#He was halfway to being the man he wanted to be and then had to quit

[kiwriteswords]

congrats on your 2k 🎉

for missing scene Monday, could we get bearded Hotch's new gf he met on his secret assignment in Pakistan?? I'll leave it to you if you want to extend it back to the US and the BAU team!!

Just begging for anything with bearded Hotch and yes this was inspired by your 2k celebration gif choices ❤️ love ya!

Let It Be [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||Main Masterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 8k|| AN: Thank you so much for sending this request so early for day one! I was able to get a head start on this last week, and I really love how it turned out!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, canon-divergent, beard!hotch, canon-typical themes, hurt/comfort, banter, Hotch in Pakistan, non!BAU reader, kinda left tbc?

Summary: Hotch meets you on assignment in Pakistan, and you're exactly what he was looking for...someone who's just there without pushing.

The sun was relentless, bearing down on the barren expanse surrounding the base. Sweat collected under your tactical gear, but you barely noticed. It was the kind of heat that stripped away all distractions, leaving you focused on the mission ahead--or at least trying to be.

You adjusted the strap of your duffel bag and glanced around the bustling camp. This wasn’t your first special operations assignment, but the tension in the air felt different here. Heavier. 

It could have just been you dragging the weight of unresolved emotions halfway across the world, or it could have been the stakes of the mission--a dangerous operation involving an international terrorist cell that required precision, discretion, and teamwork between agencies not known for always getting along.

“Agent Y/L/N?”

The voice was deep, cutting through the camp noise. You turned and found yourself face to face with a tall man, his sharp features etched into a permanent state of seriousness. His gaze was steady, and his presence commanded attention without effort.

“That’s me,” you replied, clipped but polite.

He stepped closer, extending a hand. “Aaron Hotchner, unit chief for the BAU.”

The name was familiar. You had read the reports and heard the stories--his work on high-profile cases, his leadership, and his reputation for being unflinchingly methodical. You shook his hand, noting the firm grip and how it matched the intensity in his dark eyes.

“Special Agent Y/L/N, CIA Directorate of Operations,” you said, introducing yourself with the same straightforward efficiency. “Behavioral analyst and covert operations specialist.”

His brow shifted slightly, just enough for you to notice. He nodded, acknowledging your credentials with a quiet respect.

“Briefing starts in five,” he said, his tone all business. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you with the distinct impression that there was more to him than the stoic exterior he projected. You had worked with people like him before--people who carried their burdens in silence--but something about the weight in his eyes made you wonder if he had brought his own ghosts to this mission, much like you had.

….

The first few days were a blur of briefings, strategy sessions, and late nights poring over intel. You didn’t interact much with Hotch beyond the occasional exchange of information, but you caught yourself noticing him. The way he carried himself--calm and composed, but with an edge of tension that never seemed to leave him. You recognized it because you felt it, too.

As you reviewed reports in the command tent one night, he walked in, filling the space. He set a folder on the table and glanced at you.

“You’ve been here for hours,” he said, not a question but an observation.

You shrugged, keeping your focus on the documents in front of you. “So have you.”

“I’m used to it,” he replied, his tone neutral.

“So am I.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, he pulled out a chair and sat across from you, his gaze steady.

“It’s easier to keep busy,” he said quietly as if he was sharing a truth he rarely voiced.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes. There was something there--something raw and unspoken. You wanted to ask what he was running from, but you didn’t. You weren’t ready to share your own truths, so you didn’t ask for his.

….

The nights were the hardest. The quiet gave your mind too much room to wander, dredging up memories you’d rather forget. One evening, you found yourself outside, staring at the vast expanse of desert under a blanket of stars. You didn’t expect company, but the sound of footsteps behind you made you turn.

It was Hotch.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

He shook his head, stepping closer until he was standing beside you.

“Me neither,” you admitted.

For a while, you just stood there, the silence between you feeling strangely comfortable.

“I read your file,” he said eventually, his tone careful.

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Did you now?”

“You’ve handled some difficult assignments. Made a name for yourself.”

There was no arrogance in his words; it was just observation.

“Guess you could say I have a knack for throwing myself into the fire,” you replied. Something flashed across his face like he was going to respond with something, but he didn’t.

Neither of you spoke for a while, but his presence was steady, almost calming.

“Why are you really here?” you asked, breaking the quiet. Nobody in their right mind would have volunteered for this unless they either A) had nobody to go home to at night, or B) were trying to forget about something else. You could tell by the small photo Hotch carried around of, presumably, his son it wasn’t option A.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, almost reluctant. “Because it’s easier than being back home.”

You nodded, understanding more than you cared to admit. “Yeah. Same.”

He glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “What are you running from?”

You hesitated, the question hitting too close to home. “A mistake. One I don’t want to repeat.”

He didn’t press for details, and you were grateful. Instead, he said, “Sometimes running is the only way to keep moving.”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure if you agreed.

……

As the mission dragged on, the weight of it started to press down on both of you. You began to notice how Hotch avoided certain topics, not that personal topics frequently came up. You noticed how his eyes darkened when the name "Prentiss" came up from the communication specialist on the special ops team.

You didn’t ask--he didn’t offer--but the pieces slowly started to come together. You had to be living under a rock in this field not to have heard about the major loss the BAU took this past year.

One night, after another tense meeting, you found yourselves in the makeshift kitchen, both reaching for the last cup of coffee.

“You take it,” you said, stepping back.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“I insist. I’ve had worse days.”

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of understanding. “I doubt that.”

You smirked, the slightest crack in your guarded exterior. “Careful, Hotchner. That almost sounded like empathy.”

His lips twitched--the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him. “Don’t get used to it.”

….

A sudden sandstorm sent the entire team scrambling for cover. The wind howled outside the command tent, shaking the canvas walls as you huddled with Hotch and two other agents.

“Typical,” you muttered, brushing sand off your gear. “Mission’s hard enough without Mother Nature making it worse.”

Hotch sat across from you, his expression unreadable as he tightened the straps on his vest. He was scruffier than he was when you first arrived. It wasn’t a bad look, but you brushed down that thought.

“You’ve been through worse,” he said matter-of-factly, not a question but a statement.

You let out a short laugh. “Don’t give me too much credit, Hotchner. I’m not invincible.”

“No one is,” he replied, his tone softer than you expected. “But you’re resilient. I can see that.”

The compliment, if you could call it that, caught you off guard. You didn’t reply, unsure how to. Instead, you focused on the storm outside, the roar of the wind drowning out everything else.

But later, when the storm passed, and you stepped out into the eerily quiet desert, you found yourself glancing at Hotch. He met your gaze for a moment, and something unspoken passed between you--a mutual respect, a shared understanding.

….

It was late, and the compound was finally quiet. You were seated at a makeshift table, cleaning your sidearm, when Hotch approached with two cups of coffee.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you said as he set one down in front of you.

“I doubt that,” he replied, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

You took a sip, wincing at the bitter taste. “God, this is terrible.”

“It’s coffee,” he said with a small shrug as if that explained everything.

You glanced at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Do you ever lighten up, Hotchner?”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “On occasion.”

“Define ‘occasion.’”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting to the weapon in your hands. “When it’s earned,” he said finally.

It was a cryptic response, but it made you smile anyway. “Well, I’ll consider this progress.”

He sat with you in silence, but it was comfortable. The company was more needed than either of you realized.

….

The day had been relentless, the kind that left your muscles aching and your mind frayed at the edges. You had lost count of how many hours you’d been awake--thirty, maybe forty. Every bone in your body screamed for rest, but the tension from the mission had settled into your chest, making sleep impossible.

You found yourself outside the command tent, slumping onto an old crate with a half-empty water bottle in your hand. The distant hum of generators buzzed like a white noise machine, masking the desert’s eerie quiet.

Hotch appeared a few minutes later, wordlessly lowering himself onto the crate beside you. His presence, steady as always, should have been comforting, but tonight it only made the lump in your throat harder to ignore.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You told yourself you liked the silence, but the truth was, it gave your thoughts too much room to spiral. Your chest felt tight, and despite the coolness of the night, your face burned with exhaustion-fueled frustration.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your mouth before you could stop them.

Hotch turned his head toward you, his face unreadable but his attention sharp. “Why do you say that?”

You let out a shaky breath, staring out into the endless darkness of the desert. “Because I’m running. I didn’t know what else to do.” You hesitated, feeling the weight of your own admission. “I thought putting space between me and...everything would help, but maybe it just makes it worse.”

The words sat heavy in the air, and you instantly regretted saying them. You felt exposed, as though admitting it aloud would make it all the more real. Your hands fidgeted with the bottle, and you kept your gaze fixed ahead, unwilling to meet his.

You thought about the way your life had pretty much unraveled around you back at home. If it wasn’t for work, you’re not sure you’d still be standing on your two feet. Here you could be the strong, independent person you aspired to be. At home, you were heartbroken without an end in sight. 

The silence stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn’t respond. But then, in that low, even voice of his, he said, “It doesn’t make it worse. It just makes it...quieter. And sometimes quiet is all you can handle.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the quiet vulnerability in his tone. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, distant and heavy with something you couldn’t name.

“Is that why you’re here?” you asked softly, the rawness in your voice betraying how fragile you felt.

He nodded, barely perceptible, his gaze never leaving the horizon. “I thought being here might help me make sense of things. But some things…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. “Some things don’t have answers.”

There was something about the way he said it--not defensive, not self-pitying, just honest. It broke through the dam inside you, and for a fleeting moment, you thought you might cry.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat tightening. The weight of his answer settled between you, tangible and heavy, yet somehow reassuring.

For the first time, the silence felt like a shared space rather than an empty one. You didn’t push for more. You couldn’t, not with your emotions already threatening to overflow. But as the desert night pressed in around you, you realized you didn’t need to.

Whatever walls you both had built were starting to crumble, and neither of you seemed inclined to stop it.

…..

The air in the abandoned warehouse was stifling, thick with the smell of rust and dust. You moved carefully, your weapon drawn and your eyes scanning every shadow. Hotch was just behind you, silent but steady, his presence grounding you in the tense atmosphere.

The intel had been solid: a potential threat against the local embassy was being planned here, and your team had been tasked with gathering evidence. But now, as you crept deeper into the maze of crates and machinery, something felt off. The place was too quiet.

A faint creak made you freeze. You glanced back at Hotch, and he gave a subtle nod, his dark eyes sharp with focus. He gestured for you to take the left while he veered right. You obeyed without question, trusting his instincts as much as your own.

You edged around a stack of crates, your pulse quickening. The sound came again--a faint shuffle, followed by a whisper of movement. You tightened your grip on your weapon, adrenaline flooding your system.

Then everything exploded at once.

A figure lunged from the shadows, slamming into you with enough force to knock you off balance. Your weapon clattered to the floor as you struggled against the assailant, their grip bruising as they tried to pin you down.

“Agent Y/L/N!” Hotch’s voice cut through the chaos like a lifeline.

You twisted, freeing one arm, and drove your elbow into the attacker’s side. They grunted, loosening their grip just enough for you to push them off. But before you could retrieve your weapon, another figure appeared, this one heading straight for Hotch.

“Behind you!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.

Hotch spun just in time, deflecting the attacker’s blow and delivering a calculated strike that sent them stumbling. But the odds were quickly stacking against you--more figures emerged from the shadows, their movements coordinated and purposeful.

“Fall back!” Hotch ordered, his voice calm but commanding.

You grabbed your weapon and fell into step beside him as the two of you retreated toward the exit. The sound of footsteps echoed behind you, growing louder with each passing second.

“We’re not going to make it out clean,” you said, your voice tight as you scanned for cover.

Hotch’s jaw clenched. “We don’t have to. We just need to slow them down.”

He pointed to a stack of crates near the exit, and you understood immediately. You fired a few shots, not aiming to hit but to force your pursuers to take cover. Then, together, you pushed the nearest crate, toppling it over and creating a barricade that bought you a few precious seconds.

“Go!” Hotch barked, motioning for you to move ahead.

“No way,” you snapped, falling into position beside him. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

His gaze flicked to you, something unspoken passing between you. It wasn’t the time for arguments, so he didn’t push it.

The two of you moved as one, covering each other as you navigated the narrow corridors toward the exit. Your heart pounded in your ears, but you didn’t let it distract you. Hotch’s steady presence was all you focused on, his calm precision a stark contrast to the chaos around you.

Finally, you burst into the open air, the sounds of shouting and gunfire fading behind you. You didn’t stop running until you reached the safety of the extraction point, where reinforcements were waiting.

You doubled over, hands on your knees as you caught your breath. Hotch was beside you, his breathing heavy but controlled.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

You nodded, straightening up. “Yeah. You?”

“I’ve been worse,” he replied, a faint flicker of dry humor in his tone.

You couldn’t help but let out a shaky laugh, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “That’s one way to bond, I guess.”

Hotch glanced at you, and for the first time since the mission began, you saw something close to a smile on his face. It was brief, but it was real.

“Good work out there,” he said simply.

“Right back at you,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

In that moment, you realized just how much you trusted him--not just as a colleague, but as someone who had your back, no matter what. And from the way he looked at you, you had the feeling he felt the same.

….

The day had been unusually quiet. The base hummed with its usual activity, but the weight in the air seemed heavier that day. You had noticed it the moment you walked into the briefing room. Hotch had been there, as he always was, but there was something off.

His usual sharp focus felt dulled, his replies curt even for his standards. He spent more time staring at his tablet than actually reading it, and the lines etched into his face seemed deeper somehow.

You weren’t a profiler, but you didn’t need to be to know something was wrong.

Now, hours later, you found him alone in the makeshift command tent, the harsh glow of a desk lamp illuminating the strain on his features. He was seated, elbows on the table and his hands clasped in front of him, staring at a map as if willing it to make sense.

“You’re still at it?” you asked gently, stepping inside.

His head lifted slightly, but he didn’t look at you. “There’s a lot to prepare for.”

“There always is,” you replied, pulling up a chair across from him. “But it’s late. You should take a break.”

“I can’t afford to.”

The edge in his voice wasn’t aimed at you, but it still made you hesitate. You considered leaving him to his work, but something kept you there.

“Hotch,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tense quiet. “What’s going on?”

He finally looked up, his dark eyes shadowed by something heavy. For a moment, you thought he might tell you, but then his expression hardened, his walls slamming back into place.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said, his tone measured but distant.

You didn’t believe him, not for a second. But you also knew better than to push.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “You’re allowed to have off days, you know. Even you.”

His lips twitched, almost a humorless smile. “I don’t have the time for that.”

“You’re human,” you countered, your tone steady but not pressing. “It’s not a luxury. It’s just...life.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to the table. But his hands, usually so still, were fidgeting now--his fingers twisting the edge of the map absentmindedly.

You let the silence settle between you, giving him space. After a few minutes, you stood and moved toward the coffee pot in the corner of the tent. You poured two cups, setting one down in front of him without a word before returning to your seat.

Hotch stared at the cup for a moment before picking it up, cradling it in his hands like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“It’s fine,” he said abruptly, almost as if he was telling it to himself, though his tone betrayed him. “I just--” He stopped, shaking his head as if to dismiss whatever he’d been about to say.

“You don’t have to explain,” you said quietly, your voice steady. “We all have those days.”

He let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “This one feels heavier.”

You didn’t know what he was carrying--something about him always felt impenetrable, as though he kept the world at arm’s length. But you didn’t need to know the specifics to recognize the weight he was under.

“You’re allowed to let it feel heavy,” you said after a moment, watching his reaction carefully.

Hotch’s hand tightened around the coffee cup, the faintest flicker of vulnerability flashing across his face before his walls went back up. “I shouldn’t let it distract me,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, resting your arms on the table. “Maybe letting yourself feel it for five minutes wouldn’t be a distraction. Maybe it’d just be human.”

He didn’t respond, but his jaw shifted as though he was grinding his teeth. His silence didn’t bother you--it was enough to just sit there, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

After a while, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not digging,” he said, finally looking at you. His gaze softened just enough to make your chest ache. “For just...being here.”

You offered a small smile, reaching across the table and resting your hand lightly over his. It wasn’t much, but the way his shoulders relaxed told you it was enough.

“I’ve got your back,” you said simply. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone.”

Hotch nodded, his grip tightening briefly on the cup before setting it down. He didn’t say anything else, but the tension in the room felt lighter somehow.

The two of you sat there in silence, the night pressing in around you. And while the weight of whatever he was carrying didn’t disappear, you could tell it didn’t feel quite so unbearable anymore.

…

The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, reflecting off the shallow, winding river that cut through the barren terrain. You adjusted your gear, sweat dripping down your temple as you followed Hotch’s lead. The mission had gone sideways--nothing catastrophic, but the extraction point was now miles further than planned, and the only route was straight through the rocky riverbed.

“Watch your step,” Hotch warned as he leaped from one jagged boulder to another. His movements were precise, practiced, but you could tell the exhaustion of the day was catching up with him.

“I was planning to fall flat on my face,” you replied, the edge of sarcasm in your voice lighthearted enough to soften the tension.

His lips twitched, that almost-smile you’d grown accustomed to. “Let’s avoid that.”

The river wasn’t deep, but the current was deceptively strong. The rocks were uneven; some were slick with moss, and others were barely stable. The whole setup was a sprained ankle--or worse--waiting to happen.

You made it halfway across before your boot slipped on a loose stone, your footing completely giving out beneath you. You stumbled, and the weight of your gear made it impossible to regain your balance.

Before you could hit the water, a substantial hand shot out, grabbing your arm and pulling you upright. The force of it brought you chest-to-chest with Hotch, his grip firm and steady.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and close, his breath warm against your temple.

“Yeah,” you managed, your own breath catching as you looked up at him. His face was inches from yours, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you.

His dark eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering in them--concern, maybe, or something deeper. He didn’t let go right away, his hand lingering on your arm as though he needed to make sure you were truly steady.

“I told you to watch your step,” he said finally, his tone softer than usual. His words did not match the gentleness in his tone.

“And I told you I was planning to fall,” you shot back, the corner of your mouth quirking up into a wry smile.

His lips twitched again, but this time, it felt closer to a real smile. His hand slipped away reluctantly, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he stepped back.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said, his voice all business again, though you caught the slight shift in his expression--something unguarded, fleeting, but unmistakably there.

…

The day’s trek had left you both bone-weary, but the setting sun brought with it a chill that seeped into your skin. The fire crackled low between you as you sat on overturned crates, the glow casting flickering shadows over the rocky outcrop that served as your makeshift camp for the night.

You had stripped down to your undershirt, your jacket drying on a nearby rock after the river crossing. Hotch sat across from you, rolling his stiff shoulders and rubbing his neck, his usual stoicism slightly cracked by the day’s exhaustion.

“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” you commented, watching him massage the tension from his muscles.

“So will you,” he replied, his eyes flicking to your bruised forearm from the earlier stumble.

“I bounce back quickly,” you said lightly. “You, on the other hand, might want to consider a hot bath.”

His lips quirked, and he shook his head. “I’ll add that to the list of luxuries I’m missing out on.”

“Right after edible food,” you added, holding up the protein bar you’d been gnawing on. “This is basically punishment.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rare, and it made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the fire and the rare ease of the moment settle over you.

“You’re not always so serious, are you?” you asked, half-teasing but genuinely curious.

Hotch glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Depends on the company.”

The weight of his words hung between you, and for a moment, you couldn’t look away. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the lines of exhaustion and something deeper--something you couldn’t quite name but felt pulled toward.

“Well,” you said finally, breaking the tension with a small smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on you before he nodded slightly. “You should.”

The fire had long since burned down to embers, but neither of you had moved. The quiet was comfortable now, a shared understanding that didn’t need words.

“You’re different,” Hotch said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. His tone was thoughtful, not heavy, but it made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t expect.

“Different how?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t push,” he said simply. “Most people do. They want something, even if they don’t say it.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening at the vulnerability in his words. “Maybe I just know what it’s like to need space.”

Hotch nodded, his gaze dropping to the glowing embers. “It’s rare,” he said quietly. “And...appreciated.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and you realized with a startling clarity that you didn’t want this moment to end. The mission, the chaos, the fleeting moments of quiet connection--they’d all built to this, and you weren’t ready to let it go.

You didn’t say anything, but you shifted closer, just enough that your knee brushed against his. He didn’t move away, and the warmth of his presence felt like an anchor in the cool desert night.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. But when he finally looked at you, the guarded distance in his eyes had softened, replaced by something you couldn’t name but felt deeply.

“Get some rest,” he said eventually, his voice low but gentle. “Tomorrow will come too soon.”

You nodded, standing and brushing the dust from your pants. But as you turned to leave, you paused, glancing back at him. “Good night, Hotch.”

“Good night,” he replied, his gaze following you as you walked away.

And for the first time since this mission began, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time--something you weren’t sure you could name but couldn’t deny was there.

…..

The air in the base felt heavier than usual. The usual hum of activity buzzed in the background, but your focus was locked on the figure in front of you--Aaron Hotchner, standing by the transport vehicle, his duffel slung over his shoulder. A stark contrast to how he had shown up so long ago. Now, slimmer and with a face full of facial hair.

You hadn’t expected the mission to end like this--not with him leaving before it was over. The news had come down hours ago: he had been called back stateside. No explanation, no warning. Just orders.

“Something urgent?” you asked, keeping your tone steady even as you struggled to meet his eyes.

He nodded, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight, a tell you’d come to recognize. “I have to return to Quantico. The team needs me.”

Of course, they do, you thought. You had known from the beginning that this wasn’t his world. His world was back home, leading the BAU, carrying burdens most people couldn’t fathom. Still, the abruptness of his departure left a hollow ache in your chest that you hadn’t prepared for.

You stepped closer, your arms crossed, not out of defiance but to keep yourself grounded. “We’ll manage here,” you said, the words feeling both true and hollow.

Hotch’s gaze flicked to you, his dark eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “You will,” he said, his voice low. “You’re good at this.”

A faint, humorless laugh escaped you. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was,” he replied, a faint ghost of a smile on his lips before it disappeared.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t. You weren’t naive. Whatever had brought him here was bigger than the mission, bigger than you. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch him leave.

“Will you be back?” you asked finally, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Hotch hesitated, his gaze shifting to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “I don’t know.”

The honesty in his answer hit harder than you expected.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and nodded. “Well, in case you don’t…you know, good luck, Hotch.”

He studied you for a moment, as if committing your face to memory. Then, to your surprise, he stepped closer. His hand reached out, resting lightly on your arm.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For everything.”

The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you, but you didn’t pull away. “For what?”

“For being here. For making this easier,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You searched his eyes, the words catching in your throat. Instead of speaking, you reached up and squeezed his hand where it rested on your arm, the small gesture saying more than words could.

His hand lingered for a moment before he pulled back, his professional mask sliding into place once more.

“They’re waiting for me,” he said, his voice steady but distant.

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Go. They need you more than we do.”

He hesitated again, his eyes flicking to yours one last time. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

And then he turned and climbed into the vehicle. You stood there, watching as it pulled away, the ache in your chest growing heavier with each passing second.

When the dust finally settled, and the vehicle disappeared from sight, you let out a shaky breath, the reality of his absence sinking in.

You hadn’t expected this assignment to change anything. But now, as you stood alone under the relentless desert sun, you realized just how much it had--and how much he had.

You weren’t sure how you’d get over missing him the way you felt the minute he left your side. 

…

The harsh glow of the tent's fluorescent light was a poor substitute for the sun. You rubbed your temples, trying to chase away the dull ache that had settled behind your eyes after hours of pouring over intel. The mission dragged on, one step forward and two steps back, and you were beginning to feel the weight of it pressing down on you.

The faint crackle of the comm system startled you, drawing your attention to the communications officer stationed at the other end of the tent. His head tilted, listening intently before he turned and called out, “Y/L/N, secure line for you. Priority channel.”

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face. Secure lines weren’t uncommon, but they were usually pre-arranged. Rising from your chair, you crossed the tent, curiosity buzzing in the back of your mind.

When you picked up the headset, the officer handed you a notepad with a string of verification codes scrawled across it. “Verify the code,” he instructed.

You input the code into the secure terminal, and after a moment, the line cleared. “This is Y/L/N,” you said cautiously.

There was a beat of silence, then a familiar voice. “It’s Hotch.”

Back in Quantico, Hotch leaned back in his chair, his fingers gripping the phone tighter than necessary. The bullpen below his office was dim and quiet--most of the team had left for the night, but the stillness did little to ease the weight pressing on him.

The fallout from the Ian Doyle case was still reverberating through the BAU. Emily’s return had blindsided the team, and though he had tried to justify the deception, the cracks in their trust were impossible to ignore. Strauss’s scrutiny had sharpened, and his every decision seemed to be under a magnifying glass.

He hadn’t called to talk about any of that. He couldn’t.

But the familiar tension in his chest--the suffocating combination of guilt, stress, and isolation--had driven him to dial the secure line. He wasn’t even sure you’d pick up, but when your voice filtered through the line, steady and sure, it was like a knot in his chest loosened.

You straightened instinctively, surprise rippling through you. “Hotch,” you repeated, unable to keep the astonishment from your tone. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he replied, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You’re not…no,” you assured him, leaning against the edge of the table. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough for you to sense the weight behind it. “I just wanted to check-in. See how things are going on your end.”

You frowned slightly, his words not matching the tension you could hear in his voice. “Things are...as expected. Slow, frustrating, and complicated. But manageable.”

“Good,” he said, the word clipped, almost distracted.

You weren’t a profiler, but the exhaustion in his tone was unmistakable. He sounded like a man carrying too many burdens, with no room to set them down.

“You sound tired,” you said gently, knowing better than to pry.

He let out a soft exhale, the kind that felt heavier than it should. “It’s been a long few weeks,” he admitted, though his words felt like an understatement.

Hotch closed his eyes for a moment, your voice cutting through the static in his mind. He could still see the look on Morgan’s face when Emily had walked into the room, the betrayal simmering under the surface. He could hear the edge in Strauss’s tone as she grilled him about his decision to keep the team in the dark.

But here, with you, there was no judgment. No interrogation.

“You’re taking care of yourself, right?” you asked, keeping your tone light but genuine.

A soft scoff met your ears. “I’m trying,” he replied, the words carrying a note of dry humor.

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the table. “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

His silence stretched again, but this time it felt less heavy. You knew he wasn’t the type to reach out without a reason, but you also knew he wouldn’t say more than he wanted to. And you weren’t going to push.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For picking up,” he said simply. “For not asking.”

Your chest tightened slightly at the honesty in his tone. “Of course,” you replied softly. “You don’t have to explain anything, Hotch. You know that.”

For a fleeting moment, Hotch considered telling you. About Emily. About the team’s trust--or lack of it. But the words felt too heavy…too complicated to put into the space between you. He didn’t want to drag you into the mess, especially not when you had your own mission to worry about.

And yet, knowing you were there, steady and unwavering, brought him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in weeks.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the faint hum of the secure line filling the silence. Despite the distance between you, the connection felt tangible--grounding.

“I should let you get back to work,” he said finally, although his voice sounded reluctant.

“Yeah,” you agreed, even though you didn’t want the call to end. “But Hotch...don’t wait so long to call next time, okay?”

There was a pause, then a quiet, almost imperceptible, “Okay.”

And then the line disconnected, leaving you standing there with the headset in hand and a heaviness in your chest you hadn’t felt in weeks.

Across the ocean, Hotch set the phone down, his hand lingering on the receiver. For the first time in days, the storm inside him felt a little less suffocating. And though he couldn’t explain why, he knew that calling you had been the right choice.

….

Throughout the remainder of your mission in Pakistan, Hotch’s calls came sporadically, never announced, and always brief. Each time the secure line connected, his voice carried a steadiness that seemed to ease the tension that surrounded you. The conversations were simple--updates on the mission, quiet exchanges about the weather, or mutual remarks about the relentless grind of your respective work.

Yet, beneath the surface, those calls meant more. 

They weren’t about the words exchanged but the connection that had grown between you. Somehow, through the static of secure lines and the distance of continents, you felt you knew him intimately. 

Not in the way of shared stories or confessions, but in the quiet understanding of someone who had seen the same kind of pain.

Hotch never spoke about what weighed on him, and you never pressed. He didn’t need to. The heaviness in his tone, the pauses that lingered too long--they told you everything you needed to know. And you, in turn, found comfort in the silence he offered, in the unspoken acknowledgment of your own burdens.

It was a strange closeness, one that felt both fragile and unbreakable. You knew so much about each other, and yet nothing at all. He never asked about what had driven you to this mission, and you never asked about the strain you could hear in his voice. Yet, you understood each other in a way that words couldn’t capture.

In those stolen moments on the phone, it didn’t matter that the world outside was relentless. It didn’t matter that neither of you could put your pain into words. What mattered was that, for a few fleeting minutes, you weren’t alone. And somehow, that was enough.

It was those moments that patched up the pain in your chest, almost making you forget about the heartbreak you left at home. The failed relationships, the loneliness…you wondered how it would continue on--or if it would continue on once you were back home. You hoped. 

…..

The bullpen at the BAU was its usual hive of activity, with agents moving between desks, typing up reports, and chatting quietly between tasks. But today, there was an undercurrent of curiosity rippling through the team--one that centered on Hotch.

Seated at her desk, Garcia spun her chair toward Morgan, a playful smirk on her lips. “Alright, Derek, spill. What’s with the boss man and those secretive phone calls he’s been making?”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “What makes you think I know anything, Baby Girl?”

Garcia raised a skeptical brow, gesturing dramatically toward Hotch’s office. “Because every time he steps in there and picks up that phone, he looks...different. Like, not his usual stressed-out-because-the-world-is-burning look. It’s something else.”

JJ, passing by with a file, paused to join the conversation. “You’re not wrong,” she said thoughtfully. “I noticed it, too. He’s been...quieter lately. More introspective. Not that Hotch is ever exactly chatty, but it’s different.”

Rossi appeared from behind them, holding his ever-present coffee mug. “And you’re all assuming that a few phone calls mean he’s seeing someone?” His tone was teasing, but there was genuine curiosity behind it.

“I mean, it wouldn’t be the craziest thing,” Morgan replied with a shrug. “The man deserves a little happiness. Maybe he finally found someone who gets him.”

Reid, seated nearby with his tablet, looked up. “It could be related to the fallout from the Doyle case. He might be reaching out to someone for professional advice or support.”

Garcia shook her head dramatically. “Oh, boy-wonder, that’s far too clinical. This is Hotch we’re talking about. If he’s calling someone regularly, it’s personal.”

JJ frowned slightly, leaning against her desk. “Whoever it is, I just hope they’re good for him. After everything with Haley, and now the strain with the team...he needs someone who can be there for him.”

Rossi took a sip of his coffee, his gaze flicking toward Hotch’s closed office door. “Maybe it’s not about what they say. Sometimes, it’s just about having someone who listens. God knows that man doesn’t let anyone in easily.”

The group fell into a contemplative silence, their gazes drifting toward the office where Hotch was currently on a call. Inside, his expression was characteristically composed, but the slight relaxation of his shoulders and the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed something softer.

Morgan broke the silence first, smirking. “Well, whoever this mystery caller is, they’ve got our fearless leader smiling. I say we let him have this one.”

Garcia gasped dramatically, clasping her hands together. “Smiling? You saw him smile? Oh, this is bigger than I thought.”

JJ and Rossi exchanged amused glances, and even Reid couldn’t suppress a small smile at Garcia’s theatrics. But beneath the playful banter, the team shared a collective hope--that whoever was on the other end of those calls was helping their stoic leader carry at least some of the weight on his shoulders.

….

Hotch sat in his office, the low hum of activity in the bullpen barely reaching his ears. His personal phone buzzed on the desk beside him, an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen. He frowned, picking it up cautiously. It wasn’t often he got calls from unlisted numbers on this line.

“Aaron Hotchner,” he answered, his tone brisk.

“Well, that’s formal. Do you always answer like you’re being interrogated?”

His breath caught, the familiar voice pulling a genuine, if fleeting, smile to his face. “Agent Y/L/N. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you teased. “Just because I’m not in Pakistan doesn’t mean I’ve vanished. I still exist, contrary to popular belief.”

“Good to know,” he replied, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I heard you finished the mission. Back stateside?”

“For now,” you said, your tone carrying the same measured ease he remembered. “It’s just a pit stop, though. The CIA doesn’t let its covert operatives sit idle for too long.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said, the faintest trace of humor in his voice. “How’s it feel to be back?”

“Strange,” you admitted. “Like I’m not entirely here, you know? You get that, don’t you?”

He did. More than he cared to admit. 

“I do,” he said simply, his voice low.

“And you?” you asked, your voice softening. “How’s the BAU treating you?”

He hesitated, the weight of recent weeks pressing heavily on his chest. The fallout from the Doyle case, Emily’s return, the team’s shaken trust--it all simmered just beneath the surface. But he wasn’t ready to unpack that. Not now.

“Still busy,” he said instead, his voice even. “But you know how it is. Work doesn’t stop.”

“I do,” you replied, a knowing edge to your tone. “Sounds like you’re carrying more than just case files, though.”

He stayed silent for a moment, his grip tightening slightly on the phone. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he said finally.

“You always say that,” you said, a note of fond exasperation in your voice. “I’m starting to think it’s your catchphrase.”

“I don’t have catchphrases,” he replied, his lips twitching in the faintest of smiles.

“Sure you don’t,” you shot back. “Next, you’ll tell me you don’t ever crack a smile.”

“That’s a rare occurrence,” he said, his tone lighter.

“Well, I must be one of the lucky few then because I swear I’ve seen it.”

The warmth in your voice caught him off guard, but he didn’t mind it. Not one bit. “You’re in a unique position.”

“Unique, huh?” you teased. “You make it sound so exclusive.”

“It is,” he admitted, his voice softening. “Not many people see past the job.”

Your tone matched his now, the playfulness giving way to something more sincere. “That’s because the job is easier to focus on. It’s harder to look past it.”

He let out a quiet sigh, nodding even though you couldn’t see him. “You’re not wrong.”

The call buzzed with a quiet warmth neither of you acknowledged outright, but both felt. Hotch leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a breath. He stared at the phone in his hand, debating whether to say what had been sitting in the back of his mind.

"So, this call," he said, his voice measured but holding a thread of something lighter. "Official business, or are you just checking up on me?"

"Can't it be both?" you asked, your teasing tone doing exactly what you intended--it made him relax, even if just a little.

He let out a soft laugh, surprising himself. "I suppose it can."

"I don’t know," you said, your voice playful. "Can it?"

He hesitated just a moment before admitting, “I actually thought about calling you too; I wanted to see how you were doing. And…I guess I needed to hear a familiar voice.”

The silence between you settled softly, comfortable, and filled with an understanding neither of you needed to articulate.

“Well, I’m doing okay,” you said finally, your tone calm. “Work’s the same. Chaos, classified details, long hours. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he replied, the weight of shared experience clear in his voice. “Too familiar.”

“And you?” you asked gently, your tone softening. “How are you, Hotch? Really?”

He hesitated again, the instinct to protect himself battling against the trust he felt when speaking to you. “I’m…I’m managing,” he said at last, quieter than before. “But it’s...been a lot.”

You didn’t push. You never did. That was one of the things he appreciated most. 

“Well,” you said, the warmth returning to your voice, “if you ever feel like you need to step away from saving the world, give me a call. I’ve got plenty of experience in chaos management.”

He let out another rare, quiet laugh. “I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” you said lightly. “Don’t be a stranger, Hotch.”

He let the words settle, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He wasn’t sure what prompted him, but before the conversation could end, he spoke again.

“Actually,” he started, his voice betraying a hint of nerves that even he couldn’t suppress, “have you ever thought about meeting up?” The question lingered, and he immediately wondered if he had overstepped. “I mean, if your schedule allows it,” he added, his tone faltering slightly. “I know how demanding your work is.”

You paused, clearly caught off guard. “Meeting up?” you repeated, a smile audible in your tone. “You mean in person?”

“Yes,” he said quickly before he could second-guess himself. “I just thought…you’ve been a consistent voice through everything, and…” He trailed off, realizing he didn’t know how to explain it without giving too much away. “It would be nice to catch up.”

“I think that sounds...great,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now. “Though I should warn you, Hotchner, I’m still terrible at small talk.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he replied, his lips twitching into a smile.

“Well,” you teased, “I don’t know if I should be flattered or worried.”

“Flattered,” he said, surprising himself again with the sincerity in his tone.

The brief pause that followed carried an unspoken weight, a quiet understanding of the connection that had been building between you since the mission in Pakistan. Neither of you said it outright, but it was there, tangible in the way you lingered on the call longer than necessary.

“I’ll check my schedule,” you said lightly, breaking the silence. “But don’t think I won’t hold you to this.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he replied, his voice steadier now.

When the call ended, Hotch sat back, his thoughts circling the conversation. He realized that while he still didn’t know the full scope of your personal life or if there was someone waiting for you back home, he felt compelled to try--to find out, to see where this connection might lead. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself the thought of something beyond the weight he carried every day.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @superlegend216

[gf2bellamy]

first of all, i want to say that i love love love your fics so much they're so cute and you write Spencer so well omg 😭😭😭

could i request girlfriend reader and spencer where he just got out of prison and they reunite and stuff and they just want to be close to eachother because theyve never spent that much time apart??

(preferably very fluffy and cute?)

<3

reunited — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (no use of y/n ) content warnings: a bit of angst a/n: THANK YOU SM !!! <33 means alot to me <3 hope this is what you asked for !!

The moment Spencer stepped through the doors, your heart felt like it was going to burst. You had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, counting down the seconds, the minutes, the hours until he was free again. Until he was back in your arms. And now, here he was—alive, real, and standing right in front of you. 

His eyes found yours almost immediately, and the way they lit up made your chest ache. The man who had been your anchor, your safe place, your everything.

And now, after weeks of being apart, he was finally here. 

You didn’t even realize you were moving until you were running toward him, your feet carrying you faster than your thoughts could catch up. He met you halfway, his long arms wrapping around you before you could even say a word. The force of his embrace nearly knocked the air out of you, but you didn’t care. You clung to him just as tightly, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear if you let go. 

“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel the way his hands trembled as they held you. “I missed you so much.” 

When you finally pulled back, you didn’t even notice the tears streaming down your face until Spencer gently brushed them away. His touch was soft as his fingertips traced the paths of your tears.

For a moment, he just looked at you, as if he were memorizing every detail of your face, as if he needed to remind himself that you were real, that this was real. 

And then, without a word, he pulled you back into his arms, holding you even tighter than before. His face buried into your shoulder, and you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his body seemed to sag against yours, as if he’d been holding himself together for weeks and only now, with you, could he finally let go.  

An hour later, you were home, and Spencer still hadn’t left your side. He had changed out of his clothes, and you were pretty sure that was the only time he hadn’t been touching you in some way. But even then, he had kept his eyes on you, as if afraid you might vanish if he looked away for too long.

Now, sitting on the couch, he had practically pulled you on top of him, his arms wrapped securely around you as if he couldn’t bear even the slightest distance between you. 

Your head rested on his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took. One of his hands was tangled in your hair, gently playing with the strands, while the other traced slow, soothing circles on your back.  

“I missed this,” Spencer said quietly, his voice soft but filled with emotion. “I missed you. I missed the way you feel in my arms, the way you smell, the way you make everything feel… okay.” 

You tilted your head to look up at him, your heart swelling at the raw honesty in his words. His eyes were still a little red.

“I missed you too,” you said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from his face. “Every single day.” 

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment as if savoring the feeling of your hand against his skin.

“I don’t ever want to be apart from you again,” he said quietly. “Not like that. Not ever.” 

You smiled, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “You don’t have to be,” you said softly. “You’re stuck with me, Spencer Reid. For as long as you’ll have me.” 

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Forever, then,” he murmured against your skin.

You sighed contentedly, settling back against his chest. His arms tightened around you.The two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours.

Even the next morning, Spencer’s need to stay close to you hadn’t faded.

When you woke up early, you had to practically untangle yourself from his grip, his arms still wrapped tightly around you even in his sleep. You smiled softly as you carefully slipped out of bed, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead.

He looked so peaceful, his face relaxed in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. He deserved to rest, and you weren’t about to wake him. 

You padded quietly into the kitchen, the early morning light streaming through the windows. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was a genuine smile on your face as you moved around the kitchen.

You hummed softly to yourself as you started making breakfast, the familiar routine feeling almost new again now that Spencer was home. The smell of coffee brewing and eggs sizzling filled the air.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t hear him come up behind you.

Suddenly, you felt his arms slide around your waist, pulling you gently against his chest. You let out a small, surprised laugh as his chin rested on your shoulder. 

“You’re up early,” he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep. His breath tickled your neck, and you could feel the way he nuzzled closer, as if he couldn’t bear to be even a step away from you. 

“I wanted to make you breakfast,” you said, tilting your head to the side to give him better access as he pressed a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. His lips lingered there for a moment, and you could feel the way he sighed, his body relaxing against yours.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, his hands tightening slightly around your waist. “I would’ve been happy with just… this.”

You smiled, turning your head to catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes were still half-closed, his hair adorably messy from sleep, and the sight made your heart swell. “I know,” you said softly, reaching up to brush your fingers through his hair. “But I wanted to. You deserve something nice after… everything.” 

Spencer didn’t respond right away, instead he pressed another kiss to your shoulder, his arms holding you just a little tighter. “You’re too good to me,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something like awe. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cradle his face. His eyes were soft, filled with love and gratitude. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve me, Spencer,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “You’re enough. You’ve always been enough.” 

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. And then, without a word, he pulled you back into his arms, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to make up for all the time you’d spent apart.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with so much emotion it made your chest ache. “So much.” 

“I love you too,” you said softly, brushing your hands through his hair. “Now, how about we eat before the food gets cold?” 

He smiled as he pulled back, and nodded. But instead of letting you go, he kept one arm around your waist as he reached for the plates, refusing to let you get too far.

And you didn’t mind one bit. 

A couple days later, Spencer had a spontaneous yet nostalgic idea.

It was well past midnight when Spencer suddenly sat up in bed, his eyes wide and alert as if he’d just had the best idea of his life. You blinked up at him, still half-asleep, as he turned to you with a boyish grin that made your heart skip a beat. 

“Let’s go for a drive,” he said, his voice low but filled with excitement. 

You raised an eyebrow, squinting at him in the dim light of the room. “A drive? Right now? Spencer, it’s like… 2 a.m.” 

“Exactly,” he said, as if that explained everything. “No traffic, no people, just us. Come on, it’ll be like old times.” 

You couldn’t help but smile at the enthusiasm in his voice. Midnight drives had been your thing before everything happened—spontaneous adventures where the two of you would just drive aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, the world feeling like it belonged only to you.

The thought of doing it again, of reclaiming that little piece of your life together, made your chest warm. 

“Okay,” you said, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. “But you’re driving. I’m too sleepy to be responsible.” 

Spencer’s grin widened, and he practically bounced out of bed, pulling you up with him. He didn’t let go of your hand as he grabbed his keys and led you to the door, his excitement contagious. You couldn’t help but laugh as he practically dragged you to the car. 

Once you were both in the car, Spencer reached over to adjust the seat for you, his hand brushing against your leg as he did. He didn’t pull away immediately, his fingers lingering for a moment as if he needed the contact. You smiled, placing your hand over his and giving it a gentle squeeze. 

The streets were quiet, the city bathed in the soft glow of streetlights as Spencer drove with no particular destination in mind. Spencer’s hand found yours again, his fingers intertwining with yours as he rested your joined hands on the center console. 

“This is nice,” he said after a while, his voice soft. “I missed this. Just… being with you, no pressure, no worries. Just us.” 

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “I missed it too. I missed you.” 

He glanced at you, his expression softening. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “I know I keep saying it, but… I just can’t stop thinking about it.” 

You shook your head, bringing his hand to your lips and pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “Stop apologizing,” you said firmly. “You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Let’s just enjoy this, okay?” 

Spencer nodded, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “Okay,” he said, his voice warm. “But just so you know, I’m not letting you out of my sight for a long, long time.” 

You laughed, the sound light and carefree. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” 

The two of you drove for what felt like hours, the city slowly giving way to quieter roads and open skies. At one point, Spencer pulled over at a lookout point, the stars stretching endlessly above you. He turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat, his hand still holding yours. 

“Remember the first time we did this?” he asked, his voice soft. “You were so nervous. You kept asking if I was sure I knew how to drive.” 

You groaned, covering your face with your free hand. “I was not nervous! I was just… cautiously optimistic.” 

Spencer laughed, the sound warm and rich. “You were nervous,” he teased. “But it was cute. And look at you now—completely at ease with my driving skills.” 

“Don’t push it,” you said, poking his side. “I’m still cautiously optimistic.” 

He grinned, pulling you closer so he could press a kiss to your temple. “I love you,” he said, his voice soft but filled with so much emotion it made your chest ache. 

“I love you too,” you said, leaning into him. “Now, let’s go home before I fall asleep in your car.” 

Spencer chuckled, starting the engine again. “Your wish is my command.” 

The drive back home was quiet, but it was a comfortable silence. Spencer’s hand never left yours, his thumb absently tracing circles on the back of your hand as he drove.

Every now and then, he’d glance over at you, a small, content smile playing on his lips, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were really there beside him.

When you finally pulled into the driveway, Spencer turned off the engine but made no move to get out of the car. I

nstead, he sat there for a moment, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as he stared out at the entrance of the apartment.

“Hey,” you said softly, turning to face him. “You okay?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared out at the dark windshield, his fingers tightening around yours. 

Finally, he spoke, his voice low.

“There were days when it felt like the walls were closing in,” he admitted, his eyes still fixed on some distant point. “Like I was never going to get out of there. I just… I don’t think I could’ve made it through everything without knowing I had you to come back to.”

Your heart ached at his words, a sharp, almost physical pain that made your chest tighten.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak without your voice breaking, so you just nodded, your hand squeezing his a little tighter.

Your other hand reached up to brush a stray curl away from his forehead, your touch gentle, reassuring. You wanted him to feel how much he meant to you, how much you’d missed him, how much you’d fought to hold onto the hope of this moment.

Spencer leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opened them again, there was a softness in his gaze.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice warm. “For waiting for me. For believing in me.”

You smiled, though your eyes were stinging with tears. “Always,” you said simply, because it was the truth.

Spencer’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, and he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Let’s go inside,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “I just… I want to be close to you.”

You nodded, your smile widening as you squeezed his hand. “Lead the way.”

Once inside, Spencer didn’t let go of you. He followed you into the kitchen as you grabbed a glass of water, his hand resting on the small of your back. When you moved to the living room, he was right there with you, his arm draped over your shoulders as you sat down on the couch. And when you finally settled in, leaning against his side with your head on his chest, he let out a content sigh, his fingers gently playing with your hair.

“This is nice,” he murmured, his voice soft and sleepy. “Just… being here with you. I missed this.”

You smiled, tilting your head to look up at him. “I missed it too,” you said, your hand resting on his chest. “But we’ve got all the time in the world to make up for it now.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a small smile, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he said, his voice warm. “We do.”

[betweenstorms]

Chapter 3/2 of Skin Of Thunder To Be Known (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

“In the stillness of your gaze, I hear my name whispered back to me, not as a question, but as a truth. To be loved by you is to be undone, to be remade from the fragments of who I thought I was.”

Simon Riley wasn’t a man who fell, right?

Well, definitely not in the way poets wrote about or dreamers sighed over. Falling, for him, was a dangerous thing, a loss of total control. It was a kind of surrender for people who could afford the vulnerability of gravity. But that’s the funny thing about this type of gravity, isn’t it? That you don’t always see it coming.

You don’t always notice the pull until you’re halfway to the ground.

It wasn’t immediate.

No, his fall was quieter than that. He threw himself into the abyss when he’d let those words slip from his mouth, that compliment about your bloody perfume he hadn’t planned but somehow couldn’t regret. After that, the truth started to creep in, slowly and undeniably. He hadn’t realized it yet, but the moment his words had found you on that particularly crisp morning in the smoking area, the foundations of his resolve began to crack.

And not just his, but yours too.

God, how could he had known that a simple compliment, innocent on the surface, could spark something he couldn’t anticipate, couldn’t calculate, couldn’t dodge. The way you looked at him then, your smile unfurling like the first light of dawn breaking over a stormy sea, caught him off guard.

He didn’t realize it at the moment, but he had set something in motion.

Something unstoppable.

After that, you were everywhere.

The change was subtle at first, a quiet shift in the way you behaved around him. Your shyness still lingered, soft and endearing, but you carried yourself with more ease around him, as though the first ice of winter had finally broken. He spotted you in the offices, your head bent over some report, your fingers skimming across the keyboard with focused precision. You greeted him warmly whenever you crossed paths, your eyes meeting his with a sincerity that felt almost foreign. He caught glimpses of you in the corridors, your smile so bright it made the harsh fluorescents seem dim by comparison. In the canteen, you always waved at him, unashamed and unguarded. In the briefing room, you caught his gaze now and then, a silent acknowledgment shared between the two of you, unspoken but understood.

It was maddening.

It was intoxicating.

You wore your heart on your sleeve like a piece of delicate jewelry, a crystallized part of your soul, shimmering and vulnerable, and it terrified him. Not because it was fragile, but because it made him want to reach out, to hold it in his hands and keep it.

To keep you.

Ghost had faced countless horrors, endured agony that would break lesser men. He had been hung from his ribs by fucking hooks, his burnt body a canvas of searing pain, clawed his way out of a grave with nothing but a rotting jaw and the desperate remnants of his will to live. But none of it compared to this—to the ache that now consumed him, a longing that bled through him like a wound he had no desire to heal.

It was unlike anything he had ever felt, a hunger so raw it bordered on obsession. He knew so little of you, your life, your story, but it didn’t matter. He was possessed by the need to unravel you, to map out every hidden thought, every curve of your mind, to press your name into the marrow of his bones until it became part of him. The idea of not having you, not knowing you, clawed at him more violently than the dirt he had once shoveled in that cold, silent tomb.

And yet, he would have done it all over again.

He would have ripped out his own jaw if it meant he could see the light in your eyes just once more, your smile that had burned through the shadows of his existence and shown him what it meant to want. To truly want. If being without you was to be buried alive, then he would endure the suffocating press of death, the rot of despair, he would dig his own grave and tear through the earth itself, if it meant feeling the weight of your gaze on him again.

You were madness, yes, but you were also salvation.

However, Ghost wasn’t sure where the line between the two began or ended. And he knew this was a proper problem when Soap pulled him aside after a mission briefing, his annoying grin sharp and all too knowing.

Ghost had never been more grateful for the military’s dogshit technology like he was one day, when it had brought you there, to him. And it allowed him—no, gifted him—the chance to look at you, to drink you in without consequence, to let his gaze settle over you like a veil of a young bride. And you felt it. The weight of his stare, heavy as a hungry hand against your hot skin, pulling at you, demanding your attention. You tried to focus on the projector, on the mess of cables and the way Price muttered under his breath, but it was useless. Ghost was watching you, covering you with his gaze—

—as if he could claim you with just his eyes.

And that was your undoing.

Your hands fumbled, nearly tripping over a cable, heat crawling up your neck, burning you from the inside out. The whole team was watching now, curiosity sparking in their eyes, but the worst part?

Ghost didn’t look away.

He held you there, tethered in the storm of his stare, making you a blushing, stuttering mess in front of everyone as you tried to respond to Price’s casual questions.

And perhaps, if you weren’t so flustered, if your pulse wasn’t hammering against your ribs, you would have noticed it—the slight tilt of his head, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mask. The ghost of amusement dancing in his dark, unreadable eyes.

And of course Soap picked up on it.

The Scotsman had always been a bloody thorn in his side, poking and prodding where others wouldn’t dare, but this time, his words struck closer to home than Ghost would have liked.

“The hell was that? Looked like you wanted to eat the poor lass alive.”

Ghost barely reacted at first, his muscles taut with feigned indifference as he turned slightly, a deliberate thing, meant to steady the coil of tension twisting through his ribs. He knew Soap well enough to understand that ignoring him was pointless. The cheeky bastard had a nose for weakness, and unfortunately, Ghost had just bared his throat without meaning to.

“You’ve got it bad, Lt. Never seen you like this before. You’re bloody obsessed.”

“Don’t start, Johnny.”

But Soap wasn’t one to let up, not when he smelled blood in the water.

“C’mon, you’re practically waggin’ your tail every time she’s in the room.”

The silence was damning.

And worse, it wasn’t the accusation that bothered him. It was the fact that he couldn’t deny it. No, Ghost didn’t need to hear it out loud to know that you had become a problem. A proper fucking problem. In that bloody briefing room, something had snapped inside him, something raw and primal and utterly unforgiving.

He had always been good at hiding. But now he wanted to be seen. He wanted every bastard in that room to know, to understand, without a single word spoken, that you belonged to him.

That the way you blushed, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands trembled slightly as you fumbled with the projector—

—that was his doing.

There was no hiding this. Not anymore.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want to deny it.

Ghost couldn’t escape the weight of it, the filth of guilt staining every thought he had of you. He’d sworn to himself in the beginning, when he first noticed the effect you had on him, that he would never seek you out, wouldn’t let you of all people occupy the spaces in his mind reserved for survival, for strategy, for the cold detachment that kept him steady. Yet here he was, breaking his own unspoken vows, his feet tracing the paths that led to you without him even realizing.

But if he really thought about it, why should he deny you?

Why should he deny himself? You weren’t a real liability unless he let you be one, and Ghost wasn’t the type to let anything slip from his grasp. Obsession was too delicate a word for what he felt, still he knew better than to go further. But he couldn’t stop the way his pitiful thoughts twisted into knots at night, replaying the moments you shared, however small.

He must stop himself from giving in.

Yes, he wouldn’t let it get to that point.

He could look, but it would never be more than that. He wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t give in, wouldn’t let it come to skin against skin. He would never reach for you. Because he knew, deep down, in the cold, unyielding depths of his pitiful soul, that if he ever crossed that line, he would be lost entirely. And Ghost, for all his shadows, couldn’t afford to let Simon fall.

So he only looked.

Looking was safe. Looking didn’t mean surrendering. Looking didn’t mean unraveling. This way, he could keep his distance, maintain the fragile boundaries he’d constructed between himself and the thing he wanted most. But God, even that felt like too much some days.

Especially now.

It was a particularly bitter morning.

The autumn wind was howling outside the office like a living thing, rattling the windows and seeping through every tiny crack in the building. The heater in the office hummed softly, barely cutting through the chill, and the faint smell of stale coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of paper and metal.

You were explaining something about the military’s new, updated computer system, your voice soft but steady, your fingers moving deftly across the keyboard as you demonstrated the most efficient way to navigate the reports. Ghost barely registered your words, too focused on the way your lips moved, the faint crinkle at the corners of your eyes when you glanced up at him to make sure he was paying attention.

He wasn’t. Not to the system, anyway.

No, Ghost was focused entirely on you.

You had said it yourself once, hadn’t you? That you’d help with whatever he needed.

And now, what he needed was this—your presence, your voice, your smile. Because he knew this system as he knew the back of his hand, as a high-ranking officer he had been filling out military paperwork since you were still learning the difference between convex and concave. But he had asked for your help anyway, a poor excuse to have you here, sitting beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you.

Ghost wasn’t supposed to enjoy something like this, not in the conventional sense anyway. He endured, tolerated, got through his days without too much of a fuss. But watching the way your cheeks bloomed like a rose, the way your breath hitched when his voice dipped too low, too deliberate. It was a strange kind of satisfaction, one he didn’t fully understand, but it was there, and it was relentless. And the way your eyes darted to his, wide and uncertain, like you were trying to figure him out but didn’t dare look too long?

That was something else entirely.

“...so if you flag the report here by clicking this, it’ll automatically forward it to the reviewing officer. Saves a bit of time, yeah? It’s streamlined, apparently. Pretty cool, huh?”

Ghost didn’t respond.

His eyes stayed fixed on your face, his expression unreadable beneath the balaclava. He wasn’t even pretending to look at the screen, wasn’t giving you the courtesy of pretending to care about whatever it was you were showing him. His gaze dragged lower, tracing the delicate line of your jaw, the gentle curve of your throat.

He should’ve said something.

Should’ve nodded, grunted in vague acknowledgment, anything to make it seem like he was actually listening. But he wasn’t. Not to the software update or the new efficiency protocols. No, all he could do was stare, barely blinking, barely breathing, as you explained something he already knew inside and out.

And you noticed.

You hesitated, your voice faltering as your fingers hovered awkwardly above the keyboard. “Uhm… do you… do you need me to repeat that, sir?” you asked, your gaze flicking to his, hesitant and unsure, like you were afraid of what you might find there.

“No need.”

It was a lie, and you both knew it.

Your tongue darted out nervously, wetting your bottom lip—a habit, nothing more, but it was enough to catch his attention. The smallest shifts in his posture were audible in the still room, the faint creak of the chair beneath him, the subtle rustle of fabric as he leaned back.

“I don’t—I mean, I don’t want to waste your time,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper as your nails fidgeted with the edge of the desk. The words tumbled out ungracefully, more an attempt to fill the silence than anything else. “I just thought—well, you asked me to show you this, so maybe…”

Ghost’s chair creaked again, louder this time, as he shifted his weight. His tone followed, dry and razor-sharp, slicing clean through your nerves.

“Reckon you just talk too much.”

The bluntness of his words made you flinch.

Your lips parted in surprise, but no sound came out, your eyes wide as they met his dark gaze. His expression was unreadable beneath the balaclava, however, the faint tilt of his head made the comment feel intentional. Calculated.

“I—what?” you stammered, heat rushing to your face, flustered and unsure if he was serious or just taking the piss. Judging by his tone, it could’ve gone either way. “I’m just trying to help,” you mumbled, your voice quieter now, but you managed to hold his gaze for a moment before your nerves betrayed you, and you looked down at your hands. “It’s not like you’re giving me much to work with, sir.”

Ghost nearly scoffed.

His eyes lingered on you, studying the flush creeping up your neck, the way you avoided his gaze like it might burn you. The audacity, the way you shot back at him, all shy and fidgeting but still refusing to fold—it stirred something in him, something darkly amused. You were nervous, that much was obvious, the way you flinched and your voice wavered, but there was a stubbornness beneath the surface.

A quiet defiance he hadn’t expected.

And it intrigued him.

“That so?”

Ghost let the words hang in the air, his tone deliberately even, his voice a rumble that seemed to fill the entire room. He watched as you shifted awkwardly in your seat, clearly unsure but refusing to let it show entirely. Bloody hell, that stubborn streak of yours, buried under layers of shyness, was fascinating to him. You had spunk—clumsy, self-conscious, but still there.

You nodded, glancing at the screen before stealing a quick look at him. “Well, yeah. I mean… you’re not exactly receptive.”

“Receptive?” he repeated, deadpan.

“Yes, I mean,” you began, clearly starting to panic, “it’s just… you don’t really seem like the, uhm… tech-savvy type, you know?”

You immediately winced, clearly regretting your choice of words the moment they left your mouth, and Ghost could feel the faintest flicker of a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips beneath the balaclava.

“Sounds like you’re callin’ me old.”

Your eyes widened in horror. “Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that!” you blurted out, waving your hands in front of his face defensively. “I just meant that—you know, maybe it’s just… uhm, a generational thing, I thought that—”

“So you are callin’ me old.”

“I—no! I mean, not old-old,” you stammered, your cheeks practically blazing as you blinked up at him, clearly mortified.. “Just… experienced?”

He raised an eyebrow at that, the gesture subtle but enough to make you squirm. Your face morphed into a defeated grimace.

“You’re twisting my words.”

“Am I?” His tone was so dry it could’ve sucked the moisture out of the room.

“Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you’ve probably been doing paperwork since… I don’t know, before I was even in high school. But, uhm, that doesn’t mean you’re old. It’s not like I know what you look like, which is—I mean, you don’t look a day older than... forty?”

That stopped him for a second, the faintest twitch of his head indicating surprise.

Fucking hell, you’d said it so awkwardly, so earnestly, that for a moment he wondered if you even knew how much worse you were making it for yourself. And then, as if realizing what you’d just implied, you froze. Completely froze.

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to still.

Your eyes darted toward him like a deer caught in headlights, your hands hovering midair as though they could somehow physically reel your words back into your mouth. Ghost didn’t move, didn’t even blink, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the heater and the distant creak of the old building under the weight of the wind.

And then, he hummed.

“Forty?”

Your hands flew to your face as if that would shield you from the sheer intensity of his gaze. “No, no, no!” you stammered, the words tumbling over each other in your haste to backtrack. “It was just an example! I mean, I don’t actually know how old you are. You could be… uhm, thirty-five?” You groaned again, pressing your palms against your mouth, making your words come out as muffled nonsense. “Oh no. I’m just making this worse, aren’t I?”

Ghost’s gaze pinned you in place.

You were coming apart, unraveling thread by thread beneath the weight of his silence. Your words stumbled out in a tangled mess, tumbling over themselves like stones in a landslide, each one burying you deeper, crushing your resolve with every awkward attempt to claw your way out. And still, he stared—calm, unreadable, letting you twist in the trap you’d set for yourself, as though he had all the time in the world to watch you fall.

Your hands flew to your face, fingers spread wide like a fractured shield, barely hiding the mortified flush that crept up your neck. Through the gaps, your eyes peeked out, wide and uncertain, catching his for the briefest, agonizing moment before retreating again.  

“Oh my God,” you mumbled, your voice muffled and small, the apology trembling behind the barrier of your palms. “I’m so sorry.” The words fell between you like fragile glass, splintering under the weight of your embarrassment.

Ghost should’ve let it go.

Should’ve brushed it off, muttered something noncommittal, and moved on.

But he didn’t.

“Could’ve gone with thirty,” he muttered, his voice carrying the faintest edge of amusement, though his tone remained as flat as ever. “Would’ve been kinder.”

That did it.

You let out a startled chuckle, a sound so sudden and bright it pierced through him, straight to the bone. It hit him like a gut punch, robbing him of breath and leaving him staggered in a way that battles and blood never had. Your shoulders shook with the effort to hold it back, your cheeks blazing, the color rising in waves that only made you more mesmerizing.

It wasn’t just the sound, though it was lovely in its own right, like the first notes of a melody meant only for him. No, it was the way it transformed you. It stripped away your defenses, your shyness, your awkwardness, your nervous little fidgets, and left you radiant, glowing with a beauty that wasn’t just physical but visceral.

You burned him, yet he couldn’t look away.

“I wasn’t trying to—” You broke off, laughter spilling out again, your fingers pressed against your mouth as though holding back a dam would keep the flood at bay. “Bloody hell, I wasn’t trying to insult you! I’m not laughing at you, I swear, I’m just—God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Not denyin’ that.”

You shook your head, the last echoes of your nervous giggles fading like a wave retreating from the shore, scratching your elbow with your signature, restless energy. “Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. I’ve completely humiliated myself in front of a senior officer. Might as well hand in my resignation now, huh?”

“That an offer?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual.

“You’d really let me quit over this?”

“Wouldn’t stop you.”

Your laugh came softer this time, tinged with something awkward and vulnerable, and Ghost wasn’t prepared for the way it filled the quiet office like the sea spilling into a hollow cave, echoing and easing every jagged edge.

You snorted softly, letting your hands fall from your face, though your gaze stayed fixed somewhere beyond him—

—anywhere but in the weight of his eyes.

The silence stretched between you, lingering like the last traces of a storm. Ghost remained still, his dark eyes fixed on you, tracing the way your laughter melted into an embarrassed smile, soft and uncertain, as you looked up at him from under your eyelashes.

Moments like this were rare for him—precious, fleeting things he hardly allowed himself to linger on. But now, he let himself take in the way you unraveled and stitched yourself back together, the warmth of your presence brushing against the cold edges of his own. It wasn’t just the sight of you, it was the quiet intimacy of it, the fragile beauty of something unspoken yet heavy in the air. You were too close, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to turn away.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The heater hummed softly, filling the quiet with its rhythmic drone, and Ghost found himself acutely aware of how close you were. It wasn’t just the physical distance, though that was enough to make his skin itch with an unfamiliar warmth, it was the way you seemed to fill the room, your presence a tangible thing that pressed against him, demanding his attention even when he tried to resist.

“So…” you began hesitantly, breaking the silence. “How old are you, really?”

Your question slipped past his defenses like a blade between ribs.

“Why d’you wanna know?”

Your cheeks flushed again, but you managed a nervous smile.

“Just curious. You know, for… context.”

“Cheeky sod,” he whispered, the words low and rough, softened by the tired sigh that escaped him like the weight of the moment had pressed it free.

“Well?” you prompted, your eyes bright with a mix of curiosity and caution. “Are you going to tell me, or is it classified?”

He exhaled sharply, a sound caught somewhere between a groan and a ghost of a laugh. “I’m old enough to know better and leave it at that.”

You frowned, leaning back slightly in mock exasperation. “That’s not an answer.”

“Didn’t say I’d give you one,” he shot back, the faintest trace of amusement lacing his words.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Fine. Keep your secrets, then. But for the record, I don’t think you’re old, Lieutenant. Just… distinguished.”

“That’s what you muppets callin’ it these days?”

You nodded earnestly, though the grin tugging at your lips gave you away. “Oh, absolutely. Distinguished. Rugged. Mysterious.”

Ghost hummed softly, his gaze tethered to your face, caught in a spell he hadn’t meant to fall under.

You hypnotized him—the curve of your smile, the flicker of light in your eyes, the way you seemed to hold too much within you, too much for one person, it made him want to reach out. You should surrender yourself to him. Give him your darkest thoughts, your quiet fears, your sharp edges and angelic smiles. You should have given him everything, because he would take it. Every fractured piece, every hidden depth, he would take it all and keep it.

Simon Riley wasn’t a man who fell, no.

But in that moment, he wished for the words of a poet, some fragile string of syllables that could hold the weight of what you made him feel.

“That your way of butterin’ me up, sweetheart?”

You laughed again, so much softer this time, the sound unfurling around him like the tender warmth of sunlight breaking through the shadow of a long, unyielding night.

And then you looked at him, just as you had in the smoking area, with that quiet, unspoken longing, the gaze of a woman who wished to be seen, to be wanted. It was the look of a woman who carried her longing delicately, like a flower pressed between pages. And it struck him because Simon Riley had never been the kind of man to accept such invitations. He didn’t have the hands for it, didn’t have the heart for it. But you, with your quiet yearning and your light wrapped in shadows, made him wonder if perhaps, just this once, he could.

“You wish, sir.”

And God help him, he really did.

“I am what I am, torn between the fierce hunger of the beast and the innocence of the lamb. And still, I stand before you, searching for the love that could fill the spaces between these two selves.” Skin of Thunder Chapters

[brotherwtf]

clegan with “back to the old house” bro I’M GOING INSANEE😭😭

“and you never knew how much i really liked you” THATS JOHN THATS EGAN THATS BUCKY I-

LIKE I’M ACTUALLY GONNA BE SICK MANN

CRYING AND SOBBING AT THIS ANON

no but there's probably so many memories when it comes to being in Texas or being in flight school barracks or regular army barracks again.... God John has so many conflicted memories about those places because they are some of the worst times of his life, but he has Gale there as well

can't even think about the Stalag because of the cold and the beatings and the German guards but he does remember Gale's trembling figure, his pale eyes, and he also remembers the day he saw him again after thinking he was dead and thinking for weeks at a time that there isn't a place he would rather be than with Gale, even if that meant being in a prison camp overseas

but fuck dude, John never being able to articulate how he truly feels about Gale, he never worked up the courage to tell him, to hold him or kiss him before he had to the best man at a wedding he desperately doesn't want to happen, thinks about objecting and taking Marge's place and kissing Gale like he's never kissed anyone before but the moments gone and went and Gale looks so happy with her, he looks like he's in love with her and it tears his soul apart

John being forced to watch Gale's life from afar, he and Gale have always done everything together and now they don't, John's expected to find a life and Gale's expected to start a family with Marge, but John writes to him and says he misses him and he gets responses back, Gale saying he feels lost without flying a plane, without Bucky, and oh no John might go and do something stupid about it

maybe one day they'll meet halfway, they'll go to an abandoned farmhouse and they'll stand in the dark and realize their feelings in tandem, and they fall so easily back into step it's almost like they were never apart

[iguessitsjustme]

When It Rains It Pours Ep 5 Thoughts

I looked at the time and decided that not only was it not too late for me to watch the next episode, but it is in fact time to keep watching. I don't know how long this one will be but my god I hope those two escape their relationships/situationships soon. I can't keep watching my boys get hurt like this. Under the cut:

Okay I looked at the episode summary simply to learn his name. Kazuaki. I got it. And if I don't got it, that's fine. Because I just wrote it and I can always look. Perfect. Go me.

The fact that they are meeting halfway. That is a compromise. That is how relationships work. The fact that they cared to listen to the other and then decided on the compromise. My god these two are already so much better together than they are with their partners (I know he's not really Sei's partner but you know what I mean) and they haven't even gotten together yet.

Are these two gonna fuck?

Currently the opening song which slaps, but if you stick around to the end of the liveblog, I will share extra thoughts tonight. Cause I am pissed at certain characters and their fuckery and I gotta get my rants out of my system.

The TOE.

The gentle caress vs the man that pushed on it to see if it would hurt. The man that was so gentle and held it like it was a fragile thing in case it caused pain vs the man that tried to cause pain. So I'm killing the best friend, yeah?

There is a whole discussion before they actually have sex. Kazuaki is asking if it's okay to do things or not say certain things before actually getting started? He might be cheating right now but honestly, green flag. And also she deserves it. Not that anyone deserves it. But she's fictional and a bastard so she deserves it.

Telling him that he's not bad or dirty? Oh my heart. Oh my HEART.

I'm FINE.

I'm looking you dead in the eye and telling you I'm fine. It's not my fault if you don't believe me.

I NEED to talk about the music in this scene but I cannot because work has smoothed out all the wrinkles from my brain and I need to wrinkle it up again but I NEED to talk about it.

I think that's the first time I've seen Sei smile.

But also these two. They found themselves in each other. They found a piece of themselves in each other. They both knew they were missing sex but I don't think they knew how miserable they were having no one to talk to. Not truly talk to. The deep meaningful talks that connect us and bond us. Neither one of them had that with their partners. They had superficial conversations. Moments of wanting to say something but not being able to. But they found the connection they were missing in each other and I am FINE don't LOOK at me like that.

God I need to talk about the music when Sei goes home too cause my god talk about tone shift. When that bastard is on the screen the dissonance in the music is actually difficult for me to listen to. Oh it hurts my poor little fragile ears.

Do these two need to hurt me like this? Do I not suffer enough already?

Oh she looked at his phone. Good riddance. She doesn't deserve him anyway.

WHY IS THAT BASTARD ANSWERING NOT HIS PHONE. BITE BITE CHOMP CHOMP KILLING HIM WITH LASER BEAMS.

Oh so you all made me watch this and now I have to WAIT. You all wanted me to SUFFER. Biting you all too (but affectionately).

Anyway rant time.

I hate the girlfriend because was she expecting to keep our boy in limbo for the rest of all time? She wants a marriage and kids but she doesn't want to actually ever talk to her partner? She sees him as future husband and future sperm bank. But she doesn't see him.

And don't even get me started on the rat bastard "best friend." Does Sei not have a Line because he doesn't want a Line or because his friend doesn't want him to have one. How alienated is Sei from the world and from others? He doesn't really talk to anyone at work which would be his one place he can talk to people. What would have happened if that wrong email address thing hadn't happened? Why does Sei feel like a parasite in a place that should feel like his home? I have lived with my best friend before and I can tell you one thing for sure. I never felt like a parasite. The reason that place felt like home was because it was both of us. Everywhere. WHERE is Sei in that apartment? Where is he? What are his interests? What are his aesthetics? Where is my boy????

And most importantly. WHERE IS THAT GORGEOUS UMBRELLA THEY USE AS THE THUMBNAIL AND WHERE CAN I GET ONE.

I have thoughts. Many thoughts. It will take me roughly two business days to process those thoughts. Just in time for the next episode I'm told. Which will then mean that it will take me another two business days. What did they put in this show for it to do this to my brain?

I should go to bed. Maybe I will wake up with coherent thoughts. Who knows.

Also this may or may not be the last liveblog I do now that I'm caught up. We'll see how I'm feeling on..Thursday? That's the next episode right? If I don't do another liveblog, then thank y'all for reading my silly little brain thoughts. And if I do keep liveblogging then I'll see you on Thursday.

[bigolbigolguy]

We Just Translate.

Author's Note: Hey, y'all! I have not written any sort of fic since grade school and started this way later than I intended but I really wanted to be a part of this lovely little celebration. Thanks for looking!

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

Joe wished he could take his words and run them through a sieve. Pick out the best parts and piece them back together so that he could make David understand. He internally cursed himself whenever he opened his mouth to wax poetic and out spilled callousness. Sometimes he’d march right up to Webster with every intention of spilling his guts but at the first sight of David’s simpering smile he’d feel his belly burn. 

“Fuck you lookin’ at, Web?”

“Fucking nothing, Liebgott.”

Joe was head over fucking heels. David was tactful, David was decent, David was studying goddamn literature. Joe had no right to be sniffing around a man like that anymore than David had any right getting his writer’s hands bloody halfway across the world. In the relative peace of Haguenau, David would settle away from the men to chain-smoke and scribble in that dogeared notebook with his mouth lax and his brow furrowed while Joe practically chewed a hole in his own cheek trying not to ask him what the hell he was writing about anyway (and only halfway hoping it might be him). 

Sometimes they’d fall into step together, and David would offer him an obvious olive branch. He’d ask Joe about his family or his plans for after the war or his favorite issue of Dick Tracy. Joe’s mind would race and he’d try with every fiber of his being to gently take the conversational baton, answer in that cheeky sort of way he had spoken to the girls back home, but instead he’d snarl out a response so harsh that even the war-torn men next to them would avert their eyes. As usual, Webster would take a drag of his cigarette, shake his head, and sigh that sigh that drove Liebgott up a goddamn wall. 

“Just trying to make conversation, Lieb.”

“Yeah, well, you’re pretty fucking bad at it, Webster.”

At night, Joe would stare up at the ceiling and practice his German. He enjoyed translating in his head; it gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the stray mortar shriek or the soft snores of David across the room. There was something about the severity of the language that made it easier for him to think up gentler words. Sleep would inevitably claim him before he had said all he wanted to say to Webster, even if it was just in the privacy of his own imagination. 

The next morning felt a little different for Joe, maybe it was the snow melting under a sun that felt warmer every day, maybe it was his stomach being full more often than not, maybe it was the fact that they’d both made it across that icy river relatively safe and relatively sound. At any rate, Joe never felt braver than he did at this moment, so he bit the bullet and grabbed David by the arm.

“Du bist nicht so schlimm, Web.”

“Danke, Lieb."

Things changed after that. Joe would whistle to himself during the day while dodging the pokes and prods of a teasing Grant. Whenever he’d catch David’s eye, they’d both grin, goofy and wide, learning to speak to one another without words. Joe felt his heart hammer and swell in a way it hadn’t since he’d first hopped out of a plane. Though this didn’t feel like plummeting to certain destruction, this felt like standing at the precipice of creation. 

Months down the line, after a bit of bitching, a lot of moaning, and a whole war ending, the day came for them to be shipped home. Joe had a California address folded neatly in his pocket and hope beating in his chest. As the minutes ticked down, he craned his neck for a head of thick curls. Joe elbowed his way through the antsy crowd and made a beeline for David. He hauled him into a dark corner before pressing their smiles together, David’s laughter bright and adoring. 

“Ich liebe dich, David.”

“Ich liebe dich mehr, Joe.”

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

Author's note (again): I know the timeline is a little funky and it's a bit rushed but hope y'all enjoyed it! Happy Valentine's Day!!

"Du bist nicht so schlimm" = you're not that bad

"Ich liebe dich" = I love you

"Ich liebe dich merh" = I love you more

[ellfucksup]

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Girls Night

Cho Sang Woo x reader

Request: anonymous

Summary: A spontaneous girls night is interrupted by an unwanted guest.

Warnings: kissing?

I couldn’t remember the last time I actually went out and let my hair down. Work had been relentless—non-stop, brain-numbing torture just to scrape by paycheck to paycheck. It was exhausting. Soul-crushing, even.

So, I messaged the girls. We need a night out.

Thank god they all agreed. Friday. Drinks. Dancing.

It was in the calendar, and nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to get in the way of me losing my mind on the dance floor, ten shots deep.

Well. Almost nothing.

Just as I was halfway through getting ready, a knock sounded at my door. I groaned, annoyed at the interruption. Wrapped in nothing but a towel, hair dripping onto my shoulders, I yanked the door open, fully prepared to tell off whoever thought now was a good time to bother me.

Then I froze.

Sang Woo.

He stood there, hands in his pockets, dark eyes flickering over me in amusement.

“Nice outfit,” he said, smirking.

I scowled. “What do you want?”

He leaned against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world. “Missed me?”

I exhaled sharply, my night already getting more complicated than I’d planned.

“What are your plans tonight?” he smirked, still leaning against my doorframe.

I huffed, turning around and leaving the door open for him to follow me in. “Why do you ask, Sang Woo? We haven’t spoken in over a week,” I sighed, feigning disinterest.

“I’ve been busy. Let me make it up to you,” he smiled.

“No can do. Girls' night. And you’re very much not invited.” I turned around, hands on my hips, praying to dear god the towel stayed up.

- - - - -

Safe to say, he wasn’t bothered by my clear instructions to stay behind.

Now, walking down the street, Sang Woo strolled casually beside me, cigarette in hand, dressed annoyingly well.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy his pestering. It had been a while since I’d seen my on-and-off-again friend with benefits. I mean, I guess you could call it that—it was an interesting arrangement.

I had met Sang Woo through a mutual friend. Gi-Hun, the absolute sweetheart that he is, introduced me to this infuriating man. Sadly, Sang Woo didn’t share his friend’s cheerful nature.

Hearing the loud music as I approached the strip, I suddenly heard my name being called out.

The girls were huddled together in their mini skirts, waving at me excitedly. I ran over, giggling, and pulled them all into a hug.

As soon as I let go, they opened their mouths, ready to say something—until their eyes flicked behind me. Eyebrows were definitely raised.

“I’m sorry, girls, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Trust me, though, let’s just pretend he’s not here,” I whispered—loud enough for Sang Woo to hear.

I heard him chuckle behind me.

“Oh, please, Y/N,” one of the girls giggled. “We all know you’re gonna struggle to ignore him.”

Walking into the bar, the group definitely garnered some looks. Can’t blame them really, the girls looked incredible. Trust them to go all out. Heading to the bar, I start to order a very strong drink.

“Hi, can I get a double—“ you were rudely cut off.

“Rum and coke—make that two, please, on card.”

I turn to see I hadn’t managed to lose Sang Woo in the crowd. He stood behind me, smug smile, hand ghosting my hip.

“You’re infuriating.” I mutter.

“Only for you.” His whispers into my ear.

I happily take his drink, making full eye contact, gulping it down. A bit of the drink dribbles slightly down my chin. I watch his eyes follow the droplet, hand raising to swipe it with his thumb, catching my lips ever so slightly.

I blush, turning my head, looking for the girls—finding them giggling, looking my way, mocking the lip swipe and swooning.

Ignoring Sang Woo, I rush over to my closest friend, grabbing her hand and yanking her to the dance floor. If he was going to be a menace, I’d be much worse.

I sway my hips to the music, base thumping as the alcohol shoots straight to my head.

“Girl, he’s looking at you like he’s going to eat you alive,” my friend shouts over the music with a grin on her face.

“Let him look,” I giggle, alcohol giving me some liquid courage.

After a few more rounds of shots, each one of the girls taking their turn to pay, I was definitely feeling the liquor in my legs.

I stray off to the dance floor, feeling the music, waiting for the girls to join.

I feel a hand on my waist—thinking it’s one of the girls, swaying with them to the music. Whoever the hand belongs to grips me slightly tighter, hand wandering further towards my ass.

Turning around to make a joke to one of my friends about being a perv, only to find a complete stranger.

Shocked at first, I stop dancing and move away, spotting the girls coming towards me.

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty?” he says, giving a slimy smile.

I ignore him, weaving through the crowd, only to be grabbed by the wrist.

“Not a chance. You were just grinding on me—I want you to finish the dance,” he growls, pulling at me.

This guy was truly gross.

“Get your hands off of her now.”

I hear a voice boom through the crowd.

The creepy guy turns to see Sang Woo walking toward us, a scowl on his face.

“Now, why would I do that, old man?” he laughs, clearly feeling cocky.

Before I can open my mouth to tell the guy to fuck off, Sang Woo swings for him.

Before I could scream, they’re both on the floor. Sang Woo pins the guy as he pulls his fist back, ready to strike again.

“Fine, keep your whore,” shouts the perv, trying to save himself from the coming onslaught of punches.

The girls gather around me, asking whether I’m fine. Honestly, I’m more than okay—truthfully, slightly turned on. Seeing the usual well-kept Sang Woo with messy hair, looking feral, did things to me.

The crowd starts to open up around the fight. Chants begin, alerting the bouncers.

“Apologize to my girl,” Sang Woo growls.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Jesus, please get off me, man!” the guy pleads.

They’re both pulled apart and escorted out of the club. With some boos from the crowd they go back to the usual antics of the night.

I turn to look at the girls, mouths open—speechless, to say the least. They all look at me with smiles, some with their arms crossed.

“Girl, just go. You’re clearly gonna get laid to the high heavens; that’ll at least be a good stress reliever. We can always go out tomorrow night,” one of them giggles and gives me a wink.

I roll my eyes trying to hide my blush, saying my goodbyes.

Heading outside to find Sang Woo sorting his jacket out, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He spots me, strolling over and pinning me to the wall. Luckily, the streets are quiet, as it’s on the later side of the night.

He says nothing but brings his lips to mine. Giving me a rough kiss, clearly riled up by the fight.

“I hate it when they touch what’s mine,” he whispers into my ear as he leaves hot kisses down my neck.

- - - -

OMG my first fic! Hope you enjoy, please be nice I’m new to this!

[super-done-dead]

so much

[deadqueernoldor]

Nghhh chewing on finweans and realizing how self-sacraficial is so deeply instilled in that family, and that that particular trait is prevalent in each generation.

Finwe knew he couldnt win against Morgoth, but he could try and protect his grandchildren. He fought regardless.

Fingolfin knew he couldnt twin against Morgoth in 1-on-1. He fought regardless.

Finrod knew he would die on his quest for Beren, and still fought the wolf to save his friend. He did.

Celebrimbor knew he could protect others by dying, protecting the knowledge about the rings. He did.

It stands to reason that Elladan, Elrohir or Arwen, would have come upon a similar fate.

[creepyjirachi]

the eternal struggle of wanting to watch an iceberg explained video but the host has the most surface level, barely researched commentary imaginable

[thalwri]

STUFF ME!

synopsis: your mission to collect intel on an auction seems to be going well until sylus catches an unexpected jealous streak.

warnings: porn no plot, couch sex, creampie, super loud possessive sex

wc: 1,2k

sylus was not a jealous man. he wasn’t.

he knew himself as a well assured person without much that could deter him. he knew you were capable of handling yourself well in any situation and that you were loyal to him just as he was to you.

but for some reason he couldn’t figure out why he felt a small agitating tick in his neck when he watched your flirt with an auctioneer to gather information for him. the way you smiled at him, the fact that his grimy hands touched you on your arm, his mere presence within your vicinity– it was maddening.

and that was why– just a floor above the auction hall in your hotel suite– he was balls deep inside you.

you hadn’t even managed to reach the bedroom before your clothes slipped off, your lips were attached to each other, and your hands wandered all over to places only you two had the privilege of touching.

your nails were deep enough to make sylus’ back bleed for how hard he was ploughing into you. his face was buried in your pretty breasts, swollen with arousal and slick from his tongue sucking harsh love bites onto you, bounced with each slap of your hips snapping together.

“sy– wait–“ you hiccuped but your pleas fell to deaf ears. you were overstimulated, overwhelmed and yet so hungry for more.

that relentless goal to drill his cock into you and stuff you until you were only capable of saying his name drove you insane. you didn’t think he’d get this jealous. you didn’t even know it was possible.

“i didn’t like– ah– how he was looking at you.” halfway through the route to painting you with his cum for the second time, sylus’s jealousy had long faded. now he was just relishing in enjoying you– enjoying the process of bringing you to exhaustion just from pleasuring you.

he gave your lips a long sloppy kiss, imagining torturing your clit with his tongue and feeling your walls tighten around his fingers. he knew how much you loved it, and he loved seeing you squirm. your tongues swirled and bumped, leaving you both so wet and hot.

“wanted– fuck, sy– wanted you to–“ you were babbling at that point reaching orgasm number three, all while feeling empty because he decided to punish you by cumming on you instead of deep inside knowing how much you loved it. he was being so, so cruel. leaving you so soaked with your only way of leaking on him is with your own slick and the ring of cream decorating his thick cock.

your back arched just as he bullied his tip consistently at that deliciously vicious pace right on your sweet, sensitive spot. and yet, it felt so tender at the same time. his lips peppered your skin like butterflies tickling your skin, his thumbs massaged your hips while his grip tightened in the gradual slip to lose control. 

“so warm,” his hips pounded into yours at your favourite angle to the point where his heavy sacks were slapping your skin, making that familiar wet plap! plap! plap! noise with the squelches of your soaked pussy being rammed into. “you looked so good tonight, sweetie.”

you couldn’t do anything other than moan out, clawing your nails on his back, fruitlessly sucking on the muscle of his shoulder to not be so loud. the walls weren’t that thick and if room service came by to deliver the meals you had preordered earlier that night, they’d hear the most obscene sounds imaginable. 

the most lewd cries and babbling rambles escaping your pretty lips.

“gonna– gonna cu– god, please sy!” you whined as your walls clenched around his cock for the nth time that night. if your teeth weren’t clamped onto his shoulder you wouldn’t have seen him almost vibrate from the feeling of your pussy almost sucking the cum right out of him. 

“don’t worry– f-fuck–“ he moaned, slowly drawing back to plough his cock back into your weeping cunny. now he was just being mean. his eyes were slowly rolling back as he neared his edge. “ ‘m close too.”

it was just too good to pull out, too good to torture you more and more when he could sink deep in you nice and snug and decorate your walls like a fucking picasso. he just knew that image would beat any form of art. and that was just a loud reminder of how he was completely at your mercy. everything you wanted, he would give.

if his eyes could form heart shapes, he’d be the most love drunk, pussy drunk sucker that would do anything and everything for you. he wanted to spend hours tending to your needs and desires and satiating your insatiable greed for him.

his hand reached down to your aching clit to mercilessly rub circles and pinch at it like his favourite toy. a whimper slipped through your lips from the friction of your wetness between your clit and his fingers. if his relentless pounding wasn’t enough to tip you over the edge you were sure the stimulation to your raw bud would make you pass out.

your babbles turned into complete incomprehensible nonsense mixed with your lewd, slutty moans sounding like a symphony to sylus, just enough to give you one final thrust to bring you to an intense, explosive climax.

a hoarse cry ripped from your throat as your head threw back from the sheer pleasuring force, driving you into a pleasure-fuelled craze. not seconds after, thick hot cum spurted into you like a current washing into a shore.

your fluttering cunny took his seed squeezing around his cock to milk all of it out of him until he shot countless blanks. sylus continued to pound his cum deep into you, fucking you both through your orgasms.

felt so fucking good– so disrespectfully raw and nasty that you felt your stomach tighten and your hips buck against his, squelching the excess cum all over the couch. 

as the thrill began to ebb away, your breathless pants evened out. you moved your hands to stroke sylus’ back in bliss, kissing all the areas you brutally marked and bit him. sylus gently returned the gesture with his massages around your hips, cock still hard, twitching and throbbing, leaking his cum into you.

“i got intel,” you murmured. he groaned into your neck, and indication for you to say more. “the auction’s a dud. the weapons are all rip offs.”

a deep chuckle rumbled into your skin. “knew it.” his grip on your hips tightened as he readjusted his position on the couch to throw your legs onto you before trapping you beneath him with his cock twitching with fervent desire.

“good job, sweetie,” he pecked your lips with satisfaction then kissed you again, swiping your swollen lips with his tongue. “i think i’ll take care of getting intel from now on.”

it was safe to say you weren’t going to go back to that auction. or leave the suite until you were stuffed to the brim.

a/n: lemme feed you guys some good straight up smut

[sttoru]

⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. a relaxing day at the beach w/ toji ‘n little megumi, accompanied by their usual bickering and precious moments

tags. dad!toji x wife!female reader. fluff. honestly just the beach episode toji deserves w his family t_t not proof read!

the beach is a beautiful place to rest after a tough week. toji lays on the towel besides yours, bulky arms resting behind his head as he enjoyed the gentle breeze, the smell of the sea mixed with his wife’s perfume.

the peace is quickly disturbed when he feels a small fist claw at his mouth.

“‘gumi, don’t feed papa sand,” your muffled laughter echoes through the busy beach. you watch your husband attempt to fight off megumi’s tiny hands as they pry his lips apart.

toji grunts and moves his head multiple times, but the toddler is determined to get what he wants. “brat—” the dark-haired man scoffs while his hands wrap around megumi’s torso, lifting the little boy in the air as his final resort, “what’s this all ‘bout? wanna kill y’r daddy or sum?”

your son pouts and furrows his brows. “no, i made papa food. burger,” he defends himself and kicks his legs while being held up at arms length. megumi’s tiny fist full of sand manages to reach his father’s lips again, “now papa eat!”

toji lifts megumi up higher, as far away from his face as possible. he takes a second before realising that he indeed had made a request for a burger just moments ago, when his son asked him what he should make out of the sand.

toji totally forgot to play along with megumi’s pretend restaurant game, thinking the boy would halfway forget about it anyway. children’s attention spans are short after all.

seems like his kid is an exception.

“i ain’t eatin’ shit, boy,” toji grunts and turns megumi away, putting the boy back down in the sand between the two beach towels. you’re about to reprimand your husband for his behaviour before your child interrupts.

“this not poo poo!” megumi jabs a finger at his father’s chest, his voice a bit louder. he’s taken great offence to the comment about his imaginary burger, which was now but a cluster of sand particles.

toji snorts and gently flicks megumi’s hand away, “yeah, it is. bet it tastes like ‘poo poo’ too.”

“no! not poo poo!” megumi’s voice rings out before a frustrated whine leaves his lips. his little hands land on toji’s abs, physically punishing him for saying such mean stuff about his hard handiwork.

your husband sticks his tongue out childishly at his sulking son. “‘yes! yes ‘tis poo poo!’ keheh,” toji mocks megumi’s high voice, snorting as he laughs about his own joke afterwards.

the father-son duo bicker for a few more seconds before you sigh and speak up. “can you two just get along for once now? we’re in public, so behave,” you scold them as their voices seemed to get louder. you then glare at your immature husband. he could be such a man-child when it came to arguing with his son, “and you— you’re an adult, so act like one.”

the two of them instantly shut up and their heads turn towards you, their hands that were wrestling with each other also stopping mid-air. megumi pouts and stops attacking his father with his tiny fists. the little boy knows better than to not listen to his mother.

in turn, toji huffs and grumbles something under his breath before grabbing his son to make it up to him.

neither does the grown man dare to defy his wife’s demands.

“yeah, yeah. c’mere, son,” toji responds and places the toddler on his chest, letting the kid rest against him. megumi surprisingly doesn’t pull away and instead curls up in toji’s warm embrace. as much as the two love to (playfully) fight, they also get along extremely well.

you smile and relax back on the palms of your hands. “much better,” you hum in content. your heart swells with affection for your two favorite people on earth. megumi is a carbon copy of his father and it’s the cutest little thing ever.

they both have that subtle pout on their lips as they accommodate to being close and cozy with each other again.

toji runs his callused fingers through megumi’s hair, sighing as he closes his eyes. he doesn’t admit it out loud, but he cares for his kid. if he had to make a choice between either saving his own life or megumi’s, toji’d instantly draw his last breath.

“he’s still a brat,” your husband grumbles to you, sharp eyes watching the way you coddle and coo over the toddler. megumi’s chubby cheek is smushed against toji’s chest and it was an adorable sight. you giggle and capture it on your phone.

toji scoffs, but can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his scarred lips. he gently rubs the child’s cheek with his knuckles before continuing, “but he’s my brat. ain’t that right, boy?”

megumi lets out a small, soft grunt at his father’s words. the kid is completely silent, content with the way things had played out. perhaps this is what he secretly searched for as well— to receive toji’s attention and a glimpse of his affection.

“aww, how cute!” your smile is beaming as you snap another picture of your family. toji’s soft look is perfectly captured on your phone, with him gently touching megumi’s chubby cheek as the boy laid on his bare chest. pure domestic bliss.

you sigh and look away for one second to change the lockscreen on your phone. humming, you go to your settings and instantly put the picture of your husband and son as your wallpaper on nearly everything.

you tilt your head back only to find toji grinning from ear to ear now, going from gently rubbing megumi’s cheek to full out squishing them between both his hands, amused at the way the fat moves. “kehehe, look at ‘em,” he chuckles.

the little toddler eventually gets fed up with it after squirming and grunting. megumi brings his little fist up—the same one that still had some sand stored from before—and lets the content fly all over toji’s face.

megumi giggles and scrambles off toji’s lap with a victorious grin. he points at his father who’s struggling with getting the sand off his face, the man sputtering and grumbling. he sticks his tongue out, “tha’s papa’s burger.”

you watch as your son waddles over to you and hides into your arms, muffled laughter echoing in your ears. seems like megumi won the battle in the end; successfully holding onto the sand he was planning to feed his dad one way or another.

toji spits out a bit of sand that flew into his mouth from the kid’s surprise attack, “you little shit—”

well, there goes the peace again. you shake your head, but let the two play and fight it out on their own.

. . . just another day in the fushiguro family.

[gibbearish]

Congrats on sending that application!

THANK UUUUUU

[fake-bleach]

ROAD TRIP STOP | LOGAN HOWLETT x READER

taking a small road trip with old man logan where you’re halfway to where you need to be, and you're bored out of your mind. unluckily for you, your boyfriend won't possibly give into your antics.

or, logan fucks you in a gas station bathroom <3

word count: 3.3k

WARNINGS/DISCLAIMERS: (18+ only!) fem!reader, porn w/ slight plot lol, piv, unprotected sex, this shit is roughhh, degrading, filthyyy dirty talk, use of pet names, slight choking, coming inside/creampie, manhandling? i guess?, logan refers to himself as "your old man" bc i'm insane, anddd happy ending bc we all know how much i love those! :D

a/n: there aren't nearly enough fics abt old man logan & i need him Badly.

+ logan pictures from @divinesols incredible moodboard <3

ao3 link! | my masterlist

you’re 4 hours into your road trip, and logan, well, being the man he is, hasn’t let you drive a single second.

he tells you that you can just sit there n’ look pretty and that’s good enough for him. but, he’s getting tired, and the nearest hotel isn’t for another 50 miles.

you notice his eyes getting heavier, his body slouching more, his grip on the steering wheel loosening. so, you do what you do best. why not have some harmless fun with your old boyfriend?

your hands subtly inch over to his thighs, fingers trailing the clothed skin just above his knee, and he flinches surprisingly, glancing at you for a moment with that tired face of his.

“what are y’doing? huh?” he asks, with a quirk in his eyebrow and his voice rasping more than usual from his fatigue; it only makes it all the more arousing for you.

you grin, your head turned to look up at him with a sly expression. “just waking you up a bit. you’re practically falling asleep here.”

your fingers move upwards now, slowly but surely, and right before you can reach the spot just below his bulge, he sighs out, gripping your hand to lightly push it off of him.

“not here. got another hour left til’ we’re at the hotel. then, we can rest up, baby.”

you pout, looking at him eagerly. “are you even gonna make it there, lo?” you tease, “your eyes are getting heavier, you’re tired.. why don’t you just let me drive?” you attempt, but you’re knocked down the second you try.

he huffs, shaking his head. “don’t you try that shit. you know what m’gonna say to that.”

you groan at that, rolling your eyes fussily as your head turns to look up at the roof of the car. “you’re insufferable,” you sigh out, jokingly, of course. but, you were with logan long enough to know just how stubborn he could be. that he could almost always be.

which means, you knew exactly how to get what you wanted, in more ways than one. 

let’s just say this way was more fun, anyway.

you let out an exasperated breath before turning back to face him, your eyes lighting up just slightly before you open up your mouth.

“guess i just gotta..” you trail off, hands now on your body with your fingertips grazing the skin on your chest; roaming around the loose shirt you had on. “..entertain myself for the next hour then..”

logan turns his head to you now, eyes fixing on your hand just long enough to catch you slip it underneath your bra, cupping one of your tits. you let out a low moan as you look into his eyes, fingers rolling the nipple there, and he scoffs.

it’s a sound that has your heart racing immediately.

“you’ve been a good girl so far, sweetheart. would hate for you to switch up when we’re almost fuckin’ there.” he warns you, turning his head back to the road, having seen enough. “don’t you start now. gonna make you regret it.”

a pang of arousal hits you just like that, pussy involuntarily clenching around nothing as he threatens you; a threat that you definitely need to see for yourself.

you merely pout at him again, but his words aren’t enough to stop you. not when you’re just getting started.

your hand leaves your breast, slowly inching down your stomach, then to the waistband of your shorts, all with your eyes still locked on him. you bite your lip as your hand breaches underneath the material, testing the waters before your fingers reach the hem of your panties.

fingertips aching to dip into the wet heat, you anticipate your own touch as your hands lower, but an immediate grasp at your wrist stops you completely, eliciting a gasp from your throat.

mouth falling open in shock, you turn to look at the man responsible with that gruff look on his face, and that snarl from him gives you more than enough of a warning.

you clear your throat, letting out a noise of frustration towards your boyfriend as he all but tosses your hand away carelessly.

“knock. it. off. don’t make me say it again.”

logan nearly growls at you, moving in closer to get right in your face; he isn’t playing around, and you know it.

but, god, does it only encourage you more.

it isn’t until logan’s focus is completely back on the road that you test the waters again; your fingers finally inserting themselves into your soft, warm folds, wet and waiting so impatiently.

it makes you moan, a hushed sound that you try your hardest to bite back from releasing, but you’re evidently unsuccessful.

so, before you know it, the truck is swerving, causing you to pull yourself back to hold onto the sides of the car, anywhere that you could grab onto. the wheels squeal loudly as the high pitch penetrates your ears, and logan makes a harsh u-turn without a second to waste.

“lo! what the fuck!” you exclaim loudly, wild eyes reaching for his own, but it’s no use. he’s dead set in front of him, shaking his head furiously as the white of his knuckles present itself from holding onto the wheel so tightly.

he’s had enough of your shit.

his eyes never leave the road in front of him once, never returning to you. no matter how much you talk or try to get him to respond, he doesn’t budge.

instead, for the next 5 minutes, silence fills the space between you as your eyes shut from your frustration. it’s all you really can do at this point.

but, it’s only when the high screech of the wheels halting and the gear being put into park has your eyes opening again, eyes latching onto the bright lights in front of you.

a gas station, and the convenience store’s white luminescent glass reflecting on logan’s face. he’s out the driver’s side as soon as you can look at him, and before you can process it, he’s dragging you out of the truck, slamming the door shut as he does so.

you scramble against him, fists almost pushing their hardest into his chest as you whine loudly, increasingly dazed and confused.

“logan, what the fuck are you doing?! let go of me!”

you fight against him harder, but there’s nothing stopping him. not now.

he lets out an exasperated breath, his heavy footsteps embedding themselves into the loud gravel beneath them as he drags you along.

“don’t play that shit with me. actin’ like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” he practically yells at you in a hushed voice, “you know what the fuck you’re doing.”

“walk.” he orders you instantly, and you don’t hesitate to obey. not when his voice gets like that.

most of all, because it makes your heart pound—pounding in your chest because he’s right. you know what you’re doing.. but, you can’t say you regret it. no, not one bit.

and if he’s gonna make you regret it, you might as well go all out. right?

his grip on your arm is tight as you walk side by side with him, leading you into the gas station with the door open for you. you can’t even acknowledge the cashier from how quick logan swifts the two of you past them; straight towards the bathroom, and it makes you gulp. 

it’s too late for anyone to be around, too late for anyone to care, and you know that. but, the thought exhilarates you anyway.

he shoves the door open with a hushed whisper—one that’s almost incoherent as it escapes his lips. “you wanna act like a fucking brat?” he shuts the door hurriedly, shoving your body against the sink, “i’m gonna treat you like a fucking brat.”

you yelp at the sudden movement, his fingers digging themselves into your skin as you cry out at the feeling. it’s rough and brutal and it burns, but it’s so fucking good.

“lo.. lo, please,” you whine as your eyes shut tightly, the overwhelming sensation of his hands on you and his hot breath hitting your skin being too much to handle.

your body is flush against the sink as you attempt to squirm, to try to get him to do something, anything.

that cruel laugh of his fills your ears—quiet yet booming in your head as it sends chills throughout your entire body, eyes flashing open to look at him in the mirror in front of you. “please? please?” logan mocks you, “do y’even know what you’re asking for, baby? nah.. you don’t.”

“you just want..” logan trails off, his hands mindlessly reaching for your shorts, “to get fucked.. like the whore you are.”

without a single warning, he yanks them down along with your panties, and your whines are impossible to stop when the cool air hits your bare skin. when his filthy words are the only thing you can think about.

“can’t keep these pretty hands to yourself, you gotta rile me up to do it for you?” you hear the clank of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his jeans sliding down, “gotta piss me off every goddamn time you get so fucking needy? i mean,” he laughs harder now, “not that i really blame you..”

logan pauses, and his eyes that were once staring directly at you now shift to look straight ahead, latching onto your mirrored reflection instead. as if he was looking right into you now. “pretty girl like you.. would be a shame to let this cunt go to waste. so, i’ll do you a favor..”

your jaw falls open in complete shock as your face contorts, as the tip of his cock breaches your tight hole, making your eyes roll back instantaneously with a sob from your lips.

“i’ll use her real good. for what she’s made for, yeah?”

your hands grip the sink in front of you as tightly as possible, body trembling as logan groans into your ear, his hands on your body never loosening.

instead, his grip only tightens as his hips become flush against your ass, his entire cock piercing you to the hilt with a satisfied moan.

“that was easier this time, wasn’t it? gettin’ used to me now. just needed to..” logan takes a moment to pull himself out of you, the tip resting against your entrance as he groans. he slams himself back inside of you so hard that your body fails you, your hands landing on the mirror to hold yourself up, bent over.

“break her in real fucking good.”

your body shakes against him as you cry out at his intrusion, stammering out a string of noises as your walls involuntarily clench around him over and over again. it’s almost as if you’re rapidly adapting to him; the way he stretches you out so much that it hurts in the best way possible. you’re pulsing around him, increasingly growing wetter by the second as your eyes water from the intense sensation.

your words slur with a few whines of what seem to be logan’s name as your hands move back to the sink, attempting to push yourself back up against him, but he stops you. grabbing one of your hands, he places it right against the mirror again, holding it still as he grinds himself into you. it makes you breathe out rapidly, body bent over the sink completely now.

“keep em’ right there. right fucking there. you don’t get to do that. y’don’t get to make any choices here.” he grunts in your ear, his thick beard grazing along your jaw as his eyes flicker from your face back to the mirror. he notices the way you’re trembling, eyes filled with those pretty tears of yours, and it makes him smile—a chuckle leaving him shamelessly.

he takes a moment to admire you, whispering out, “what i’m gonna do to you, baby..” and it makes your eyes flutter shut, warmth filling your core.

his other hand trails up the front of your body now, and it practically covers you completely because of how big it is—your stomach, your breasts, your chest, then finally, your neck. your gasp is loud; heavy, as his fingers wrap around your throat, holding you still for him.

all of you in the palm of his hand—all in his control.

you moan eagerly as he looks into your eyes through the mirror, grinning almost maliciously, “isn’t this what you wanted?” he laughs, his hips stirring a bit as he agonizingly pulls out of you, making you wince, “you wanted my attention so bad, wanted my cock so fucking bad..” he growls in your ear, his hand sliding from your throat to the back of your neck, pushing you down hard, and it makes you grip onto the side of the sink even more. 

“well, now you fucking got it.”

the sound of his rasping grunt hits you first; before you’re sobbing out on his cock, pelvis hammering inside of you with a tight hold on your neck, keeping you there with no chance of stopping, no squirming, no escaping.. no running away from this.

all you can do is take it as he pounds into you, the agonizing ache of his cock sliding in and out of you rapidly increasing the coil in your core, your loud cries and moans enough to make him go harder.

“there you go, there she is..” logan grits out, hands now grasping at your hips, smacking your ass, eliciting a grunt from you, “better fuckin’ hope no one walks in here, or else all they’re gonna see is some whore gettin’ used.”

you cry out as you feel the tip of his cock reach the deepest parts inside of you, nudging your g-spot suddenly as a tear slides down your cheek, your knuckles white from how tight you were grasping at your surroundings. your cheeks grow hot from the idea of that happening, stomach tightening as heat pools your core.

“what’d they think, huh? you think they’d wanna join in on the fun? bet they’d wanna fuck you too after i’m done with you. tightest fuckin’ hole i’ve ever had.”

you whine out now, shaking your head desperately in retaliation as you deny it. you couldn’t ever have another man like this, not now, not ever—only him.

logan sighs out, “no, no, no, i’d never let em’ baby, don’t you worry,” he reassures you, pressing his lips against the top of your head, “this,” he murmurs, his hand reaching to cup the front of your cunt, the rough skin on his palm grazing your clit just enough to make you squeal, “s’all fuckin’ mine. you hear me? not a single soul gets to use her like i can.”

“not like she’d want it anyway. only wants my cock in her. s’the only way she can really be filled up.. fucked stupid and cryin’ for me. ain’t that right? never got fucked by a man like me before y’met me, and i’m sure as hell no one will ever get her trembling like i do.”

you shake your head again, tears continuously spilling out of your eyes as your stomach tightens repeatedly, “n-no, lo, only you—” you stammer out as logan buries himself inside of you to the hilt, plunging into the warm heat of your walls, and he slows, relying on pure power than pace now. the harsh drive of his hips has your head fogging up, so close to reaching your peak with your cunt shuddering.

“ohh, there we go, she’s doing it now. shaking all over this fucking cock, squeezin’ me so tight,” he hisses, “that all you up in this pretty little head, or can you even control it? can’t even control it, can you, baby?”

a string of noises leaves your lips, breathless and mixed with whines and a few tears in your eyes as your core spasms out, his cock hitting deep inside of you repeatedly.

“what was that? can’t really.. understand you, baby, y’gotta speak up..” he teases, a mean laugh escaping his throat, “c’monnn, use your words, really think em’ out, say em’ clearly.”

“c’mon, show me that you’re still my good girl. my good little girl. speak up for your old man, honey.”

you yelp out at his filthy words, “m’.. i c-can’t.. control it, ah!” your moans involuntarily stringing out, eyes fluttering shut and rolling to the back of your head, your pussy convulsing around him intensely. “g-gonna–c-cum, lo, oh—” you spit out, your chest grasping for as much air as possible.

he hums in your ear now, fingers reaching for your clit and fastening tight, harsh circles at it, making you shudder, your cunt throbbing around his cock—pulsating over and over again as you start to see white. “gonna fill you up, sweetheart, gonna make you take it, fuck.”

you can’t even register him anymore as he talks you through it, the “come for me, baby,” muffled in your ears as you listen to him, cunt constricting around him tightly as you soak him, and the sound is filthy as logan chases his release, squelching loudly from your climax.

you let out a muffled sob as logan finally reaches his peak, slamming himself deep inside of you as he holds you there, the spurts of white hot spilling & coating your walls. all you can hear is the ringing in your ears, along with the mixture of your heavy breaths and logan’s rasps surrounding you.

logan’s strong arms pull you up against him as you catch your breath, heart rate slowing as your back leans against his chest tiredly. he mutters sweet nothings to you, praising you with kisses along your neck, cheek, then to your lips.

“my good fucking girl, my sweet girl—oh, baby,” he hums in your ear, eyes shut as he takes you in. you sigh out, breathing him in as your hand reaches behind, landing on the back of his head to pull him in closer, “god, i love you.”

you laugh, pressing a mindless kiss on his skin, “i love you more, lo, i–i’m sorry for acting out, for being such a—” you begin to apologize, but he just shuts you up with another peck to your lips. “shh, you hush now. i appreciate it.. you riling me up all the damn time. s’ the only way i can still feel so young.”

you giggle, eyes opening up to turn your head to him, taking in his disheveled look—tired, old, grumpy. the man you loved, as handsome as ever.

“always young in my eyes, lo..” you smile, “besides.. it’s the only way i can get you to fuck me that good.” you tease.

he huffs, rolling his eyes. “i fuck you that good every goddamn time, n’ don’t you deny it.”

you laugh, nodding. you can’t deny that fact. but, your eyebrows furrow slightly, suddenly thinking back to the previous events.

“did you really fuck me in a gas station bathroom, babe? what if someone walked in?!” you groan, pushing your forehead into his chest, embarrassed.

he chuckles, “locked it the minute we got in here, baby. wouldn’t let anyone see you like that,” he reassures you, gently gripping the side of your head to make you look up at him, “you got that?”

his face is stern now as he looks into your eyes, and those butterflies in your stomach erupt as if it were the first time you ever got them from him. you nod though, gleaming up at him.

“got it.”

he grins, “good. now, let’s get you cleaned up n’ back on the road. back’s killing me even more now n’ that bed’s calling my name.”

you laugh at him, teasing him further. “old man.”

you wouldn’t want it any other way.

[catchastarorten]

—Hair tie

Pairing: Kang Dae-ho x lover!fem!reader

Summary: why hunt down his own hair ties when he could just steal yours instead?

Content: fluff, kisses, no games au, Dae-ho being a hair tie thief, english isn't my first language, mistakes should be present, sorry!

Word count: ~ 0.9k

The drawer was almost empty again.

You frowned, pulling it open further, as if the motion would magically summon the missing hair ties back into existence. But no, there were just two lonesome bands left. Your favorite blue one—gone. The black one that never snagged—gone.

You always kept your hair ties in a little wooden drawer, nestled among your earrings. But now, as you reached for one to tie up your hair with before washing your face, you only found there were two left.

You were meticulous about these things, always buying extras and keeping them in neat little rows. And yet, they seemed to vanish.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. You figured you might’ve misplaced them or accidentally lost a few. But then, you saw him—Dae-ho, the sweet, clingy man you adored—sitting on the couch with one of your black hair ties securing his messy ponytail.

You stared for a moment, confused. “Is that… mine?”

Dae-ho looked up from his book, his lips parting slightly as he realized what you were pointing at. Then he grinned sheepishly. “Oh… yeah. I couldn’t find mine, and, well, yours was just there…”

“Dae-ho!” you laughed, more amused than annoyed. “You could’ve asked.”

“I was going to put them back,” he said, looking so guilty you almost felt bad for teasing him. Almost. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Of course I’d notice. My stash is gone because of you.”

He frowned softly, putting the book down and opening his arms, as if begging for a hug after being scolded by you.

His hand reached up to tug at the tie in his hair, looking up at you as you made your way over to him with a small sigh. “Do you want this one back?” he asked softly, worried you might actually be upset at him.

You shook your head as his arms wrapped around you, unable to resist when he started spreading little kisses on your forehead and temple. “No, you can keep it.” you hummed.

From that moment on, it became a habit—one you found a bit endearing, if you were being honest. Whenever Dae-ho needed a hair tie, he’d raid your wooden drawer without a second thought.

Sometimes he tried to be sneaky about it, but he wasn’t exactly subtle. You’d catch him rifling through your things, his broad shoulders hunched like a child caught stealing cookies.

Other times, he didn’t bother hiding it at all, simply plucking one from the drawer with a soft grin and a quick kiss on your lips—then a kiss on your face, as if that would make you forgive him. And it always did.

He didn’t mean to always steal your hair ties, not really. It was just... easier for him to snatch one from the drawer than to hunt down his own.

You didn’t really mind. Not on most days, anyway.

One evening though, you did need a hair tie—desperately.

You were halfway through making dinner when a gust of wind from the open window sent a strand of hair into your face. Cursing under your breath, you tucked it behind your ear, only for another strand to escape. The kitchen was too hot, the recipe was more effort than you’d anticipated, and your hair, usually manageable, felt like an uncooperative child refusing to behave.

“Dae-ho!” you called, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

He appeared in the doorway a moment later, his expression somewhere between apologetic and guilty, as if he already knew what you called out to him about. His hair was tied back, as usual, and you could see one of your missing hair ties keeping it in place.

“Yes... love?” he asked, his voice so soft and warm it nearly melted your resolve.

“I need a hair tie,” you said, folding your arms. “And it seems you’ve taken all of mine.”

He blinked, then glanced down at his wrist. You hadn’t noticed before, but he had a spare hair tie looped around it—your hair tie. Without hesitation, he pulled it off and handed it to you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Here,” he said. “I always keep an extra for you. Just in case.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to speak. You stared at the hair tie in his hand, then back at his face. He looked so earnest, his eyes warm and full of love. It wasn’t just that he had thought to keep a spare for you—it was the fact that he had done it so naturally, so effortlessly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, even if he had taken it from you in the first place.

You took the band, your chest tightening with a wave of affection. He stepped closer to kiss the top of your head, his arms looping around your waist. “Don’t be mad. I love you.” he murmured softly, his nose buried in your hair as he nuzzled against you.

“I love you too, you thief,” you muttered, though there was no bite to your words. How could there be, when he was wrapped around you like that? Adorable and impossible to be mad at.

[shotmrmiller]

simon who can afford a better flat than the budget friendly flat he lives in but won't move. johnny doesn't understand. he wants to blame it on simon being the enigmatic, intentionally perplexing man he tends to be but he has a flat.

he doesn't have to. he's got no significant other, no kids (that he knows of, god only knows if simon's got a bairn somewhere. it makes him heated thinking about it. he's it's uncle, damn it.) why does he rent here when living in base is free?

the question answers itself when he's over one evening, empty beer bottles on the table, amber glass reflecting the warm glow of the lone lamp overhead. the television is on, volume turned down, blending with the other sounds of the night— the distant barking of dogs, the quiet hum of simon's fridge, the occasional car passing by outside.

the conversation had died down already, not like they don't spend almost every waking breath with each other at work and they'd been sitting in a comfortable silence when there was a sudden, sharp knock at simon's door.

it startles johnny, reaction instinctive as he reaches for his hip, hand curling around the grip of his holstered gun but simon seems relaxed. he pins him with a look and mutters, "s'alrigh'."

what does he mean it's alright? it's 'witchin' hour'' as his mam calls it, who could possible be at his door? he cranes his neck to look and—

it's you, standing up here with a flour-dusted apron, small hands holding a warm pastry, the steam twisting and curling off of it. you're exude homely charm, soft face glowing from the corridor's light (or maybe it's at the sight of seeing simon, who knows?) he can smell it in the air, sweet, inviting.

what johnny finds interesting enough to send a quick text to kyle is how simon is looking at you. as if you're handing him more than just a custard tart, but also a little piece of heaven, a fragment of a dream he hopes to have one day.

"'m sorry, simon. i wasn't aware you had any company. i just really needed to stress bake or i would've gone off the deep end and end up in prison."

violent little bonnie. he can see the appeal.

simon cups his hands over yours (he definitely did it as an excuse to touch you) as he takes the treat. if you make food to unwind and give it to your neighbors, johnny oughta move in next door too. he'll never turn down free food.

"don't worry about it." johnny's eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the softness in his tone, bottle halfway to his lips.

clearly more than a passing fancy.

"i'll just uhm, if you're friend wants some too—" but simon gently interrupts you before he can ask for some of that sweet comfort too.

"he's not hungry."

cruel, cruel bastard. he'll remember this day, jot it down in his calendar. when he gets a girl of his own, he'll be sure to do the same.

johnny wonders if you've got a crick in your neck from looking up at simon as you speak hushed words, meant only for him. can he get at least a nibble of that tart?

you shoot johnny a shy ㅤsmile before turning around and simon closes the door, turning back to the warming beers, golden tart in hand.

even the plate it's on is cute.

"ah can see the hearts in yer eyes, lt."

johnny can practically hear the air parting as simon's fist cuts through it, aimed at his head. he avoids it with practiced ease. "ooh, touchy. ah'll leave ye be if i get a bite o' tha'."

he doesn't gets not even a crumb because simon is selfish.

(simon moved here purposefully because he knows you live here and can't be at peace without knowing where you are at all times. there's a tag inside your favorite pair of shoes you left out in the hall once to dry after a hard downpour. the bakery you work at is down the street, if he looks out the south facing window, he can see you going in and leaving work. he likes to let himself in your home and smell your cushions. took one of your shirts too but at least made sure it wasn't one of your faves. he has to wash it every other day)