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[araiz-zaria]

En Paix — Laurent Gouvion St Cyr

[cj-theyoungling]

Husband Ghost who is obsessed with his wife. He refuses to tell her no, whatever his wife wants, she gets. Anything she even mentions wanting ends up in their shared home. She mentions a beautiful cookware set, she finds it in the cabinets later that week. She complains that her nails are grown out, later her nail tech calls and says that Ghost has paid for a years worth of nail appointments (with tip). Anything to make his wife smile

When Ghost is home his wife doesn't have to lift a finger. He loves the idea of a "traditional marriage" but he's actually a traditional man. He comes home and and does any repairs you need on the house. He's going to buy groceries, doing car maintenance, landscaping the lawn, doing the laundry. Anything his little wifey needs.

Any hobbies she has are always encouraged and paid for by Ghost. Constantly sending packages full of cooking supplies, yarn, stationary, and paints to the house while he's gone. He always wears the things she makes for him. They are bundled in blankets she knitted while eating brownies she baked. All while you are going through the scrapbook you had made while he was on deployment.

He refuses to argue with his wife. A firm believer in "happy wife, happy life". Anything his wifey doesn't like or want to do doesn't happen. She doesn't like his tie, he's changing. She doesn't feel like going out, he's helping her out of her dress and making them hot cocoa. Nothing she can do can upset him. He's so in love with her that anything she does is perfect to him.

[reidrum]

under the mistletoe

note: happy first day of reidrumas! a nice little munch!spencer to keep you warm <3

summary: in which penelope uses a plant to get her friends together, or the time you find yourself under the mistletoe with spencer

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, munch!spencer, fingering, oral (f receiving), heavy kissing, idiots in love, friends to lovers, fem!reader, reader wears a dress and heels

wc: 2.8k

12 days of reidrumas

The annual BAU Christmas Party became an accord Penelope headed all on her own, and was a job she took very seriously. The amount of times the team had been called away on a case near or on a major holiday is too sad a number to count, so whenever there was certainty that there would be no case or bureau event, Penelope went all in.

That is, on David Rossi’s credit card, of course.

Light up sleighs and reindeers adorned the front lawn of Rossi’s mansion, of which was decorated with red ribbons and twinkle lights galore. The silhouette of the biggest Christmas tree you think you’d ever seen was illuminated in the window as you approached the front, rubbing clammy hands down the sides of your dress.

You don’t even know why you’re so nervous, just that you are. While it had been some time since you had joined the team and you have definitely had some fun nights out with them, the nerves never get easier to deal with when you know a certain genius will be in your presence.

It seemed everyone knew of your crush on Spencer except the man himself. The way your face heats up when you’re near him, the words tripping over each other as you try to speak, somehow are not dead giveaways to him. If he notices your nerves, he doesn’t mention it, and you don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

A call of your name from the bottom of the stairs grabs your attention, and you see none other than Spencer coming up the stairs to meet you. He straightens out his sweater and looks at all of you, “You look nice.”

Suddenly you forget what words are, “Um…I.. thanks! I just got this, and I thought the antlers would be cute too.” you gesture to the light up headband. 

“They’re really cute.” he smiles and gestures you to walk in, and you’re both ambushed by Penelope immediately.

“You’re here! Oh, you look so cute with your little reindeer antlers,” she gushes, “And Spencer! Looking so dapper!” You both walk down the hallway with her, seemingly leading you to the kitchen when she abruptly stops halfway.

“You’re too cheery. What did you do?” you squint.

“Don’t hate me.”

Your eyebrows raise, “What did you do?”

“Why would we hate you?” Spencer says at the same time.

Penelope pauses, and with a hint of mischief in her voice, “Look up.”

Your eyes trail upwards to the arch of the door you’re both stood in, and there hanging with its leaves and red and white berries tied in ribbon, is of course, mistletoe.

“Penny.” you mumble under your breath. If she heard you she paid no mind, only beaming at you both with her Cheshire cat grin. You look over at poor Spencer, who’s sheepish smile and red cheeks are breaking through his stoic demeanor. 

“Did you know mistletoe in nature is actually poisonous? It’s a parasitic plant that has to grow on other trees in order to survive. But it’s holiday tradition comes from Norse mythology when the son of Odin is killed and his mother is so upset her tears turn into the berries on the plant, as a symbol of her love for him.” Spencer rambles out of nervousness.

“That sounds nice Spence,” Penelope grabs both of your hands and positions you in front of each other in the doorway, “Okay great, I’m sure you know the rules of mistletoe. Now kiss.”

“Penelope.” you lightly chide. Her persistence is a match for no one, there’s no way of getting out.

“You have to, that’s the rule! If you don’t, Christmas will be ruined!” she sighs dramatically.

You blink at her a few times hoping she understands that she’s out of her mind and that it’s a little cruel to put you and Spencer in this situation. This is probably his worst nightmare. He has that thing with germs you remember and you both are merely friends so there’s no way he’d see you like that, yet alone want to kiss you because a plant said you had to.

Spencer clears his throat in front of you, and says with a soft voice, “Well, if it’s going to ruin Christmas…”

Huh. Maybe not as cruel as you think.

You turn your head to meet his eyes, “You’re okay with this?”

He nods sheepishly, “I—I mean I love holidays, and even though I’d never done this part of Christmas, I’d hate to break tradition….”

You look at him with disbelief, but Penelope’s smile could not be wider and she squeals, “Amazing! Okay, I’m ready.”

You both look at her knowingly, and she immediately puts her hands up. “Alright, fine! I can take a hint. But, I want details later, both of you.” she busies herself off in the kitchen.

Spencer turns his body to face you, hands tentatively reaching out to ghost the curve of your hips. His eyes look to you for permission, and with a slight nod he takes purchase, bringing you closer while resting his hands on your sides. You gingerly place your flat palms on his shoulders, and it’s then you realize just how close you both are. His breath fans softly against your face, and even in heels you find yourself rising a bit further to meet his lips.

Just mere milliseconds before your lips meet he whispers with the softest pitch you’ve ever heard, “You sure this is okay?”

You think you give him a nod and a word of approval, but it’s lost as soon as you press your lips onto his with no hesitancy. His hands pull you closer to him, leaning deeper into the kiss. The endorphins run loose before  being corralled immediately as the kiss ends as quickly as it began.

He pulls back and he stares at your puffy lips, lips that are puffy because of him and it’s enough to drive him insane. He needs to find a way to have you like that again, to feel your lips against his again fearless of a watchful eye, to show you that he really doesn’t give a damn for tradition, but would do rituals and ceremonies on end if it meant getting to kiss you like that again.

You’re about to say something when your name is called from the living room, the other girls now noticing your arrival and waving you over to grab a drink. You look between them and Spencer, “I should go,” you say reluctantly, “Find me later?”.

He smiles softly, “I’ll find you later.”

You hesitate before moving, wondering if it’s even a good idea. But you realize you’re already this far deep, so what difference would it make? Your eyes dart between the girls and Spencer once more making sure they’re not looking, and rise to your toes again to kiss his cheek, “See you later, Spence.”

A blush rises to his cheek as he touches the spot with his fingers, watching you walk into the living room. You might be the death of him, he thinks.

—

The party’s gone on, games of white elephant are played and countless wine bottles are scattered around the place. He finds himself in an aimless conversation with Matt and Luke, he thinks they’re talking about some sport, but all Spencer can think about is you and your damn lips.

You’re addictive, he’s come to find. He’s had a taste of the forbidden fruit and now fully empathizes with Eve, thinking if something was as nectarious as you, he’d also have to go to great lengths to get it again.

He excuses himself from the conversation, not caring if they said anything, and goes off to find you. You’re sat on the loveseat with JJ that’s entirely too small for the two of you, but you certainly look comfy wedged into the seat. He circles around the back, resting a hand on your shoulder to let you know of his presence and bending down to whisper in your ear, “Is this a good time to find you?”

You startle a little at the voice, calming once you recognize it to be Spencer. You’re surprised he actually came and found you like he said he would, and by the look of his face it seemed like a determined mission.

“I’d say it is,” you smile up at him, his body looming over you behind the couch. He holds a hand out for you, “I’ll be back, J.” you tell her as you stand up. She looks between you and Spencer and a smug look rises to her face.

“Okay…be safe.” she winks. You groan.

Spencer leads you away from the bustle of the living room and further into the depths of Rossi’s mansion. You both walk side by side, talking aimlessly about anything and everything, grateful to have moments just walking with each other. You push open on a fancy door, revealing a vastly large room but with the same crown modeling as the rest of the place. A three piece couch set rests in the middle, and bookshelves filled with antiques line the walls.

You’re intrigued by the telescope pointed out the window, bending down to look through it. Spencer looks up from the book he’s holding on the other side of the room and watches you. You’re ethereal, the moonlight casting a soft glow on your figure making you look like an angel from above. You gaze through the lens to look at the stars, and he can’t help but wonder how lucky he is to have you in front of him and not in the sky with the rest of them.

“Can I confess something?”

You straighten your back and turn around, eyes widening, “Um, sure.”

“Nothing scary, I promise,” he reassures.

“That’s not concerning.”

He takes a deep breath, “I had an ulterior motive, when I came to find you.”

Your brows furrow nervously, “What do you mean?”

“No no, I meant it, it’s nothing bad,” he confesses, “I just… really wanted to kiss you again.”

Oh. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else?” he chuckles.

You stammer, “W—Well, I just wasn’t sure…”

He nods and slowly walks to you, “Would that be okay?”

You look up at him and see that he’s so close again. The waft of his cologne invades your senses. His hair is long again, you told him once he looked good with long hair and he hasn’t so much as looked at some scissors since then. The ends of his curls tickle your forehead when his head dips, lips mere nanometers away.

“Yeah.” you barely muster an audible whisper.

The corners of his lips twitch, “Yeah?” he says in the same pitch, leaning even closer.

“Please.”

His lips press to yours again for the second time this night, and he kisses you with a fervor you couldn’t comprehend. He brings one hand up to cradle the back of your head, padding the impact as he uses the other to back you against the wall. Your hands come up to tangle in his hair, lightly tugging on the roots that makes him fold even more into you.

Kisses travel down the side of your neck to the nape, and he spends time littering the area with lovebites. The soft gasps that leave your mouth only spur him on, but it’s not nearly enough for him.

“Sweetheart,” he pants between kisses, “Need to—fuck—need to taste you, please. Can I?

Your blown out eyes meet his, and it wasn’t even an option to say no when he was begging you so desperately, “Yeah, yes, please.”

His hand snakes through the slit on your dress, tracing the edges of your panties and grinning when he hears your breath hitch. He toys with the edge some more before dipping a finger below the band, never touching you where you really need him but getting awfully close.

“Spence..” you whine.

He groans, “Fuck, you sound so pretty saying my name and I haven’t even touched you yet.” He puts you out of your misery when he finally drags the pad of his index to the bundle of nerves at your center, tracing light circles that draw the prettiest moans he’s ever heard.

You grip his forearms for more stability, feeling your legs turn to jelly. Spencer sees your struggle and wraps an arm around your waist, “I got you, pretty girl it’s okay.” A few more minutes of teasing you and marking you relentlessly and he decides you’re okay enough for him to stand on your own, so he can sink to his knees in front of you.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he crouches down, making sure you’re okay every step of the way. His finger is still tracing a line from your clit to your entrance, the wet line seeping through your panties. He bunches up your dress and silently gestures to you to hold it, and steadies his hands on either side of your hips. He presses chaste kisses up your thighs, your breath getting heavier with each one closer to your center. The delirium hits an all time high when he presses a firm kiss to your core.

Skilled fingers hook your panties to the side, revealing you in all your glistening glory, “Look at you,” he marvels hoarsely, “that all for me?”

You nod fast, “Yes, yes Spence please.” you whine out, you’d sound like you were in pain if it were anyone else.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, don’t do that. I’m gonna take care of you, promise.” he coos, calming your pleas, “Come on, leg on my shoulder.”

The new angle opens you up beautifully for him and he can’t help himself when he leans in and swipes a tentative tongue through your folds, satisfied when he hears the sound of a guttural moan leave you.

You immediately slam your hand over mouth as he taunts, “Careful sweetheart, can’t be too loud or someone’s gonna walk in.”

You try to keep your moans and whimpers to a minimum as he continues eating you out like a man depraved, like all he was meant for on this earth was to be between your legs. He prods a finger around your entrance and slowly slips it in, you whimper and clamp your fingers into his hair tugging tightly.

Spencer groans into you at the feeling, and adds another finger swiftly moving them in and out. You’re getting close, he can feel it from the way you clench around his fingers, unable to stop himself from thinking about how you’d feel clenching around him.

“Ah—I’m….I’m close.” you whimper.

He speeds up ever so slightly, “Yeah? Okay angel, you can let go, it’s okay.”

Soon your climax washes over you, with you gripping his hair tightly and his fingers never faltering as he rides you through it. He slows down his pace as you come down before gently taking them out and giving you one last lick through your folds before standing up.

You yelp but it’s quickly muffled by him kissing you again. He feels you smile into the kiss and matches you before you both start giggling and pull away.

He can hear the smile in your voice when you rest your forehead on his shoulder, “That was…”

An arm wraps around you again to hold stable, “Good, I hope?”

You press a soft kiss at the base of his neck, “Really good. I guess we have to thank Penny now.”

“Actually…”

“What?”

“I may have been the one to tell her to put some mistletoe up.” He confesses sheepishly.

“You told her? S—So you could…like…” you ramble.

“So I would have a chance to kiss you, yes.”

You get real shy in front of him as if he wasn’t on his knees for you five minutes ago, “That’s really sweet…you could’ve told me.”

“I wanted to! But I thought you might not feel the same way because I notice how you are around me and I didn’t want to overwhelm you, but then Penelope told me you felt the same and I just figured one of us had to pull the bandaid off.”

You smile shyly, “I get nervous around you, because I really really like you.” you quietly admit.

He pulls you close into his chest, kissing your forehead softly, “Well that’s good then, because I really really like you too.”

Penelope is obviously over the moon when she finds out, giddy as can be knowing her two best friends are now together. What she doesn’t tell you, is how she sends the mistletoe to a preservation company to be pressed and framed. She’s just preparing to have the best gift ever to bring to your wedding.

[salingers]

OCTOBER’S END. JOEL MILLER.

each year, you make one return home─ halloween night. during this visit, joel’s going to wear your ex-boyfriend’s ghost-face mask, until you’re coming around his fingers.

pairing─ joel miller x reader. warnings─ 18+ mdni. cream pie. implied, legal age-gap. unprotected piv sex. vaginal fingering. w/c─ 3,843. a/n─ a03. masterlist. written for @mermaidgirl30’s halloween writing challenge.

Everything’s bigger in Texas, including Halloween. Your childhood neighborhood is locally televised each October’s end, due to every home’s enthusiastic participation. There’s an annual stoppage of traffic for the singular evening’s festivities, permitting only costumed bodies to roam the gated community’s residential roads. 

Branches draped in gauzy webs. Yards engulfed in artificial fog. A beloved holiday tradition, predating the tailend of the seventies, when Dad and Joel were elementary aged and wielding pillowcases of candies. Now, they’re fifty-somethings, bemoaning mutual back pain and cursing pesky lawn decorations.

“Here,” Joel gruffs, while individually sliding Dad two Reese’s pumpkins, from across the kitchen’s counter. “Protein break. ‘S four grams.”

Dad swipes them both up, before confirming that statement by thumbing one’s wrapper, “That ain’t bad.”

You’re quietly laughing at their supposed refueling, while stooping behind the fridge’s door and scanning the moistened shelves. There. A seasonal beer, from your favorite brewery in Austin. It’s comfortably predictable, returning home for Halloween; From Dad purchasing your favorite autumnal ales, to Joel Miller’s ruggedness.

You properly right yourself. Then, using your waist, nudge the appliance’s door shut, “Dad, where’s your bottle opener?”

Dad’s phone abruptly drones, reverberating against granite and interrupting your question; He grimaces at the caller’s illuminated identity.

You guess, “Ghostface?”

Dad laughs, before emphasizing, “Worse. My neediest client.” He abandons his barstool, continuing, “Actin’ like buildin’ up in Waco makes ‘er Joanna Gaines.” Dad apologetically nods toward you, “Joel. Will ‘ya?”

Joel’s scruffy chin tips upwards, directing you, “C’mere.”

Something’s brewing, once Dad vacates the vicinity. Your forced proximity to Joel is newly palpable; Tonight’s different. You’re obedient, in approaching him. Joel doesn’t stop staring. The bottle’s neck is being strangled, under your dominant hand. You can’t completely ward off an image of taking him into your palm.

Your minimal passage to his barstool seemed slow-motioned, almost. You’re not sure. Time’s just apparently lengthier, under Joel’s browned gaze.

 Joel grunts, fingering his carabiner of keys, attempting to sift out his bottle opener keychain, “You playin’ Michael Meyers, ‘gain? ‘Round one night, only?”

You amusedly scoff, “Keepin’ track?”

Joel shrugs, “Eight days, in eight years.”

You’re genuinely surprised that Joel’s noted your absence. Maybe, Dad revealed that specific number, correlating to your sparse appearances in Austin; Well, it could’ve been that Dad mentioned to Joel about how since your high school’s graduation, you’ve only managed to visit home yearly. That’s just basic math. Right?

You stammer, “Uh huh. ‘S my favorite holiday.”

Joel hums, before abruptly wrapping his calloused palm around the entirety of your hand and the beer bottle’s width, “Hm. ‘N that your favorite beer?”

You’re momentarily silent, muted by Joel’s warmth. A sizable hand, roughened from decades of hard labor. The tips of his delectably thick fingers begin tightening at your wrist, securing his hold as he’s standing himself up.

Even fully seated, Joel’s intimidating in size. Him standing toe-to-toe with you? That’s another story. His construction boots are weathered and worn; They would be comically large, in comparison to your measly-sized sneakers, but nothing’s funny about Joel Miller’s body mere inches from yours.

You reply by mustering an eager nod; And, whether that’s in response to Joel’s prior question pertaining your liking of the beer, or merely an approval of his nearness to you? You haven’t decided.

Joel rasps, “Anythin’ else?” He’s pulling your combined hands downward, to his waist. The carabiner’s remained attached to his belt’s loop, “That ‘ya favor?”

You’re struggling to think of something witty to retort. Because, the frayed seam of Joel’s zipper is right there. He’s deftly notching the bottle’s cap inside of the opener’s teeth; The beer crisply hisses, releasing any contained pressure.

Joel whispers, “What, darlin’? Bat got your tongue?”

You defeatedly laugh, “Somethin’ like that.”

He grins, carefully releasing you, “Taste it.”

You harshly gulp, “S–Sorry? Oh, right. T–The beer.” 

Joel agrees, “That’s right.” Then, darkly teases, “Y’know, that pretty mind ‘a yours is boundin’ for the gutter.”

He crosses his arms against his broad chest, the canvas fabric of his Carhartt jacket drawing taut. Joel’s now cocking his head, sending his gaze along the pathway from the glass vessel that you’re feebly holding, to the lower lip that you’re inadvertently biting; Daring you.

You’re feignedly bold, “Meet ‘ya there.”

You drink, even if it’s primarily to keep yourself from further stuttering. At first, it’s an adequate enough distraction; The alcohol’s frigid in temperature, soothing to the high-strung tendons of your throat, from the inside-out. Then, you’re curiously drawn to Joel’s own gulping throat, and that transient composure of yours is gone.

Joel’s devotedly watching you, his glare heady and sensual. His Adam’s apple jerks, moving atop the clenched muscles and corded veins of his neck. You’re somewhat tipping back, gathering your final mouthful, for now; You’ve drained three-fourths of it, by the time that you’ve halted your sipping.

Then, Joel’s thumb darts out, before smoothing against your glistening mouth. He drawls, “Got it lookin’ real good. Let’s see.”

You’re only narrowly audible, “Oh? Joel.” 

Joel’s tongue, deliciously large and scrubbed pink, strokes his finger. He groans, “Mm. Ain’t sure. Need ‘t sample it from the source.”

You inwardly whimper, “Yeah?”

You’re foolishly tempted to extend him the ambered bottle itself, because surely Joel Miller, your dad’s best friend, would identify that as the ‘source’. Not your parted, wanting lips. Like Joel’s read your hesitant mind, he reassuringly pins your hands behind your back, easily dismissing the beer; A singular hand of his own, dwarfing the pair of your wrists.

Joel’s ghosting your lips, “Yeah.”

For good measure, Joel lightly moans, sucking his dampened digit. Humming around the pumpkin spiced suds, lapping up any residual taste from his finger. Arms restrained, spine straightened; Your chest’s rising urgently.

Joel’s own chest, delicately hairy below his threadbare t-shirt, is an odd inch away. A desperate heat’s begun permeating your lower abdomen; Achingly unfurling, taking up residency in your cunt.

Of course, it’s then that Dad’s barrelling over, having withdrawn from his nearby office, “Sorry ‘bout that, kid. Get ‘er open?”

You’re coughing out, “Y–Yep.” Then, “Thanks, Joel.”

Dropping your wrists, Joel winks, “Oh. ‘M pleasure.”

Your incriminating closeness to Joel goes unrecognized by Dad; Seeing as, Joel’s wide shoulders completely obscure you from view.

Dad sighs, “Gee, there ain’t no escapin’ this shiplap.”

Joel immediately laughs, casually reclaiming his prior barstool. The jarring segue from Joel’s flirting with you, to his joking with Dad, is absolutely disorientating. You’re fidgeting, repeatedly and silently tapping your foot. You can’t do Joel here; You’ll settle for doing last-minute Halloween preparations.

You blurt, “Goin’ to start organizin’ the candy. ‘S all in the garage, Dad?”

Dad assuredly nods, “Sure is. ‘Cept these.” He chuckles, gathering the forgotten wrappers from his earlier ‘protein break’ with Joel.

You remind him, “Don’t forget to refill the fog tanks.”

Dad, who seemingly had forgotten, regretfully snaps his fingers, “What would I do without ‘ya?” He’s bragging to Joel, “Look at ‘er.”

Joel agreeably nods. Eyeing you, “Good girl.”

Because, Dad and Joel are career contractors, who are simultaneously life-long friends and next-door neighbors, it’s only right that they’ve done an elaborate, joint Halloween for three decades; Locally dubbed the ‘Construction Fright’.

A (questionably) age-appropriate spread of horror, featuring thrifted tools that bludgeon and dismember an assortment of plastic skeletons. Hard hats, faux-bloodied and stabbed with rusted nails. Construction tape, riddled in spiderwebs.

A half-dozen, battered wheelbarrows, brimming with chocolate candies; Three brown ones, carrying Hershey’s, Rolo, and Tootsie Roll. Three orange ones, containing every imaginable variant of Reese’s. 

 You’ve already been working for nearly an hour; Arranging the color-coordinated barrows of candy. You’re jamming the recycling bin’s lid shut, overtop the cardboard and plastic wrappings of king-sized bars, when the entry door’s opened.

Dad’s entering the garage, “Sun’s settin’ soon, kid. ‘Oughta get dressed.” He lazily squeezes you in an impromptu side-hug, “Thanks, for helpin’.”

You breathily sigh, “Mhm. Oh, I need ‘t light the Jack-O-Lanterns.”

Joel appears, insisting,  “Go on, darlin’. I’ll get ‘em sweatin’ for ‘ya.”

You’re thinking, ‘That’s ridiculously slutty of him to say’, when Joel continues, this time addressing Dad, “Hey. Phone’s ringin’ over ‘gain.”

Dad sighs, “Got ‘t be kiddin’ me.” Then, grumbles, “Sure hopin’ it’s Ghostface.” He grins, lightly pinching your elbow.

You giggle, “C’mon. She can’t be that bad.”

Dad shrugs, smiling before swiftly jogging up the garage’s concrete steps; When Dad’s fully retreated inside, and the door’s naturally swung shut, Joel doesn’t waste any time pinning your body against it.

Joel whispers, “Bet ‘ya find that this pussy’s wet ‘f me, when you’re undressin’ it.” His jeaned, muscular thigh’s nudging your legs ajar.

You airily groan, “P–Please. Fuckin’ kiss me.”

Joel grins, wedging his ample thigh’s sturdy surface against your beating cunt. He kisses you; Joel Miller fuckin’ kisses you. He’s grabbing your face, thumbing your cheekbones. His lengthy fingers, scraping your skull.

His tongue’s deeply delving, eagerly exploring your mouth’s every crevasse. You can’t breathe efficiently or think coherently. Everything’s Joel. His graying beard, raking your chin; A woodsy scent, like that of the hardware store’s lumber aisles, exuding from his clothing.

You’re moaning, “Ngh.” Then, ripping at the silvery hair that’s curling against the nape of his sun-freckled neck, “More.”

Joel’s grunting, “Fuck. Need ‘t stop.” He can’t stop, and sucks your bottom lip, once more. Then, “H–Hear ‘im? He’s gainin’ on us.”

Sure enough, Dad’s approaching. It’s damn-near impossible to quit rutting along Joel’s denimed, upper leg. You’re whining, “Need ‘ya.”

Joel’s panting, “T–Tonight, darlin’.” He arousingly whispers, “All night. When the porch light’s out, sneak over.” Then, darker and deeper, “Repeat it.”

You repeat, “Tonight. When the porch light’s out, sneak over.”

You’re admittedly distracted, during the evening’s trick-or-treating segment. You understand that nothing’s allowed to appear awry around Dad, but Joel’s playing casual too well. You shouldn’t overthink, but it’s torturous; That he’s apparently unaffected. Drinking with Dad and Tommy. Never really staring at you.

Joel’s (conveniently) costumed as himself every Halloween, but himself during working hours; A leathered tool belt, cinching his tender waist. A backwards Filson hat, tamping his unkempt curls. His dirtiest ‘white’ t-shirt; The neckline’s absurdly tattered and torn, an array of holes displaying his body’s coarse hair.

Midland’s country cover of ‘Wicked Game’ is emitting from neighboring speakers. You can’t resist likening the song’s drumming pattern to your own heart’s pulsating rhythm; Yearning for Joel’s attention. Then, Dad’s whistling for your attention.

Dad’s pointing, “Look, kid. Your ‘ol boyfriend, Nick. He’s fuckin’ Ghostface.” Dad humorously roars, standing, “See ‘im? H–Hold on.”

You’re avidly protesting, but Dad’s already approaching Nick, who’s not wearing, but holding his hooded mask; Fingers cupping the elongated, rubbery chin. There’s nothing inherently wrong about him; He (morally) should be your holiday hook-up, not your dad’s best friend. It’s too bad.

Joel snipes, “Dick?”

You tut, “It’s Nick.”

Joel’s feigning understanding, “Oh, Prick.”

You’re unsure what’s initiated this potent sexual tension, but it’s consumed your every thought this Halloween; While, Joel’s every word is loaded. His irritated sarcasm’s gunned your way. Any bickering’s uncommon, for the pair of you. You’re hoping that Tommy’s too busy proffering candy to notice.

Dad’s returned, towing Nick, “Weren’t we just talkin’ ‘bout him, kid? So funny.” Dad, and his dorky penchant for inside-jokes.

Nick cluelessly smiles, “Hi, you.”

You politely reply, “Hi, yourself.”

Nick’s extending his hand, summoning you from your designated seat, “Got ‘t see this costume.” Then, he’s declaring you, “Stunning.”

You’re incredulously laughing, “They’re bloodied overalls.”

Nick grins, persisting, “Love ‘em. Also, this apron’s awesome.” He’s thumbing your accessory’s front, tracing the logo, “Carhartt girl, huh?”

You’re aiming to get under Joel’s skin with, “Scream girl, too.” You inspect Nick’s black robe, feeling his arm’s draping sleeve.

Oh, Joel Miller’s jealous. He’s rolling his earthy-toned eyes; Aggressively peeling his beer’s damp label, while instigating Dad, “Hearin’ this?”

Dad’s indifferent, shrugging. He’s always approved of Nick for you; He’s Texan, and plays Minor League Baseball. That’ll do it.

Nick’s pleading, “Let’s please walk ‘round, sweep the neighborhood?”

Joel snarks, “Hell. Reckon he’s recruitin’ for Neighborhood Watch?”

Nick’s nervously smiling, having not heard Joel’s dig, but surely hearing Dad and Tommy’s abrupt snickering.

You kindly respond, “Let’s. Love seein’ the decorations.”

It’s nine-thirty. Your street’s grown habitually sparse; Toddlers, having resigned to stringent bedtimes. Teens, having retreated to erupting parties.

You decipher Joel’s looming silhouette; His rocking chair’s creaking, upon the dimmed porch’s planks. A gleaming tumbler of (presumably) whiskey is resting against his crossed leg, the glass winking at you.

Joel’s dragging his index finger’s edge against his groomed mustache, thumbing his angrily tightened jaw. He rasps, “Ain’t walk ‘ya home?” 

You’re ascending his porch’s tread, “Didn’t need that. Told ‘im so.” Then, untying your apron’s chaotic knot, “Uncross your leg, Joel.”

Joel’s pleasingly pliant; He warns, “That’s the only order that I’m takin’ tonight.” His lap’s deliciously spreading, “Get ‘t drawin’ the blinds.”

The anticipation’s wetting you. You’re immediately scampering along the porch’s perimeter, rolling down every privacy blind; Joel’s patiently swigging his auburn liquor. You whimper, “A–Anythin’ else?”

Joel’s rolling the wick of his adjacent kerosene lantern; Thrusting his opened lap, scrounging his Zippo lighter from an anterior pant pocket. His hand’s arousingly veined, while flicking the lighter’s flint wheel.

He belatedly replies, “Drop your apron. Undo your overalls.”

You’ve dropped the apron, and something’s spilling out from the largest pocket; Joel’s deeply exhaling, “Explain that.”

The lamp’s emitting faint light, fire illuminating his hardening expression. He’s so scarily sexy. You’re inching nearer, but Joel hoists his palm, stopping you.

You embarrassedly gulp, “N–Nick’s mask. Asked me ‘t hold it. He never wore it.”

Joel’s impatient, waving, “And?”

You’re tentatively unhooking your denimed straps, gently uttering, “W–Would ‘ya? Wear it?”

Joel’s mildly surprised, “Oh?” Deciding, “Bring it here. On your knees.”

You instantly kneel, before gathering up the discarded disguise using your teeth. You’re crawling to Joel, crossing the porch’s dully-lit surface. The bib upon your overalls undone; The garment’s buckling loops clinking.

Joel involuntarily moans, “Ngh. Dirty fuckin’ girl.” His index finger’s pumping from his balled up fist, signaling you.

Your pussy’s thumping, because of his commanding, curling digit. You’re itching to suck it. You need anything of Joel’s inside of you.

You’ve gradually reached Joel; You’re being caged in-between his lengthy legs. Joel forcibly pinches your face, removing the mask from your bite’s grasp. The item’s resultantly spat, against his abutted groin.

He’s astonished at the filthy sight, rustling, “How ‘bout that.” You’re resting on your haunches, while Joel praises, “Good girl.”

Joel’s abruptly leaning downward, before hungrily lifting your body’s entirety along his own. He’s immediately kissing you, sinking against the rocking chair’s curved spine; The porch’s cedar ground sighs, creakily duetting with Joel’s groans.

You’re practically siphoning the remnant whiskey from his tongue’s cushioned pad; Your mouth’s rabidly sucking, while your waist’s desperately grinding.

Joel’s bypassing your denimed, disoriented trousers; His palm’s greedily grasping your back’s arched column. His remaining arm, ladling your ass. Then, Joel’s effortlessly hauling your goosebumped figure upward; The rocking chair’s momentum being an assistant. The mask’s wedged in-between your upright bodies.

Joel breathes, “T–The lamp. Hang tight.” You’re licking Joel’s partially bearded throat; He’s briefly hunching, responsibly lowering the wick, consequently extinguishing the flame. Your quartet of limbs, wrapping his flexing torso.

You’re whispering, “You’re so big and strong, Joel.”

He amusedly sighs, “Yeah?” Promising, “Ain’t seen nothin’.”

Then, Joel’s roughly stamping your body against the front door’s exterior; His bulge swelling, pinning your pussy. The entry knob’s blindly twisted. Joel’s heavy-footed steps are reverberated, crunching his home’s metallic threshold.

First, Joel carelessly clears his entry way’s waist-heighted table. Juggling you, while his tanned arm’s sweeping everything off; A ceramic, coffee-stained mug of loose change’s completely shattered. Second, Joel harshly kicks his anterior door shut; There’s an impressive boot print, left behind.

Joel’s panting, “Tell me ‘t stop?”

You’re begging, “K–Keep goin’.”

He hums, “Hm. Need it, darlin’?” Joel’s hurriedly planting you upon the table’s cleared crest, kissing your nodding throat. Agreeing, “Yeah. You do.”

It’s dizzyingly hot; Joel gruffly ripping off your mussed overalls, easily tugging off your slip-on sneakers. He’s lobbing them across the room, away from the mess of coins and shards. You’re noticing the Ghostface mask, under his unmoving bicep.

Joel’s noticing you, “This what ‘ya want?” He’s hesitantly thumbing the mask’s gaping jaw. “Ain’t scared?”

You quietly say, “Like ‘t be scared.” You’re reaching upward, prying off his hat; His hair’s deliciously gray and tousled. “Here.”

Joel’s flinging his accessory away. Then, handing you the hooded, horror mask, “Go ‘head.” He warns, “Wearin’ it ‘till you’re comin’. Understand?”

You’re stroking his untidy hair, readying him, “Won’t be long.” You murmur, “S–Soppin’ for ‘ya.”

Joel’s grunting, “Fuck’s sake.” Kissing you, in-between threatening, “Filthy. ‘Oughta edge ‘ya. Talkin’ like that.”

He impatiently rings your wrists; You’re positioning the mask properly overhead. The draping fabric’s hitting Joel’s colossal shoulders. 

Your pulse’s hammering, “Oh.”

The mask’s milky-colored expression, surveying you. Stark, against the setting of Joel’s unlighted home. His index finger’s impulsively traveling your body; Dragging over your bottom lip’s dampened flesh. Then, carnally downard, riding your throat. Fingering your jugular’s delicate divet. Hooking your undershirt’s airy collar.

Joel’s taunting, “Heart’s racin’.”

You’re anguishly rutting against his console table’s lacquered top. You need to be touched. You beg, “J–Joel. Oh, Joel.”

Joel’s eerily tilting his head, “Pussy’s racin’ like that, too?” Whispering, “Ain’t it?”

You’re deliriously horny, “Yes.”

He’s humming, “Hm. Shirt’s got ‘t go, first.” His unoccupied hand’s rummaging his hind pocket, while, “Reckon that my knife’ll work?”

You’re pleading, “C–Cut it off.”

Then, Joel’s brandishing his utility knife. The blade’s expertly flicked outward. He urges, “Try ‘t hold still.”

Joel Miller’s carving your fucking shirt; His blade’s blunt edge skimming your sternum. He’s effortlessly halved it, forging an impromptu vest. He’s instantaneously shoving the garment overtop your rigid shoulders.

The knife’s frigid handle brushes your tapered nipple; Joel’s awaiting permission, hovering your underwear’s waistline. You’re nodding, kneading his large shoulders. His finger’s hitching the material, before his blade’s cutting it.

Snipping the remaining side, Joel grunts, “Cunt need stuffin’?” He’s pocketing your saturated underwear and his retracted knife, “I know it’s wet ‘nough to take two fingers.”

You’ve been fantasizing about Joel entering you all Halloween. And, finally; He does. He’s groaning, “S–Swallowin’ both of ‘em. ‘Jus like that?”

Your angling head’s hitting the paneled wall. You’re obscenely squelching around his battering digits. You belatedly respond, “JoelJoelJoelJoel.”

Joel’s roughened wrist’s repeatedly rubbing your beating clit. You’re clenching speechlessly around him, innately meeting every re-entry. Your spine’s warming; Your stomach’s taut.

Your arousal’s watering his driving hand; His palm’s pooling. Joel’s incessantly steady. Praising, “Comin’ up. Doin’ good.”

You’re gasping, “There. Oh, right there.”

The instant that you’re coming, Joel’s yanking off his hindering mask. His beard’s patchy and sweaty. He grins, “Man ‘a my word.”

Then, Joel’s amused mouth’s pounding upon your own; He’s desperately inhaling your breaking moans. Licking your teeth’s underside. 

You’re abundantly squirting, as Joel’s uncorking your cunt. Your spotting vision’s correcting leisurely. You’re languidly sighing; Breathing deeply.

He’s genuinely insane for drinking you from his cupped palm. Then, Joel’s mouthing his soggy fingers; Hitting knuckle. You’re blurting, “Need ‘t fuck.”

Joel’s arching his aging brow; Rasping, “Ask nicely.” Then, he’s towing your body overtop his broad shoulder. Spanking you, “Greedy fuckin’ girl.”

You’re nakedly suspended, Joel’s bicep rippling below your ass. He’s entering his living room; Carefully placing you across his cognac-colored sectional. You’re propping upon the chaise’s leathered cushions. You whine, “Please, Joel.”

Joel’s tutting, “Better’n that.” 

You supply, “Pretty please?”

He’s gradually moving nearer; His denim-clad shins, butting the couch’s edge. Joel’s unhurriedly thumbing his belt’s loop, painfully prolonging his removing it. You’re wetting and writhing against his furniture’s fabric.

Joel’s unimpressed, “C’mon.”

Shedding his accessory; Working his zipper. His acting arm’s so freckled, tanned, veined. Joel’s yanking his t-shirt overhead, before subsequently revealing an appetizing, softened tummy. His happy trail’s graying and wiry.

You’re begging, “Joel. Please.”

He’s winking, “Good ‘nough.”

Every sound’s tantalizing; Joel’s boots and pants, thumping across the carpet. His bare, bulky thigh’s abruptly rubbing against your naked pussy; Then, Joel’s mirroring your body’s horizontal position. Mounting you.

Your arousal’s drenching his underwear’s front; His length’s largely tenting the humid material, “Beggin’ like that. Fuckin’ slut.”

You’re involuntarily panting, when Joel’s finally and fully undressed. His cock’s deliciously girthy. The tip’s engorged, reddened and seeping; Erecting far beyond his belly’s button.

You’re whimpering, “PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel grins, “Cunt’s quiverin’. Feelin’ that?”

You desperately nod, “Need you ‘t feel it.”

Joel’s immediately pistoning his fleshy waist; His cock’s knocking your cervix’s wall. His rough thrusting’s fastly inching your bodies upward, until your head’s rearing the sofa’s supple tailend.

He whispers, “Warm ‘nough?”

You gasp, “C–Cock’s perfect.”

Joel’s inaudibly responding; Ramming your hand, palming your pelvis. You’re feeling his cock, below your abdomen’s exterior. He’s interlocking your fingers; His own swallowing yours; Pressing. You’re practically tracing his bulbous, twitching tip.

He’s praising, “Takin’ me well.”

Joel’s bottoming-out, pounding steadily; His bloated, weighty balls welting your taint. Your clit’s puffing, from his pubic bone’s rhythmic route. Dementedly fucking you. You’re moaning, “Ah. F–Fuck.”

He murmurs, “Cunt’s gulpin’ me.” Joel’s hooking your knee’s underside, before lugging it overtop his broad shoulder’s slope, “Needy fuckin’ hole.”

You’re stammering, “Ngh. M–Mm. RightThereRightThere.”

Then, Joel’s angling deeper, differently; Laying his body’s robust weight against your languid, vertical leg. Your foot’s achingly surpassing your head. His chest hair’s graying and saturated; Scraping you.

Your pussy’s overwhelmingly spasming. Joel’s messily tonguing your nipple’s peak; His mustache’s prickling the sensitive skin. You’re tugging at his hair’s curling strands, “J–Joel. Close.”

Joel’s echoing your prior words, “Meet ‘ya there.”

You’re shockingly surprised, that Joel’s remembered the momentary retort; Your faux-bold response and pumpkin spiced alcohol. That’s it. You’re blindly coming. His cock’s densely brimming your contracting hole; Hammering you.

Your pussy’s pornographically sloshing. Joel whimpers, “A–’Atta girl. Drenchin’ it.” Then, “Comin’ inside. ‘M snipped. Yeah?”

You’re immediately kissing him. Palming his beard’s rugged stubble. Sucking his tongue’s pink pores; Tasting your arousal’s heady flavoring.

His climaxing moan’s roaring down your throat; Cum rapidly spurting, coating your cunt. You’re rubbing his rolling eye’s crinkled grooves. His forehead’s tanned and wrinkled. Joel’s especially gorgeous, while cumming hard.

You’re pouring, when Joel’s unplugging you. He’s breathlessly cursing, “Fuckin’ hot.” Standing, “Gettin’ towels. Need anythin’ else? Water?”

You’re beginning to respond, when Joel’s unexpectedly bending; Kissing you. You smile, tapping your bottom lip, “What’s that for?”

Joel’s embarrassedly pointing, toward the nearby microwave’s blinking clock. He explains, “Ten thirty-one on October thirty-first. ‘Dunno. Good luck? Make ‘a wish or somethin’.”

You’re actually dumbfounded, “Oh? You’re absurdly cute.”

Joel frowns, “Ain’t allowed ‘t call me that. ‘Specially while leakin’ my seed.” He’s nakedly turning, preparing to walk, “Water?”

You’re pulling Joel’s hand, “Wait. Want ‘t hear your wish.”

He gulps, “That… You’ll be visitin’ home on Thanksgivin’.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

RED STRING OF FATE m.list

— alternative universes, same lovestruck idiots.

a collection of love stories woven through time and fate, where every twist and turn leads you back to him—gojo satoru. from childhood bonds to fleeting encounters, soulmates to strangers crossing paths, each moment is tied together by an invisible thread. no matter the distance or detours, love always finds its way home, and satoru is the heart of it all.

♡ generally fluff + happy ending 𔓘 some gn / mostly fem reader-insert

♡ satoru gojo being obnoxiously in love with you <3

♡ different aus, same red string

codes. path = oneshot. routes = series. completed = navigated, ongoing = navigating. word count = miles. personal faves = stellar. fan favorite = landmark.

── .✦ FATE’S ITINERARY

♡₊ path #001 ⌇ free throws and figure drawings

⤷ satoru gojo is a basketball star, the campus menace, and undeniably the best-looking guy in any room—but he’s definitely not a model. so when you, a quiet, intense art student with nothing but a flyer, ask him to pose for a painting, he laughs and says no. but when you mention paying him? suddenly, he’s reconsidering—because easy money might just turn into something far more complicated. <– navigated, 22k miles. stellar, landmark.

♡₊ path #002 ⌇ roses bloom the prettiest in ruin

⤷ as the princess of a fallen monarchy, you were raised to uphold tradition, while satoru gojo, the son of the prime minister, was taught to rule. your families have always been at odds—yours clinging to the past, his shaping the future—but satoru has never cared for politics when it comes to you. despite the lines drawn by power, satoru’s never been one to follow the rules, and from the moment he met you, he knew your story wasn’t meant to end in polite distance. <– navigated, 8k miles. stellar.

♡₊ route #003 ⌇ love comes in small sizes

⤷ you and satoru have always been something—never labeled, never defined. from jujutsu high to stolen rooftop kisses, your bond is a tangled mess of healing hands, half-confessions, and his irritating habit of getting hurt just to keep your attention. but when pride and loss tear you apart, you walk away—until six years later, fate (and a tiny, pink-backpack-wearing menace) drags you back into his world. <– navigating, 19k miles. landmark.

♡₊ route #004 ⌇ a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

⤷ gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten—rejecting your chocolates, choosing studying over playtime, and making you think he was boring. years later, he’s the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university, and when you're paired for a 60% project, you think you can coast—until he drags you back to work at every exclusive club. you flirt, he humors you; you push, he pulls, and suddenly, you're falling for him in a way you never expected. <– navigating, 41k miles.

♡₊ path #005 ⌇ love thy neighbor

⤷ you’ve known satoru gojo since childhood, raised in a neighborhood where your moms’ lawn wars were as fierce as their friendship, and your dads? best friends. every morning, it’s the same—banter over the fence, competitive watering, and a rivalry you didn’t know would grow into something so much more. from your first awkward exchange to stolen glances over the years, he's the one constant you never saw coming. <– navigating, 24.6k miles.

♡₊ path #006 ⌇ bake me up, buttercup

⤷ after a grueling gym session, satoru’s thumb lazily scrolls through his feed, only to pause on a reel of the most captivating pastry he’s ever seen. it’s not just the mouthwatering treats your making—it’s the way you smile at the camera, a quiet warmth that gets to him more than he cares to admit. despite his best efforts to stick to his diet, he can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to steal a taste of your sweetness, too. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #007 ⌇ dazzle me, darling

⤷ at school, you and satoru gojo are academic rivals—always competing for the top spot in every subject, exchanging snarky remarks, and trying to one-up each other at every turn. however, when satoru gets into trouble one fateful night, a mysterious magical girl swoops in to save him, leaving him utterly enchanted by her grace and power. what he doesn’t know is that the magical girl he's falling for is none other than you, the same person he can't stand in class. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #008 ⌇ behind the lens

⤷ satoru gojo is the biggest heartthrob of his small town, a high school golden boy with a secret crush on you—the sweetest model in the industry. when he finally gets scouted, he expects to be the bad boy to your nice girl, only to discover you’re a lot more dangerous than he ever imagined. now, caught in a whirlwind of photoshoots and blushing, he can't decide if he’s terrified or completely hooked. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #009 ⌇ name slips, heart skips

⤷ you walk into your favorite café, but today, something’s different. the new barista keeps misspelling your name on purpose, and it’s too adorable to ignore. the more you brush it off, the more you realize it might not be a mistake after all—he’s clearly up to something. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #010 ⌇ boardroom chemistry

⤷ you’ve always kept it professional, flexible, and discreet with your side gig as a fake girlfriend—until your newest client turns out to be none other than your unbearable CEO. now you’re stuck pretending to date the man you despise, all while trying not to let your growing attraction ruin everything. if only he’d stop being so damn charming, maybe you could keep it together. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #011 ⌇ no one else needed to notice

you answered a quiet jujutsu forum post to escape a restless kyoto night. late-night messages with a stranger turned into playful banter and warm voice calls. his laugh became your tether, cutting through the monotony of sorcerer life. when he suggests meeting, it feels fragile but real. something steady sparks where you least expected it. <– navigated, 6.4k miles.

more destinations to be added.

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me

comment to be added on the tl xx. whole collection or specify what fic.

unreleased fics might be subject to change.

[not-available-for-comment]

*tired* I will be the non-radfem to say that you don’t have to wear makeup. The minimum amount of makeup required to be acceptable in polite society is 0. I am nearly 40 years old and I have been wearing 0 makeup for almost all of those years and they still let me run the streets unsupervised. Some of you who don’t believe this need a divorce/to stop talking to your mother so much.

HOWEVER

Makeup is also very fun to put on, it’s a traditional female art form, and if someone *voluntarily decides* they want 22 separate products on their face it’s their goddamn right and calling them brainwashed by the patriarchy is childish at best. Like almost all gendered things it’s a fun hobby and a poor requirement for entry.

Thank you for coming to my rant now get off my lawn

[clementineinn]

the door into summer

abstract: on a warm summer evening, under the hush of string lights and the flicker of fireflies, something quiet begins to shift. what starts as laughter among friends becomes a night of near-confessions and stolen glances, where the air is thick with memory and want.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: tooth-rotting fluff

word count: 7.5k

note: thinking about summer and spencer reid has me in a daydream all day long. writing this out in my uni's library was one of the best feelings ever, how could you ever explain that to a man?? anyways, as always, enjoyy!!

Quantico, BAU Bullpen – Late Afternoon

The late-day hum of keyboards and rustling case files filled the BAU bullpen, a soft chorus of exhaustion and focus that clung to the fluorescent light like static. Coffee cups sat half-empty beside piles of reports, and the air buzzed with the quiet fatigue that came at the end of a case—the kind that settled into shoulders and softened voices.

And then, breaking through it like a glittering firework in a library, came the familiar chiming of bracelets and the unmistakable voice of Penelope Garcia.

She didn’t enter so much as burst in—arms full of color, bangles clinking with every dramatic step, sunglasses perched on her head despite being indoors. Her dress was a swirl of citrus hues and soft ruffles, and her heels clicked like punctuation across the tile.

Hotch looked up from his office doorway with a faint smile that read: here we go again.

“Attention, my beautiful crime-fighting weirdos!” she declared, hands raised like a ringmaster about to announce the main act. “We are officially T-minus six hours until the most important event of the month—nay, the summer. And if any of you bail, I will hack into your iTunes libraries and replace every playlist with accordion covers of Nickelback.”

A few chuckles rippled through the bullpen.

“I’ve already RSVP’d yes like, four times,” Prentiss said, spinning in her chair. “I’m mostly going for the themed cocktails and the regret.”

JJ chimed in from behind her desk. “Will there be karaoke again?”

Garcia winked. “There will be redemption.”

Rossi emerged from the break room with a steaming mug. “I’ll bring wine, as tradition dictates.”

As conversations resumed, Morgan turned from his desk and caught sight of Spencer, who was absently twisting a paperclip into a helix. His eyes weren’t on Garcia. They were drifting—softly, unconsciously—toward the far corner of the room.

Toward her.

Y/N was leaning against the edge of JJ’s desk, talking animatedly with her, Prentiss, and Garcia, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Something about the way she stood—loose-limbed, relaxed, laughing with her head tilted—made the air feel just a little warmer.

Morgan didn’t miss it.

“Yo,” he said, voice low and teasing as he leaned toward Reid. “You going tonight?”

Reid blinked, snapping out of his trance. “What?”

“To Garcia’s,” Morgan said, nudging him. “The party. First night of summer. That thing she’s been planning since Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh. I don’t know. I might.”

Morgan’s grin was slow and knowing. “You should.”

Spencer glanced at him warily. “Why?”

Morgan tilted his head toward the corner, where Y/N was laughing at something JJ just whispered. “Because she’s going.”

Spencer’s jaw twitched—just barely. His eyes flicked down, then back up again. “So?”

“So,” Morgan said, slapping a hand on his shoulder, “wear something that doesn’t look like it’s from a calculus textbook. Maybe tonight’s the night you stop staring from across the room.”

Spencer opened his mouth to protest—but then Y/N looked over.

She didn’t say anything. Just caught his gaze and smiled—small, quiet, real.

And Spencer’s heart forgot its rhythm entirely.

Garcia’s Backyard – Early Evening

The sun was still clinging to the edges of the sky in long, golden ribbons when Y/N stepped onto Garcia’s lawn, a coil of twinkle lights looped around her arm like a garland spun from stars. Her brown boots pressed softly into the grass, each step sinking just slightly into the earth, grounding her in the hush of early summer.

The air was velvet-warm and fragrant—lavender, honeysuckle, and the faintest trace of citrus from a glass left on the railing. Wind chimes stirred above the porch in slow, dreamy tones, their silver song fluttering through the breeze like a lullaby meant only for summer’s beginning.

Her dress fluttered at the hem—white and lacy, soft as breath, catching the golden light like it had been made to glow. It clung to the curves of her hips in motion, the delicate fabric shifting with every step she took between lantern poles and flower beds. She looked like something from a story whispered at twilight—half-real, half-lantern light.

Garcia watched her from the porch, barefoot herself, a bundle of citronella candles tucked under one arm like potions.

“Okay, moonflower,” Garcia called from the patio steps, hands on her hips, surveying the backyard like a general readying for battle. “We’ve got exactly one hour to make this place look like a midsummer dream crossed with a Stevie Nicks fever vision. Let’s summon the party gods.”

Y/N laughed as she reached for the nearest fence post, beginning to wind the twinkle lights around it. “You’re mixing metaphors again.”

“I contain multitudes,” Garcia said dramatically, then gestured to a crate of vintage glassware, solar lanterns, and fake moss. “And you contain the only sense of symmetry I trust right now.”

The two of them moved in a quiet, easy rhythm—Garcia orchestrating with flair, Y/N adjusting the delicate twinkle lights with careful hands, her touch light as breath on glass. The strands draped between fence posts like constellations, catching the last of the sun as it dipped behind the trees. Mismatched candle holders lined the long table, flickering already as if they couldn’t wait for dusk.

Y/N’s brown knee boots whispered through the grass as she stepped back to admire their work, the worn leather grounding the soft sway of her white dress—a contrast of strength and softness that somehow suited her perfectly.

Eventually, Garcia stepped back, let out a long, theatrical sigh, fanning herself with a flamingo-shaped paddle. “You look like a Renaissance painting. Like if Botticelli painted summer in boots.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips was warm. “You picked the outfit, technically,” she said, looping the last coil of lights around the edge of the pergola. “You threatened to withhold music recommendations unless I wore something ‘solstice-worthy.’”

“I did no such thing,” Garcia said, gasping. “I merely suggested that if you wore that dress, certain individuals might experience temporary cardiac distress. No names. No pressure.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You mean Spencer?”

Garcia feigned innocence poorly. “Did I say that?”

“I like him,” Y/N said simply, not able to help the smile blooming on her face, smoothing her palms down the fabric of her dress. “Not exactly a government secret.”

Garcia’s expression softened, all glitter and truth. “He likes you too, honey. Has for ages. The man practically blinks in Morse code when you walk into a room.”

A hush fell between them—not awkward, but full, like a breath held between pages of a story just beginning to turn.

Y/N let out a soft, breathy giggle—light and a little dazed, the kind that escaped without asking permission. She ducked her head slightly, as if even the breeze might overhear. A touch of rose bloomed in her cheeks, blooming even deeper when Garcia grinned knowingly.

Around them, the garden hummed in gold and green. Fireflies blinked lazily along the hedges, slow and deliberate, like sparks from a match that never quite catches. The sky above had begun its slow descent into dusk, shifting from the faintest robin’s egg blue into soft mauve, a color only seen when you were still long enough to notice it—quiet enough to be changed by it.

And for a moment, the whole world felt paused on the edge of something beautiful.

Y/N tied the last ribbon to the pergola, fingers lingering on the knot, and turned to Garcia. “Well… let’s see if he shows up.”

Garcia smiled, eyes twinkling. “Oh, he’ll be here. And when he sees you—” she made a theatrical explosion gesture with her fingers, “—brain. Gone.”

They both giggled, the sound delicate and light, like wind chimes stirring on a summer breeze—bright, private, and gilded by the last amber blush of day, as if the dusk itself had leaned in to listen.

By the time the citronella candles were flickering in full force and the fairy lights blinked to life overhead, the backyard had begun to swell with familiar voices.

The first to arrive was JJ, with Will at her side and Henry tucked on his hip, already sleepy-eyed from the car ride over. Y/N swooped in for hugs, cooing over Henry’s shark-print pajamas, her colorful counterpart offering him a cup of apple juice in a sparkly tumbler.

Rossi strolled through the gate next, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a Tupperware of something suspiciously gourmet in the other. “I figured someone had to bring a dish that didn’t involve glitter or gummy worms.”

“Rossi!” Garcia squealed. “You brought carbs and judgment—just what I needed.”

Hotch didn’t stay long—he swung by just long enough to hand Garcia a summer bouquet and promise he’d attend next year’s party for more than fifteen minutes. He exchanged a few quiet words with Y/N at the edge of the lawn before heading out to catch Jack’s game.

Then came Emily, in cutoffs and a vintage band tee, holding a six-pack and shouting something about missing her punk phase. She immediately pulled Y/N into a hug, murmuring something with a grin that made her laugh and swat at her arm.

The backyard filled slowly, in the best way—people drifting in with half-finished drinks and easy laughter, staking claims to folding chairs and porch steps. Music hummed low from the speakers Garcia had tucked near the herb garden, soft enough to let conversations overlap like waves. Fireflies blinked in and out along the grass line, pulsing gently like they had nowhere else to be.

Near the far edge of the yard, someone set up a folding table and started arranging red cups. A round of beer pong had begun. Prentiss immediately accused JJ of stacking the teams, both unable to contain the ringing laughter that escaped their lips.

And through it all, Y/N moved like the center of gravity—refilling drinks, catching up with JJ and Emily, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the music as the wind played with her hair.

Every now and then, her eyes flicked toward the gate.

Garcia noticed. Of course she noticed.

“He’ll come,” she murmured, passing Y/N a glass of sangria and a soft look. “You know he will.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She just took the glass and nodded once, fingers tightening around the stem.

And then—

The gate creaked open.

No one looked up right away. The music had mellowed into something slow and warm, weaving through the laughter and low conversation scattered across Garcia’s backyard. String lights blinked into gold overhead. Prentiss was accusing Rossi of cheating at beer pong again, Garcia was convincing Henry that fireflies were tiny fairies and not bugs, and someone popped open a beer with the hiss of summer behind it.

Spencer hovered just inside the gate, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of a slate-blue shirt that Garcia had all but bullied him into wearing. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows—he wasn’t sure if it looked intentional or just like he’d gotten too warm and panicked.

He didn’t know where to go, exactly. Or how to move. Or breathe.

Because there—at the far edge of the patio, half-turned toward the light—stood Y/N.

And she looked like every thought he’d ever tried not to have about her, wrapped in dusk and light and lace.

Her hair—soft with waves from the heat of the day—cascaded down her back like sun-warmed silk, catching the last of the golden light in a way that made his breath catch. The white dress—short, delicate, almost too fragile for this world—fluttered at the hem, shifting with the breeze like it had a mind of its own. It danced against her thighs in fleeting, whispering touches, revealing glimpses of skin so soft and bare it made something in him ache. His eyes followed the line of her leg down to the top of her boots, the worn leather hugging her calves like they’d been made just for her.

She stood with one hand cradling a half-glass of dark sangria, its deep red glinting like garnet in the porchlight; her fingers, long and elegant, curled delicately around the stem—a contrast against the wine-dark swirl, the rim of the glass catching light like a prism, throwing faint glimmers onto the lace of her dress. Her lips—stained the same ripe shade as the drink—parted slightly as she laughed at something JJ said, the sound soft and bright, like a bell in warm fog, and all he could think about was how dangerously, heartbreakingly kissable her mouth looked in that moment.

The gentle curve of her throat. The soft sweep of collarbone exposed by the neckline of her dress. He could almost imagine what her skin would feel like if he touched it—warm from the sun, velvet-smooth, like something meant to be memorized slowly.

She moved slightly, hair falling across her shoulder, and the light shifted with her, gilding her in gold.

She didn’t know.

That was the worst part.

She didn’t know how breathtaking she looked. How she was standing there, half-tucked into the last light of day, looking like a wish someone else had made.

His throat tightened.

Of course he noticed. He noticed her like the stars must notice gravity.

And still, he didn’t move—jaw slack, breath stalled in his throat, frozen in the kind of silent awe that only came from long-held want finally staring back at him in the flesh. She was a vision carved from light and memory, and he stood there like a ghost haunting the edge of something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

He might have stayed rooted there forever if she hadn’t turned.

Just a small, unconscious shift of her shoulders, the tilt of her head—like she felt him before she saw him.

Her eyes found his.

And something in him fractured—quietly, like glass under slow pressure.

She smiled—small, tentative, a curve of her lips that seemed to ask more than it answered. There was uncertainty in it, like maybe she wasn’t sure he was real. Like maybe she wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

And then—her hand lifted, the stem of her wine glass catching the fading light as she raised it just slightly in greeting.

That was all it took.

Spencer began walking, though his body felt distant and slow, like he was moving through warm honey, like the air between them had thickened with everything he hadn’t said.

He had no idea what expression his face was making—probably something strange and wide-eyed. His heart was racing, an echo of footsteps pounding against the inside of his ribs. Every cell in him was tuned to her.

And by the time he reached her, she had turned fully—her back to the sunset, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair, the wind tugging playfully at the lace hem of her dress. Her hair shimmered around her shoulders like dusk had decided to follow her down.

She looked at him like she wasn’t sure what to say next.

And then she smiled again, this time a little steadier.

“Hey, stranger,” she said—voice soft and warm, threaded through with something quieter beneath it. Hope, maybe. Or doubt. “I was starting to think you bailed.”

Spencer blinked. “I, uh... circled the block once.”

She laughed, her teeth catching the rim of her glass before she took a sip. “That sounds about right.”

“I had to... psychologically prepare,” he added, a little too honestly.

“For Garcia’s yard?”

“For... people. And string lights. And themed drinks.”

She grinned. “Yeah, the sangria’s lethal. Pretty sure the fruit in mine is just decoration at this point.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a half-smile. “You make it look manageable.”

She raised a brow. “Is that your way of saying I’m handling sangria better than you’d expect?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not at all. I just meant—you seem. Comfortable. In this.”

She gave a small shrug, gaze flicking away, words trailing out of her mouth in a joking tone. “I’m faking it, obviously. I’ve got a whole internal monologue running.”

Spencer smiled softly. “Does it include a tactical exit strategy?”

“Only if someone spills on me.” She tilted her head toward Garcia, who was dramatically flailing over a plastic cup. “Or if Garcia tries to get me to dance.”

Spencer glanced over and nodded, solemn. “That does seem like a legitimate threat.”

Y/N’s smile quirked again, but her eyes flicked back toward the ground—lingering on the tip of her boot as it pressed into the grass. She swirled her glass absently, watching the fruit float in slow spirals.

There was a pause. Light. But charged.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, not looking at him this time.

Spencer shifted slightly. “Yeah. I... wasn’t sure I would either.”

Her brow ticked up. “But here you are.”

He glanced sideways at her. “Here I am.”

Their eyes met again, and this time something stayed there. Something quiet. Fragile.

Y/N took another sip of her sangria and tried to smile like her heart wasn’t fluttering a little. Like his presence didn’t change the temperature around her.

She tapped the rim of her glass once, then said, “I didn’t think this dress was a good idea.”

Spencer’s breath caught.

It took everything in him not to say the thousand things that filled his head at once.

It’s perfect. You look unreal. You’re the only person I’ve looked at since I got here.

Instead, he said, gently, “Why not?”

She shrugged again, self-conscious. “I don’t know. Felt like maybe it was trying too hard.”

His brows drew together just slightly. “It doesn’t.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

“It doesn’t try too hard,” he said again. “It just... works. On you.”

It wasn’t a compliment exactly—not the kind that made it obvious. But it was close. Close enough that her cheeks went warm.

She looked away again, biting her lip like maybe she hadn’t expected even that much.

Spencer stuffed his hands back in his pockets, fighting the itch to reach for her, to say what he really meant.

You look like summer made flesh. Like I’ve spent months trying not to say your name.

Instead, he nodded toward the game table. “Are you playing?”

“I was about to,” she said, glancing toward the house with a smile. “Garcia claimed me for her team, but then someone spilled sangria on the playlist notes and she went full crisis mode. I got ditched for DJ triage.”

He smiled. “Sounds terrifying.”

“You have no idea.” She turned toward the table, then paused. “Wanna join me?”

Spencer hesitated for half a breath too long.

She laughed under her breath. “Too much social exposure?”

He shook his head. “No. Just calculating the risk of complete emotional collapse.”

Her eyes sparkled at that—surprised, a little fond. And something inside her flickered.

Say something, she thought. Look at me like you mean it.

“You’re cute when you panic,” she offered, softer than she meant to.

His mouth opened—like maybe he would say something, anything—but then closed again.

And that was it.

A heartbeat. A pause. Nothing more.

He still wasn’t looking at her the way she ached for.

Not the way she’d imagined, just once, in the mirror before leaving the house—when she smoothed the hem of her dress with trembling fingers and let Garcia braid gold into her hair like a spell. When she told herself she didn’t need him to notice.

But God, she wanted him to.

Just one look. One moment that said he saw her—not the agent, not the friend, but the girl in the white dress who only wore it because some fragile part of her hoped it might make him stay a little longer when the night ended.

She took a step back anyway, smile still intact, the hem of her dress catching in the breeze and dancing around her thighs as she turned.

“Come on, Doctor,” she called lightly over her shoulder. “I’ll save you a cup.”

And Spencer—blinking once, heart stumbling to keep up—followed her into the lights.

From the table, Morgan’s voice rang out: “Reid! You better get in on this next round. We need a math guy to calculate our odds!”

She moved ahead of him, boots pressing gently into the grass, the worn leather hugging her calves like they’d been shaped to her stride. The hem of her dress—a weightless slip of white cotton and lace—fluttered with the breeze, just brushing the tops of her thighs with every step. The fabric floated more than it fell, sheer in places where the light passed through, stitched with the softest panels of embroidery and ruffled tulle, like something borrowed from a midsummer dream.

The flutter of her cap sleeves kissed her shoulders, exposing the golden curve of skin beneath. The dress swayed when she moved, catching the warm light of the lanterns and casting faint shadows against her legs, as if the night itself couldn’t help but follow her.

She looked like a painting left out in the sun—all soft edges and pale ivory, leather and lace and a hint of something wild beneath it all. Her silhouette moved through the garden like smoke—blurred at the edges, kissed by lamplight, and edged in warm shadow. She looked untouchable in that moment. Like a page torn from some pastoral painting—cream and pale honey, dusk-blushed skin and vintage leather.

And Spencer—he watched her, helpless.

His eyes traced the flutter of the skirt, the soft dip of her collarbone, the barest glint of skin beneath the gauzy fabric. She was light and movement, softness and summer and something impossible to name.

He was sure—painfully sure—that he would never recover from this.

Spencer followed, heart caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat, and wondered if it was possible to ache for something that had never truly been yours.

He wanted to stare. He wanted to memorize every detail—the shift of her hair against her back, the dip of her waist, the soft line of her neck where it disappeared into lace. She looked like warmth itself, like summer captured in motion, like every unspoken sentence that had ever sat on the edge of his tongue.

He tried not to trip. Tried not to breathe too hard. Tried not to want.

But he did. With a fierceness that frightened him.

And she didn’t even know.

She was right there—right there, laughing with a glass in her hand and the stars beginning to crown her shoulders—and she had no idea how badly he wanted to reach for her. Not to pull her in or steal anything. Just to rest his fingers at the edge of her wrist and feel what it was like to be allowed.

She stopped at the folding table set up near the flower beds, already half-surrounded by red Solo cups and friendly heckling.

“We’re going, we’re going,” she giggled, glancing over her shoulder at him.

He nodded, a beat late. “Only if you’re willing to lose.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Wow. Confidence and reverse psychology. You’ve clearly been studying the classics.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he said, then immediately regretted how that sounded.

Y/N grinned, setting her drink on the edge of the table. “Good. Because I plan on carrying this team, and I need you to look smart while I do it.”

Spencer exhaled a laugh. “I can do ‘look smart.’ That’s my default setting.”

“Perfect,” she said, and tossed him a ping pong ball.

He caught it with both hands, awkwardly. “Right. Okay. How hard can this be?”

“Okay, Doctor,” Y/N said, nudging Spencer toward the table with a grin. “Lesson one: aim like you mean it, but pretend you don’t care.”

Spencer stood beside her stiffly, clearly calculating something in his head—trajectory, angle, wrist rotation. His brows furrowed as he watched the other team set up the triangle of cups. The table was slightly uneven, leaning just enough to skew his probability models.

“This feels like a trap,” he murmured.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “That’s because it is.”

Across the table, Prentiss and JJ lined up with devilish smiles. “No pressure, Reid,” Emily said. “Just know I’ve already decided to take this personally.”

“Ignore them,” Y/N said, laughing under her breath, stepping closer so her arm brushed his. “They thrive on intimidation”

He blinked. “Like sharks.”

“Exactly,” she whispered, eyes narrowing in fake conspiracy. “Sharks with eyeliner.”

He smiled again—small and warm—and turned back to the game at hand.

Y/N watched him, eyes flicking between the ball and his profile.

There was something incredibly endearing about the way he concentrated—the tip of his tongue just barely touching his bottom lip, his brow furrowed like he was solving a math equation instead of figuring out how to play.

“Let’s see if you can outdrink me, genius,” Emily called out, tossing the ball from hand to hand.

“I’m not actually drinking,” Spencer replied, adjusting his stance like that would somehow help.

“Even better,” she said, already lining up her shot. “Means you’ll remember losing.”

The ball bounced once, then veered off the rim and rolled away into the grass.

Y/N raised her glass and called out, grinning, “That was bold, Prentiss.”

Emily gave her a look. “I’ve had three of these,” she said, gesturing to her drink. “Cut me some slack.”

Y/N sipped hers. “I’d cut you some if you hadn’t talked such a big game.”

Emily grinned. “I had plans, you know. You and me? Dream team. But someone got kidnapped by Garcia’s event-planning vortex.”

Y/N laughed. “I didn’t stand a chance. She handed me a box of votives and said, ‘make it whimsical.’”

Emily shrugged, unbothered. “Still feels like abandonment.”

“You’ve known me for five years,” Y/N said, amused. “If I had a choice, I’d be yelling over a plastic table with you right now.”

She raised her drink. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Y/N laughed and turned back to Spencer, nudging his arm. “See? Tensions are high. The bar is low. Just aim for the middle and don’t overthink it.”

Spencer glanced at her, clearly overthinking it anyway.

She leaned in, voice dropping just enough for only him to hear. “You got this. You’ve out-logic’ed serial killers. A ping pong ball doesn’t stand a chance.”

He nodded slowly, trying not to focus on the way her shoulder brushed his.

Spencer’s hand tightened around the ping pong ball, holding it between his fingers with a kind of reverence that made Y/N bite back a smile. “Okay. But just so we’re clear, the average success rate in beer pong for a non-athlete is—”

“Spencer.”

He turned toward her.

She stepped close.

Close.

“Relax,” she said, voice soft, teasing at the edges. She reached out and gently adjusted his elbow. “You’re not diffusing a bomb. You’re just trying to sink a ball into a cup. Less nuclear physics, more carnival game.”

His lips twitched, a breath of a smile starting to form, though the proximity of her was doing more to scramble his brain than any probability curve.

Her hand stayed on his elbow, light but anchoring. She smelled faintly of rose water and lemon—bright, clean, summer. And the way her hair brushed his arm when she leaned just a bit closer made it nearly impossible to think clearly.

“You’re in your head,” she murmured.

“That’s where I live,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

She laughed under her breath. “Not tonight.”

Her fingers brushed his—soft, slow, a spark caught in passing. He held perfectly still.

“Use your fingertips,” she whispered. “Aim for the center. Gentle arc. Like tossing a paper plane.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Paper plane.”

He pulled his arm back, exhaled, and released.

The ball bounced once on the rim—clink—and landed squarely in a center cup.

Cheers erupted from the bystanders. Someone whooped. Morgan yelled out something that sounded like, “That’s my boy!”

Y/N let out a delighted laugh, the sound bubbling up from her chest like it had been waiting for a moment just like this.

Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed Spencer’s arm—a quick, excited clutch of his bicep, her fingers curling instinctively as if her body had moved faster than her mind. “Yes!” she breathed, beaming up at him.

Spencer blinked, stunned by the sudden contact—and then his face broke into something rare and unguarded.

He laughed.

Not the quiet, polite kind of laugh he gave when he didn’t know what to say—but something real and bright, boyish and warm, catching even him by surprise. His eyes crinkled, his posture loosened, and his whole body felt lighter somehow.

“You made that look easy,” she said, still holding onto his arm for a second longer than necessary before letting go. Her fingers trailed off his sleeve like the last note of a song.

He smiled, wide and a little breathless. “That was mostly luck.”

“Mm.” She reached for the next ball, weighing it in her hand. “I don’t believe in luck. Just pattern recognition and good instincts.”

Spencer looked at her—not at the ball, or the cups, or the table—but her.

“I think yours are better than mine,” he said softly.

She smirked as she lined up her throw, not looking at him but clearly hearing every word. “Only in beer pong.”

She flicked her wrist. The ball sailed, bounced, rimmed—and dropped in.

Another low ripple of reaction from the small crowd behind them. Morgan and Garcia exchanged a glance from their seats on the grass, something amused and speculative in their expressions, slightly covered by her beaming into her glass. Rossi took a slow sip of wine. 

Y/N stepped back beside Spencer as they waited for their opponents’ turn. Her shoulder brushed his, just slightly, her body humming with easy energy.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“I told you,” she whispered back, eyes on the table. “You just needed the right partner.”

He didn’t say anything—but he didn’t look away either.

The next round began. They refocused, watching the ball bounce harmlessly off the rim on the other side. The energy picked up again, the table glowing under the canopy of string lights.

They played on—a quiet rhythm building between them, hands brushing now and then, quiet glances exchanged between shots, a slow, sweet unraveling of tension that felt unspoken but understood.

And no one said anything.

But a few eyes lingered.

The music had faded into something distant and dreamy, like a memory playing through a closed door. Crickets chirped in the hedges. The party, for the most part, had tucked itself in—warm laughter behind windows, faint clinking of glasses, someone calling goodnight from the front lawn.

Y/N sat on the low stone bench at the edge of the garden, half-tucked beneath the gentle sway of ivy and moonlight. Her boots were still on—worn brown leather, scuffed just enough to tell stories, heels resting lightly in the grass as she crossed one ankle over the other. The soft hush of the party drifted somewhere behind her—faint music, murmured voices, the occasional burst of laughter like it had forgotten to fade.

She cradled her glass of sangria between both hands, fingers loose around the stem, the melted ice glimmering faintly in the amber light spilling from the kitchen window. A single slice of lime floated lazily near the rim, catching the glow like stained glass. Her dress—still bright even in the blue hush of night—pooled in gentle folds against her thighs, the lace catching moonlight in its edges like frost on petals.

And her hair—loose, softly wavy, weightless in the way it moved—cascaded down her back like dusk. A few strands clung to her collarbone, caught on the rim of her glass, or lifted in the breeze like they were drawn toward something unseen.

The air was cooling now, sweet with honeysuckle and grass. The lights above flickered faintly in the stillness.

She looked like part of the night itself—quiet, waiting, unknowingly luminous.

And still—despite the quiet, despite the beauty of the evening settling around her like silk—there was a weight in her chest she couldn’t quite name.

Not sadness. Not loneliness.

Just something waiting.

She let her head tip back, eyes tracing the lattice of branches above her. Her hair, wilder now from the humidity, curled down her back in soft, careless waves. Her dress had wrinkled at the hem, lace crushed from the hours of movement.

She looked beautiful, and didn’t know it.

Which was the hardest part.

Spencer stood just a few feet away, watching her through the soft shadows.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Which wasn’t unusual, because what she also didn’t know—what she never seemed to know—was just how often he looked at her like this. Like she was the fixed point everything else revolved around. Like he didn’t know how to breathe unless he was quietly aware of her in the room.

And tonight, it was starting to hurt a little. Because she hadn’t looked at him once like she knew.

Y/N let out a sigh, took a slow sip of her drink, and whispered to no one in particular, “I should stop doing this.”

“Doing what?” came a voice—low, familiar.

She jumped slightly, her glass wobbling in her hand.

“Jesus,” she breathed out, laughing as she turned her head. “You always show up like a ghost in the dark.”

Spencer hovered just a step away, half-shadowed by the porchlight. “Sorry,” he said, quiet and earnest. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She waved a hand, cheeks flushing a little—not from the surprise, but from the warmth in his voice, the way it softened when it was just the two of them. “It’s fine. I was just... thinking out loud.”

His brows pulled together gently. “About?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers curling a little tighter around the stem of her glass. The lime floated lazily in the deep pink of her drink, spinning like it was stalling for her.

“Nothing important,” she said after a beat.

Spencer moved to sit beside her on the stone bench. Not quite close enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the quiet presence he carried like a wool coat in winter—heavy, steady, protective.

She didn’t look at him. Just stared ahead, into the hum of porchlight and fireflies.

“I think I’m an idiot,” she said suddenly.

He blinked, taken aback. “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

She let out a laugh—soft, short, not entirely happy. “That’s sweet. But also—possibly a sign that you’re terrible at reading subtext.”

“I’m actually pretty good at subtext,” he said, glancing over at her, his voice light but careful. “I’m just... less confident about translating it out loud.”

Y/N bit her lip, eyes still forward. Her glass tilted slightly in her hand.

“I just thought...” She paused, then looked down. “You didn’t say anything tonight.”

Spencer tilted his head, confused. “About what?”

She looked at her lap, at the pale lace bunched gently around her thighs, how the dress fluttered when the breeze passed through—like it was trying to float away from her, to disappear before she could take the words back. Her fingers twisted the stem of her glass in slow, anxious circles.

“About how I looked,” she murmured. “I just—I don’t know. Garcia said... Never mind.”

Spencer stared at her, stunned into silence.

She still wouldn’t look at him.

The blush had risen high on her cheeks now, blooming across her skin like the first touch of dawn, delicate and uncontainable. Her eyes stayed fixed on her glass, and even that seemed to tremble slightly in her grasp, looking like she wanted to gather her words back one by one and fold them away inside herself.

“I think that’s the sangria talking,” she said, softer now, trying for lightness, laughing a breathy laugh, but her voice caught just slightly—like a string pulled too tight.

“You thought I didn’t notice you?” he asked softly.

She shrugged, eyes fixed on the glass. “I mean… not like that.”

Because she truly didn’t know.

Didn’t know that from the moment she stepped into the yard—boots in the grass, lace fluttering like light through water—he hadn’t seen a single other thing. That every time she tucked her hair behind her ear or tilted her head to laugh with someone else, he felt like he was losing seconds of breath.

As if he hadn’t been drowning in her presence all evening, caught between awe and silence, reverence and restraint. As if his body didn’t go still whenever she leaned in. As if he hadn’t been biting his tongue every time she smiled in his direction, trying not to hand her every thought he’d ever had about her all at once.

His chest tightened.

He leaned forward just slightly, voice barely more than a breath, like anything louder might startle the moment away.

“Y/N.”

Something in his voice—low, rough, almost fractured—made her finally look up.

Her eyes met his.

And before she could say another word, he reached for her—all restraint finally snapping like a thread pulled too tight.

Spencer’s hands came up fast—urgent, almost shaking—and then stilled as they found her face, cupping her with a tenderness that almost didn’t match the storm in his chest. His fingers threaded gently into the waves of her hair, his thumbs brushing beneath her cheekbones like she was something precious he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch.

And then—he kissed her.

Hard. Messy. Absolutely wrecked with need.

It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t smooth.

It was desperate. Starved. Raw.

Like he’d spent the entire evening trying not to want this—trying not to imagine how her mouth would taste, how her body would move into his, how soft her breath might catch if he finally let himself have her.

And now that he had, there was no holding it back.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting a lifetime for her to feel it.

Y/N froze, startled—just for a heartbeat.

Then her hands curled into the front of his shirt—gripping, grounding—and she kissed him back, just as fiercely.

Her glass slipped from her hand, landing silently in the grass below, forgotten.

The world narrowed to the rush of heat between them—his mouth moving against hers like a man unraveling, her body drawn tight into his, lace brushing against cotton, breath shared in ragged pieces.

And still, his hands stayed gentle on her face. Still, his touch trembled with reverence even as his kiss turned rough—contradiction carved into motion. Want and worship. Need and fear.

Their foreheads remained pressed together as their lips pulled apart, their breath mingling in the hush between them—hers still catching, his uneven and warm against her lips, as if neither of them had quite remembered how to breathe without the other. Her eyes were half-lidded, lashes casting delicate shadows over flushed cheeks, and her lips—kiss-bitten and trembling—parted slightly, as if waiting for a question neither of them needed to ask.

Spencer was still holding her face—carefully, reverently—as though she were something too precious to risk letting go. His thumbs rested against the curve of her cheekbones, but his hands trembled slightly, as if overwhelmed by the nearness of her.

“I notice you,” he whispered, the words cracked open and bare. “Every single time.”

She let out a soft, shivering breath. A smile pulled at her mouth—not teasing, not light, but full of something ancient and full of ache.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured, voice catching like silk on thorns.

He smiled—barely, just a flicker of something broken and full—and then leaned in again.

This time, the kiss was slower.

But no less ruined with longing.

Their mouths met like a promise—tentative at first, almost unsure of how gentle to be, as if the world might tilt off its axis if they moved too quickly. But then she breathed his name into the space between their lips, and he lost whatever restraint he had left.

His hand slid from her cheek—slowly, reverently—trailing along the curve of her jaw before finding the delicate slope of her throat. He rested his palm there, his fingers curling around the side of her neck, grounding her, worshipping her. And she arched into him like she’d been waiting for that single point of contact all her life.

She whimpered against his mouth—soft, desperate, involuntary—and he responded with a sound low in his chest, a near-growl swallowed between kisses.

Her hands, trembling, found the line of his jaw—fingertips brushing over stubble, then curling at the hinge of it, like she needed to hold onto him or fall apart entirely. She kissed him deeper now, unafraid, her body pressed to his like something unfolding all at once.

Their teeth clashed—just barely, enough to draw a gasp, a stumble, a half-smile against lips that didn’t want to stop. His breath hitched, and she felt it in the cradle of his mouth, the way he held her tighter like he’d burn up if she ever stepped back.

And yet—even in all the desperation, his hands were still gentle. Still full of wonder. Like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like he didn’t know how to hold something he'd only ever dreamed of.

When they finally broke apart, their noses brushed, breathless and stunned.

The garden stayed quiet around them—the stars above them blinking like candlelight, the world soft and golden and impossibly still.

Like it had stopped to watch them fall in love.

They didn’t move—not right away.

Spencer’s hands were still cupped around her face like a man holding something holy. Like if he let go, she might vanish, and he’d wake up alone with only the ghost of her kiss left on his mouth.

Y/N’s hands stayed curled into the soft fabric of his shirt—not gripping anymore, just resting there, quiet and intimate, as if her body hadn’t yet told her it could step back. The air between them shimmered with all the things they weren’t saying, but didn’t need to.

Their foreheads touched again—softly, gently, like the afterthought of a prayer.

The garden exhaled around them. Fireflies pulsed along the hedges. The world had gone quiet, as if some spell had been cast over the lawn and they were the only ones left inside of it.

Y/N’s breath tickled against his lips as she spoke, eyes still closed.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Spencer let out a laugh, low and breathless, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. “I didn’t think I would either.”

She opened her eyes then—and the look she gave him was soft, steady, devastating. A little dazed. A little in love. Like he was something rare she wasn’t sure she was allowed to keep.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Eventually, she glanced down and spotted her glass tipped over in the grass. She let go of him reluctantly, bending down to retrieve it. “Tragic,” she murmured, holding it up and inspecting the lone slice of lime that had escaped and now lay abandoned among the blades.

Spencer smiled faintly, still stunned. “We’ll mourn appropriately.”

She gave him a quiet laugh, then stood and brushed her dress down with both hands. Stray leaves clung to the lace. His fingers itched to brush them off for her.

They moved together, slowly—like gravity had shifted just enough to keep them tethered. As they turned back toward the house, her hand drifted near his.

He didn’t think. He just found her fingers. Brushed knuckles. A soft, silent anchor.

She didn’t pull away.

The porch came into view again through the hedges—still glowing with soft golden light, like something out of a story told just before sleep. Inside, Garcia twirled in the kitchen with JJ, both of them laughing over something they clearly found hysterical. Prentiss sat cross-legged on the counter, miming what looked like a very dramatic retelling of a car chase, hands flying with flair. Rossi moved calmly through it all, espresso in hand like it was two in the afternoon instead of close to midnight. Morgan leaned against the fridge, grinning as he sipped a beer, occasionally tossing in commentary that made the whole kitchen erupt louder. He looked utterly at ease, like the night had been built just for this—friends, laughter, warmth humming in the floorboards.

It was the same as it had always been. Familiar. Comfortable.

And yet—

Spencer glanced sideways at Y/N, walking beside him. Her hair swayed lightly down her back, catching little flecks of gold from the porch lights. Her eyes were bright even in the dark.

Everything felt different now.

Not louder. Not bigger. Just undeniable.

At the base of the steps, she slowed. Her hand—still faintly linked to his—tugged ever so slightly. Not pulling him back, just holding him there for a second longer.

He looked at her, chest tight.

She leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his cheek, just beneath the line of his jaw—a kiss barely there, but somehow more grounding than the one before it. Her voice was quiet, just for him.

“Don’t go disappearing on me tomorrow.”

His chest rose with the breath he took before answering. “I won’t.”

And when she smiled—soft, real, a little tired from the day and full from the moment—she pulled the screen door open and stepped inside.

Spencer followed.

Their hands brushed again.

And this time, they didn’t let go.

[harksness]

She’s giving rich milf in this episode 😌

Like rich milf who’s kids you babysit and oh no her husband is not here and she needs to destress

BRO I WAS THINKING SOMETHING SO SIMILAR?? I GOTTA POP OFF ABT THIS ONE AND GET IT OUTTA MY SYSTEM

I was imagining a kinda Stacy's Mom situation pls help me im in shambles thinking about it 😭😭😭😭 just all the hot situations with milf agatha ugh 😭😭😭

ok some nsfw under the cut

like... she's your best friends mom... and you make any excuse you can to be around her. oh no you need someone to mow the lawn?? yes ma'am anything for you. oh you need help cleaning the pool?? absolutely youll be there. you come over to hang out with her kid??? she's a little too flirty when youre alone. one day you come over when your friend isnt home and you know it, just to see what happens. she insists on inviting you inside. she gets you a snack, sits a little too close to you and starts playing with you hair before commenting on how pretty you are.... maybe things escalate and she fucks you on the counter. maybe you start coming over to stay the night with your friend more and more only to sneak off into her moms room at night. maybe she needs to keep her hand clamped over your mouth to keep you quiet while she fucks you, breathing hotly against your neck.

or babysitting for her akjjdjf you stay up with her when she gets home after the kids have gone to bed and let her vent to you. quickly shes sharing a little too much about how her husband doesnt satisfy her, esp with his long weekends away for work... and when she leans over and rests a hand on your thigh you lose your mind a little bit. you dont think it can be real when she confesses that shes had her eye on you for awhile. idk maybe all of her frustrations cause her to snap a lil bit and she starts greedily making out with you on the couch you fell asleep on waiting for her to get home. maybe she gets on her knees and begs to eat you out. shes so desperate for a taste, its all shes been able to think about since meeting you. shes so pent up and desperate, she needs to relieve some of her stress and youre just too tempting. youre so so so happy to help her. maybe it starts to become tradition for you to wait up for her, for the two of you to fuck on the couch when she gets home from work after a long day. imagine making out with her and snaking your hand up her pencil skirt... shes grabbing at you, legs spread wide as she moans and praises you and calls you her good girl.

idk maybe she starts giving you little gifts. an expensive necklace she thought would look pretty on you... a nice lingerie set she tells you to wear for her. a new laptop for college.

idk maybe she sorta becomes your sugar mommy

uggghhh pls im not gonna be able to stop thinking about this milf agatha is the source of all my horny thoughts

[softpascalito]

I Baby, I'm Your National Anthem I 2003!DBF!Joel Miller I

Summary: You are back from college for the summer and your family happens to throw the annual Fourth of July Barbecue for your street. Your next-door neighbor and dad's best friend Joel Miller is invited—and you decide to wear a bold outfit. It definitely catches his attention.

Pairing: 2003!DBF!Joel Miller x F!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 3.3k Tags: Explicit, Smut, Age Difference, Pre-Cordyceps Outbreak, Fourth of July, DBF!Joel, Fingering, P in V Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Pool Sex, Unsafe Sex, Dirty Talk, Biting, Teasing, Making Out, Outdoor Sex, Alcohol (like two beers)

AO3 LINK // Masterlist

notes: i saw one (1) tiktok with this fucking glorious fourth of july outfit and somehow this happened. consider this fanfic to be my application to be invited to your 4th of july party next year (yes, you specifically). enjoy the filth <3 (also highly recommend listening to national anthem by lana while reading!)

The sound of the sprinklers rotating on the lawn in front of your window and the slamming of a truck door alerted you that your father was back with the last minute groceries. You quickly got up, heading out to the driveway to help carry the brown bags.

“Take those first, it’s ice cream for the kids. Don’t want it melting,” he advised as he busied himself with grabbing the cooler off the truck bed, disappearing towards the garden, the fence running along it already decorated with red, white and blue, matching the tablecloths and flags hung from the large tree in your backyard to the porch.

You had just got back from college for the summer and had been more than ready to enjoy your time off as you usually did, by lounging in the sun behind your house or going for a swim in the neighbor’s pool. The honeymoon phase of holidays, before they turned into the unavoidable boredom that followed once all reunions had been completed and, at the same time, reminded you precisely why you’d gotten out of the small neighborhood in Austin at your first chance.

The bag you’d brought home was still on the floor in your room, barely half unpacked. Sitting on top of it was the outfit you had picked out weeks ago—at the precise moment your father had called to let you know it was your family's turn to host your street's traditional barbecue on the Fourth of July.

A blue and white checkered bikini, the bottoms made of much less fabric than you’d ever seen sold in Austin. A pair of shorts that seemed barely bigger, cut low enough to give a peak of the set below—and a crop top, the words ‘Miss America’ splayed across your chest in curved, red letters, complete with two red bows attached to the straps. You were certain that, if your father still had a say in your clothing choices, this would not go—and that was precisely why it was perfect. If your father hated it, so would his best friend.

Joel Miller had been little more than your kind next-door neighbor for years—until you’d come back from college for your first break. Suddenly, you questioned how for years you’d been able to miss the way his shirt strained over his broad shoulders or the small grunts that left him when he was tinkering with his truck in the driveway.

You ignored your father’s muttered comments about your outfit as you returned to the kitchen a few minutes later and busied yourself with the last few preparations.

“It’s what all the girls at college wear.” He shook his head but stayed quiet.

Joel and Sarah arrived a little later than the other guests, greeting your father as they stepped into the backyard and you caught something about a mess-up at the construction site as the two men embraced. You turned your attention towards Sarah, who excitedly asked your opinion about her new sneakers and didn’t run off to join the other kids playing football at the far end of the backyard until you reassured her that they were indeed very cool, throwing in a comment about how you’d seen someone at University wear them—making her positively beam.

You turned towards the house just in time to see Joel’s eyes land on you. Oh boy.

His gaze trailed down your body, tracing your curves, no doubt taking in the shape of your body. It took him a few moments to snap out of it, shifting as his gaze returned to your face before he hesitantly crossed the space between you. The polite, strained expression on his face told you exactly how hard he was trying to keep his eyes from wandering.

“Back from college then?” he asked, clearly keeping the conversation light. Though you did like to think, unlike many others, that he actually wanted to know. That he cared.

“For the summer,” you responded, smiling up at him innocently, still aware of his eyes on you.

“How d’you like it?” Joel placed a hand on his hip, looking at you expectantly.

“It's good. A little exhausting sometimes. Lots of studying.” You grinned as you saw him raise a brow.

“Studying, eh?” There was something twinkling in his eyes, a certain sense of mischief you hadn't seen in him before. “That what all the kids do up there these days?”

“That and a few parties,” you admitted with a small smirk. “You know, finding the balance of life. But college boys are—”

Both your heads flew around as you heard your dad call your name and for a second, your heart felt like it stopped. You'd wanted to tease Joel by talking about college boys, not reveal your love life to your father. But clearly, he hadn't heard. “Get Joel a beer, will you?”

Joel opened his mouth—but then he shook his head. His voice sounded strained as he spoke. “Beer sounds good.”

You led him towards the cooler, reaching down to grab two bottles, handing one to him. A bemused smile played around his lips as he nodded towards the bottle still clutched in your hand. “Your old man letting you sneak beers?”

“He doesn't have to,” you said with a satisfied smirk, grabbing the bottle opener and handing it to him. “Turned twenty-one this spring.”

You could see Joel's hand shaking slightly as he opened his beer before motioning for you to give him yours and doing the same for you. “Quite the gentleman,” you mumbled, taking in the way his green flannel sat a bit too tight around his broad chest.

“You don't know half of it.”

During the afternoon, the light blue sky seemed to be celebrating the holiday as much as the people below it. The barbecue was fired up by your father, the other fathers gathering around as he explained the new, improved features, making you roll your eyes. You drifted back and forth between the adults and the children, joining the latter for a few rounds of football until the sun began to set.

Joel kept his distance and, with a slightly heavy heart, you followed his lead. He was rather quiet but still, you could see his eyes flying towards you occasionally. You began to wonder if you had miscalculated.

When the salad bowl ran low for the second time, you volunteered yourself to head inside to refill it. You had barely placed it on the kitchen counter when you felt him standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the dark wood. His eyes trailed down your form more slowly than before, leaving no doubt in your mind that the outfit had fulfilled its purpose of getting his attention.

“Quite a party.” His gaze was still not meeting yours, lingering on your chest.

“Wait until they bring out the fireworks. My dad bought enough to light up the whole street.” Your voice shook slightly as you spoke.

Joel shook his head, a tiny smile forming on his face as he stepped forward. “Ain’t what I meant.” His hand brushed over your thigh and you sent an anxious glimpse out the window, making sure that you weren't in anyone's line of sight.

“It's a pretty bikini,” Joel mumbled, lowering his voice. His thumb was brushing over the checkered fabric where it peeked out from under your shorts. “Shame you aren't taking a swim in it.”

An involuntary breath left your throat as you felt his free hand coming up to your face, nudging your chin up slightly. You couldn't remember ever being so close to him, your brain going into overdrive as it tried to figure out which part of his face to commit to memory first. Desire burned in your core brighter than ever and between that and the beer possibly clouding your judgment, you bit your lip, sending the man in front of you a shy smile and yet abandoning all care. You'd be back to college in a few weeks. If this went wrong, you'd never have to speak to him again.

“Is that an offer?”

“Damn sure is, darling,” Joel mused, his hand squeezing your hip and you let out a small breath of relief.

You thanked all your lucky stars for the architect who had built your house some 50 years ago—and had clearly taken into account that you would one day need to sneak out the back door with your dads best friend—preferably without being seen. It faced towards the high fence that separated your yard from the Miller’s, making it feel almost too easy for the two of you to sneak off.

You hadn’t even reached the pool when you dropped your shirt and pants to the floor, making Joel whistle lowly behind you. “I was right. It is a fucking pretty bikini.” You felt your cheeks flush at the compliment, his eyes still raking over your body as his clothes joined yours on the floor, leaving him in only his boxers.

You’d seen him shirtless a few times. When you'd brought over something you had borrowed and he was in the pool or the one time you'd been over to help Sarah with some homework and he'd just gotten out of the shower, a beige towel wrapped around his waist. You’d felt like some fucking creep when you had recalled the sight of his naked chest, and the trail of hair leading further down, at night and slipped a hand between your own thighs, thinking that you stood no chance with the man who was frequently whispered about by the single ladies of the neighbourhood, despite rarely showing interest in them.

You lowered yourself into the water and felt it ripple around you as Joel followed. The next moment, he was beside you, pushing you towards the other edge of the pool, strong arms caging you in on either side. You could still hear the party going on behind the fence, voices and music, the smell of barbecue drifting through the air. And a few lights—tiny holes in the fence allowing them to travel through, the warm glow reflecting on the surface of the pool.

Joel growled as he nipped at your skin, hard enough that you already knew it'd leave marks. Good.

“Can't let you go back to college without something to remind you of me,” he muttered and you sucked in a breath in response, the words going straight to your core. His teeth scraped over the notch between your collarbones and you felt a moan begin to travel up your throat. Before it could escape however, Joel's hand clasped firmly over your mouth, forcing you to breathe through your nose as your eyes widened slightly.

“Don't want your dad hearing us, do you?” Joel muttered and indeed you could hear the voice of your father booming through the night air as he delivered some punchline to a no doubt stupid joke. You shook your head softly and that seemed to satisfy Joel because the next moment, his hand left your mouth and began to slide down your body, trailing over it the same way his eyes had earlier tonight. Your breath hitched in your throat as you felt his index finger circle drawing shapes on your hip before slipping under your bikini, brushing past your clit and settling between your folds.

“Hard to tell in here but feels like you’re wet for me,” Joel muttered with a grin and you bit your lip, voice hoarse as you tried to keep quiet.

“Took you long enough to notice,” you teased—and the reaction was immediate. He pushed you further against the side of the pool, trapping you with his broad body.

“Watch it.” His index finger moved upwards—and the next moment, your walls were clenching around it, already begging for more. You felt a second finger drawing large circles around your clit again—when a noise on the other side of the fence made both of you pause, heads swiveling around just in time to see a football land on the lawn.

He cursed under his breath, pushing himself off you and dragging you to the end of the pool least visibly from the house. The deck was raised high enough above the water that if you squeezed yourself against the wall, you just may not be seen—especially in the dark. Once he had pushed you into the corner, he was about to follow when your eyes widened. “Joel, the clothes,” you whispered in a panicked voice.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath and crossed the pool in a few strokes, climbing back onto the porch. You watched, holding your breath, as he looked around, finally locating two towels and throwing one over the mixed pile of clothes and wrapping the other around his waist. No second too late, because the next moment one of the men who had marveled at your dads new barbecue earlier strode over the lawn. “Miller, hey! What’re you doing out here?”

Even in the water, you felt your knees go weak. Joel was dripping wet, his cheeks flushed—your only hope was that the other man was either too drunk or too stupid to realize what was happening.

“Heard something thud against the wall.” You heard Joel respond. “Was just taking a shower, Tony spilled his beer all over my shirt earlier.”

The other man let out a small laugh. “Yeah, he’s wasted.” You couldn't see him from where you were standing but you heard him pick up the ball as an idea popped into your head. You shifted slightly, knowing your movement would be visible to Joel, who was still in your sight—and after a moment, you held up your bikini bottoms, smiling innocently. Joel's eyes flickered towards you for a split second—and even in the dark you could see his body tense, adjusting the towel around his waist as the veins on his neck bulged with restraint.

Footsteps told you the other man was leaving, until they paused again. His voice rang through the yard once more. To your horror, it was your name that filled the air. “Do you know where she went? Her father was looking for her I think.”

Joel's face twitched before he forced himself to smile. “No clue. Maybe calling a secret college boyfriend.”

He waited until the man's laughter had drifted away and joined with the noises of the party again before he dropped the towel, his cock straining at the fabric of his boxers.

As soon as he was back in the pool, he was upon you, cowering over you with a hard expression on his face, snatching the small piece of fabric from your hand. “Think it’s fucking funny?” He muttered, his eyes flying over your face. 

The alcohol was definitely having an effect on you because you grinned, nodding weakly. “A little bit.”

Joel actually fucking growled at that.

He made short work of your bikini top, yanking it off to gather your breasts in his large hands, squeezing slightly. “That fucking mouth of yours, darling.”

“Should shut me up,” you muttered back and his eyes briefly searched yours before his mouth was on yours. Neither of you were gentle, much too impatient for soft kisses. His tongue slipped into your mouth, his teeth grazed over your lip and you could feel the vibrations of his groans traveling right from his throat into yours.

When he broke the kiss, you whined in protest, wrapping your own arms around him to pull him closer, making him groan as his still covered cock brushed against your stomach. “Goddamn, baby, you gonna let me fuck you?”

Joel didn't even flinch when you softly bit down on his earlobe. “Like you have to ask, Miller.”

His last name seemed to do as much to him as it did to you because his hands briefly left your sides to yank his boxers down, throwing them carelessly onto the lawn behind you. “Get your ass up here,” he commanded as he hoisted you up and you automatically wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling his cock nudge at your entrance.

Joel swallowed and you could see him struggling to restrain himself. “Do you want me to go and get-”

“Got it covered,” you said impatiently before he could even finish the sentence.

“You sure?” He asked again and you nodded impatiently. And then he was finally pushing his hips upwards, his cockhead parting your lips, requesting entrance. You let your body fall into his rhythm, sinking down on him, forcing a whimper from your throat.

You barely heard the shuffling behind the fence and the voices getting more muted as the party seemed to be moved towards the street, further away from you.

“It ain’t your first time, is it, sweetheart?” Joel suddenly piped up, watching your expression carefully and you could distinctly hear the note of concern in his voice. But you shook your head.

“Told you,” you breathed out. “College boys.”

“This gonna be better than any damn college boy,” Joel mumbled, a grunt leaving his throat as he began to thrust up into you properly, driving any worry out of your mind.

“You knew what you were doing to me tonight?” He muttered, causing you to shake your head despite the fact that you knew exactly, even planned, to do it to him. You wanted to give a snarky response, something smart, but you could barely think straight with his cock nestled so deep inside of you.

“Made me hard all throughout dinner, thinking about all the things i could do with you,” Joel answered his own question before changing his angle slightly, his arms wrapped tightly around you. “Fuck, doing so good for me, darling.”

“Joel—” you choked out, feeling the orgasm that had been lingering for what felt like forever now approaching rapidly. “Want you to come inside, please—”

His eyes darkened as he nodded. And then, suddenly a sparkling light reflected in his eyes—followed by a loud bang far above you. The fireworks had started.

It only took a few more thrusts and Joel's finger returning to your clit to send you rushing towards your orgasm, your fingernails scratching over his back so hard that you were certain you were not going to be the only one with something to remember tomorrow.

“Come on,” Joel edged you on. “Show me how pretty you look coming on my cock, baby.”

And you did, groaning as your body tensed, the feeling inside your stomach so similar to the exploding fireworks above, with Joel following suit, obeying your wish and spilling himself deep inside of you as you clung on to him, so content to finally, finally carry him so deep inside, the thought traveling right to your core again as he gathered you in his arms, both of you tilting your heads back enough to watch the sky above sparkle in different colors.

“Happy fourth, Joel.”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Happy fucking fourth, darling.”

He gathered the clothes in his arms, whispering promises and praise as he led you up the stairs to his bathroom, having insisted to at least get you clean before letting you sneak back home. His hands brushed over your naked skin, causing you to raise a brow. “I thought we were gonna take a shower?” “Oh, I'm not nearly done with you,” Joel muttered in your ear, causing you to smirk. You reached for your clothes but Joel only gave a small tut. “You’ll get them back. Just not—” He raised the checkered bikini bottom. “This. I’m keeping that.”

thank you for reading! every time you leave a comment, a firework explodes over joel miller fucking in a pool btw :)

[hamaylfabrics]

https://www.hamayldesignerhub.com

[whereserpentswalk]

You've been on a generational ship your entire life. There's about a million people on the ship, the population doesn't grow or shrink at all. Your entire life is and will be defined by a limited amount of room, a small space, barely large enough for everyone there to fit, that has become your entire world.

The humans that exist on generational ships are very alien to the humans that exist on planets. Your job is to maintain the ship and carry the culture of humanity but you don't need a human lifestyle to do it. Because reproduction needs to be done through artificial wombs all humans are neutered, with sterile sexless bodies. Everyone's job is determined by ship authority, and very dark things happen to those not able to perform some sort of duty. People spend the first fifteen years of their lives in virtual reality, learning about humanity in a simulation until they're ready to live as adults. Everything is so alien from the earth that you read about in books.

It wouldn't be so hard if society wasn't meant to resemble earth, meant to resemble the most conservative and traditional of earth. The American flags hanging up on the walls, despite everyone alive on board having never known America. The way the pods you live in have astroterf lawns, and fake blue skies painted above them, and the facades of American suburban homes. The way resources a distributed from things meant to look like family run stores, despite the monolithic power behind the economy. Even as monolithic as station authority is it still must dress as democracy, and must preach capitalism in a world with no markets, and patriotism in a world with no nations.

Despite your sexless body you're not free of performing gender. You wear dresses over your breastless neutered body, are expected to act feminine, to carry gender rolls into the planet you're going to. Your husband is expected to do the same for maleness. You love him but your situation feels like a performance with no audience. Despite having neither the instinctual desire nor the physical apparatus to you try to be physically intimate with him, it's what everyone does with their spouse, it would be weird not to.

Space isn't as empty as earth thought it would be. There are things that lurk in the void between stars. Nobody fully knows what they are, where they come from, even if they all come from the same place. Sometimes they put the ship in danger, sometimes the authorities make deals with them. But nobody is allowed to know. You're just all told to be afraid of them but not understand why you have to be afraid. The nightmares between stars aren't delt with with knowledge but with ignorance, they do seem creepy from the little you've seen of them but everyone kind of knows their power is being used for something by the station. Patriotism is always helped by having monsters beyond your borders.

Your entire you've dreamed of blue skies and stars and fields and forests and oceans and all those pretty things you've never seen, that you never will see. People always dream of being so high ranking they'll have access to suspended animation and life extension technology, but so few ever reach that rank. You've read all the classics they allow, read Dante, and Milton, and Homer, tried to let poetry bring you to earth but that planet is alien to you now. Sometimes you wonder what it would be like if you weren't raised in a world that copied earth, if you were accepted as a member of a race that lives on a ship, that exists so liminally. Would there still be such a longing. Mabye you shouldn't have been expected to meet a standard from another world. Mabye you weren't born to long for anything. Does it scare you to think you wouldn't want earth if they didn't tell you to?

[gilbertscurls]

The car heater hummed softly, filling the cabin with a cozy warmth as you leaned back in your seat. Outside, the world glowed in bursts of red, green, and gold, every house you passed more elaborately decorated than the last. Matt had insisted on this scenic drive, claiming he knew all the “hidden gems” of the neighborhood Christmas lights circuit.

“Alright, buckle up,” he said with a grin as he turned onto a particularly festive-looking street. “You’re about to witness some Grade-A holiday cheer—or some Grade-A chaos. Jury’s still out.”

You laughed, peering out the window as the first house came into view. The lawn was covered in inflatable decorations: snowmen, penguins, Santa in a hot air balloon, and even a T-Rex wearing a Santa hat.

“Ah, yes,” Matt said, pulling over to admire the scene. “Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ like a prehistoric predator.”

You snorted. “It’s kind of amazing, though. Look at the detail on that T-Rex!”

He nodded sagely. “I bet the neighbors love it. Can you imagine waking up every morning to a dinosaur staring into your kitchen window?”

The two of you dissolved into laughter before he shifted the car into gear and continued down the street. At each stop, his commentary became more ridiculous.

One house had synchronized lights blinking to holiday music blasting from hidden speakers. “You think they’ve got a DJ in there?” Matt asked, squinting at the house. “Or maybe Santa moonlights as a music producer.”

Another featured a life-sized nativity scene, complete with what appeared to be a homemade camel. “That camel,” he said, leaning closer to the windshield, “looks like it’s seen some things. Like, seriously questioning its life choices.”

By the time you reached a house with an entire roof covered in glowing reindeer, you were wiping tears of laughter from your eyes. “Matt, stop,” you gasped, barely able to catch your breath. “My stomach hurts!”

He grinned, clearly proud of himself. “I’m just saying, someone had to climb up there with eight glowing deer. That’s dedication—and maybe a little insanity.”

As the evening wore on, the houses became more extravagant, and so did Matt’s quips. But there was a moment of quiet awe when you pulled up to a house draped in cascading lights, shimmering like a waterfall. The trees were wrapped in strands of white, and a glowing archway led up to the front door.

“Wow,” you said softly, taking in the sight.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, his voice quieter now. “This one’s pretty amazing.”

The two of you sat there for a while, the silence broken only by the occasional car passing by. You glanced over at him, catching the way the lights reflected in his eyes, softening his usually playful expression.

“Thanks for this,” you said, nudging his arm gently. “I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”

He turned to you, his grin returning. “What, a night of laughing at other people’s decorations? It’s a holiday tradition.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t waver. “No, just… this. Spending time with you. It’s been perfect.”

He reached over, taking your hand and giving it a light squeeze. “Anytime. You’re the best co-pilot for this kind of thing.”

As he started the car again, the next display came into view, and he immediately launched into another round of commentary, pulling you right back into fits of laughter. And as the night stretched on, filled with twinkling lights and endless jokes, you couldn’t help but think that this, right here, was what made the holidays truly special.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @straw8berry

[inbloomwriting]

the ledges of our lives II Tommy Miller

Plot: Tommy has been in love with (Y/N) since the first moment he laid eyes on her. One fateful 4th of July he finally tells her how he feels and nothing can keep them apart ... except maybe the apocalypse.

Pairing: Tommy Miller x female reader

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of food and alcohol, semi-sad ending

Notes: Friends lovers. Not necessarily a happy ending but not super sad either. 8.9k words.

Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated. I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please

The Millers don’t shoot fireworks on the 4th of July, they never have, at least not that Sarah can remember. No one has ever really said why, it was just an unspoken thing they all adhered to. Like a special non-tradition in their family. Sarah thinks it might have something to do with the sticker on her dad’s car, she doesn’t mention it though. 

The Millers aren’t big on parties either, it’s mostly just Sarah and her dad and uncle Tommy — and (Y/N). Just to four of them in their perfect little harmony. (Y/N)’s been there from the start, a friend of Uncle Tommy’s who entered their lives and found a permanent place in all their hearts. She’s part of the family as much as the rest of them. Where Tommy is (Y/N) is and the other way around. Sometimes Sarah wonders why the two of them aren’t dating, it would make so much sense, they’re married as it is. But then again, she’s 14 years old. What does she know about messy grown-up romance?

A heavy heat rests upon Austin on the 4th of July of 2003. The kind that makes your hair go frizzy and your clothes stick to your skin. Joel’s turned on the sprinklers a while ago, after some soft nagging from Sarah. He’s been grumbling about how it’ll ruin the lawn to have them on while the sun burns down on the grass. He’s ended up chasing his daughter through the spray of water anyway, earning a round of laughter from the girl.

The radio is playing quietly in the background, mostly drowned out by the sizzling of the steaks on the grill. They were supposed to grill hot dogs but the shop was all out of buns. So steaks and veggie skewers it is. 

“Harrold is crazy if he thinks we're gonna pay that much for some copper pipes. Lost his damn mind. Hey - are you even listening to me?"

Tommy's eyes snap up to meet his brother's amused smirk. 

“What? What’s the shit-eating grin for?” 

“Don’t worry about it. Just nice to know where your attention is at.” 

Joel nods his head towards the other end of the backyard where the picnic table sits that he and Tommy built when Sarah was just a little kid. There are handprints on the wood, his in blue, Tommy’s in green, (Y/N)’s in Orange, and Sarah’s tiny handprint in purple. Another summer years ago that seems so far away and yet it feels like nothing has changed. 

"That sundress is really doing a number on you, huh?"

Tommy's gaze flits towards the girls as they are sitting at the picnic table, playing cards in hand and bright smiles on their faces.

(Y/N) is wearing a yellow sundress, so bright and vibrant it rivals the sun itself. She looks damn good in it. Like a vision plugged straight from a dream Tommy's had once or twice (or many nights but who's counting).

"No idea what you're talking about, old man."

Joel lets out that familiar scoff, the one Tommy knows so well after all these years. He’s had the same scoff even as a child. The kind that lets you know he doesn’t believe a single word you’re saying without him having to tell you outright. It’s infuriating when it’s directed at you and hilarious when directed at someone else. 

“I don’t know what you’re on about.” 

“Sure you don’t, knucklehead. Look, I’m just wondering if you’re ever going to do something about — this,” Joel exclaims and motions his beer bottle between his younger brother and the goddess in the sundress sitting just a few steps away.

It’s not the first time they’re having this conversation. In fact, Tommy's had this conversation countless times before with pretty much all of his friends, his parents, even Sarah has mentioned it before. And quite a few times with Joel too. 

Maybe the question wouldn’t bother him so much if it didn’t force him to think about the what-ifs himself. Like what-if he actually mustered up the courage to make a move, and what-if she said yes? But then what-if she said no and everything they have now would be utterly destroyed never to be repaired? 

He doesn’t think of himself as a coward, in fact, he knows he’s given his mother more than one heart attack in his lifetime by being just a little bit too reckless. But there is something absolutely terrifying to him when it comes to making a move with (Y/N). She’s been part of his life since he was just a 10-year-old lanky kid with a big mouth and an even bigger ego. She liked him then and she likes him now and is it really worth risking all the love she gives him now for a what-if?

“Since when have you become a love expert, huh?” 

“I haven’t, “ Joel replies and takes a sip of beer “ I just know when things work and you guys, you seem to work.” 

He’s right but Tommy is never going to admit that. Joel would never let him hear the end of it and there’s hardly anything more annoying than proving Joel right. 

“And I get it, she’s beautiful and smart and — “

“Okay, cool it. You wanna make a move on her?” 

Joel gives him that snarl that reminds him so much of his dad and the way he used to look at Tommy and Joel when they were kids and he disapproved of something stupid they did.

“Don’t even go there, kid.” 

Kid. He hates when Joel pulls the older brother card. Then again, he could’ve done so much worse when it comes to family, when it comes to brothers. With all his faults and quirks, Joel is a good guy. He’s loyal and protective and he puts family above anything and everything else. Just don’t tell him that, he’ll deny being a good guy. He’s humble like that.

“Just don’t want you to regret not doing anything about it when it’s too late.”

Before his mind can wander off too far, further down the road paved with what-ifs and sickeningly sweet visions of a future unknown, (Y/N)’s voice cuts through his brain fog.

“Oh, I love that song! Turn up the radio, boys!”

The opening chords of “Here comes your man” by the Pixies fill the air, louder when Tommy turns the little dial up a notch or two.

She’s on her feet, barefoot dancing on the grass, illuminated by the hot July sun, pulling Sarah up to dance with her. 

The younger girl starts moving begrudgingly but even she isn’t immune to the contagious enthusiasm that (Y/N) radiates and two seconds later she’s dancing along as if she was never hesitant in the first place. 

There’s just something about (Y/N). 

“Her taste in music, however — “ Joel teases before turning over the steaks as they sizzle on the grill. 

Tommy doesn’t mind the teasing. Not right now. He hardly processes it. Not when in front of him, he gets to watch his whole world twirl in the sun and laugh as if life has never been sweeter. 

"Here comes your maaaan!" 

She can't hit a note if her life depends on it and it doesn't matter to Tommy at all. Not in the slightest. He loves hearing her sing. He loves when she unapologetically lets herself enjoy the little things in life. Like a good-bad song.

"… and here comes the food!" 

Joel isn't quite as enamored with her bad singing as his younger brother is but even he can't stop the corner of his lips from pulling up. There's just something about her that hits each member of the Miller family straight to the heart. 

By the time the steaks and veggies are gone, the sun is about to dip behind the horizon.

Dusk paints the sky in pinks and purples and fireflies start blinking all over the yard like tiny stars.

The air has cooled down with the sun saying its farewell for the day and if things were different they’d stay out here a little longer. Not today though. 

Where other people gather their friends and family to watch the sky be illuminated by a kaleidoscope of colors, the Millers call it an early night and make their way inside before the first firework is lit. 

The Miller’s Fourth of July ends on the couch with a movie playing on the TV and when the outside world gets loud, they just turn up the volume a little more.

“Swing away Merrill. …” 

“Fucking water?! They want me to believe the solution to an alien invasion is fucking water?! ON EARTH?!” 

Joaquin Phoenix flickers across the screen, fighting an Alien with the help of a baseball bat and a bunch of abandoned glasses of water but Tommy can’t seem to keep his eyes off of (Y/N). Her hair messed up from dancing around the yard all day, from sweating and running through the sprinkler. Her lips wiped clear of the red lipstick she'd put on earlier. The slight shiny residue of sunscreen on her skin. 

And that look of absolute disbelief and outrage on her face.

“You’re telling me out of all the planets in the solar system, they chose to come to Earth? A planet that is 71% water? When that is their biggest weakness? Sounds highly implausible to me, honestly.” 

She scrunches her nose in irritation and for a split second, Tommy sees the little girl again that he first befriended all those years ago.

“Darling, it’s a movie about Aliens. It doesn’t have to be plausible. It just has to be entertaining.” 

Letting out a huff, she sinks further into the couch. “Well, it can’t have been too entertaining either.” 

Motioning her head towards the other couch, Tommy lets his eyes follow only to be met with a much familiar sight.

Sarah is fast asleep, legs thrown over Joel’s lap and head resting on the side of the couch. It looks anything but comfortable but it doesn’t seem to bother her much judging by her snoozing away softly. Her soft snores are accompanied by Joel’s loud rattling ones. 

“Sarah’s a kid, what does she know about cinema? And Joel has always had shit taste in movies, even when we were kids.”

“Tommy, babe.” (Y/N) exclaims and places a soft hand on his biceps. He wonders if she knows that even a touch as small as this one, as insignificant, makes his heart race. “I hate to tell you this but Alien movies are a bit shit in general.” 

“You say that now, but just you wait. The day we get invaded I will be prepared and you will be sitting here wishing you had paid attention to these movies.” 

He loves the giggle that falls from her lips. If sunshine made a sound he’s sure it would sound like her laugh. Even if it comes with her making fun of him. He’ll take all the teasing if it means he gets to hear her laugh.

“So are you saying if we got invaded by Aliens you’d just let me get abducted? Is that what I am hearing?”

“Absolutely. And you best be telling me everything once they bring you back.”

“You’re full of shit, Tommy Miller. You’d go crazy without me. Hell, I’m only leaving for 3 months this summer and you’re already whining about it.” 

She’s right and he hates thinking about it. Back when they were kids she went to visit her grandparents in Montana every summer and Tommy was miserable without her. Those visits grew few and far between as they got older but with her grandfather suffering a broken leg and her grandmother unable to tend to their farm all by herself it served as the perfect opportunity for (Y/N) to fly out and relish in childhood nostalgia.

“I’m not whining, Darling. Just worried you’ll miss my handsome face too much.” 

“Oh please, you just — “

“Can you guys cut it out? People here are trying to sleep”, Joel’s gruff voice cuts through their bickering, putting an immediate stop to the conversation. 

“Sorry Joel” they reply in unison, like a pair of scolded children having been caught staying up past their bedtime. Though Joel pays no mind to their apology, his snores fill the room once again.

As Tommy turns back towards (Y/N), her arms are stretched out wide as a tired yawn leaves her body.

“You tired? Need a ride home?” 

“Are you offering?” 

“Always, baby.”

Tommy doesn’t consider himself a big romantic, doesn’t really believe in all those grand and larger-than-life rom-com ideas but sometimes when the fireflies light up the world outside and the air smells like sunscreen and campfire and when she looks at him with those beautiful eyes of her he gets a weird feeling that spreads all around his body. It fills him from the tip of his nose to his feet. Those moments make him reconsider for a second. Maybe the movies are onto something.

Even though the sun set a long time ago, the air outside is still thick and muggy. It makes the hair in the nape of his neck curl up and stick to his skin. 

It’s sticky and uncomfortable and yet, Tommy loves nights like these. They allow him to remember the boy he used to be. All those late summer nights with (Y/N) by his side, driving down back roads and shooting the shit and talking about everything one can only imagine. Those nights felt like they belonged to them only and like they lasted a lifetime. All that youthful magic caught in a moment. 

The windows are rolled down and Billy Joel is blasting from the beat-up car radio. (Y/N) is softly humming along to Summer, Highland Falls, eyes closed, messy-haired and barefoot, and a smile playing on her lips as she soaks up the gust of wind.

“You do know I was joking, right?” 

She opens her eyes and looks at him with that infinite softness that she reserves for certain people only. Mostly him and Sarah and Joel.

“About what?” 

“The Alien thing.” 

“Huh? You mean to tell me you’re not prepared for an invasion after all.” 

He retorts with a gentle nudge to the shoulder. “No, stupid. I mean that if something were to happen, anything at all, I would never leave you behind. I’d never let them take you.” 

“The metaphorical aliens.” 

“Yeah, those. And anyone else too. You know that, right? Sarah, Joel, and you, that’s all that matters to me.” 

This is as honest and raw as Tommy gets when it comes to talking about his feelings and emotions. He wasn’t raised like that. His dad was stoic and silent and filled with toxic ideas of what a man should be and how a man should behave. Joel and Tommy have tried their best to unlearn a lot of the toxic traits their dad had bestowed on them, especially once Sarah came along, but some things just stick with you.

“I do know that. You know I’d do the same, right? You guys are my family. You are my family.” 

He wants to kiss her so badly. All the voices in his head are screaming at him to do it, just do it. She’s leaving tomorrow and won't be back until early October and by then he will probably have talked himself into chickening out once again.

But what if?

What if he kisses her and fucks it all up? 

“It′s either sadness or euphoria” 

And Billy is so right. 

The euphoria he would be thrilled to experience.

The sadness, he thinks, the sadness might kill him.

So he rids himself off the foolish little dreams, pushes them back to the furthest corner of his heart where they can live amongst themselves to only come to light when the night is lonely and Tommy feels like torturing himself.

He takes her hand, presses a gentle kiss on her knuckles, and nods in agreement.

“Yeah, I know.” 

And the wind blows through the open window, and the fireflies dance, and the crickets sing their song. He thinks they should call it “The Ballad of the Coward, Tommy Miller.” 

The gravel crunches under his wheels as Tommy pulls up (Y/N)’s driveway. He can’t help but think back to all the times he climbed the trellis up to (Y/N)’s window so the nights didn’t have to end yet. Back before her parents moved to Florida and gave the house to her. Now that childhood bedroom is an office and the trellis is overgrown with roses. 

As he turns off the ignition, the silence of the night settles upon them like a blanket. Things unsaid heavy in the air, resting on his shoulders. 

“I didn’t say it earlier but I am gonna miss you this summer. And Sarah,” (Y/N) says as she slips back into her sandals and grabs her bag from the backseat. “Joel too but don’t you dare tell him I said that.” 

A chuckle falls from Tommy’s lips. “He won’t hear a peep from me.” 

“You’re not gonna say it back?” 

“C’mon now, sweetheart. You know damn well that I’m gonna miss the shit out of you. I don’t have to tell you. You know.” 

There’s something in the way she looks at him right then. Something he thinks he’s seen before but can’t place, can’t name. After all these years there are still mysteries about her.

“I do know.”

Kiss her you fucking fool. He wants to, he really does. But his hands are stuck to the steering wheel and his feet bolted to the car. Even if he wanted to move, his body won’t let him.

“Anyway uh — have a good summer Tommy.” 

“You too. Have fun and tell your grandparents I said hi.” 

She throws him one last look before making it halfway up the path leading to her front door. Billy Joel continues singing about caviar and cabernet when (Y/N) stops in her tracks. Illuminated by the moonlight and that one tiny lamp by her front door, she looks almost ethereal. 

Tommy’s eyes meet hers across the driveway and she rushes back towards his side of the car.

“Hey, did you forget — “

Before he can finish the sentence she’s leaning into the car and pressing her lips against his with fierce determination.

It’s rushed and quick and for a second Tommy thinks he’s dreaming. He’s not though. This is real. The smell of her perfume and the feel of her hair and the taste of her lips on his.

The kiss is over before Tommy can even fully comprehend it even happened. All that is left is the knowledge that it did happen and the shocked look on (Y/N)’s face.

“Tommy I’m so sorry, I — “ 

“Don’t apologize. Let me get out.” 

“What?” 

“Let me get out of the car so I can kiss you properly.” 

He doesn’t have to tell her twice. As soon as she takes a step back, Tommy is out of the car and pulls (Y/N) into his arms. She’s so warm. So soft.

There is still a nagging voice inside his head that whispers poisonous “what ifs” to him. That tells him he’s not worth it, that he will ruin all they are. That he will ruin her.

But for this one fleeting moment, Tommy chooses not to listen to the worries and the doubts and those damn insecurities. 

Tonight he will kiss her stupid and he won’t feel any regret about it. He could never regret her.

With her back against the car and his hands on her hips, their lips meet again. This kiss is different. It’s years of longing and dreams they never allowed themselves to fully believe in all caught in one touch. Passionate and sweet and loving and desperate. 

Nothing ever felt or tasted like this. Nothing’s ever come close.

When they pull away, Tommy goes in for another one and then a third. He never wants this moment to end.

But he’s not delusional, he knows everything ends. Especially moments like this one. 

“I uh — wow.” 

“Mmmh…wow. How, why — I mean … what ?” 

“Tommy I meant to do this a long time ago I just always chickened out. Tell me I didn’t make a mistake.” 

He places another peck on her lips, a sign of reassurance, knowing he’s not good with words. 

“You didn’t make a mistake. I wanted this too. I want it, present tense.” 

“Okay, good. Good, I — eurgh I’m so annoyed I’m leaving tomorrow morning.” 

Tommy gently cradles her face in his hands. “It’s just 3 months, right? It will be over before we know it. And then we can talk about it and see where to go from here. I waited so long, what is 3 more months? After that, we have all the time in the world.” 

“Ugh, you’re right.”

“Course I am. I’m always right.”

“Sure you are,” she giggles and meets his lips in another sweet kiss. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you at the end of summer.”

“I’m counting down the days, baby.”

He’s called her baby countless times before but this one feels different. 

Watching her walk up towards her house is hard. All Tommy wants to do is pull her back into his arms and hold onto this moment just a little bit longer. But he knows he can’t and even if he did, he would never get enough. He would always want just a little bit more.

So he drives off knowing that by the end of summer, he’ll be able to call her his. Properly, entirely, forever.

September comes and with it the end of the world. 

(Y/N) wraps the thick knitted scarf tighter around herself trying to keep out the cold. To no avail. The cold is everywhere. It's permeating every article of clothing, sinking into her skin and settling all the way inside her bones.

She barely remembers the last time she didn’t feel this relentless cold throughout her entire body. It must have been before she was forced to leave the farm. Not a day in the wild has gone by without her feeling like she might freeze any moment now. Her skin feels raw and dry and burning and the only thing taking her mind off of the cold is the empty pit in her stomach.

It’s been 2 days since she ate the last of the dried jerky she took from the farm and ever since she’s been surviving on dry crackers and nuts. It’s not a lot. It’s barely enough. 

Long gone are warm summer nights in Austin or days on the farm surrounded by her family. There are no months or years. All there is now is the cold and death. And it’s never-ending.

A sound in the distance makes her head snap up. There is movement, 3 shapes moving towards her, big and fast. People on horses, she realizes as they come closer and her hand moves towards her gun. It’s not the undead walking which is good but there are worse things out there. Worse people than those that are people no more. Fates worse than death.

“Lady, drop the gun”, a voice cuts through the harsh winter air. 

“Not a chance!” 

“Drop the gun. We know you are alone, we can help you.” 

They always say that. We are friendly. We can help you.  They’re never friendly. And nowadays you can’t afford to trust strangers, especially not those who offer you help. They will leave you scarred — and that’s the best-case scenario.

It’s three men on horses that surround her now. Their faces are mostly covered by scarves and they’re all wearing cowboy hats. 

“Ma’am I need you to lower the gun.” 

(Y/N) pulls her scarf down a little so as not to muffle her voice. They need to know she means business. They need to know she’s determined and not some little girl who will go down without a fight. That’s what life is now, fighting. Always fighting. The living, the dead, everything at all times.

“I can’t do — “

“(Y/N)?”

It’s strange, she thinks. It’s been so long since she heard his voice and yet it feels like just yesterday that same voice has been teasing her for one thing or another. It’s deeper, worn, and weary, but it’s still the same in all the ways that matter.

“Joel?” 

“It’s okay, she’s family! She’s family.” 

It’s a statement directed towards the other man, (Y/N) realizes. 

Family. It’s been a long time since she’s had that. A proper family. People she can rely on. 

Joel dismounts his horse, snow crunching beneath his boots as he makes his way towards her. Time feels to slow down as he wraps his arms around her, warm and comforting and familiar. It’s been a long time since she’s been touched by a hand meant to bring comfort not inflict pain. 

These days you can not afford to trust strangers. Maybe, though, maybe you can trust this stranger because he is not a stranger at all. He’s Joel — he’s family. 

For the first time in a long time (Y/N) lets go of the weight, of the pain and the hurt and the fear. For the first time in a long time, she allows herself to cry.

And for the first time in a long time — they are happy tears.

Being in Jackson feels strange. It all feels a bit artificial. Like Disneyland. Not bad but not quite real. This can’t be permanent, she thinks. Sooner or later something is gonna happen and she’ll be ripped away and back comes the cold and the fear and the reality of the world they are living in now. A world ruled by the dead.

Joel has wrapped her up in a thick, warm blanket. He’s provided her with food, warm and tasty. Food that was not meant only to keep you alive but also taste good. 

He put a steaming hot mug of tea into her frostbitten hands and he hugged her. For a long time. And Joel was never a hugger to begin with, even before — before everything. Birthdays and funerals were the only two occasions she’d ever gotten a hug from him. 

“I can’t believe it’s you,” he says as he pulls away and looks at her. He’s older, looks tired and weary. Marked by life and all the things he no doubt had to do to survive. But he’s still Joel. His eyes still hold that undeniable fondness of an old friend, a family member, a father. 

“Where’s Sarah?” 

She doesn’t mean for it to come out like that. Doesn’t mean to even ask in the first place. But Sarah always had a place in her heart so big she might as well have taken the whole damn thing. She was fierce and so terribly smart, they all joked that she could not have been a Miller, must’ve been switched at birth. Obviously (Y/N) always thought both Miller boys were selling themselves short. They were smart as fuck in all the ways that mattered.

Joel’s eyes grow distant for a moment and he doesn’t even have to say it out loud for (Y/N) to understand. In a world like this, everyone has lost someone but losing a child, that must be a whole nother level of pain.

“I’m sorry, Joel.” There is nothing she can say to make it better, to make it right. There is only grief and sadness and the knowledge that it is shared. “I’m so sorry.” 

He nods and squeezes her once more. She thinks what’s left of her heart might be crushed into tiny little pieces at the agony mirrored in his eyes. “It’s been a long time.”

Time does not heal a wound like this. It’s but a bandaid on a bullet hole. There are only two options, (Y/N) thinks. You either learn to live with the pain, accept that it is now a part of you, that it changes you fundamentally. Or you let it kill you.

A cold gust of air wraps itself around (Y/N) as the doors to the building swing open. The Tipsy Bison, the sign above the door proudly proclaimed. A bar. They even got a fucking bar in here.

“Joel wha— holy shit.” 

Back when they were teenagers, (Y/N) always tried to get Tommy to grow out his hair. Though she loved those messy curls of his, she was so damn curious to see what he would look like with longer hair. Hot, she assumed. And she was fucking right.

He looks so handsome. More rugged and older but that’s to be expected, time has passed. But still so goddamn handsome that it sends a shockwave straight to her heart. 

“I thought you were dead.” 

She doesn’t even realize he’s moved until he is right in front of her, hands cupping her face. 

“I — we drove up to Montana, tried to find the farm but most everything was gone and burned down. People said there was nothing left so I — I thought.” 

“I can’t believe you grew a mustache. You look like your dad.” 

Joel lets out a snort next to her. She always took pride in getting a laugh out of Joel. A snort is even better.

“We haven’t seen each other since the world went to shit and the first thing you do is make fun of my mustache?” 

Oh, how she missed that smile. Tommy truly has one of the best smiles she has ever seen, there is no competition. It’s warm and comforting and a little bit mischievous. And he never fails to make you believe that you are the only one he deems deserving of that rare special smile. It’s entirely yours for a fleeting second.

“Like old times. What else would you want me to say?” 

“I missed you would be a good start.” 

“I missed you, Tommy. More than anything.” 

He engulfs her in his arms. It’s been so long since life gave her softness instead of cruelty. His breath feels warm against her skin as he rests his head upon her shoulder. There is something so familiar about his touch that for a second she feels like that version of her again, young and careless and alive. 

She loves Tommy Miller, it’s an undeniable fact. Love, (Y/N) thinks, is something that never truly goes away. It might warp and twist and change and sometimes it gets buried underneath the grief and the pain and the fear. But nothing can take it away entirely. Even the world ending, literally, doesn’t change the fact that she is in love with Tommy Miller. Every version of her since she was but a teenager has loved him. And every version of her yet to come will love him still. 

“I missed you too.” 

His deep brown eyes shine with something so familiar that for a moment she knows that he loves her too. Always has, always will.

The cold is back, another gust of wind clashes like tiny daggers against her skin. And with the cold comes a beautiful woman, all kind eyes and gentle smile. 

And when the woman steps up next to Tommy, he wraps a loving arm around her waist and presses a kiss to her temple. 

“Maria, this is (Y/N). She’s my best friend.” 

The woman, Maria, regards her with nothing but kindness. A welcoming warmth radiating from her like that of an old friend, a loving neighbor.

“(Y/N), this is Maria, my wife.”

She hopes in that moment that her eyes are kind too. That her smile seems genuine and that neither of them can see her dying inside. Because for the second time in her life, (Y/N) thinks the world might be ending once and for all. 

A squeeze against her hand lets her know that at least one of the Miller brothers does notice it. She hopes that Tommy, at least, is blissfully unaware. He deserves a good thing, a loving wife, a family. Even if it’s not with (Y/N). Even if it breaks her heart.

“(Y/N), Tommy’s talked about you so much. It feels like I know you already. We thought — it’s really something that you found us.” 

“Well, Joel found me. It was truly by chance.” 

“Which makes it even more special. It’s like you were meant to be here with us.” 

She looks at Tommy then, into those big brown eyes that have known every version of herself she’s ever been. 

“Yeah, maybe I was.” 

“You were! You’re family. Come let me show you where you can get a nice hot shower and some fresh clothes. And then one of the boys can give you a tour of the town, how does that sound?” 

This would all be so much easier if Maria was unlikable. If this was a movie Maria would be rude and snobbish and mean, unkind to everyone and so easily dismissed as a roadblock in our main character's path to happiness and eternal love. 

But life is not a movie and Maria is not the villain of this story. She’s wonderful. She’s funny and sweet and affectionate. On their walk towards the showers, she makes (Y/N) feel more welcome in this strange place than she has ever felt welcome anywhere before. She’s smart and there is no doubt in (Y/N)’s mind that if Sarah were here she would adore Maria. No matter how hard she tries to find a flaw in this magical woman, (Y/N) comes up empty. There is no reason to blame her or villainize her simply for falling in love with Tommy. Heaven knows it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Even a hot shower doesn’t get rid of all the cold. Not that certain kind of cold that has settled deep inside her bones, festered and grew. But it is nice either way. God knows how long it’s been since she was able to properly wash her hair. 

Maria left some clothes out for her. Nice and cozy and it’s like another stab to the heart. To know this woman wants the best for her when (Y/N) is still so terribly in love with her husband. It feels wrong, feels icky, and vile. If only love had an off switch life would be so much easier.

“Hey uh — can I come in?” Joel’s gruff voice calls out from behind the door.

“Yeah, sure.” 

Snow is sticking to his hair and shoulders as he steps into the room while (Y/N) laces up the boots Maria provided her with. Back in the day, she loved snow. It very rarely did snow in Austin and even then it was usually very little snowfall that didn’t stay around for long enough to enjoy it. Back then snow was something magical.

Now snow is just another reminder of this god-awful cold. 

“Maria said to give you a tour of the town and then show you your new place but uh — I know it can be a lot so if you want to postpone the tour that’s fine.” 

Joel was so good at this, always has been, at knowing what you needed before you did. 

“That would be nice. I think I just want to sleep.” 

He nods and motions his head towards the front of the house. “I thought so. Grab your jacket and let’s go.” 

Jackson is decked out in Christmas lights and wreaths. Ribbons and ornaments. There’s even a Christmas tree in the middle of town square. 

“Is it Christmas time?” (Y/N) asks as they pass the tree, people greeting her with friendly smiles and the occasional wave.

“Mmmh. Tommy said they have a few people who kept track of the dates.” 

The sight of smiling families gathering around the tree involuntarily brings back memories of Christmases past. Sarah always loved Christmas. If she had been allowed to do so she would’ve put up the tree by November 1st. It was always a big thing in the Miller household, going out and cutting down the tree. Joel and Tommy would set it up in the living room then and (Y/N) and Sarah would put on old Christmas records and dance around the tree while decorating it. 

Memories are a weird thing. They are what keep you going, they are what you are made of but they also manage to bring a deep sadness with them, impossible to shake. They leave you simultaneously grateful to have them and devastated you can never go back to those moments.

“There’s a big get-together happening tomorrow night. It’s some kind of town celebration, I don’t know, but Maria and Tommy thought you might want to come. Said I’d ask you but you might want to get acclimated first.” 

In the universe, there are very few things at the moment that (Y/N) wants to do less than spend the evening celebrating with the man she loves and his new wife. However, this is gonna be her life now and she needs to get used to it. These people took her in, and yeah even though she knows Joel and Tommy that does not mean anything anymore. She’s a stranger to the people of Jackson, to Maria, and they still welcomed her in with open arms. She owes them. She owes Maria. 

"Yeah, I'll come.” 

“You sure?” 

“Sure, why not?”

Joel gives her that look. That signature Joel Miller look that calls you out on your bullshit without him even having to say a single word. God, usually that look was reserved for Tommy and Sarah, mostly Tommy. It does not feel very good being on the receiving end of it.

“What? I need to get involved in the community if I want to stay.” 

“Sure, but it doesn’t have to be right away. “ 

(Y/N) shrugs her shoulders in what she hopes looks like nonchalance. Might as well rip off the bandaid, it’s not holding her bleeding wound closed anyway.

“You know you are allowed to be sad, right?” 

It’s weird hearing Joel say something like this. Joel who never talked about feelings or emotions or anything like that. Who was stoic and silent when it came to things like this. Not unemotional or anything like that, he just wasn’t raised that way. He let you know he cared in other ways. No words needed.

“About what?” 

“About what was taken from you.”

Snow crunches beneath their boots and the laughter of people grows distant. Silence wraps around them for a moment until Joel clears his throat and speaks up again.

“When I arrived here and Tommy told me about the baby I felt so angry. Not really at him. I was angry at the world. That he got to have this when it got ripped away from me. That in all this shitshow he got something good and precious and all I got was — just pain. I didn’t think it was okay to have a baby in these conditions but not because I didn’t want Tommy to have this, I was just scared that he’d have to go through what I had to go through. You get to be angry at life, you just can’t let it consume you.” 

In another time she would’ve commented on how weird it is to hear Joel open up and be vulnerable. This is not that time though. At this moment all she can focus on is that one word “Baby”.

They’re having a baby. 

“Are you okay?”

“Huh?” her eyes snap up towards Joel who regards her with concern. “Yeah, I — I’m good. Just tired and this is all so much all at once.” 

“I get it. But you get to sleep now. That’s your new house.” 

The house is a small one-story building that looks like it used to be painted a vibrant shade of blue once but has now faded with time. 

“I live over there,” Joel points out across the street and two houses down. “Tommy and Maria live around the corner, yellow house on the right.” 

“Thank you, Joel, for everything.” 

“Of course. You’re family. You always will be family, you hear me?” 

(Y/N) replies with a half-hearted nod which earns her a nudge against the shoulder. 

“I said do you hear me?  You know you will always be a part of this family, right?” 

“Yes, I do. Thanks, Joel.” 

“Sure. Now go get some sleep. You’re safe here. I promise.” 

Sleep doesn’t come to her though. Her body is tired, her mind is exhausted but sleep avoids her. 

When you’re always on the lookout for danger, never allowed to truly let your guard down, your body gets used to it. For a long time, she couldn’t afford to get a good night of deep sleep. Now that she can, her body has unlearned just how to do it, it seems.

So she makes herself a cup of tea, something they have here for everyone to enjoy in their own home, and sits down on that big comfortable couch in the living room with nothing but the ticking of the clock filling the silence and her thoughts keeping her company.

Tommy is going to be a dad. There’s no doubt in (Y/N)’s mind that he’ll be good at it. He is loving and fun but he can put his foot down when needed and he’s as protective as they come, both Millers are.

And yet — 

Back when they were just teenagers (Y/N) had this stupid little vision of a future, one where Tommy and her realized that they were meant to be. In that vision, they got married on her grandparent's farm. They moved into a house next to Joel and Sarah. They bought a dog — or maybe 3. And one day she’d wake him up with kisses and tell him that she felt off for a while and finally took a test this morning. In that vision, Tommy looked at her with his beautiful Tommy Miller smile and kissed her stupid. And they both cried from happiness about what their future would hold. A little baby equal parts Tommy and (Y/N).

She feels silly basking in that little teenage daydream right now. It’s not ever going to happen. That life is gone and buried. Time to write a eulogy to a life that never was. 

A quick knock pulls her from her thoughts and as she opens the door Tommy’s dark eyes look back at her.

“Hey, sorry did I wake you up?” 

“No. Can’t sleep.” 

Tommy nods as if he understands, she wonders if this place already existed when he arrived here or if he helped build it. So many questions and yet she feels like none of them matter at this moment.

She motions for him to step inside, desperate to close the door again and banish the cold from her house.

“Why’s that? Anything wrong with the house? The bed? We can get you relocated, get you a new bed if — “

“No, Tommy. The house is great, the bed is great. It’s none of that. I think it’s just me. My brain and body have not realized yet that this is a safe place.” 

“Oh, oh yeah. Sorry, It’s been a while since I was out there. I mean permanently. It must’ve been rough.” 

Rough. It was rough but at some point, you grow so tired and cold, it just is. You grow numb and maybe that’s the most dangerous feeling of them all.

“Mmh.”

They sit down on the couch and it feels strange. She hates this feeling. This man has been in her life since she was a teenager. They’ve been through so much together and yet, sitting here after all this time, it feels like they are so unfamiliar. Not strangers but close.

“If I had known you were still out there I would have kept looking for you. I — they said everything further north than — “

“Tommy it’s okay.”

“No! I need you to know that if I had even the smallest flicker of hope that you were still alive I would’ve kept looking. Every night for a long time all I could see when I closed my eyes was you. And I felt like the biggest coward on this planet because I loved you and I stopped looking for you. It’s just after Sarah, I didn’t have any hope left.” 

“You thought I was dead and you had to keep yourself alive. I don’t blame you for anything Tommy.” 

“Well, I do!” There are tears in his eyes threatening to fall. She’s only ever seen him cry one time and that was at his mom’s funeral. “If I would’ve just continued on I could’ve found you. I could’ve — we could’ve…” 

He trails off. (Y/N) wonders if he even knew where he wanted to go with that statement in the first place. 

“I loved you, (Y/N). So much. I just want you to know that. ” 

Loved. Loved. Loved. Past tense. 

Of course past tense you idiot. He doesn’t even know you anymore. It’s been too long. So long. It feels like another lifetime altogether.

“I know that Tommy, you told me every day on the phone.” 

She remembers those phone calls like it was yesterday. Her grandparents called her a loved-up teenager, and maybe it felt like it too. But that was more. That was Tommy. Her Tommy. 

Until the phones stopped working and death came knocking on her door.

“I’m just wondering what if — what if I just kept looking a little longer. I could’ve found you and maybe we’d — “

“Tommy, stop! Those what ifs, they ain't doing either of us any good.”

“Do you not think about it?”

How can he ask that? How can he not know that it's all she's thinking about?

“Of course I do. It’s all I think about. But if I let myself get lost in it then it'll kill me. What if I never went to Montana in the first place? What if I came back to look for you? What if you found me? What if what if what if. The truth of it all is that it didn't happen. You have a family now, Tommy. A wife and a  -  a baby. And it hurts to know that if things had been different maybe that could've been me you married and me you had a baby with. But it's not. And I do find comfort in the fact that you're happy. I just want you to be happy.”

Tommy smells like woodfire and winter as he wraps her up in his arms and buries his face in her hair. “I want you to be happy too.”

“And I will be. I am. I got you back and I got Joel. I got parts of my family back.”

“I will always love you, (Y/N). Even if I love you differently now. “

It's an unshakable truth. Love doesn't go away. It warps and changes but it never vanishes.

“I know that. I missed you, Tommy Miller.”

“Miss you too. Now … do you really hate the mustache? Does it really make me look like my dad?”

She hasn't heard her own laughter in so long. It feels magical. It feels like healing.

“Holy shit”.

“Told you they're going all out.”

The big barn is all decked out in string lights and candles. The round tables set up in circles around the dance floor all hold a beautiful floral centerpiece.

“Well glad to hear even in the apocalypse event management is still a booming business.”

Joel nudges her shoulder and hides his smile behind the rim of his beer bottle as he takes a sip.

“I wish Sarah could see this.” 

“Yeah me too.” Joel agrees, his voice sounding strained. Then adds: “You'd make her dance with you, huh?”

“Oh absolutely. And she'd pretend to hate it but that girl was a dancer at heart no matter how much she tried to deny it.”

The smile she gets out of Joel now is a different one. That one isn't brought on by teasing or a bad joke. That one is all love. Shared love for someone so deeply missed. That smile means a lot more.

Maria and Tommy make their way towards Joel and (Y/N), smiles on their faces.

“You made it! The boys weren't sure if you were up for it yet but I was hoping you'd show yourself.”

Maria's words never sound like there is any hidden meaning or agenda behind them. She's honest and true and just so straight-up nice it's hard to comprehend. 

“I'm not going to lie, it's a bit weird. Not you guys just … the whole situation.  Going from surviving day by day to a party with lights and drinks and music.”

“Is it a good weird?” Maria asks, a look of concern on her face.

“It's a great weird.”

“Good, I'm glad. Now I heard some stories about you back in the day and if I'm not mistaken someone here still owes you a dance.”

Back when they were just kids, Tommy and (Y/N) had planned to attend prom together. Just as friends, nothing more. Silent pining included. Unfortunately, his reckless driving landed Tommy at the hospital just a week before the big day. 2 days later he came limping out of that very hospital, a cast on his foot and crutches under his arms. 

“Sorry about that,” he said as he slid into the passenger seat of (Y/N)’s car. “I guess I owe you a dance, huh?” 

She has almost forgotten about that memory, it feels so distant. Like it happened to someone else and all she got to be is a voyeur in that person’s love story. The fact that Tommy remembers though, means so much to her. And not only does he remember, but he deems the memory so important he even told his wife about it.

“I guess so.” 

“I made sure he didn’t go slipping on any ice or falling off a horse before tonight. Won’t let him get out of the dance a second time.” 

Maria’s words make (Y/N) laugh. It feels so good to laugh. Maybe this can be a good thing. Tommy and Maria and Joel and the whole Jackson settlement. Maybe it doesn’t have to be all heartbreak.

“ Oh, come on. Is this how it’s gonna be now? You two are gonna team up against me?” 

“Three of us, actually.” Joel jumps in making Tommy scoff though a small smirk is pulling the corner of his lip upwards. 

“Whatever.” he holds out his hand towards (Y/N) and in his dark eyes the fairy lights are reflected like tiny stars in an inky night sky. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

There’s a man with a guitar sitting on the little stage at the other end of the room, and as Tommy and (Y/N) reach the middle of the dancefloor, his fingers begin to strum the very familiar cords of a song she hasn’t thought about it years. 

“Did you know he would play this?” 

Tommy doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. He even looks a little proud of himself. It breaks and mends her heart all at once. “Might’ve put in a request with him.” 

“They say that these are not the best of times But they're the only times I've ever known”

It’s a hit straight to the chest, hearing this song again. The last time she heard it was that fateful fourth of July. When life was easy and the earth was kind. 

These are not the best of times, Billy Joel is right about that, but as Tommy slowly sways them both to the melody, she thinks that maybe this isn’t all bad. She is here, she’s found him again and the love is still there. Even if it is different now. She has him back. Has Joel back too. And maybe as time goes by she can grow to see Maria as an extension of her little family. A friend even. She sure is lovable, that’s for sure. 

“In another life, we would’ve danced to this song at our wedding.” Tommy’s voice softly murmurs into her ear. “I would’ve loved to be your husband.” 

And while she wants to pull him closer and tell him that he still can, that she is here now and the future they imagined can still happen, the rational part of her knows that those dreams are officially dead and buried. With their loved ones and their old selves.

“And I would’ve loved to be your wife.” 

“I’m sorry we — “

“Tommy, it’s okay. I’m glad for that little time we got. And look, we found each other again. I got you back and I got Joel and maybe a whole new family too,” (Y/N) says, and lets her eyes wander around the room for a moment. “It’s not what I envisioned sure, but It’s more than a lot of people have. I think all things considered I am very lucky.” 

“It's either sadness or euphoria.” 

Maybe Billy Joel wasn’t completely right when he wrote that song, she thinks.

Within all the heartbreak of coming to terms with the fact that she will never have the future she wanted, there is hope and joy in knowing that she found a place where a future is possible. Not the one she thought she’d get but a good one either way.

Maybe Billy Joel was wrong.

Maybe there can be sadness and euphoria all at once. 

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

By Jess McAllen

The manicured lawn outside Nassau County’s legislative building in Mineola, NY, is a picture of suburban peace. But back in August, the chambers inside reflected a more contentious reality. On either side of the aisle, two camps arranged themselves: the masked and the unmasked. They were there to plead their case during an hours-long public hearing for the Mask Transparency Act, which would make wearing a facial covering to “hide one’s identity” a misdemeanor, punishable by up to a year in prison and a $1,000 fine.

The first member of the public to address the lawmakers was seventy-seven-year-old Wayne Hall, a former Long Island mayor and kidney transplant recipient. His main concern, echoed by many in the room, was that the bill would morph into another iteration of New York’s notorious stop-and-frisk policy, which violated the rights of hundreds of thousands of residents. “Black and brown individuals already face disproportionate scrutiny from law enforcement,” said Hall, “and will be more likely to be stopped and questioned, simply for wearing a mask.” Proponents of the measure, meanwhile, argued that allowing masks has enabled crime. Republican congressman Anthony D’Esposito, who attended Trump’s Madison Square Garden rally earlier this month, implored the council not to vote “in favor of hate-filled thugs.”

The bill, introduced by Republican representative and former IDF paratrooper Mazi Pilip, ultimately went on to pass the county legislature and went into effect immediately — with all twelve Republicans voting in favor and seven Democrats abstaining. Pilip celebrated the win in an Instagram post by decrying mask advocates as “the thug protestors whose aim was to intimidate, harass, promote violence and spread hate.”

The tense hearing was a snapshot of a debate playing out across the United States, as local politicians attempt to crack down on a fabricated crime wave by banning facial coverings. While lawmakers are promoting concessions for health and religious exemptions, the language of the bills themselves consistently shies away from the reason why masks have become so popular in the first place: Covid-19. The virus continues to mutate, and people are still dying; some seventeen million adults suffer from Long Covid. Meanwhile, traditional respiratory illnesses like flu and RSV continue to circulate. So it’s no wonder that many—especially people who are immunocompromised or living with chronic illness—want to be able to wear a mask in public.

In June, North Carolina passed a similar ban, and several other localities are looking to follow suit, with either proposed laws or talk of potential laws in Chicago, Los Angeles, and New Jersey. In the New York state legislature, two competing bills are already on the table. One, introduced by Republican state senator Steven Rhoads in May is seen as unlikely to pass. The other bill, which establishes the offense of “concealment of identity in a lawful assembly, unlawful assembly or riot,” was introduced by Democratic state senator James Skoufis on June 14. Two weeks later, a campaign called #UnMaskHateNY was officially launched outside Columbia University, the site of pro-Palestine student protests just months earlier, in support of a statewide mask ban.

Two Democratic lawmakers attended the launch: Jeffrey Dinowitz, who introduced a twin version of Skoufis’s bill in the assembly, and Brian Cunningham, who in September coauthored an op-ed for the New York Daily News titled “Unmask the cowards on our campuses,” which is featured on the #UnMaskHateNY website. (Cunningham, however, claims he is not affiliated with the group.) The lawmaker is advocating for specific carve outs in the bill, saying he will only support it if there are health and religious exemptions. “I grew up in Flatbush, Brooklyn,” he told me recently, “I grew up in the 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s in New York City. People wearing ski masks, prior to Covid-19, weren’t greeted with hugs and welcomes from the neighborhood grandma, or anyone else.” When I asked if he would, instead support a simple ski mask ban, he reminded me that it wasn’t his bill. What about his thoughts on police using the law to racially profile constituents? “Am I saying that the bill is bad that’s in? No. Am I saying the bill is good? No. I’m saying that there is a conversation that this bill is provoking.”

For a campaign purportedly against anonymity, it has proven exceptionally difficult to determine who is behind #UnMaskHateNY. The campaign website simply states that it is “led by civil rights leaders, faith leaders and other diverse advocates.” So I reached out to the Anti-Defamation League (ADL), which has publicly supported the campaign and sent representatives to the launch. “We are a member of the coalition that is leading this effort,” a spokesperson replied, “but not the lead. We will have someone leading our effort follow with you directly.” (No one ever followed up.) I emailed the #UnMaskHateNY email, DM’d them on Instagram and Facebook, and even emailed Mercury Public Affairs, which under Facebook’s relatively recent transparency rules is listed as overseeing the campaign’s Facebook page. No one replied. Running out of options, I got in touch with Cunningham’s office to double check who had been in touch with him from the campaign. I was given the email of a man at the ADL, who also never replied.

Regardless of whether they are leading the campaign or not, the ADL isn’t holding back. “Anti-masking laws passed in New York were used to help counter the reign of terror of the Ku Klux Klan,” reads a statement on their website. “Now, it’s time to bring them back to counter masked intimidation.” This language is similar to a proposal by the right-wing Manhattan Institute, titled “Model Legislation to Modernize Anti-KKK Masking Laws for Intimidating Protesters” released in early June, which declares that “just as Ku Klux Klan members used white hoods to conceal their identities and terrorize their targets, modern activists are using keffiyehs, Guy Fawkes masks, balaclavas.” In an #UnMaskHateNY advertisement that has run on both Facebook and Instagram since late September, video of torch-carrying KKK members is cut with pro-Palestine protests: “Today’s hoods are masks,” a solemn narrator intones, “but the hate is the same.” The implication is clear: if you are wearing a mask, you are basically the KKK.

Those in favor of mask bans love connecting their crusade to the role an 1845 New York law—“An Act to prevent persons appearing disguised and armed”—played in stopping the KKK from openly terrorizing New York, but the original reason the law was created had nothing to do with the KKK, which was founded twenty years later in Tennessee. It was, instead, a direct response to a yearslong “anti-rent war” that started in 1839. The movement began when a group of farmers, tired of extortionate leases, went on the nineteenth-century version of a rent strike. They wore “Indian” disguises while disrupting house sales, resisted evictions, and tarred and feathered police officers. In January 1845, the anti-mask law was passed. This didn’t stop things from escalating: only seven months later, undersheriff Osman Steele was shot and killed by masked protesters when he was trying to help sell a property.

“There is no doubt that people can be more apt to act irresponsibly when their conduct cannot be traced back to them,” is one tidbit of wisdom in the paratext of Skoufis’s bill. Just like the Nassau County ban, the language of Skoufis’s legislation appears to grant police—famous for their unbiased and calm judgment—sole discretion to arrest anyone who simply looks shifty, just because they are wearing a mask in a large crowd. It’s unclear how this might play out. In Nassau County, there have been a few reported arrests since the ban went into effect. Among them: an eighteen-year-old who police say was “displaying suspicious behavior” and wearing a ski mask (upon searching him, police found a knife); a twenty-seven-year-old man who attempted to break into a house while wearing a ski mask; and one man who was part of a protest at the Young Israel of Lawrence-Cedarhurst synagogue in Queens and was arrested while wearing a keffiyeh. “Police on the scene asked him if he was wearing the garment for medical or religious purposes, which are the two major exceptions to the new ban,” according to the Nassau County Police Department. When the man said he was wearing it in solidarity with Palestinians, he was placed under arrest. (A federal class action lawsuit was filed against the Nassau County law in August by Disability Rights of New York on behalf of individuals with disabilities but it was dismissed in September.)

For Ngozi, a Nassau County resident who attended the public hearing in August and has an autoimmune disease called scleroderma, the threat of arrest isn’t new. “The reality is that I’m a black, disabled person, wearing a mask in public. I’ve always been marked,” they told me. “I feel like this is maybe the first time that white people are fearful of being criminalized for something.” One of the problems with mask bans—even with concessions—is that it puts an awful lot of trust in those enforcing the bans not to abuse their power. “People are like, ‘Oh well, there is a health exemption, make sure you have your doctor’s note,’ and it’s like, no, we should not be providing the state with ‘proof’ that we are disabled.” On top of this, health issues are not always obvious. “I have disabilities that are not visibly apparent,” Ngozi, who asked to only go by their first name, added. “Do I have to be in a wheelchair for you to believe me? Do I have to have crutches? Do I have to have an oxygen tank? . . . I’m very concerned about the impact of what a legalized stop and frisk looks like for disabled people.”

Sue, a senior who lives with rheumatoid arthritis, says her other chronically ill friends want to know why masks must be the visible disability delineator. “An immunocompromised friend who uses a wheelchair pointed out to me: ‘Mask bans, for me, are like banning my wheelchair. Masks have been part of me, my health care, and my life, for decades.’” Sue’s rheumatoid arthritis attacks her joints, as well as her lungs and other organs. She takes two different immunosuppressant medications, which alter her immune function and increase her risk for viral, bacterial, and fungal infections, so she often wears a mask while in public. “Even a seemingly minor threat, like the common cold, can lead to a serious illness in someone with a compromised immune system,” she said. “These medicines also suppress my immune response to vaccines.” For Sue, who also asked to only go by her first name, a mask ban would only compound the wider discrimination she faces in a society she feels has already left her behind.

As it stands, Skoufis’s bill, which lawmakers are hoping to advance as soon the legislative session begins in January, affects the right of people like Sue to go to protests or large public gatherings when we are not in a declared public health emergency. The proposed law dictates that it will be illegal for people to wear a face covering at a lawful or unlawful assembly or what the police consider to be a riot “unless they are wearing personal protective equipment during a declared public health emergency.” Since this is no longer the case, anyone who wears a mask for health reasons at a protest or large public gathering could be breaking the law. The health exemption language of the Nassau County law, which applies to facial coverings worn anywhere in public, meanwhile, is vague: “This law shall not apply to facial coverings worn to protect the health or safety of the wearer.” This has its own problems, namely that it will be on individual police officers to interpret both the law and the reason why someone is wearing a mask. Back at the public hearing in August, D’Esposito said the law would be “enforced by one of the finest police departments in the country,” but residents were not so sure. “Ultimately this law will be carried out based on one person’s judgment,” noted one resident. “More simply, is this masked person doing something I like or do not like?”

Many activists see the bans as retaliation for pro-Palestine protests that have swept the country in the year since Israel invaded Gaza in the wake of October 7. At protests people often wear masks either to support the health of their community, or to protect their identity from getting doxxed. The health exemptions prompted by lawmakers treat the issue as two dimensional: You are either a protester, or someone with ongoing health issues. Why can’t you be both? It shouldn’t be surprising that a person concerned with preventing the transmission of a potentially debilitating disease might also be concerned about the genocide in Palestine. In their proposal, The Manhattan Institute had already thought of this: “Someone who wears a mask for health reasons probably should not be congregating in large groups of people.” Aside from ignoring the otherwise healthy people who mask to avoid exacerbating underlying conditions or contracting Long Covid, the document makes it clear that anyone who has a chronic illness or disability is expected to stay out of public life.

Among the groups of people who are pushing back against proposed mask bans is Fight for the Future, who have launched a Stop Mask Bans campaign. One of the organizers, Alex, who preferred to go by her first name, said mask bans spotlight cross-movement solidarity. “They carry out the combined violence of public health abandonment, surveillance, censorship, and policing. If we truly want to beat them, we have to address their full intent and impact,” she said. “Otherwise, we’ll be fighting an uphill battle against so-called ‘exemptions’ to these bills that claim to address the needs of just disabled people, religious people, or those concerned about facial recognition.” She added, “Our call is for no mask bans, with no exceptions, because all anti-mask bills violate our fundamental rights to health and privacy.”

Decades ago, radical health activism looked like the Black Panthers screening for sickle cell anemia, or the Young Lords seizing a mobile chest X-ray unit and taking it to an underserved population in East Harlem. Those days are long gone, says Ngozi. “When it comes to public health, yeah, the greatest amount of solidarity was shown with protests against police brutality and specifically responding to George Floyd’s murder, but we haven’t seen that again. We haven’t seen it replicated. You have to consider that people were being supported with stipends from the government, people were on unemployment.”

Beyond the likelihood of discriminatory arrests, mask bans will have wider consequences. According to opponents, the passing of such laws will enable harassment from the public and encourage shop owners to turn away particular customers. “It’s easier for people to pathologize and stigmatize things like, ‘Oh, you’re a weirdo, oh, you must have OCD, you must have anxiety, you must have something wrong with you mentally,’” Ngozi said. Sue recalls former CDC director Rochelle Walensky’s 2022 comments on Good Morning America, in which she referenced a study of 1.2 million fully vaccinated people that found the majority of those who died of Covid had at least four comorbidities. “So really,” Walensky said, “these are people who were unwell to begin with.” People like Sue heard that message “loud and clear.” “The CDC is encouraged that only the vulnerable are dying from Covid now. Maybe that’s why people don’t care — they have received this message from the top down.”

The reality is that cops are unlikely to target a white person in a KN95, and even if a mask ban has a carve out for medical face masks, there will inevitably be unintended consequences that will hurt people. “Under a mask ban,” says Alex, “protesters are essentially given a choice: unmask and face Covid and Long Covid, tear gas, and the life-destroying consequences of public doxxing, or remain masked and face even more police brutality and surveillance.” These bans may be pitched as a solution to crime and discrimination, but they harm everyone by eroding the right to privacy and health.

[20dollarlolita]

(It's been entirely too long since we've started a tutorial with a very blurry picture, which is a 20dollarlolita tradition. Am I about to fall over and only staying upright because of a death grip on this trim? Stay tuned to find out)

Let's make a skirt.

There's a lot of lolita fashion that doesn't fit most people. It's me. I'm most people. I'm going to wear it anyway, so I'm going to resize that to fit me.

The hardest part of resizing a lolita skirt (or skirt part of a dress) is that you almost never can get the fabric that the skirt was made out of. Lolita prints are usually pretty limited run. While some dresses will let you redistribute the fabric to have a slightly less full skirt, that's usually a major reconstruction that ends up drifting a bit away from the lolita shape.

x

A ruffled bustle bustle, however, is pretty common. Bustles like this are pretty common in lolita fashion and add an additional detail. In addition, you can make the waist of the skirt several inches bigger without a problem, and without compromising skirt fullness. If you ever want to undo the alteration, seaming the skirt back up is not very difficult. It's not a fully seamlessly reversible alteration, but there's far worse things you could do to the garment (ask me about my AP dress with mesh pits).

The problem is that bustles like this take quite a bit of energy and fabric, especially if you want to have details like lace trim. It's one of the more time-consuming alterations to do.

Or you can make one bustle/ruffle underskirt, one time, and wear it with all your skirt and dress modifications. You can splurge and get some nice trim and get some nice fabric, because you only need to buy it once. You can also wear it as a standalone skirt. (Just remember to never, ever steam it before taking pictures. You wouldn't want to look competent)

I put off making one of these for a very long time, because I'd made the process much more complicated in my head than it turned out needing to be. Once I was building this and realized I needed to simplify the fuck down, this became a really easy project.

Materials: I decided to make the ruffles on my skirt out of eyelet lawn, which is a cotton fabric that has an all-over embroidery. I got this for about $10 a yard on ebay. I don't have a very accurate judgement of how much I used on the skirt. I bought 4 yards and used probably 3.5, but I also wasted a bunch of fabric on an extra tier that I had to chop off. I wanted a fabric with more detail than broadcloth, but that wasn't exclusively going to work with OTT styling.

I got 30 yards of 1/2" Venise lace off cheeptrims.com for $9. I really recommend putting lace on your ruffles if you can. It really adds to the detail level, and you only need to buy it once. You already have to hem all of this so you might as well hem it with lace.

You will also want some fabric for the slip layer (for want of a better term) to attach the ruffles to. My ruffles were a little bit sheer, so I wanted an opaque base fabric for modesty. Depending on the look you're going for, you can also use this layer to add some subtle detailing or changes to the finished look. If you're only wearing it with over-the-top looks, using a base fabric with shine or glitter can stop your ultrabustle from looking too plain. If you're wanting your ruffles to lay flatter, getting a soft fabric with a lot of drape will make the ruffles droopier. I just used some weird cotton plainweave that I got at Green Store for 75% off due to a bolt-long defect.

I used 1" elastic in the waistband here, because this skirt can get a little bit heavy, and then you often have another skirt on top of it adding to the weight.

The other thing that I used that made this much easier was a ruffling attachment for my serger. You don't need to use a serger, but a ruffling or gathering attachment that allows you to ruffle a flat strip of fabric and sew it onto another piece of (not to-be-ruffled) fabric will speed things up considerably. I know a lot of people buy a ruffler or a gathering foot when they start sewing lolita, and then are disappointed when they don't use it very much. There's a very limited number of lolita applications for these attachments, and I'm happy to tell you that this is one of them. If you don't have one, you don't need to go buy one. You can just do the two-step process of gathering the fabric and then sewing it on. But if you wanted an excuse to go buy one, well, you have one.

The Plan:

So I'd previously made a lot of math and calculations for how each tier was going to gather into the previous one, and then realized during the build phase that actually was way too complicated.

What we need is a rectangle with ruffles on it gathered into a waistband. Yes, a rectangle. I know, I was stunned too, but the final result worked the best.

I wanted the tops of the ruffles to be hidden in seams. If you just sew ruffled strips onto a single piece of fabric, it's very difficult to hide all the raw edges and to make sure you're not spreading loose threads all over the place. We're going to make ruffled strips, and sew them to each other. This covers up the raw edges very nicely.

This also will allow you to slightly gather the second and top tiers to each other, if you want to make this skirt in an a-line instead of a bell/cupcake shape.

The Math:

If you know what skirts you're planning on wearing your ultrabustle with, it can help to measure them and get a good guideline.

Generally, you want your ultrabustle to be a number somewhere within these guidelines.

~~Close to the same length of the skirt you're wearing it with or ~~4"ish longer than the skirt you're wearing it with. (This depends on if you want the bottom ruffle to stick out. If you're Tallita and all the skirts and dresses you're resizing are also too short, you might want this to double as a ruffled underskirt) and ~~An acceptable length to wear as a skirt all on its own.

My first run at this ultrabustle was WAY too long, and after chopping off the entire top tier, it ended up being either 1" shorter or 1" longer than the skirts I'm planning on wearing it with, which is a great number for me.

As for the total fullness of the skirt, you have to remember that the ruffles will add visual volume to the skirt. This means that you don't actually need the hemline of your skirt to be super full. All that matters is that your petticoat can comfortably squeeze in there. For this, I measured the hemline of the smallest dress that I had that still fit my petticoat, and used that. It turned out to be about 80" around.

So, what sizes do we cut this at? It's math time.

Here's a worksheet if you want. You're going to need to know how long you want the finished skirt, how wide you want the hem of the slip (not the ruffle) of the skirt, how many ruffle layers you want, and your waist measurement.

The slip needs to be shorter than the ruffles, so it doesn't show. So total slip length is your skirt length minus 2.5". Divide that by the number of ruffle layers that you have, and you'll have how long to cut each of those. This is slip tier short side.

Each ruffle layer needs to be longer than each slip layer, so that the slip doesn't show. You want each ruffle to overlap the previous one. So, take your slip tier short side and add 2-3" (or more, if you want). This is your ruffle short side.

Your finished slip diameter is your slip tier long side. That one's easy.

If you're a math and planning person, you can determine your ruffle long side measurement. You'll want to take a piece of your fabric, cut to the ruffle short side measurement and also about 45+ inches wide, and a piece of your slip fabric. Run them both through your gathering attachment so that your ruffle fabric is sewn onto your slip fabric. If you like how that looks, you can then measure the finished length of the ruffled fabric and use that to calculate how much fabric you'll need for the ruffles. There's four places where people mess this up. First of all, if you're using your gathering attachment to sew and gather at the same time (which is the point of that attachment), you want to do all your test runs gathering it onto a fabric. The amount of fabric that goes into a machine ruffle changes depending on if it's onto fabric or just gathering. Second, you want to use your finished fabric, at your finished ruffle length. Different fabrics will ruffle different amounts, and different ruffle widths will look different even at the same gathering amount. Third mistake people make is to not gather a long enough strip. The longer a strip you gather, the more accurately you can measure how much fabric is actually going into your ruffle. And the fourth is to take that measure as an accurate one, and not plan for needing extra fabric. The upside of the gathering attachment is that it will save you so much time. The downside is that you can't be as accurate with knowing how much fabric you'll use. Remember, you can always turn the leftovers into a matching accessory. Even if you're going to go yolo like I did and not do the math about how many ruffles you need, you will still want to run a check that you like how your ruffling attachment looks. You don't need to measure super accurately, but try to get a feel for how much fabric is going into each ruffle. For example, if your ruffler takes a strip and makes it 1/3 it's flat size, then you'll need more fabric than if your ruffler makes it 1/2 it's flat size. If you're really on a budget, you can just cut your ruffles at 2.5x your slip long dimension and precisely gather by hand. My time's worth something to me and so it wasn't worth it to do that just to save a yard of $10 fabric.

The last part is just to check that your ruffle long dimension (or it's rough approximation) is still at least 2.75x your waist measure (3.25 is better). If you don't have that, your skirt likely won't look full enough for a lolita silhouette. If that's the case, just add to your skirt dimension until it is.

Actually making it:

Before you forget, cut out a piece for your waistband. You can decide if this looks better in your ruffle fabric or your slip fabric (I used slip). This piece should be 3ish" longer than the distance around the fullest part of your booty. You need this to be longer than your booty distance so that you can get it on your body. If you're using 1" elastic, you want this piece to be a minimum of 3" wide.

I've found that the easiest way to do this is to start out by making the whole skirt as a single, very long strip. So, I take my slip tiers and cut them all out, and sew them into a long strip.

On my specific fabric, I decided that I wanted the pattern on the eyelet to go lengthwise. So, instead of cutting the fabric across the grain (short side, selvedge to selvedge) like I normally would, I cut down the 4 yard length of the fabric. This meant a lot less seaming. Since I didn't really know how much fabric I was going to use (you know that test I described to check how much fabric you're going to use? Yeah, guess who didn't do that), I just cut them one 4-yard strip at a time. I'd ruffle one all the way, stop, and cut the next one. This did actually save me quite a bit of fabric versus cutting them all at once. I had to go back and sew the sides of the ruffle together once the skirt was done. It was a small price to pay for the convenience I experienced.

I knew what size I wanted the finished ruffle length to be, but I cut my ruffles about 2.5" longer than that. I wanted a little bit of wiggle room once the skirt was done, so that I could do the length adjustment once the whole skirt was assembled.

And then, it's just a matter of letting the ruffler do its work. My serger ruffler works by you putting the item to-be-ruffled on the bottom, and the item to attach the ruffle to on the top, and then just hitting go. Some other rufflers work by putting the to-be-ruffled at the top, so you can see it as you go. Like all sewing machine attachments, if you're not sure, just go on youtube and search "HOW SINGER GATHERING FOOT DO THING NOT LOOK LIKE SHIT?" and someone's probably made a video of it.

So, once you've run all your ruffle through your machine, you should have a nice single strip of slip fabric with a ruffle on top of it. Now, some gathering attachments don't actually sew super strong seams, because you have to adjust tension or stitch length pretty severely to get it to ruffle like you want. The other advantage of putting the ruffles in a seam instead of just topstitching them onto a piece of fabric is that it doesn't matter how strong your ruffle attachment is, as long as it's strong enough to hold until you can put the ruffle in the seam. The seam provides the strength.

Once you have your single long ruffle, cut off a section that's the diameter of your bottom tier.

Now you just need to sew them together (and finish your inside edges). I like to start at the bottom tier and go up.

For each tier, you're sewing the bottom of the slip layer to the top (ruffle and slip) of the tier below. Just pull the ruffle of the higher tier out of the way, put right sides together, and sew.

If you aren't using a serger, you can zigzag over your edges and then trim them down, use an overcasting stitch from your sewing machine, or topstitch some seam binding over the seams. The extra line of stitching on the slip layers in front won't be visible. One of the other nice things about building this in the way we have is that, when you finish the edges of your inside seams, you're putting three layers together and finishing it as one. This is actually a lot less then 1/3 of the work of finishing them separately, because you'd have to finish the ruffle as a flat piece, which would take way more time. Have I convinced you on the greatness of this technique yet?

Continue cutting pieces off your ruffle layer and stacking them until you have as many layers as you decided you were going to have.

Once you have your layers all stacked up on each other, it's time to sew the skirt back seam. I find that it looks best to hold the ruffles out of the way, sew the slip together, and then go back and sew all the ruffle pieces. Basically now is a good time to just check for any ugly spots and to touch them up.

There's like 50 ways to attach a waistband to a skirt. For this one I used this method (what a blast from the 20dollarlolita past we have there. Also please note that the cost of ruffler feet seems to have gone up from $15 to $60-$100 in the past 10 years and despite working in a sewing machine store, I'm not totally sure why).

Once you've got the whole skirt assembled, it's time for the finishing.

The first thing that I did was put it on and try to judge how short I wanted my top ruffle. I'd cut all my ruffles extra long in the short dimension, so that I could shorten them when they were on the skirt. I picked a length that worked, marked it out, and chopped at that point. I then did this for the other two layers. I found that I wanted my bottom ruffle to be a little bit longer than my top ones, and cutting it long allowed me to make that choice.

I then started just zigagging on my lace. If you don't have a serger, you can use the lace as a hem finish, which also saves you an additional step. The lace really added a lot to this, and since I only need to make this once to wear with a lot of different garments, it was an economical use of nice lace.

I started putting the lace on the top layer first. This is because, if I ran out of lace, having a different (wider) lace on the bottom layer wouldn't look strange. As previously mentioned, I did zero measuring of how long my ruffles are, and had no idea if 27 yards would be enough lace. Don't be like me. Do some tests. Or be like me and choose the life of treachery. Anyway, stick lace on this thing, please. You worked hard and your skirts deserve it.

The only other thing that I did was to cut the slip layer down by about 3" on the very bottom. I did this because I made a mistake, but I like how it looks.

You can take this system of ataching ruffles in rectangles or even a trapezoid and stick it in the back of a skirt (or skirt on a dress). I did that here because I knew that I wanted a pink bustle, not a white one.

I'll do a tutorial for the actual skirt resizing sometime after I actually resize a skirt with this. Here, all I did was slice the back, hem those edges, and then button on some waist ties from another dress. This let me easily add several inches to the back of this skirt, without needing to re-distribute pleats, and without sacrificing the fullness of the shape.

This will all sit a little bit better once I've pressed the skirt, as well. Steaming the top layer of this while the garment is on me/a dress form/a hanger will decrease the poof in the top layer a little bit, and honestly, we could benefit from that in this case.

Anyway, if you have this, you have a very fast way to enlarge existing garments.

So, while this has thankfully very much decreased in the past years, there's still some people with weird opinions on MoDiFyInG bUrAnDo, so let's have a talk. Lolita clothing is not community owned. If someone who was never going to sell a dress to you modifies it, that doesn't take it away from you. This is a mentality that we tend to have in lolita more than other fashion just because of our high resell scene, but it wasn't ever going to be your dress and so you don't need to have an opinion about what happens to a thing you were never going to personally own. Things have value more than money, and value is often changed rather than destroyed. AP's Halloween Treats OP has no value to me when sold for $500 on Lacemarket. I don't spend that much money on lolita, ever. But a questionably-altered AP's Halloween Treats OP that I can un-alter has value to me if the price is good. But a questionably-altered AP's Halloween Treats OP has very little value to someone who likes the price, but can't undo the alterations. When someone resizes a dress or skirt, true, sometimes the people who are the size it was originally made can't wear it anymore. You've decreased the value to them, but you've made it more valuable to people who are the size that you've made the garment become. This skirt had no value to me when it's waist measure is 7.5" too small, but now I can wear it, so it has functional value to me. A lot of people who say that modifying the dress ruins it are either ignoring that also the stress of putting a dress not sized large enough for your body can damage it and not look as great while doing so, or else they have a much worse take. People who say that modifying clothes ruins the garment, but also say that wearing a garment that's too small ruins the garment, what they're actually saying is that wearing that garment is a privilege that should not be extended to larger sized people, and if they say that then they can just, you know, go fuck themselves. We don't need that in the community. Everyone deserves to wear lolita, and some people have to work harder to achieve it, and that's not fair, but everyone deserves it.

So yeah, kiddos! Build a skirt! Go cut up some clothes! Wear the skirts you've always wanted to wear! You can do anything!

And to answer the question we opened this with, yes, I was absolutely falling over.