#and I really don’t think that’s ever worked out for him

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

NEW THERAPIST

Summary: Joel’s therapist is very sick, and you’re new in town — since you’re licensed, you decided to step in as a replacement. Joel was hesitant at first, not one to open up to strangers easily, but when he finally gave it a try, he didn’t regret it.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, age gap (Joel in his 50s, youre age is not mentioned, but it's legal!), anxiety, masturbation, verbal harassment, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (piv), changing positions, praise kink, nicknames, strong language

A/n: Hi! I am not even trying to convince myself anymore to bealive that this isn't long asf. I really love to write a good plot yk, anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Mastelist

It was late morning when Tommy stopped by Joel’s house. He knocked twice and then let himself in, as he always did — brothers didn’t need permission in Jackson. Joel was in the middle of buttoning up his flannel, looking freshly showered but not entirely awake. His hair was still damp, and he moved slowly, like every motion cost him something.

“Hey,” Tommy greeted, holding a folded piece of paper in one hand. “Got those patrol maps you wanted.”

Joel took them with a grunt, gave them a glance, then placed them on the kitchen counter without a word. He reached for his mug, sipped cold coffee, and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

“I gotta go,” he mumbled, mostly to himself, slinging the jacket over his shoulder.

Tommy tilted his head. “Where you headin’?”

Joel hesitated, clearly not eager to elaborate. “…Therapy.”

That made Tommy pause. His brows lifted, confused. “Uh, you sure about that?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah. Same time as always.”

Tommy gave him a strange look and shifted awkwardly. “Joel… She’s sick. Like, real sick. She stopped seein’ people. Some kinda respiratory thing — folks say she’s not comin’ back for a while.”

Joel froze. The keys in his hand stopped jingling. “What?”

“Yeah. Word’s goin’ around. They say at least three weeks, maybe more. I figured you heard.”

Joel shook his head slowly, frown deepening, jaw tightening. He looked like someone had pulled the ground out from under him — not that he’d ever admit that.

“I… didn’t,” he muttered, voice low and tight.

There was a long pause before Tommy scratched the back of his neck, pulling something from his pocket.

“Look, I know you don’t like this kinda thing,” Tommy said carefully, “but there’s someone new in town. Moved here a few weeks back. She’s licensed, she’s smart… young, yeah, but folks been sayin’ good things.”

Joel shot him a skeptical glance, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. “Young?”

“Not that young,” Tommy chuckled. “Just… younger than your usual shrink. But hey — she works from home, keeps things real low-key. Thought maybe it’d suit you.”

Joel didn’t respond, just stood there looking at the card Tommy handed him. A simple business card. No frills. Just a name, a soft-colored print, and an address.

Tommy caught the look in his brother’s eyes and backed off.

“Hey, just… think about it, alright? You ain’t gotta go. But don’t sit around and bottle this shit up either.”

Joel didn’t answer. He watched Tommy leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and then looked back at the card in his hand. He turned it over slowly between his fingers. Thought about throwing it away. Thought about the ache that hadn’t left his chest for months.

He sat down at the table. Stared at the wood grain. Rubbed his thumb over his temple. The silence in the house felt heavier than usual.

And he sat there. Thinking. For a long, long time.

Eventually, he ended up going.

Against his better judgment, against all the tight, thorny doubts clawing inside his mind, Joel found himself walking through Jackson’s quiet streets, shoulders hunched, head low like he was trying not to be seen. He already regretted it. Every step closer felt like one more chance to turn around and go the hell back home.

But he kept walking.

It wasn’t the idea of talking to someone that rattled him, not really. It was the idea of talking to you. Someone new. Someone who didn’t know his history, who hadn’t been there when his walls were higher than ever. He didn’t know what to expect… didn’t even know if you were going to be kind, or cold, or too damn young to understand any of what he carried.

But the worst part was how exposed he felt. Every glance from a neighbor, every quiet “hello” from someone passing by, it all made his skin crawl. Like they knew where he was headed. Like they were silently judging him for needing help. Of course, they weren’t. Nobody cared. But Joel’s anxiety didn’t exactly listen to logic.

He finally reached the address. The house looked… normal. Inviting, even. The kind of place you wouldn’t expect someone to open up their deepest, darkest shit inside. And maybe that’s what made it even harder.

Joel stared at the door for a moment, frozen mid-step. His hand hovered in the air, curled into a loose fist, just inches from knocking. But he didn’t move. He stood there like a damn statue, fighting himself all over again.

Just leave, his brain hissed. Just walk away. You’ve made it this long without this. You don’t need—

He exhaled. Loud and heavy, before he slowly, knocked.

He waited. At first, it was only a few seconds. But then those seconds stretched into something longer, heavier. Joel started to feel stupid - standing there like some lost teenager, like someone who knocked on the wrong goddamn door. Maybe you weren’t even home. Maybe this was all just a mistake. Hell, maybe you were home and just didn’t want to deal with some grumpy old bastard knocking on your door uninvited.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped back. One foot already turned to go, hand dropping from the air like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And that’s when the door opened.

The soft click of the handle. The creak of the hinges. And then, you.

Joel stood there, rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on you like he’d forgotten how to breathe. You were smiling — that soft, sweet kind of smile that didn’t feel forced or polite, but real. You looked calm. Warm. And Joel? He was completely fucked.

His brain short-circuited. His first thought wasn’t “she looks young,” or “she looks kind.” No. His first thought was “she’s beautiful.” Not in the distant, poetic sense — no, not the kind of beauty you admire from afar and then walk away from. It was the kind of beauty that grabbed him by the throat and whispered, “You’re mine.”

His eyes flicked down for half a second, just a second, but that second was enough. The soft shape of your chest under that casual shirt. The subtle curve of your hips. The bare skin of your legs, the way your mouth moved as you said hello, lips plush and so fucking inviting it made his teeth clench.

And suddenly, his mind wasn’t where it should be. It was picturing things. Fast flashes. You underneath him. The way your voice might sound when it wasn’t professional — when it was breathless and messy and gasping his name. The way your hands might clutch at his shoulders. The way your body might arch, needy and open for him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Forced himself to look you in the eyes. But even that wasn’t safe. There was a spark there, something intelligent, a little playful. You weren’t shy. And somehow, that was the most dangerous part.

He hadn’t said a single word. And he already knew he was in trouble.

You tilted your head a little, still holding the door open with one hand, the other tugging down the hem of your shirt instinctively. “…Sir?”

“Oh—shit, I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel. “I… I’m Joel. Joel Miller. Tommy gave me your card.”

You blinked. “Oh! Right. The therapy sessions?”

He gave a slow nod, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly a little embarrassed now. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I should come by but, uh… figured I’d give it a try.”

You stepped back and smiled, waving him in. “Come on in. You’re actually my first today.”

As he stepped past you into the warmth of the house, you noticed the way his gaze flicked briefly down to your outfit — an oversized t-shirt and a pair of short cotton shorts, your long warm fuzzy slippers making gentle scuffs against the floor as you moved.

It was freezing outside, but the heater was blasting and the tea was steeping, so this was your comfort zone. Still… not exactly professional.

You glanced down at yourself and laughed softly. “Sorry. I should’ve probably worn something more appropriate for a client…”

Joel looked up at you with something unreadable in his eyes — a twitch of amusement, maybe, or something darker, heavier.

“Nah,” he said simply, shaking his head. “It’s fine. Doesn’t bother me.”

You nodded and motioned toward the cozy living area just off the hallway. “You can go ahead and take a seat. Want anything to drink? Tea, coffee?”

Joel hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Coffee’s good. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” you said, already padding off toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He watched you disappear around the corner, the sound of the kettle starting up filling the silence behind him. As he settled onto the couch, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of the throw pillow beside him, he let out a slow breath.

When the coffee was finally ready, you brought it over with a smile, carefully placing the pastel purple mug in front of him. “Here you go,” you said, the warmth of the mug almost making the room feel cozier. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

Joel gave a small, grateful smile, his hand brushing against yours for just a second as he took the mug. “Thanks. Smells good,” he muttered, his voice slightly raspy, as if the warmth of the coffee was just what he needed to break the cold barrier that had settled between the two of you.

You nodded and slipped into your chair, pulling your notepad and pen from your bag. The soft rustling of paper filled the air, your legs crossing comfortably as you got ready for the session. However, the moment you crossed your legs, Joel’s eyes flicked down, just for a second, but long enough for him to catch a glimpse of the soft juicy thights and-

His throat tightened a little, and before he knew it, he was coughing slightly, almost choking on the coffee he’d just taken a sip of. The damn thing went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t help but cough harshly, slamming the cup back down on the table, his face reddening with the embarrassment.

You laughed softly, leaning toward him. “Oh my god you okay?”

Joel cleared his throat, shaking his head, trying to recover his cool. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine.”

You gave him a reassueing smile, sensing his awkwardness but not letting it rattle you. “It’s alright, happens to the best of us.”

Once the tension had passed, you set your notepad in your lap and folded your hands over it, looking at him with a more professional air. “Alright, so… to start, I’m just going to ask you a few basic questions, just so I can get a better idea of where you’re coming from.”

He nodded, his gaze flicking to your face, trying to stay focused but still feeling that lingering heat from his earlier slip-up.

“Okay, so first off, tell me a little bit about yourself. I know you’re Joel… how old are you?”

“Fifty-six,” he answered, his voice low, but steady now. He had clearly gotten himself under control.

You scribbled that down, nodding. “Got it. And, uh… what about your family?”

Joel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was obvious that even though he was a man who’d seen more than most, talking about his family was still a sensitive subject. He hesitated before speaking, his voice dropping a little. “I have a brother… Tommy. He’s… important to me. Got a daughter too, Sarah. She’s… she’s gone now.”

You paused, noting the weight in his words. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Joel,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his in a quiet show of empathy. “That must be really hard.”

He gave a slight nod but didn’t say much more about it. You sensed he wasn’t ready to go deeper yet.

“So, what brings you to therapy today?” you asked, trying to steer the conversation gently back to the reason he was there. You hadn’t expected him to just unload everything all at once, but you hoped to start pulling out the layers, one by one.

Joel ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, his eyes darkening slightly. “Well… mostly just… I’ve been having trouble. With, uh… things. Life, y’know?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat again. “It’s been hard. Haven’t really felt like I’ve had much control over… well, anything.”

You nodded, the silence between you feeling comfortable enough to allow him space without pressure. “That sounds difficult. But it’s good that you’re here. I know it’s not easy to take that first step.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared into his coffee, and you could feel the weight of his words hanging in the air. You made a mental note to keep the session light for now, to let him open up when he was ready. You could sense this wasn’t going to be a quick fix — that this was going to take time, patience, and a lot of trust.

The quiet moments that followed were filled with the warmth of the coffee and the soft sounds of your voice as you guided him through the session, making sure he felt heard and understood.

As you continued, you couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of connection with Joel — even if it was subtle. He wasn’t saying much, but the little gestures, the brief moments when his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice softened when he spoke about the hard things… it all made you realize that, maybe, this therapy thing was going to be a lot more complicated than you’d originally thought. And maybe, just maybe, there was something else simmering just beneath the surface.

Time had slipped by quietly, like the gentle ticking of an unseen clock. You hadn’t even realized how quickly the hour passed until there was a lull in the conversation—a natural pause that signaled the end.

Joel shifted on the couch, clearing his throat as if to bring himself back to the present. You offered him a small, warm smile as you closed your notepad and tucked your pen behind your ear. “That’ll be it for today,” you said softly. “Do you have a way to pay, or…?”

Joel looked at you for a second. And then, without a word, he reached into the pocket of his worn jacket and pulled out a small ziplock bag filled with a generous amount of dried weed. He held it out with a completely straight face, as if this was the most normal form of payment in the world.

You blinked once. Then twice. Your lips parted slightly in surprise as your brows lifted. “Seriously?” you asked, your voice somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

Joel didn’t flinch. “Well I suppose you don’t take cards,” he muttered, a hint of defensiveness laced with deadpan humor. “Figured this might do.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, but your hand reached forward anyway. “You realize this isn’t exactly standard practice,” you said, taking the bag from him between two fingers, the contact brief—but still electric.

“Neither is showin’ up to therapy in fuzzy slippers and shorts,” he shot back with a slow smirk.

Touché.

You tilted your head, smirking right back, but you didn’t reply. Instead, you walked over to your bag and casually dropped the weed inside, your movements slow, deliberate. When you turned back around, Joel was already watching you with that same look in his eyes—somewhere between curiosity and hunger.

“I guess we’re even,” you said quietly, your voice a little lower now, like it belonged in a different kind of conversation.

He didn’t answer, just stood there. Big. Still. Tense.

You walked him to the door, silence trailing after you both like a second presence. As you opened it, cold air swept in from outside, brushing over your skin, raising goosebumps on your thighs.

Joel didn’t step out immediately. He lingered, turning back to face you, eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing something. Or maybe just trying to convince himself not to do something he’d regret.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice was soft now. Almost intimate.

You nodded. “Of course.”

The air felt tight. Like something had been said without actually being spoken.

And then he left. The door clicked shut, and you exhaled.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just stood there, the quiet of your home closing in around you, but your thoughts loud as hell.

Joel Miller had this… presence. Something raw, heavy, carved out of scars and silence. He was clearly complicated—guarded. But under all that gruffness, there was something else. Something that made you want to crack him open and see what was underneath.

And maybe that was exactly what scared you.

He was your client. And that alone should be enough to slam every door inside you shut. But your heart didn’t seem to get the memo. Because it was still beating hard. Still remembering the way his voice dipped low when he thanked you. The way his eyes flicked down your legs. The way his hand brushed yours when he handed over the weed.

You bit your lip, suddenly aware of how warm your skin felt. No. No, no. You couldn’t let yourself feel that. Not for him. Not now.

Still… the scent of his jacket lingered in the air. And so did the strange ache in your chest.

And deep down, where you wouldn’t even let the thought fully form, you wondered: What would happen… if those lines blurred?

The next day…

You were still adjusting. To Jackson. To the cold mornings and quiet streets. To the fact that life here, while safer than the world outside the gates, still pulsed with tension. People wore their grief like layers of clothing, and every client that knocked on your door carried more than just pain—they carried stories they didn’t know how to tell.

You were getting used to that, too.

The morning had been busy. Three clients before lunch, each one with their own shadows. You were sipping lukewarm tea, organizing your notes, when there was a knock at the door. You glanced at the clock. Not your usual appointment window. You opened the door.

And there he was.

Joel.

Again.

He looked the same, rough edges, tired eyes, that same guarded posture, but something about him felt… different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe you were different, now that you’d seen the way his eyes softened when he smiled. The way his voice dipped when he said your name.

This time, you were dressed more… professionally. A soft knit sweater that hugged your waist, black jeans, cozy socks. No shorts. No slippers. But his eyes still flicked over you in that same slow, burning way.

“Hi,” you said, smiling. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

He shifted his weight, cleared his throat. “Hope that’s not a problem.”

“No,” you said quickly, stepping aside. “Of course not. Come in.”

He walked past you with that heavy, confident step, and for a second—just a second—you let your eyes trace the shape of his back. The way his shoulders moved beneath the fabric of his shirt. The worn denim that clung to his legs a little too well.

You closed the door and followed him into the room. He didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, looking around like he was taking in your space again. He glanced at the small candle flickering on the shelf, the books stacked on your desk, the mug of tea you hadn’t finished.

He looked at you.

“You changed the slippers,” he murmured.

You laughed. “Figured I should look like a professional, at least once a week.”

Joel’s mouth twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. Almost.

Once he was seated, you grabbed your notebook and sat across from him, legs crossed at the knee—but not as carelessly as last time. Still, his eyes caught the movement. You felt it. That flicker of awareness. That quiet hum beneath the surface.

“So,” you started, clicking your pen open, “two sessions in two days… should I be flattered?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. “Didn’t have much else to do,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like a glowing review of my therapeutic technique.”

His lips curved slightly. “You’re better than you think.” Your cheeks warmed, and not from the candlelight.

As the session began, it felt… different. More open. Joel still spoke in fragments, in low tones and unfinished sentences, but he let himself be a little more present. He let you ask more. He even answered a few things without looking away.

You talked about routine. About Jackson. About Ellie, vaguely. About the cold. And somewhere in there, between the casual and the careful, you realized you liked having him there. You liked the sound of his voice when it got quiet. You liked the way he sat—arms loose, legs apart, so confidently in his own skin.

And you hated how aware you were of it.

You were his therapist.

But he was… him.

A man who looked at you like he wanted to figure you out just as badly as you wanted to peel away his walls.

You didn’t let your mind wander too far. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on your hands. On your lips when you spoke. On the curve of your neck when you leaned over to write.

He wasn’t good at hiding that kind of thing.

And when the session ended, and he stood up again, the air felt heavier. Like something had built between you. Something you were both pretending not to feel.

He said goodbye quietly. Not rushed. Like he wanted to stay. You closed the door behind him. Pressed your back to it. And breathed. This was going to be harder than you thought.

He hadn’t planned it like this. He hadn’t planned on coming every goddamn day.

At first, he told himself it was just necessity. He needed the help. Needed someone to listen. Someone who wasn’t Tommy, who wasn’t Maria, who didn’t already have a whole image of who he was supposed to be.

But deep down, he knew. It wasn’t just about talking. It was about you.

Every morning, he woke up with that same battle inside his chest. Don’t go. She’s too young. She’s too good. You’re just another broken old man.

And yet, by noon, he was knocking on your door.

You never said no. Never even hinted that he was a bother. You smiled every time, led him inside, sat across from him with that soft, warm look that made the walls around him crack just a little more each session.

And somehow, after a week, you had more in your stash of supplies than half of Jackson.

Joel didn’t always have cash, or whatever passed for it these days, but he paid you with what he could. Bottles of whiskey. Extra ammo. A damn nice winter jacket one time.

He wasn’t sure if you actually needed all of it.

But you took it. You smiled. You made him feel like he wasn’t just a burden.

Today, when he knocked, you greeted him in a cozy-looking sweater, leggings, hair tied into bun but with a few strands loose around your face. Casual. Effortless. Dangerous.

He sat down, like he always did, heavy boots thudding against the floor.

He noticed, without meaning to, that he didn’t feel as stiff anymore. His arms weren’t crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw wasn’t clenched into stone.

You smiled, scribbling something into your notebook. “You’re getting more comfortable,” you said, almost like you were thinking out loud.

Joel grunted, not trusting himself to say much more. He knew he was softening around you. He just wasn’t sure if it was a good thing.

You started the session, asking him about his week, about Ellie, about the community. And then, you noticed it, something shifted in his expression. Something dark passed through his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked gently. Joel hesitated.

“It’s stupid,” he muttered finally, shaking his head.

“Nothing’s stupid,” you said. “If it’s bothering you, it matters.”

He leaned back, rubbing his palms over his jeans, a nervous habit he didn’t even realize he had.

“It’s just… ain’t easy. Bein’ around people. Even now. After everything. I keep thinkin’ I’m just gonna fuck it all up somehow.”

You nodded, your voice soft and steady. “That’s a very real fear.”

You let that sit for a moment. And then, before you could stop yourself, you asked:

“…Can I ask you something a little more personal?”

Joel’s eyes flicked up, guarded but curious.

“Sure,” he said gruffly.

You cleared your throat. Your fingers tightened just a little around your pen.

“How… how has everything affected your, uh… intimacy? Relationships? Sex life?”

The moment the word sex left your mouth, it was like you set off a bomb in the room.

Joel’s entire body stiffened. He blinked at you like he hadn’t heard right. Like you’d just punched him in the face.

And then, the images hit him so fast he barely had time to react. You. Bent over that little couch. Your soft sweater riding up your hips. His hands all over your skin. His mouth on your neck, your thighs, your—

Shit.

His face went red. His leg started bouncing uncontrollably. He scratched the back of his neck, shifted in his seat. He couldn’t even look at you.

You, meanwhile, tried to keep your face professional, casual—but inside, your stomach was flipping over itself. You had asked questions like that a hundred times before. But never like this. Never with him.

“Sorry if that’s too personal,” you said quickly, trying to save him. “It’s a common question in therapy. It’s important.”

Joel finally managed to clear his throat.

“No, it’s… it’s fine. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

His voice was lower now. Rougher. He still couldn’t meet your eyes. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to focus. Trying not to imagine what he had imagined when you said that word.

Joel shifted again, the denim of his jeans pulling uncomfortably tight against him. Jesus Christ. He needed to get out of here.

You gave him a way out, changing the subject, making a small note in your notebook without pushing him further. But the damage was done.

When the session ended, Joel stood up a little too quickly, mumbling a goodbye. You watched him go, heart pounding for reasons you didn’t want to admit. Joel barely made it down the steps before realizing he was fucking hard.

He cursed under his breath, tugging at his jacket, willing the blood to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. All because you had said one word. One word. And now, he was ruined.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Ever since he’d left your place, he’d been a fucking mess.

The cold air bit at his skin, the crunch of snow under his boots was deafening, but none of it registered. All he could see was you.

The way you’d looked at him when you asked that question. The way your tongue had peeked out just barely to wet your bottom lip. The way your legs had crossed, that slow, lazy move that had damn near stopped his heart.

He felt sick, alive, starving. Every thought in his head was of you—and half of them were so filthy, so wrong, he should’ve been struck down on the spot. Goddamn old man, get a grip. But he couldn’t.

He got home fast, faster than usual. Slammed the door behind him like he could shut the images out.

He tossed his coat onto the nearest chair, paced the room like a caged animal.

Coffee. Maybe coffee would help.

His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the kettle. He poured himself a cup, burned his tongue on the first sip, cursed under his breath.

But the warmth did nothing to calm the fire raging in his blood. Your voice kept replaying in his head.

Sex life. He pictured you whispering it. Moaning it. Screaming it. His cock twitched painfully against the seam of his jeans.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

He tried sitting. Tried distracting himself, staring at the fire crackling in the hearth. But his mind betrayed him—again and again. He saw you across from him, not in leggings and a sweater, but naked. Skin flushed, eyes heavy, mouth parted.

He imagined his hands on you, calloused fingers sliding up your thighs, teasing the soft, sensitive skin until you begged him—

Jesus fucking Christ.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Joel stood, breathing hard, palming the heavy bulge in his jeans. There was no dignity left. No sense in fighting it.

He staggered to his bedroom, barely managing to shove his jeans down over his hips. His cock sprang free, thick and aching and already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a rough hand around himself, the touch making him groan deep in his chest.

Head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut, he started stroking. Slow at first. Long, tight pulls, just enough to ease the pressure without giving in fully.

But the images kept flashing behind his eyes. You, straddling his lap, grinding down against him. You, hands twisted in his hair, guiding his mouth wherever you wanted it. You, whimpering his name. His strokes sped up.

His thighs tensed, muscles flexing. His hips jerked up into his hand, chasing the friction. He bit down hard on his lip to keep from making noise—but a few low, broken moans still escaped.

“Fuck… baby…” he growled into the empty room, voice wrecked.

The firelight flickered across his bare chest, highlighting the taut lines of muscle, the sheen of sweat breaking out across his skin. He squeezed tighter, pumping faster, chasing that edge.

His hand was rough, almost punishing, but he didn’t care. He deserved the pain. Deserved the shame. He thought about your soft, warm cunt wrapped around him. Thought about what you’d sound like when he finally pushed inside.

That did it.

Joel’s whole body seized up, a shudder ripped through him as he came, thick ropes spilling over his fist, down his knuckles, onto the floor.

“Goddamn—fuck—” he groaned, riding it out, hips jerking uncontrollably.

He sagged back against the bed, panting, heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he just laid there. One arm thrown over his eyes. Breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

The guilt crept in almost immediately. He shouldn’t have done it. Not over you. Not over someone so kind. So pure.

But even as he wiped his hand on a rag and dragged his jeans back up, one thing was terrifyingly clear: He was fucked. And not just because he couldn’t get you out of his head. But because he didn’t want to.

Joel hadn’t even planned on coming to this stupid ‘party’. Truth be told, crowds weren’t his thing anymore—too many people, too many memories.

But Tommy had dragged him out, shoved a drink in his hand, and told him to at least pretend to be part of the community. So there he was, leaning against the wall with a half-empty glass of whiskey, feeling like a damn ghost watching life happen around him.

And then you walked in. Joel’s world fucking stoppe. You were dressed… Shit, he didn’t even have words for it. It wasn’t flashy or revealing. You weren’t even trying. But you were stunning. Soft and effortless and so goddamn beautiful it made his chest ache.

Joel swallowed hard, feeling that familiar pressure start building low in his gut. You spotted them, him and Tommy, and made your way over, a warm, shy smile lighting up your face.

“Hey,” you greeted, voice a little breathless from the cold outside. “I think we’ve met,” you said, nodding toward Tommy. “You welcomed me my first day.”

Tommy grinned wide, gave a little dramatic bow. “That’s me. Jackson’s official welcome wagon.”

You laughed and then turned to Joel.

“And of course,” you added, softer now, “I know Joel. From… work.”

Your eyes flicked to his and something charged the air between you. Joel stiffened. He managed a grunt that was supposed to be a greeting but sounded more like he was choking.

After a beat, too long to be normal, you excused yourself politely, weaving back into the crowd. Joel stared after you like a man who’d just watched salvation walk away.

Tommy elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“You blind, or just stupid?”

Joel blinked. “What?”

“She was lookin’ at you like you hung the damn moon, man,” Tommy said, incredulous. “Christ, Joel. She was bitin’ her lip, twiddlin’ her damn fingers, swayin’ like she was hopin’ you’d just throw her over your shoulder right then and there.”

Joel glared at him. “You’re full of shit.”

Tommy just laughed, slapped him on the back. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, old man.”

Joel tried to shake it off. Tried to act like his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest. But now he couldn’t stop watching you.

You joined a group of women near one of the tables, smiling, laughing, tucking your hair behind your ear in that way that made his gut twist painfully. Joel sipped his whiskey, pretending not to look.

Failing miserably.

He watched you laugh at something one of the women said, your head tilting back, that smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. Wanted to be the one you looked at with that kind of light in your eyes.

And then, a man joined your group. Joel’s stomach dropped. The guy was young, maybe early thirties. Tall. Smiling too damn wide at you. Joel’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Every time you laughed at something that punk said, Joel’s blood boiled hotter. He gripped his glass tighter, fingers whitening around the rim. He should’ve looked away. Should’ve had some damn self-control. But he couldn’t.

Every move you made, every glance, every soft smile, was a hook digging deeper under his skin. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Across the room, at the bar, Ellie and Dina were getting harassed by some drunk asshole spitting slurs, sneering like a damn fool.

He stiffened, instincts firing before his brain even caught up. Ellie stepped toward the guy, pointing at that man, eyes blazing.

“The fuck did you just say?!” she snapped, voice sharp and cutting. Joel didn’t wait.

His body moved on pure muscle memory. He crossed the floor in a heartbeat, grabbing the guy by the collar and shoving him with brutal force—so hard the bastard hit the ground with a grunt.

The man glared up at Joel from the floor, his face twisted in anger. Joel stared him down, his voice low and lethal: “Get the hell outta here.”

The room was deathly silent now.

Maria helped the guy stand up from the floor, both of them disappearing into the crowd without another word.

Joel finally looked at Ellie. She was standing frozen, blinking like she couldn’t believe what had just happened.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she barked, voice loud enough to carry. Joel didn’t answer.

His jaw was locked tight, muscles ticking under his skin, and his fingers flexed helplessly at his sides.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Joel!”

The words hit harder than any punch. He looked around, saw the judgment, the confusion, and then his gaze locked on you.

You were standing frozen by the table, one hand over your mouth, wide-eyed. He hated the look on your face. Hated that he’d been the cause of it.

Joel dropped his eyes, shame burning hot under his skin.

“Right,” he muttered roughly, voice almost breaking, and without another word, he pushed through the crowd and disappeared into the cold night.

You couldn’t move for a second. Couldn’t even breathe.

The way Joel had looked at you, like he was breaking apart right in front of you. You whispered a quick apology to the group you were with and slipped out into the cold night after him, heart pounding in your chest.

You didn’t know what you were going to say. Didn’t even know if you could fix it. But you had to try. Because somehow, somewhere between those stolen glances and charged silences, Joel Miller had carved out a place inside you that you couldn’t ignore.

You hurried after him, boots crunching over the snow, your breath forming shaky clouds in the freezing air.

“Joel!” you called out, but he didn’t turn.

He just kept walking, his broad shoulders tense, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets.

You picked up your pace, heart pounding—not just from the cold—and finally, when you were close enough, you reached out and touched his shoulder.

Joel flinched. He stopped in his tracks and turned around sharply, his face hard, eyes stormy—

But the moment his gaze landed on you, his expression softened. The anger drained from his face like melting ice.

For a few long seconds, neither of you said a word. The world around you seemed to fall away, swallowed by the soft hiss of falling snow and your own uneven breathing.

Finally, you found your voice, small and uncertain:

“Are you… okay?”

Joel exhaled a heavy breath, visible in the cold, and gave a stiff nod. That was all he could manage.

You shuffled your boots awkwardly in the snow, feeling stupid, feeling young in a way you never had before.

Like your presence was supposed to fix something—but you had no idea how.

Still… just standing there next to him, it somehow made things a little less heavy. A little warmer, despite the biting air.

Joel looked at you again, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“You cold?” he asked, voice rough.

You shook your head quickly. He nodded once, lips pressing into a thin line. And then he said it, low and reluctant: “I should… head home.”

He was already turning away when your voice stopped him.

“Wait—”

You shifted nervously on your feet, then blurted out before you could second-guess yourself,

“Do you… want some company?”

The moment the words left your mouth, panic bloomed in your chest. Was that weird? Was that unprofessional? Was that even allowed?

Joel froze.

You could almost see the war playing out inside him—the instinct to say no, to stay distant, battling the overwhelming pull he felt toward you.

But in the end, he couldn’t tell you no. He just jerked his head slightly, beckoning you to follow.

Joel unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for you. You slipped in, your fingers already fumbling to untie the soft jacket he’d once traded for his session.

Joel silently helped you, his calloused hands brushing against your arms as he slid the heavy fabric off your shoulders.

You shivered, definitley not from the cold.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both inside a bubble of tense, humming silence. Joel cleared his throat, glancing at you awkwardly.

“Uh… coffee or tea?”

“Coffee,” you said quickly, needing something, anything, to do with your hands, your mind, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You sat down carefully at his small, worn kitchen table, feeling absurdly out of place.

The chair creaked under you, the faint smell of coffee and old wood wrapping around you like a too-tight blanket. Joel busied himself at the counter, his broad back facing you.

You watched the way his shoulders moved under his jacket, the way his fingers fumbled slightly with the coffee canister.

He wasn’t as steady as he wanted to seem. And neither were you. For the first time in your life as a therapist, you had no idea what to say.

No idea how to reach the man standing a few feet away without falling headfirst into something neither of you would be able to undo.

Joel was in hell. Not just because of tonight—though that alone had probably shattered what little trust Ellie still had in him, and would no doubt make him a target of whispers in Jackson for weeks—

But because you were here. Sitting in his kitchen. Looking at him with those wide, worried eyes that made him want to fall to his knees.

He clutched the edge of the counter tighter, knuckles whitening. If he made one wrong move, if he let himself feel too much—

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop. And he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

Without saying a word, he grabbed two chipped mugs and poured coffee into each, the rich aroma filling the heavy silence between you.

Once he finished, he shrugged off his jacket, hanging it carefully on the hook right next to yours — so close, almost touching.

Only then did he return, walking back over to where you sat, still quiet, still unsure.

He handed you one of the mugs, and as you reached out to take it, your fingers brushed against his.

The contact was brief, feather-light, but it sent an electric jolt through your body — and clearly through his, too.

Both of you froze for a fraction of a second, your eyes locking, breath caught between you.

It was so quick, so subtle… but so undeniably there.

Joel cleared his throat lowly, trying to brush it off, and finally sat down opposite you, his large hands curling around his mug like it was his only lifeline to reality. The steam rose between you two, swirling in the cold air that seeped through the old house’s walls.

There was a long pause — neither of you seemed to know how to start — until suddenly, both of you spoke at the same time.

You stopped. He stopped.

An awkward, soft laugh escaped you, and Joel gave a small huff of amusement through his nose, the faintest ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“You first,” Joel said eventually, nodding toward you, his voice gruff but surprisingly gentle, always the gentleman, even now.

You shifted slightly in your seat, taking a breath.

“I just… I just want you to know,” you started carefully, your fingers nervously tracing the handle of your mug, “that what you did back there? I get it. You were just trying to protect someone you care about. And… you shouldn’t feel bad for that.” Your voice was soft, earnest.

Joel let out a rough, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head like he couldn’t even begin to accept your kindness.

“I fucked everythin’ up,” he muttered, voice low and cracked. “Don’t even know how to fix it now.”

Then, with a defeated sigh, Joel buried his face in his hands.

The sight made your chest ache — you had to physically stop yourself from reaching out, from covering his rough, work-worn hands with your own.

Not now. Not when he was so vulnerable. You couldn’t cross that line… not yet.

Your heart was pounding painfully against your ribs when you suddenly remembered something. You had brought a little “emergency” with you to the party, just in case, and it seemed like the perfect time for it now.

Without thinking too much, you jumped up from your chair, making Joel lift his head in slight surprise.

You fumbled through the pocket of your jacket, finally pulling out a small bag of weed with a victorious grin.

Joel quirked an eyebrow at you, the corners of his mouth twitching up in faint amusement.

“Seriously?” he asked, voice half incredulous, half fond, when he saw what you were holding.

You nodded enthusiastically, the grin not leaving your face. And for the first time that night, Joel genuinely smiled.

You ended up sitting closer together on the old, battered couch, sharing a joint, letting the slow haze of warmth and laughter ease the tension that had been suffocating both of you all evening.

The conversation flowed easier now, soft jokes and even softer glances exchanged between you two. Joel’s shoulders, always so rigid, finally started to relax. His laugh, low and raspy, filled the room in small bursts.

And you felt a kind of peace you hadn’t known you were missing. For a while, in that little pocket of time, it didn’t matter what had happened at the party. It didn’t matter how badly Joel thought he had ruined everything.

It was just the two of you. Just coffee-stained mugs cooling on the table. The laughter between you faded into a lingering quiet, warm and a little awkward, as if neither of you wanted to be the one to break it.

You leaned forward slightly, reaching for your cup, your fingers brushing the ceramic as you brought it to your lips for a small sip. The coffee had cooled a little, but the warmth still felt good in your hands.

As you set the cup back down, a few loose strands of hair slipped into your face. Before you could lift your hand to brush them away, Joel moved. Quietly, instinctively.

His fingers were rough, calloused from years of work, but the way he touched you was anything but.

He tucked the loose strands gently behind your ear, his knuckles barely grazing your cheek. Your eyes met. Locked.

The air between you turned electric, heavy and trembling like a taut string ready to snap.

Joel’s gaze flickered, your lips, your eyes, your lips again, his breathing shallow, heart thundering so loudly he was sure you could hear it. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

His hand lingered, sliding almost hesitantly down, until his palm was resting at the nape of your neck. Large, warm, protective.

Holding you there like he was afraid if he let go, you’d vanish. Your breath caught in your throat.

Joel swallowed hard. His thumb moved ever so slightly, brushing against your skin, the softest, slowest motion—intimate beyond words.

Every fiber of your being screamed for him to close the distance.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in that fragile space between hesitation and surrender.

And then, Joel leaned in. Slow, deliberate. His forehead almost touched yours. His nose just grazed your cheek. His breath, ragged, fanned over your lips.

He waited, giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

And when your mouth met his, it was soft at first, trembling, full of all the things that had been left unsaid for far too long. It was barely a kiss. Joel’s lips just brushed yours, the softest ghost of a touch, as if he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

The moment he felt your slight intake of breath, your stunned stillness, he immediately pulled back.

His hand left your neck in a flash, and he leaned away, guilt flashing across his features.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice rough, almost pained, his eyes darting away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

But you smiled. A slow, mischievous, almost dangerous curve of your lips. Maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was just him—but suddenly you felt bold. Hungry.

“You know,” you said, voice dropping into a teasing murmur, “in therapy, touch is supposed to be strictly off-limits.”

Your eyes glinted, a spark of wickedness dancing there. Joel blinked at you, completely thrown off by your shift, struggling to catch up.

“And yet,” you leaned in closer, your breath brushing against his jaw, “sometimes… rules are made to be broken, aren’t they, Mr. Miller?”

Before he could say anything, before he could ruin it with another apology, you kissed him.

Properly, this time. Your mouth pressed firmly to his, tasting him, demanding him.

Joel groaned against your lips, low and guttural, like something deep inside him finally snapped free.

His hands found your waist, strong fingers digging into your sides, desperate to feel more of you.

You moved instinctively, climbing into his lap, straddling him without even thinking, your thighs bracketing his hips.

The second your body settled over him, he let out another soft, broken sound, and you could feel him, already hard against you, hot and throbbing through his jeans.

You rocked your hips just a little, testing, and his hands clamped down harder, a silent plea for you to stop torturing him.

He was kissing you now like he couldn’t get enough—slow, then deep, then messily hungry, tongues tangling, teeth grazing.

His palms were everywhere: your back, your thighs, your waist, exploring every inch of you like he needed to memorize it.

You felt his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own racing pulse.

You were both half-wild already, and yet somehow still trying to hold on, trying not to fall into it too fast. But it was no use.

His salt-and-pepper beard scraped deliciously against your mouth, rough and warm, sending little sparks of heat down your spine every time he shifted closer.

You could feel the slight burn of it on your lips, your cheeks, even your jaw, and it made you crave more. More of him, more of this brutal tenderness he gave you without even thinking.

Joel wasn’t letting you breathe. He wasn’t letting you go. His big body caged you in, his strong hands gripping you like he was terrified you might slip away. But the truth was, you didn’t want to go anywhere. You wanted to drown in him.

The coffee still hung faintly in the air, mixing with the deep scent of Joel’s skin—warm, musky, and grounding.

Outside, the snow was falling harder, the soft hiss of it against the windows making everything inside feel even hotter, even heavier.

The world had faded away, leaving only the frantic beat of your hearts crashing together.

You whimpered against his mouth when he kissed you harder, rougher, desperate.

And you were already so wet, feeling the damp heat pooling between your thighs, your soaked panties sticking uncomfortably against you—but it only made you ache for him even more.

Both of you knew this was wrong. You knew there was still time to stop—to pull away, to breathe, to talk. But neither of you even considered it.

You were already too far gone, drunk on him, on the weed, on the days of tension finally snapping like a brittle thread.

Your hands tangled in his greying hair, pulling sharply when he bit at your lower lip, and Joel groaned—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated right through your core.

He shifted his grip from your face to your hips, hauling you closer against him, grinding your body against his aching hardness.

His palms slid lower, kneading your ass, fingers digging in possessively, making you shudder and moan against him.

Between ragged kisses, he muttered against your lips, voice rough and breaking apart:

“Goddamn… been waitin’ so fuckin’ long for this…”

Another kiss, deeper, hungrier.

“Dreamt about this… ‘bout you…”

Each word hit you like a lightning bolt, setting your whole body on fire.

You answered by kissing him even harder, almost feral now, desperate to feel every inch of him, every ounce of need he poured into you.

The air around you was humid and heavy, thick with the scent of coffee, weed, sweat, and snow-melt leaking from your clothes. It was suffocating in the best way. It smelled like Joel. It smelled like home. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Your hips started moving on their own, grinding down against the hard bulge in Joel’s jeans. The friction made your head spin, sparks of unbearable pleasure shooting through your core with every slow roll of your body.

You whimpered into his mouth, feeling the way his whole body stiffened under you—and that was it.

That was all it took to make Joel snap.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest, and in the next second, he attacked your neck with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs.

You cried out his name, loud, raw, desperate, your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt, digging into the strong muscles of his back.

He didn’t stop, he licked, sucked, bit into the tender skin of your neck like he was branding you, leaving dark, possessive marks that you were going to wear for days.

Your throat, your collarbone, even the top of your chest—he left no space untouched. And all the while, your hips never stopped moving.

Your body was chasing the friction shamelessly, rolling and grinding against him as Joel buried his face in your neck, groaning, losing his fucking mind over the way you felt on top of him.

The air around you turned even thicker, hotter, electrified with raw, animalistic want. Every breath you took was shaky, every sound you made was ripped straight from your chest.

When he finally tore himself away from your neck, both of you stared at each other—wild, disheveled, drowning in need. No words were spoken. They weren’t needed.

Your hands were trembling when you reached for the hem of his shirt, and Joel didn’t even hesitate.

He grabbed the back of it and yanked it over his head, tossing it somewhere across the room. The sight of his bare chest—broad, scarred, covered in coarse dark hair—made your knees weak.

You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out, running your hands over his warm, hard skin, feeling the raw strength hidden underneath.

Joel hissed through his teeth when your palms slid over his ribs and up to his chest—but when you brushed your thumbs over his nipples, he growled, low and dangerous, and grabbed you again, desperate and rough.

Now it was his turn.

His fingers tugged at your clothes, fumbling with the buttons, the zippers, the seams—every new inch of bare skin he uncovered made the room spin faster, made his touch rougher, needier. Your shirt fell to the floor. Then your bra.

Joel’s calloused palms immediately covered your breasts, squeezing them, kneading them, making you whimper and arch into his touch.

His eyes were dark, hungry, absolutely wrecked as he stared at you like you were something holy and forbidden all at once.

Each piece of clothing that hit the floor made the air thicken even more, made the space between your bodies buzz like a live wire.

You could feel it with every trembling breath, every desperate glance—the terrifying, undeniable truth: there was no turning back now.

Joel couldn’t keep his hands off you anymore.

He slid his rough palms down your sides, gripping your hips with a strength that made your thighs tremble.

His mouth was all over you—lips, teeth, tongue—claiming every inch he could reach.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he rasped against your skin, his voice low and reverent.

“Could stare at you all damn day… could spend the rest of my life touchin’ you.”

You whimpered at the sound of his praise, your entire body lighting up, clenching with desperate need.

Joel’s hands slid between your thighs and with a sharp tug, he ripped your panties apart like they were made of paper.

“Joel!” you gasped, looking down at the ruined fabric in horror.

“Those were expensive!”

He just chuckled darkly, tossing the torn lace somewhere behind him without a second thought.

“I’ll get ya a whole goddamn drawer full of ‘em,” he said, voice thick with hunger.

“Right now I need you more than I need my next fuckin’ breath.”

You barely had time to recover before he dove between your legs, leaving open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your thigh, growling against your skin.

Your hands fumbled with his belt, desperate, needing to feel all of him.

Joel helped you, cursing under his breath as he shrugged out of his jeans.

What you saw made your heart stutter.

The bulge straining against his underwear was massive. You froze for a second, mouth dry, staring up at him in awe. Joel noticed, of course, and that shit-eating grin he gave you almost made you combust on the spot.

“What’s the matter, darlin’?” he teased, voice full of wicked amusement.

“Didn’t expect me to be this big?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but no sound came out—only a needy whimper. Joel just laughed, low and cocky, and slid his underwear down.

And holy fuck—you weren’t sure if it was the weed still fogging your brain or just the sheer size of him, but the moment his thick, heavy cock sprang free, your mouth watered instantly.

Without even thinking, you slid off his lap and dropped to your knees between his legs. Joel’s eyes widened slightly, his chest heaving.

“Darlin'… you don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft, hungry smile.

“I want to,” you whispered, voice wrecked with need, locking your gaze with his.

You wrapped your hand around his thick shaft, feeling how hot and heavy he was in your palm,

and then you leaned forward, flattening your tongue against the head and swirling it teasingly.

Joel cursed violently, his hands flying to your hair.

“Fuck, baby… that’s it… just like that,” he groaned, threading his fingers into your hair but letting you set the pace.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl for me… goddamn.”

You bobbed your head slowly at first, taking him deeper inch by inch, feeling the silky skin over the steel hardness underneath.

The salty taste of precum spread across your tongue, making your core clench even harder.

Joel’s thighs tensed on either side of you, his breathing turning ragged. “That’s it, sweetheart… look so pretty with your mouth full of me…”

You hummed around him, sending vibrations up his length, and Joel’s hips jerked involuntarily, forcing a deeper thrust into your mouth.

You moaned in response, the needy, desperate sound vibrating against his cock.

Joel’s fingers tightened in your hair, but he was still careful, letting you control how deep you took him.

The whole room was filled with obscene sounds-wet, messy, desperate. The way you sucked him, the way Joel’s ragged groans filled the heavy, hazy air. It was primal. Raw.

A need that had been building for what felt like a lifetime—and now it was all crashing down in this one electric, filthy moment.

Outside, you could barely hear the wind howling against the windows,

but inside, the only storm was the one raging between you two.

The smell of coffee, sex, and Joel’s own rugged scent filled your lungs with every gasping breath you took.

And Joel couldn’t stop looking at you, couldn’t stop moaning your name in that broken, reverent way that made you feel like the center of his whole goddamn universe.

Your lips wrapped tighter around Joel’s cock, feeling just how massive he really was. Your jaw ached slightly from the stretch, but you didn’t dare stop, didn’t want to stop.

The thick weight of him filled your mouth obscenely, the silky skin sliding against your tongue with every slow, deliberate pull of your lips. The taste of him was salty, heavy, and completely addictive.

Your hands slid up his thighs, feeling the way his muscles were tense, locked tight like he was struggling not to move. His skin was burning hot under your palms, every tiny twitch betraying how close he already was.

Joel was breathing harshly above you, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. He had one hand still tangled gently but firmly in your hair, letting you take the lead, but the other hand reached down, grabbing your wrist, squeezing it tightly as if to ground himself, to stop himself from losing control.

“Fuck, baby… so good… so fuckin’ good…” he hissed between clenched teeth.

You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, feeling the thick, pulsing vein along the underside of his cock drag against your tongue.He was impossibly hard, but his skin was velvety soft, warm, and alive in your mouth.

The weight of him made your lips stretch wide, drool beginning to spill from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

Joel groaned—deep, guttural—and threw his head back against the couch, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought the urge to buck his hips into your mouth.

But he couldn’t hold back completely.

Every so often, his hips jerked forward sharply, driving his cock deeper into your throat, and you gagged lightly around him, tears springing to your eyes.

“Shit—sorry, I—” he panted, voice breaking with restraint.

“Can’t fuckin’ help it… you feel too damn good…”

You whimpered around him, the vibrations making him curse again.

Your thighs rubbed together desperately, because the way Joel was falling apart for you was driving you insane. The aching, throbbing need between your legs was unbearable, slick dripping onto the floor beneath you, but you stayed focused, desperate to make him fall apart.

Joel’s hand in your hair tightened just slightly, not forcing, not controlling, but anchoring himself, like he needed you to keep him tethered to this moment.

His balls were heavy, full, drawn up tight against his body.

You could feel the way they shifted as he struggled to hold himself back, his whole body shuddering under your touch. His fingers caressed your wrist, a silent worship, almost trembling with how badly he wanted you.

Joel’s breathing grew heavier, rougher, more desperate by the second.

You could feel it in the way his thighs trembled under your palms, the way his hand in your hair tightened—not rough, but pleading, as if he was begging for release.

His cock twitched against your tongue, swelling even more impossibly thick as his whole body tensed.

“Fuck… gonna—” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken and raw.

You quickened your pace slightly, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, and that was all it took. With a deep, guttural groan that seemed to tear itself straight from his chest, Joel came.

His hips jerked up uncontrollably, and thick, hot spurts of cum filled your mouth, salty and slightly bitter, coating your tongue and the back of your throat.

You moaned softly at the taste—musky, masculine, entirely him—and swallowed instinctively, wanting to take all of him in.

Joel cursed again, a low, broken “Jesus…” escaping his lips, his voice hoarse and wrecked.

His head fell back, exposing the strong line of his throat, his chest heaving with every ragged breath. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight, trembling under the intensity of his orgasm.

He kept one shaking hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles went white. You pulled back slowly, letting his softening cock slip from your lips with a lewd, wet sound.

A little bit of his release dripped from the corner of your mouth, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand, cheeks burning with heat and pride.

Your eyes met his, Joel’s were dark, wild, overwhelmed, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was his heavy breathing and the distant hum of the night outside.

He reached for you blindly, pulling you up onto his lap, cradling you against his chest as if you were something fragile he needed to protect.

“You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he whispered against your hair, voice still shaky.

“So damn good…”

You nuzzled into him, heart pounding, still trembling yourself, not from fear or doubt, but from the raw, electric intensity of it all. You had made him come apart at the seams. You had him falling apart for you.

And god, it made the pulsing ache between your thighs almost unbearable. Joel’s hands slid slowly up and down your back, steadying himself as much as you. But you could already feel it: the way his body was starting to react again, the slow, inevitable reignition of need simmering between you both.

He wasn’t done, and neither were you.

Still perched in Joel’s lap, your breathless laughter barely settled from what you just did, you leaned in closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

And in your softest, filthiest voice, you whispered, “You know…I’ve had a lot of clients, but none of them ever came this fast before, Mr. Miller.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt Joel’s whole body stiffen under you, like you’d lit a fuse. A low, almost animalistic growl rumbled deep in his chest.

Without a word, Joel flipped you over in one fluid, controlled movement, so now he was the one kneeling in front of you on the couch.

You gasped, startled, but before you could even think to say anything, Joel shot you a dark, wicked smirk — the kind of look that said you were absolutely, completely fucked — and grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide apart.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before Joel ducked down and devoured you. His tongue was hot and messy and desperate, lapping at your soaked core like he’d been starving for you for years.

The first stroke of his tongue up your slit made your entire body jerk, a strangled, broken moan ripping from your throat.

He groaned against you, the vibrations making your head fall back against the couch, your fingers immediately flying into his hair, grabbing at the silver-streaked strands in pure desperation.

Joel was relentless. His mouth was everywhere—licking, sucking, teasing your clit with maddening circles before sliding lower to dip into your entrance, tasting the very core of you.

You were already dripping, wetness coating his lips, his beard glistening under the soft, golden light of the room. He didn’t care. He wanted it messy. He wanted all of you.

Your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his head, but Joel only growled and pulled you even closer, locking his arms around your hips so you couldn’t get away. As if you’d ever want to.

The texture of his tongue was perfect—slightly rough, silky, impossibly skilled as he switched between broad strokes and tight, focused flicks. Your clit was throbbing, every nerve ending on fire, your whole body arching into his mouth.

Joel muttered filthy praises against your pussy between strokes, things like, “Taste so fuckin’ sweet, darlin',” and “Could stay down here forever,” each word sending a new rush of heat through your blood.

You sobbed his name, voice high and cracked, hips grinding helplessly against his mouth as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter.

Joel felt it, he knew you were close, and with a smug, satisfied hum, he slipped two thick fingers inside your fluttering hole, crooking them just right to hit that sweet, devastating spot.

The combination of his fingers stroking inside you and his mouth sucking mercilessly at your clit had you unraveling, fast.

Your body locked up, muscles spasming uncontrollably, a wild, broken cry tearing out of you as you came harder than you ever had in your life.

Joel didn’t stop, not through your shudders, not through your gasps, he licked and kissed you through every wave of your orgasm, savoring every last drop of your release.

Your wetness coated his chin, his lips, dripping messily onto the couch, onto his hands, but he didn’t fucking care.

You collapsed against the cushions, panting, utterly wrecked, your whole body still twitching from aftershocks.

He lifted his head from between your thighs, his lips glistening with you, and in his eyes burned that unbelievably dark, proud look.

He kept caressing your inner thighs for a moment longer, tracing slow, soothing circles with his fingertips to ease you through the lingering waves of pleasure.

Then he leaned closer and murmured in a rough, praising voice:

“Good girl… You did so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart.”

Your body almost trembled at his words — but both of you knew this was far from over.

Joel gave you a moment to catch your breath, his heavy breathing matching yours in the thick, charged air between you. You were glistening with sweat, skin flushed and trembling slightly, but to him, you were the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen. His cock, still painfully hard and throbbing, twitched at the sight of you spread out on the couch — all messy and ruined because of him.

He couldn’t wait any longer.

With a deep, desperate grunt, Joel climbed onto the couch, his strong hands sliding under you effortlessly. He shifted your body with ease, guiding you until you were lying flat beneath him. His massive frame hovered above, shadowing you completely, and for a moment, you just stared at each other.

Your glassy, tear-filled eyes met his — his were dark, wild, predatory. Like a starving wolf finally facing the meal he’d been denied for far too long. His broad chest heaved with each ragged breath, muscles taut with restraint.

Before moving further, Joel lowered his head slightly and gave you a subtle nod, silently asking for permission. And with a shy, eager little nod back, you gave it to him.

Joel lined himself up, his thick cock rubbing against your slick folds, and slowly began to push in.

The stretch was intense — he was so damn big that your walls fought to accommodate him, making you hiss sharply through your clenched teeth. Your nails instinctively dug into the hard planes of his back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake, but Joel only groaned at the feeling. He welcomed it. He wanted it. Proof of how good he was making you feel.

He paused for a moment, his forehead pressing against yours, whispering a low, gravelly:

“Breathe… I got you…”

Then, with a deep, primal growl, Joel pushed the rest of the way in, bottoming out inside you.

You whimpered at the sudden fullness, your thighs trembling against his hips, but fuck — the feeling of being completely stretched around him, the heavy weight of him deep inside you, was absolutely addictive.

Joel pressed a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead, a shaky attempt to comfort you, to ground you.

And then, he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts at first. He wanted you to feel everything — every ridge, every pulsing vein of his thick cock dragging along your sensitive walls.

Each push knocked soft, helpless little whimpers from your throat. Each pull left you feeling devastatingly empty, only for him to fill you up again — harder, deeper, more desperate each time.

Joel kept one hand anchored firmly on your hip, the other sliding up to intertwine with your fingers above your head, pinning you down in the most delicious way.

His lips brushed your temple, whispering words between ragged breaths:

“So tight for me… made just for me, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”

Your mind was a whirlwind — your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else, your body trembling under the relentless, steady rhythm Joel set.

The sounds between you were filthy: the wet slap of skin against skin, the soft creak of the couch under your shifting bodies, and the desperate, broken moans that neither of you could hold back anymore.

Outside, the night was quiet, the cool breeze whispering against the windows — but inside, the heat between you burned hotter than anything else.

A pulsing tension coiled tighter and tighter in your belly, fueled by Joel’s low growls and the constant, overwhelming friction of him dragging against your most sensitive spots.

He noticed it, of course he did — he could feel your walls fluttering around him, trying to pull him even deeper, to keep him inside forever.

Your second orgasm hit you like a violent, breathtaking wave.

It was louder this time, messier — a raw, guttural scream of Joel’s name tearing from your throat as your body seized and spasmed uncontrollably around him.

The world tilted violently, your vision swimming with stars, a sharp ringing filling your ears.

Your entire body was on fire, but at the same time — cold shivers raced down your spine, leaving you trembling and gasping for air like you’d been dragged under a riptide.

Your nails clawed desperately at Joel’s broad shoulders, leaving red, angry marks in your wake as your orgasm wracked through you.

Joel cursed under his breath, the sound low and almost desperate, as he drove into you a few more brutal, stuttering thrusts.

Then, with a deep, broken groan torn straight from his chest, he buried himself deep inside you one last time, and came hard.

His hips jerked against yours, pushing as deep as he could go while thick, hot pulses of his cum flooded your clenching core.

He couldn’t hold back, filling you up so completely it almost hurt, his whole body trembling with the force of his release.

A strangled, guttural version of your name spilled from his lips as he collapsed forward slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing heavily through his nose.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The world around you was nothing but your heartbeats hammering violently against each other’s skin, the room spinning slightly from the exertion — and from the lingering haze of the weed you’d both smoked earlier.

Joel finally shifted, gently easing out of you, and a messy mix of both of your releases immediately began to leak from between your legs, dripping onto the couch cushions below.

He hissed softly at the oversensitivity but didn’t move far — instead, he gathered you carefully into his arms, pulling you close against his sweaty, trembling chest.

You both collapsed back onto the couch — or what was left of it — tangled together, naked, sticky, sweaty, completely and utterly exhausted.

Joel wasn’t young anymore, and after what felt like an eternity without this kind of raw, consuming sex — it was hitting him hard.

You, overwhelmed from the double orgasm and the intense intimacy, could barely keep your eyes open.

Your head spun lazily, your body still twitching slightly in the aftermath, and the only thing grounding you was the heavy, protective weight of Joel wrapped around you.

There was a slow, sticky warmth still dripping between your legs — the mixture of your own release and Joel’s seed slowly seeping out — but you were both too far gone to care.

Joel’s cock, still slightly leaking, twitched weakly against your thigh as he finally gave in to sleep. You let yourself drift off too, tucked safely in his arms, surrounded by his scent, by the overwhelming sense of safety and belonging that you hadn’t even realized you were craving this badly.

The first thing that woke you up were the warm beams of sunlight slicing through the window, landing right across your closed eyelids.

You groaned softly, stretching out your sore, heavy limbs under the covers — and that’s when you realized…

You were in a bed. Under a blanket wearing a shirt. Your fingers brushed the fabric instinctively, recognizing the slightly worn, soft cotton and — unmistakably — Joel’s scent.

Earthy, musky, with that sharp trace of woodsmoke clinging to him like a second skin. It was his shirt, no doubt. Confused and groggy, you sat up, looking around in slow, cautious movements.

How the hell had you gotten here? As you pieced the memories together, it hit you all at once — like a slap across the face. The night before.

Joel.

The sex.

The weed.

You had slept with your client. Your older, rugged client you’d only known for about a week. You had slept with a man old enough to be your father. And you had gotten high as fuck with him beforehand.

Guilt and panic churned violently inside your gut, making your hands tremble as you dropped your face into your palms, groaning miserably.

What the fuck had you done?

But after a few moments of spiraling self-hatred, you forced yourself to pull it together. You needed your clothes. You needed to leave.

You stood up carefully, the oversized shirt barely covering the tops of your thighs, and looked around the room. Your clothes were nowhere in sight.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs as you tiptoed toward the door. The moment you opened them, the smell hit you. The rich, bitter coffee and Joel.

You froze for a moment before cautiously moving closer to the kitchen.

Joel was there, bustling around, wearing a loose, comfortable T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each small movement.

When he heard the door creak, he immediately turned around, his whole face lighting up with a soft, easy smile.

“Morning,” he drawled, his voice still deliciously rough from sleep.

He gestured to the chair across from him at the small kitchen table.

“Come sit’.”

You hesitated for a split second — your mind still a chaotic mess — but eventually shuffled over and sat down awkwardly.

You were honestly stunned.

Not just because of everything that had happened… But because Joel was still here. He hadn’t run off. He hadn’t left you alone, confused, and abandoned. He stayed. He even made coffee.

The conversation started light, typical morning chatter. He asked how you slept, if you were hungry, if you wanted sugar in your coffee…No mention of last night. No mention of the sex.

Just that soft, lazy morning vibe like you were… normal.

You sipped the rich, hot coffee, smiling shyly at him across the table, and he smiled right back, warm and genuine.

Your eyes eventually flicked to the worn leather watch strapped around his wrist, noticing the bullet hole scar near the band, and then panic suddenly punched you in the gut again.

What time was it? You had work!

You shot up from your chair, mumbling frantically about needing to get dressed, about being late — but Joel just chuckled under his breath, calm as ever.

“Relax,” he said, voice low and reassuring.

“I called Tommy. Told him you’re takin’ the day off. He let all your clients know. You’re good.”

You stared at him, stunned, not quite believing it.

But the way he said it, so confident, so casually protective, eventually made you sink back down into your seat, your heart still racing but slowly beginning to calm. You sipped your coffee again, feeling his steady gaze on you.

The silence that followed was… thick. Not hostile, not cold, just full. Only the quiet clink of a coffee cup being set down or the occasional creak of the wooden chair broke through it.

You both avoided each other’s eyes for a while. It was awkward, in the worst possible way. Because you knew. You knew you couldn’t just ignore last night forever.

So eventually, as a professional, as someone who understood the weight of unspoken tension, you broke the silence. Your voice was low, careful.

“About… last night—”

Joel looked up sharply and lifted a hand, stopping you gently but firmly.

“I get it,” he said, his voice calm, steady.

“We were both high. It just sorta… happened.”

You nodded once, lips pressing into a tight, almost guilty line. He wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t exactly right either. The quiet returned for a moment, a little softer this time. Then you cleared your throat.

“Uh… Do you happen to know where my clothes ended up?”

Joel nodded, a low breath left through his nose before he stood up.

“Yeah, I got ‘em.”

He disappeared into the hallway and returned a moment later with your neatly folded clothes. You stood up, took them slowly, your fingers brushing his as you did.

You didn’t look him in the eyes, but you felt his gaze, heavy and lingering, sliding over you like he hadn’t just seen you bare and shaking under him a few hours ago. Then he spoke again, voice softer now.

“Look… if you’re still okay with it, I’d like to keep meetin’. I mean, professionally. I think it’s… helpin’.”

You finally looked at him — really looked at him. There was something behind his words. Something uncertain. But also hopeful.

You nodded, lips curling just barely.

“Sure. We can keep meeting.”

He gave the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. Like something inside him had unclenched.

You turned and headed toward the guest room to change, feeling the heat of his gaze on your back the whole way.

And the irony wasn’t lost on you, how you now moved through this house wearing his scent, still sticky between your thighs, pretending like this was normal.

Like you hadn’t just let him tear you apart with his mouth, his hands, his— You stopped. Breathed. Got dressed.

When you finally came out, dressed, hair tied up, a little more composed, Joel was leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee. The silence between you stretched heavy, charged with everything that had happened the night before, and everything neither of you had said yet.

You cleared your throat softly and said, “Well… I guess I should probably go.”

Joel didn’t respond at first. But the way his expression shifted, just slightly, told you everything. Surprise, a flicker of disappointment… maybe even hurt. Like he’d expected you to stay, to share this morning with him. But he didn’t try to stop you. He understood. Maybe you both were still processing what the hell last night even meant.

He simply nodded and walked with you, until you reached the front door. He opened it for you, stepping aside.

You stopped in the doorway, hesitating. Then you turned your head just slightly and said with a soft, knowing smile, “Just so you know… I wasn’t that high.”

Joel froze. You didn’t wait for a response — you just walked off, the sunlight catching your hair as you disappeared down the street.

Joel stood there for a second, the echo of your words still ringing in the air like a shot. Then he let out a low chuckle, shook his head in disbelief, and muttered to himself,

“Goddamn woman…”

Hiii, thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a nice day!

LOVE YA🌸💗

[goorgeousz]

older | aaron hotchner

after hours au

older | aaron hotchner

after hours au

pairing: aaron hotchner x profiler!fem!reader

summary: the team uses their profile skills combined to figure out why you’re not interested in the cute agent just downstairs. you hate it. Hotch loves it.

content/tw: a little swearing.  reader is way too dramatic (she threatens to shoot morgan and then herself out of shame).

word count: 1.6k

a/n: I had so much fun writing this one. again, this idea came to me in a shower (my showers are not that long) (I just happen to shower a lot and i have my best ideas in it)

if you have any requests, suggestions or ideas (thought about in the shower or not), my requests are open <3

I’ll stop yapping (for now)

after hours masterlist

main masterlist

The bittersweet scent filled your nostrils before the sight of the steaming extra creamy cappuccino from your favorite coffee shop reached your eyes.

“What?” you squealed in surprise, stopping on your steps and spinning around to find Leo, one of the agents from the second floor “A cappuccino? My favorite! Leo, you didn’t have to.”

“It’s nothing, really.” he dismissed, but puffing his chest either way “I remember you said it’s your favourite. And it happens to be on my way here.” it wasn’t, and you knew it.

“You’re the best!” you complimented, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek “Thank you so much, honey! And it has a little heart in it.” you cooed, and smiled when he blushed “You spoil me way too much!”

“Anything for you.” he flirted “If you need me, I’ll be… Well, you know where to find me.” you chuckled.

“I do. Thank you again!” he smiled and winked, heading to the elevators.

After waiting for a second and tasting the drink to make sure it was as delicious as always (it was), you got back on your track to the break room, only two steps away. You bumped into Emily, who watched the whole interaction with a lopsided grin.

“What?”

“Nothing…” she sing-songed “I just think it’s cute.”

“What’s cute?” Morgan asked, getting in the room just behind the two of you.

Spencer, Hotch and JJ were already there discussing a consulting case the team had been working on. It started with Spencer and Hotch, and then JJ and soon after the break room became a makeshift conference room, like it always did, truly.

“Kelsen just bought her a cappuccino from her favorite coffee place.” Emily announced, getting the attention from the rest. Spencer and Hotch just went back to the files, but JJ standed up and stepped close to you to see it from her eyes.

“It’s not a big deal. I bring you guys sweet treats all the time. This is called being nice.” you pointed, seating on one of the tables and sipping from your beverage.

JJ and Emily just exchanged an amused look. Morgan took the seat to your right “So you don’t see it?”

You frowned “See what?”

“The heavy flirting. The lingering glances.” Emily started.

The completely unnecessary visits to our floor just to stop by at your desk. The excessive gifts.” JJ continued, looking pointedly at the cup you were currently sipping from.

“Oh. That.” you sighed.

“So you admit knowing he’s flirting with you?”

“Yes.” you stared blankly at Emily “So what?”

“So what? This ‘will they won’t they’ is dragging for too long.” JJ pointed.

“Wait, what? This isn’t… There isn’t… It's just harmless flirting.”

“Harmless flirting? Is this even a thing?” Morgan stared at you skeptically.

“Yes. You flirt with someone knowing it’s never going to happen between you. Ever. We do it to each other all the time…”

“Ouch?”

“Besides,” you kept going, not acknowledging his interruption “He’s just playing nice. There’s no actual interest involved.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Spencer muttered from his place at the couch, his eyes glued to the interrogation transcription. He felt the weight of everyone’s gaze on him, and stared back.

“Spill it out, kid.” Morgan begged, sounding way too amused with it.

“He stopped me in the parking lot a few weeks ago.” he started, fixing his glasses and shifting in his position, slightly overwhelmed with the attention. “He asked for advice on… Well, you.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” you whispered “And what did you tell him?”

Spencer shrugged “I didn’t know how to turn him down so I just started rambling facts and research regarding the scientific reasoning behind human relationship and the development of courtship. He eventually dropped it.” he gave everyone a closed-lips smile, seemingly proud of himself and amused.

“Wait, do you do this often? Ramble facts just so people leave you alone?” Hotch asked, glancing up from the tablet for the first time after you got in the break room. Spencer’s cheeks flushed in a deep red.

“Uh… No?”

Hotch surprisingly gave him a tight smile, but before anyone could get more into the revelation, JJ turned back to him, her eyebrows scrunched up together “Why didn’t you help him?”

Relief flooded through Spencer with the change of subject. He relaxed back into the couch, leaning back and crossing his fingers together like he always did when he was ready to discuss something he was certain about.

“I’ve seen her body language. She’s clearly not into him.”

“How so?” Morgan asked, doubfunded.

“Her eyes never linger on him, everytime he leaves the room it’s like he stops existing. Every time they talk she smiles and makes sure she listens, but her torso is almost every time leaning away from him, like she’s ready to go as soon as the conversation is over. It’s not like she’s uninterested, it’s like… she’s not even considering him. Don’t get me wrong, I’m positive she likes him and enjoys his company. And her smiles, her jokes and her laughs are real, just not romantically-interested ones.”

“When did you become an expert in relationships?” Derek squinted his eyes at him.

“This is basic body language knowledge. Knowing about all this says less about my expertise on the subject than not knowing says about your profiling skills…”

“Watch it, kid.”

“He’s getting way too good at these jokes” Emily muttered, nodding in disapproval but her eyes a glint of pride “But back to the real issue?”

“The four cases of first degree murder that happened in the last month in Las Vegas?” you asked, not-so-subtly trying to bring the attention back to the case.

You knew where this was going, and you didn’t like it one bit.

“Why aren’t you interested in him?” she asked, deciding not to acknowledge your observation.

“Hmm” you stuttered “Uh, I-I’m not going to get all personal with my boss in the room.” you declared, taking a long sip from your drink to keep from looking at Hotch. You had no idea why you said that, honestly. Obviously, you had no problem getting all personal in front of him. Or under him. Or on top of him. Or even splayed out at your dining table, face down as up getting eaten out by him.

And he was aware of it. So aware that he had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from smiling and giving away your secret. It’s not like a single smile would be enough to give away everything that happened that night, but all it took was a little reaction for them to start picking up on you – they were profilers, after all. Hotch only decided he was safe enough from his own frivolity when he felt the taste of the blood from how hard he bit on.

“Oh, cut it. That’s hardly the reason.” JJ stated, crossing her arms.

“Wait, can we focus on the fact that there must be something incredibly wrong for her to be so uncharacteristically shy about this subject?” Emily pointed, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at you.

“I just… Don’t like being the centre of attention.” you tried, and it was probably the first time those words came out of your mouth.

“Ha! Busted!” Emily laughed, banging her palm against the table in excitement and pointed at you, accusingly “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told us.” 

“Do you have any dirt on him? Like something so disgusting that you can’t even think about…” Derek tried, his smirk growing up at each word.

“No! Not at all!” you exclaimed, started to get pissed off.

“He’s hot, you can’t deny it.”

“He is.”

“He’s nice. Are you the kind of girl who always ends up running away from the guys who are ‘too nice’?” Emily groaned.

“No, I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“He’s hot, he’s nice…” JJ listed, once again ignoring your statements. You huffed in annoyment. “He’s tall, he’s responsible, he’s your age, he’s… Wait.” she stopped mid sentence, her face contorting in a smug smirk that almost made you hide under the desk.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until your lungs started to burn along with your cheeks.

JJ had her gaze locked onto yours from across the room, and it’s like she was reading every thought you ever had “We listed many things, many reasons to why you might not be attracted to him. You didn’t bat an eye to any of them… Until I said he’s your age. That’s the problem, right? You don’t like guys your age.”

The thought of banging your head against the table repeatedly until it split open didn’t sound that bad.

There were a thousand ways this could get worse.

“And judging by the fact that she didn’t want this to be discussed in front of Hotch, I’m assuming she’s into older guys.” Emily stated, exchanging fist bumps with JJ and Morgan.

“Don’t tell me you have a little crush on bossman over there. Or is it Rossi? Just tell me this: is Strauss also your type, yes or no?” 

Oh dear god.

You fucking knew it.

There were a thousand other ways this could've gotten worse. And that’s one of them.

“Morgan..” Hotch scolded, immediately interrupted by you.

“I have a gun, you motherfu…”

“Enough!” Hotch raised his voice, standing up. “Threatening to use your gun on a coworker could get your license removed.” he raised one eyebrow at you.

“Fine. I’ll kill myself then.” you dramatized, hiding your head under your folded arms over the table.

“This isn’t, in no way, shape or form, any better. Morgan, cut it out.” you heard him scold. “I have a meeting with the director now. Later I’ll meet you all, and the rest of the team, in the conference room. To discuss the case.” He added, eyeing everyone as if to dare them to go against his commands.

Said ‘all’ muttered some kind of agreement, to which you just groaned something unintelligible.

If you’d raised your head a few instant sooner, you would’ve caught the way Hotch’s lips turned into a discreet smirk just before he left the room. Way too pleased with himself. So damn pleased his mind had no space for worries and guilt.

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[no-144444]

older- d.ricciardo

꩜ summary: maybe you're both older than before, but you're happy, and that's what matters

꩜ pairing: husband! dad! daniel ricciardo x fem! wife! mom! reader

꩜ a/n: every time there's an american race i'm going to suggest preparing for a lot of danny riccy bc i miss him (especially when cota comes around)

Daniel’s back aches when he wakes up, and his moustache and hair is greying a little. That’s how he knew he was getting older. He was only 50, but he felt it. Every bit of it. 

And he wondered how you didn’t. Granted, you were a bit younger, only 43, but still. You basically looked the same way you did when you were 19. When he first fell in love with you. Sure, there were a few more creases by your eyes and maybe some greys were popping up, but in his eyes, you were the same. 

“Dad! Freddie told mom to fuck off!” Harry, your second oldest son, came rushing in the door, his school books in hand, an animated expression on his face. Harry had Daniel’s unruly hair, but your quiet demeanor. He was good in school, good in sports, and focused hard on what he wanted. He didn’t want to race like his dad (much to both of your delights), and he set his sights on directing. He was passionate, smart, and ridiculously good at surfing. He could go toe to toe, even with his old man, and would always win. It was impressive. He was also a bit of a tattle-tale when it came to getting his twin brother, Freddie, in trouble. Daniel couldn’t fault him though, he loved him too much. 

Daniel was on dinner duty, wearing his (stupidly hilarious) ‘kiss the chef’ apron as the delicious smells of steak and fries (and tiramisu for dessert) filled the kitchen. Since his time as a stay-at-home-dad commenced, he had become a passionate cook. He loved trying out new recipes, messing with flavours and cuisines, and of course, always making you his test subject. He whipped his head around to his son, a shocked expression on his face. 

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” his voice was low and dangerous and his eyes met yours the second you walked in the door. You shook your head, a frustrated expression on your face. Freddie looked guilty, but unrelenting, as all teenagers were. He turned to Freddie, handing the spatula to Harry, who took over steak-duty, listening to his twin get berated. Freddie also shared Daniel’s unruly hair, they were identical twins after all, but he kept it cleanly cut (speaking of that, he really should remind Harry to get his cut). He was a bit more tan than Harry, and he was always a bit of a trouble maker. Again though, Daniel could’t fault him, he loved him too much. But he certainly could fault Freddie for telling the woman he loved (and the woman who birthed Freddie) to fuck off. “What did you say to your mother?” he demanded. 

“Dad-” He silenced him with a look, it was going to be an excuse, and he knew it. “I’m sorry,” he turned to you, but you were already busy grabbing the plates and setting the table. You set the last plate down, all eyes on you. You looked up, staring into your son's apologetic eyes. “I was being a dick-”

“Little ears!” Harry reminded, covering his sister, Maeve’s ears. She’d walked in, clinging to her brother’s leg as a greeting. 

“Sorry,” Freddie repeated. “That wasn’t right mom,” he confessed. You sighed and walked over to him, hugging him. He was already taller than you, and only 17. Part of you wanted to let Daniel chew him out for being such a prick, but you understood that exams were coming up right at the same moment his rugby finals were on, and he had a lot of pressure on his shoulders. Yes, he was a dick, but he was your son. And sadly, that meant you loved him, and saw him as that little brunette kid who cried every time you had to leave for work. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you huffed and he nodded. “I’m your mom, I’m on your side. I’m not trying to be mean, I just need you to think about your future Freds.” 

He nodded again, knowing you were right from the start. “I know,” he agreed. “I am. It just… stresses me.”

You shrugged. “That’s ok. But it’s not okay to take it out on me or your brother.”

“What did you do to your brother?” Daniel asked, and Freddie gulped. Harry held out his forearm, showing off a pretty impressive bruise. Daniel’s eyes went wide. “Fuck’s sake Freddie,” he cursed under his breath, pulling off his apron. Harry huffed again, covering Maeve’s ears. “What are you doing that for?” 

He didn’t have an answer. 

“Apologise to your brother, now,” you demanded. “And we’ll talk more about this later, alright? If you can’t start figuring out what’s up, we're going to have to have some serious conversations,” your tone was strict but caring, and the parenting part of Daniel was in awe. He was in awe of you all the time, but watching you be so good with your kids was just something else. “Maeve!” you called, kneeling down to pick her up as she ran to you. Freddie walked over and apologised to Harry, who accepted it. Maeve looked a lot more like you, and she was just 6. You carried her on your hip as you made your way over to Daniel, a flirtatious smirk on your lips. He smirked right back, his hands finding your ass as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your lips. Both Harry and Freddie cringed, but you just chuckled, used to his antics by now. 

“Missed you today,” he admitted, his voice low. 

“Oh yeah?” you questioned, smirking. Then your eyes softened with your smile. “Missed you too,” you admitted. “Excited for dinner.” 

“Yeah dad, these look good to me,” Harry announced, grabbing his attention. 

Daniel turned back to the grill and nodded. “Good shout Haz,” he smiled, his hands on his son’s shoulders. “You get ‘em onto a plate and I’ll finish up the veg. Fred,” he called, grabbing his eldest twin’s attention. “Call your sisters down please?” 

Freddie walked to the edge of the stairs and shouted. “Liv! Rhea!” 

“Coming!” Liv shouted back. 

“Oh yeah, Connor is over tonight,” Daniel wiggled his eyebrows at you and you raised yours. “Finally making the effort, I see.” 

 “It took you about 3 months to meet my parents, they’ve been dating for three weeks,” You chuckled and hit his chest playfully, Maeve speaking to Harry over your shoulder. 

Daniel shrugged, a cheeky smirk on his face. God, he was so pretty. That stupid backwards cap and pretty eyes, and that borderline porno moustache (which may or may not have been the reason Maeve was here…) made you want to jump his bones all over again. “I was a racecar driver-”

“He’s a high school student, be kind,” you reminded him with a kiss on his cheek. You brought Maeve over to the table and finished off the last bits as Liv and Connor came down the stairs. She was 15 and turning into the most beautiful girl you’d ever seen. She was so smart. She’d already been on her school debate and mathletes team, bringing both to the championship finals at the national level, you couldn’t be prouder. In all honesty, you’d met Connor before. Liv had wanted you to vet him before she started getting serious, so you got invited to a coffee date with them. He was sweet. Totally boy-next-door-vibes, which was totally her. 

He sent you a soft smile as he sat at the table. 

“Where’s Rhea?” Freddie questioned, sitting at the table, beside Liv. 

“She was on the sim,” Liv explained. “She’ll be down in a few.” 

As if by magic, she came barreling down the stairs and straight into your arms, a quick greeting before taking her spot beside Maeve. Rhea was 11 and every bit the racer her father was. You had hoped the racing gene skipped a generation but alas, it hadn’t and you were already busy researching European boarding schools to send her to in a few years time so that she could move on to single-seaters. She already had a place in the RedBull junior team (despite her father’s reservations) and she was excelling in every single one of her categories. She was a champion, and an F1 champion in the making. 

You sat at the table, the weight of your long day falling off your shoulders as your family gathered. You smiled at the table in front of you. “So, how was everyone’s day?” you asked as Daniel placed the last plate on the table and sat to your left, intertwining his right hand with your left, a smile on his face. 

“Aside from the bruising- thanks Freddie, it was good. Maths test went well,” Harry shrugged, digging into the meal. Freddie rolled his eyes, but Daniel let it go, knowing you'd both be talking to him about his behaviour anyway. 

“Can I see the paper?” Daniel asked through a bite of food. You grimaced. 

“Close your mouth when you eat,” you reminded him, covering his mouth with your hand. He chuckled. 

“I’ll give it to you after dinner,” Harry nodded. “What about you Maeve?” 

Harry was clearly overprotective of Maeve, he noticed how she was the baby of the family and babied her a bit more than everyone else, but they both loved it. She was like a mini him, just even less talkative (unless it was with Oscar- everyone was a big fan of him whenever he came over).

She shrugged. “It was good. We started on multiplication today.” 

“Woah!” Freddie gasped. “That’s pretty big,” he smiled brightly at his little sister. “You’re getting older,” he chuckled, ruffling her hair. She pretended to pout, but laughed as she fixed her hair. 

“That’s great Maevey,” Liv smiled from the other side of the table. “If you need any help with your homework I can give you a hand,” Liv offered and Maeve nodded, going back to eating her dinner. “I have another test next week.”

“What about this time?” Daniel asked, exasperated. “They need to give you a break at some point.” 

“Chemistry,” she sighed. “Connor has it too.”  “I didn’t know you took chemistry,” you turned to him, noticing how rigid his body language was, hoping to make him a bit more comfortable by bringing him into the conversation. “How do you find the teacher? Liv hates him.” 

Connor shrugged lightly. “I mean… he’s not the greatest teacher in the school, but I like his study packs, I think they’re pretty handy.”

“Who is it again?” Freddie asked, knowing Connor from the rugby team. 

“Mr. Brown,” Connor answered and Harry groaned. “I had him last year! He’s so annoying!”

You turned your head to Daniel, who was already looking at you with that lovesick look. You chuckled quietly. “What?” you mouthed. 

“Just love you,” he mouthed back. It still made your heart skip a beat. 

When everyone was finally down to bed, you tucked yourself into Daniel’s side and sighed against his skin. 

“You alright?” he whispered into the darkness of your bedroom, enjoying very much how close you were to him. 

“Just thinking,” you admitted. “The kids are so grown up.” 

He’d come to the exact same conclusion at dinner, watching as Freddie and Harry teased Liv, how Harry babied Maeve, how Liv laughed with Rhea, and how they all looked a lot older than 17, 15, 10, and 6. “I know what you mean,” he chuckled against your skin. “We did a pretty amazing job. We have some pretty incredible kids.” 

You laughed against his collarbone, a melodic sound he would never get tired of. “I guess we did,” you agreed. “Hard not to when they have such a brilliant role model,” you looked up at him with adoring eyes, and he felt himself soften. No jokes. No messing. Just pure… love for the life you two had built over the years. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For them. For you. For everything.”  “Thank you,” you smiled and leaned in, kissing him gently. Maybe you two weren’t the young guns you used to be, riding dirt bikes around his family’s estate, and kissing in cars, but you two were more than fulfilled.

navigation for my blog :)

redbull and vcarb masterlist

[dexxtrosee]

Neverending battle

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

TW: mentions of canon character death, mass casualty event, grief, PTSD, lockdowns

Robby's sitting outside on the steps when you get home.

You reel back slightly, unsure. He has his head between his hands, taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. He's not dirty, still wearing the same cargo pants and black scrub top he left with in the morning. The face full of grief isn’t new either.

There's added weight to his shoulders though, you can see it. It’s almost like he’s doing an effort to stay upright against a crushing weight pushing him downwards, unsure of if he even wants to anymore.

You try your best to get closer without making a sound, slow steps and controlled breathing. His hands clench slightly.

"Jake's girlfriend died on me today."

You freeze.

"Remember I told you I'd give him the tickets so he could go with the girl he told us about? Her name was Leah," his voice breaks when he says her name, "I got to see her alive and happy through a call, and a few hours later I was covered in her blood and she was dead right in the middle of the ER."

You had seen the news, had called him a hundred times before it got through and Dana had answered. He talked to you five, ten seconds maybe, just to tell you to call Jake, to tell you he loved you, that he'd get home late. A watery chuckle was what he got back, and a 'be safe'. They had both sounded wrecked in that controlled way you knew so well, Robby had mastered it ages ago.

Which is why you don’t really know what to do with what’s pouring out of him right now. He hasn't moved, hasn't looked up at you, talking to the floor with his backpack by his side. He never tells you anything, never talks about what eats him alive and wakes you up when he starts crying at midnight.

He can talk about the funny, quirky cases, not with any other details but the fun ones. The girl who broke his arm trying to see how far she could jump, the boy who had a condom stuck inside, the teacher who had an accident in class and had been sneezing glitter for two days.

A month ago he got home laughing his ass off because a bunch of teenagers had gotten to the Pitt in a blind panic from their tongues being blue without "apparent reason", fearing the worst.

They just got high off his asses with a blue brownie and didn't remember, he kept saying, tears streaming down his face from laughing too much. It had made you so happy to see him like that, so carefree and finding something nice at work for once.

The man sat in front of you is a whole different person.

Your mind unhelpully supplies that Leah must have been around those teenagers' age.

"I broke inside the ped's room after Jake told me it was my fault, a-and it is, right? It is. Over a hundred people saved and I let my- I let Jake's girlfriend die."

Irrational anger flames inside your chest.

He's just a boy, you know.

He didn’t see Robby five years ago, though. Didn't spend months having to see him through the car window only, with dark circles around his eyes and thinner than ever. He has no clue about the first time he came back home and woke you up with his retching inside the bathroom, or the way he got paranoic for days and cleaned every single surface again and again. The blind panic that would show up on his face when you so much as sneezed, how he bought packs of facemasks that haven’t run out to this day.

But he’s just a boy, you know. And you know that you would hate anyone too if they were somehow even remotely capable of saving Robby and he died anyway, no matter how crazy it would be. Grief isn’t rational.

"I don't think we're gonna be seeing Jake anytime soon, babe. Sorry."

And he says it just like that, like that boy hasn’t been the shine in his eyes for years.

You sit down next to him, pulling one of his hands away from his head and clutching it between yours. He lets you, but doesn’t move otherwise.

"I think just us two will be fine for a while."

Not like you have any option, but still, he chuckles. "You think?"

Shrugging, you bury yourself into his side, ignoring how tight his entire body feels. You wonder if, this time, it was Jack the one who had to go up and talk. It makes you pull him closer.

"You sayin' I'm not fun enough for you now? Want me to go around pulling odd shit again, like when we first met?"

Finally, he turns slowly and kisses the top of your head. His body trembles slightly, adrenaline rush wearing off. You don’t dare mention it.

"As if I'd need anything else."

You smile.

You'll pressure him into going to therapy tomorrow, again. You're not sure if you should be relieved or worried sick at the fact that your chances at winning seem better this time around, not like the hundred times before.

"Whatever you need, Robinavitch."

You stay outside until his shaking calms down, and let him cry himself to sleep with his head on your chest.

In the morning, he finally agrees.

[mytherapyisreading14]

Hey could you write a fic with post prison Reid where the reader has a crush on him and she doesn’t think he likes her so she keeps it to herself and when they are on a case she she’s Spencer manhandle the unsub and she gets kinda distracted because she wants him to manhandle her and then he finds out about her crush and then he kinda teases her about it then he fucks her like really rough sorry if that doesn’t make sense 😭 also could you make the reader have a thing for his hands lmao

Don‘t get Distracted

Summary: You got distracted when Spencer arrested the UnSub during your current case - he noticed and confronts you back in the hotel.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Category: Smut, some Fluff (18+ MDNI)

Warnings: Mentions of Knifes and stabbing, dirty talk, kissing, making out, unprotected sex (don’t do that), choking, spanking, orgasm denial, dom!spencer (kinda)

Word Count: 2,9k

Author’s Note: I’m sorry it took me so long to finish this🫢 I never really liked a single version I wrote and now I simply give up, I’ll leave it like this😩 Anyway, I hope you like it! :)

It isn't like you are trying to fall for Spencer Reid. In fact, you do your absolute best not to. You keep it professional. Friendly. Safe. Because if there is one thing you are sure of, it is that he doesn't feel the same. It isn't anything he does. He isn't cold or rude to you. Quite the opposite – he is kind and polite. But never more than that.

You aren't the type to be noticed by someone like him. Not after everything that happened. Prison changed him, and if there is ever a chance he looked your way before, it is long gone now. So you keep your crush a secret, but some days make that harder than others. Like tonight.

You sit on the edge of the bed, files spread all around you, but your focus is on Spencer. He stands by the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning the city below. You can tell he is thinking. He looks tense. Focused. Hot.

And all you want is to be close to him. To touch him. To tell him you noticed the way his smiles have grown rarer since prison, and that you missed them. That you missed him. But you don't.

-

The next day, everything shifts. You are closing in on the case, currently on the way to arrest the UnSub. The farmhouse where he is holed up looks like it could collapse any second. You, Spencer, and Morgan decided to split up. You take the back and step over a few broken door frames, your flashlight shining in the dark. A few minutes later you hear a noise.

You recognize it’s Spencer’s. "I need you to put down the knife. Now." You sprint toward the voices, and what you see nearly stops your heart. The UnSub takes a step forward and tries to stab Spencer in the stomach. But Spencer, he is faster. He sidesteps, catches the man’s wrist, twists it back, and then shoves him up against the wall with a force that makes you shiver.

One arm locks the guy in place, while the other brings out the cuffs. He works quick and controlled. And god, you are not okay... Your feet move on autopilot, but your brain doesn't. You can barely think past the rush of heat that explodes inside you at the sight of him. It is like watching a completely different version of him. You stare and just can’t look away.

He turns to you when it’s over. "You okay?" he asks. "Uh—yeah," you manage to breathe out. "I’m fine. Just... Didn’t know you have that in you." His mouth twitches into something between a smile and a smirk for a second. "Prison teaches you a few things." You try to play it cool. You really do. But your cheeks are already burning.

-

Back at the hotel, you tell yourself to forget it. That it’s just adrenaline. That the reason you’re so flushed has nothing to do with Spencer’s hands and everything to do with the takedown. Yeah, sure.

You avoid him the rest of the evening. Bury yourself in reports, avoid eye contact at dinner. Because the idea that you’ve reacted so obviously… and that he might’ve noticed? Absolutely mortifying. So when there’s a knock at your door around 10 p.m., the last person you expect to see is him.

“Spencer?” you blink. He stands there, holding two cups of tea like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I figured you might need a distraction,” he says. “The last few days were intense.” You hesitate. Just for a second. Because what is he doing here? Still, you step aside. “Yeah. Uh… thanks.”

He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, hands you the tea, and for a while it’s quiet. Then he breaks the silence. “So… you were staring.” You freeze mid-sip. “What?” you ask, trying to act confused. “At the farmhouse.” He turns his head, watching you. “You looked surprised. And a little… flustered.”

“I was not—” you start, but he interrupts you. “You were,” he says, and this time there’s something different in his voice. He’s teasing you. “And then Garcia texted me something… interesting.” Oh god. You already know what’s coming. “No,” you say, but he nods, clearly enjoying himself.

“She said you made a comment about me. Something along the lines of… ‘if Spencer ever wants to manhandle me like that, he can.’” You nearly drop the tea. “She did not say that to you,” you say. “She did,” he says with a smirk. You think about an excuse, anything that might save you from total humiliation. “That is—I mean—I don’t mean it like—”.

He tilts his head. “Don’t you?” You blink at him. “I - no, and I… I think you don’t even like me like that.” His expression softens instantly. The teasing fades, just enough for something real to shine through. “What makes you think that?” he asks gently. You shrug, suddenly very aware of how close he’s sitting next to you. “I don’t know. You never… looked at me that way. You always seem kind of... distant.”

Spencer is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I guess I do.” He looks down at his tea, then back at you. “The truth is… after prison, it was hard to let anyone in. I didn’t feel like myself. I did really trust myself for a while. So I kept my distance.” He pauses. “Maybe I was trying too hard not to look at you that way.”

That shuts your brain down completely. “You were?” you whisper. He nods once. “Ever since I got back. Maybe even before that.” You didn’t expect that, but when his words settle, you grin. “So… what now?” you ask him. He leans in, eyes flicking to your lips for just a second. “Still want me to manhandle you?” he asks with a smirk back in full force. “Spencer!” you say, blushing and playfully hitting his arm.

He laughs and sets his tea aside, hand brushing your knee as he stands. “I’ll take that as a yes.” You stare up at him, still sitting on the bed, heart pounding against your ribs. He is looking at you differently now. “You’re seriously enjoying this,” you say with a shaky voice. “Enjoying what?” he asks, acting oblivious. “Teasing me,” you say, and his smile widens.

“Of course I do.” You roll your eyes playfully. “You’re insufferable,” you say. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “But you still want to kiss me.” You open your mouth, probably to deny it - or argue - or make some sarcastic remark, but nothing comes out. Because he’s already leaning down. And then, finally, his lips brush against yours. It’s barely there at first, but the moment you kiss him back, everything shifts.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb tracing your cheekbone as his mouth moves against yours. You let out a quiet sound you don’t mean to, fingers curling into his shirt, and that’s all it takes for the kiss to deepen. Spencer’s other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer against him and the heat between you is impossible to ignore now.

His lips part slightly against yours, breath hitching when your hand slides up to his neck. The kiss turns messier then, hungrier. Like all the months of silence snap at once, and now there’s no holding back. He exhales against your lips. “You have no idea how long I wanted to do this,” he admits. “Try me,” you whisper, and he kisses you again, harder this time.

You gasp softly as he guides you back onto the bed, one hand bracing beside your head, the other trailing along your waist. His body hovers over yours. His lips ghost down to your jaw, then just below your ear. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, desperate to keep him close, to make this real.

“Spencer,” you breathe out while his hand is sliding under the hem of your shirt, your legs brushing against his. He pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough and low, “tell me you want me to fuck you.” You look up at him, skin flushed, chest rising and falling in sync with his. “Please Spencer,” you whisper, “I - I need you to fuck me. I need you to fuck me hard. Now.“

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you — like he can’t quite believe this is real. Then he leans down and kisses you again. "If at any point it gets too much for you, just let me know. I don't want to hurt you," he says with a worried look when he pulls back again.

A feeling of warmth and security spreads through you. "You look cute when you're worried," you tease him. "but I don't break easily,“ you say and wink. Then his hands are back on your waist, your back, your skin — everywhere at once. You can’t stop touching him, can’t get close enough to him.

The tension between you, held back for so long, finally melts into heat, passion, pleasure and love. His fingers hook around the hem of your pants and he pulls them off in one quick motion. Your top comes off next, then your bra and panties, that are already soaked through. His eyes trail over your body hungrily and he starts to kiss down your neck slowly.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers in your ear and a shiver runs down your spine. His words and all the kisses make you even more desperate and you can’t help but buck your hips against him. You can feel his erection and want more but he pushes your hips back down. “Someone’s needy,” he says, not giving you what you want yet. “Spencer, please. Don’t make me wait,” you whimper and he chuckles.

He keeps kissing down your body - your breasts first, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. You observe his actions and seeing his big, slender hand around your breasts is a sight you didn’t expect to enjoy this much. You moan his name and he looks up and follows your gaze. “Like what you see, angel?” he asks and you nod. His hands continue to roam over your body, down to your stomach and between your thighs.

He keeps his eyes on you, observing every little reaction before he finally runs his fingers through your folds. “So wet, is this all for me?” he asks and you nod. “Words, angel. Tell me how good I make you feel,” he says, stopping for a moment. “Y-yes. All for you,” you breath out and he looks satisfied.

With one finger he starts to trail circles around your clit, slowly applying more and more pressure before slipping a finger in. It feels so good and you cover your mouth with your hand in order to stop meaning out loudly. Spencer however doesn’t like it, he immediately reaches for your hand and pulls it off. “No, don’t do that. I want to hear you moan for me for me angel.”

He adds another finger and starts to pump them in and out faster, keeping one finger on your clit the whole time. You can’t help but lean forward to watch his hand again, knuckles buried deep inside you. “Looks like my hands are quite a distraction to you,” he says and chuckles again before his other hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just perfectly.

You don’t respond, too focused on the pleasure and how good his hand looks buried inside you. With the sight in front of you, the feeling of his fingers inside you and his hand wrapped around your throat it doesn’t take long for your orgasm to build up. Your legs start to shake slightly and you clench around Spencers fingers. You’re almost there when he suddenly pulls out. You whine. “Spencer, what the hell are you doing? I was so close!” you curse.

“I know. But I to feel you come around my cock,” he says before he starts to take his clothes off. When he unbuttons his pants your eyes widen. He’s certainly bigger than you expected. He starts to stroke his cock and you can’t help but watch him. Even though you can’t wait to feel him inside you, you enjoy watching him. Then he leans down and spreads your legs further apart.

He lines himself up at your entrance, sliding through your wet folds and teasing your clit again before he finally pushes inside you. “So tight and wet for me, angel. You’re all mine now,” he says. He gives you some time to adjust before he starts to pound into you. He leans down next, sucking on your neck and breasts, leaving hickeys everywhere and claiming you as his.

The room is filled with your moans and whimpers and when Spencer looks down and sees his cock sliding in and out of you he groans. You wouldn't have thought that something could turn you on even more, but hearing him groan certainly did. “Oh god, so good. Pl - please, don’t stop,” you manage to breath out, your mind already lost in all the pleasure.

His grip on your hips tightens and he increases his pace. He can feel you clench around him and almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. He applies pressure on your clit again, playing close attention to your reactions and when your close again he pulls out of you. “A- Again? Are you fucking serious?” you ask furiously. You can tell he enjoys the control he has over you. “I hate you so much right now,” you say but he just grins.

“Say it like you mean it,” he says before he suddenly grabs you and flips you over. You’re on all fours now, ass up in the air facing him. He immediately slides back into you, pounding into you hard from behind and hitting new angles and reaching spots you never could. One of his hand slides up your back and into your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail and pulling hard.

Your back arches up and you can feel your body pressed against his. His other hand suddenly comes down on your ass, spanking you. You moan out his name so loud that you’re afraid your neighbours know now what you’re doing in here, but you don’t really care. “That’s what you wanted, am I right? For me to fuck you? To spank you?” Your eyes roll back in pleasure and you’re too overwhelmed to answer him.

Spencer how ever doesn‘t like that. The hand he just hand in your hair goes down to your throat again while he gives you an another spank. “Answer me,” he says and slows down, pressing you against his body and leaning down next to your ear. “Tell me how much you love this,” he whispers in your ear. “I- I love this. I love it when you fuck me hard, Spencer,” you say quickly, afraid that he’ll not let you come at all if you don’t.

“Good girl,” he says and kisses the spot behind your ear gently before he picks up his pace again. You can feel him twitch inside you, telling you that he’s getting close now too. “I’m gonna tell you when you’re allowed to come. I want us to come together, do you understand?” he asks as if he’s read your thoughts. “Yes,” you breath out quickly before you get too lost in the pleasure again.

He thrusts into you again a few times before he slides his hand forward, teasing your clit with his fingers again. “Come for me, angel. Now,” he says and you let go. Your orgasm crashes over you and you never had one this intense before. You can feel him twitch inside you before he finishes too. For a second you see stars. When you finally come down, he lets go of you and slides out.

You lay down together, completely out of breath and he pulls you in his arms. Neither of you say a word but he holds you close to him, gently stroking your hair. It’s a quiet, peaceful moment but after a while Spencer speaks up. “You should go to the toilet now. I don’t want you to get UTIs,” he says and you groan. “You know how to ruin a moment, don’t you Dr. Reid?” you joke and he laughs.

“I’m just worried about your health, angel,” he says and leans down to kiss your head. “We can still cuddle when you come back, okay?” he says and you smile. “Definitely. You don’t get rid of me that easily,” you tease him. “Good. Because I don’t want to. Now hurry, I want you back in my arms.”

[cathnospam]

Bakugo, but he steals your romance books.

I still have no clue if it’s ACTUALLY canon he reads romance books/manga because the fandom loves to gaslight popular hc’s as canon (i.e. him wearing eyeliner/smelling like burn caramel), but let’s say he does and you’re the only one that’s knows about it.

…

You kind of found out on accident when he was in your dorm and he kept making comments about your manga shelf.

“How the hell did you get ALL books of Nana, they’re like sold out everywhere.”

“You’re missing book 4 of Erased.”

“When did you get Ao Haru Ride, the cover looks fucked up.”

“You need to organize your Paradise Kiss collection , dumbass they’re all in the wrong order.”

You never really pointed it out, it took you years to finally get him to be a bit more comfortable with you and now that it’s your final year in uni you want to keep it that way, you know from seeing others do it that if you make notice of the little things he does he’d either curse you out or never allow himself to open up to you again so you just nod and keep your responses short.

until you caught him in your room reading one of your books.

He tried to play it off like he didn’t know what exactly he was reading, you could even see his cheeks get warm, but upon walking into your dorm you just lock the door, shrug and head to the bathroom.

“Just put it back when you’re finished, please.”

It threw him off guard a little he was completely prepared to gaslight you and calling you a dumbass for thinking he’d ever read something involving LOVE.

EUGH.

But he does, and you don’t care.

Since then Bakugo started a daily routine of coming to your room to read, some days he’d bring over your favorite food as a way of thanks.

Especially since he typically takes a book when he goes back to his dorm.

You honestly didn’t mind the company, you had one of the cleanest and quietest rooms in the entire dorm, plus many people didn’t bother you to hang out, because you preferred being alone to relax most of the time, so he came to visit more.

You even ordered a big bean bag chair near your books for him to lay down and read instead of on your rug,

“If it’s too small i can order another one, i wasn’t sure if it was big enough.” You pointed at the seat as he walked in to grab another book while you walked to your desk to play a video game.

“Whatever….these books came too, huh.”

“Oh yeah. I’m still on the hunt for book 4 of Erased, but found more of A Sign of Affection to get.”

Bakugo probably wouldn’t admit it, but one of his favorite parts of the day after training and work studies is coming to your room not just to read, but your presence was a plus too. He hated that he began feeling himself drawn to you, he never does that, but you never seemed to get on his ass about it.

He liked it.

He liked it so much that one day after a long and stressful week of lectures and sparring you see a book wrapped with a note on top of it laid on your bed.

when you pick it up you immediately felt your lips curl into a shaky smile;

“Found book 4 for you, idiot.”

[dailymanners]

#I recognise this is about people in real life but#this is why villains sometimes just don’t work for me in media#if they’re stern and cold; that’s fine#but if they get angry at a teenager my view of their power goes out the window

This is actually why I've always felt like the best written villains are the ones who are cordial and polite. It demonstrates not just that they're someone with power and authority, but that they're someone who feels secure in their power. That's also why I think it can make for some real good writing to have the villain only start lashing out and showing anger when their grip on their power and/or sense of security in their power starts to slip.

One really good example of this off the top of my head is Mr. Wilford from Showpiercer. At least in the Netflix series Mr. Wilford is almost always quite friendly and polite, smiling at people, shaking everyone's hand, etc. He rarely ever raises his voice at people or acts angry, and it's because he feels very secure in his sense of power over other people. The only times he shows any anger or aggression is when his sense of power is slipping, and specifically only towards people / situations he feels are taking his power from him.

Anger and aggression are not the same thing as strength or power, by the way.

[08luvmailz]

★ ﾟ๑ CONSOLE ME , AND THEN I'LL LEAVE WITHOUT A TRACE ୧ ⊹ ࣪

ᡴꪫ which yeon sieun sees you after a year of leaving you behind ୧ ⊹ ࣪ first part ／ party on you ──⠀ angst / no comfort , set on ep1 of s2 , sieun's pov ⸝⸝ ◜◡◝ the first part was supposed to be just a oneshot, i have no place to make this whatsoever but since many requested and i have a plot, i decided to make it. hope you all enjoy, kindly read the first one to have more background of what happened.

reader will be called dokja ／ because in reader in korean is dokja

At first, I never really cared for her. She was just a classmate — someone I talked to during group work, someone who laughed a little too brightly, who asked too many questions.

I would see her in class, voice too loud for the hour, laughter spilling like sunlight on polished floors. I saw her in hallways, always walking ahead or brushing past — never too far, never too close. I didn’t mind her. She was just… ordinary. Just another face in a sea of faces, nothing to remember. At least, that’s what I told myself.

And then I started noticing her more often — not intentionally, not all at once. Just… little things. The way some girls whispered behind her back, voices sharp with envy or something close to cruelty. “I don’t care,” I told myself as I slipped my earphones in, letting the music drown out the world. But as soon as I wrote down words in my notebook, my thoughts strayed — not to formulas or sentences, but to her.

I barely knew her, and still, I thought… she didn’t deserve that. I didn’t care, I told myself again. But somehow, she stayed in my mind longer than she should have.

And then I saw her go quiet. I didn’t think much of it — she was just a classmate, nothing more. But slowly, people began to drift away from her like she carried some invisible weight they didn’t want to hold. I told myself I didn’t care. Still, there were moments I’d catch myself looking — really looking.

She’d lower her head, pretending to sleep, but her shoulders would tremble ever so slightly. She must’ve been crying. I didn’t ask. I didn’t move. I didn’t care… or at least, that’s what I kept saying. But sympathy crept in like a whisper, and I hated that part of me that noticed — because she was still just a classmate. Nothing more.

Then, for a while, I stopped looking at her. She faded back into the noise — just a normal classmate again.

I went on with my routine: sleep, eat, study. Eat, study, sleep. On and on like clockwork.

But somewhere in between the silence, I started to hear her voice again — light, bright, almost chirpy, like birds in spring. She was talking to someone… Suno? No — Suho, I think. I didn’t care enough to know. But I noticed something. Her smile — it was different. Wider. Softer. Maybe that was her real smile. Maybe that’s how she looked when someone made her feel seen.

I glanced at her talking to him, her smile — it was pretty. But before I could even let the thought settle, I quickly averted my gaze, focusing back on the formulas I was scribbling in my notebook. Still, my mind kept crawling back to her, like an ant drawn to a sugary fruit, helpless to resist. She's pretty, I thought. But she's just my classmate. Just that. Nothing more.

And then she noticed — caught me staring. Our eyes met, and for a split second, I forgot how to breathe. She smiled. Soft, like it meant nothing at all, like it was the easiest thing in the world. I looked away. Maybe she thought I was a creep. Maybe she was smiling at someone behind me. That’s what I told myself, anyway. Because the truth was, her smile made my chest ache in a way I didn’t understand, and I didn’t know what to do with that.

But for a moment, I felt like I was dreaming, like the world around me was moving too fast. Everything blurred — her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke, the sound of her voice — it all tangled together, slipping through my fingers like water. I couldn’t quite grasp it, but I couldn’t look away either. It was as if I was standing on the edge, watching something beautiful unfold, yet too scared to step forward.

The table I used to sit at during lunch, it was just me, my food, and my book.

It was peaceful, and I was determined to study, to block out the noise of everything else. But in the blink of an eye, there were three people sitting there. I didn’t mind it one bit. Is this what it felt like? I hadn’t felt this in ages — the warmth of people around me, sharing the same table, eating the same food, chatting like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was simple, something I had forgotten in a while. But, this is what i needed — what i wanted.

Her annoyance, Suho’s bland jokes, Beomseok’s laughter — it was a rhythm, a melody he never imagined he’d be part of, yet here he was. The moments were so simple, but in their simplicity, they held a weight he couldn't explain. Just the four of them, laughing, teasing, existing together — and he cherished it.

It was the kind of warmth that crept into his chest, quiet and steady, something he never knew he craved until it was there. The noise, the chatter, the feeling of belonging — it was everything he hadn’t realized he needed.

But then, with every sunny day, there was a shadow that stretched long and unyielding. A darkness that he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried. It was the kind of dark that clung to him, tightening its grip until he could barely breathe.

It was a nightmare, relentless and suffocating, one that twisted and turned with every breath he took. No matter how much he wanted to wake up, no matter how much he fought against it — he never did.

And then, it all crumbled. I remember the last time I saw her, the last time I felt her.

She stood there, in front of Suho’s bed, her arms wrapping around me in a way that made the world pause. I could feel the warmth of her embrace, like a sanctuary, something I had forgotten existed. It was the kind of warmth I didn’t deserve. Her presence pulled me in, and for a moment, I tried to block everything else out — the guilt, the fear, the suffocating weight of it all. But no matter how hard I tried, it crept in like a shadow, gnawing at the edges of my mind. It was my fault. I couldn’t escape it.

We stayed there together, outside Suho’s room, for hours. Her hand in mine, her fingers steady and warm, grounding me. Her hand on my shoulder, her touch gentle, like she was trying to tell me everything would be okay.

My head rested on top of hers, just for a moment, but it felt like a lifetime.

She didn’t say anything, and neither did I. There was nothing left to say, not when everything was falling apart. But all I could feel was the warmth of her, a fleeting comfort that only made the gnawing guilt inside me worse.

And then, she had to leave. Her parents came, pulling her away from me, from this moment. The last thing I saw was her mouthing the words, “It’s going to be okay,” but I couldn’t bring myself to believe her. Not then. Not now.

After that, everything was a blur. Like the world spun faster than I could keep up with. I tried to focus, tried to do what I was supposed to do, but nothing seemed to matter anymore. I transferred schools, thinking it would make everything easier, as if running away from the memories would somehow fix me. But it didn’t.

Every day felt like I was sinking deeper into a pit I couldn’t escape. My mind kept returning to her, to the way she felt in my arms, to the sound of her voice, to the warmth she gave me that I didn’t deserve. I shut it all out, but I couldn’t shut her out. She lingered in the back of my thoughts like a constant ache.

But deep down, he knew. He didn’t want to talk to her—not because he didn’t care, but because he was afraid of what his words would mean. Afraid of what it would do to her, to them. So he kept ignoring her, pretending it was for the best. He found comfort in the silence, but it gnawed at him.

One day, she reached out again. At first, I thought maybe this time would be different. Maybe I could reply, tell her the truth, apologize. But the guilt slammed into him all over again. Every message, every word she’d sent, was like a reminder of how I’d failed her. Of how I pushed her away when she needed me the most.

I started looking for excuses, for reasons not to reach out, even when I saw her messages pop up on my screen. At first, I thought maybe I could talk to her, tell her what had happened, apologize. But every time I saw her name, the guilt was there, suffocating me. It was easier to ignore her, to let the silence between us stretch on, to convince myself that this was what was best for her.

I told myself it was for the better. But, it hurts so much. I need her.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t. Every message she sent, every question she asked, it felt like a weight pressing against my chest. I wanted to reply, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t face her like this, not when I was falling apart. Not when I had ruined everything.

Every time he saw her name pop up on his screen, he felt like his chest would collapse in on itself. He wanted to ignore it. He wanted to ignore her, pretend she wasn’t still trying to reach him, trying to hold on to the past that he couldn’t fix. But the messages were endless. 9 p.m., 11:30 p.m., 2:14 a.m., morning. She was always there, always waiting. And every time, it hurt.

So I did what I thought was easiest — I put her on spam. I tried to forget her, tried to convince myself that ignoring her was the right thing to do. But every night, as I lay awake, I found myself scrolling through our old messages, through the photos we shared, through the times when things were easier. And it hurt, more than anything.

His heart heavy with every word, the bickers they had. Even if he was the dry texter. He remembered the way she asked him for help with problems, the way they’d share laughs, the late-night hangouts just the two of them. Back then, everything had felt simple. Pure. But now, looking at her name on the screen, it felt like a reminder of everything he’d lost.

He cried when he saw them. The hours of unanswered messages. His phone screen became a constant reminder of the fact that he couldn’t be the person she needed. He couldn’t give her the closure, the healing, the peace she deserved. And he hated himself for it.

She told me that she would always be there for me, I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me.

I cried, more times than I could count. I cried because I missed her. I cried because I knew I’d never be the person she deserved. I cried because of the nightmares. And I cried because I was too weak to make it right.

"I ignore her. She’ll hate me. That’s good. She deserves peace after this," he told himself. But it didn’t make it hurt any less. The more he tried to convince himself it was for the best, the more the ache in his chest grew. He didn’t want her to hate him. He didn’t want her to leave him behind.

But he couldn’t stop the spiral. He wanted her to move on, to live her life without him, without the weight of their shared past.

But how could he ask her to do that, when he couldn’t even let go himself?

And then he heard her voice. At first, he thought he was hallucinating. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him, or another dream he couldn’t escape. But then he stepped outside, and there she was. He froze. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, each beat painfully distinct. He didn’t even run. He just stood there, staring at her—at the tired figure standing in front of him.

She looked different, somehow. Her jacket slipped off her shoulder, the bags in her hands clinking softly with each step. And was that... a flower in one of the bags? The urge to reach out, to hold her, almost overwhelmed him. His body screamed for it, but his mind... his mind couldn’t allow it. Not yet.

Then his mother's voice echoed in his mind, sharp and clear. "Is she your friend? You didn’t tell me she was coming?" And just like that, it all came crashing back. The promises he'd broken. The ignoring. The leaving. The silence. Guilt wrapped around him tighter, and for a moment, it was suffocating.

Without thinking, the words slipped from his mouth. "I don’t have any friends. I don’t know her."

The words were like daggers. His voice was steady, cold even, but his gaze... his gaze was locked onto hers. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t want to say it. But somehow, it came out.

And when he looked at her—really looked at her—he saw the hurt in her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped slightly, as if the world had just grown heavier. She looked so small. So vulnerable. And he had done that to her. He had pushed her away when she needed him most.

He did it. But, it hurts. It really does.

She turned, slowly, as if she was trying to give him one last chance. But she didn’t say anything. She just... left. And he stood there, paralyzed, as the door clicked shut behind her. He could feel the emptiness in the air, the crushing weight of everything he had just destroyed. He wanted to call out, to run after her, to tell her it was a mistake. That he didn’t mean it. But his body wouldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the very guilt he had been carrying for so long.

His mother said something, but he didn’t hear her. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. All he could feel was the cold air around him, the deep ache in his chest, the echo of the words he wished he could take back.

He didn’t move. He just turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last, each one feeling like shards of glass beneath his feet. He told his mother that he needed to study. But every step on the hallway seemed too long. The silence too thick. He wanted to scream, to disappear, to escape from everything he had done.

But he couldn’t. All he could do was retreat into his room, lock the door behind him, and bury himself in the darkness. His bed was the only place that felt familiar, but even then, sleep was out of reach. He tossed and turned, restless and tormented by the image of her walking away, and the sound of her voice fading as the distance between them grew.

And somewhere in the quiet, he realized—he had already lost her.

And when he finally lay on his bed, it all came rushing back.

The warmth.

The first time their eyes met, the way her smile made everything feel brighter, even in the quietest moments.

He remembered how she would come up to him, randomly, asking questions—always wanting to learn, to understand. And he would answer her, speaking the words she needed.

She’d sit beside him, always so eager to learn, and he thought she found him boring, especially after her endless questions turned into silence. She became quiet, and that, too, felt like a shift he didn’t know how to navigate.

Then came that one time when she wanted him to explain something in English, and as he did, she blurted out, “You should speak more. Your voice is like marshmallow.”

Her smile made his heart stutter. He felt like he was on clouds, his chest light but his stomach tightening in a way he couldn’t explain. He had to break eye contact, focusing on his book to hide the heat rushing to his cheeks, but the sentence he was trying to read? He couldn’t focus. It felt wrong. It wasn’t like him.

The candies she would give him. “Mint is good for focus. Suho told me.”

The way they’d share food, her small, quiet gestures always speaking louder than words. And the lunches. She’d sit next to him, and it was always just the two of them—until Suho showed up, and Beomseok too. His table, once empty, was now filled with them, and he didn’t know if he should be thankful or terrified. They were there, and he couldn’t push them away.

Then there were the rainy days. The shared umbrella, too small for the both of them, and he couldn’t bear the thought of her getting sick. So he tilted it toward her, just a little closer, not thinking twice about the consequences.

He almost got a call the next day for missing school, but he hadn’t cared. He just wanted her to be okay.

It was all slipping away now. His hands gripped the sheets as memories tangled with regret. The tears started, hot and heavy, before he even realized they were there. He didn’t know when the sobs came, but they were there now, uncontrollable, as he lay in the dim light, overwhelmed by everything he had lost.

He glanced at his phone. The time was 7 pm and he glanced at the lock screen. It was her. Her smiling face, hair loose, the one she’d stolen from him when she’d gotten her hands on his phone. She’d set it as his lock screen, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and he hadn’t minded.

In fact, he’d never wanted to change it. Not until now.

His hand shook as he unlocked it, staring at her face for one last time. He couldn’t stand it anymore.

Without thinking, he deleted the lock screen. The image of her was gone in an instant, replaced by a cold, empty blue display.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling as the heavy silence of his room pressed against him. His phone, now locked with a cold, indifferent blue display, sat on his nightstand. It felt like a physical weight in the room, an anchor to a past he desperately wanted to sever. Yet, in the hollow of his chest, something long forgotten ached—something that belonged only to her. The memories would rise like unwelcome ghosts, flickering at the edges of his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to push them back.

He hadn’t meant for it to come to this. The distance, the silence—it was supposed to be the easy way out, wasn’t it? She didn’t need him in her life anymore. She deserved better, a future without someone like him, someone who couldn’t even manage to keep the people closest to him safe. He clenched his fists, the ache in his chest flaring like an open wound. I don’t deserve her, not after everything I’ve done.

I’m sorry, he thought, his chest tightening. I’m so sorry.

But he never said it to her face.

A year has passed.

Sieun didn’t keep track anymore. He only counted time in therapy sessions, pills swallowed, hours spent pretending to sleep. But that day, he found himself outside Suho’s hospital room again—his usual spot on the bench across the door, his head bowed, hands clenched. The log sheet was new. He scanned it out of habit. Her name wasn’t there.

She must have stopped coming.

A dull ache settled in his chest. It was for the best, he told himself. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

But fate is cruel when it chooses to be kind.

Because just as he finally sat down, the door creaked open.

There she was.

She stepped out of Suho’s room like a memory peeling itself off the wall. Still in that uniform—their old school uniform. Her skirt a little longer than the standard, her cardigan slightly oversized, she dyed her hair the way she wanted and asked the three of them if she would look good on a light brown look. He remembered the way beomseok and him nodded but then suho contradicted that she would looked like she's wearing a wig— a kick on his face was the answer for that.

She looked the same but older. The same but distant. The same but not his.

Their eyes met.

And for the first time in months, he felt like he could breathe.

But it was a cruel kind of breath, the kind you choke on.

Time slipped.

And suddenly he felt like he was in junior high all over again.

Instantly, he remembered the very first time he saw her.

He had been standing outside the teachers’ faculty room, arms full of worksheets the teacher asked him to return. But his grip faltered, and the stack scattered like brittle leaves onto the cold floor.

He’d dropped to his knees, flustered, reaching for the pages scattered like fallen leaves. Shoes passed him, careless, stepping on some of the sheets — he didn’t care.

Not until the door creaked open. He flinched at the sound, and when he looked up, there she was. Standing still. Her eyes found him, wide and startled, not with pity, but something gentler — concern.

She knelt down without a word, her small hands brushing against his as she helped gather the pages. Strawberry clips in her hair, low pigtails framing her face. She didn’t smile, not yet. But her presence was enough to make him forget the hallway noise, the sting of embarrassment, the weight in his chest.

She was really pretty.

He didn’t know her name back then. But her kindness made his chest ache in a way he didn’t yet understand.

She handed me the worksheets with a soft smile and tilted her head, “You okay, Sieun? Do you want me to help you carry some?” Her voice was light, almost teasing.

I blinked at her, confused for a second — how did she know my name? But then I saw her eyes flicker down to my name tag, and I felt stupid for even questioning it.

Still, for some reason, my mind blanked. I felt like I was turning dumb, just standing there with my hands full and my thoughts even fuller.

But just as I was about to say something — anything — a voice from down the hallway called her name. One of her friends, waving her over. She glanced back at me with that same bright smile and gave a small wave, “Watch your step, Sieun-ah!” she said, lighthearted and cheerful, before running off.

I stood there for a moment, frozen in place, clutching the stack of papers like an idiot. I didn’t move. Not yet. I just... stood there, feeling the echo of her smile linger a little too long in my chest.

But that was then.

Now, the girl from that memory stared at him like he was a ghost.

Her face was blank. No smile. No worry. No softness.

Just a tired look—like seeing him drained her.

She pulled her headphones on without a word.

And walked passed right pass him.

Not a glance back.

He didn’t call after her. Didn’t move. Just sat there, hollowed out, trying not to show how badly it cracked him open.

Right, he thought bitterly, swallowing the lump in his throat. As he looked down at his phone, that he was messaging Suho.

As he typed the words. "I just saw Dokja, She's really pretty with her brown hair. But, we don't talk anymore."

"She’s not my 'friend' anymore."

And there he remained.

Alone in the hallway.

Just him.

And the past they once shared—now sealed behind Suho’s door, like a memory too fragile to touch.

♡ note ───── Come on, don't leave mе, it can't be that easy, babe. If you believe me, I guess I'll get on a plane. Fly to your city, excited to see your face. Hold me, console me, and then I'll leave without a trace

♡ note ── hope you enjoy it, would upload the parallel version.

───── ★ requested by : @heeknow @alwaysgenerousvoid @snowflakemoon3 @yeon103 @kellystyles18 @littlebluebird2000 @hollxe1 @dripoftheseus @enhajungwonheart @energydrinkstastegood @zuwizy

[muniimyg]

sorry this isn’t really a request, maybe it can be used for a scenario but does bed chem jk ever get to work with the dolphins in his future line of work after he graduates? ☺️ and if so is it the cutest/hottest thing oc has ever seen or would she still be terrified

♡ 05: i'm sorry

series m.list // taglist unavailable

note: implied smut ? another almost ily confession ,, jk n dolphins vs oc (he makes his choice fr)

//

you run the faucet, filling your glass slowly. 

the clink of ice against glass sounding louder in the quiet of your apartment. you can hear him behind you—the light shuffles of his socked feet, the way he keeps clearing his throat like he’s trying to find the right words.

then arms. 

his arms. 

warm and sure, snaking around your waist. his nose brushes against the crook of your neck before you even realize he’s moved closer.

“i’m sorry,” jungkook murmurs, voice low, lips brushing against your skin. he presses a kiss there, nuzzling in, like he thinks if he buries himself deep enough, you’ll forget he was late. “like… really super duper sorry.”

you sigh, taking a sip of your water, refusing to lean into him even though you want to.

“it's fine,” you mutter. “they liked you. but you should be thankful it was my cousins and not my parents.”

he tightens his hold, pulling you back against him. “no, it’s not fine. you’re upset.”

“i’m not upset.”

jungkook tilts his head, chin resting on your shoulder now, eyes trying to catch yours. he leans in, lips puckering for a kiss, but you turn at the last second, letting him brush your cheek instead.

he lets out a long sigh against your skin. 

“you’re upset,” he says again, more to himself than to you.

you try to step away, but he catches your wrist easily, gently. his fingers curl around your arm like he's afraid you’ll slip away if he’s not careful enough.

“no,” you protest softly as he lifts you effortlessly onto the kitchen island, your glass clinking against the counter.

you blink down at him, hands braced beside you. he slots himself between your knees, wrapping you up in his arms like he needs to hold every part of you at once. kisses land wherever he can reach—your jaw, your temple, the tip of your nose. desperate little apologies fall between each one.

“i’m sorry, baby.”

kiss.

“i'm so sorry.”

kiss. 

“let me make it up to you, hmm? anything you want.”

kiss. 

“___, i'm sorry,” his forehead pressed to yours now, his hands warm against your cheeks, tilting your face toward him.

you exhale slowly, the stubbornness bleeding out of you. 

“you have to stop choosing dolphins over me,” you grumble, half-joking, smoothing your fingers along the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “i get that the club is important to you but you can’t be late to important things like this. it’s important for us as a couple to respect each others time and families. i wasn’t late when i met your brother and his girlfriend—”

“because i drove.”

“seriously?” you deadpan at him. “do you want to sleep on the couch?” 

he lets out a shaky laugh, a nervous one, not really laughing at all. 

“no,” jungkook shakes his head. “i’m sorry. i will never be late again.”

“good boy.”

“yeah?”

“don’t—we’re made up but we’re not making up like that.”

he bites his cheek. then he shrugs his shoulders at you, offering an innocent look. a confused one. 

“like make up sex?” 

you roll your eyes at him and push him playfully. he laughs hearty and pulls himself closer to you. you let him kiss you and murmur another apology. just when you’re about to accept it—

“i have something to tell you.”

your body stiffens just enough that he feels it. your hands still against him.

“what? you breaking up with me?”

jungkook frowns immediately, like you just wounded him. he hates this joke. he hates it when you mention shit like this. he knows you don’t fully mean it, but sometimes he wonders if you do and it’s just a casual backhanded self sabotage thing you do to yourself (he’s been reading your textbooks when he’s bored). 

“you know that joke isn’t funny.”

“it’s not a joke,” you shrug, trying to sound indifferent but you can’t look him in the eye.

“baby,” he whispers, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone. “i hate it. you know it hate it. i hate it because i love—”

he stops.

you both freeze, the words hanging between you.

he just huffs, drops his forehead against your shoulder in surrender. 

“you love?” you prompt, fingers slipping into his hair, tugging gently.

he leans back enough to see you, his face twisted into a grimace. 

“i love auckland,” he says slowly.

“like new zealand?”

he nods, gulps, and chases for your eyes. 

“do you love auckland?”

you chuckle. “i don’t know. i’ve never been.”

“do you want to go?”

“what are you talking about—”

“i was late tonight because i received an offer from the university board. it's a two-month marine environment internship for the summer.”

your mouth falls open.

“in auckland?” you gasp, grabbing his face in your hands, peppering his cheeks with quick kisses. “that’s insane. congrats, baby. you deserve this! i’m so happy for you—”

but then you feel the tension in his arms, the way he doesn’t quite squeeze you back.

“so happy that you’ll come?” he asks quietly.

you blink. 

a beat of silence. heavy but not uncomfortable. his thumbs rub slow circles against your waist like he’s trying to keep you calm, trying to keep himself calm.

“it's perfect. it's only for the summer and there won't be any dolphins involved unless i do the one week exchange in australia. b-but i won't because you're scared of them and i don't want you to not be with me.”

“jungkook—”

“please, ___... baby, i want you to come with me.”

[timmydraker]

Thinking about a Tim Drake with the best pain tolerance in the Batfam

Tim Drake, who at 13 years old dealt with Batman's training - training designed to discourage him from taking up the mantle of Robin

Tim Drake, who at that same age trained with Lady Shiva, one the deadliest assassins in the world

Tim Drake, who at 16 years old dragged himself and another person's dead weight out of a cave in the desert and drove them back to a hotel room, all while having a fatal stab wound through his side

And then the Batfam, who have no idea that most of this - or any of this - happened, and don't understand why Tim's able to fight through too many injuries

(Love your posts!! <3)

- 🎃

As much as I love this, I actually kind of prefer if the other way around and he’s got some of the worst pain tolerance but when it comes to being sick or having things like fever, nausea or fatigue he deals with it better than most of them.

Like, aside from skate boarding and maybe a fall or two when stalking the bats, he was raised pretty safe and probably wasn’t allowed to indulge in risk play when growing up.

So I like to think he had to work really hard to stop himself from reacting to pain and he’s probably the best at ignoring it straight out aside from those raised to do so like Damian or Cass, but when he’s safe?

This man probably whines like a sad puppy and he’s it as an opening to guilt people into giving him what he wants because he’s a spoilt kid at heart, selfless as he may be. He probably plays it up too because he’s so scared of it, and I think that Bruce’s (I’m pretty sure canonical) choice to alter his suit as much as possible so he wouldn’t end up like Jason probably made him even more scared to get hurt.

Naturally training was harsh like you said, but I think that Tim can only deal with pain for as long as he has adrenaline and then he crumbles.

He’d have to be safe, like in the cave or nest or with his team, but he would.

But he’s got a cold or sepsis?

Tim will act like literally nothing had happened. I’m picturing him in a meeting and going, ‘hold on one second’ and people can hear him vomiting into a bin in his office before he comes back out with minty breath and it’s like ‘sorry about that, where were we?’

Once you’ve had the Clench things don’t really ever feel as bad, so he’ll just boulder on. He could literally be dying from Flu, his immune system shot and him full up on drugs to help and he will still go to team meetings, whether work or hero, and it will take knocking him out to get him to sleep and will genuinely feel pretty okay.

He probs passes out on patrol because he didn’t realise the stomach bug he had is actually draining all his energy.

It means that when he does complain or express concern for his sickness that something is definitely wrong.

But heaven forbid Timothy Jackson Drake get a paper cut.

[monzabee]

breathe (2 AM) - s. reid

criminal minds masterlist ||

Summary: it’s 2 AM and you are out of breath. oh, and you really have something important to tell your best friend. 

Pairing: postprison!spencer reid x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.1k 

Warnings: kissing, kinda angsty but also not, running  

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Breathe, you remind yourself as you push your legs to run faster, breathe. 

Then, you look at the watch on your wrist–it reads, 2 AM. Nothing good happens after 2 AM, you think. You should turn back, go home, forget about everything you’re about to do.  

It’s pure madness.  

The type of crazy you never go for under normal circumstances but nothing about this situation is normal anyway, so why dwell on it unnecessarily? Your mind is still swirling with Spencer’s words earlier that evening, and Penelope’s words from moments ago which has you running through the streets of downtown Virginia–something Spencer is probably going to scold for you, though you’ve always been an avid believer in asking for forgiveness rather than permission.  

“If you don’t tell him now, when will you tell him?” That was the last thing Penelope asked you before you made your way out of her apartment. Simple, blunt even, as if the answer should have been obvious. And maybe it should have been. Maybe you should have done this hours ago when Spencer was looking at you, almost pleadingly–or even days ago, maybe even months ago. But fear has always been a comfortable excuse, and love?  

Love is terrifying. 

“But isn’t love worth it?” Emily asked when you told her just how much you were afraid of messing things up. Because that has always been the problem, hasn’t it? It’s always you that messed up, never the other person, but always you. And messing up with Spencer means losing him, which could never be an option.  

“You could never lose Spencer,” JJ assured you, not hesitating to also point out, “he’s the most stubborn person I know, and he wouldn’t let that happen.” 

Yet, the fear still lingers, curling around your ribs like a vice. Because what if they’re wrong? It’s easy to say it in your mind, but what if saying it out loud changes everything?  

You push the thought away as you turn the last corner, Spencer’s apartment now in sight. The building is quiet, the streetlights casting long, lonely shadows on the pavement. Your heart is pounding, not from the run, but from the sheer weight of what you’re about to do. 

Breathe, you remind yourself as you force yourself to walk up to his building. It’s 2.08 AM now. Breathe, you force yourself as you inhale deeply, closing your eyes for just a second. You can do this. 

Your hands are shaking as you reach for the door, the cool metal grounding you for a brief moment before you finally push it open. The hallway is dimly lit, eerily quiet at this hour, and each step toward his apartment feels heavier than the last. The doorman gives you a small smile, and you try to return it as best as you can.  

Your lungs burn from running all the way as you force yourself up the stairs, practically skipping every other step. This is Spencer, you remind yourself. Your best friend. The one person who has always been safe. So why does this feel like the scariest thing you’ve ever done? You couldn’t have imagined the look he’d given you before you left work, right? That look; the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but never did – it’s what got you here in the first place. 

You reach his door before you can second-guess yourself again. Raising a fist, you knock–soft at first, then firmer when there’s no immediate response. 

For a moment, nothing. Then, footsteps. The faint sound of locks clicking open, revealing Spencer in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, his hair a disheveled mess. He blinks at you, sleep still evident in his eyes, but the second he registers that it’s you standing in his doorway at–he glances at the clock, 2.10 AM, his brows furrow in concern. 

“Are you okay?” His voice is rough, a little breathless like he wasn’t expecting you, but his brows furrow, scanning you for any sign of distress. “What’s wrong? You are shivering.” 

For a moment he looks like him again, the Spencer who didn’t spend three months in prison, who didn’t see his girlfriend get shot right before his eyes–the Spencer, who wasn’t forced into a drug addition by one of the unsubs.  

He calls your name, and your eyes focus on him again, “Hey.” His voice is softer now as he takes a step closer to you, “Talk to me.” 

You swallow hard. Breathe. 

“I–” You stop, shaking your head. No more stalling. No more running. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. Say it. Just say it. Just say it, goddamn it. “I couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I tried, but I–” Another breath. Another step forward. “I love you, Spencer.” 

The words hang between you, heavy and fragile all at once. Spencer blinks. His lips part slightly like he wants to say something, but for a long moment, he just stares at you. And you start to panic. 

What if I read everything wrong? What if I just ruined everything? 

But then; so softly, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment, he exhales your name. 

“You– ” He swallows hard, his voice almost shaking. “You love me?” 

You nod, your heart beatin in your ears. “I do.” 

He takes another step forward, so close now you can see the exact moment his breath hitches. His hands hover for a second–like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away before they gently frame your face, fingertips barely pressing into your skin. 

“I love you, too,” he murmurs. “I think I always have.” 

Your heart stutters. “You do?” 

Spencer lets out a soft, breathless laugh. “I was going to tell you tomorrow. But I’m really glad you didn’t wait.” 

And then he kisses you. 

It’s hesitant at first, careful like he’s trying to memorize everything, the way you feel, the way you taste, the way you sigh against his lips. Then, he deepens it, arms winding around you like he’s afraid you might disappear. His arms envelope you as his hands thread through your hair, holding you even closer to himself. 

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t believe you ran here,” he murmurs, amusement laced in his voice. 

You laugh softly; breath still uneven. “How’d you know?” 

“You’re out of breath,” Spencer presses another lingering kiss to your forehead before whispering, “Breathe.” 

[evamame]

🏐 haikyuu men meeting your parents for the first time

very excited and energetic, and super loud too. does his absolute best to leave a good impression. he cracks so many jokes and does everything in his power to make your parents laugh. he’s very comfortable and talks naturally with your parents right off the bat. very expressive and open about his love for you. comes off as a handful but also really funny and super sweet.

HINATA, nishinoya, BOKUTO, atsumu, tanaka, tendo

first impression to your parents is that he’s very mature and respectful. brings a bouquet of flowers for your mom. he also makes sure to appear really put together. sprays on a bit of his fancy cologne and all. a little bit nervous on the inside, but that’s only natural. he makes sure not to show it. what he does try and show, though, is his absolute undying love for you. he really wants to earn your parent’s trust above anything else. “she’s the love of my life. i promise i’ll take great care of her, if you allow me to do so.” doesn’t this sound a bit too much like a job interview?

(makes sure he comes back to ask for permission when he puts a ring on it!!)

USHIJIMA, IWAIZUMI, sakusa, DAICHI, akaashi

swoons your parents over so hard he’s practically flirting. the type to be greeted and welcomed into your childhood home, but not without swiftly pretending to mistake your mom as your older sister when making his entrance. “y/n, is this your older sister? no? that’s your mom?! oh wow, ma’am, you look so young!” oh, how flattering this man is. gets along with your parents a little too well. they end up constantly pestering you about when he’ll be coming back to visit again. they probably like him more than you at this point.

KUROO, oikawa, OSAMU (he also brings freshly made onigiri for your parents), suna, sugawara, atsumu (felt like he kinda fit into both)

a nervous wreck. he requires a lot of reassurance in the car ride as well as the walk to the front door before hand. ends up doing just fine though, despite stumbling over his words a couple times. your parents think he’s the absolute sweetest, most innocent cutie ever. probably ends up using a lot of honorifics and formal language subconsciously out of nerves, but it just comes off as super respectful to your parents. the whole things turn out to be a win-lose situation, and he doesn’t fumble the bag as bad as he thought he would.

ASAHI, kageyama, yamaguchi (i could not think of anyone else vro. sorry.)

masterlist | taglist | tags: @scoupsworld @amaliaaliena @mires765 a/n: multis like this are kinda hard bcs i have to lump a bunch of characters in one group, so some are probably ooc. usually don’t do them for this reason but i felt like switching things up.

© evamame 2025. all rights reserved. please do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my work.

[kxsagi]

haia! how r u? can I request were reader and shidou were at a bar, and reader gets like drunk so shidou carries them home. BUT the reader is like crazy drunk and doesn’t know it’s shidou who’s carrying them and start saying things like “my boyfriend (shidou) is really hot” “I love my boyfriend a lot” AND JUST LIKE CRAZY STUFF LIKE THAT. I don’t really send requests that much, but seeing how good ur work is I would love it if u took my request c: ITS OKAI IF U DONT ILL STILL READ AND LOVE UR STUFF

“𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞”

a/n: hiii! i'm good, how are you angel?

i HAD to do this request HOW COULD I NOT, IT'S SO CUTE!!! also thank you so much!!!

(art credits go to Shigeo_1102 on twt)

some suggestive content inside! 

you’re drunk. 

not tipsy. not giggly. you are obliterated. some mix of glowing cocktail and cheap shots and “let me try yours” has you in shambles, legs flopped over shidou’s arms like a noodle princess as he carries you out of the bar bridal style, ignoring every set of eyes on him. 

“hey,” you mumble against his chest, forehead pressed right above his collarbone. “i think i left my bones back there.” 

he sighs. “yeah, your brain, too.” 

“rude,” you slur, poking his cheek. “you’re so mean. how about we fight right now?” 

he doesn’t reply. he can’t, actually, because he's choking on his own laugh. 

you don’t even realize it’s him. your eyes are barely open and you’re holding onto him like a ragdoll, one arm loosely hooked around his neck, the other flopping dramatically every time he takes a step. he’s mostly amused. mostly. 

“my boyfriend’s gonna be so mad when he finds out some random guy carried me home,” you whisper, then giggle. “he’s super hot and scary and has this insane tongue piercing, that feels damn good in the bedroom, so good luck to you.” 

shidou blinks. 

“… is that so?” 

“yeah,” you hum dreamily. “he’s like… totally unhinged and i love him. one time he clocked a guy for looking at me. like nearly broke his jaw. full-on violent behavior. i almost cried. it was soooo romantic.” 

he adjusts his grip, lifting you higher up his chest because you keep slipping. your face squishes into his neck again. 

“he sounds toxic,” he says dryly. 

“maybe! but it’s sooo sexy,” you say, absolutely beaming now. “he looks like the kind of guy who’s been banned from multiple countries and– wait. wait. oh my gosh, are you the guy who’s carrying me?!” 

“you’re catching up fast, sweetheart.” 

you gasp. “you are shidou!” 

he gives you a flat look. “you just talked about me for ten minutes straight.” 

“did i?” your hand flies to your face, full of drunken horror. “i said the tongue piercing thing, didn’t i?” 

“you said a lot of things.” 

you groan and hide your face in his shoulder, whining, “forget everything! erase it from your mind! i was under the influence of tequila and cuteness.” 

“so i’m cute and scary now?” 

“you’re so scary. and so hot. and i love you so bad.” 

he kicks the door to your apartment open like a gentleman. 

“yeah, yeah,” he says. “i know.” 

“do you? do you really know??” 

he sets you down on the couch and you immediately flop face-first into a pillow. 

“i love you soooo much,” you mumble into the fabric. “you’re like. my little criminal boyfriend. i wanna take you to meet my mom. but not my dad, ‘cause he’ll get mad you pierced your tongue and dyed your hair and have multiple warning flags in FIFA.” 

he raises an eyebrow. 

“… you want me to meet your mom?” 

“obviously,” you scoff, rolling over to look up at him with the most lovestruck expression he’s ever seen. “she’d love you. you’re so pretty. she’s gonna say, ‘wow, he’s prettier than you.’ and i’ll be like ‘yeah, mom. i know.’” 

he stares at you for a moment. then bends down and kisses your forehead, soft. 

“sleep, psycho.” 

“okay,” you say. “but if i die, tell my boyfriend i love him.” 

he sighs again. “i am your boyfriend.” 

“right. duh.” 

a pause. 

“wait… you heard the tongue piercing thing?” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[awosofavs]

take a break

LW6

summary: reader gets overwhelmed whilst cooking and leah comforts her

a/n : i am really trying to post a bit more so that perhaps my writing improves. i still find writing incredibly difficult and it’s deffo not my strong suit but i like it as a creative outlet so i hope you enjoy!

————————————————————————

you pushed your head into leah’s shoulder, not wanting to face anything about the world. she noticed you but didn’t bring it up, sitting in the comfort of you in her arms.

“baby I have training in an hour and you have work we need to get up” you didn’t say anything just made an annoyed seeming sound into her neck. “i know i know but we need to get up”

“i don’t think i can do today” you sighed lifting your head just enough to say the words before setting your head back in her shoulder.

“love we can be back in our rightful positions in exactly 12 hours it’s okay”

“TWELVE HOURS” you wrapped your arms around her, not letting her slip away. she stroked circles into your back and slowly tried to coax you off of her.

“i promise it’ll be over before you know it and it’s taco night! you love making us tacos” you finally let her slip away from you. “good, come bathroom” she smiled and walked into the bathroom to start brushing her teeth. you quickly followed behind. missing the warmth of her body. you picked up your toothbrush, applied toothpaste and started brushing.

“i assume you want your tacos as per usual, plain boring no sauce?” you laughed.

“you know me so well” she smiled whilst grabbing her clothes and slipping into them. you let your gaze linger on her for a second before going to grab your own clothes. she often left just like that, no makeup just her in her clothes with her hair in a messy ponytail but you however had to do a bit more.

“le do you have to leave so soon?” you pouted looking up at her from the dressing table you had sat on. she draped her arms over your shoulders and set a gentle kiss on your head.

“yes love but i’ll be back i promise” she grabbed her bag and then walked towards the door “i love you beautiful” you smiled.

“i love you too lele” you finished up getting ready and then went to work. nothing fancy, not like leah anyways. you were just a barista in a cafe nearby. the hours were long and sometimes hard but you loved it really, you enjoyed making the art on people’s coffees and memorising facial features of new returning customers. you loved chatting the the same old guy who came in for a flat white everyday and finding out how his nieces are doing in their own arsenal academy. you had talked to him ever since you started working there, he was a massive arsenal fan and took a specific liking to when you ended up dating arsenals own, leah williamson. he would always tip you an extra 5 pounds to buy yourself and her some flowers for the kitchen.

after a long shift you finally clocked out and headed home, you still had 2 hours until leah got home from training which should’ve given you pleanty of time to cook and even clean up the house. your plans were quickly ruined though.

It started out fine. you grabbed the chicken from the freezer and put it into a frying pan with a bit of oil. then you grabbed the seasoning, you had to be very careful with this as leah would notice if there was even the teeniest bit too much. this is when the first bit of tragedy struck. as you tipped the seasoning into the pan the lid fell off, drowning the chicken in spice. it took you a few seconds to re-centre yourself and not lose control. you had felt on the verge all day and were quickly approaching a breakdown.

You got a new pan and decided to leave this chicken completely plain, it hurt you a bit inside but that’s okay you would get over it. you poured oil into the pan as usual and left the chicken in there. you then walked over to the fridge to grab the salad to make pico de gallo, your absolute favourite. You started chopping the cucumber peppers and tomato and found yourself getting more and more frustrated at how none of the pieces were small enough. nothing you did tonight seemed fine. as you were caught up in cutting the cucumbers you had completely forgotten about the chicken on max heat. by this point it had completely burnt as was pretty unsalvageable so you broke. tears flooding down your cheeks as you stare at the ruined food. You turned the stove off and ran up to your and leah’s shared room where you stayed in a ball.

you had no idea how long you where there for but whilst you were too busy being a mess leah had came in and had smelt burning.

“love what’s going on why can i smell burning?” she realised you weren’t in the kitchen and rushed to check if the stove was still on but found it switched off “y/n?!?” she shouted, getting increasingly worried by the state of the kitchen, you rarely left the kitchen a mess, your room? sure but the kitchen was always nice. she ran up to your room and saw you there in a ball. “love?” she whispered as she came to take you in her arms and attempt to open you out of the ball you had squoze yourself into. she saw your tear stained cheeks and left a soft kiss on your forehead. “what’s going on?”

you sniffled “the chicken the seasoning fell and then the second burnt and the salad was too thick and then i couldn’t get it small enough” you went on and on and eventually burst into tears and hid your face in her neck. similarly to this morning she sat there and rubbed small circles into your back. a method she knew soothed you.

“shh baby it’s okay, how about we order food tonight? no stress. you do so much for me one night of ordering in will be alright” she put brought you up to be facing her and kissed you. you didn’t say anything in return you just nodded.

a few moments passed of her just sat with you when you finally said “i’m sorry love, everything got so overwhelming and nothing was working and i just got so stressed. i promise ill make tacos tomorrow” the guilt forming in your chest.

“i am just as happy with a home cooked meal as i am with any takeaway as long as you’re here with me love” she smiled and then grabbed her phone “so what do you want?”

“pizza” you mumbled before digging your head back into her neck and staying there. she ordered the pizza and then layed back on the bed, holding you in her arms.

“take a break love, let me handle things tonight” she helped you slip out of your work clothes that you hadn’t changed out of and put you in a pair of her baggy shorts and one of her hoodies that you love. she laid you back on the bed and struggled out of your grip but once she managed to get out she went and cleaned the whole kitchen up before grabbing your favourite drink (a cherry pepsi max) and bringing it up to you.

“pizza will be here in a second love i’ll go and grab it. make yourself comfy” and you did. she brought the pizza up and you devoured it taking in the comfort of being in her arms.

she finished up eating and said “i love you, whether it’s when your sad, happy, making your incredible food for me, sat cuddled up to me eating pizza, angry or even being annoying i love you and i will love you forever.

[blood-smiles]

I REALLY ADORE YOUR STORIES, IT UNIQUE AND FUN TO READD RAGGGRH delicious ♪⁠～⁠(⁠´⁠ε⁠｀⁠ ⁠), do you have any fun facts or side story about yuuto if you feel comfortable or have time to share? Love youu (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

THANK YOUUUU AUUUUUUG!! My heart is like bursting, I am so happy when people send me asks like AAAA!! I haven’t talked about my sweet mamasito in like EVER. 

YANDERE! NURSE HCS AND INFO UNDER CUT!

💊English is not his first language, he dislikes spelling, he just isn’t very good at it, so therefore he will avoid trying to write much in English!

💊He was actually the very first yandere oc I thought of making, I can’t actually remember his first design though!! This was my main idea board for him!

💊He is part of a family of 5 children, being the only boy in the family he has had to grown up only surrounded by women! All his sisters are girls!

💊His father passed away from unknown causes and his mother was left on her own with her children.

💊growing up around girls he has been exposed to more female knowledge than anyone, he knows an unnerving amount of things about menstrual cycles, it’s honestly a little bit too much.

💊Almost everyone in his family has some kind of career in nursing or medicine, 2 out of his 4 sisters are attending nursing school, the other two are in Japan taking care of his mother.

💊his mom approves of you.

💊Many of his more feminine qualities are because of his upbringing, many may criticize this but he really doesn’t have any fucks to give (TдT)

💊He has a lot of piercings, his mom did not approve nor did his sisters but he did that shit anyway, they don’t really care anymore but would rather have him take them out.

💊There are some that you can’t see unless you see him without clothes.. Ehem.

💊Has unbelievably pretty hands, if he was allowed to grow his nails longer they would be the envy of all tbh, has the perfect amount of veiny and bony to be just pretty.

💊Somehow has soft hands??? No skin care or anything, he works with bleach on the daily yet still has the most perfect skin you have EVER SEEN.

💊 The fact is really strange but he has no business being so damn tall??? Rumors say that his father was just slightly above average and the genes just blessed Yuuto in particular

💊Okay, it’s probably too late to say this but he has like a HUGE mommy kink, he may be more submissive but he will actually have a system reboot if he hears you gently calling him “mommy”.

💊Can hold his liquor extremely well, if you just keep drinking and drinking and getting drunk he is your guy to drive you back home. 

💊if he does somehow get drunk he is a cozy, silent type of drunk. The yap button gets turned off and he just kinda.. stares? And touches. A lot. He gets this cuteness aggression and just goes eerily silent while actually nuzzling you like a cat would, a very big cat.

💊Had a childhood plushie that was a pink bunny, he still has it and takes care of it like it’s actually a sacred item. The reason he cherishes it is because he somehow named it your name when he was a little kid, probably thinks it’s a god sent message. Puts it beside your little shrine.

💊Sleeps like a huge cat. A cat with a favorite toy. He hugs you in the most restricting way possible, like meaty thighs wrapped around your own legs and biceps locking your arms into place while he just snuggles into your hair.

💊If he was a fruit he would be a peach!

💊If he was any mythical creature I would say he is a kitsune or a drider. No questions asked. 

💊If you are a chronically ill person he immediately transforms into your own care taker and you won’t have to worry about medication or anything ever again.

💊Doesn’t matter if you are sick or not, he WILL make you drink disgusting smoothie blends, he claims it’s for your own good and will get mad and give you the silent treatment if you don’t drink the very last drop of celery and carrot juice. He will praise you and cradle you afterwards though.

💊If he was a Pokémon trainer he would have a blend of fairy types, psychic, poison and dark types. (You know well that his main Pokémon are a Sylveon and a sneasel.)

💊Is like *really* emotional towards you, like will cry if you scrape a knee and he wasn’t there to kiss your boo boo better.

💊Let me know if you want more!!!

[lazy-ahh]

HIII !! :0 we've spoken before but I've only realized now I haven't been requesting things anonymously (omg I'm stupid I know lmao) :3 uhmmm here's another idea but it's more of a prompt lol, you can do whatever you want with it :)

Jason or reader : “You stayed.”

Jason or reader : “I’m still deciding if that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

LIKE WE WERE KIDS AGAIN

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

"you stayed," you murmur, voice cracking like the childhood promises you both broke. jason doesn’t answer—just holds you tighter, as if his arms could undo years of hurt. (they can’t. but tonight, with your laughter muffled against his chest and his fingers tangled in yours, maybe "broken" doesn’t have to mean "unfixable.")

taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

the first time jason sees you again, he’s supposed to kill you.

the warehouse is burning around you both, smoke curling thick in the air, the scent of gasoline and gunpowder clinging to the back of his throat. he’s here on orders—some lowlife crime lord’s hired muscle needs to be put down, and the red hood doesn’t ask questions. not anymore.

but then he sees you.

you’re standing in the middle of the wreckage, blood smeared across your split knuckles, a gun dangling loosely from your fingers like you’ve forgotten how to hold it. your eyes are hollow, glazed over—like you’re not really here. like you’ve been carved out and left empty.

he doesn’t recognize you at first. not with the way your shoulders hunch inward, like you’re trying to disappear. not with the way your hands tremble around the grip of the gun, finger twitching near the trigger like you’re fighting the urge to use it. but then you turn, just slightly, and the flickering firelight catches the curve of your cheekbone—the same one he used to poke when you were kids, laughing when you’d swat his hand away and call him an idiot.

"no fucking way," he breathes, the words punched out of him.

you don’t react. your gaze slides right past him, vacant, like he’s just another shadow in the room. like he’s not the boy who used to sneak you candy under the dinner table when your parents weren’t looking, who promised to protect you from monsters under the bed.

(he failed, didn’t he? because here you are—another ghost in a world that chews up kids like you and spits them out. and now you’re standing on the wrong side of his gun, working for the same bastards he’s been hired to wipe out.)

your lips part, just slightly, and he thinks you might say something. but then your jaw clenches, and something dark flickers in your eyes—betrayal. because of course you’ve heard the stories. the red hood doesn’t hesitate. the red hood puts bullets in skulls without a second thought.

and here he is, staring you down like you’re just another target.

(you don’t know that his finger’s frozen on the trigger. that his chest is so tight he can’t breathe. that all he can think is—what the hell happened to you?)

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

the second time, he corners you on a rooftop.

the wind howls between you, sharp enough to cut, and jason’s boots scrape against gravel as he steps forward. you’re backed against the ledge, panting, one hand pressed to your side where blood seeps through your fingers—a bullet graze, too close for comfort. the red helmet hides the way his throat bobs, the way his teeth grind together at the sight.

you’re hurt.

the realization hits him like a punch to the gut. he’d chased you across half the city, fury burning through his veins because how could you—but now that he’s here, all he sees is the way your knees wobble, the way your breaths come too fast, too shallow. like you’re one wrong move from collapsing.

"what the hell are you doing?" he growls, voice distorted through the modulator, harsher than he means it to be.

you blink at him, slow, like you’re struggling to focus. the moonlight catches the sweat on your brow, the blood smeared across your cheek. when you speak, your voice is rough, exhausted. "surviving."

like it’s obvious. like it’s the only thing left in the world that makes sense.

and jason—

jason wants to scream.

because this isn’t you. the you he knew would’ve flinched at the sight of blood, would’ve squeezed his hand too tight when you crossed the street, would’ve cried when you scraped your knee on the playground and let him carry you home. the you he knew had laughed so loud it echoed, had tucked wildflowers into his pockets when he wasn’t looking, had been alive.

but the person in front of him now?

they don’t even blink as they wipe their bloody hands on their jacket, smearing red across the fabric like it’s nothing. like pain is just another part of the routine.

(he remembers, suddenly, stupidly—the way you’d cling to his sleeve when you were scared. the way you’d whisper don’t let go even when there was nothing to be afraid of.)

"you’re working for them," he accuses, stepping closer. his voice cracks, just slightly. "the same bastards who—"

"i don’t have a choice," you interrupt, voice brittle, breaking.

your hands shake. not from the cold. not from the wound.

from fear.

(he hates how small you sound. hates it even more because he knows, now, that you’ve been afraid for a long, long time.)

for a heartbeat, neither of you move. the city sprawls beneath you, all flickering lights and distant sirens, but jason doesn’t hear any of it. all he hears is the ragged sound of your breathing. all he sees is the way your shoulders curl in, like you’re waiting for a blow.

you think i’m going to hurt you.

the thought makes something in his chest splinter.

(he should. he should. that’s what the red hood does. that’s what he came here for.)

but then you sway, just slightly, and without thinking, his hand shoots out—fingers wrapping around your wrist to steady you.

your skin is cold.

(he doesn’t let go.)

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

the third time, he finds you in a shitty motel room, and the sight cracks something open in his ribs.

the air smells like stale cigarettes and cheap disinfectant, the kind that burns your nose if you breathe too deep. you're curled into yourself on the bed, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them like you're trying to hold yourself together. the dim yellow light from the flickering lamp paints everything in sickly shadows—the hollows under your eyes, the dried blood on your sleeve, the way your fingers dig into your own arms hard enough to leave bruises.

on the nightstand, a half-empty bottle of whiskey sits next to a gun.

(jason's stomach turns. he knows what that means. knows what you were thinking when you put it there.)

you don't fight when he sits beside you. don't even look up. just keep staring at the cracked wall across from you, blank, like you're already gone. like you were waiting for death, and he's just the grim reaper finally showing up to collect.

(he wants to shake you. wants to pull you into his arms. doesn't know which would hurt more.)

"why?" he asks, softer this time. voice rough like he's the one who's been crying, even though your eyes are dry.

your lips twitch—something that might’ve been a laugh in another life. it cracks apart before it even leaves your throat, splintering into something raw and wounded, more like a sob caught between your teeth. your fingers curl into the thin motel sheets, knuckles white, as if clinging to them could keep you from falling apart completely.

"they promised they'd kill me if i didn't." your voice is barely there, scraped thin from screaming or silence—he can't tell which. then, softer, breaking: "i couldn't let them do that... not without seeing you for the last time."

the admission hangs in the air between you, fragile as the dust motes drifting in the dim light. jason feels it like a knife to the ribs—because you thought you were going to die, and your last thought was him.

jason's breath catches like his lungs forgot how to work.

suddenly, he's fifteen again—kneeling on hot pavement behind your apartment building, watching through messy bangs as you carefully press batman bandaids over his scraped knees. "hold still, dummy," you'd huffed, but your hands were gentle even when they shook. the cherry popsicle you'd split with him earlier dripped sticky-sweet on your chin, and when he laughed and wiped it away with his thumb, your cheeks went pink as the sunset. in that moment, twelve-year-old jason thought, with startling clarity: i'd follow you anywhere. die for you if i had to.

the memory burns worse than the whiskey in his gut. because now he knows—you never wanted this. never chose the blood staining your hands or the hollows under your eyes. you'd been stolen, just like he was. broken, just like he was.

(he should've known. should've seen the signs sooner—the way your hands trembled even when empty, the way your eyes kept darting to exits like you expected hands to grab you any second. god, how many times had you looked at him, silently screaming for help he didn't recognize?)

the mattress creaks as he shifts closer. his hand hovers over your shoulder, trembling with the weight of every unsaid thing between you. when his palm finally settles against the thin fabric of your shirt, he can feel your heartbeat rabbiting beneath—alive, alive, alive against all odds.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, and it's not enough. will never be enough for all the ways he failed you.

(he doesn't specify what for. the list is too long: for not protecting you. for thinking you'd gone bad. for that last summer before everything burned—when he'd peeked through your bedroom window and saw you muttering to your reflection, practicing how to say "i like you" with reddening ears. he'd nearly fallen off the fire escape grinning, thinking just say it already, i'll say it back, never knowing your confession would be stolen along with everything else the next day.)

you finally look up at him, eyes wide and lost, and jason thinks—

oh.

there you are.

somewhere beneath the blood and bruises and broken pieces, beneath the flinches and the fear and the face you've had to wear to survive—you're still you. the same kid who patched his wounds and shared your popsicles and looked at him like he hung the moon.

and despite the pit's rage, despite the bullets and the bodies and the years of pretending he's someone else—he's still him too. still the boy who promised to keep you safe.

(he won't fail you again.)

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

"you stayed," you murmur into the quiet, finally meeting his gaze through the dim light. the words taste fragile on your tongue, like they might break if you speak too loud.

he exhales, rough around the edges. "i'm still deciding if that's the dumbest thing i've ever done," he says, but there's no bite to it—just that familiar teasing lilt that makes your chest ache.

(you remember him saying the same thing at twelve when he climbed your fire escape with a black eye, grinning through split lips because he'd "won" the fight. you'd called him an idiot then too.)

but he doesn't leave. doesn't even shift away when you curl tighter into yourself, knees digging into your ribs like you're trying to disappear.

"hey." his finger pokes your cheek—just like when you were kids. "stop that. you're thinking too loud."

you blink up at him. "i'm not a—"

"a gremlin? yeah, you are." his grin is all teeth, the same one he'd flash when stealing your lunchbox snacks. "always were. remember when you tried to eat mrs. mackey's science project because you thought it was jello?"

a startled laugh punches out of you. "it looked like jello!"

"it was a dissection specimen, you menace."

"you ate some too!"

"only after you dared me, you little—"

the rest gets swallowed by your shriek as he suddenly tackles you, fingers digging into your ribs exactly where you're most ticklish. the sound that comes out of you is half-laugh, half-sob, startled and bright after so long without.

(just like that summer when you'd both gotten caught in the rain, how he'd carried you piggyback through the downpour while you shrieked about his cold hands sneaking under your jacket to tickle you.)

you retaliate by shoving your icy feet against his calves, grinning at his yelp. "cheater!" he gasps, but he's laughing too, really laughing, the sound warm and rough and so painfully familiar it makes your eyes burn.

somewhere between breathless wrestling and poorly-aimed pillow attacks, you end up with your face smushed against his chest, his arms locked around you like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go. the quiet settles over you both, comfortable in a way nothing has been in years.

"missed this," you mumble into his shirt. the admission feels dangerous.

his heartbeat stutters under your ear. "...yeah."

(he remembers your thirteenth birthday, how you'd fallen asleep just like this during your movie marathon, how he'd stayed perfectly still for hours just so he wouldn't wake you. how he'd thought, with terrifying certainty: this. i want this forever.)

your fingers curl into his sleeve on their own accord, clinging like you're eight again and afraid of thunderstorms. jason's breath hitches—then his hand comes up to card through your hair, gentle in a way the red hood never is.

"stay?" you whisper, already half-asleep.

his arms tighten. "'til you're sick of me."

(he means forever. you both know it.)

2.2k full of jason todd and reader being traumatised together...! yippe...! .... AHHHHHH WHY DO I EVEN DO THIS TO MYSELF??? and also, don't worry mysterious anon, you're not stupid at all, don't you EVEN think about it >:[ hope you enjoyed this teehee! <3