents in front of him. 

“Steamin’ Jesus, will we ever get to the safehouse?” 

“Laswell said it was a small town. We should be reachin’ it soon.” John’s head throbbed, the blinding light of the mid-morning sun grated on his already frayed nerves. 

Just when he thought they’d never make it out of the dense, dead forest, the trees opened up. A gas station was the first thing he saw, paired with the beat-up trucks parked in front. 

He pulled right, the newness of the rental standing out like a sore thumb as he lined the car up with the pump. 

“Alright, lads. Stretch your legs, get somethin’ to eat. We’re almost there.” 

When John exits the car, he is assaulted with the suffocating heat of summer. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” He grumbles, sweat already beading across his forehead and dripping down his back. 

They make it inside quickly, desperate for cool air, but all the quaint gas station offered were two box fans on either side of the open building. 

“Vacation my ass,” Johnny mumbles, making a beeline for the refrigerators holding multitudes of cool drinks. 

John turns to the cashier instead, the bored looking teen not even looking up from her phone. 

“‘Scuse me,” He says, keeping his usually gruff and demanding tone polite and soft. “I’d like to put fourty on pump three, please.” 

“Anything else?”

She was still tapping away on her phone.

John looks around, noting the drinks in his boy's hands. He didn’t see any food other than greasy chicken in a heater next to the counter and snacks that looked less than appealing. He waved the boys over, taking their drinks and placing them on the counter.

“Just this. Do you uh,” He cleared his throat, the heat licking across his skin slowly drying out his throat. “Do you know of a good place to eat? Anywhere decent?”

She grabs the bottles, dragging them across the counter and over to the red scanner. Each drink was rung up slowly, her attention now on him. 

“Yeah, the diner across the street has good food. Fresh.” 

Her eyes scanned each of his men before landing on Simon. She went ramrod straight, her eyes wide. John knows how it must have looked, how his Lieutenant must have looked with the dark, skull printed balaclava and sunglasses covering the majority of his face. 

“Thank you,” 

John didn’t waste any more time as he tossed a hundred on the counter and ushered the boys out of the door with a murmured ‘keep the change’. 

“Christ, Simon. She looked ready to bolt.” Kyle chuckled as the four of them made their way back to the car. 

As the boys clambered back into the rental, their large bodies rocking the small vehicle back and forth, John leaned against the driver side door. 

He watched as the numbers on the pump ticked up, his fingers itching for the tin of cigars in his back pocket. Blistering heat reigned down on him, slickening his skin with a thick layer of sweat. 

Across the street was the diner. It was just as small as the gas station, maybe a tad bigger, with a few cars parked in the lot. Its walls were worn from the weather, crumbling in the far left corner. A small part of John felt drawn to it, and the older style it presented. 

John tapped on the back window, urging Kyle to roll the window down. “How do you boys feel about an American breakfast?”

“Aye, I heard their biscuits and gravy are good.” Johnny leaned forward when Simon scoffed. “It’s not real biscuits and gravy, it's more like scones and white sauce. Trust me, L.T, it's not what yer thinkin’.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll believe it when I see it, Johnny.”

It wasn’t long before the men were walking through the door to the diner. A soft bell chimed above them, alerting the staff to new arrivals. Unlike the gas station, the diner had actual air conditioning and John couldn't be more grateful. From the groans of relief behind him, his boys felt the same. 

“Hi! Welcome to Pop’s. Just pick a table and I’ll be right with you.” 

The boys were taken aback from the whirlwind that greeted them. One hand was balancing a massive tray covered completely with plates of delicious looking food while the other held a full pot of coffee. She didn’t spare them another glance as she made her way through the diner, handing customers their plates and refilling their coffee.

John and the boys meandered down the aisle of booths and tables. As usual, they took up the farthest booth from the other citizens but still within view of the windows and doors. 

It was a tight fit. The worn booth wasn't made to hold four fully grown men, but they made it work. Simon's thigh was pressed against John's, while Kyle and Johnny were squeezed into the other side. 

“They have it!” Johnny quietly exclaims, his eyes already scanning the menu. 

John looked at his own, flipping from one side to the other, skimming the different options. The small diner had it all, from breakfast, lunch, and dinner to deserts and even milkshakes. It took John right back to his adolescence. 

He looked over the breakfast menu, unable to decide over the traditional bacon, eggs, and toast or pancakes and hashbrowns. 

As the boys figure out what they want to eat, a very stereotypical country song softly playing over the radio, John surveys the few people littered about the diner. 

It was mostly singles; a burly truck driver drinking coffee, a little old lady dressed in her Sunday best, and a middle-aged woman furiously typing on a laptop. There was only one other group besides him and his boys, and they sat not two booths away from them. 

It was a group of three young men, around their early to mid twenties, and they didn't seem to know how to whisper. They weren't rowdy by any means, but John kept an eye on them. 

“Alrighty!” 

His attention was snatched away from the young men to the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. 

“Let’s start off with drinks. What can I get for ya?” 

Holding a pen and pad, decked in a red and white pinstripe shirtwaist dress, she smiled warmly at the four hulking men before her. Never once did the customer service smile falter, not even once her gaze landed on Simon. 

They were silent for a second or two, her thick southern drawl and earnest gaze capturing and holding their attention for far too long. John was the first to order, followed by Kyle, then Johnny, and Simon, who was disappointed in the lack of tea. 

“And are y’all ready to order, or do you need a minute?”

“I, uh,” Johnny cleared his throat, clearly just as enamoured with her as John was. “I'd like the biscuits and gravy, please.” 

Her addictive eyes were ripped away from them as she wrote down Johnny's order. “Would you like sausage in your gravy?” 

“No, I'd like the white sauce, please.” 

Her smile was back, but it was softer this time. Genuine instead of practiced. John committed it to memory. “We do the white gravy, but you have the option for crumbled breakfast sausage. It’s a staple ‘round here.” 

 She pauses for a minute, her nose scrunching in thought. “Tell you what, I'll add some sausage on the side, and you can tell me if you like it.” 

Johnny grinned at her and John knew he'd have a hard time reeling in the Scot in. “Thanks, bonnie.” 

“My names not-” 

“It's a Scot thing,” Kyle interrupted with a wave of his hand, leaning forward so her eyes were on him instead of Johnny. “I'll have the waffles.” 

She wrote it down, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The movement drew John's attention to the way her hips and thighs looked in the uniform, and most importantly, the softness of her stomach. 

“Do you want the side of fruit or the bacon?” 

“Fruit please, and do you think you can put a little whipped cream on top?” 

“Absolutely. And for you?” She turned to look at John now, an expectant look on her face. It was his turn to order. 

“I’ll take a classic.” 

“Me too,” Simon said from his side, his gruff voice almost startling John. 

She recounted their order to them and left with a promise to be back with drinks. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, completely captivated by the sway of her hips and the plumpness of her ass. 

“Would you look at that?” Kyle mumbled, his eyes glued to her retreating form. 

“Aye, you don’t get a softness like that at the barracks.” 

John leveled the ogling men with a glare so sharp it could cut glass. “Behave.” 

Johnny clicked his tongue, that playful smirk spinning a tale of mischief. “Ye cannae say you ain’t lookin’ either. I saw ye.” 

“Doesn’t mean we can make comments, boys. It’s not nice.” 

When she came back with the coffee and as she leaned across the table to place the white mugs in front of each man, her perfume wafted over them. It was sweet, something bordering fruit and vanilla. John wouldn’t be able to name it even if he were tortured, but the scent was now a part of him. 

She was gone before they could thank her, her quick feet taking her to the other tables that were slowly filling as the day heated. Bouncing from booth to table, from counter to kitchen, she was a whirlwind of energy. 

It was only when she hurriedly greeted the next customer to ring the bell above the door, her hair damp at her temples, that they realized she was the only waitress on the floor. What happened to the other one?

“D’ya think we should invite her to the safehouse?” Johnny said around a mouth full of food. 

Kyle leaned back to watch her as she bent at the waist to wipe a table down. “Mmm, would she even want to bed four men?” 

For the first time since ordering his food, Simon spoke up, his gruff voice yet again sending John’s heart spiking. “We don’t even know her name, and you’re thinkin’ of beddin’ her?”

“You’re no fun, L.T.”  

A/N

Thank you so much for waiting. I hope I haven't kept you waiting for too long.

“and, that isn’t—,” you enunciate, and jason doesn’t even hear the rest of what you’re saying. your words are coated in some weird neutral accent, and he’s sure you’re not even trying to sound any specific way other than not how you do. you’d started off normal, with that pretty southern twang, but somewhere through the conversation it was like a switch was flipped and you’d eased yourself into whatever this was.

he tries to tune back in, to listen to what you’re saying, but his brows are knitted together, and his nose is crinkled, and he hates this. “the hell are you doin’, ma?”

“what do you mean?” you push out, trying so damn hard not speak how you’re used to, and every word is wrong, not how it should sound coming from that pretty mouth. and jason shoots you a look, one that very much conveys ‘you know damn well what’ with a heavy frown, and you cave in an instant.

you try to explain. that you don’t want to sound like a hick, or a country bumpkin, or uneducated, because you’re not uneducated. and there’s reasons, of course there are, and they’re all stupid to him. coworkers mocking you, or friends making a poorly timed joke. maybe an overheard conversation, just something. but the one that stands out the most is that you don’t want his friends, or his family, or him to think of you that way.

and that’s the most stupid, by far, because how could his brilliant, wonderful partner ever worry he’d think you’re uneducated? he’s seen your brain work, seen you solve things in half the time it takes him to, and that’s when you’re giving him a chance.

and he drags you to him, across the couch, and pulls your face into his chest, and kisses the crown of your head. and he sings your praises, a million words of reassurance — about how you’re the smartest person he’s ever met, about how he could never think that, about how he’d kick someones ass for even insinuating that you weren’t as brilliant as you were

and it doesn’t fix everything, but it makes it okay, even just for a minute. it helps.

yeah idk how to end this????

straight up was gonna just give up at the fifth paragraph and call it

@vault-viper1

I HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN THINKING OF SMTHN LIKE THIS bc i too am southern #redneccwonder

YeeHaw! (Polytrix x Reader)

They noticed your clothing during one of their live performances. The plaid button up, jean shorts, and those god forsaken cowboy boots.

Your style drove them wild.

Your accent did too.

Zoey fought the urge to make jokes and imitate your accent, but she loved it.

Rumi and Mira were in a bit of a culture shock, not understanding that people who act and talk like you actually existed. Its not like they have cowboys out in Korea.

The icing on the cake is the pet names used.

“You need something, sugar?”

yes, they need YOU.

“everything okay, sweetpea?”

yes, you gotta touch their pea-peas.

They love your cooking.

Biscuits and gravy?

Rumi and Mira didn’t know they needed that in their lives.

fried okra?? GOOD LORD.

Zoey made a few comments, “its just like cracker barrel” “yeehaw”

but you knew it was all endearing.

“try this darling.” mouths OPEN.

sorry if it’s to depressing of an ask, i just think your writing is great!! <3

yes im from appalachia! born and raised.

oh how I love this ask

southern belle!r who loves to bring in treats (cause southern ppl just love to feed everyone) pepperoni rolls, blackberry cobbler, cornbread, banana pudding, etc. and obviously its all homemade from great grandmas recipes

southern belle!r who uses nicknames with everyone. its basically second nature.

obviously the usual, honey, darlin', and sweetheart

and the more unusual ones, sissy, peaches, tater, bug, etc.

southern belle!r who rarely yells or gets angry, but the ED definitely gets a show when you are.

southern belle!r who has so many stories from childhood

southern belle!r who started out in rural emergency medicine but the constant failure from the state and region to provide resources for the struggling community affected their mental health. so they went to the city.

I 100% country!r would understand and empathize with frank while also holding him accountable for his actions.

country!r is strict but in the most loving way

country!r has seen it first and and knows how much addiction can affect someone but that it will never excuse poor actions