#WEARS HER SWEATER BACKWARDS

[bumblingbabooshka]

T'Rahni'hk putting on a sweater for a day of lounging at home

[dreamersworldduh]

BEYOND THE FUTURE

• CONNER KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You and Conner reunited with the future version of Conner, and other two your children—Cole and Cameron—each of whom reflects a unique blend of your legacy and Conner's strength. Over the course of a single day, you reconnect with each of them, learning who they've become and quietly mourning the years you missed. What began as a heartfelt reunion becomes a declaration of war.

This is no longer just your fight—it's a battle for your family, your legacy, and the future.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence.

WORDS! 12.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Sorry for the wait, babes! We have ended the semester and freed up some time for me to get this up! How are we liking the picture of an old Conner- I tried to do it in 10 minutes and that's the result. There’s more fics upcoming, so keep a lookout. Enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! — THE PAST

BY THE TIME morning arrived, the soft lighting of Mount Justice had already shifted from its cool night glow to a warmer, more natural hue, simulating the rise of a calm, early sun. The base was quiet, save for the subtle hum of technology and distant footsteps echoing through the corridors as systems returned to life. You and Conner walked side by side down the hall toward the Zeta-Tube chamber, your pace steady but filled with anticipation. Sleep had come in fits, broken by dreams and emotions that still hadn't fully settled, but the quiet intimacy of the night had steadied you both.

As the doors to the Zeta Bay slid open, your eyes were immediately drawn to the two figures waiting at the base of the platform.

Casey and Corra were already there, dressed not in their hero uniforms, but in something entirely different—something that struck you more deeply than you expected. They wore casual, modest clothing that bore the unmistakable flavor of Smallville, Kansas.

Casey had on a flannel button-up—faded red and black—and a pair of well-worn jeans tucked into dark work boots. The sleeves were rolled just below his elbows, and a soft gray hoodie hung loosely around his waist, knotted by the arms. It was the kind of outfit that didn't come from fashion, but from habit. Practical. Earthy. Familiar.

Corra leaned against the wall beside him, wearing an oversized denim jacket layered over a soft, wheat-colored sweater. Her jeans were cuffed just above her boots, and a baseball cap rested backward on her head, pushing a few stubborn strands of hair down over her forehead. Even her posture had shifted—less the poised, tactical field leader from the night before, and more the confident, grounded young woman who knew how to mend a fence or drive an old truck down a dirt road.

It wasn't just their clothes. It was the way they stood, the way they carried themselves. There was something deeply Midwestern about it—humble, familiar, tied to the land. And it told you one thing loud and clear: you had a home there.

When Casey spotted the two of you entering the room, he straightened from his casual lean against the Zeta controls and gave a faint smile.

"Morning," he greeted, voice light but still carrying that quiet depth of emotion that had become familiar in such a short time. "Hope you slept okay."

Conner nodded. "Well enough." He glanced at Casey's flannel and smirked. "You raiding Grandpa's closet or something?"

Casey gave a small chuckle. "Nah. This is just how we do it in Smallville. Didn't want you guys showing up in the future dressed like city boys."

Corra pushed off the wall and walked over to you, giving your arm a small nudge as she took in your sleep-rumpled clothes. "We're going into Dad's house, remember? He'll notice if your shirt's not tucked in or if you track mud onto the porch." She gave you a wink. "Just a heads-up."

You blinked, the realization settling more fully now.

You were about to walk into the house where your children had been raised. Where the future version of Conner—your partner, your other half—had spent years alone, trying to hold together the pieces of the life you'd once shared.

And now... you were going to step back into it.

Back into a life you hadn't yet built.

Casey approached the console and tapped a few commands. The Zeta-Tube flared to life, its light swirling in anticipation. "It's synced to the local receiver in Smallville," he explained. "We'll land just a few steps outside the house."

Corra slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and tilted her head, glancing between you and Conner. "You ready for this?"

You met Conner's eyes, searching the quiet tension behind his gaze. He nodded once, and then you turned back to your children—your grown children, who somehow still looked at you with wonder in their eyes.

"Let's go home," you said.

And with that, the four of you stepped onto the Zeta platform—two fathers, two future children, bound together by time, love, and a farm in Kansas waiting to greet you.

THE MOMENT the Zeta-Tube light faded and the quiet hum of Mount Justice vanished behind you, you were enveloped in the warm, open air of Kansas.

But not just any Kansas—the future Kansas.

It took a second for your eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of the countryside. The sun was higher here than it had been in the base, casting long golden rays across sprawling fields of wheat and wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly turned soil, honeysuckle, and something that could only be described as home drifted in the air.

You stepped down from the receiver pad, which had been cleverly disguised within an old, worn-down shed near the edge of the property. The familiar crunch of gravel under your boots grounded you as your gaze swept the landscape.

It was... peaceful.

And beside you, Conner had stopped moving altogether.

He stood stock-still just a few feet ahead of you, his broad shoulders squared as he took in the view. The farmhouse sat proudly at the top of the gently sloping hill, the whitewashed siding now a soft cream from years of sun exposure. A wraparound porch with a freshly painted railing circled the front, and a wind chime clinked gently near the door.

But it wasn't just the house. It was the fence line that curved along the edge of the property, repaired in places with new wood that hadn't quite aged yet. It was the red barn, taller now, expanded and reinforced. It was the family garden, thriving along the side of the porch in neat, structured rows.

Everything had been touched, altered, aged—lived in.

Conner's chest rose with a slow, deep breath as he looked at the place that had once been his safe haven—the place where Martha Kent had taught him how to plant tomatoes, how to fix a broken tractor, how to find peace in silence. A place that had grounded him when the world felt too loud.

His voice, when it came, was rough with emotion.

"...It's the same." He swallowed, then shook his head slightly. "But not. Everything's grown, rebuilt, improved... but it still feels like her."

You stepped up beside him, watching as the breeze shifted his hair and tugged at the hem of his shirt.

"This was your home," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "Even after all this time."

Conner gave a small nod, eyes still fixed on the farmhouse ahead. "Other than you... and the Cave... this is the only place that ever felt like mine."

Behind you, Casey and Corra gave you both space, standing a few paces back with soft expressions. Casey smiled faintly, his voice low as he stepped closer.

"Dad never left it. Even after everything." He glanced toward the house. "He stayed here. Raised us here. Trained us here."

Corra chimed in with a softer tone. "He said it was the only place that reminded him of who he used to be... and who he loved."

You and Conner exchanged a glance.

The weight of this place pressed into your chests—not in a suffocating way, but like a memory that hadn't yet happened.

And as you all began walking toward the house, your boots crunching against the packed dirt path, the fields swaying around you, and the wind whispering through the leaves, you realized something important:

You were already part of this future.

Even if time had tried to take you from it.

THE FRONT door creaked open with a familiar groan, the kind that came from years of wear but had never quite been fixed—left as-is because it was a sound that meant home. Corra stepped in first, her boots thudding lightly against the aged hardwood floors, followed by Casey, who held the door open for you and Conner as the warm, late-morning Kansas breeze drifted in behind you.

The moment you stepped across the threshold, something shifted deep inside you. The air smelled like aged wood, flour, cinnamon, and earth—so distinctly Midwestern, so Kent. This place didn't just feel like a home; it felt like a memory you hadn't made yet.

You and Conner paused just inside the foyer, your eyes instinctively drawn to the left wall, where a long stretch of framed photos lined the hallway like a timeline of lives lived fully. You stepped toward them slowly, your footsteps almost hesitant, as if approaching sacred ground.

The earliest photos made your breath catch in your throat.

There you were—both of you—younger versions of yourselves holding a swaddled baby in a hospital room. Conner beaming with proud, tear-brimmed eyes. You looking down at a tiny sleeping infant—Casey—with awe and disbelief etched on your face. The next few photos showed first birthdays, tiny toddler shoes, a birthday cake shaped like a rocket, little handprints pressed into plaster.

And then came Corra. One picture showed you and Conner each holding one of the children while sitting on the porch swing, her wild dark hair already escaping its bows, her tiny hands pulling at Conner's collar as she giggled.

More followed: Cole, scowling even as a toddler, standing stubbornly in a patch of mud while you knelt behind him, clearly trying not to laugh. Then Cameron, shy and quiet even in photos, always nestled in someone's arms or pressed into your side, clutching one of your sleeves.

For a moment, it was overwhelming. The joy, the warmth, the love—it was all there. Frozen in time. Proof that you had been a father, and not just in title. You were present. Involved. Loving. Essential.

But as your eyes moved farther down the line, you noticed the shift.

By the time Casey reached around thirteen, Corra nine, Cole eight, and Cameron five... you were gone from the photos.

In the later images, Conner stood alone—his face a little tighter around the eyes, his smiles a little more subdued. Sometimes he was behind the camera. Sometimes he was beside the kids, arms around them. But always without you.

The absence was deafening.

Conner stood beside you, jaw tight as he took in the same realization. His fingers brushed lightly against the edge of one of the frames—a family dinner photo where a high chair sat at the table, but only one parent was there.

You didn't speak. You didn't have to. The silence between you was filled with understanding, grief, and quiet determination.

Then, somewhere deeper in the house, the stillness shattered.

A loud voice rang out from upstairs—young, frustrated, and unmistakably a sibling-in-command kind of voice.

"CAMERON! I swear, if you don't get your slow ass down here before Corra and Casey show up, I'm telling Dad you were the one who crashed the grav-cycle!"

You heard the thud-thud-thud of boots stomping across the upstairs floor, followed by the unmistakable slam of a bedroom door opening.

Corra rolled her eyes with a fond groan. "And that would be Cole. Never quiet. Never subtle."

Casey smirked beside her. "He's got Dad's temper and Pa's sarcasm. It's a disaster waiting to happen."

Conner snorted at that. "Sounds about right."

But even as the banter passed between your children, your eyes drifted back to that last photo with you still in it—Cameron perched on your hip, arms looped around your neck, while the rest of the kids crowded in around you, all beaming at the camera.

It was a life you hadn't lived yet.

And it was time to reclaim it.

The sound of footsteps thundered down the hallway—a sharp, relentless rhythm pounding against the wooden floorboards, each step faster than the last. They echoed with the urgency of someone already mid-argument, someone whose frustration had momentum. Then came the telltale thud of someone hopping the last stair, followed by a second of silence—a breathless beat—and finally, the whip-crack sound of a body turning sharply at the corner of the hall.

Cole appeared, coming into view, all lean muscle and attitude. His black T-shirt clung to his broad chest and shoulders, stretched slightly and smudged with streaks of motor oil—obvious signs he'd just come from the garage or the barn, elbow-deep in gears and grease. His jeans hung low on his hips, worn in all the familiar places, the cuffs bunched just above scuffed boots that hit the floor like thunder. His dark hair was a little messy, his jaw set in that unmistakable way that meant he had something to say, and it wasn't going to be quiet.

His mouth was already open, mid-complaint—about Cameron, no doubt—but the moment his eyes locked onto the figures in the hallway, the words choked off before they could even form.

He skidded to a halt.

First, his eyes landed on Corra and Casey. A crease formed between his brows, a flicker of annoyance and confusion surfacing—probably expecting to find them already handling whatever mess Cameron had left behind. But then his gaze drifted past them. It caught you.

And Conner.

But not his Conner—the tired, timeworn version who bore the weight of a thousand decisions and too many lonely nights. This Conner was younger, more vibrant, sharper in the eyes and shoulders. The sight alone was jarring.

And then there was you.

Time seemed to stop around him. The sound in the hallway dropped away, the air itself thickened. His breath caught in his throat. You could almost see the flicker in his eyes as recognition tried to claw its way through years of disbelief and grief.

His body froze, muscles locking up like a system overload. His expression twisted—first into confusion, then something wide-eyed and raw. His mouth opened slightly, as though he meant to say something, but couldn't find the words. He blinked, slow and hard, like maybe he could shake the image from his vision.

But you were still there.

Still real.

You watched as his gaze searched yours—desperate for confirmation, for understanding, for something to anchor him. His chest rose and fell once, sharply, like his lungs had just remembered how to breathe. His face, usually so guarded with stubbornness and pride, softened with something heartbreakingly childlike.

"...Pa?"

The word fell from his lips like a ghost being set free. It cracked the air open.

You swallowed hard, barely able to speak past the emotion crawling up your throat. You took a slow, steady step forward, your voice a gentle thread. "Yeah... it's me."

But Cole didn't move. He stood there, rooted in place, eyes locked to yours like he was afraid any sudden motion would shatter the illusion. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, caught in the war between disbelief and desperate hope.

Conner shifted beside you, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back in a grounding gesture—quiet support. But Cole's eyes didn't leave you.

That's when Corra stepped forward, her voice quiet but unwavering. "It's really him," she said with a soft smile, her eyes shimmering. "They came from the past."

Casey nodded, his voice firmer, trying to be the voice of logic. "We brought them here. It's not a dream. Not a trick. No shapeshifting. No magic. They're real. They're ours, Cole."

Cole gave a small shake of his head, like the words weren't computing. You saw his throat bob with a hard swallow, the shine in his eyes becoming harder to hide.

"You were gone," he said, barely getting the words out. "Since I was eight. I don't..." His voice broke. His jaw clenched. He stopped himself before the emotion could splinter too deep.

You took another step forward, your heart heavy, your voice laced with apology. "I never meant to leave you."

That undid him.

He didn't hesitate anymore.

Cole surged forward in a single, desperate stride and crashed into you, arms wrapping tightly around your frame as he pulled you into him like he was trying to fuse time itself. His fists clutched the back of your shirt, knuckles white, face pressed into your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, his entire body seemed to melt against yours—not in weakness, but in the exhausted surrender of someone who had spent too long bracing himself against the ache of your absence. His fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt, clutching you like a lifeline, like letting go might somehow send you slipping back through time. You could feel the strength in his grip, not just physical, but emotional—every year, every missed moment poured into this one desperate hold.

Your hand cradled the back of his head, fingers sifting gently through his thick, tousled hair, still smelling faintly of oil and the outdoors. He trembled faintly in your arms, even as he fought to stay composed. You pressed your cheek to the crown of his head and closed your eyes, swallowing the bittersweet lump in your throat. There was a peace in holding him, a soft, aching peace that ran through your chest and out through your fingertips.

But then—upstairs—a door creaked open.

The faint sound of a voice drifted into the silence.

"I'm coming, Cole, alright? Calm down, I was—"

It wasn't loud or booming. It didn't crackle with irritation like Cole's had earlier. This voice was quieter, rounder, full of that melodic, slightly stubborn edge that still somehow sounded like kindness.

Your heart stuttered at the sound. It shouldn't have been enough to shake you—but it did.

Because you knew that voice.

You had never heard it in real life, but you had felt it in every story, every bedtime memory told secondhand by Conner or one of the older kids. You had imagined it a thousand different ways. But never like this. Never this real.

Cameron.

Soft, measured footsteps descended the staircase, lighter than Cole's. They landed with careful rhythm—like someone who'd learned how to move gently through spaces, like someone who thought more often than he spoke.

He came into view slowly, like time itself was pausing to let you see him properly.

He looked young—so heartbreakingly young. His dark hair was a soft mess, flopping lazily across his forehead, and his eyes were a pale, luminous shade of your own, wide and blinking in the morning light. He wore a loose green sweater that nearly swallowed him, the sleeves tugged down past his wrists, making him look smaller than he was. There was still sleep in his eyes, confusion pulling faint lines across his brow as he adjusted to the scene before him.

And then his gaze landed on you.

He stopped on the final step, his body going still, his hands clenching at his sides as he stared—not at the room, not at his siblings—but only at you.

You and Cole, locked in that quiet, reverent embrace.

His lips parted slightly, but the breath caught in his throat.

His expression fractured into disbelief.

His eyes—so open, so heartbreakingly clear—filled with something indescribable.

And then, in a voice so faint it nearly disappeared into the quiet...

"...Pa?"

It was barely more than a whisper.

But it cracked something in you.

The way he said it—it sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years, too sacred to speak aloud, too painful to hope for.

You turned to him slowly, your hand still resting gently on Cole's back, and extended your other hand toward your youngest boy, your heart in your throat.

"Hi, Cameron," you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He blinked, once, then again, and his lower lip began to tremble. You could see it happening behind his eyes—a battle of hope and fear, of disbelief crashing against something buried too deep to name.

Corra moved beside him, her hand a comforting presence at the center of his back. "It's real," she said, her voice gentle, as though speaking too loud might break him. "He's really here."

That was all it took.

Cameron took one tentative step.

Then another.

And then all at once, he was running.

He sprinted across the hallway in a blur, his feet barely making a sound as he closed the distance between you, his arms already outstretched.

Cole stepped back just in time as Cameron collided into you, arms flinging around your waist, his face burying into your chest with the sheer force of a boy trying to make up for lost time in a single second.

You wrapped your arms around him immediately, pressing him to you with everything you had. His body shook with quiet sobs, his fingers gripping your sides through your shirt as he clung to you like he might never get another chance.

"I missed you," he choked out, voice muffled and raw, breaking in the middle. "I missed you so much..."

"I missed you too," you whispered, your voice catching against the weight of your own tears. "All of you."

You held him like you were afraid the moment might vanish—like time would come and steal him back again. Cole stood just beside you now, his arm still brushing yours, close enough to lean in again if he needed to. And there you were, surrounded by them, your boys. One tall and quiet with motor oil on his hands. One small and trembling, buried against your chest.

And in that quiet moment, in the center of a house that had gone on without you, you held them both.

For the first time in years.

For the first time ever.

Conner stood a short distance away from the scene, just outside the intimate circle of the embrace unfolding in front of him. His arms hung loosely at his sides, shoulders square but still, and his eyes—blue-gray and fathomless—were locked on the three of you. His expression was difficult to read at first—his face composed, mouth set in a line, brows resting low—but there was a storm simmering beneath the calm. You saw it in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his fingers curled slightly as if resisting the urge to do something.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. But his silence said more than words could've.

He watched as. Cameron hadn't let go. He stayed pressed to your chest, clutching at your shirt like if he loosened his hold, you might vanish again. His shoulders trembled faintly, the top of his head tucked beneath your chin.

And still, Conner watched.

But it wasn't jealousy in his gaze. It wasn't anger either.

It was ache.

Because he had carried all of this—these children, this home, the weight of your absence—alone. Because he had been the one to soothe them through tears, to lift them when they fell, to tell them stories of who you were, to believe in the memory of you even when it got harder and harder to remember the sound of your laugh.

Because he had done it all—without you.

And now, here you stood, like time had gifted you back to them. Alive. Whole. Real.

It was a beautiful moment. But it trembled with tension, too—like a glass sculpture perched too close to the edge.

Then came the sound that shattered the silence: the soft, familiar creak of a door swinging open at the back of the house.

A moment later came the measured, heavy thud of boots stepping onto tile—confident, grounded, practical.

Then a voice followed, distant but distinct—gruff and sure, low like a slow river over gravel. It carried no urgency, just the casual weariness of someone returning from work.

"I'm home. Someone left the barn door open again."

You felt Conner beside you—your Conner—go rigid. Not visibly, but you sensed the shift in him. The way his breath slowed. The tension in his spine. The subtle straightening of his stance.

The voice came again—closer this time. A tone you hadn't heard, but knew, like a song you'd forgotten the lyrics to.

"Where is everybody? Cole? Cam?"

Footsteps approached with purpose, solid and familiar. The sound echoed faintly through the kitchen until, at last, he stepped into view—into the hall.

The older Conner Kent.

He emerged through the doorway, wiping grease from his fingers with an old cloth, his boots heavy with the day's labor. A dark, flannel-lined jacket hung over a fitted black T-shirt, his jeans faded and frayed at the knees. Earth clung to the soles of his boots, and his presence filled the space without even trying.

But it wasn't just the clothes. It was him.

Older. Weathered. Not broken, but worn by time in the way a tree becomes strong—scarred and rooted. There were streaks of silver threading through his hair near his temples, and faint lines carved around his eyes. A full, well-kept beard framed his jaw, adding a certain gravity to his already strong features. His frame was still powerful, still broad-shouldered and straight-backed, like he hadn't let the world bend him no matter how much it tried.

And then he saw you.

He stopped.

Dead still.

His eyes—the same eyes as your Conner's—swept the foyer, quickly taking in the scene. Cameron, still pressed into your chest. Cole, lingering at your side with wet lashes and parted lips. A version of himself standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and rigid, staring back at him like a reflection stolen from another life.

And then... you.

His gaze landed on you, and it stayed there.

You watched the recognition flood into his face—slow at first, then sharp and consuming. The way his eyes widened slightly, the way his lips parted like he was about to speak and forgot how. The way his entire body shifted, not back, but forward, drawn in by something primal.

"...You," he breathed.

His voice was quieter now. Hollowed out by disbelief. There was no anger in it—only awe, raw and trembling beneath a shell of hard-earned restraint.

You nodded slowly, your throat thick, your heart pounding as you echoed softly, "Yeah. It's me."

Time itself seemed to fold in on the space between you.

The older Conner stood there, unmoving but completely undone behind his eyes. You could see it all—the memories rising like ghosts, the years without you, the nights spent aching for answers, the weight of fatherhood that never let up. And now, here you were, alive and real, looking at him with the same love he had carried like a burden for decades.

And behind you, your Conner stared at his future.

He saw the lines etched by sleepless nights, the stiff spine from too many years of standing alone, the shoulders grown broader from carrying four children's pain. He saw what he would become—who he had to become—if you never made it back.

And Conner—the older one—looked into his past. The man he used to be. The man who still loved you. Who never stopped.

THE SILENCE that fell over the room was suffocating—thick and unmoving, like the air had congealed into something heavy enough to crush lungs. No one dared to speak. No one even shifted. The overhead fan continued its slow, methodical spin above them, and the ticking of the clock on the wall marched on—both sounds suddenly deafening in the stillness, in the gravity of what had just unfolded.

Older Conner remained rooted in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, one hand still gripping the grease-stained rag he'd carried in, forgotten. His eyes were locked onto you—hard and unblinking—as if the mere act of looking at you took everything he had. His chest rose and fell in deliberate, restrained movements. But there was nothing steady about him. You could feel the tremor beneath his stillness, the tension vibrating through the air like electricity before a storm. His heartbeat wasn't just fast—it was furious, a silent percussion you swore you could feel thudding through the floor beneath your feet.

He was caught between two instincts—run to you, or run from you.

His gaze shifted, breaking from yours for only a moment as it scanned his children.

Cameron still clung to your side, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his head buried into your chest like a boy who hadn't aged past the moment you'd vanished from his life. Cole stood just beside you, still trying to stay composed but visibly shaken, eyes flickering between the two versions of Conner—his brain struggling to reconcile the man who raised him with the man who had suddenly returned.

Corra and Casey stood apart, closer to the staircase, but the anxiety radiating off of them was palpable. Corra's hands were clenched in front of her, as if holding herself still would somehow keep the moment from fracturing further. Casey stood like a soldier—tall, square-shouldered, resolute—but his jaw was tight, his hands curling slightly at his sides.

Older Conner's eyes landed on him last.

And that's when the question finally left his lips—scraped raw and hoarse, like it hurt to speak.

"...What did you do?"

There was no awe in his voice. No joy. Just the brittle edge of disbelief laced with an old, festering pain.

His gaze darkened, narrowed. "How is this possible?" His voice hardened. "How is he—how are they—here?"

Casey didn't back down.

"I brought them," he said simply, each word measured and unflinching. "From the past."

Older Conner blinked. Hard. His body flinched like the words physically struck him. "You what?"

"I used a time tether," Casey said, eyes never leaving his father's. "Zatanna helped me. I found her, convinced her. It took weeks. It was dangerous. But it worked."

"You used magic—" Conner cut him off, his voice rising like a thunderclap. "You tampered with the timeline? With—him?"

He jabbed a shaking hand in your direction. The word stuck in his throat, the emotion behind it too thick to swallow.

This wasn't fury born from arrogance—it was anguish. It was the terror of a man who had spent years surviving loss, only to have that wound reopened.

"You don't understand what you've done," he continued, his voice cracking, his hands beginning to tremble. "The timeline—our lives—the world—everything we've fought for—he—"

"He was going to die," Casey snapped, his voice rising now to match his father's. "You both were. Olympian went back to their time. We were losing. I wasn't going to wait around and let it happen again."

"You had no right!" Conner shouted, taking a step forward, his face twisted in disbelief and betrayal.

"I had every right," Casey barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You weren't the only one who lost him. I did. We all did. I saw a chance to save him—and you. And I took it."

A breathless silence settled again—this one different. Not suffocating, but shell-shocked.

Older Conner stood completely still, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched. His chest was rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths, like the storm inside him was trying to break loose.

And then, his gaze drifted back to you.

His eyes softened—barely—but it was enough for you to see it. The break. The crack in the armor he'd spent years welding together.

"I buried you once," he said quietly, voice like gravel. "I carried your body. I had to tell them you weren't coming back. I've lived every single day knowing what it's like to wake up without you. I can't..." his voice wavered, "I can't do that again."

You opened your mouth to speak—to tell him you weren't going anywhere. That this was different. That it wasn't some illusion, some cosmic fluke.

But you never got the chance.

In a single, jagged motion, he turned on his heel. The rag slipped from his hand and fell to the floor like a shed skin.

The sound of his boots echoed down the hallway, hard and fast, the air behind him thick with grief and fury.

The back door flung open with a sharp click and then—

SLAM.

The screen door swung shut behind him with a final, violent rattle, and he was gone.

Gone like he had been trained to disappear. Like pain had taught him that walking away was the only way to survive it.

The silence left behind was deafening.

Casey stood frozen, his chest heaving slightly, his face a war between guilt and defiance. His hands shook, though he clenched them tight, determined not to let anyone see.

Corra turned away slightly, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like she was trying to contain the swell of emotion rising in her throat.

Cameron stayed pressed against you, eyes glassy and scared, small fingers tangled in your shirt as if the slamming door had threatened to take you with it.

You stared at the door.

The space he had filled. The silence he left behind.

And you knew, without question, what needed to happen next.

You'd have to go to him. You'd have to find the man behind that wall of pain and time.

But not yet.

You'd give him the space to breathe, to break, to feel what he needed to feel.

Because when you went to him—you wanted him to be ready.

And you'd be there, waiting. For him.

THE FRONT door creaked faintly behind him as Younger Conner stepped out, letting it close with a soft click that was swallowed quickly by the open air. The Kansas morning wrapped around him like a memory—warm, slightly humid, tinged with the scent of rich soil and sun-warmed grass. The sky above was a canvas of soft gold and pale blue, the early sun stretching its light across the land in long, honeyed streaks that dappled the edges of the farmhouse and the worn gravel driveway.

He stood still for a moment, letting the sounds of the farm settle into him. Birds chirping lazily from the tree line, the occasional buzz of a bee passing too close, and the rhythmic clink of metal tools from near the barn—deliberate, steady, unhurried. He followed the noise with his eyes and found him.

His older self.

Just past the barn doors, Older Conner was crouched beside the weathered frame of a long-retired red tractor, its paint chipped and dulled by time. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and sun-worn skin. He was focused on tightening a stubborn bolt, muttering under his breath when the wrench slipped, and then tightening it again like his life depended on the motion. Like if he kept doing, he wouldn't have to feel.

Younger Conner took a slow step forward, gravel crunching lightly under his boots. He hesitated, watching.

The man in front of him was undeniably him, yet not. His frame was heavier with time—stronger, yes, but slower, steadier. His once-coal black hair now held thick streaks of silver, especially around the temples. His beard was full and salt-and-pepper, neatly trimmed, but aged him even more than the years had. And his face—hardened. The youthful sharpness of it had been carved into something more stoic, more weary. Every line etched by stress, by grief. By you.

Because now Conner could see it.

What Corra had meant.

He wasn't just seeing a version of himself that had grown older. He was seeing a version that had grown lonelier.

There was a weight in every movement, a heaviness in the way Older Conner stood, in the way his brow furrowed even when he wasn't speaking. He didn't move like someone carrying responsibilities.

He moved like someone carrying a void.

And that void had a shape.

Your shape.

Younger Conner exhaled quietly, then finally stepped closer, his tone light—gentle. "You're really giving that bolt hell."

Older Conner didn't glance up. He gave the bolt one final turn, tested it with a nudge of his thumb, then reached for a different tool.

"You don't get an old machine to keep running by taking it easy," he said, his voice low and rough. "Everything worth keeping takes effort."

Younger Conner didn't crowd him. He leaned against the edge of the barn doorframe, arms folded, gaze soft as he watched his future self in silence.

Time passed between them—not empty, but charged. The quiet wasn't awkward. It was thick with understanding neither of them had the words for yet.

"I saw the photos," Conner finally said. "In the hallway. I saw the point where he stopped being in them."

Older Conner's hand paused on the wrench. Just for a second. His fingers tightened, his knuckles whitening. But he didn't turn.

Younger Conner swallowed and kept going. "I didn't get it at first. I thought maybe it was just... the way things played out. That people drift, or something happened. But I get it now. What it must've done to you. What it meant."

At that, Older Conner finally straightened. He didn't speak immediately—just looked out across the open fields beyond the barn, where wheat was beginning to ripple beneath a light breeze. His shoulders rose and fell once before he said anything.

"He died twelve years ago," he murmured. "Felt like the world cracked down the middle."

Younger Conner stayed still, barely breathing.

"One minute, he was there," Older Conner continued, voice even rougher now. "Standing in front of us, glowing. Burning brighter than anything I'd ever seen. Pushing back everything dark that wanted to swallow us. The next minute..."

His jaw flexed. His eyes closed.

"Gone."

Younger Conner lowered his head, letting the silence speak for him.

"He wasn't just my husband," Older Conner said, voice quieter. "He was my best friend. My partner. My reason to keep going. He reminded me who I was, when the world tried to make me forget. I didn't build a life. I built one with him. And then—"

He stopped, then gave a quiet, humorless laugh.

"I never planned for what came after."

Younger Conner looked down at his own hands, his voice soft but sincere. "I wouldn't have either."

Older Conner turned his head just slightly. Their eyes met—his older gaze heavy with memory, grief, and a sharp understanding. He looked at his younger self not with disappointment, but with knowing.

"You will," he said. "If you love him like I did—do—you'll understand. Every inch of it. Every price. And it'll still be worth it."

"I already do," Younger Conner replied immediately, without hesitation. "That's why I came out here. I didn't want to argue. I didn't come to question what you've done. I just wanted you to know... we're not here to reopen anything. We're here because we still have a chance."

Older Conner finally turned to face him fully. His arms lowered. His face—still guarded—softened just a fraction.

"It's not the wounds I'm afraid of," he said after a moment. "It's the ghosts. They don't scream. They whisper. All day. All night. And when you live with them long enough... they're the only voices you remember."

Younger Conner stepped off the frame of the barn and took a slow step forward, stopping just a few feet away.

"Well... he's not a ghost today," he said gently. "He's standing in that house, holding our boys, breathing, smiling. Right now. We don't have to imagine him. We don't have to remember."

Older Conner stared at him.

Not as a man looking into a mirror.

But as someone looking at the possibility of healing—and being terrified of it.

And yet... his expression shifted. The tension in his brow loosened. His hands relaxed at his sides. His eyes shimmered faintly—not with tears, but with life beginning to seep into old cracks.

He gave a single, slow nod.

"No," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "He's not."

And for the first time in over a decade... the door inside him began to creak open.

THE SCREEN door groaned open, its hinges protesting against the morning breeze as two sets of footsteps crossed the threshold—measured, unhurried, in sync without effort. One set was lighter, younger, familiar with movement yet not heavy with burden. The other was older, deeper, each step resonating with the weight of time and memory. The footsteps traveled into the warmth of the house, where the scent of home clung to the walls like something sacred—sizzling eggs, golden toast, the faint sugary perfume of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven.

You sat in the heart of it all—at the center of the farmhouse kitchen table, surrounded by the world you thought you'd never see again.

The table was crowded, alive with voices and food and the kind of chaos only a well-loved family can create. Casey was posted at the far end, animatedly cutting into a towering stack of pancakes as he gestured through a half-told story. Corra, effortlessly comfortable, sat sideways in her chair with one leg folded underneath her, nonchalantly stealing berries from her twin brother's plate. Cole batted her hand away with a groan but didn't actually move his plate, smirking all the same.

And then there was Cameron.

Still shaking off the sleep in his bones, he leaned drowsily into your side, head tilted ever so slightly against your shoulder, letting your arm rest around him like it had never left. His plate sat barely touched in front of him, and your other hand held a mug of coffee, warm against your fingers. His presence was quiet, but solid—anchored. Like the world had finally stopped shifting beneath his feet.

You smiled, soft and full. The kind of smile that only came when something lost had been found.

In that moment, to anyone looking, it was as if you had never left. As if time had stitched itself back into place, no seams, no gaps. Just home.

Then came the creak of the door again.

The hush before a storm—or something gentler.

The footfalls crossed the threshold and stopped just inside the hallway entrance.

And slowly, instinctively, the room turned.

It wasn't planned or rehearsed. It was reflex. Every face shifted toward the doorway, every conversation dropped off mid-sentence. Eyes moved like a silent current toward the figures now standing at the edge of the kitchen.

Younger Conner stood there first—his frame taut, alert, his hands loosely clenched at his sides. His gaze was calm but watchful, as if bracing for a ripple he couldn't quite predict. And beside him, towering just slightly more, was Older Conner.

Bearded. Weathered. Steel-eyed. But different now.

Softer.

There was a stillness in him that hadn't been there before. A kind of fragile peace resting in the space where pain had lived for too long.

The warmth of the kitchen dimmed into quiet as every pair of eyes took him in. Your children didn't flinch. They didn't recoil. But they didn't speak either. They waited.

And then—his eyes found you.

Time didn't freeze, but it bent. Just enough.

You held his gaze across the expanse of the room, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. He didn't look away. He didn't try to guard himself like before. He simply stood—watching you, breathing you in, the faintest tremble in his exhale betraying everything he felt but couldn't yet say.

His eyes traveled the room slowly, resting on each of his children—Casey, Corra, Cole, and Cameron—all of them alive, all of them together. And then back to you.

And then... he stepped forward.

"I owe some apologies," he said, voice low and sandpapered but no longer clenched in fury. "Especially to you, Casey."

The words carried weight. More than just acknowledgment—they were a surrender.

Casey, midway through a bite of pancakes, paused and looked up, lips parted. He didn't speak right away. He watched his father with quiet caution, waiting to hear the rest.

Older Conner shifted his weight, hands twitching slightly at his sides, as if speaking the truth was harder than lifting mountains.

"You did what you thought was right. Because you love him. Because you love us." His eyes flicked briefly toward you, then back. "I was too angry to see it. I didn't want to believe anyone had to make that choice. But I understand now. You just didn't want to keep losing the people you love."

Casey lowered his fork. His nod was small, but it was enough. "I didn't want to lose you either," he said quietly.

Conner swallowed hard.

His gaze turned to you.

"And you..." His voice faltered—just a little. But he pressed on. "I didn't mean to walk out on you. I didn't know what to say when I saw you. I still don't. I've been angry for so long. Not at you. At everything. At myself."

You rose slowly from your chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floorboards. The table faded away. The kitchen faded away.

All that existed was the space between you.

"I understand," you said, voice gentle, your eyes never leaving his.

He nodded—barely. His jaw clenched again, fighting for composure. But the storm behind his eyes had calmed. The years between you had dulled, just for a moment, enough for love to find a way through the cracks.

And then—

"Does this mean Dad won't yell at me if I skip dishes today?" Cameron piped up, his voice light, teasing, hopeful.

There was a beat of silence—just one.

Then laughter burst across the table. Rich, free, and warm. Corra snorted into her drink. Cole rolled his eyes. Casey grinned and tossed a berry at Cameron, who caught it in his mouth with a triumphant grin.

Older Conner shook his head, a small huff escaping him that was almost—almost—a laugh.

"Nice try," he said.

But then he looked at you again.

And this time, the pain was still there—but so was the healing. Something in his gaze had changed. A door had opened. The shadows weren't gone, but the light had found a way in.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

THE GOLDEN haze of afternoon had given way to the soft, amber tones of early evening, casting long, sleepy shadows across the Kent farmhouse. Outside, the fields glowed like sunlit oceans of wheat, swaying in a gentle breeze that whispered through open windows and carried with it the scent of tilled earth, honeysuckle, and late-summer warmth.

Inside, the house pulsed with a kind of quiet magic—not from powers or fate, but from the simple, sacred rhythm of family. It was the rhythm of a home in motion, familiar and foreign all at once. The sound of your children laughing, the clatter of dishes, the echo of music humming faintly from a speaker somewhere in the background—it filled the rooms like sunlight, chasing away the years you'd missed with something far more real.

And you'd spent most of the day watching—drinking in the sight of them not as soldiers or missions or headlines, but as your kids. Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. People who had grown up without you but still, somehow, carried pieces of you inside them.

Casey was every bit the soldier you'd heard about—calm, efficient, sharp-eyed. But beneath that perfect posture and tactical precision was a young man who struggled to turn his brain off. He filled every spare moment with action: reviewing data logs, drafting new patrol routes, analyzing mission reports with all the seriousness of a general. You'd watched him furrow his brow over a report at lunch, the others teasing him for it, and you'd felt both pride and heartbreak.

Corra was a whirlwind wrapped in contradictions. Wild, witty, full of opinions and utterly uninterested in being told no. She spoke her mind like a weapon and laughed like a firecracker. But then you'd seen her disappear into the corner of the porch later, sketchpad in hand, drawing with a delicacy that didn't match her brash energy. Faces. Always faces. She didn't want anyone to see them, but you caught her looking at you once as she quietly flipped to a new page.

Cole—gods, he was a handful. The sarcasm practically leaked from his pores, and his arguments with Corra were already legendary. But there was depth behind the bravado. He worked with his hands, disappearing for hours into the barn or the garage, reengineering things that didn't need fixing just because he could. He didn't brag about it, but there was a tenderness hidden in the things he built. You noticed the way he followed Cameron with his eyes, always a few paces behind, pretending not to hover. But he did.

And Cameron. Already more attuned to emotion than most adults. He didn't say much, but his silences weren't empty. They were listening. Feeling. You caught him once standing by the window, fingers trailing the frame, just watching the sunset like it was speaking to him. Later, Corra told you he kept a box of dried flowers under his bed, collected from every place he'd been. A silent collection of beauty gathered in the cracks between missions. A quiet archive of everything he'd survived.

You'd missed so much.

But now, with the sky bleeding orange and lavender and the scent of dinner curling through the hallways, you were here. You were part of it.

By the time the sun had slipped behind the hills, the house had become a warm cacophony of clatter, chaos, and comfort.

Corra and Cole were currently locked in a full-on wrestling match in the middle of the living room rug, shrieking with laughter as limbs tangled.

"Say it!" Corra shouted, pinning Cole's arm behind his back. "Say I'm stronger!"

"NEVER!" Cole barked back, red-faced and thrashing beneath her grip, his voice muffled by the couch cushion.

"Say it or I'm gonna make you eat that stupid sock you call a beanie!"

"IT'S VINTAGE!"

In the hallway, Cameron guided Younger Conner through the den, stopping in front of a long shelf lined with trophies, medals, and keepsakes. "That one's from the peace summit on New Genesis," he said softly, tapping a glass orb filled with silvery dust. "I helped stop a civil war by translating emotion through shared dreams. No violence. Just... understanding."

Younger Conner blinked. "You're telling me you pulled off intergalactic therapy?"

Cameron grinned shyly. "Dad says it made him cry. He denies it, though."

"Hell, I believe it. That's some next-level empathy, kid."

Meanwhile, the kitchen had become its own warm ecosystem.

The aroma of garlic and rosemary drifted thick through the air as Older Conner stood over the stove, focused and precise, stirring a dark, bubbling sauce with military attention. He wore an old, grease-smudged apron, and the corners of his mouth twitched every time the oven timer dinged. The clink of metal utensils, the low sizzle from the roast, and the occasional mutter under his breath filled the space.

Beside him, Casey stood at the counter, chopping carrots like he was disarming a bomb, sneaking glances at his father between every cut.

"You don't have to hover," Conner muttered.

"You burn the bread every time," Casey replied, sliding a tray toward the oven.

"That happened once."

"Three times. M'gann's rations remember."

Older Conner scoffed. "You wanna cook?"

"Not unless we want tactical failure by dessert."

That's when you stepped in.

You dried your hands on a dish towel as you entered, the glow of the kitchen lights catching in your eyes. You paused for just a moment, leaning against the counter, taking it all in—Conner and Casey side-by-side, sharing quiet jabs and glances, moving together in a rhythm only built through years of love and resilience.

"I figured I'd come help," you said, casual, your voice soft but certain as you stepped forward.

Both heads turned toward you.

Older Conner met your gaze. There was a beat—a pause in the air thick enough to press against your chest—but he nodded slowly, then motioned to a colander of washed vegetables.

"You can prep the salad," he said. His tone was gruff, but there was no edge to it. Just something warm. "And keep Casey from over-engineering the dressing."

"Hey," Casey said, smirking. "Don't knock molecular gastronomy."

You rolled your eyes with a smile, sliding in beside them and reaching for a knife. The cutting board thudded gently beneath your hands, the simple rhythm of dinner prep grounding you more than anything else had since arriving.

And there you were.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man who had carried your memory for over a decade, and the son you didn't get to raise—but already admired.

It wasn't a dramatic moment. No speeches. No big declarations.

It was chopping lettuce. Stirring vinaigrette. Passing a spoon. Sharing space.

And in that quiet, unremarkable task—amid the scents of rosemary and warm bread, the bubbling laughter from the living room, and the sound of your children being home—you weren't just a guest in their lives anymore.

You were back.

Not as a ghost. Not as a memory.

As part of it.

A father. A partner. A piece of the family they had tried so hard to keep whole.

THE OVEN let out a low, steady hum, its warmth bleeding into the kitchen like a soft heartbeat. The scent of rosemary, roasted vegetables, garlic, and slow-cooked meat hung thick in the air—comforting, familiar, and grounding. It mingled with the golden glow of early evening, spilling through the kitchen window and bathing everything in soft, amber light. The room, once bustling with chatter and overlapping voices, had settled into a rare, well-earned stillness.

It wasn't silence that felt empty. It felt full—weighted with all the things said, unsaid, and finally starting to heal.

Somewhere deeper in the house, the distant sounds of life carried on. From the living room, laughter erupted, followed by the unmistakable thump of someone—likely Cole—falling off the couch again, accompanied by Corra's triumphant shout. Muffled music buzzed from Cameron's room, underscored by the soft cadence of conversation filtering faintly through the hallway.

The house was alive. A heartbeat. A home.

But here, in the kitchen, it was just the two of you.

Older Conner stood across from you, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his posture relaxed but laced with something deeper. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows of a well-worn flannel shirt, and his beard caught the kitchen light in thin streaks of silver and warmth. His gaze wasn't on you—not directly. He stared at the pot simmering on the stovetop, but his eyes were far away, caught in memories too fragile to voice yet.

You stood at the cutting board, the gentle thunk of your knife slicing through cucumber the only real sound in the room besides the hum of the oven and the faint tick of the wall clock. You weren't really paying attention to the salad anymore. Your focus kept drifting to him. The silence between you was thick—not tense, but tender. Like standing on the edge of a moment neither of you wanted to rush.

Then, quietly, you broke it.

"Casey's... remarkable," you said, your voice soft. "I've only been here a day and already I can see it. How grounded he is. How sharp. How deeply he loves all of you. I can't believe I missed getting to watch him become that."

Conner didn't answer right away, but the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, or maybe a memory passing through him.

"He always had that fire," he murmured. "Even as a kid. He wanted to fix things. Protect people. He didn't wait to be given permission—he stepped into the role. Always two steps ahead. That part..." he looked up, finally meeting your eyes, "that part's all you."

You looked down, heart swelling and aching at once. "He has your strength. And your stillness. He sees everything."

Conner's gaze softened. "He's ours."

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening. "I still remember the day I found out I was pregnant. I was terrified. J'onn thought it was a mutation at first, something unstable—because I wasn't supposed to be able to carry. And then... suddenly, I was. With him."

Conner straightened, the memory flickering like a light inside him. He stepped forward, closer, his voice low and cracked with a kind of reverence.

"That day..." he said, eyes fixed on yours, "was one of the happiest of my life."

You blinked, surprised by the conviction in his voice.

"I remember you coming into the Cave," he went on, quieter now. "You'd just had that check-up with J'onn and Bruce. You walked straight toward me, but your hands were shaking. You didn't say anything at first. And then you did. You whispered it. And for a second, I couldn't breathe."

He gave a faint, breathless laugh. "Like the world just... stopped. Like all the war, all the missions, all the noise had quieted to give me that one moment."

You said nothing, afraid if you did, you'd lose your hold on the emotions flooding your chest.

"I used to talk to him," he continued. "Every night. While you slept. Even when there was nothing to feel yet. I'd press my hand to your stomach and tell him how much I loved you. How we were going to make this work. Give him a life that felt safe. That felt like home."

A long, quiet beat.

"And for a while... we did."

You closed your eyes, drawing in a slow breath to keep yourself steady. But the guilt settled over you like an old, familiar ache.

"I'm sorry I left you to do it alone," you whispered, voice barely audible.

Conner turned toward you fully then, his expression solid, eyes bright with a kind of fire that hadn't dimmed, even with time.

"You didn't leave," he said, firm and immediate. "You fought. You died protecting us. Protecting them. You didn't walk away. You didn't run. You saved us."

He paused, stepping closer until he was beside you, until the warmth from him was real and close and steady.

"You just didn't come back."

The words struck deep—soft, painful, but true. And somehow, they brought a measure of peace.

You looked at him then—not as a memory or a scar, but as a man. The boy who once kissed you in the rain behind the Tower. The father who had raised your children without you. The soldier who carried the weight of grief like it was armor.

And the man who never stopped loving you.

He reached out, his hand finding yours on the counter. His palm was calloused, rough at the edges, but warm—solid in a way that made you want to lean into him and never let go.

His fingers closed around yours.

"But now," he said softly, "you're here. Even if it's borrowed time. Even if the world pulls you back again... I needed this. I needed you. Just once more."

You blinked fast, the heat behind your eyes threatening to spill over. "I needed it too."

Neither of you moved after that.

The soft tick-tick-tick of the oven timer was the only sound that lingered in the kitchen after your quiet exchange with Older Conner. It filled the air like a metronome to your thoughts—slow, constant, reminding you both of the fragile thread holding this moment together. The kind of stillness that comes after an emotional tide—when words have done their part, and all that remains is breath.

And then, from the next room, a low crackle broke through the silence.

The stereo—old, slightly dusty, clearly temperamental—whirred to life with a soft hiss before spilling music into the house. A slow, soulful tune emerged from its speakers, all faded vinyl warmth and aching melody. It was the kind of song made for twilight moments—the ones that exist between conversation and silence. The kind that wraps around you like old sheets and distant memories.

You knew the song. Not just in the way people know lyrics, but in the way it lived in your bones.

You'd danced to it once. In a different kitchen, maybe. Or a bedroom with the lights low. Barefoot. Laughing. Wrapped in his arms while the world spun quietly outside your window.

And now, it played again. Like the universe had rewound the clock for just a little while.

You turned slightly, eyes drawn toward the soft hum of the music bleeding in from the living room. A smile tugged at your lips—nostalgic, tentative, real.

Before you could speak, Conner shifted beside you.

And then... his hand reached out.

Palm open. Steady. Offering—not demanding. A quiet invitation, spoken not through words but through the weight in his gaze. A gaze that held grief and memory, but more than anything else... longing.

"Dance with me?" he asked. Barely louder than a whisper.

Your heart caught, your breath stuttered—but only for a second.

"Yes," you breathed.

You slid your fingers into his. His hand enveloped yours, warm and steady, and he guided you gently—out of the kitchen's narrow space, toward the center of the room, where the worn hardwood caught the fading golden light just right.

He pulled you close—not roughly, not even with urgency. Just close.

The space between your bodies vanished. His arm slipped around your back, drawing you in, while his other hand rested against the back of your neck, fingertips brushing your hair like he couldn't believe you were really there. You felt his chest rise against yours, then fall in a quiet, steady rhythm.

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his collarbone without thinking. The scent of him—earth, spice, the faintest trace of engine grease—surrounded you like an embrace all its own.

He started to sway—slow, careful, as if he were relearning how to move with you. One step, then another. Barely dancing, really. Just holding. Rocking. Breathing.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Slow. Steady. Anchoring.

And neither of you said a word.

There was no need.

Because in that moment, it wasn't about what had been said—it was about what hadn't. About the years that lived between you, and how, somehow, you had found your way back to each other across the ruins of all that was lost.

It wasn't romantic, not in the way the movies tried to sell it.

It was real.

In the doorway, unseen by either of you, four figures appeared.

Casey was first—leaning just enough to see. His brow furrowed at the sight, then softened. Corra stepped beside him, lips parted, one hand lifting to her chest, as though something deep in her had cracked open. Behind them, Cole folded his arms and muttered, "You guys are so sappy," but didn't move. Didn't blink.

And Cameron... Cameron just smiled. Quietly. Brightly. Like something unspoken in his chest had clicked back into place.

They all watched for a few seconds longer—long enough to feel it. The gravity in the room. The history. The ache and the healing. And then, like shadows, they retreated—silent and reverent.

In the hallway, they found Younger Conner leaning against the wall, arms crossed and casual, though his eyes betrayed far more than his posture suggested.

"What?" he asked, eyebrow raised, tone half-curious, half-defensive.

Corra smirked, nudging him playfully. "You still got moves."

Casey chuckled under his breath. "And a vice grip. He's holding Pa like if he lets go, the world might end again."

Younger Conner didn't respond right away.

Because he'd seen it, too. Felt it.

Not just the love—but the depth of it. The need. The ache. The sacredness of a bond that had endured time, tragedy, and death itself.

And somewhere, behind the glimmer in his eyes, a thought took root.

I don't ever want to have to hold him like that.

Not because he couldn't—but because he didn't want to know what it felt like to lose you.

Back in the kitchen, the song played on.

The light dimmed further, gold fading into soft, muted lavender. The house exhaled around you. And you... you were still there. In his arms. Swallowed by the melody, grounded by the weight of his embrace.

He held you like a man who had been forced to let go once before.

And this time, he didn't plan to loosen his grip again.

You remained nestled against Older Conner's chest, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of him as the soft song spun through the kitchen like a slow-motion dream. It wrapped around the two of you like a shared memory made real again, each note more tender than the last. The overhead lights glowed low and golden, casting a halo over the moment—catching on polished countertops, reflecting off the glass of the cabinets, and dancing across the windowpanes. Outside, the horizon had dipped fully into twilight, stars just beginning to pierce the deepening sky.

But in here, all you could see was him.

His arms tightened around you, a subtle but undeniable shift in pressure—as if every inch of him still feared this was a trick, that if he loosened his hold, you'd vanish like smoke. You leaned back slightly, just enough to tilt your face up toward him. His eyes met yours immediately—clear, piercing, ocean-deep. They were older now. Worn. Carrying a thousand battles and years of grief. But they were still his.

Still the same blue that once saw straight through you.

You reached up slowly, your fingers finding the edge of his flannel shirt, curling into the fabric for reassurance as your heart thudded wildly inside your chest. You studied him—every crease at the corner of his eyes, every fleck of gray in his beard. Your thumb brushed gently along his jaw.

"Conner..." you whispered, your voice delicate, shaped by emotion too large to name.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

His head dipped just slightly, his breath brushing across your lips. The space between you narrowed, impossibly fragile. You leaned forward, your eyes drifting closed, the promise of a kiss hanging in the air like a heartbeat away.

And then—the world ruptured.

A deafening CRACK shattered the silence as the kitchen window exploded inward in a vortex of burning violet light. The force slammed through the glass, through the wall, a wave of raw, corrupted cosmic energy that howled with an unnatural pitch. It wasn't just fire or wind or impact—it was like the universe itself had been ripped open and hurled through your home.

You didn't even have time to scream.

Before your mind could register what had happened, Older Conner's body was in motion.

He moved with supernatural speed—faster than thought—shoving you behind him, arms outstretched, every muscle tensed with primal instinct. The blast struck him squarely, flaring violet against his back as it detonated, engulfing you both in the eruption.

The kitchen imploded.

You were airborne before you even realized it, flung like a ragdoll through cabinets, walls, through everything. A chorus of wood splintering and glass screaming filled your ears, followed by the deafening crash as your bodies blew through drywall and collapsed into the living room in a hail of dust and debris.

You landed hard—shoulder-first into the floor, a flare of pain shooting through your ribs. You hit and rolled, instinctively curling in on yourself, hands flying to shield your stomach, your child. A heartbeat later, Conner's body slammed down beside you, skidding across the floor in a haze of broken wood and pulverized plaster. He didn't cry out—just grunted, arms still reaching in your direction even as a beam collapsed across his back.

The music cut off mid-note.

Silence fell for a beat—shattered only by the electrical hiss of sparking wires, the groan of settling walls, and the ringing in your ears.

And then—

"Dad!"

"Pa?!"

"Get them out—NOW!"

Familiar voices. Panic. Movement.

You blinked against the dust, vision swimming. Everything hurt. Your fingers flexed against the floor, and you tried to lift yourself, but your limbs felt heavy, disconnected.

Then hands—warm, frantic, familiar—were on you.

Casey. Cole. Corra. Cameron.

They were there, clawing through debris, lifting splintered beams, tearing apart the wreckage with desperation only children fighting to save their parents could possess.

You coughed, the motion sending a wave of pain through your side. Your mouth tasted of dust and blood. Through blurred vision, you turned—Conner—

He stirred beside you with a low groan, his arms still outstretched as if they'd never stopped trying to shield you. Blood streamed from a cut on his temple, his flannel torn, body covered in plaster dust and fragments of wood. But his head snapped up the second he found you, his eyes wide, terrified.

"Are you okay?" he rasped, already reaching.

You nodded through the pain, voice hoarse. "Y-Yeah... I think so—just—"

You were cut off by the sharp CRACK of impact as Younger Conner burst through the wreckage like a comet, his body glowing faintly with energy, his fists sparking with raw power. His eyes scanned the carnage, then found you, then the gaping hole where the kitchen wall had once been.

"What the hell was that?!" he shouted, voice shaking with fury. He dropped to one knee, hands flying to the broken pieces trapping you and Older Conner, tossing them aside like they weighed nothing.

Then, a second blast fired.

BOOM.

It scorched across the far wall, narrowly missing the roof as it seared a molten path from one end of the room to the other, punching through family photos, memories—everything.

The ground shuddered. Lights flickered.

Violet light bled through the hole like an open artery, flickering in rhythmic pulses that made the shadows twitch and the air hum with cosmic distortion.

Older Conner reached for you, his grip firm, anchoring. His hand slid into yours like it had always belonged there, and he pulled you to your feet in one swift, protective motion. There was a new urgency in his eyes—a fire that hadn't burned this bright in years. He held onto you like if he let go now, he might lose you to the stars again.

Younger Conner stood beside him, muscles coiled like a loaded weapon. His jaw was locked, fists clenched at his sides, and his body trembled not with fear—but fury. Raw and barely restrained. His eyes, once soft when they looked at you, now burned like twin supernovae fixed on the source of this chaos.

Behind you, the sound of movement was quick, clean, trained. Casey's voice barked commands low and sharp as he tossed weapons and tech out of a hidden drawer, each of your children moving like instinct had taken over. Corra rolled her shoulders and cracked her knuckles, energy thrumming at her fingertips. Cole moved in precision—fluid and fast—pulling twin energy blades into being with a flick of his wrists. Cameron stood still, centered, calm—but his eyes glowed faintly, hands lifted, his power already dancing at his palms like a storm waiting to be called.

And then—that voice.

Low. Hollow. Dark.

It drifted through the shattered front wall like smoke through cracked stone.

"Come outside."

You went still. Everyone did.

That voice was carved into your bones now. Olympian.

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a challenge.

It was a summons.

Conner squeezed your hand once, then let go as the group moved like a unit—every step synced in silent resolve as boots thudded down the front steps and onto the ruined porch. The last light of day had vanished, consumed by storm clouds that weren't quite natural, swirling with streaks of dark violet lightning. The air itself was wrong—too heavy, too still. Like time was holding its breath.

And there he was.

Hovering above the yard, as if gravity had no hold on him. Olympian.

His black armor gleamed like obsidian in the light of the pulsing crystal embedded in his chest—deep, violet, almost alive. Each pulse sent a ripple through the air around him, distorting it like heat rising from broken asphalt. His crimson cape billowed behind him, slow and ominous, as though it were drifting through water. The very space around him warped, bent—not just visually, but spiritually. He didn't belong here.

And yet he had come.

He didn't raise his arms in threat. He didn't need to.

His voice cracked through the storm.

"I don't want them." His head tilted slightly, eyes glowing behind the helm, gaze flicking to each member of your family before returning to you. "You know why I'm here. I want you."

The words hit like a thunderclap, pressing against your ribs, stealing your breath.

You stepped forward slowly, fists clenched. "I don't even know what it is you want."

"You will," Olympian said, voice dripping with certainty. "You carry something inside you—something ancient. Buried in your blood. Power that was never meant for this world. It was stolen. And I will have it back."

A cold pressure curled in your stomach. That pull you had felt before—that strange, cosmic thrum that responded to him—grew stronger, vibrating just beneath your skin like a calling only he and you could hear. The connection was real. Tainted. Undeniable.

But you didn't waver.

Casey stepped beside you, his stance wide and grounded, arms beginning to shimmer with celestial light. "You'll have to go through all of us first."

Corra smirked, fire dancing in her hands. "Seriously. Try me."

Cole cracked his neck, blades fully drawn, the soft hum of energy ringing at his sides. "You should've stayed in whatever black hole spat you out of."

Cameron stood a step behind, quiet but unmoving. "You're not laying a single finger on him."

Younger Conner stepped forward too, voice like a blade. "If you want him," he said, chin tilted high, "you're gonna have to fight the man he loved before you ruined his life... and the man who still stands by him now."

Then, Older Conner moved up to your side—shoulders squared, body still bloodied from the blast, but steady as ever. "You attacked my home. My children. My family. That was your last mistake."

You looked at them all—your family.

Conner and Conner.

Your children, radiant and ready, no longer the little ones you'd held in your arms, but warriors now. Guardians.

And something shifted inside you.

This wasn't about mystery anymore. It wasn't about destiny or some ancient bloodline.

It was about them. About us.

About love, and legacy, and choosing not to let anyone take that away from you again.

You stepped forward, standing at the front of your family, your voice clear and sure as it cut through the still air.

"Then come and try."

Because this wasn't just a standoff.

This was the beginning of a war.

And your family had already chosen their side.

[internetdaddy98]

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 13

Previous | Next

[Series Masterlist]

Content Warning: medical procedures; I have 0 medical knowledge; ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Emergency Room smelled like cheap bleach and bodily fluids.

Which, weirdly, made you smile.

You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it—the buzz, the hum, the familiar squeak of your clogs on the hallway tile. But most of all, the people. Dana had nearly tackled you when you walked in.

“Remind me never to let you take a vacation again,” the charge nurse huffed, hugging her tightly. “This place didn’t feel the same without you.”

“Missed you too,” You murmured, feeling the warmth settle under your ribs.

And then you saw him.

Robby.

He was leaning against the nurses' station with his arms crossed, reading a chart, wearing that same stormy blue hoodie and his usual expression of overly contained emotions. But when he looked up and saw you—

Something flickered.

Not a smile. Not quite. But a shift. Like something inside him eased.

“You’re back,” he said, straightening a little.

“Don’t sound too excited,” you teased, stepping closer.

They stood there in the middle of the ER—just two people, surrounded by the screams of incoming consults and impatient nurses—and everything felt almost normal again. But better.

They worked the shift like they always did, shoulder to shoulder, the rhythm between them sliding effortlessly back into place. He corrected her paperwork with a red pen, she threatened to swap his perfectly sterile gloves with powdered ones, and by hour six, Dana had already given them side-eye three times and muttered something about “tension you could cut with trauma shears.”

When the clock finally struck 7:00 p.m., you felt the familiar weight of fatigue settling in your bones. You peeled off your gloves and grabbed your sweater, but before you could head toward the locker room, Robby fell into step beside you.

“Need a ride?”

You paused. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he said. “But you’ve been gone a week. And you mentioned something about building a shelf?”

You narrowed her eyes. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything.”

The shelf was in a box from IKEA. Naturally. Lying across the floor of her living room like a flat-packed cry for help.

“I swear the instructions are in hieroglyphics,” you muttered, dropping cross-legged onto the rug.

Robby crouched beside you, one hand already flipping through the booklet.

“I’ve performed an emergency thoracotomy in a moving ambulance,” he said. “We can build a shelf.”

It took them an hour. And three arguments. And at one point, Robby had an Allen key in his teeth, and you were sitting on the floor, laughing so hard you had tears in your eyes because the entire top panel had been installed backward.

By the time they finally stood the thing upright against the wall, you let out a triumphant whoop.

“We did it!”

“Barely.”

You turned to him, cheeks flushed, hair slipping loose from your ponytail. “Thank you”

“You’re welcome.”

You didn’t mean just the shelf.

He didn’t either.

There was a long pause between them. The kind that usually came before something either very right or very wrong. He stepped closer.

“You really okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “I needed to see them. To remember I wasn’t alone. But…” you looked at him. “I don’t feel alone anymore.”

His eyes searched hers.

Then, gently, he said, “I missed you, Y/N.”

“I missed you too.”

They stood in that space between uncertainty and something more, the air full of unspoken promises.

You smiled then, soft and real. “Want to stay for dinner? I have leftover matzo ball soup from my aunt.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re offering me soup after I built you a shelf?”

You grinned. “I’ll throw in garlic bread.”

He mock-sighed. “Sold.”

As they moved into the kitchen, her heart was full—not just of him, or this moment, or the shelf they built together—but of the steady, quiet truth settling in her bones:

She was home.

And so was he.

[junezsq]

high school reunion

steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when returning to your old high school five years later might turn into a run in with your ex, you’re not sure if you should even go. what you did not expect was that seeing him again felt like no time had passed at all. he was just so easy to talk to

right person, wrong time -> right person, right time

warnings: a few swear words, make out scene, mentions of stranger things season 2, 3 & 4, mention of nightmares & migraines, flashback

word count: 3.5k

a/n: this took me about a week but i’m honestly really proud of it :’) the steve brainrot is real so i really didn’t mind spending everyday thinking of this fic lmao. i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i did writing <3

── ᵎᵎ ✦

the usually neatly made up bed that had now formed into a heap of discarded clothing items was the first sign of chaos. the desk and vanity full with hair and make up products was the second. a loud groan filled the room as you threw yourself onto your bed, feeling bumps of clothing poke into your back, but you didn’t seem to mind. “ugh, i’m not doing this.”

robin gasped and instantly turned her head to look at you, her hands still buried somewhere into your closet, “what do you mean?!”

“i’m not going.” you sighed, your eyes going over the ceiling. your hand found a piece of clothing to play with while you spoke, “i really don’t feel like seeing all of them again.” the material felt soft, like one of your sweaters, or maybe a t-shirt, “besides, i’ve got nothing to wear.”

robin raised her brows, retracting her arms from your closet so she could wave them around, “uhm, hello?? have you seen your room?” she exclaimed, placing her hands on her hips, “you’ve got clothes for an entire orphanage.”

you scoffed playfully, “nothing feels right to wear, though.” you mumbled, glancing down at the clothing item you’d been playing with; it wasn’t a sweater nor a t-shirt, but one of your favorite skirts, and even that didn’t live up to your expectations for tonight. a breath left your lips before letting go of the fabric and sitting up to look at robin, “i don’t want to get there and disappoint. you know, the girl who was supposed to be successful, but failed. miserably.”

“you didn’t fail miserably.” robin shrugged and you raised your brows at her. “okay, maybe, you didn’t go to college like you wanted, and moved back into your childhood bedroom,” she turned back towards your closet to continue digging through your clothes, “but who cares?? it’s only been five years, who knows what might’ve happened this time next year. right now, you’re single and living the life!”

you let your head fall into your hands with a sigh. your brain went over everyone that could possibly be there and when a certain name popped up you stilled. a gasp left your lips as your head snapped up to face robin’s back, “oh my god, what if steve’s going to be there?”

robin chuckled, “of course he’s going to be there, he was in your year.”

“ugh,” you groaned, letting yourself fall backwards onto your bed, “what if he wants to talk to me?? what am i gonna say?”

“just be yourself,” robin pulled one of your shirts out of your closet and assessed it before throwing it over her shoulder, “it’s not like you don’t know how to talk to him, i remember you two were, like, attached to the hip a couple years ago.”

“until we broke up.” you huffed, closing your eyes in remembrance. “i haven’t spoken to him since.”

robin didn’t seem to notice the somber undertone in your words, “yeah, but remember what happened 4 years back?.” she took out another shirt but also discarded it, “we all went through some heavy shit and you both weren’t really in the right headspace after, you know?” she pulled her attention away from your t-shirts and turned to your dresses, “maybe you just needed some time for yourself. both of you.”

you turned her words over in your head, opening your eyes again to let them go over the ceiling. when robin didn’t hear you speak up she continued, “i’m not saying you should jump on his dick the second you see him—“

“robin!” you exclaimed as you sat up again and watched how she threw another one of your dresses onto your bed. her arm basically disappeared into the back of your closet, “what i mean is, it might be awkward at first, but isn’t it worth it to talk to him and give it a shot? even if it’s just as, i don’t know, acquaintances.”

“maybe,” you mumbled, anxiously running your hands through your hair and over your face, “i just don’t want it be all awkward, with annoying small talk, which i hate, and—“

“holy shit!” robin’s voice stopped you from rattling. you watched as she pulled a long red dress from the back of your closet, “it’s perfect!”

your breath hitched when you saw the dress she’d picked. it was the dress you’d bought especially for a date you and steve were supposed to go on. you’d bought it months in advance, as a surprise, but never got to actually wear it since you’d broken up only a few weeks before you got to go.

after your and steve’s break up, you’d stuffed the dress in the back of your closet, not wanting to be reminded of how embarrassed you had felt about spending all that money on a stupid dress you never even got to wear. seeing it again, years later, made you remember why you’d bought it in the first place; it was gorgeous.

robin’s voice pulled you away from your thoughts, “what do you think??”

your eyes flickered between robin and the dress for a moment, eventually resting on robin, “i don’t know…” you sighed, “it’s been in my closet for years, i’m not sure it’ll still fit.”

robin narrowed her eyes at you, not believing your excuse for even a second, “your body type hasn’t changed at all.” she threw the dress in your lap, “and i mean that as a compliment, go on, try it!”

you sighed once more, “fine.” you mumbled, taking the dress in your hand and standing up from the comfort of your bed. you pointed your finger at robin, “but only because you’re annoying when you don’t get what you want.”

"thank you!" robin sing-songed, turning to the vanity on the other side of your room to busy herself with your make-up while you changed. your eyes stayed on robin for a moment before glancing down at the dress in your hands. while playing with the satin fabric you bit your bottom lip in uncertainty.

after standing in thought for a moment you mentally rolled your eyes at yourself. it was just a dress and it was definitely way too pretty to stuff it back into your closet for another five years.

with a light shake of your head you pealed off the clothes you were currently wearing and slipped inside the dress. while adjusting the straps on your shoulders you looked at your reflection in your mirror. a small smile grew on your lips as you let your hands glide down your hips to smooth out the fabric.

"holy mother of god." robin's voice pulled you away from your thoughts, "god is a woman, and that woman is you." you raised your brows at her words and a laugh escaped your lips, "you're insane, you know that, right?"

she smiled at you, closing the distance between you two to grab your hands and pull you towards your vanity. she moved her hands to your shoulders and pushed you down onto the chair. "okay, so, I've thought out this look that i think pairs so well with the dress." she spoke quickly as she grabbed your desk chair and sat down opposite of you, "close your eyes."

you giggled, following her orders. when you felt one of your make-up brushes touch the skin of your eyelids you smiled to yourself, appreciating this moment. after about a minute of silence, robin still focused on your make-up, you decided to voice a thought, "i know steve's your best friend, but thank you for helping me get ready for tonight."

"correction; you're both my best friends." robin slightly tilted your head up, "and do you really think steve was going to let me do his hair and make-up?" she snorted, causing you to giggle softly.

when robin moved onto your lips you opened your eyes again, seeing robin's brows knitted together in focus. "yes, perfect!" she exclaimed as she pulled back, closing the lipgloss she'd used. you turned your head to face your vanity mirror and a soft gasp left your just glossed lips when you saw yourself. "robin..."

you leaned in slightly closer to get a better look at yourself. robin had used a deep toned red to create a soft smokey eye and a gorgeous red tint lipgloss you didn't even remember owning.

"no need to thank me again," robin smirked lightly as she watched you admire the look she'd created, "i did it with love."

you turned to look at her with a wide smile, "thank you." robin threw her hands up, "i told you not to do that!" she stood up and pulled you along with her, "okay, now go kick some ass! not steve's."

you laughed at her words, again. robin had a way with words that would make sure she could get you to smile every damn time, and you adored her because of it. "I'll try my best."

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:

as soon as you stepped inside the familiar hawkins high gym you let out a strangled breath. a sarcastic laugh bubbled up in your throat when you noticed the school board had decorated the hall as if it was a regular high school dance. besides the cliché 'welcome back class of 1985' posters plastered all over the walls, they'd re-used snowball decorations, and the signature punch and drinks table was stood in the same spot you remembered it stood when you were in middle school.

to try and get over your nerves you decided to head to that exact table. you tuned out the sound of music and chatter as you grabbed a cup and filled it with punch. a soft breath left your lips before turning back to let your eyes glide over everyone mingling on the dance floor. when taking a sip of the punch you noticed how the recipe must not have changed at all, since it tasted exactly the same in your memory.

"it's weird, isn't it? to be back here." a voice you recognised all too well pulled your thoughts away from your old classmates. you snapped your head to the side to be faced with the one person you were hoping not to bump into tonight. your eyes glided over his side profile as he was focused on the dance floor.

"yeah..." you spoke after a moment of silence and turned back to look in front of you and took a big sip from your punch, "not even the people, it's just," you breathed out, "something about this place, you know?"

he hummed, crossing his arms, "yeah, i mean, what other school would use the same snowball decorations for every event they hold."

a chuckle left your lips before you took another swig from your drink. "you took the words right out of my mouth, harrington." you smiled lightly, turning to look at him only to find him already looking at you with a small smirk playing on his lips.

“how have you been?” he asked, sounding genuinely interested. you looked at him for a moment longer but eventually tore your eyes away from him, focusing back on everyone happily moving around the hall, “do you want me to tell you what i tell everyone else, or do you want me to be honest?” you asked before finishing your punch, placing your empty cup on the table behind you.

“whatever you feel comfortable telling me.” he noticed how your expression was tense and how there was a slight strain in your voice as you spoke. he spoke softly, not taking his eyes off your side profile, “but you know you can be honest with me.”

the fact you hadn’t seen him in years but he still spoke to you like he cared. you swallowed, knowing you’d tell him everything in a heartbeat, “can we go for a walk?” you glanced at him, his eyes still on you as he nodded, “yeah, sure.”

you internally thanked him for not joking around or completely dismissing the fact you wanted to get out of the over stimulating gym hall. you wrapped your arms around yourself as the two of you made your way out, through the hallways and eventually all the way outside. you felt almost instantly relaxed when taking a breath of fresh air, “it’s been difficult these past few years.” you eventually spoke up, your eyes fixed on the ground as the two of you walked side by side.

you had picked the honesty option. steve glanced at your side profile, but didn’t say anything; giving you the chance to speak your mind. you swallowed, "i'll think i'm doing alright, but then i wake up in the middle of the night, crying because i somehow got transported back in time and one of those stupid demodogs is trying to attack me." you tightened your arms around yourself, "or vecna's back to take max again, but we can't save her this time."

steve grabbed your arm, stopping both of you in your tracks, "hey, you still get nightmares?" he asked quietly, and when he looked over your features he noticed the tears forming in your eyes. "i thought those were over? you told me you didn't get them anymore."

your breath hitched slightly, remembering how you'd lied about your nightmares years ago, "I didn't want you to worry."

his brows raised, "you didn't—" he shuffled on his feet so he was standing directly in front of you, "you could've told me. i was your boyfriend, it was kind of my job to worry about you."

"i'm sorry." you smiled softly at his words, glancing down at his hand that was still secured on your arm, "I know that now, but i was—"

"don't apologise." he cut you off, following your eye movement with his and with the realisation he'd been clinging to you he retracted his arm. "do you still get them often?"

you looked back up to meet his eyes, "i used to get them almost every night, but it's gotten better over the years." steve nodded, still going over your features. you didn't want the silence to grow so you decided to redirect the conversation over to him, "how about you? are you doing alright?"

he shrugged, "besides the occasional migraine, i'm doing alright, yeah."

you slightly tilted your head, "you still get those?"

steve chuckle softly, "yeah, those russians must've known what they were doing." he ran a hand through his hair, "fucked me up pretty badly."

"i know, i'm sorry..." you smiled sadly, instinctively placing your hand on his upper arm, as if to comfort him. "stop apologising for shit that's not your fault." he reached up and took your hand in his, "can't really do anything about it anyway."

you gave him a singular nod and you felt him softly squeeze your hand. the conversation fell silent as you both basked in each other’s company. even though it had been five years since you’d seen him, for some peculiar reason, it felt like no time had passed at all. talking to him had always been easy and clearly nothing had changed.

after a couple minutes you lightly shook your head, finally realizing you’d been staring at him. you averted the gaze to your surroundings and found you’d ended up at the backside of hawkins high, close to the big willow tree that was now slowly going out of bloom.

a small smile formed on your lips at the thought of the two of you ending up here. the willow tree had always been your spot; you and steve having spent most of your high school days there. hiding from the rain or taking advantage of the shade during hot summer days, it never mattered.

you were sure your laughter could be heard over the entire schoolyard, but you didn’t care. “steve!” you exclaimed as he dragged you along with him, eventually stopping right underneath the willow. he leaned against the tree and pulled you closer to him. “steve, class starts in a couple minutes.” you giggled, placing your hands on his shoulders.

“which means we still have those couple minutes to do whatever we want.” he looked at you with his signature smirk as he placed one of his hands on your waist and the other on your cheek so he could pull you flush against him, dipping his head to connect his lips with yours.

you smiled against his lips, taking hold of his arm. “steve.” you mumbled. he hummed, moving his hand to the back of your neck, as if wanting to pull you even closer even though there was no space left between you.

“steve.” you tried again, moving slightly back with a small giggle, your eyes going over his features, “miss. thomson is going to kill us if we’re late.”

“who cares about miss. thomson.” he shrugged, moving his hand that was on the back of your neck to your waist as well so he could softly squeeze your hips. you playfully rolled your eyes, “i do. if i wanna keep my perfect attendance.”

he ignored your words and kissed you again, mumbling against your lips, “missing one class won’t hurt.”

you decided to just give in, already knowing there was no chance in hell steve was going to let you go. your hands found their way to his chest and up to his shoulders. he smirked against your lips when he realized he’d convinced you to stay.

you melted into the firm, but also soft, kiss. you and steve had kissed a multitude of times, but you knew you’d never grow tired of it; there was just something special about the way his lips felt on yours. your let your hands tangle up into his hair as you raised yourself to stand on your toes, wanting to be as close to him as possible.

the sudden blaring sound of the school bell interrupted you and you pulled back with a gasp. you glanced backwards to see everyone making their way inside the school building, “shit!” you cursed, looking back to steve who still had his eyes focused you, “come on, we gotta get to class!”

you untangled your hands from his hair and grabbed one of his hands. just when you started to take a step away from him, wanting to take him with you, steve pulled you back against him and placed his lips on yours once more. you immediately melted back into the kiss, but detached yourself from him not even a few seconds later.

“steve!!” you looked at him with wide eyes, “i hate you. come on!” you turned and started running off towards miss. thomson’s class, dragging him along with you.

your eyes were focused on the willow as you smiled at the memory. it was one of many, but all memories you had created with steve underneath the hawkins high willow tree were some of your favorites.

“what are you thinking of?” his voice pulled you away from your thoughts and when you turned to look at him you found him already looking at you, the exact same smirk as all those years ago playing on his lips.

you returned his smirk as you let your eyes wander over his features; they had matured but he was so obviously the same steve harrington as years ago, “i think you know.”

he chuckled, “i’m pretty sure all we did here was make out,” he glanced at the tree before focusing back on you, the smirk still playing on his lips “or maybe you remember something different.”

you laughed and lightly shook your head, “you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

he returned your laugh, running a hand through his hair. when a soft wind rustled the willow tree, he noticed how you shivered at the cold air, “wanna go back inside?” he asked softly.

“yeah, maybe we should start mingling with all the others,” you smiled softly. steve chuckled and offered you his arm. you smiled in appreciation, looping your arm through his and placing your hand in his bicep, “we have got to find out how many boyfriends christine martin has had by now.”

steve smiled but kept silent as you made your way back towards the school entrance. it was a comfortable silence and you cherished the moment you had just shared with him. when you were about to set foot inside, steve leaned closer, “you look beautiful, by the way.” he whispered in your ear, “i haven’t had the opportunity to tell you, but i’ve been thinking it since the moment i first saw you tonight.”

you turned your head to look at him and could tell he was slightly nervous telling you that, not knowing how you would react. however, you just smiled, reached up to place a soft kiss on his cheek and pulled him inside with you before he could say anything else.

[andy-15-07]

Wool and Words

Pairing: Bill Weasley x reader

Word count:1265

Harry Potter Masterlist | request (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Late spring rain pattered against the windows of Shell Cottage, and beyond, the sea breathed its steady lullaby. Inside, you and Bill lay nestled among a mountain of pillows, the hearth casting golden light across your shared bed. He was propped on his elbow, spectacles perched halfway down his nose, a hefty leather-bound book open in his hand. You, curled into his side, were absorbed in a tangle of cream-colored yarn and slender needles, knitting the first few rows of a tiny sweater for your unborn child.

“I still don’t understand how you conjure those stitches,” Bill murmured, voice low and warm. His eyes never left the page. “It’s like knitting is a form of nonverbal magic.”

You laughed softly, dropping a stitch with exaggerated care. “If it were magic, I’d be done by now. This little thing is for,” you held up the half-formed garment, “,our future fire-cracker.”

He closed the book with a soft thud. “I like fire-cracker.” He traced the yarn with a fingertip. “It suits whoever’s going to wear that. You’ve got seven rows done already. Aren’t you worried it’ll be too small?”

“I measured,” you said firmly, though your voice wobbled a tiny bit. “I measured dozens of them. I even used Hermione’s enchanted tape measure,twice.”

Bill grinned. “Hermione’s tape measure? . . . You know, I could’ve sworn I saw you sneaking a peek at a couple of her Charmed Chiton patterns too.”

“Shh,” you chided, wrapping an arm around his waist. “I’ll never tell.” You nudged him. “What are you reading, anyway?”

He tapped the book’s spine. A Brief History of Magical Seafarers. “Wanted something timely.” He glanced over his glasses. “Tides, sirens, shipwrecks . . . all very appropriate for our setting.”

“It’s bedtime,” you pointed out. “Sea stories will summon a kraken for our little one’s first dream.”

“You’re paranoid,” he teased. “But since you’re knitting, you’ll have to tell me which name we’ve decided on.”

You hummed, sliding the needles aside. “We haven’t decided. There are six contenders on the list.” You lifted your chin. “Auriel, Brynn, Calder, Delphine, Evander, or Finnian.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of names. I think I like Calder best.”

“Calder,” you repeated, rolling the word on your tongue. “It means ‘wild water.’ Perfect for a child who’s already giving you gymnastics lessons in the womb.”

“Guilty as charged.” He laid the book down and brushed your hair back. “I’d like Evander. It means ‘good man,’ but I suppose our child could be spectacularly mediocre.”

“Don’t sell our kid short,” you laughed, poking his ribs. “Besides, we could use a Calder Evander Weasley.”

“Two middle names?” He smirked. “Living dangerously, aren’t we?”

You picked up the knitting again, looping the yarn. “You’re the risk-taker here. Remember the time you persuaded me to ride that globe-girdling broom? You almost ended up in Zanzibar.”

“That was one time,” Bill protested, but his grin was sheepish. “I maintain it was a learning experience.”

You glanced up. “Exactly. You, dear fiancé, love a bit of adventure. I’ll keep things grounded with little sweaters and evening teacups.”

He leaned in, kissing your temple. “I know. Which is why I love you.” His hand drifted down to rest on your bump. “Speaking of grounded,Harry says I’m going to be an overly protective father.”

“Harry says a lot of things,” you teased. “Like when he tried to get me to take a Defense Against the Dark Arts course in my third year.”

Bill chuckled. “I’m more like your Harry now. Will you guard this little one from rogue cauldrons and backward-speaking portraits?”

“I’ll do my best.” You slipped a row of stitches onto the needle. “But can we also promise to guard them from frog-spawn ice cream? Fleur’s recipe was a mistake.”

“Agh!” Bill pretended to shudder. “I still get nightmares about those warty bits.”

You reached for his book. “Read me something pretty.”

Bill opened his place with a ribbon marker, cleared his throat dramatically, and began:

“Beneath the wave’s embrace, a child sleeps Wrapped in dreams of silver fins and secret keeps…”

Your heart fluttered at his soft voice. When he finished, he closed the book. “That was from an old sea shanty anthology. I thought it fitting.”

“It’s perfect,” you breathed, resting your head on his chest. “Our baby will know the sea’s lullaby.”

He pressed a kiss to your hair. “I know you’ll sing it to them when I’m away on expedition.”

You propped yourself up and feigned horror. “Expedition? You mean the Ministry might send you away? We talked about this,”

“Shouldn’t worry you,” he interrupted gently. “We’ve dealt with curses in Egypt, and I’ll be doing more of that, yes,” he caught your look and softened. “But I’ll always hurry home to you two.”

You reached for his hand. “Promise me we’ll talk about dates and protective wards tomorrow. Tonight, let’s just,”

,just be.

There was a scrape as one of the needles slipped. You yelped. Bill sprang to his feet.

“Need help?” he asked, dropping the book and scooping you into his arms.

You grumbled. “I’ll have you know I’m a perfectly capable knitter.”

He chuckled, settling you back down. With gentle fingers he realigned your yarn and rescued the fallen stitch. “Perfectly capable,” he repeated, tender in his tone. “Just not above a lifeline when you need it.”

You sighed happily, curling into his side. “Thank you.”

He kissed your hair. “Anything for you.” He reached back for the book, then stopped. “Hey,want to hear about merpeople parenting rituals? Apparently, they sing to their fry in chorus.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Merpeople have chorus singing?” You laughed. “Why would they need a chorus when ,”

He held up a finger. “Apparently, a lone voice can anger the sea. So they train in quintets.”

You shook your head. “Only in a world with wizards.”

Bill switched off his bedside lamp. “Shall we let the baby fall asleep to our duet, then?”

You closed your eyes. “I think they’d prefer only you.” You reached up and brushed your palm across his cheek. “But I’ll harmonize.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “That I have to hear.”

His thumb circled gently on your wrist as he began humming,first softly, then swelling into a gentle lullaby. You let the yarn fall idle, settling one hand on your bump. You joined in with a soft hum, weaving your voice into his. The fire crackled low; the storm outside faded into a distant whisper.

When the lullaby ended, Bill inclined his head. “Good duet.”

You pressed your lips to his shoulder. “Best duet.” You propped the sweater in your lap. “I think it’s time to show you.”

He lifted it, eyes widening at the tiny sleeves, the neat V-neck. “It’s… perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.”

You swallowed. “Every stitch was made thinking of you both.”

He brushed his fingers across the soft wool. “Thank you.” Then his gaze met yours. “Thank you for giving me you,and our little one.”

Tears gathered unbidden behind your eyes. “I love you,” you whispered.

He leaned down, kisses soft and sure. “I love you more.”

You drifted, half-asleep, in his arms, listening to his steady heartbeat. The needles lay silent on the coverlet, magic enough in their stillness. Outside, rain and sea sang you to sleep; inside, love and lullaby held you close.

And in the quiet glow of candlelight, you dreamed of the day your three hearts would lie tangled together,warm, safe, and loved,beneath a sky of endless possibility.

[pasukiyo]

PERHAPS, PERHAPS, PERHAPS.

eric (a quiet place: day one) x f!reader word count: 2,894 warnings: a little bit of violence summary: perhaps it's chance. perhaps it's happenstance. but perhaps it is fate. perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

 Hands find the sleeve of her sweater and she’s pulled backwards, her lips parting in a gasp as she turns. A woman, with dark hair beginning to fade into gray, locks her hands around her wrist, trembling. 

 “Please!” The woman shrieks. “I don’t know where to go! I need help! Please! Help me!”

 She’s frozen, her mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out because the truth is, she’s just as helpless. She wishes she could help, she really does, but she’s alone in a foreign city while the world around her falls apart and all she knows to do is run. 

 She tries to shake off the woman, but she only tightens her grip, and it’s not until she screams again that she lets go. It happens in a blur. One moment the woman is on her arm and the next she’s taken away by one of those things. She can’t even process what they look like because they move so fast. 

 She stumbles backwards as a car alarm sounds and she only just manages to duck in enough time to avoid being crushed as the airborne vehicle flies overhead, crashing into the building behind her. Her teeth catch her bottom lip and she whimpers, holding her head in either of her hands. Screams sound and die, wheels screech, vehicles crash, windows shatter, people are torn apart and it’s all just too loud. 

 She sinks to her knees in the middle of the chaos-ridden street and covers her ears, the hot water in her eyes falling fast down the apples of her cheeks. She feels utterly alone and only now does the weight of her family’s abrupt deaths begin to seep in, like poison injecting itself into her veins and wearing down her bones. 

 She wonders if this is it— if today is the day she dies. 

 She wonders if she should just stay here: on the ground, unmoving, waiting for death to take her. 

 It’s harder to breathe than ever now and she can’t calm herself down, can’t even focus on inhaling a steady breath. The ground quakes below and she thinks something explodes, but it’s hard to hear over the ringing in her ears. She only thinks to duck until she faces the ground as smoke pervades the air and ash falls and all she can see is gray. Her hearing is only just coming back to her when she hears a scream— whether it was her own or somebody else’s, she’s uncertain— but all she knows is in the next moment, everything is black. 

 The world is still black when she hears her name. She stirs and thinks it must be death calling upon her but then she hears her name again and it sounds… real. Still, she does not open her eyes, lingering in that state between waking and oblivion. 

 The voice calls her name again and suddenly it sounds… familiar. She’s heard it before but she’s unsure where. She must be dead, she thinks. 

 But is the afterlife supposed to feel so… real? As in, she feels the warmth of fabric above her and thinks it must be a blanket, the cushion of what she can only think can be a pillow beneath her head. She can feel her feet, so she moves them, and she can feel something soft underneath them, something her entire body can feel. It must be a mattress she sleeps on but how when only a moment ago, her knees were on the asphalt of a crumbling street?

 Her name is called again and this time, she feels a weight on her shoulder, a hand. It suddenly registers that she isn’t in the city at all but rather somewhere else entirely different and her eyelids snap open at the realization. A shadow looks over her and she pushes herself to sit upright, her throat tightening as she tries to blink the blurriness away from her vision.

 “Hey!” The voice calls again, the hand on her shoulder firmer. The silhouette before her warps and moves and it must be the source of the voice but her muscles remain taut with panic. “It’s me! It’s just me.”

 She tries to draw air into her lungs but it’s hard when she can hardly make out where she is and the hand falls from her shoulder to instead find her cheek, pulling her face towards the shadow. Her chest rises and falls with her breaths as she continues trying to make out the face of the shadow before her. 

 “It’s me!” The voice says again. “It’s Eric!”

 Eric. 

 The shape in front of her finally materializes and indeed, it is Eric. His brows are drawn in concern, his big, signature doe eyes round and searching hers. Her mouth feels dry and it opens and closes multiple times before he places his hand on her chest, right over her pounding heart. She glances down to his palm, watching as it rises and falls with her breaths before his other hand reaches for her chin. 

 Their eyes meet and for a moment, it’s like the world stills and it is only him she can see. His eyes are so dark a brown that they seem to merge with the sea of black in its midst and she thinks she will lose herself if she stares too long. His lips move to form the words “breathe” and “it’s over now, you’re safe” and it seems easier now that she’s rapt in his eyes, shining like dark topaz. 

 Her chin rises as she inhales and she focuses on his hand on her chest as her head dips with her exhale. Air floods her lungs and the world begins to turn again.

 “Okay?” Eric asks carefully, his hand no longer on her chest but still hovering above just in case. She takes another deep breath before she nods, sniffing. It’s only now set in that she was sleeping and she was living a nightmare, or rather, reliving her nightmare. 

 It’s been three months since day one, since the nightmares began and every day since has been long, some longer than others. Every day since the first sort of happened in a blur, but she remembers the day she met Eric like it was yesterday. 

 She remembers the boat, the boy with the cat who she’d just watched escape death before he swam to his new beginning. She remembers the conversations they had on the (what felt like at the time) seemingly never-ending boat ride, the vow they didn’t speak aloud but seemed to silently agree on that they’d stick together, and they did, even when they arrived on the island. She remembers it all and so she pulls the boy in front of her into her until she can rest her head on his shoulder, fingers clutching his white t-shirt. 

 His arms wrap around her middle and hold her close, his breath warm as it threads through her hair, seeping down to her scalp. Her nails burrow into his shirt, deep enough to snag skin underneath and her heart pounds against her ribcage, dread creeping up her spine at the realization that she doesn’t want to let go. When he inevitably begins to pull away, she sinks her nails into his shoulders like the claws of a cat and a crease forms between his brows. 

 “What is it?” He asks and she swallows, brows pinched together. “Will you stay with me?” She questions and his expression softens, nodding as he lets go of one of her shoulders to gesture with his thumb behind him. 

 “Yeah, you know I’ll always be right over there,” he says, referring to the small sofa bed across the room. He gives her bicep a reassuring squeeze and turns, moving to pull away again but she finds his hand, clasping it between hers as tight as she possibly can. 

  “No, I mean will you…” she pauses, sighing as blood bites her cheeks, filling them with color. “…will you lay with me?” She finishes quieter, his hand growing warm in hers. 

 He turns to face her again and when their eyes meet, silence strings between them. She swears she can see him connecting the dots until realization washes over him and finally, he understands. He blinks again, once down to the bed and once to the open space beside her. On his next blink, color floods his cheeks and he nods, lifting up the blanket to slide underneath it. Their legs touch for the briefest of moments and either of their breaths hitch. His skin lingers for a heartbeat before it’s gone and she has to take in another deep breath through her nostrils to quell her quaking heart. 

 They both settle themselves down on the mattress and it creaks beneath either of their weight. She holds her breath again, still under the guise that one of those things will come snatch her away at the smallest of sounds, but the reminder that they are on the island, that they are safe fills her with some solace. Even though the relief never stays long. The past always comes back to haunt her, as if some sort of evil spirit has made it its sole mission to taunt her. 

 “Hey,” Eric whispers and she turns, realizing he was looking at her. “Are you alright?”

 She nods, sniffing again. “Sorry, I’m just… thinking,” she replies, blinking back towards the ceiling. “I had another nightmare.” He sighs beside her and she hears the sheets shift a little as he adjusts his weight. “It’s okay. I get them too.”

 It’s easy to forget she’s not the only one who experienced the horrors of the invasion, that she isn’t the only one who lost things, people. She forgets she’s not the only one who is haunted by what transpired that day and she peers back over towards Eric. He stares up at the ceiling, his hands neatly folded on top of his stomach and his lips pursed. He taps his fingers against the back of his hands a little awkwardly, as if he wants to speak but isn’t sure what to say. So instead, he remains silent, waiting for the moment he succumbs to sleep. 

 “Tell me about England,” her voice fills that void between them and he almost flinches, snapping his head towards her, an incredulous look upon his face. “What?” He says as if he hadn’t heard her the first time. The corners of her lips twitch, “tell me about England,” she repeats. “I’ve always wanted to go. And well… it doesn’t look like I’ll be going any time soon.”

 He exhales and it almost mimics a laugh but it dies as soon as he rolls his head to face the ceiling once again. He stares into the darkness above, sifting through the memories he has of home. The truth is, it’s been so long since he’s been home, the memories are already beginning to fade away. His mother, his father, his little sister, their cat, his childhood home, the town he grew up in. The more days that pass, the farther away all those things seem. He can still see them toward the horizon but they’re fading behind shadows. He fears that soon enough, they’ll be nothing more than black shapes out in the distance, too far away to make sense of what they are. 

 For a moment, she wonders if he’s going to speak at all. Frodo purrs as he leaps onto the bed, curling into a ball at their feet. And then, Eric finally speaks. 

 “Growing up, I never thought where I grew up was small until I came to the States,” he begins. “Did you know that the entire population of New York City is over four times the population of Kent?” 

 Her lips curve into a tight, genuine grin and she shakes her head. “No,” she replies and he scoffs. “It’s crazy,” he mutters. “I’d never seen so many people in one place before in my life.”

 She laughs again and this time, her grin splits her face and when Eric turns, his gaze lingers. She stares back, finding his eyes even in the darkness. Even in the dark, she can see the way they soften in searching. Whether it is her or his memories he is searching, she is not sure. She grows warm at the sudden awareness of their closeness and she has to turn away again to ease the erratic beating of her heart, folding her hands just beneath it, sucking in a deep breath. 

 Eric clears his throat. Then he continues, “there was this bakery around the corner from my house. My sister and I practically kept that place afloat all on our own with how many times we went.” 

 She turns and watches his side profile as a soft smile curves his lips and she thinks to herself, how can she possibly look away? Neither one of them ever really talked about their life before the invasion much, but maybe they should’ve tried sooner, if he was going to look the way he does now. It’s the brightest she’s ever seen him, the fastest he’s ever talked. His eyes gleam at just the mere mention of home and she wants to know more, wants to learn more about him. 

 “Have you ever had focaccia?” He asks, turning to find she’s already staring and she raises a brow. 

 “Ever had what?” 

 His brow furrows and he looks almost offended, a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Do the Americans not feed you focaccia?” She laughs, shrugging. “I honestly have no idea what you’re even talking about,” she replies and he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

 “It’s only, like, the finest bread in the world,” he says. “But the best is at the bakery near home. It’s the focaccia of all focaccia. Their focaccia beats all focaccia.”

 She chuckles, “I’ll have to take your word for it then.”

 “Well, anyway, my sister and I would get focaccia from that bakery everyday after school,” he blinks, brow dipping. “Except Wednesdays. They were always closed Wednesdays. I always hated Wednesdays because of it.”

 She cannot help it anymore so she laughs, her shoulders wracking with the sheer power of the action. She clasps a hand over her mouth to attempt to suppress any embarrassing chortles and Eric sputters, the mere beginning of his own laugh. 

 It’s something she can’t remember doing last: laughing. At least, genuinely laughed. It must’ve been before the first day but that day feels so long ago that she can’t place a finger on nearly anything before it. 

 So this feels good. It feels like things can be almost perfect, because even if this lighthearted feeling is only fleeting, in the moment, it feels right. It feels right to be here with Eric, laughing over a life that neither one of them will ever have again. Laughing even as the world crumbles around them. Laughing as they pretend that everything is okay, if only temporarily. 

 There are tears in her eyes now from how hard she’s laughing and she blinks them away, peering over at Eric through her watercolor vision. He’s still coming down from the high his laughter gave him when she reaches over, fingers finding his arm. 

 “Eric?”

 He hiccups with laughter, “yeah?”

 She sniffs and bites back another laugh. “Can I kiss you?”

 Maybe it's the spur of the moment. Maybe it’s just happenstance. Or maybe, just maybe, it was meant to be. 

 She doesn’t know. 

 But none of it matters right now. 

 Because his gaze drops to her lips and when he looks up, she finds he wants her just as much as she realizes she wants him too. 

 Eric says nothing, only reaches for her, his hand finding the back of her head to pull her in and her arms wrap around his neck and then their lips are one. They fit together in the perfect mold, as if it truly was just as she thought: meant to be. 

 Perhaps, Eric was who she was meant to find all along. End of the world or not, life— at least on Eric’s end, it was more chance on hers— brought them both to New York at the same time and she can’t help but wonder, as his tongue swirls her mouth, whether she would’ve found him anyways. 

 Perhaps they would’ve run into each other on the street. Perhaps, even on the subway. Maybe they would’ve walked into the same restaurant at the same time and locked eyes. Or maybe they would’ve gone to the same shops, the same hotel, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

 An arm slithers around her waist and draws her into his chest and she knows that this is fate. It simply can’t not be. 

 She pulls away for a moment, just so either of them can catch their breaths, and their eyelids peel open and seemingly nothing else matters. There’s a sort of silent understanding between them— Eric must feel the same. 

 And that’s enough. It’s all she needs to be okay again, to want to live. 

 They crash into one another again, like two stars in a stellar collision. She burns brighter than she ever has before and they melt into one another and relish the notion that this is enough. 

a/n; saw a quiet place day one the other day and i think writing an eric fic was inevitable so... HERE YOU GO! i hope you all enjoy this one and let me know if you'd like for me to write up more eric fics! i'd love to explore this character some more :)

🤍 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! ✨

[hogwartsfirebolt]

the game’s the game

“What was going through your mind when you spotted the Snitch?”

Two camera shutters go off like lighting, but Draco doesn’t blink. It’s almost the end of the season, and he’s done a press conference every week. He’s used to them.

“Fucking finally,” he answers, and the journalists all laugh. They think he’s joking, and he can already imagine the articles they’ll publish tomorrow pronouncing him cheeky and funny, but he means it wholeheartedly. Six hours in the sky, drenched all the way through his pants in rainwater, and facing the very best player in the league? He had half a mind to jump off his broom if only to have the game end somehow.

“This is the second time you face PU and well, Harry Potter, this season,” says another reporter, a young, pretty woman with her hair pinned up and a reverent tone when she speaks Potter’s name. Like everyone. “Are you expecting to encounter him at this year’s Cup? And if so, how does that make you feel?”

Draco breathes out hard through his nose. Across the room from him, sitting at his own table against the wall opposite, Potter’s doing his own press conference. He’s wearing a hat backwards, the light blue of his team hoodie contrasting with his golden-warm skin tone. He has a hand to his chin, rubbing his short beard in thought at some question he’s being asked. Probably about just how sweet it had been to snatch that Snitch right from under Draco’s nose. He’s earnest and so gorgeous Draco can’t stand the sight of him.

“The game is the game,” Harry’s voice carries, clear and chesty, deeply masculine as he says his favorite little quote that means absolutely nothing and that fans have been yelling and tattooing on their bodies the whole season. “We don’t take any victory for granted. Coach has been running us to the ground, she won’t stop until we have that trophy in Puddlemere, and we’re doing our best to make her proud.”

“Oh, I’m certain we’ll face them at the Cup,” is what Draco answers at last. “Honestly? I think no other team comes even close. We’ll face them, and then we’ll bring the Cup home to Appleby. As Potter himself likes to say, the game is the game.”

All the cameras around him go off, the sound of Quick-Quills scrabbling and the reporters’ scandalized gasps at his use of Potter’s quote. He grins, puts his olive green Arrows cap on and stands to leave. He needs a fucking shower.

Later on, he’s sprawled on his hotel room couch, drying his hair with a towel and watching a replay of the game on the enormous television, making mental notes about his own flying, his mistakes, the times he dove too soon or hovered too low. When the screen follows the blue jersey with POTTER 7 emblazoned across the back, he looks closely, trying to spot mistakes but knowing he won’t find any. Potter’s probably the best flier of the century, and Draco loves Quidditch too much to lie to himself about that.

He’s admiring one of Potter’s physics-defying feints when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, his heart takes up a gallop, and he has to press a hand to the center of his chest with a frown.

“Calm the fuck down, Malfoy,” he mutters. It’s a disproportionate reaction and he’s irritated with himself for it. It’s not as though it’s the first time. Or the tenth.

He pauses the game with a flick of his wand and makes his way to the door, through the archway that separates the TV room from the kitchenette. A quick look at the archway across the suite to make sure the bedroom is as he left it, and he’s at the door, taking a deep breath.

Potter’s grin is huge when Draco opens. He’s foregone all his team outwear, and is now in a familiar, worn leather jacket and a black sweater. His hair is wet, as though he rushed after his shower so he could get here quicker. Draco opens his mouth to say something, but before he figures out what, Harry pushes inside, turns around and presses him against the door, big hands gentle on Draco’s waist. Draco’s heart hasn’t gotten the “this isn’t the first or tenth time this happens,” memo, and is still running a marathon inside his chest, so he says nothing.

There’s a plastic bag in Potter’s hands. Dinner, probably, he usually brings dinner when they meet after a game. His wide smile reveals white teeth, a crooked canine that Draco knows is a baby tooth that never loosened. Round, stylish glasses cover the most intoxicating green eyes Draco has ever seen, and they’re shining with tonight’s victory. And Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.

“The game is the game?” Harry asks, amused, already leaning in, the hand on Draco’s waist moving to wrap the whole way around him and pull him close.

“Just some stupid phrase I’ve heard from a dickhead,” Draco answers, but the words hold the shape of a smile and are uttered right into a kiss there at the end.

It’s always a race at the start. They're both high from the game, still in that mindset, and it’s a competition to see who can undress quicker, who can make the other harder, who can earn the first moan and coax the first orgasm of the night. But after that first one, after Draco’s jaw aches dully and Potter is softening between his legs, everything slows down a little. Potter helps him up and they share the tacos Potter brought, watching the last minutes of the game they played earlier with Draco’s legs up on Potter’s lap, where he’s massaging his knees, his quads, making sure he’s not achy from kneeling for him.

“I really fucked that one up,” Potter comments. His tiny self on the screen just pulled out of an impossible dive at what looks like a 90 degree angle. He sounds earnest, which is the only reason Draco isn’t kicking him right in his beautiful face.

“I hate you so much. Only you would call that a fuck up.”

Potter hums, his massaging hands moving from Draco’s calf to his heel, his thumb pressing into his sole. On the screen, tiny Draco swerves a Bludger aimed to his head, and his teammate Owen is flying to him to make sure he’s alright.

“That guy is so into you,” Potter points out.

“I know. We fucked all through rookie year.”

Potter turns to look at him so fast it must hurt his neck. Draco raises an eyebrow, confused at the strong reaction.

“What?”

“I — I don’t know,” Potter says, suddenly sheepish. His hands haven’t stopped moving over Draco’s foot. Potter’s skin is dark, but Draco can still make out the blush spreading across his cheekbones. “Isn’t it weird? He’s a teammate.”

There’s something he’s not saying. It’s evident in the way he bites his bottom lip, in the way he obviously wants to look away but is too ridiculously brave to actually do it. Draco’s heart thumps inside his chest, so hard he’s sure it must be audible to Harry too.

They’ve never named this thing between them. The first time they did it, after the quarter finals one year before, with Potter’s ill advised kiss that ended with them fucking in the showers of the stadium after Potter had wiped the damn dust with Draco on the pitch, they agreed to keep it quiet, and that was the last they discussed of it. It’s going on fourteen months since then, and they’ve done it at least once a month, when the league brings them to nearby towns, and sometimes when it doesn’t and they take a quick midnight Portkey to each other to blow off some steam.

Draco had never in his life been as well-fucked as he’s been this past year, and he definitely doesn’t want to lose it. Potter’s always been honest and open with him, vocal in bed about how much he wants him, filthy in his occasional text messages when they’re apart, but he’s never given any indication that he wants anything other than exactly what they have.

“It’s not weird,” Draco says slowly, unsure of what to think of this exchange. “We stopped a while ago. I was clear that I didn’t want — that I’d rather we stayed friends and teammates, without any complications.”

“Right,” Potter says. He sounds relieved, and Draco feels like he’s three steps behind the conversation they’re having. He’s about to ask, but Potter’s fingers on his calf smooth over an old knot and he groans instead, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion.

“That feels great,” he says, and Potter repeats the motion.

“Yeah. I think you pulled it when you made that X turn.”

The turn he made to try to beat him to the Snitch, he doesn’t say. How he had enough awareness to know Draco attempted it while diving for the Snitch himself is beyond comprehension, but Draco has long accepted that Potter is simply insane about the game. He notices everything, considers everything, takes every risk. If he weren’t a player himself, Draco knows he would be following Puddlemere and Harry wherever they played for the entire season, wearing a pale blue jersey with the number 7 on it.

“Probably,” Draco says, closing his eyes and groaning again when Harry keeps pressing the same point. After a moment, he feels something softer brushing his calf, and opens his eyes to find Harry bent over his leg, kissing a path up towards his knee. He can’t help the embarrassing little sound he makes, and Harry’s laugh is a puff against his skin as he keeps moving up, breath warm on the wet trail of his kisses up Draco’s thigh. In the background, the presenters are going crazy over a feint Harry pulled, the sound of the audience carrying all through the stadium and out of the TV speakers.

Harry has made his way high up and is kissing Draco’s birthmark, a brown, apple-sized beauty mark an inch below his groin when he lifts his head to ask, “Why didn’t you want to?”

Draco can’t believe he’s using his mouth to speak at that moment. He licks his lips, trying to make sense of the question.

“What? What are you even — ?” He tries to sit up a little, but Harry moves over him instead so they’re eye-level without Draco having to move at all.

“With Caddell. Why didn’t you want to keep seeing him?”

“Owen? Why the fuck are we talking about —,” Draco lets his head drop down onto the cushions again, a sigh punched out of him. Harry takes pity and leans forward to kiss him, lips soft over Draco’s, knowing exactly how to coax his kisses out of him the way he likes best.

“I just want to know,” Harry whispers against his lips. He’s breathless just from touching Draco, from rubbing his legs, from kissing him. Fuck, this is insane.

“I like him, but it wasn’t very exciting.” Draco says. He closes his eyes as Harry begins to kiss down his neck, and tries to really think about it, because he’s not even sure himself. “I wasn’t willing to risk our teamwork when what we had wasn’t even that … electric. I don’t know. This sounds insane.”

Harry shakes his head, his beard rubbing against Draco’s collarbone. “It doesn’t. I get it.” He bites on the delicate skin connecting neck and shoulder, licks a path down his chest. “I get electric.”

“Fuck yes you do,” Draco says, nonsensical, but he feels he can’t be blamed when Harry is brushing his lips over his nipples, broad hands moving around Draco’s body to secure a grip over his ass.

“Is this?” Harry asks, mouth nearing the V of Draco’s hips, the edge of the trail of hair leading to his crotch. “Electric?”

Draco swears, fingers running through Harry’s hair and finding a grip, hard. “If you don’t put your mouth on me right now I swear I — yes.”

He spreads his thighs to accommodate Harry between them, one hand gripping Harry’s hair and the other curled around the cushion over his head. It is electric, the way Harry knows exactly which buttons to push, sliding a finger inside him while keeping him on his tongue. He’s a prodigy in this too, the star player who knows every move in the playbook that is Draco’s body.

It feels like no time at all, no effort at all before Harry is pulling back, dragging Draco closer by the waist and working himself inside. The feel of it, the sound of them together, the look into Harry’s open gaze, his sweat dripping onto Draco’s chest and his hands underneath Draco’s back, holding him, pulling him onto him, have Draco nearing release almost too fast for his liking, but the night is young and it’s been so long that he lets himself go, a cord snapping in his core, eyes open as he watches Harry watch him come apart.

“Come on,” he says once he’s come down, lifting his hips, shifting his weight onto his shoulders. “Show me what you got, Potter.”

Harry groans and leans forward, kisses Draco’s jaw and his neck, and drives his hips faster. Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s back, moves with him as much as he can in the tight embrace, and remains close as Harry meets his own peak and tumbles down the edge.

They lie together for a couple minutes afterwards, panting into each other’s skins, basking in the afterglow.

“Some pro-athletes. We have the stamina of two eighteen year old virgins,” Draco mutters into Harry’s hair after a while, and feels Harry’s chest rumble with his laughter. The room is cast in the warm glow of the foot-lamp that stands beside the sofa they just fucked in, exactly like two eighteen year old virgins having the chance to touch for the first time in their lives.

Harry always goes boneless and slow after a good lay, so Draco eases him off his body with tenderness, a gentle hand to Harry’s chest, followed by a kiss.

“Let's go to bed, yeah?” He whispers.

Harry groans. “I don’t want to move.”

“That’s too bad, because I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Some idiot drove me to the ground on the pitch today.”

He stands up and shakes out his legs, testing the soreness of his muscles. There’ll be an ache tomorrow, but nothing he can’t handle.

Despite his complaint, Harry is already standing up too, coming up behind Draco, a hand finding its way to the flat of his belly, his forehead on Draco’s shoulder as though he can’t bear not to touch him for even a second.

“Bed it is,” he declares against the skin of Draco’s shoulder, sounding halfway asleep already. Draco huffs a laugh and pulls him towards the bedroom, pausing at the kitchenette to grab two glasses of water that he watches Harry drink in three gulps, a couple drops sliding down the sides of his mouth, into his beard and down his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“What?” He asks when he catches Draco watching him, and Draco shakes his head and pulls him to bed. He’s so handsome it’s genuinely upsetting sometimes. Draco thinks he’d throw a tantrum about it daily if it weren’t for the fact that he gets to touch him.

They try their best, but they don’t manage a second round before their eyes fall shut, tucked into each other like two hands cupped under a stream of water, tumbling into a satisfied, exhausted sleep.

Harry wakes him with a kiss before daybreak, the last of the night chilling the room and puckering Draco’s skin.

“Do you have to go already?” Draco asks, one eye still closed and a hand curled possessively around Harry’s bicep, not entirely on purpose.

Harry shakes his head, kisses him again with a gentleness that is meant to go nowhere but extend this kiss, warm and sweet.

“I thought we could talk.”

Draco is nodding before fully grasping the meaning, but even once he does he’s not tempted to back away. Must be the night, still cocooning them, must be Harry’s arms around him that are making him brave, but he’s not nervous anymore, not now that he’s remembered what they’re like, together.

“It is electric,” he says, suspecting that’s what Harry wants to talk about. “It’s always electric with you.”

The smile blooms slowly, lighting up Harry’s face from within, his beautiful eyes, unhidden this early in the morning, his glasses still on the bedside table. Harry sits up a little, clears his throat. It seems like he’s been gearing up for this, he’s squaring his shoulders the way he does before trying a dangerous feint, before performing a play that will have Draco biting dust. This insane, wonder of an athlete. Draco forces himself to shake the last of the sleep away, to focus on him, on what he wants to say.

“I know that … so many of us want you,” Harry starts. “On your team, on mine, the whole league, actually. But I —”

He looks like he’s stating an absolute truth, like he has irrefutable proof, and Draco is taken aback. He knows some of the guys find him attractive, but that’s not the same as being wanted. He shakes his head. “What? Where did you get that?”

“I’ve talked about it with the guys, but that’s not the point,” he adds hurriedly when he sees his eyes widen. Draco hasn’t said a word to anyone, not out of shame, but out of sureness that they were sneaking around, that they were making it a point to hide. Apparently, he was wrong. Harry continues, “What I want to say is … I know we’ve not agreed on anything, that you’re free to want others, be with whoever you want to be with. I thought that you knew where I stood, that if you weren’t saying anything it was because you didn’t want the same thing I did, but it’s been brought to my attention that if I’ve not made an honest offer, I can’t assume you’re saying no.”

Draco’s heart is hammering inside his chest, inside his throat. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but if he’s right, it seems Harry is saying …

“I don’t want this to be a once a month thing. I want to bring you home, I want you to meet my family, and I want the guys to know that I’m saying no to all the people they set me up with because I’m taken and completely uninterested in anyone else. Are you … is that something you want, too? I know you might have better offers, but I – ”

The covers crinkle under Draco’s knees as he sits up, throws a leg over Harry’s body so he can fully sit on his lap and brings him forward by the neck.

“You beautiful idiot. What could be a better offer? Why would I care about any other offers when I have the best one right here?”

They’re kissing, and Harry’s gasping, and Draco’s frenzied heart pounds against his sternum. He nods into the kiss, feels dizzy with how much he wants what’s being offered. Fuck. There’s nothing he wants more.

Harry pulls back a little, whispers: “Does this mean we’re — ?”

“Yes, fuck. It’s — The game’s the game.”

“What — That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Shut up. It’s your quote.”

Then they’re laughing into a new kiss, and it’s not the first, or even the tenth time they’re together like this, but Draco’s heart still goes crazy for this man, for his unlimited talent, his openness, his electric company. Quarter finals are coming up, then semis, then they might meet again on the pitch and Draco might lose and throw a strop and want to tear the hair out of his head over the beautiful Quidditch Harry plays, and then they’ll get to go home and celebrate a victory. No matter who takes the trophy. That’ll be the game.

Read On Ao3

[pillow-coded]

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 7

Summary: A case hits too close to home, sending Spencer into a quiet spiral. Y/N, stuck at an awkward family dinner, picks up the phone—and stays with him. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: anxiety response (anxiety attack?), case discussion involving murdered mothers and missing children, references to Spencer’s trauma (drug addiction, prison), Y/N’s parents being awful. Word Count: 7.7k

Series Masterlist

There’s something about going home that makes you twelve years old again. No matter how much time has passed. No matter how grown you are. One glance at the old photo wall, one side comment from my mother, and suddenly I’m that girl again—trying not to shrink under their disappointment.

I’ve been told by loads of people that I tend to exaggerate when it comes to my parents… but I don’t think I do.

I mean, they’re not all that bad.

If you take away their snobbiness, their ego, greed, and coldness… they’re pretty good parents.

Still, I have yet to see that raw, unfiltered version of them. I don’t think they’ve even seen it themselves.

They wear their polish like armor — every dinner a performance, every smile sharpened by expectations. Nothing’s ever loud in their house, but somehow the silence manages to bruise.

Maddie doesn’t know that yet. She’s too busy squealing over her glitter socks, waving a tiara around like it’s a golden ticket.

“Do you think Grandma will let me have the pink teacup this time?” she asks, eyes shining.

“Maybe,” I murmur, zipping up her jacket. “You’ll have to ask nicely.”

She beams. “I always do.”

“Yeah well… Grandma has never been one to soften up with niceness.” I muttered to myself, and thank god she was too distracted with the TV to hear me.

I smooth a hand down her hair, careful with the curls she insisted on wearing loose, and wonder how long I can keep her like this—untouched by that coldness. How long before she starts noticing the way Grandma’s compliments always come with a caveat, or how Grandpa never asks questions, just nods and turns the volume down on the TV.

Part of me wants to cancel. To say we’ve got the flu or car trouble or literally anything else.

Part of me wants to text Spencer. Not to complain. Not even for advice. Just to feel like someone’s on my side.

But I don’t.

Instead, I pick up my purse, take a breath, and say, “Ready?”

Maddie nods like we’re going on vacation. “Let’s go see the teacups!”

The drive was awful. Every mile felt like gravity was pulling me backward, begging me to turn the car around and go home. Maddie didn’t help — not that it was her fault. The whole time, I kept mentally begging her not to mention Spencer in front of them. If I wanted to avoid that, I’d have to stay two steps ahead. Keep her talking. Keep her distracted.

Now, we pull up.

And the house is exactly the same.

Landscaped to death. White stone path. Matching planters flanking the door like guards. The porch light has one of those warm-toned bulbs that’s meant to look inviting, but all it does is highlight how sterile everything feels.

Maddie skips ahead, practically dragging me by the hand, her curls bouncing with every step. I follow with a quiet dread that sits somewhere behind my ribs.

Before I can knock, the door swings open. My mother stands there in a lavender sweater set and a pinched smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Well,” she says, “look who finally made it.”

It’s not said with malice, not really. Just… that practiced sharpness she always wields like fine china.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, squeezing Maddie’s hand.

“You’re late.”

The scent hits me before the warmth does—lemon cleaner, overboiled broccoli, and a candle that’s supposed to smell like vanilla but always somehow reminds me of bleach.

I step inside and instantly feel overdressed and underdressed all at once. The floor still creaks in the exact same spots. The rugs haven’t moved since I was seventeen.

Maddie bounds toward the living room. I hang back.

They said they wanted to help when I told them I was pregnant.

Those were the exact words—We want to help. Said so calmly, like a safety net, like something generous.

But it didn’t feel generous. It didn’t even feel kind.

It felt rehearsed. Cold. Like a line they’d practiced just in case I ever disappointed them this badly.

What they really meant was that they wanted to make it go away. Quietly. Without disruption. Without shame. Certainly without a baby in the picture.

They offered to “handle it,” like I was bringing them a broken appliance instead of a life I wanted to protect. They said it wasn’t too late. That “things like this happen.” That there were clinics. Options.

But all of it came wrapped in that same tight-lipped discomfort they always reserve for things that make them feel embarrassed.

They’ve never handled discomfort well. Instead of facing it, they cover it in scented candles and carefully folded napkins.

When I was six, my favorite nanny painted my nails bubblegum pink while we watched cartoons. She was gone by the end of the week. My mother said she wasn’t a good fit.

When I was sixteen, I bought a tank top with my own money—soft, sky blue, and just barely cropped. My mom said it was too revealing. It disappeared from the laundry and never came back.

Even my diary vanished once. When I finally found it again, whole sections had been ripped out—pages where I wrote about crushes, mistakes, anger. The only ones left were the poems. Quiet, harmless little things. The kind of expression they didn’t mind so long as it wasn’t real.

So when I told them I was keeping the baby, I wasn’t shocked when they didn’t scream or cry or beg. They didn’t fall apart.

They just went still.

Not the kind of stillness that means they’re thinking. The kind that means the decision has already been made.

I remember standing there, wondering how something so loud inside of me could be met with that kind of vacuum silence. Like I’d just told them I was moving to another country or dropping out of school to paint murals for a living. Something embarrassing, but manageable—so long as they didn’t have to witness it.

I moved out two weeks later.

They told everyone it was impulsive. That I needed space. That I’d been “struggling with the adjustment.” What they didn’t say was that I had no intention of raising my daughter in a house where love came with terms. Where silence was used as a tool. Where something as human as a mistake meant they could erase the entire story.

I never asked for help after that. Not financially, not emotionally. Not even when I was crying on the bathroom floor, wondering if I could really do it alone.

They didn’t understand why I kept my distance. Still don’t.

But I do.

Because no one should have to fight to prove they’re worth loving. Especially not a child.

And if there’s one thing I can promise Maddie, it’s that she’ll never have to.

I left because I didn’t want my daughter growing up thinking that love only comes when you behave a certain way. When you match the curtains. When you never raise your voice and always say thank you.

I left because I knew she deserved more than polite coldness and conditional pride.

“Grandma!” Maddie squeals, holding up the tiara she insisted on wearing. “Look!”

My mother’s smile tightens just slightly. “Lovely, sweetheart,” she says, bending down to kiss her cheek without touching her hair.

I exhale slowly and follow them inside.

The entryway looks like a catalog spread. Same vase of white lilies on the side table. Same mirror I used to check my lipstick in before sneaking out. Everything polished. Curated. Clean in the way that means don’t touch anything.

I glance down and notice Maddie’s sparkly sneakers are already leaving faint prints on the floor.

She doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t. She’s too busy skipping toward the dining room, humming to herself, tiara slightly askew on her curls.

My father is exactly where I expect him to be—on the couch, remote in hand, the news murmuring low from the TV. He glances up long enough to nod. Then turns the volume down two clicks and says nothing.

We make it ten seconds before the first comment.

“You look tired,” my mother says, tone light, like she’s pointing out a smudge on my shirt. “Is work keeping you up?”

I bite the inside of my cheek and smile tightly. “Something like that.”

She hums, then turns her attention back to the kitchen without waiting for a response.

It’s always like this. Subtle. Never overt enough to cause a scene, but sharp enough to sting. Every sentence softened by civility. Every judgment delivered with a smile.

The dining table is already set—linen napkins, matching plates, the “good” glasses that aren’t meant for real use, just photo opportunities. Maddie slips into her seat with the kind of wonder only a child can muster. She clutches the teacup in front of her like it’s made of gold.

“Can I pour the juice, Mommy?” she asks.

“Carefully,” I say, helping her lift the pitcher so she doesn’t spill.

My mother watches from across the room. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her noting the way Maddie holds it. The way I guide her hand instead of doing it for her. She’s always believed in perfection. In appearances. In the idea that if something isn’t done the exact right way, it’s a reflection of failure.

We sit.

The conversation starts with pleasantries—work, the weather, some neighbor who redid their backyard. Then, without missing a beat, my mother steers it into more… evaluative territory.

“What schools are you considering for next year?” she asks. “I know it’s early, but planning ahead never hurts.”

I nod. “We’re still looking.”

Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Well, make sure it’s somewhere she can be challenged. You don’t want her falling behind.”

“She’s four,” I reply, reaching for my glass. “I’m more focused on her learning how to share.”

My dad lets out something between a laugh and a cough. I don’t look at him.

Maddie’s babbling about crayons and how purple is actually a princess color, even though Grandma says blue is more classic. She’s completely unaware of the tightrope I’m walking with every word.

And I pray—silently, desperately—that she doesn’t mention Spencer. Not even in passing.

Because if she does, the questions will start. And I don’t have the strength to watch them dissect him with the same cold precision they use on everything else they don’t understand.

Then my mother—calm as ever, folding her napkin with deliberate care—says, “All I’m saying is you don’t want a… dumb daughter.”

My fork clatters against the plate.

The silence that follows isn’t subtle. It drops like glass.

“I beg your pardon?” My voice is thin and cold. The kind of cold that comes after the burn. “She’s not dumb, mother.”

“I didn’t say she was.” She waves her hand lightly, like brushing away a smudge. “But she could use a little work. Her manners, for one. And her speech is a bit… underdeveloped, don’t you think?”

“She’s five,” I snap, more forcefully now. “She doesn’t need work. She needs a happy, healthy childhood.”

My father exhales slowly through his nose. Still doesn’t speak.

Across the table, Maddie’s coloring. Head down. Humming softly. Thank god she isn’t really listening. Or maybe she is, and just knows better than to react.

“I just meant,” my mother continues, unfazed, “a bit more structure wouldn’t hurt. Some discipline. Kids need it.”

I push my chair back and stand.

“I think we’re done here.”

Her eyes finally meet mine, sharp with quiet challenge. “You’re overreacting.”

“No,” I say, swallowing the knot in my throat. “I’m just not going to sit here while you talk about my daughter like she’s some kind of project you didn’t approve the blueprint for.”

I start gathering plates without waiting for a reply. The clatter of ceramic is louder than it should be in the heavy quiet.

“Y/N…” My father’s voice cuts in, low and measured like always. “Just calm down for a moment. Go to your room and breathe.”

I freeze.

“Excuse me?” I ask, not even bothering to turn around. “Go to my room?”

I can feel it now—that old burn crawling up my neck. That familiar, suffocating heat from every time I was told to calm down while being systematically chipped away at.

“And leave you two here with my daughter?” I ask, turning to face them. “So you can tell her she’s not enough, too?”

My mother huffs, standing. “No one is saying that.”

“You don’t have to say it,” I shoot back. “It’s in every single thing you do. Every sigh. Every correction. Every backhanded comment wrapped in etiquette.”

Maddie is still at the table, now quietly stacking her crayons by color. Her tiara has slid to one side, half-off her curls. She’s pretending not to hear us, and that might be the part that breaks me most.

I lower my voice.

“I’m not going to ask again. Do not talk about my daughter like she’s some renovation you would’ve done differently.”

There’s nothing left to say after that. Not from them.

And maybe it’s the first time in my life I’ve taken up space in this house without shrinking.

“Mommy, I don’t want to go…” Maddie pouts as she sees me getting my things.

God, I want to leave. I want to walk out, slam the door, and never step foot in this house again. But then I look at her face.

She’s not crying. She’s not scared. She’s just… disappointed.

She doesn’t see the microaggressions. The manipulations. The tightly-wound superiority hiding behind soft voices and polite smiles. To her, this house is where the fancy teacups live. Where Grandma lets her pour the juice. Where Grandpa turns the TV down just for her.

They’ve never been mean to her. Not outright. So she doesn’t know any better.

And I can’t fault her for that.

I sigh. Deep and tired and full of everything I won’t say.

“Okay, baby,” I murmur, setting my purse back down. “We can stay for a little longer.”

Her face lights up instantly. She doesn’t notice how long it takes me to sit back down.

I excuse myself to the kitchen, claiming I need to rinse the plates. It’s easier than pretending to make conversation.

The sink is already empty, of course. My mother would never let dishes pile up. I start washing the clean ones anyway, just for something to do. Something to keep my hands busy.

From here, I can still hear them in the other room. My mother asking Maddie which princess is her favorite. My father chuckling at something she says. The sounds should be comforting.

But they aren’t.

They’re just… hollow. Rehearsed.

The water runs warm over my fingers. I scrub a plate that doesn’t need scrubbing. My shoulders are still tense. My chest still tight.

And even though I’m standing in the kitchen of the house I grew up in, I’ve never felt less at home.

I blink hard, trying to shake it off, but the spiral’s already started. That low, humming ache I’ve carried for years begins curling at the edges of my ribs again. The feeling that I’m always bracing for impact, always preparing for a comment that’ll cut deeper than it sounds.

I start wondering… what would happen if Maddie told them about Spencer?

What would happen if they knew I was interested in someone?

Would they freak out and tell me I was making a mistake?

Would they remind me of how hard it was last time I trusted the wrong person?

Would they pity me?

Would they say nothing at all—but let it hang in the air like a judgment too polite to speak?

They’ve always had a way of taking something as natural as love and making it feel… impractical. Inconvenient. Like it only counts if it comes with a mortgage and a wedding registry and a family background that checks every box.

And Spencer—

God. He’s none of those things.

He’s soft-spoken and scattered and too smart for his own good. He makes shadow puppets with his hands and carries magic coins in his pockets. He’s careful with Maddie. Gentle with me. And I still don’t know what to call him or what this is, but I know I haven’t felt this safe around someone in years.

Which is exactly why I haven’t told anyone, at least not yet, and most definitely not to them.

Not when I know what it’ll sound like through their filter. A man I barely know. A man with baggage. A man they’ll find a hundred reasons to dislike without ever meeting him.

They wouldn’t even try to be discreet about it.

Hell, they’d probably hire a private investigator before I could get through dinner. Pull background checks, scan every news archive, run his name through some old college friend who knows someone in law enforcement.

And what would happen if they found out?

About the addiction?

About the kidnappings?

About the prison time?

What would they say when they learned that the man I trust with my daughter once trusted the wrong person and paid for it behind bars?

Would they call me reckless? Irresponsible?

Would they look at Maddie like she was in danger?

Or worse—would they look at him like he’s dangerous?

Would they try to dispose of him?

I don’t even want to think about it. Because they wouldn’t see the version of him I do. They wouldn’t see the way he gently adjusts Maddie’s backpack so it doesn’t tug on her shoulders, or how he listens—really listens—when I talk about things that don’t matter to anyone else.

They wouldn’t see the man who cleaned his entire apartment at midnight so it would be safe for a little girl with sticky fingers and mismatched socks.

They would just see the record. The mugshot. The trauma.

They wouldn’t see the healing.

And I’m not ready to let them ruin something that, for once, feels like it might be mine.

“Y/N,” my mother says sternly as she steps into the kitchen. “You have to eat something. You stormed off to do the dishes, you must be starving.”

“What?” I blink, caught off guard by the gentleness in her voice. Not warm exactly… but not biting either. Just soft enough to make me suspicious.

“You haven’t touched your food.” She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe like she’s been standing there for longer than she wants me to know. “It’s getting cold.”

I glance at the counter, at the still-warm plates I’ve been pointlessly rinsing for the last ten minutes.

“I wasn’t hungry,” I say flatly.

She sighs—slow and deliberate. The kind that says I’m trying to be patient here without actually being patient.

“I know things between us aren’t… perfect,” she starts.

Perfect. That’s what she’s going with.

“But you can’t hold onto resentment forever. You’re a mother now. You have responsibilities. You can’t just walk out every time you feel uncomfortable.”

I clench my jaw, my back to her.

“I didn’t walk out,” I reply. “I removed myself from a situation that was making me feel like I was sixteen again and one wrong sentence away from being grounded.”

“You’re too sensitive.”

“And you’re too used to saying whatever you want without consequence.”

The silence snaps between us like a rubber band.

She shifts. “I’m just saying, you’re not doing Maddie any favors by being so… reactive. She needs stability. Consistency.”

I turn to face her then. Not angry—just done.

“She has consistency. She has me. What she doesn’t need is to be around people who think discipline is the same thing as shame.”

Her mouth opens like she’s about to argue—but my phone buzzes sharply on the counter.

I glance at it.

Spencer.

Everything stills.

I don’t wait for her to say anything else. I reach for the phone and answer it.

“Hey,” I say, barely above a whisper.

There’s a pause. No sound on the other end—just the faintest breath. Enough to make my chest tighten.

Then, quiet. Unsteady.

“Spe—” I started to say his name, but my mother was watching intensely “Are you okay?”

“Are you busy?” he asks, he sounds panicked.

I don’t ask why. I don’t need to.

“No, I’m not.”

“Please just… just talk to me, for a little bit.”

I wipe my hands on a towel and step past my mother without looking back.

I rush to my old bedroom. It’s still intact. Probably the only thing that looks different in this house.

“Okay,” I whisper, phone pressed to my cheek. “I’m here.”

The photos are everywhere.

On the board. On the table. Burned into the backs of my eyes.

Aria Jensen. Four years old. Last seen leaving her apartment with a woman no one can identify. Blue dress. White ballet flats. Her mother had just finished her shift at the mall. It was her birthday.

It should’ve been a simple case, I mean relatively so, provided that we had evidence of years prior. It was a case involving a single mother, and her daughter.

Naomi and Lila Callahan. Naomi was a Diner waitress, worked overnight shifts at a place called Gracie’s. She was found deceased, the body was discovered two month’s after her disappearance in a shallow grave at Millstone Park.

The cause of death was blunt force trauma, followed by post-mortem strangulation. She was found with a daisy chain bracelet made of fake flowers on her wrist. It wasn’t hers, at least that’s what the friends and family said.

Along with Naomi’s death, her daughter, Lila had gone missing. A two year old, last seen alive with her mother leaving the diner. Her status has been unknown to this date, but she’s considered presumably dead.

Relatively simple case, the type of case we would’ve solved in days.

The problem is that the Callahan’s case happened back in 2016. The case went cold in 2018, with no viable suspects, DNA was found at the burial site, but it was mixed and degraded. There was also no match in CODIS. No CCTV footage had ever been located.

We were called in because California PD believes the same offender has struck again. Only this time it was the Jensen’s.

Erica and Aria Jensen. Erica, like Naomi, worked a late shift, as a cleaner at the Hamilton Mall. Her body was discovered three days ago, in almost identical conditions to Naomi.

Blunt force trauma to the head, ligature marks on neck — mirror to Naomi

And the signature wasn’t missing either. Plastic daisies tucked behind the ear.

Her daughter, Aria, was also missing. She was last seen at Erica’s apartment, getting picked up by an unidentified female, posing as a childcare consultant.

She was wearing pigtails and a sparkly blue dress when she was last seen.

She has pigtails.

Like Maddie sometimes does.

But it’s not Maddie. It’s not Maddie. It’s not Maddie.

I keep repeating it, even though it’s getting harder to believe.

Cases involving children have never been easy on me, or any of those for that matter… but now that I have them… Y/N, Maddie. It’s becoming increasingly hard to focus, to keep a clear mind and save this family.

I try to focus.

We’re all crammed into the precinct’s conference room. Boards are stacked with photos, timelines, post-its. Crime scene reconstructions from both 2016 and now. Prentiss stands at the front, arms crossed, listening closely while JJ reviews victimology patterns, and Garcia’s voice buzzes through speakerphone like a lifeline we’re all clinging to.

“We’ve got the same classified ad appearing again—identical language, same weird phrasing, same fake name. Ms. Whitmore,” Garcia says. “She’s been using community boards. No digital trace. Printed flyers only.”

“Grooming,” JJ murmurs, flipping through the printouts. “They’re carefully selected victims. Single mothers. Working overnight shifts. No strong support systems.”

“She waits until they’re isolated,” I add, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “Exhausted. Desperate. She offers them an out, and then she takes everything.”

Luke paces a few steps behind us. “It’s more than desperation. There’s control here. These women didn’t vanish on a whim. They trusted her.”

“Right,” Tara says, tapping the victimology sheet. “It’s not impulsive. It’s premeditated and rehearsed. And the staging—”

“Daisies behind the ear,” JJ fills in. “Just like the fake daisy bracelet Naomi had on her wrist in 2016.”

“And now with Erica,” Prentiss adds, “the positioning of the body is nearly identical. Face turned away, left arm bent, plastic floral detail in place.”

“She’s communicating,” I murmur.

Luke glances over. “You think she sees it as a message?”

“I think she sees it as a gift,” I say, eyes still on the board. “There’s emotional delusion here. Likely a maternal complex.”

I pause without meaning to. But something in me wants to keep going.

“The daisy itself is symbolic. It can mean purity, innocence, new beginnings… joy. Cheerfulness. And in the Victorian era, daisies were used to convey secrecy—loyalty, discretion. You could give someone a daisy to say: your secret is safe with me.”

The room quiets. Not because they don’t understand—but because they do.

“Only in this case… the unsub isn’t protecting a secret. She’s claiming a child. She’s saying, your child is safe with me.”

My voice tightens, mouth running faster than my mind can filter. “Madd—”

I catch myself. Sharp. Sudden.

“Aria,” I say, too quickly. “Aria is safe with me. That’s what she thinks she’s saying. That she’s like the daisy.”

Silence.

No one says anything. No gasps. No challenge.

But I feel it.

The shift in the air.

The way eyes flick toward me. The way JJ’s pen stills in her hand. The way Tara subtly lifts her head from her notes.

And just like that, I know: they heard it. All of it.

JJ glances at me—brief, but knowing. Luke tilts his head just slightly, like he’s turning over a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. Tara frowns down at the file in her hand like it suddenly got heavier.

Even the speakerphone, where Garcia had been chiming in almost nonstop just minutes ago, goes quiet for a moment.

Prentiss doesn’t say anything, but her eyes linger on me longer than the others. She’s too good at seeing through people. She doesn’t press—but she notes it. I can feel that much.

I clear my throat and flip the page of my notebook, even though I’m not reading any of it.

“I meant Aria,” I say, low and clipped. “Obviously.”

JJ nods slowly. “Right.”

We move on. Sort of.

Garcia returns a minute later with updates about the false 'Ms. Whitmore' identity from Quantico—there’s a new flyer pulled from a parenting board in Marin County. Tara suggests we cross-reference recent, closed child welfare complaints in the area. Prentiss adds we need to get the unsub’s face out wider, maybe even release a composite.

The team keeps talking. Offering solutions. Pushing forward.

But I’m not really hearing any of it anymore.

Because the name slipped out so easily.

Because it didn’t feel like a mistake.

Because deep down, I keep seeing Maddie in that blue dress, not Aria. Maddie on that flyer. Maddie being led down a hallway by someone smiling too wide and holding a clipboard.

And Y/N. Standing at a sink, not knowing what happened. Wondering why I wasn’t there. Who to call. What to do.

I rub my hands together under the table, trying to shake it off, but they feel clammy. I’ve been here before—when emotion starts clouding logic, when the images in my head start overlapping. I used to pride myself on separating the case from the personal.

But I can’t anymore.

Not with this.

Prentiss’s voice cuts in again. “If the unsub is treating the children as symbolic—living representations of something she’s lost—then her next move will depend on whether she feels she's succeeded or failed with Aria. And if she thinks Aria isn’t a match... she may already be watching her next one.”

Luke nods grimly. “Then we better move fast.”

JJ flips back to the victim reports. “Naomi and Erica were both described as 'soft-spoken,' overworked, polite to a fault. I think she’s projecting something onto them—maybe blaming them for their daughters not being good enough.”

“She’s rewriting her life,” I say. “But if she’s been doing this since 2016, there’s probably a specific child she’s trying to recreate. One that fits. One that doesn’t fight back.”

“She doesn’t see herself as a kidnapper,” Tara mutters. “She sees herself as a mother.”

“And like all delusional mothers,” I add, quieter now, “she doesn’t think she’s hurting anyone.”

I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping the edge of the table until I feel the ache in my knuckles.

Luke’s voice pulls me back in. “We can tighten the geographic radius between the dump sites and see if there’s any pattern there. We’ve got a five-mile overlap zone.”

“Good,” Prentiss says, stepping toward the board. “Luke, Tara—start mapping. JJ, check in with the witness again. See if she remembers anything new—accents, odd behavior, anything. Spencer—”

She pauses.

“Go grab a coffee. Ten minutes.”

It’s not a suggestion.

I open my mouth to argue—but I know that tone. I recognize the look he gives me, too. The one that means you’re not helping anyone like this. Go breathe.

I nod stiffly, stand, and step out of the room.

“Are you okay?” JJ asks, following me out of the room.

“I’m.. I’m fine.” I reply, although it sounded more like a question rather than an answer.

We walk a few paces down the hallway in silence before she speaks again.

“You said a name in there.” Her voice is gentle, non-accusatory. “Maddie.”

I freeze. Just slightly.

I don’t look at her. “Did I?”

She nods. “Yeah. Right before you corrected yourself. Who’s Maddie?”

My mouth is already moving before my brain can catch up.

“JJ, it was just a slip of the tongue. I don’t know anyone named Maddie.”

She watches me for a second too long.

Not pushing. Not accusing.

Just... looking.

“You never read anything wrong,” she says again, softer now. Not as a challenge—just a fact. Something she’s sure of.

I grip the paper coffee cup in my hand a little tighter.

“JJ, it was just a slip of the tongue,” I say, more firmly this time. “I don’t know anyone named Maddie.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just tilts her head slightly, like she’s trying to hear what I’m not saying.

I force a half-shrug. “I’ve been staring at these case files for days. I probably picked the name up somewhere else. A case, a newspaper. It’s nothing.”

JJ nods once. Slowly. She doesn’t believe me. Not fully. But she knows better than to keep digging when I’ve put up the wall.

“Okay,” she says. And it sounds like she means it. At least enough to walk away.

She starts back toward the conference room, but before she turns the corner, she glances back.

“Whoever she is,” she says quietly, “you don’t have to lie about caring.”

Then she’s gone.

I stand there a moment longer, pulse ticking in my throat, the name Maddie still ringing in my ears.

Luke and I stayed behind at the precinct while Prentiss and Rossi went to the morgue, and JJ and Tara coordinated with local PD to re-interview a potential witness who’d called in a new tip. Garcia was pulling phone records, and scraping archived nanny listings from parenting forums. She’d found a few more ads matching Ms. Whitmore’s pattern—same wording, same false credentials—but nothing we could immediately act on.

The room felt quieter than it should have, like the static had been turned down but never really left. Luke was combing through Naomi’s employee records, highlighting shifts, side jobs, any schedule irregularities. I was supposed to be checking timestamps against Aria’s last known sightings, but my eyes kept blurring the numbers.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the photo.

The one from the missing poster—Aria in a blue dress, her hair parted into pigtails that didn’t quite match, one slipping looser than the other. She looked like she had just learned how to pose for pictures and hadn’t figured out where to put her hands yet. She looked like Maddie.

No, not like Maddie. She looked exactly like Maddie did when she met me that first day in the library. Small. Curious. Bright-eyed. Trusting.

I rubbed my eyes and shifted in my seat. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above me, a sound I’d managed to tune out for the last hour that now felt unbearable. My fingers tapped the table out of sync. My leg started bouncing. I told it to stop. It didn’t.

I pulled up the timeline Garcia had sent earlier. I tried to focus on the interval between Naomi’s disappearance and Erica’s. The gap had narrowed. The unsub was escalating, even if we didn’t have a perfect pattern yet. But the numbers weren’t holding in my brain the way they normally did. They were swimming.

The case wasn’t slipping out of reach. I was.

I glanced across the table at Luke, who was still hunched over a witness transcript, unaware of the chaos running through my bloodstream.

What if I missed something?

What if she took Aria because I hadn’t seen the right connection fast enough?

What if—God forbid—someone like her ever got near Maddie?

What if I wasn’t there?

“You good?”

Luke’s voice cuts in, quiet but direct.

I blink up from the page I’m not actually reading, heart skipping like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. I must’ve been staring at the same line for longer than I realized.

“What?”

“You just…” He leans back slightly in his chair, the pen in his hand tapping the edge of the table. “You’ve been zoning out. Figured I’d check in before you cracked the table in half with your jaw.”

I force a small breath through my nose. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

He nods slowly. Doesn’t press. Just says, “Alright,” and goes back to the interview transcript in front of him.

But now I can feel it—the way my shoulders are locked. The way my whole body feels like a pulled wire. Every breath tastes like static. I try to shift, to settle, but it’s no use. The thoughts won’t stop circling.

Maddie’s face.

Y/N’s voice.

The sound of a door closing somewhere I can’t reach.

And Aria—lost, possibly alone, possibly worse—because I’m here running numbers and reciting patterns that haven’t saved anyone yet.

I grip the edge of the table, fingertips white. Try to blink it back. Try to remember the last time I slept more than three hours. The last time I felt like I was actually helping anyone. The last time I didn’t feel like a walking liability.

“She’s four years old,” I murmur, not meaning to say it out loud.

Luke glances up.

I press my palm against my eye socket, hard.

“She’s four,” I say again. “She’s probably scared. Confused. She probably thinks her mom’s coming back for her.”

Luke puts down his pen.

“Reid.”

“And we’re just sitting here—” I don’t mean for my voice to rise, but it does. “We’re sitting here doing the same thing we always do, like we haven’t been over these files a dozen times already.”

He tries again, firmer this time. “Reid, take a breath.”

“No. Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t tell me to breathe like this is normal. Like this is a normal case. Because it’s not.”

He straightens in his chair, wary now. “I never said it was.”

“She’s out there, Luke.” My hands are shaking now. “She’s out there, and we’re in here talking about map overlays and victim psychology like it’s going to magically spit out an answer before she—before she—”

“Before what?” Luke’s voice is calm, but there’s steel under it now. “Before we lose her?”

I go still.

His words hit too close. Not because he’s wrong. But because he said it out loud. Because I’ve been thinking it every second since we landed and hearing someone else say it makes it real.

“I should’ve caught it by now,” I whisper.

“No one’s blaming you.”

“I am,” I snap. “I’m blaming me.”

The silence that follows is cold. It wraps around us like fog, thick and breathless.

Then footsteps echo in the hallway behind us.

Emily walks in, shutting the door gently behind her. She takes one look at the room—at me standing with my fists clenched and my face tight—and sighs softly, like she already knows what’s happened.

“Reid,” she says carefully, “can I talk to you outside for a second?”

I don’t answer right away. Just nod. I feel Luke’s eyes still on me as I follow her out.

The hallway is even quieter.

“I need you to sit this one out,” she says, her tone as gentle as it can be while still being final.

I swallow. “Emily—”

“I’m not doing this to punish you.” Her eyes are steady. “I know what this case is doing to you. I saw it the second Aria’s photo went up.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. It’s a whisper.

“You’re not,” she says. “And that’s okay. But I need your head clear on this, and right now… it’s not.”

“I can help,” I say. “If I just—if I could just figure out what detail I missed—”

“Spencer.” She cuts me off, soft but firm. “Go back to the hotel. Take a break. Breathe.”

And just like that, it’s not a request.

I nod once, jaw tight, then turn and walk away without saying another word.

Not because I want to.

But because if I stay, I might break something I can’t fix.

The drive to the hotel feels like it stretches longer than it should. I take the side streets. Pretend it’s for traffic reasons, but really it’s just so I don’t have to arrive too fast. Every stoplight feels like it’s pulsing against my temples. I keep replaying what I said. The look Luke gave me. The way Emily didn’t even ask—just told me to go.

I should be back there. I should be doing something. Reviewing timelines. Studying offender patterns. Searching for Aria. Anything but this.

But the more I sit behind the wheel, the more I realize I wouldn’t be helping anyone if I stayed. My brain is too loud. My thoughts are too messy. I can’t think straight, can’t separate the case from them.

From Y/N.

From Maddie.

From the way Aria’s photo keeps morphing into Maddie’s in my head, even though I know better. Even though I know the difference.

By the time I pull into the hotel parking lot, I feel nauseous. My hands are shaking on the wheel. I sit there for a few seconds, forehead resting against the steering wheel like I can hold myself still that way. Like if I just stay quiet enough, the panic won’t finish crawling up my throat.

It doesn’t work.

I rush inside, ignoring the way the night clerk glances up at me and immediately looks back down. My shoes squeak against the tile. The elevator feels slower than usual. Every ding feels like someone pressing a bruise.

I can’t stop thinking.

About the timing. About the statistics. About how close this unsub is to getting away with it. About how I couldn’t even answer JJ when she asked who Maddie was. About how I’d rather choke on my own name than let Y/N know how afraid I really am.

By the time I reach my floor, my chest feels tight. My breath is short. I don’t remember pulling my phone out, but suddenly it’s in my hand, screen glowing as I scroll to her name.

I just… dial.

There’s no logic. No plan. I just need something to stop the noise.

It rings once. Then twice.

I fumble with the room key as it clicks open. The moment the door closes behind me, I feel the weight of the day hit my back like a wave. I don’t even bother turning on the lights.

Then—

“Hey.”

Her voice.

She sounds relieved. Like she needed this just as much as I did.

My lips part, but nothing comes out. The pressure in my chest doesn’t ease, but it shifts—like it knows it's not alone anymore. I grip the phone tighter.

“Spe—” she starts, then cuts herself off. Her voice softens. “Are you okay?”

I press the heel of my hand to my eyes. My throat is tight.

“Are you busy?” My voice cracks. It comes out too soft, too fast. Panicked. Small.

“No,” she says, immediately. “I’m not.”

I sit on the edge of the bed like my legs can’t hold me up anymore. “Please just… just talk to me. For a little bit.”

I feel the tears starting to form. I swipe them away before they get the chance to fall. I don’t want her to hear that part. Not yet.

“Okay,” she whispers gently, and I can hear her settle into the phone. “I’m here.”

And somehow, for the first time all day, I let myself believe that might be enough.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, voice still low, careful.

I swallow hard. “I… The case got to me.”

There’s a pause. Not because she doesn’t know what to say—because she does. She’s just giving me room to say more if I need to.

But I don’t. Not yet.

“Would it help,” she says after a moment, a little softer now, “if I told you about the shitty dinner with my parents that you just saved me from?”

I let out something between a breath and a laugh. It’s quiet, a little unsteady—but real.

“Maybe,” I murmur. “Yeah. Please.”

“Alright,” she says, like she’s rolling up her sleeves. “Well, Maddie wore her tiara, she looks adorable with it. And she poured herself a glass of juice without spilling it. I thought my mom was going to have a heart attack at the thought of Maddie spilling the juice on her stupid table cloth.”

I close my eyes, lie back onto the bed, and listen.

She keeps going—about the silverware, the passive-aggressive jabs, the way her dad just stayed out of it. And somewhere between Maddie stacking her crayons by color and the salad that “tasted like soap and shame,” I realize I’m breathing again.

Still tight. Still aching.

But breathing.

“Oh, Maddie wants to say hi,” she adds, her voice lilting with a smile I can hear even through the speaker.

There’s a muffled shuffle on the other end. A tiny giggle. Then—

“Spencer!”

It’s immediate—this gentle squeeze in my chest. The kind that’s equal parts joy and pain.

I smile, despite myself. “Hi, Maddie.”

“I wore my crown today,” she announces proudly. “It didn’t even fall off.”

“Impressive,” I whisper, voice still hoarse. “Sounds like you’re becoming a professional fairy princess.”

“I am,” she says, very seriously. “But Mommy says I’m not allowed to be bossy about it.”

Y/N’s laughter is soft in the background. “She’s working on the humility part.”

“I’m good at being nice,” Maddie insists, a bit defensive now. “Just not when people are mean.”

And just like that—without even realizing it—my chest doesn’t feel as tight. My grip on the phone isn’t as desperate. My thoughts aren’t spiraling anymore.

They’re okay.

They’re safe.

“I know you are,” I say gently. “You’re the kindest princess I’ve ever met.”

There’s a satisfied little hum, then more rustling as she passes the phone back.

“She’s grinning,” Y/N says. “Like, whole-face grinning. You’ve made her night.”

I shut my eyes again, sinking into the sound of her voice like it’s the only thing keeping me from unraveling all over again.

“You’ve made mine,” I murmur.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

taglist: @livbonnet @23moonjellies @saskiaalonso @ellaomalalaalala @deltamoon666 @person-005 @reidssoulmate @quillsandcauldroncakes @imaginationfever13 @measure-in-pain @reidrs @reidsjuno @un-messed @happydeanpotter @rhinelivinglife @skye-westwood @xxfairyqueenxx @alrat13 @lunaryoongie @scarlettoh @ortega29

[livwritesstuff]

inspired by a tiktok that i will come back and link when i'm not at work anymore lol

edit: big thanks to the 18-hour tiktok propaganda "ban" for reminding me that i never came back and linked the tiktok (here it is)

Midway through December, Eddie’s publishing house puts on a holiday party at their HQ all the way in NYC.

Okay – all the way might be a little dramatic. New York isn’t too far a haul from where Eddie and Steve put down roots in Massachusetts, but with three hellions under the age of seven, anything outside of their typical routine is a stretch.

They’re making it work though – anything for an opportunity to get some childless time together – and they’ve got Robin and Nancy watching the girls so they can stay overnight in the city, and they’re getting all dolled up too (Steve is wearing an enormous cableknit sweater with a turtleneck underneath and, seriously, Eddie had no idea that many layers could still be that fucking hot until he met Steve). 

Normally Eddie wouldn’t give a shit (he likes to bring a kind of come as you are type of vibe to the function, typically), but he’s actually looking forward to an evening spent wearing clothes that aren’t covered in snot and craft glitter and food.

He’s wearing these dark grey plaid trousers and he’s got a silk-ish black button-down on over a black undershirt, tucked in and unbuttoned simultaneously, and he’s topping it all off with a positively ancient leather jacket that he’s had for longer than he can even remember.

He looks pretty fuckin’ snazzy, if he’d say so himself.

Eddie is putting the finishing touches on his look – selecting the perfect assortment of rings and chains – when the door pushes open and his four-year-old, Robbie, enters the room.

Robbie pulls a confused kind of face as she looks him up and down.

Eddie furrows his eyebrows.

“What’s that look for?”

Robbie’s still got her nose all scrunched up as she says, “What happened to you?”

And now Eddie is offended because he actually thinks he looks pretty great, thanks, and he could do without judgement from his pre-schooler (who still gets dressed with her shirt on backwards half the time, just for the record).

“Amelia Robin, you cannot be serious.”

“What happened to you?” she repeats.

“Oh, you’re gonna double down on that?”

Robbie doesn’t even bother responding, just skitters back out from whence she came or whatever. He can hear Robin just behind him trying not to laugh.

“Did you tell her to say that?” he asks her, because it’s far from outside the realm of possibility.

“I swear on all that is holy I didn’t,” she snickers, “That was totally her.”

Eddie sighs.

“Y’know, Steve’s got all this big talk about oh, she’s you, Ed, she’s just like you,” Eddie says, his voice going all high and mocking, “But that – that was pure Steve.”

They head downstairs not too long later where Steve is walking Nancy through the insane binder he stores all of the girls' info in.

“Hey,” Steve says, a grin growing on his face, “Look at you.”

“Eugh,” Robin groans, “Can you guys leave already and be gross outside my line of sight.”

“You look good as hell,” Steve ignores her as he tugs just a little on the hem of Eddie’s coat.

“Can you tell your daughter that, please.”

[thebigbadbatswife]

Beneath The Mistletoe

Pairing - Bruce Wayne x F!Reader x Selina Kyle

Summary - Selina and Bruce corner you beneath the mistletoe.

Warnings - Public Displays of Affection, Christmas Fluff, Suggestive Themes, Humour, Bisexual!Reader

Word Count - 800

Wayne Manor was cast in a golden glow from the various twinkling lights that currently decorated the place. Along with the lights were the decorations that you would expect to see in a billionaire’s home. Gold, silver, red. Nothing overly gaudy, but still screamed rich. And there was the tree in the entrance hall. Its size completely surreal and was decorated in a very orderly and traditional way. A similar one was set up within the main ballroom as well.

It was all for show. Something for the “official” Bruce Wayne Christmas party that was thrown each and every year without fail.

The real decorations were deeper within the manor. Set up in one of the lounges. A tree decorated by the boys. It was messy and chaotic and perfect. All at once. A fake pine garland along the top of the mantle of a fireplace that had a low flame flickering within it. And none of those gaudy hanging decorations are anywhere to be seen. 

The lounge wasn’t filled with strangers either. Friends and family only. This was the real Christmas party. One that wasn’t going to end up in every magazine and news website across the planet. Where everyone was made jealous of the luxury that came from a billionaire’s bank account.

There was no need to dress fancy either. Though ugly Christmas jumpers were mandatory, per Dick’s request. Which was fine by everyone, but Bruce. Who looked grumpy and kept pulling at the neck, scratching his skin, where it was irritating him. Though, in true Bruce fashion, it was a Batman themed one. He likely wasn’t hating this as much as he was making out he was.

Seeing everyone in one room together made you smile. With all the near disasters that kept almost befalling the planet and the city you called home, it was hard to get everyone in the same room.

You sipped on the eggnog in your snifter glass, humming softly. It was thicky and creamy and delicious. One of these days you were going to have to beg Alfred to tell you the recipe.

“Well, what do we have here?” Selina asked as she approached you. She was wearing a sweater that had the image of a cat tangled in christmas lights. It was very her. 

You raised an eyebrow at her. What was she on about? 

She smiled, amused at your confusion. Her eyes looked above you before returning to your own. You looked above you and chuckled when you saw it. Mistletoe. Dammit. You had been doing a good job all night avoiding it. Now Selina had you cornered. She took a step forward. You attempted to take a step backwards (it was all part of the game), but your back came into contact with a solid chest, which stopped you in your tracks. There was no need for you to turn around to see who it was. You already knew. 

Bruce. 

They were teaming up against you.

“You know, mistletoe can be deadly if you eat,” he said. Both of his hands came to rest on your hips and pulled you against him. 

She hummed and stepped into your space. “Yes, but a kiss can be even deadlier, if you mean it.”

Your cheeks felt impossible hot. They were going to be the death of you. You were sure of it. Bruce’s lips brushed against your ear, sending a shiver up your spine.

“It’s just a couple of kisses. Then we’ll let you go.”

But it never was a “couple of kisses”. Two would turn into four and four would turn into eight. Before you knew it they would have you wrapped up in the silk sheets of the custom bed Bruce had had built for the three of you. Not that you ever complained. You trusted them completely.

“Fine,” you replied, accepting your fate and surrendering yourself to your lovers.

Selina kissed your first. It was far more sensual than a kiss beneath the mistletoe should be. You sighed softly when she pulled away. Your lips weren’t left alone for long. Bruce turned your head to him and kissed you. Even going as far as to push his tongue into your mouth, caressing your tongue with his own. Your moan was barely audible. Only Selina and Bruce were able to hear it. 

“Get a room you three!” Hal called out. There were a few chuckles and laughs that followed. If it was possible for your cheeks to get even hotter, they definitely did.

And Bruce decided to make it so much worse.

“I think Hal’s right for once. Perhaps we should go up to our room.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, they were immediately followed by the sounds of Dick and Jason fake gagging and retching.

[reneesghostinthelivingroom]

Just a little ask- can we get a Regina George x basically a masc lesbian version of a himbo reader?

I don’t know about you but I have to climb Mount Everest to find any masc reader fics 😭 it’s hard out here!!!

Truth or Dare ||

|| Regina George x masc!fem!reader

|| Warnings: heavily implied smut, house party, underage drinking, Regina being Regina, sex mention, reader being slightly peer pressured in Truth or Dare, swearing, Regina being possessive over reader

|| Summary: Regina gets reader ready for a house party, they get a little distracted by each other. At the house party, reader ends up having more fun than she thought she would.

Requests open!

Started: May 10th

Finished: May 13th

~~~

The only reason you were popular was because Regina George was your girlfriend; if you hadn't been associated with her you would've been a complete outcast. You didn't fall into the femme social norms society had created. You leaned on the more masc side. Backwards hats, baggy pants, oversized shirts and sweaters. How you ended up with Regina you had no idea, but man you loved every minute of it.

You sat with her group during lunch, it was Wednesday so all of you had at least some type of pink on. For you it was your backwards flat cap, coloured a soft pink. Regina had bought it for you since prior to dating her you had absolutely zero pink in your wardrobe. Your clothes were mostly neutral colours, except for the few pride merch pieces you had.

The rest of your outfit was what you would typically wear. It was Fall, so you had a brown oversized hoodie; the sleeves and hood were a soft cream colour. Your pants were a pair of grey-ish green cargos. The way you tended to dress was mostly just grabbing whatever from your closet since you were always rushed in the mornings; sleep was priority. Looking good came after.

Regina hated that you did this. There was definitely a few times where the outfit you ended up showing up with was so mismatched that she would make you go back and change.

"Have you been listening?" Regina looked at you, eyes narrowed. You blinked and stared at her in confusion.

You definitely hadn't been.

"Uhh..."

Regina groans," Pay attention, dumbass. I asked if you had an outfit planned for the party tonight."

You had completely forgotten about the house party Regina was dragging you to, so you didn't have an outfit." I can't just wear this?" You looked down at what you already had on.

Her face scrunched up and she rolled her eyes," Absolutely not. After school you're coming to mine and we're giving you a makeover."

"Great..." You muttered, not really wanting the makeover but you knew Regina wouldn't let you say no.

The rest of the school day went by pretty quickly and at the end of it Regina had driven you to her place to work on your party fit.

As you walked into her room, she grabbed you by your waist and pinned you to the wall. Trailing kisses along your neck which got a soft gasp out of you.

"Regina- I thought-" You were confused why she was she doing this, not that you minded but you thought you were here for a makeover... not make out.

Her hands gripped the bottom of your hoodie and slowly pulled it over your head.

"Well, I have to undress you first. Don't I?" She whispered into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded your head and let her continue with what she was doing.

She smirked as she watched you easily go along with what she was doing. Once your shirt was off, she unclipped your bra and let it fall to the floor as she pushed herself against your body. Her kisses went from your neck to your chest, pulling away from you just moments before she would've reached your breasts.

You made a soft sound when she pulled away, Regina smirked and gripped your hand; leading you to her closet. She loved teasing you like this. Her favourite thing was watching you get worked up, then pulling away from you last minute.

She dug through her clothes, trying to find a nice shirt and pair of pants to go with it. Something that would both match your style and fit what she was going to wear.

When she found the right combination of clothes, she handed them to you and gave you a deep kiss. You melted into it, kissing her back. Her hand rested to the small of your back as she pulled away; eyes slowly trailing your figure.

"Change into that."

You looked down at the clothes she picked out for you, raising an eyebrow as you looked back at Regina again. "Do I have to?"

She narrowed her eyes," Yes." Her hand trailed down further before slapping your ass, making you gasp at the suddenness," Don't argue."

You rolled your eyes but got changed into the fit, Regina's eyes never leaving your body as she stood with her arms crossed.

The outfit she had given you was a little more out of your style than she planned for; she had given you a black lace corset with a fishnet long sleeve that went down to your hands and made fingerless gloves. For the bottoms she'd given you a pair of red jeans and one of her louboutin boots that had just a bit of heel. Okay, it was seriously out of your style. She just wanted to see what you would look like in it and man she wasn't disappointed. When you were dressed, you looked at her then down at the heeled boots.

"I'm so going to fall tonight." You muttered, she laughed at that and a smile tugged the corner of her mouth.

"And if you do, tell me so I can get it on video." Regina winked at you, you huffed.

"Love you, too." You muttered, she ignored your comment and grabbed you by your hand. Pulling you helplessly over to her makeup vanity. Your worst nightmare.

Regina forced you to take a seat before she sat down in your lap, a smirk on her face as she went through her makeup supplies.

"Regina..." You tried to protest, but her hand went to your mouth to stop you.

"Don't start. A little makeup won't hurt you." Regina whispered, grabbing her moisturizer cream and beginning to put some on. You cringed as it touched your face and closed your eyes, reluctantly letting her do what she needed to do.

Nearly twenty long minutes later, Regina was done and satisfied with the look she had created. She grabbed you by your chin and made you look in her mirror as she raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"It's... not my style. But it's fine." You replied, at least being honest with her.

She rolled her eyes and let go of your face," you look better than fine. Now move so I can do my own makeup."

You moved out of her way and headed over to Regina's bed, laying down as you scrolled on your phone and waited for her to be done. Hers took much longer than yours, since she was doing a whole lot more than what she had done for you. You wouldn't even begin to be able to describe what she was doing because you had no clue what half the products even were.

Once Regina was ready, she pulled you from her bed and began walking to her jeep.

"Do we really have to go? I mean, it's a Wednesday night, G. We have school tomorrow." You weren't thrilled about a late night party. Regina's dragged you to multiple parties before, they weren't your scene.

"We're going. We just spent almost two hours getting ready and that time is not going to waste." She looked back at you with narrowed eyes, you sighed deeply but got into her jeep with her and she drove the two of you to go pick up Gretchen & Karen.

When they got in the jeep, you held conversation with them until you finally arrived at the party. You dreaded stepping through those doors but you didn't have much of a choice as Regina dragged you along.

As Regina dragged you along, you did your best to avoid making contact with anyone. One girl nearly threw up on you but Regina pulled you closer to her.

"You're not ruining my clothes tonight." She mutters, hand gripping you tighter as she found her way to the kitchen.

Now in the kitchen, Regina goes through the fridge. Pulling out orange juice, vodka and some ice to make a Screwdriver Cocktail. She pours one for herself than one for you, handing you your drink.

You take it, grateful it wasn't some shit like bud light. You weren't big on beer, you preferred the simply stuff with vodka. Which Regina knew. Sorry bud light fans.

You took a drink as she walked back over to you, hand wrapping around your waist as she trails it along your body. You look at her with a soft smirk, raising an eyebrow as you see the look in her eyes.

"Yes, baby?" You ask in a whisper.

"Shh." She mutters, giving your lips a soft kiss before kissing your neck a few times. Earning some soft sounds from you.

She pulls away and chugs back some of her drink before setting it down on the counter," I'll be right back. Watch my drink."

Regina tells you, you nod and keep your eyes on her as she leaves the kitchen. You then lean yourself against the counter, taking her drink in your hand so you could keep an eye on it like she asked.

You're alone for no longer than a minute when some girl you thought you vaguely recognized came into the kitchen. You weren't sure where you'd seen her, but it was somewhere. Maybe just passing her in the school halls?

She didn't stand out all that much, at least in your opinion. Her eyes locked to yours and she smiled, walking over to you.

"Y/N! Hi!" You weren't surprised she knew your name, many people knew your name when you didn't know theirs. Being Regina George's girlfriend will do that.

"Hi." You reply simply, hoping she would catch on to the fact that you weren't interested in conversation. Not with her, anyway. You took a big sip from your drink, but she pulled it away from your mouth. The suddenness of it nearly making you choke. She grabs both drinks from your hands and sets them behind you, pressing herself against your body.

"Wouldn't you rather... have something else on your lips than a glass?" Her voice was low, she was clearly flirting with you and clearly drunk. You were about to push her off when someone very loudly cleared their throat from behind you. You looked over and saw Regina in the door way, arms folded and glare intense as ever as she stared down the girl. You felt yourself relax. Thank God.

"I'm feeling nice tonight so you have three seconds to back off before I end whatever pathetic social life you have." Regina's voice was scary calm, laced with fake kindness that sent a shiver down your spine and the threat wasn't even directed at you.

The girl flinched when she heard Regina and quickly stepped away from you, though her hand lingered for a moment longer than you would have liked.

"Regina-! We were just-!" Regina cuts her off before she could explain, marching right up to you and positioning herself where the girl had been against you moments before. Her hand grips your chin as she pulls you in for a rough kiss. You made a soft sound, melting into her lips as you easily kissed her back.

When you parted, the girl was no longer in the kitchen. You smirked as you looked at Regina.

"Thank you, baby." You whisper, she narrows her eyes and shushes you with her finger.

"Don't think you're off the hook." Her other hand grips you at your waist, nails digging into your skin. Hard enough to leave a mark on you.

Your eyes closed at the feeling, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you leaned back against the counter.

"Guys! We're starting a game of Truth or Dare!" Gretchen's voice rings out from somewhere in the living room, catching both yours and Regina's attention. Your eyes flutter open, a hint of disappointment in your features at the thought of ending whatever it was that Regina had started.

"We're so playing." Regina tells you, you nod in reluctance and hand Regina her drink from the counter before taking your own and following her into the living room.

You could see your guy's friend group seated on the couches plus some others who had joined. Faces you recognized; Gretchen, Karen, Cady, Aaron, Shane. The rest you didn't exactly know but you had definitely seen them around before. the backup dancers from Stupid with Love.

Regina took a seat in the open arm chair and motioned for you to sit in her lap, you easily followed the silent order. Leaning back against her with a soft, contented sigh.

The game went through a few rounds before it circled over to you, Shane being the one to ask you Truth or Dare. Since it was Shane, you went with the hopefully safer choice of Truth. You knew his Dares could get messy.

Shane smirked," What's your most embarrassing sex story?"

Your face flushed at the question, you should've known Truth would be just as awful." Drink." You stated, opting to skip it by drinking since that was a rule you guys had added. You only get three drink skips.

You felt Regina's hand on your waist, her chin coming to rest on your shoulder.

"No, I wanna hear this. Say it." She has a feeling she knows which one you're avoiding, but she wants confirmation.

You rolled your eyes, looking longingly at your drink in your hand. Knowing Regina wouldn't let you skip this one. You could feel everyone watching you expectantly.

Groaning, your free hand came up to loosely covered your mouth." I once leaned too far back and fell off the bed. Broke my arm."

"Oh my God! That's how you broke your arm?!" Gretchen grinned," You said it was a skate boarding accident!"

"Well I wasn't about to say it was a sex accident." You rolled your eyes again, Regina laughed from behind you and gave your hip a squeeze.

"Watching you scramble to come up with that lie to your parents was so fucking funny." She smirked, you gave her a glare.

The others laughed and you stuck the middle finger at them as you took a drink from your cup anyways.

The rest of the game continued, lots of the classic questions were asked and dares were done. Overall it was pretty fun, this was probably the most fun you've had at a party in a while.

[dwaekkicidal]

txt hard thoughts for my new staymoa mootie ~~~ (let’s be besties forever)

ur beomgyu exhibitionist thought was actually fucking insane i lost sleep over that thing… being a tubatu members gf but being lowk free use for the other members has me growling and barking and howling at the moon

something about that is so yeonjun to me… maybe because i think he’s a huge exhibitionist hehe being his girlfriend but he loves to slut you out in front of the other boys !!!!! or him ordering you around having you suck them off so he can watch and let the others know how good your lil throat is > /// <

you have no idea the sounds that came out of me when i saw ur name in my notifs the other day and again now when you sent this in sdfuhskljdfhskldufhsjkldfhskljfshlkdjfskldjf ( i love you so bad, my new bestie hehehe <3)

anyways :3 i always love the idea of dating one member while also being slutted out to the others (for literally any group too...) grrrrrrr its so yummy

BUT IT DOES FIT YEONJUN SO WELL!! i feel like being the oldest just gives him a bit of an ego anyways, but the fact that he's the oldest AND has the hottest piece of ass around to call his too?? yeahhhh he's a bit high on that

boyfie jjunie who is just sick of the miniskirts you INSIST on wearing. he knows damn well it's not just "for fun" like you swore- he's noticed that you wear them specifically when his friends are around

the two of had spoken about including some of the guys in your sex life, and he had spoke to them about it too- but that's where this issue had started! now that you knew they wanted you, but could only get you with jjunie's permission, you made it your life's goal to be the biggest whore you could around them and make them absolutely miserable <3

he finally decides that he's had enough when you show up unannounced to their dance practice in the shortest mini skirt yet. the only reason he didn't notice the bottom of your ass cheeks hanging out was because of the big sweater you wore over it. at least you did that much to try to behave... right? (copium)

kai eyes him warily and yeonjun shakes his head with an eyeroll, trying to urge the maknae away from encouraging your antics, but he just doesn't listen!! he's sick of waiting for yeonjun to initiate sex with literally any of them, so why not push it out of him?

the boys share nervous looks as kai saunters over to you and pulls you into an embrace, whispering something in your ear that makes you giggle and hug onto him tighter. when yeonjun's eyes stop staring daggers into kais head, he finally notices the way kai's fingers play with them hem of your skirt,,, the one right where your ass is hanging out in yeonjun's favorite pair of panties >.<

yea... its gonna be a long day.

<3

"I said no touching, baby. Behave yourself." His fingers dig into your cheeks and he tugs you backwards, the bulbous tip of his cock slipping from your lips in the process and making your cheeks puff out.

"But-" A single raise of his eyebrow silences you immediately, making your pout even deeper.

"C'mon Hyung~ We wanna see her go all out." Yeonjun rolls his eyes again and releases your cheeks. He simply nods his head downwards and you immediately obey, wrapping your pretty, slightly swollen lips around his cock- where they belong.

"You all are on thin ice too, I don't wanna hear it." His lidded eyes snap up to the boys that surround the two of you- Beomgyu and Soobin unashamedly fisting their cocks at the sight of you meanwhile Taehyun and Kai simply watch, sometimes palming themselves to relieve the unbearable pressure in their sweats.

He ignores the complaints and boos he gets in response in favor of tangling his fingers in your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail to keep a close eye on your movements. He grins cockily when your hands surrender to the top of your thighs, digging into the pretty flesh there as you take his cock into your throat on your own.

Soobin finds himself licking his lips at the sight of you kneeling on his jacket- something he instantly threw down for your comfort when he realized that Yeonjun wasn't planning on giving you that undeserved delicacy. Part of him wonders if you'll cum untouched on top of it...

"You look so good on your knees, Y/N." Beomgyu's lips are pulled up in the biggest shit-eating grin any of them had ever seen. They all could tell he was planning something, but Yeonjun had no plans to let them any closer to you right now.

The two youngest hadn't spoken up since this started. Their jaws are on the floor and they can't help but stare down at you with wide, boba eyes as you take Yeonjun to the very hilt.

"Mmm... This throat feels just as good." Yeonjun huffs as you suck harshly and the boys groan, partially upset that they're not getting a turn. Your nose pokes against his pelvis and he thrusts forward suddenly, making you choke around him.

He doesn't pull you off though- he hates when you resist his actions when he's in the middle of proving a point- so he lets you decide how you're gonna recover from it. And when you squeeze your eyes shut and focus on breathing through your nose, refusing to release him from your mouth, his lips curl up into his own smirk.

"That's what I thought." He chuckles and latches onto his bottom lip with his teeth, smiling deviously as you start bobbing your head on your own. The boys surrounding you sigh in awe, Kai just about moaning at your dedication to power through your gags all just to make your boyfriend happy.

"Off." You whine but comply immediately, pulling off of him and digging your fingers into your thighs desperately as you look up at him under your lashes. You don't move a muscle other than the way you bite your lip, feeling empty without him poking your uvula. But now that you're completely submitted to him, Yeonjun's pride swells.

He smiles and traces his thumb over your lips, even more swollen now and covered in more spit than before. "Now that you remember who you belong to, you're gonna make me cum and then you're free reign for the boys- for the rest of the night. Got it?"

Soobin cums into his hand at the thought, his teeth sinking into his palm being the only thing to silence his moans. You nod eagerly and suck on Yeonjun's thumb, patiently waiting for your next instructions.

This might be a long night... But you'll be damned if you think it wasn't worth it.

Taglist (red=can’t be tagged):

@valkyriexo @lunearta @jabmastersupriseee @rylea08

@yaorzu-blog @amararosesblog @jiminssluttyminx @clemissleepy

@miss-daisy04 @kittyxnoa @dwaekkiiracha @bubblerizz

@mariteez @fun-fanfics @honeyybbuubblleess @kittycatkrissa

@nicora04 @chuuyaobsessed @moonlightndaydreams

[alltimecharlo]

Girl Mack where she’s always been a bit of a tomboy/butch so she’s never really gotten male attention before.

so she honestly has no idea Will is flirting with her, maybe no idea she’s actually gone on like 50 dates with him and he just thinks she wants to take it really slow and isn’t a totally oblivious moron

awh cute, love this anon!! fic under the cut 🩵☺️

Mack doesn’t think it’s a date.

She doesn’t. Honestly. It’s just Will. Will who texts her constantly, even when they’ve been at the rink together all morning. Will who sends her weird little memes at midnight, who always saves her a seat on the plane, who insists she tries bites of whatever he’s ordered like she’s ever said no to food in her life.

It’s Will, who smiles like it’s personal every time he looks at her, but Mack’s never been good at reading that kind of thing. Guys don’t look at her that way. Not usually. Or ever, really.

She’s always been too — something.

Too broad-shouldered. Too sharp-edged. Too into skates and sticks and backwards snapbacks. She used to wear eyeliner in junior but it always sweated off under her cage and nobody noticed except her mom, who said she looked tired anyway.

So she doesn’t think it’s a date, because dates happen to girls who are a little easier, who wear cropped tops and know how to smile just right when someone makes a joke. Mack’s good at chirps and zone entries. She can flip a puck onto the blade of her stick and toss it into the net blind. She cannot — for the life of her — tell if a guy’s hitting on her.

Which is why she says yes when Will texts her on a Thursday night, Hey wanna get burgers?

She replies, Sure.

He adds, Pick you up at 6?

She thinks it’s weird, because they usually just meet places. But whatever. She doesn’t mind the ride.

She throws on jeans and a hoodie over top. Pulls her hair back into a low bun and debates putting on mascara before deciding against it. They’re just gonna eat. It’s not like he’ll notice.

(He always notices. She doesn’t know that yet.)

Will shows up at her apartment wearing a soft-looking green sweater and a grin that should probably be illegal. He smells like laundry detergent and something warmer underneath it, like citrus and whatever cologne he wears sometimes after practice. It’s… nice. It’s kind of a lot, actually.

“Hey,” he says, and his eyes sweep over her for a second — not in a weird way, just like he’s checking if she’s okay. “You look good.”

She laughs. “I look like I’ve worn this exact outfit three times this week.”

“And yet you still look good,” Will says, and opens the passenger door for her.

Mack stares at it. “What are you doing?”

“Holding the door open?”

She blinks. “I have arms.”

He grins. “I noticed.”

She slides into the seat, vaguely confused, and mutters a thanks under her breath.

The burger place is one of those fancy casual joints, with milkshakes in mason jars and truffle fries in little tin pails. Will orders for both of them because he ‘already knows what she’ll get,’ and, annoyingly, he’s right. Bacon cheddar, extra pickles, no tomato.

Mack frowns across the table. “How’d you know that?”

“You’ve gotten the same order the last four times we’ve been here.”

They’ve been here four times?

“You sure you’re not the one stalking me?” she jokes, sipping from his milkshake without asking, because she always does and he never minds.

Will just smiles. “Wouldn’t have to stalk you if you just said yes to a real date.”

She snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

Will raises his brows. “What do you mean, yeah okay?”

“You wouldn’t actually want to go on a date with me.”

He’s quiet for a second. Long enough that Mack looks up, fry halfway to her mouth.

“Why not?” he asks, and he’s not smiling anymore.

She shrugs, a little uncomfortable. “Because I’m not, like, a — I don’t know. The kind of girl people date.”

“You’re the kind of girl I date.”

That makes her freeze.

Will leans in, slow and steady, like he’s trying not to spook a scared animal. “Mack. What do you think we’ve been doing for the past few weeks?”

She blinks.

“Seriously. We’ve been to dinner. To the beach. You came with me to that Bauer shoot and I took you to that concert after.”

“You had tickets,” she says weakly.

“Yeah. For a date.”

“I thought you just didn’t want to go alone!”

Will laughs, sudden and loud, then covers his face with both hands. “Oh my God. You are actually—this is insane. You’ve been on, like, six dates with me.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it again.

“You thought I just liked… feeding you burgers and buying you concert merch?”

She shrinks in her seat. “I mean. Kind of?”

Will reaches across the table and takes her hand. Just wraps his fingers around hers like it’s easy. Like he’s done it a hundred times.

(He’s thought about it more than a hundred times.)

“Mack. You’re beautiful,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re funny, you’re kind of mean, you’re good at stupid Mario Kart shortcuts and you listen when I talk about stupid stuff. I like being with you. I want to be with you. And I thought — I thought you were taking things slow.”

Mack swallows, staring down at their hands. Her skin’s rougher than his. Callused in all the places he’s smooth. But he’s holding on anyway.

“I didn’t know you meant it like that,” she says quietly.

“I did,” Will murmurs. “Still do.”

She looks up at him. And he’s smiling. Soft, a little sheepish, but sure.

“Is this… is this still a date?” she asks, because she doesn’t want to get it wrong again.

Will squeezes her fingers. “Only if you want it to be.”

And Mack—well, she’s never been good at this stuff. But she knows what she wants.

So she says, “Yeah. I want it to be.”

Will beams, and for the first time in her life, Mack feels like maybe she is the kind of girl people fall for.

♡

[tora-ken]

crooked memory

genre fluff, angst, major character death, mentions of blood

tags gojo satoru x reader, biker!gojo

summary gojo satoru loves you so much.

wc; 1.3k

reblogs would be appreciated, please do not plagiarise my work, or share it on any other social media platform!

you would risk absolutely anything to see your boyfriend — the boyfriend your parents forbade you from dating, the boyfriend everybody told you was a red flag, the boyfriend even you told yourself to not fall for. but god, was satoru gojo irresistable.

the sweetest boy you had ever come to discover in this short life of yours. how the loving words he told you melted off his tongue like honey, how his arms embraced you like a soft blanket, how his eyes were the most alluring sight to fall for. he was dream, and he was yours.

light taps against your window turn your head suddenly, to notice your boyfriend outside your house, looking up at you with another pebble in his hands.

“hi baby!” he cheers, and drops the pebble, beginning to climb his way up to your room as you open your window.

“you’re not supposed to be here, what are you doing?” you walk backwards, letting him into your bedroom.

“i wanted to see you, but your parents won’t let me in.” his smile blinds you, and he closes your window quietly. he takes off his shoes, and crawls into your bed.

“hey, i just changed the sheets, at least wear the sweatpants you left here.” you whine, and open your drawer, taking out his clothes for him to wear.

he smiles at the thought of you having his things, the thought of him being a part of you, everything of him is part of you. he can’t define himself without you. the girl who makes him who he is.

“okay, baby, anything you want.” he gives you a longing kiss, before changing into appropriate clothes.

the two of you curl up in your freshly changed sheets, smelling exactly like you. he lays on your side of the bed, which you allow because you know he loves the smell of your hair on the pillow. you’re facing each other, his hands trailing your face, and yours in his hair, a moment he wishes would never end.

“how’d you get here, i thought your parents weren’t letting you out of the house.” you finally speak.

“i snuck out! i found the keys to my motorbike and just got here.” oh, how this boy would do absolutely anything for you — he was smitten. he would walk naked through a blizzard if it meant getting to you.

you held his entire heart, his entire being belonged to you and you only — and he never forgot to show that. how could he? you consumed his existence, every waking thought of his was devoured by you. a world without you was a world without him.

“what are you gonna do if you get caught?” your eyes widen in panic, excuses of what to say flourish in your mind.

“don’t worry i won’t get caugh-“ the door opens, and satoru sees your parents, seething. he looks on your side of the bed, only to see that you’ve vanished, and reality slaps him in the face.

you’re gone.

“what are you doing here? i thought we told you to never show your face again!” your father lifts the poor boy up by his sweater, the sweater you got him for his birthday, and satoru worries that it’ll tear.

“honey, please let him go, don’t hurt him.” your mother interjects, pulling him away from satoru’s neck, to which he releases a gasp. “you need to leave, sweetheart. you can’t just sneak into our house like this for no reason.” she tries to reassure satoru kindly.

“i came here for y/n.” he feels the tears well up in his eyes, his bottom lip trembles as he tries to conceal the cry for help that’s about to explode on his expression.

“you know damn well she’s not here. and it’s all your fault you fuck-“ your father starts, and your mother places her hand on his chest.

“we know you miss her satoru, we do too. what happened to her was horrible for everyone, but you need to go home, we spoke to your parents, they said you weren’t leaving the house.”

satoru suddenly remembers everything, how he made you sneak out one night with him to go on a motorbike ride, the rides your parents always hated you going on. but you had done it millions of times before then, so you left, helmet in hand.

he remembers everything so clearly, how you begged him to stop going so fast, how it was too scary, and how he laughed and just said to hold on tight. he remembers your arms around his waist, how strong of a grip you had around him — he remembers how cold it was that night, the wind and the rain soaking your outfits. he remembers the oncoming truck and your screams before everything goes dark.

he remembers gaining consciousness shortly after, how your helmet screen is cracked, face bloodied, yet you still tried to reach a hand out towards him. he remembers how you tried to shuffle towards him, and him to you, before you eventually got slower, your arm lowering, and how you laid limp, only a few centimetres before him.

he remembers being in the hospital, waiting for you, asking the doctors, nurses, his family and friends about you, only to get the same answer each time — “she’s resting.” he remembers the day you died, the same day he got discharged from the hospital, and immediately went to visit you.

he remembers hearing the monotonous beep of the machine beside you, and how his world comes crashing down, how he begins to realise it was all his fault. he should’ve never made you sneak out on such a rainy night, he should’ve slowed down when you begged him to, he should’ve just stayed in your room with you that night like he had done before.

he remembers how weeks after your funeral, he got out of bed late at night, and decided to go to your house, your room, and climbing up your house to get into your room, because you had always kept the window open for him. he remembers going into your drawers to get his clothes out, before laying in your bed, muttering to himself, saying your name, calling you baby, all before he had gotten caught by your parents.

“i-i’m sorry, i know it’s my fault, i don’t know what came over me mr and mrs l/n, i’m sorry, i’ll go-“ he breaks out into a violent sob, before getting up and trying to leave through your window, only to be stopped by your father.

“stop.” satoru turns around, with eyes like a puppy. “stay for the night, you can sleep here.” and your father walks off, with your mother following suit, after closing the for satoru, and telling him sweet dreams.

your parents knew how much you loved satoru, how happy he made you, no matter how much of a bad influence he was. they knew how much he brought light to your eyes, how you would rather disappear forever than be in a world without satoru, because he defined you, and a world without him was a world without you. no matter how much your father disapproved of the gojou boy, he knew that satoru was always going to be the one for you, in this life and the next.

satoru sniffles, looking around your room, how cold and empty it felt. even if it was full of memories and photos and posters that represented, the room was shallow, yet so spacious and deep, all because it lacked you. satoru looks at the polaroids of you and your friends taped above your desk, and notices a press dried flower besides it, with a label underneath that wrote “first date with satoru <3”, and satoru breaks all over again. you consumed him, yet you weren’t around, and that was the worst part.

and it’s at this point, satoru absolutely knows for sure, a world without you, is a world without him.

a/n: sorry, kinda bad but i was listening to nomad by clairo on repeat whilst listening to this i think i definitely cldve worded this whole thing better

©️ tora-ken 2024

[daddyslilchickenfingers2]

Kinktober (reuploaded)

Car Sex (Matt)

Request: your writing makes me go wild. would you be able to write something about the reader and matt dating , so they get like zero privacy and fuck in the car the idea has been rotting my brain i fear/Matt takes you for a late-night drive and you end up fucking in the backseat/Earned It by The Weeknd plays on aux in Matt's car. Both Matt & y/n get in the mood, proceed to fuck in the car the rest of the night/Teasing Matt while he’s driving smut

Warnings: Sex, slight overstimulation, car sex, road head, fingering, cum eating, cute fluffy little moment at the end

Matt’s pov

I love living with my brothers, I really do, but I hate that they don’t know what privacy is. Y/n, my girlfriend of 3 years, lives with us as well, me and her have the master bedroom, which is the biggest. As much as I love my brothers, I don’t love when Nick literally steals Y/n away when we’re having movie nights or cuddling. And I most definitely fucking hate it when Chris ALWAYS ruins the mood, even if we lock the door he’ll pound on it until we open it. Sometimes he’ll even come into our room at night just to sleep next to me like when we were younger, thank god Y/n loves them both as much as I do, or else shit would be awkward.

Tonight I had planned for us to go see a movie at the drive-in, I even put down the seats in the back of her SUV and put blankets and squishmallows (Y/n’s favorite) as pillows back there to make it comfy. Nick and Chris had tried to invite themselves but I wasn’t going to let them ruin another one of my dates just because they think of Y/n as a little sister. Y/n and I hadn’t seen each other all day, we were both super busy so we were really looking forward to tonight but we definitely had an unexpected change of plans. When Y/n got back from her day with Madi she took a shower and got dressed in some comfy clothes, opting to blow dry her hair because it was cold outside.

I love seeing her like this when she only wears mascara and that damn strawberry lipgloss that I love so much along with some sweatpants and a sweatshirt. God, it was my favorite look on her, especially when the sweater she’d wear was mine. I was wearing basically the same thing but I had a backwards fitted on as well. It was starting to get dark so we decided to leave, the universe however, clearly didn’t want us to go on a fucking date because when we started driving on the freeway towards the drive-in theater, it started pouring, meaning all movies were now canceled. “Fuck, man! Why can’t I just take my girlfriend out on a decent date!” I yelled, hitting the steering wheel.

Y/n’s pov

I understand why Matt got mad, but honestly, there was no reason for him to be, I was already just enjoying being alone with him right now. “Babe it’s okay, we can still go up to that one private view. And we can watch something on my Macbook, it’s still in my car from yesterday. Let’s make the most of our alone time” I told him while rubbing his arm. Matt just nodded, clearly upset that his plan got ruined by the weather, “Plus I can finally makeout with you and not have to worry about getting interrupted” I added, half-joking.

Matt still looked upset so I moved my hand onto his thigh, I saw Matt quickly glance at me but neither of us said anything. I kept my hand there while I changed the playlist to a more relaxed and vibey one, occasionally tightening my grip on his thigh. I noticed the way that simple action got to him as he slowly started to get hard. We were almost to the overlook so I decided to start teasing Matt a bit, we hadn’t been able to have sex for a while so I moved my hand to rest over his growing hard-on. “Y/n” he said in a warning tone, “Matthew” I tested back with a smirk.

I started rubbing Matt over his sweatpants as we started driving up the little mountain when Earned It by The Weeknd started playing. This song seems to always get us in the mood so I decided to slip my hand into Matt’s sweatpants, lightly squeezing and rubbing his cock over his boxers. The car stopped and the music ended as Matt threw it in park and took the keys out of the ignition. He grabbed my wrist, pulling it out of his pants, and clicked the thing to unbuckle both of our seatbelts before he grabbed my jaw turning me to face him.

“Why are you always such a fucking tease” he asked in frustration, “Because I miss being able to touch my boyfriend whenever I want. I miss your cock Matty” I whined back as a response. Matt sighed, knowing I was right and he missed that too, but still pressed a very needy kiss to my lips. “Fuck I missed this side of you! Get in the back for me princess, we’re gonna take advantage of this alone time” he smirked as he kicked off his shoes. I did the same before hoping in the back through the center console area, Matt followed right after he took off his fitted.

“Hi” he giggled “Hi Matt” I giggled back, Matt looked at me with a smirk while biting his lip as he turned on the overhead light like they do in car videos. “Stop looking at me like that, you’re making me nervous” I blushed as he scooted closer to me, “I want you to get naked for me so I can finally feel your tight pussy around my cock again” he whispered in my ear before helping me take my hoodie off. We both took our sweats off as well, as well as my panties, Matt had pushed me so my back was against the door behind the driver’s side, sitting to the right of me.

He gripped my jaw, pulling me closer and mumbling, “God, I missed this” before smashing our lips together. Matt did this one thing that makes me literally go feral, he straddles me and essentially sits on my lap. I literally find it so fucking hot when he does that, especially when he’s the dominant one. I immediately moved one hand to start palming his hard cock, moving my kisses down his jaw to his neck where I sucked multiple hickies into the skin, probably more than I should’ve.

“That’s right baby, mark me up and claim me so everyone knows I’m yours” Matt groaned before pulling my head up to makeout again. This time the makeout was rough and wet, full of clashing teeth and needy tongues. Moans were exchanged between each other’s mouths until Matt pulled away, due to me starting to jerk him off over his boxers. “Babe don’t d-do that, you’re gonna make me cum before I can even get inside of you” he mumbled before moving us to lay down. “Then take your boxers off and fuck me already, I need it so bad Matty” I whined in frustration, making him laugh as we moved so I was laying down.

“Mhm I forgot how bossy you can be, I’ve missed it but I gotta stretch you out first babe” he said while hovering over me, slipping his right hand between our bodies. He ran his fingers through my folds, “Who got you this wet baby” he teased cockily as he brought up his shiny wet fingers. “You did! You did Matt, missed your cock so much” I whined before he shoved those two fingers into my mouth, making me taste myself. “Suck” he demanded, causing me to moan around his fingers, “That’s right baby, make those fingers nice and wet for me, even though you don’t really need to” he added, smirking at me.

Once Matt deemed my fingers wet enough, he stuck them both into me, groaning at how I could barely take his two fingers. After a couple of minutes of stretching me out I had to stop him, “Matt, I think I’m stretched out enough and if you don’t stop I’m going to end up cumming on your fingers instead of your cock” I whined. “Alright” is all he replied with, taking his fingers out and putting them in his mouth “Mmm fuck, I love the way you taste” he added before pulling down his boxers.

Matt leaned down to start sucking hickies onto my boobs as he eased himself into me but I wasn’t here for slow sex. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer so his cock slammed into me “Shit baby, you’re so tight” he groaned. Matt started to slowly thrust into me, letting me get used to his size, “Matty please stop being gentle, need you to really fuck me!” I whimpered out. That was all Matt needed to hear before he ruthlessly started pounding into me. It’s a good thing nobody really knows about this place because if anyone came up here they’d definitely know we were having sex.

The car was shaking, windows were fogged up, and I’m sure our lewd moaning could be heard from outside of the car. I pulled Matt’s head away from my neck, where he was leaving lots of hickies to match his neck, and placed our lips together. I started sucking on Matt’s tongue and running my tongue across the roof of his mouth, two things that drive him absolutely insane. He let out a deep, throaty groan as his left arm, my favorite because of the tattoos, came up to start toying with my nipples, pinching them and rolling them between his fingers.

“Babe— FUCK- pl-please choke me! I’m so close, I just need a little bit more” I moaned as we pulled apart, one of my hands was scratching down Matt’s back while the other was tightly gripping his hair. “Yeah? Want me to choke you so you can cum for me? Gonna cum on my cock while I fill you up?” he rambled out between grunts. His left hand wrapped tightly around my throat, applying just the right amount of pressure as Matt’s thrusts got both faster and harder.

“Shit! Matt, cum with me!” I moaned right before I came hard around his cock. After a few more thrusts, Matt let out an animalistic growl as he shot his load into me. I didn’t even have time to calm down from cumming when Matt did something he’s never done before. He pulled out and immediately went down and started eating me out as both of our cum oozed out of me, he’s literally never eaten me out after cumming in me before. And as amazing as this felt I was already feeling overstimulated, considering I didn’t get to come down from my first high.

Matt’s Pov

I missed eating Y/n out so much that when we both finally came I couldn’t control myself, she hadn’t even caught her breath before I went down on her. Usually, I would have never even thought about eating Y/n out after cumming in her, I always do it before we fuck, but today I was just in the moment. It honestly might sound disgusting, but my own cum tastes pretty good, and mixed with hers it’s just 10x better. “Fuck— Matt! M-Matt, stop I’m too sen-sensitive!” Y/n moaned about me as she pulled on my hair and kept trying to wriggle away.

I was in such a daze right now that I got fed up with her continuous moving. I slapped Y/n’s thigh pretty hard, a lot harder than I intended anyway, and pulled away for a second. “Y/n, stop fucking moving! I’m finally getting to give my sexy ass girlfriend head and I’m not stopping!” I growled out. Grabbing her thighs, I held them down as I started sucking our cum out of her pussy before I started fucking it with my tongue.

Y/n pulled my hair as I was sucking on her clit, causing me to groan against her. “Mhm Matt I’m gonna cum again— FUCK!” she cried out as she came all over my face. I let her actually catch her breath and come down from her high this time while I put my boxers and sweats back on since we needed to go home soon. It was now about 2:45am and I was exhausted, “I love you so much Y/n, I missed doing this” I said right before I softly kissed her, helping her put her panties back on.

“God, that was so hot babe! I totally wasn’t expecting you to do that” she said, still in shock. I felt myself slowly starting to get hard again while I put my shirt back on, helping Y/n/n get dressed. I gave her another soft kiss before climbing back into the front, offering Y/n my hand so she could do the same before putting my hat back on. “Are you ready to go back home princess?” I asked softly, placing a short kiss on her lips with a smile. “Mmm, I dunno. I think I need another kiss” Y/n replied softly, the only sound to be heard was the pitter-patter of the rain against the SUV.

We shared a few more soft kisses, smiling into them, but I had to pull away before we started making out again. “All better?” I asked, getting a hum back as an answer before I started driving. “Hey Matty, are you still hard?” Y/n pouted, “Uhh ye-yeah, don’t worry about it though. You just looked so hot and fucked out after I ate you out that I got hard again. It’s not a problem” I nervously replied back, not wanting her to think it wasn’t good enough.

Before I knew it, Y/n had her hand in my sweats and was teasingly rubbing my cock. “Babe-“ I started but Y/n cut me off, “You’re gonna say ‘you don’t have to do that’ and I know, but I want to” she said in a dominating tone. I just stayed quiet, knowing I wouldn’t win this fight. I was at a stop light when Y/n moved to lean over the center console and pulled my dick out making my breath hitch at both her cold hand and the air. I was at a loss for words as I’ve never gotten road head before and Y/n usually isn’t this bold or dominating.

“Y/n/n, what are you doing?” I asked in a panic as she spit on my cock, spreading it and the precum across my throbbing cock. “Shut up and drive Matthew” she said before taking my tip into her mouth. Unexpectedly, she deepthroated me causing my grip on the wheel to tighten and my breathing to pick up. Y/n started to hollow out her cheeks, creating a tight suction around my cock as she moved back up to suck on the head again. She started humming around my cock causing me to whimper as I tried to maintain focus on the road, which thankfully was empty.

“You like that, don’t you Matty” she asked in a seductive voice before going back to sucking me off, “Y-Yeah, but it’s- fuck- it’s hard to focus on the road when you’re doing that” I whined back. “B-But don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop!” I added as I was getting closer to cumming. Thankfully we had just stopped at another red light, I pushed her head all the way down on my cock, causing her to gag and holding it there while I came down her throat. “Shit— So good for me baby! Fuck, just like that!” I groaned loudly as she swirled her tongue around the tip before pulling off with a pop.

Y/n swallowed my cum before tucking my, now soft, dick back into my pants. “The lights green Matty” she laughed, pulling me out of my trance, “Huh? Oh shit” I said when I realized the was, in fact, now green. The rest of the way home, we sat in a comfortable silence and held hands on the center console. When we pulled up into the driveway, I got out and rushed to the other side to open Y/n’s door. What I didn’t expect was for her to take off my hat and grab me by the collar of my shirt before kissing me in the pouring rain.

As cheesy as it sounds, it was like a scene straight out of a movie, us standing there kissing while our hair and clothes got wet, stupidly smiling into the kiss. Unfortunately, unlike the movies, we got interrupted after like 3 or 4 minutes by none other than, you guessed it! Nicolas Sturniolo, “Can you guys stop fucking making out and come inside? It’s late, you were supposed to be back hours ago!” both me and Y/n let out a groan before walking inside. “Sorry dad, we got busy” Y/n joked, “I am NOT your father, this isn’t fucking Star Wars” Nick replied dramatically. As expected, we found Chris in our room on his phone.

“Out” is all I said while rolling my eyes, “And a hello to you too Matthew” he replied sarcastically, finally looking up at us. “Why are you wet?” he asked but Y/n just grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the door. “I’m cold and want to change, get out or I’ll suck Matt’s dick again in front of you” she said shoving him out. “Again!?” both my brothers questioned, “Yeah, again! Deadass had to fuck my girlfriend in the car on a mountain because you two fuckers don’t give us any privacy!” I yelled at them slamming and locking the door. Y/n just giggled, pulling me to our closet to get changed before we laid down. Finally getting to cuddle and have the rest of the day to ourselves without any annoying distractions.

[wrongbodies]

Bodies Between Friends, pt. 3

The line wasn't too bad outside the bar. They recognized most of the waiting people, too. As they slid into the line, the girl right in front of them turned around, and smiled when she recognized us.

"Oooh! Hi guys, how are you doing tonight?" She asked. This is Ella, a pretty girl with straight blonde hair and emerald eyes. She seemed particularly interested in Robby, who outwardly appeared as Jace, of course.

"We are doing quite well, Ella." Robby said, smoothly. Jace and Brandon exchanged a look, surprised at how good of a start Robby was having.

"Good! Wanna sit with me and my friends? It's just us girls so far, and they are already inside." Ella invited.

"Sure, we can mingle." Jace said, once again tugging on the sweater he was wearing.

"I wouldn't mind either." Brandon chimed in.

Ella beamed, but was next for the bouncer to check her ID, so she turned and got in easily.

All three of the boys were also successful in having their IDs checked as well. The irony of handing over a drivers license belonging to their borrowed body was not lost on them.

Inside, the bar was bustling. They were waved down at a table near the pool tables by Ella. They got to the table, and made their greetings to the girls. Along with Ella was a cute girl named Amy with glasses and a black bob cut. And then there was Julia, the last girl who was tall and had braids, wearing an orange romper.

After making introductions, only a few awkward moments where the boys each had to remember which body they were in, they went to order some drinks. While waiting for his drink, Brandon noticed a cute guy talking with some folks at the other end of the bar. His gaydar was going off, something about how the guy was standing and gesticulating. His cute face was like a beacon, but he was dressed slightly sporty. College hoodie, backward cap, it was a cover he was sure.

He saw the guy give him a look, and then turned away, but looked back with a slightly too long look. Yep, he's gay or bi or whatever. Brandon took his drink and went back to the table. All the while, during drinking and talking, he kept stealing glances around the bar for the guy. Brandon realized he should have been bold and approached him. He must have left.

The night progressed fine from there. Jace was successfully chatting up the girls, who seemed interested in Brandon's body, considering the charismatic Jace piloting it. Even Robby was doing well with Ella. It's clear she has had eyes for Jace for a long time, we've all picked that up before. Jace wasn't really into her, but he seemed fine to let Robby flirt with her considering we all set the standard earlier in the dorm.

At some point the group moved to a pool table and began playing. Brandon noted that Robby's palate didn't really enjoy beer, so he was ordering some mixed drinks. He also forgot that Robby is rail thin. He was tipsy before he normally would have been. He ordered some greasy bar food to try and soak up the alcohol. While hanging out at the bar, he noticed that the cute guy from before was no longer there. He was bummed, when he heard a voice from behind.

"Hey, I've seen you at the bar before." The cute guy with the faux-sporty look said. Brandon was suddenly very nervous, feeling Robby's face blush. "I'm Riley!"

"Oh-uh, I'm Bra- I mean, Robby." Brandon sputtered. He was holding a basket of greasy fries and his long island iced tea.

"Want to sit down with me?" Riley asked, gesturing to a two-person high top in the back of the bar, which was a little quieter.

"Sure!" Brandon responded, the tipsiness definitely giving him some atypical bravado.

The two walked over to the table, Brandon finding he had to hop up a bit more to get in the seat than normal, given his shorter borrowed body. Riley smiled across the table, and Brandon pushed his fries to the middle.

"Please have some! I can't eat them all." Brandon offered.

"Don't mind if I do..." Riley said. "So, you go to Bailey too?"

"Yeah! I'm a junior. How about you?" Brandon replied, taking particular care to not eat messily or talk with food in his mouth.

"I'm a junior as well. I transferred in this year though." Riley explained.

"Oh, that makes sense. I know most people from our class year." Brandon said.

"I've been doing my best to mingle with the juniors. I don't like being cooped up in my room." Riley said.

"Oh, I get that. Do you play on a team or belong to any clubs?"

"Yeah, I'm actually on the lacrosse team, if you can believe it." Riley laughed. "I know it seems counter-stereotypical. A gay guy on the lacrosse roster."

"I wouldn't have guessed!" Brandon laughed as well.

"What, that I'm gay, or that I'm on the lacrosse team?" Riley asked, smirking.

"A little of column A and column B, honestly." Brandon smiled back. He was feeling bolder than ever, like Robby's body was giving him some bravery he normally lacked.

The two chatted for a while, fries disappearing and drinks dwindling. Over by the pool tables the other guys were getting a bit closer and friskier with their chosen girls. Jace didn't say it out loud, but he was sandbagging leaving with his partner so he could witness Robby leave with Ella on his arm. It didn't take too much longer. As they made to leave, Jace leaned in to whisper to Robby.

"Don't forget, go to MY room, not yours. And again, use protection please." Robby nodded, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. Then he left, Ella holding on to his arm.

Jace didn't waste too much time, either. Only, he went to check on Brandon. He found him cozying up to a guy he didn't recognize. The two seemed to be hitting it off.

"Hey Robby, I'm heading out. See you tomorrow?" Jace asked.

"Absolutely, see you!" Brandon said, waving his friend off.

"Actually..." Riley started. He blushed, and looked down to find a fry.

"Actually what? Go ahead." Brandon prodded.

"Umm... would you want to hang out in my room? I have a single." Riley inquired.

"Yes, please." Brandon said, blushing but excited. They cleared up and closed their tabs. And then they were outside, and walking together to Riley's dorm.

TBC