#and i disappear into the night once again

[hairmetal666]

Six months. For six months Steve has been listening to this radio show and not ever one time did he expect to hear the host, Eddie Munson, growl out the words “Hawkins, Indiana," but here they are. The name said.

Steve stops the car dead in the middle of the road, can’t hear anything aside from the radio show host listing Hawkins facts in his sonorous voice.

He should have known. Like rationally, he should have considered it a possibility that Hawkins might come up on this late night talk radio show called Hellfire about monsters, cryptids, folklore. 

It’s just. He thought. Hawkins hadn’t exactly made national news, and what had was about a toxic gas leak and a government coverup, not exactly this show’s focus. 

But enough, apparently. Obviously. 

Eddie starts talking about the disappearance of Will Byers, and Steve lays his head on his steering wheel, tries to ignore the way his hands tremble. 

For six months Hellfire brought him comfort and companionship as he roams the dark street of Hawkins on what Robin calls his patrols. It’s not like he can sleep, not anymore, so what better to do than make sure everyone is safe? That there’s no signs of the Upside Down? That the gates are still closed? 

Hellfire has been his companion through it all and now—now—

Eddie’s talking about the Department of Energy, MK Ultra, a fake body in the quarry. 

He could turn it off. Or better yet, go home. But he sits in his car out by Lover’s Lake and he listens to Eddie detail the rumors and speculation. Listens to the callers who share their two cents and conspiracy theories—none close to the truth. 

The thing is. He’s become—fond of Eddie, of Hellfire. He doesn’t care about cryptids, isn’t interested in Big Foot, but he was captivated by Eddie. Not just him, though, it’s the whole thing with his producer, Gareth, and his two other best friends who pop in from time to time. They’re funny, nerdy, love that dork game the kids play. And if the low resonance of Eddie’s voice makes him a little melty? Well, that’s between him and 3am. 

Steve calls in, sometimes. Has called in. Just, you know, once a week or so. It's not like he knows anything about the monsters, but he asks questions, likes to listen to Eddie talk no matter if he understands.

They finish with a caller and Eddie says, "unfortunately, we'll probably never know what happened."

And Gareth cuts in to say, "Hawkins is only an hour a way. You know. If you find that interesting."

"What are you saying, Gar?" Eddie asks. "That we should go?" He laughs.

"Why not? We could do our own investigation. Maybe we'll find something the authorities don't want us to."

"Hmm, what do you think, listeners? Should we don our adventurer caps and head into the unknown?"

He doesn't remember putting the car into drive, but he knows he's speeding toward the little two-pump gas station on the edge of town and the deserted pay phone there.

The line beeps and beeps when he dials. He tries again and again, until finally there's a click, and Eddie's radio voice booming in his ear.

"Thank you for calling Hellfire," he laughs, manic. "You're--

"You can't go to Hawkins," he interrupts.

"Sweetheart," Eddie croons. "Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"

"I'm Fine. Stay out of Hawkins."

"You gotta ease into it a little, baby. Little small talk first."

"Eddie..."

"What do you know about Hawkins?"

"N--nothing. I've heard bad things about it. Cops."

"Cops," Eddie snorts. "I'm not afraid of Hawkins PD. Are you calling because you're worried for my well-being, sweetheart?"

"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate.

"You're my favorite listener, you know that?"

"I'm being serious."

"It's cute."

"It's a really bad idea to go to Hawkins."

"Do you know what's funny? You didn't know what a chupacabra was, but you know about Hawkins."

"I--" he swallows. "Have specific interests."

Eddie laughs. "What do you know about Hawkins?"

"Nothing," too quick.

"Are you lying to me?"

"I can't say."

"You just keep getting more and more mysterious."

"Please, stay away. It's--there are things, people--you don't want their attention. Just, please. Trust me."

"I'll agree on one condition. Tell me how you know this."

"I can't," he whispers. "That's why you need to trust me."

"What's stopping you?"

He flashes back to an interrogation room, Hopper's stern face, the even sterner ones of the government agents, the four-inch high stack of papers to sign, again and again and again.

"NDAs."

Dead silence on the other line until Eddie asks, "wait, PLURAL?" excitement spikes through the speakers.

That's when Steve hears the distant click down the line, knows it isn't him or Eddie, knows--

The line goes dead.

"Fuck."

He goes straight to the cabin. It's late enough in the morning now that he's unsurprised to see the glowing ember of a cigarette near the porch steps.

"What'd you do, kid?" Hopper asks when Steve gets out of his car.

"Called into a radio show about monsters."

The chief sighs, drops his hands to his sides, muttering. The crunch of gravel way up the long drive has them both turning.

"Guess we're in for a long day." Hopper stomps out his cigarette.

---

Steve isn't allowed to listen to Hellfire anymore. Is forbidden from calling in. And he gets it, okay, he knows. He said too much on the radio, but he hopes that he didn't get Eddie in trouble, that they don't try to come to Hawkins.

He gets a late start on his patrols one night. Took the kids to the movies, caved within minutes when they begged to go for ice cream after, Robin giving him a fond eye roll when he stops.

It's late, summer sun set for hours already, and he's driving on backroads behind the lab. And it's been--it's been a few weeks, okay, since the last call, long enough that he's stopped thinking Eddie will show, so when he sees the van on the side of the road--when he sees the van he doesn't stop right away.

It's tan and white or maybe grey, old, from the 70's or something; spiky black lettering on the side. It says Hellfire.

Steve slams on the breaks so hard the tires squeal, car skidding. He parks haphazardly on the side of the road, only grabbing a flashlight before hurling himself into the woods.

He figures Eddie and the guys will be easy to find, bumbling through unfamiliar forest, but minutes pass with nothing but his own feet crushing through the underbrush. He's afraid to yell, afraid it will draw the wrong kind of attention, but he does a kind of hoarse whisper, knowing it's not enough.

There's a small rock formation that he skirts past, mind everywhere but on his surroundings. He hears a rustle, he thinks, turns, and in the space of a breath, collides with something distinctly solid, warm, and judging by the pained grunt, human.

"Fuck. Gareth?" A very familiar voice asks.

"Eddie??" He responds. His fingers scrabble for his flashlight, illuminating the leaf strewn forest floor and some nearby tree roots.

A beam of light illuminates his chest and face, forcing his eyes down. "Who are you?"Eddie demands.

Steve finally grabs his flashlight, points it at Eddie's middle. Has a second to take in his long, curly hair, his cut-off t-shirt, pale skin and the swirl of inky black tattoos. "I'm--I--I called into your show. I--I told you not to--"

"Oh," Eddie's breath hitches. "Sweetheart. You said not to come to Hawkins and then you--you--" He blinks, seems to struggle to find words. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful."

He smiles. "i--your show, I loved it. I miss listening to you. I miss--" He takes a step, closes the distance. Eddie smiles and it grips something in his stomach, doesn't let go.

Over Eddie's shoulder, there's a flash of movement, catches in Steve's periphery. It's an unfurling, an opening, there's a shine of saliva, teeth.

His heart stops.

"Eddie--"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Run."

[grotesquevi]

cw   # 18+ mdni. deleted the question without knowing lmaooo, but this was requested by @orchidprincesss before my draft was answer privately (lol) this is purely self-indulging knight!vi & runaway!princess, fingering, dumbification, oral sex, the knee thing winkwink, mean!reader, longer than ellie's drabble i lied, wc: 3.5k.

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ music || 1k directory || previous

"i'm politely demanding you to untie me" the sound of your voice seems to travel around the cabin as vi's busy working in keeping the fire burning, ignoring you like she's been doing the whole day. "did you hear me knight? this is the princess who's talking. show some damn respect, i'm the next in line for the throne."

it's been like that the whole day. whining, throwing empty threats about how you're going to tell everything to your mother when vi's acting under her commands. surrounded by a snow storm, you're lucky she's capable enough to find shelter in the middle of nowhere, cause if it was for your poor choices, you both be dying in the hands of nature.

“is your future majesty hungry?" her tone is laced with sarcasm and it makes you even more annoyed as you curse under your breath once again for your poor lack of choices. you didn't think about it enough to be fair, when escaping the castle. should've brought more money, better clothes, anything that would help you run far away from your royal duties "speak now. cause i don't know if there's going to be enough food tomorrow."

“yes” you reply still annoyed as ever as she's keeping your hands tied in a rope behind your back "i am hungry. thank you for actually thinking once in your life."

patience. vi just needs to be patient. she's getting a medal. she's going to gain honor, a name on her own as she's the only knight who's able to bring you back to the castle, the personal envoy of the regent queen who's capable of taking you back to the place where you belong. you're precious cargo, so when she's giving you some pieces of dry meat, she's careful of tying your hands back together over your front this time, free enough to let you eat in peace but not enough to allow any sudden movements, still in control since you're very good at disappearing without leaving a trace.

"ridiculous." you say as you eat with disgust: meat's too dry it seems "this whole charade. this entire act of bravery. it's ridiculous."

there's at least two more days of traveling back to the castle with you tied up like a prisoner cause vi´s too afraid of having you running the opposite direction anytime (you already did). forty-eight hours until she gains a decent reputation, a name that's good enough to make her sister proud: violet's not letting, under any circumstance ruin this for her. take all of her hard work just because you're throwing a tantrum.

"i'll say it to you again since you don't seem to understand, princess: you majesty gave me the permission to act in my rational behalf" she has dealt with this behavior before as she happens to have a sister, and jinx can also be a pain in the ass similar to your dashing personality — "i tried to do it your way before and you tried to poison me with belladonna. i'm not letting you out of my sight."

"did you saw the snowstorm outside?" you're planning to kill her with the rope around your wrists. how quickly you can wrap it around her neck until she's no longer breathing. it would take a big fight, but you're 60% sure you can take her, gain your desired freedom "do you really think i'm running away when there's no place to go?"

vi's good at ignoring you. so good it makes your skull tickle with anger, mouth dry when both of you eat in silence. stolen glances as you're too proud to keep talking to her, try to change the knight's mind when she's clearly too driven to her own ideas. she's been loyal to the family for how many years now? of course she's stubborn.

so when the night comes in and the mantle of dark blue covers the sky, there's no stars to guide you back to your stolen future, the bright freedom as the cold sweeps under your clothes and makes you shake unexpected. ends up making your plans dissolve as fast as they appeared in your mind when the knight's already sleeping under a thick blanket she found out while lurking around, and you, on the other hand, experience the sharp cold.

you're not asking for help. you refuse. refuse to ask for anything even when you'll die as your limbs begin to hurt in the first thirty minutes, swollen skin, you can barely move your hands as they seemed to be a victim of the frostbite.

and to be transparent with the whole truth, violet's been a knight since she has memory and she knows also when to expect bad behavior. what she doesn't expect instead is the clicking sound that wakes her up in the middle of the night, the chattering of your teeth when you're hugging yourself close to the fire and the knight is hit with a sharp stab of regret — she was going to give you the blanket before falling asleep.

"princess?" vi's voice irrupts in the silence, the tranquility while the fire's almost consuming. makes her jump out the bed cause you don't really move a muscle, the subtle shaking in your body barely visible due to the lack of lights in the cabin. "princess are you okay?" dumb question. holy fuck. she won't be getting any medal if you're not alive by the time she gets you back to the castle.

so vi's quick to reach you, long steps and calculated movements she's like a force of nature when she's standing in front of you, hand reaching down to swipe beneath the scarf you're wearing in nothing but a white linen shirt that covers right over the knight tights, and seems translucent at the pale illumination of the snow reflecting inside the cabin.

"i don't need your help. f-fuck off" the sudden touch makes you flinch. vi's warm and in contrast to the ice cold of your surroundings, it almost hurt for a moment at the direct contact against your skin. "turn the fire back on."

that's not a language for a princess. not a tongue worth of royalty, but vi's too worried about your state to even say something when her hand pushes against your pulse point and she can feel the subtle beatings of your heart as you try to push her away, prideful as ever.

so it comes to her choices, as the queen said. vi acts under her rational behalf, so that would explain why she's picking you from the cold floor you're seated in, untying your hands as your wrists are already sore: when the chimney has burnt out and you have no other choice than to cling to her embrace, take any kind of warmth you can receive as vi's carrying you back to bed, covering you with the blankets up to your neck.

rationality dictates her decisions, the knight's a loyal dog cause vi finds herself thinking in quick ways of making you gain a normal body temperature again, sliding against your side even when she's reluctant to any contact at first.

"what are you doing?" little shit. you can barely speak as you're stuttering on each word, shaking as she's getting closer to you "knight."

"my name's vi, not just knight" how can you be so annoying even when she's trying to save your life? good fuck. "i'm trying to help you make it through the damn night. now shut up and think about warm things."

vi. the name repeats itself multiple times as you can feel her hand wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as you can experience the temperature of her breathing right over your neck, barely a blow of air that makes you shiver. she smells like ashes, like sweat after all those days without a proper bath and it has all the ingredients to make you grossed out, but instead of that, you find yourself defining it as comforting, as nice even if you’re asked.

ten minutes turn twenty, thirty as you're unable to surpass the cold, until vi’s suddenly moving away and you look at her from over your shoulder only to have your eyes widening in awe: why, the fuck, is she peeling the layers of her body away?

you turn back to the extinguished fire in the chimney, the pieces of wood consumed by the fire at the sight of naked skin, trying to give the knight any kind of privacy even when she’s the one that’s tossing her shirt to the side only to come back again to hug you.

“what are you doing-” is it the only thing you can ask? forever weirded out by her actions? a torment when vi’s hand begins to undress you without a single word of warning—. “can you answer me? what are you doing? i think you’re misreading this. sorry to say i'm not-”

your tone makes vi stop in her tracks for a second, her brows furrowed as she stares at you for a dead minute: are you nervous by any chance? despite the logic of her actions, her desire to keep you alive, are you nervous since she’s exposed right next to you? man. she realizes now that her lack of shame, is the result of always being exposed to the human eye, to the rest of her fellow knights.

“tell me princess, have your fancy teachers ever told you about skin-to-skin temperature?” she makes you feel dumb for a second as you keep you chin up in response — “you’re freezing even when i’m all over you, and i value my life as i don't want myself hanged. am i really the one who’s misreading things here?”

“of course i know what it is. i’m surprised you know about skin-to-skin contact.”

it makes you stay silent as vi keeps undressing you, pretending you understand the logic of her actions as she's leaving your cold clothes outside the bed until you need to hold your breath in, suddenly forgetting how to do something easy as breathe, when you’re naked under a thick duvet of what if must be animal fur, and you're experiencing the warmth of the knight hugging you again, pressing herself against your back and holding you close to her chest.

oh fuck.

it’s insane. the ultimate act of madness when vi’s once again leaning against your neck, pressing her chin right over your naked shoulder, just checking on your body heat according to herself. however, makes her worry when she's getting distracted by the smell of your skin right under her nostrils, how you’re able to smell like a field of recently blossomed flowers even when your gown’s messed up, when your hair is tangled in dirt and you’re covered in the sweat of now exposed to extreme temperatures.

“i’m sorry. for leaving you without anything that offered some sort of cover” vi’s heart’s beating again when she’s able to feel yours against her hands, when her fingertips cant help but caress the skin of your waist in invisible circles, covered in tenderness. “are you better now?”

“i'm okay” you say getting over the shame and finding truth in her words, leaning against her touch as vi’s skin is warmer than usual, makes you feel normal again, cozy. “my mother will still find out about how you almost left me to die, vi.”

"you're so spoiled" there’s no venom in her words more than just teasing. you’re saying her name and its strange how it gets so quickly under her skin, how she can see the way your teeth catch your lower lip when you pronounce the letter v “even when i’m helping you, you find ways of being a disrespectful brat.”

you’d say something. maybe tease her like you've been doing the whole day — but your ass is pressed against her front, her breathing hovers right over your skin, and you're enjoying the relaxed touch of vi's fingers when they go right over your stomach, roaming around like you've always been there to touch, to fit right against her arms.

"i'm not going to say anything" she has the perfect view of your neck, the back profile of your face, the shadows you project against the improvised bed she made up earlier: she's trying so hard not to think about your ass. "i'm just messing with you."

you turn your head to look at her even in the dark and vi's tummy hurt at the need that settles on the lower part of her stomach, the way your eyes glisten under the minimum light that slides inside, silent like a thief thats coming to steal your most prized belongings.

"before, you said i was going to poison you with belladonna" she don't care now before her gaze slipped to see the curve of your chest, the amount of exposed skin already driving the knight crazy as vi can see the curve and the stiffed peak of your breast as the duvet slips off against your sudden movement, the erotic shadow of your figure — "you're mistaking it with wolfsbane. you'd be hallucinating for a while. it was a very small dose."

"so you weren't intending to kill me?" she asks, and it's inevitable at this point, when the knight's lips brush against your back and the tip of her nose grazes against your shoulder, no turning back when vi's pressing a soft kiss right in the zone "is that what you're trying to say?"

"no intentions of killing. nope."

she's kissing the same spot again and it does things to you. makes your body respond to the tingles left in your skin at the contact of her lips, and at the lack of denial, vi keeps going when your breathing turns heavier, when she's making sure you want it too.

"tell me to stop your majesty."

the knight's brain turns into a pile of mush when you're pushing your ass back against her and your back arches almost asking vi to keep going, keep the eager caressing in your stomach now right beneath your breasts.

"i can't tell you that."

"then tell me about how i'm a hound dog destined to only serve and gain nothing more than the pride of the crown" she begs, hands tightening against your side — "how this isn't right for a princess as yourself."

"i don't care about the crown," the words slip like a secret, like an admission you need to make and it stays in the air for a while. "if you wish to serve, vi, serve me."

violet vanderson's the most loyal knight. she has served the royals with blood, sweat and actual tears, bent the knee to your father before he died, to your mother as the regent queen, and with you in a much different context as she's placing her bended knee right between your legs; makes you gasp for a moment as you can feel the warmth of her thigh pressing against your sensitive flesh.

"you're wet," vi mumbles against your ear, and how she's positioned — right behind you, it gives her the perfect path to let her hand previously caressing your skin, slide between your legs and reach its way to heaven, a couple of digits spreading your folds in the most intimate touch. "this turns you on?"

she can feel you nodding your head, admitting over and over again: yes it does. it fucking does. turns you on more than anything you've experienced before when she's touching you like she wants to know you, like she needs to discover what exactly gets you there, where to touch.

how a knight can begin to touch a princess in the way she deserves? she lacks of delicacy, vi's movements are rough, messy and erratic, incapable of keeping a pace as her calloused hands roam against your sex, staining the palm of her hand with what it could be visible arousal if having just a slight more light.

"you were so eager to talk back before, what happened to you" lost, vi's tone wanders in an empty head only to leave your right ear as fast as it enters. "tell me about how i'm misreading this again, how you're not soaked because some skin-to-skin contact to save your life."

mhm. you're breathing a soft affirmation, a humming sound that comes from your chest, an exhalation from your lungs as they seem to hold too much air inside. her free hand forces you to move against her leg using the right amount of pressure to create that delicious circle your hips make, and your cunt opens perfectly for her, parts right in the middle to feel the drag of your folds against her skin, the wet trail it leaves behind making the surface of vi's leg lubricated enough to just slide, to let your knight have the most comfortable reach to your clit who she's doesn't spend much time looking for, to rub at the most sloppy pace.

"please-"

"please what?" the words seem to get lost mid-way, trapped in your throat as her index finger reaches your entrance, and vi's teasing it without fully sinking in, testing for a moment as she keeps trying to hold on to this rationality that lingers in the back of her brain. struggling when your hole loosens up for her digits and she's wondering for at least then seconds, how correct is to fuck a princess using her fingers, how she should be pushing the very tip inside to just tease how tight you are, how good you'd felt enveloping her fingers; sucking them inside until they hit that space you'll learn to love.

"please just- i need to feel you closer, be full of you."

“yeah? do you want me to use my fingers?”

"yes-" you're so good like this. you forget about the attitude, let your guard down only to let her have you in plain devotion, in a need that makes the knight's hands act on their own. "need you to treat me like i've always been yours."

and vi's kissing you this time cause she needs to feel the gained warmth of your breathing against her lips, your moans muffling against her bucal fat as her tongue pushes right against yours in a messy kiss, one full of shared saliva, teeth and slurred words of praise.

her fingers push slowly at first, you're tight, warm, inviting, swallow her fingers ready for her until vi's knuckles deep and she's biting on your neck to keep her own moans in check.

fails miserably when you're failing miserably too. when you're loud as she's using a couple of finger to scissor them inside your sex, spreading you for what vi would love to be her strap, making room as she rubs against your walls, making you drip down your legs, making an entire new mess.

"keep rubbing your pussy against my leg m'lady" vi encourages you, voice rough, you're entirely sure she's enjoying this as much as you do. "i'm yours to use."

and at this point you can barely move, following the force of vi's hands pushing you back and forth until you're welcomed by the heat, the fire that comes from inside and spreads all over your chest when you're finally spasming over her hand and it's the final cue to your orgasm pouring over like warm water after a long day.

she's kissing on your back again, following the bones of your spine, burying her nose in your hair, keep you as humanly close when your muscles tense and you're leaking all over her leg.

"there you go," vi smiles against your skin when you're stopping on your clumsy movements, when your skin's now burning against hers and you need to uncover yourself from the duvet — "you okay, sweetheart?"

it's actually rewarding when you're giving a big breath before sinking down the blanket, positioning between her parted legs.

"can you hold my hair?" you ask, looking up to the knight as she's holding the cover up to see what exactly your doing when you're teasing her entrance with a couple of fingers seconds before spitting right over her swollen cunt.

she's dizzy already, lost in a haze of a contact that makes her shiver. it's not really necessary cause vi's already dripping, but it makes her skin violently shiver when the saliva's following a path back to her ass, sticking to the shape of her cunt already glistening from before.

"i'm giving you a medal" you reply, spreading her for your pleasure and gaining a suffocated moan — "an special one you cannot get with the rest of my family."

it makes her shut up when her hands grab a fistful of your hair in her hand, as vi can feel the movements of your head when you're going down on her and oh—

she's not tying your hands against your back the next morning.

no. in the next forty-eight hours vi keeps you trapped between her arms, in the same horse as her, riding your way back to the castle and being a victim of her neck kisses, her touchy hands as you comply pleased to her every need.

turns out what the runaway princess needed was being followed around by her most loyal knight — maybe you're ready to the throne. you can clearly use some power to your benefit.

[fic-girlie]

Hiii! I'm obsessed with your fics! Can you write something about Joel and reader being intimate for the first time after reader gives birth to their baby girl? Some sweet and soft love making with lots of praise please! Reader is a little insecure about how her body looks now but Joel reassures her and shows her how much he loves her and missed having her like this

Always yours

Pairing: dad!Joel Miller x wife!reader Summary: You doubt your changed body after birth, but Joel’s love and praise bring comfort during a quiet, tender night. Warnings: established relationship, insecurities, postpartum body, soft smut, explicit sexual content (+18), unprotected sex, p in v sex, Joel reassuring reader, softness

The house is quiet — the kind of quiet that only comes in that sacred window after the baby’s been fed and rocked to sleep, her little body curled up in the crib just a room away. You’re still surprised by how tender that silence feels now, how different the world seems in these slow, dim hours. Joel had insisted on taking over the late-night rocking tonight, letting you rest your back and hips, still aching with the memory of what they’d done weeks ago to bring your little girl into the world. But now, he's standing in the bedroom doorway, watching you with that gaze that you’ve known for years — a gaze that once held hunger, then reverence, then the stunned awe of watching you become a mother. And now… now it’s something else. Something softer. Something deeper.

You’re wearing one of his old t-shirts, stretched a little over your chest now, the hem grazing the tops of your thighs. It’s nothing new, not really — you’ve always stolen his clothes. But you tug at the hem like you’re trying to disappear into it. Your body doesn’t feel like your own these days. It’s not just the way you look, but how foreign it still feels under your skin. Joel’s seen all of it — the stretch marks that snake across your belly, the way your hips have widened, the curve of your breasts heavy and full — but even now, even with all the love in his eyes, you feel raw. Fragile. Not quite beautiful.

He steps closer.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, voice low and rough with that worn tenderness he’s only ever used with you.

You nod, even though you're not sure what to say. Your hands are folded in your lap, and you don’t meet his eyes.

Joel doesn���t push. He kneels in front of you instead, warm palms sliding up your thighs, coaxing them apart so he can fit between them. His fingers squeeze just a little at your soft flesh, as if to remind you how much he’s missed touching you like this — not carefully, not clinically, but lovingly. He leans forward and kisses the inside of your knee. Then the other. Then a slow, reverent path up your thigh.

Your breath stutters.

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “Missed this. Missed us.”

A part of you wants to cry — not from sadness, not exactly, but because of the overwhelming way he looks at you. Like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. Like nothing has changed. Like you’re still everything to him.

“I don’t…” You swallow hard. “I don’t look the same. I feel like a stranger in my skin, Joel.”

His brow furrows, hands cupping your hips now, thumbs pressing into the soft curve of your waist.

“You look like the woman who gave me our daughter,” he murmurs. “You look like the woman I love. Always have, always will.”

When he leans in and kisses your belly — stretch marks and all — you shiver. Not from discomfort. From how gentle it is. From how right it feels to be touched like that again.

“Can I show you?” he asks, lips brushing your skin. “Can I remind you how fuckin’ beautiful you are?”

You nod — not because you’re suddenly confident, but because the way he’s looking at you makes you want to believe it. Because Joel’s hands, his mouth, his words — they’ve always been a place of safety.

He helps you onto your back, slowly, carefully. His hands are warm as they glide under your shirt, lifting the fabric inch by inch until it’s over your head. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t rush. He takes his time admiring every curve, every mark, every change.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he breathes. “Look at you, sweetheart…”

You try to cover your stomach instinctively, but he catches your wrists, bringing them to his mouth, kissing the insides slowly.

“No hidin’ from me,” he says. “Not after what your body did. Not when you carried our baby, gave her to me. I’ve never loved you more.”

When he leans down and kisses your breasts — not hurried, not greedy, just aching with love — you exhale a shaky breath. He strokes your sides, your hips, your thighs, pausing to press kisses to each one. It’s not lust, not entirely. It’s devotion. Worship. The quiet kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

Joel undresses slowly, watching your eyes the entire time, as if giving you space to decide if you still want this. Still want him. And of course you do. He’s your home. Your heart.

When he finally settles over you, bare skin to bare skin, the weight of him feels grounding, safe. His forehead touches yours. His nose brushes against your cheek. His hand cups the side of your face, thumb sweeping just under your eye.

“You sure?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you breathe, and you mean it.

He kisses you then — long, slow, deep. Like he’s been waiting months for this kiss. Like he’s trying to pour every word he couldn’t say into it. His body presses into yours gently, and you feel how hard he is already, how much he’s been aching for this too.

When he finally sinks into you, you both gasp.

He goes slow — painfully slow — eyes locked on yours the entire time. He watches every reaction, every breath, every flutter of your lashes. He’s being so careful, so present, as if afraid to overwhelm you. His hand is at your waist, fingers spread wide over your soft skin, anchoring himself to you.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “So goddamn good, baby…”

You arch toward him instinctively, the stretch just enough to make you feel full, claimed, wanted.

His pace is slow and tender, every movement a whisper of love against your body. He kisses your neck, your jaw, your temple. He tells you how beautiful you are, how proud he is, how he’s never wanted anything more than to be inside you again.

“I missed this. Missed you,” he murmurs into your skin. “You’re so soft, so fuckin’ warm… you feel like home, baby.”

You let out a soft whimper and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing all of him — not just physically, but emotionally. You need to feel that he still wants you like this. That he still loves you like this.

Joel reads you easily, always has. He shifts his weight to one elbow, his free hand cupping your cheek again, thumb brushing tenderly over your lips.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, barely audible. “Every inch of you. This body… this heart… all of it’s mine. And I’ll spend the rest of my life showin’ you how much I love it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Not from pain. From joy. From the slow, patient rhythm of his body moving with yours, from the way he’s holding you like you might shatter, even while he’s putting you back together.

When he finally brings you to the edge, it’s with a quiet intensity — his voice low in your ear, telling you how perfect you feel, how proud he is of you, how beautiful you are like this. He follows soon after, holding your face as he spills inside you with a groan that sounds like relief. Like worship.

Afterward, he doesn’t move for a long time. He stays inside you, his body covering yours, lips pressed to your hair. His hand strokes your side gently, palm wide and warm over the stretch of skin that once held your daughter.

“I love you,” he whispers. “More than I’ve ever loved anything.”

The last ripple of your shared breath fades, and the room holds the warmth of Joel’s body still pressed gently against yours. His heartbeat thunders a steady, grounding rhythm beneath your cheek, syncing with your own as if to remind you that you’re not alone. For a few precious minutes, the world outside this room ceases to exist — there’s only the two of you, tangled in skin and soft whispers, the unspoken truth of your love wrapping around you like a shield.

Your fingers find his, curling around the rough planes of his hand, holding tight to that solid reassurance. You want to freeze this moment forever: his tired eyes filled with nothing but love and wonder, the way his breath catches softly when he traces the scars on your skin with his thumb, the gentle way his lips keep finding yours, slow and reverent.

Then, just as the silence begins to settle, a small, fragile cry pierces the air — a sound so tender it makes your heart twist in an ache you didn’t know you still had. It’s the unmistakable call of your daughter waking, her voice small but urgent.

Joel stirs immediately. His eyes open wide, alert and fierce with protectiveness. He shifts carefully, pulling his body away from yours but never losing contact completely — his hand sliding down your waist to brush your skin one last time, a silent promise that he’s still here, still yours.

“I got her,” he says softly, his voice low but steady, a quiet anchor in the night.

You watch as he rises from the bed, pulling back up his jeans, moving with the practiced ease of a man who’s been through this before but still cherishes every moment. The dim light catches the lines of his face — the softness in his eyes that only you have ever truly seen, the way his jaw tightens slightly as he prepares to soothe your baby back to sleep.

Your body still aches from the recent hours, the tender bruising of childbirth and sleepless nights, but you push yourself up onto your elbows, wanting to be near, to be part of this quiet ritual. The soft rustle of blankets follows him out of the bedroom as he walks to the nursery just down the hall.

You hear the faint creak of the rocking chair, the soothing cadence of his voice as he croons gentle nonsense to your daughter — a melody only the two of them share. Your heart swells watching from the doorway in his shirt, the sight of Joel’s strong arms cradling your tiny girl like she weighs nothing but everything to him.

He glances back at you over his shoulder, a small smile curving his lips, eyes still shimmering with that same fierce love. “She’s okay, baby. I’ve got her.”

The sound of your daughter settling back into peaceful sleep wraps around you like a balm. You step forward, your legs still shaky, and Joel meets you halfway, pulling you into his arms again. This time, his embrace is gentle but grounding, the kind of hold that says, You’re safe. We’re safe.

He kisses the top of your head, slow and deliberate, pressing his cheek against yours as if memorizing the softness there. You close your eyes, the ache in your body momentarily forgotten beneath the weight of his presence.

“You did amazing,” Joel whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Goddamn amazing.”

You want to believe him. You want to believe that these stretch marks, this softness in your curves, the way your body feels unfamiliar—are all still part of the woman he loves so fiercely. But sometimes the insecurities slip in, quiet and sharp.

“I’m scared,” you admit, voice trembling just enough that he pulls back to look at you properly.

“About what?” he asks, brows knitting in concern.

“About… this,” you say, motioning to your body, the one that carried your daughter. “I’m scared you don’t want me like this.”

Joel’s hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking slowly as if erasing doubt with each movement.

“You’re still you,” he says simply, and it’s enough to make your breath catch. “More than that—you’re the woman who gave me everything I’ve ever wanted. This body—every line, every mark—it tells the story of us. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss just below your temple, then trailing down to your neck, his lips hot and slow. You feel him smile against your skin, the roughness of his beard sending a shiver through you.

“I missed this,” he murmurs between kisses. “Missed how you feel. How you smell. How your skin tastes. You’re beautiful, baby. You always have been.”

His hands glide down your sides, gathering you close again. You sigh, melting into the comfort of him, the undeniable truth in his words easing the knot of anxiety in your chest.

Joel’s lips find yours once more, slower now, deeper — a quiet affirmation that you’re still the centre of his world. His body presses against yours with a gentle hunger, a need tempered by patience. He moves with such care, as if worshiping the new contours of you, reminding you with every touch and every kiss that your worth has only grown.

When he slides inside you again, the warmth of him fills you, grounding you in the moment — in the love that’s still so fierce, so raw, so beautifully unbreakable. His hands never leave you, never once making you doubt that this is where you belong: wrapped in his arms, cherished beyond words.

The night stretches on, and though your daughter sleeps just a room away, the quiet intimacy you share with Joel feels like a secret haven—one where your fears can fall away and only love remains.

[em1989ts]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟

robert "bob" reynolds x reader

word count: 1.9k - masterlist

summary: bob had been helping you out by occasionally doing your laundry, but when you come back early from a mission, you find out he might've had some selfish motives

contents: panty thief bob, kinda perv! bob, m! masturbation, caught in the act, handjob

author's note: i'm so glad i have time to write again, i have so many wips just sitting in my google docs (dw one is survival of the fittest p3), and hopefully i will get them finished soon. i've been completely captivated by bob/lewis pullman for the last month but five hargreeves still has my heart dw

proofread, enjoy!

Years ago, you’d always imagined what it would be like for the Avengers to return to their glorious tower in the middle of Manhattan after a mission. Landing on the side of the sparkling skyscraper in a quinjet seemed like such an inaccessible fantasy when you were just starting out as a lowlife vigilante. 

You never would’ve imagined that years later, you would live that very life you’d dreamed of. 

The mission had gone rather smoothly, so smoothly in fact that instead of returning to the tower by late afternoon, you, Walker, and Ava made your way off the jet about twelve hours earlier than expected. 

Since the task had been completed without casualties and was rather inconsequential, Walker decided that the three of you should wait until breakfast for a mission report with the other avengers. 

“Now you can get back to your boyfriend that much faster, you’re welcome,” he had said smugly to you on the way to your quarters. 

You knew exactly who he was talking about. 

While you were still warming up to living with your new somewhat reclusive and impolite roommates, Bob was different. Yes, he was shy, but he did seem to be the most respectful of the bunch. He had his flaws but that didn’t stop him from trying to be a good person, for his new teammates and for himself. 

Out of everyone, he was the one you turned to the most, the one you felt most comfortable with. You could tell he had grown accustomed to you as well, often finding him spending time reading or napping in your room. Of course, you didn’t mind. 

Knowing how tempted he was to rot in his room, you were glad he could find comfort in your space. Occasionally, he gained the motivation to do the dishes or a couple loads of laundry, anything that would give him a sense of accomplishment, and possibly some praise from you. 

“He’s not my boyfriend, Walker,” you said, exhaustedly rolling your eyes before bidding Ava goodnight as she disappeared into her room. 

“Right, he just does chores for you and follows you around like a lost puppy because he’s just a loyal teammate,” Walker sarcastically retorted as he opened his bedroom door, giving you a smirk before he disappeared for the night. 

You ignored his comment as you made your way to your bedroom, stationed farther down the hallway. Passing by Bob’s room, you noticed the door was slightly ajar, the darkness from the room seeping into the dimly lit hallway.

You stopped in your tracks as you tried to peek in the small opening to the room before walking closer, slowly creaking the door wider to see inside. With a quick flick of the lightswitch on the wall next to the door frame, the room illuminated before you to reveal Bob’s empty bed, sheets messy and pillows scattered.

If he wasn’t here, there was only one place he could be. 

You flicked the lightswitch, darkening the room once again before gently pulling the door closed and continuing your way towards your room. 

Bob had slept in your room many times before, but he had never stayed the night. He would nap during the day while you were downstairs training in the gym or in a conference with the team, since he wasn’t quite ready yet to participate.

Occasionally, you would lie next to him as he flipped through a novel, sometimes asleep from the exhaustion of your work as an avenger, other times awake and admiring his concentrated face as he consumed each page with a deep enthusiasm. 

You approached your bedroom door with caution. The door was completely shut, the darkness and utter silence seeped under the door. An image of Bob flashed across your mind — him laying in your bed, his book still open in his hand, his thumb holding his place between the pages, mouth slightly open as his head lay peacefully on your cotton pillowcase.

Half of you wanted to just let him be and just sleep on one of the many couches in the living room, where several pillows and blankets had accumulated from the team’s movie nights.

The other half of you however was so exhausted from your mission and ached to retreat to your own bed that you didn’t mind sharing it, especially with Bob. 

As quiet and gentle as you could be, you twisted the silver door knob and pushed your bedroom room open. The dim hallway light created a small path of sight in front of you, before it was outmatched by the darkness. You quickly tip-toed into the room and closed the door behind you, the faint click barely audible as the door shut completely. 

The rooms in the compound were quite large – with their own personal bathrooms and a good amount of floor space. 

It took you a while to get used to the new layout, but after some time you memorized it enough to navigate your way to your bed in the darkness. There was a small hallway when you first walked in, and as you calmly walked through, you expected to turn and faintly see Bob, illuminated by the faint moonlight shining through your window, completely oblivious to the world as he lay asleep.

But what you actually found when you turned the corner, well, you definitely could not have expected it. 

Splayed across your bed, wearing a black shirt that lay high on his abdomen, exposing his toned abs, and a pair of grey sweatpants that were tugged down almost to his knees. His eyes were shut tight. Not with sleep, but with devoted concentration. 

You froze in place for a moment, before quietly moving to hide behind the corner of the wall, peeking out of the darkness to witness the scene before you. 

His lip was bitten between his teeth, head thrown back as he worked his hand, stroking himself. You noticed something in his hand as you stared, a familiar pair of underwear you hadn’t realized had been missing till now. 

Now that you thought about it, you had been missing quite a few pairs since Bob had started helping you out with your laundry. 

The soft cotton of your white panties wrapped around Bob’s cock was a sight unexpected, but not unwelcome. 

As he lay in your bed, whines slipping through his teeth, bucking into his fist, you stood quietly across the room.

Your thighs squeezed slightly as you watched him, so needy in your own bed, completely unaware you had come back early to catch him so vulnerable. 

His curls had fallen over the beads of sweat on his forehead, and his pace was growing more reckless. He brought his hand that had been grabbing at your comforter to his face, covering his mouth as his moans became harder to stifle. 

You would’ve loved to watch as he made himself come undone in your bed, but where would that leave you? 

Leaving your hiding spot, you stealthily made your way over to your bed. His eyes were still closed tightly, so he didn’t notice your presence until you spoke. 

“So, that’s where those went.” 

His eyes flew open, looking up to see you looking down at him, and he froze. One hand stayed put around his cock, and the other moved to cover as much of his face as possible, hiding his utter embarrassment. 

“Oh– I’m sorry – I-” 

Bob had no idea how to explain himself. 

Yes, he had been sleeping in your room while you were away on missions. His room was just too lonely and your bed smelt like you. He just felt so much more comfortable surrounded by everything that reminded him of your presence even when you weren’t there. 

Yes, he had taken a few pairs of your underwear from your laundry. He didn’t want to seem weird, he was so afraid of scaring you off. He just wanted . . . some material, and surely you wouldn’t notice just a couple items going missing, right? 

And yes, he had been . . . relieving himself in your room. Again, it smelt so much like you. He had already spent a majority of his time there. He was just too nervous to tell you how he really felt about you, how much he really needed you, craved you even.  He made sure his visits were completely undetectable afterwards, and he always locked the door. Almost always, anyway.  

He was mortified. The one time he realized he forgot to lock the door, there you were, staring down at him in his most vulnerable moment. 

Your hand threaded through his brown locks as you looked down at him. He peeked between his fingers to watch your face – you didn’t seem that upset. 

Your pupils were dilated as your eyes scanned over him, stopping to watch his still hand around himself, before looking back up to meet his eyes. 

“Can I help with that?” 

His eyes grew wide as he groaned, his shoulders dropping their tense stance as his hand dragged down his face, “Please.” 

You motioned for him to scoot over, as he quickly scrambled to give you room. He watched with wide, anticipating eyes as you climbed onto the bed with him, laying directly to the side of him.

With one hand, you turned his chin towards yours, and encapsulated him in a kiss. 

The kiss was smooth, soft, yet he almost embarrassingly whined into your mouth. He finally had a taste of you, and it would be impossible for him to let go. 

His free hand pulled you closer from the back of your neck, as you reached down blindly and replaced his other hand with yours. 

As your thumb carefully brushed over his tip, he moaned through your lips. You kept moving your thumb in slow circles, and he had completely fallen apart. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, attempting to hide his flushed face and you kept working your hand so perfectly around him, especially with your own panties now in your grasp. 

You felt his breathy moans against the skin of your neck as he tried to bury himself into you, tugging you as close as possible as he moved his arm around your waist, bucking into your hand. 

His moans turned into whines as he grew more sensitive by the second, and it wasn’t long before he gently bit into your neck, and spilled all over your fist. He could’ve melted into you as he came, having never felt so blissful in his life. His hips kept shaking until he stilled, no longer able to handle the overstimulation. 

Reaching over to your bedside table, you pulled a couple tissues from their box and gently cleaned him up, as well as your hands, before tossing your panties across the room into your laundry basket.

You admired his face for a moment, eyes closed and mouth left slightly open, as his head lay back against your pillow, before carefully tugging up his boxers as his sweats. 

You thought he had already fallen asleep, as his chest was steadily falling and rising with every breath, however when you went to rest by his side, his arms wrapped around you and pulled you close, resting his chin on the top of your head as you smiled into his chest, a bit more thankful that he’d been doing your laundry.

~~~

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — blazed . . . sweetheart!matt

in which . . . the universe shrinks to just you and matt, and nothing else matters but the way he feels.

warnings . . . smut , making out , car sex , unprotected sex , riding , praise kink , size kink , creampie.

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #1

the night air is soft and cool, brushing your skin through the cracked window as matt’s car hums quietly beneath you. the two of you are parked just outside the city, the lights fading away into a dark sky dotted with stars—like the universe put on a private show just for you two.

you lean your head back against the seat, heart already fluttering even before matt’s hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they were made for it. the way he looks at you is like gravity pulling you closer, a silent promise whispered without words.

you try to steady your breath, but it’s impossible. the whole world feels suspended, held in this moment that’s both intimate and infinite.

“you ever think about how wild it is?” matt’s voice is low, barely louder than the night around you. “like, of all the people on this planet, it’s just us right here, right now.”

you nod, your fingers tightening around his. “it’s kind of crazy.”

“yeah.” he smiles, that shy little thing that makes your chest ache. “like fate or something. like we were always supposed to find each other.”

you meet his gaze, feeling the truth of it in the way your heart pounds. “yeah.”

the music playing softly in the background seems to wrap around you both, the lyrics drifting through the car like a secret only you share.

matt shifts closer, his breath warm on your cheek. “i wanna make this last forever,” he murmurs, voice thick with something you can’t quite name. “you, me, right here. nothing else.”

your breath catches, familiar heat pooling low in your stomach as his hand slides to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone gently.

you lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, the tension between you electric. when you open them again, matt’s lips are just inches from yours. slow. deliberate. waiting.

“can i?” he asks softly, the vulnerability making you melt.

“yes,” you whisper back, barely able to contain the rush of feeling.

his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s everything—soft and hungry, sweet and urgent all at once. your hands find his chest, while his hands trace the curve of your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you, just heat and breath and the dizzying certainty that this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

you get lost in the moment—the way his lips move against yours, the way his fingers thread through your hair, the steady beat of his heart under your palm. it’s magnetic, like falling into a star you never want to stop orbiting.

the world outside the car disappears completely, leaving only the two of you wrapped in a private bubble of warmth, love, and light.

and as the kiss deepens, his fingers slip beneath your shirt. the heat between you flickers and grows, promising so much more—promising a night you’ll never forget.

but for now, it’s just this—this perfect, blazed moment under the endless sky, where you belong in his arms and nothing else matters.

matt pulls away, panting, his hands reaching down to his jeans and tugging the zipper down. you take the cue to rid yourself of your shorts and panties, lifting your hips to slip them off and drop them in the floorboard. your turn to matt, and he’s already got his boxers and jeans down to his mid-thighs.

“c’mere, baby,” matt motions you over, to which you climb over the center console, plopping down on his thighs. he groans softly as he feels your warm wetness start to spread across his even warmer skin. “fuck, you’re so wet…”

your face flushes deeply at his truthful but humiliating words, dropping your gaze down to his cock. matt hooks his slender finger underneath your chin, dragging your gaze back up to his face. god, he found it so cute that you were so bashful. “gonna ride me, sweetheart?” his voice is sickeningly sweet.

your teeth sink into your plush bottom lip as you nod, looking up at him with big, glossy eyes. matt drops his hands down to your bare hips, lifting you up so that you’re hovering above his erected length.

you help him out, lining him up with your dripping entrance. “deeep breaths, baby,” matt reminds as he starts lowering you down onto him. you let out a whine at the delicious stretch—the fullness.

“fuck, you’re tight.” matt groans, and the sound of his voice alone has you clenching around him. his hands trail down to your ass, cupping it firmly, fingers digging into your flesh. matt looks at you with that questioning look, to which you nod, giving him the ‘okay’ to start moving you up and down.

he tightens his grip on your ass, lifting you up and bringing you back down on his cock, a loud moan leaving your lips. “matt…”

he starts moving you faster, the sound of your ass coming down on his thighs ringing in your ears. each time he drops you back down, his tip brushes your cervix, bruisingly delicious. you swear you’re seeing stars already, and it’s all thanks to matt.

“fuuuck…feels good, sweet girl?” matt rasps, his voice almost as shaky as your ragged breaths. “y-yes, i—mmph—“ you’re cut off by your own moan, unable to keep your head up any longer and dropping your face into the crook of his neck.

matt chuckles softly—shakily. your walls clamp down on him at the sound, eliciting a gasp from the both of you. “shit, baby, you feel perfect—god, this pussy was made for me,” matt groans, tossing his head back, starting to move you up and down faster, the sounds of your skin plopping down against him growing louder and wetter.

you feel his cock pulsing inside you, the feeling only heightening your pleasure, the knot in your gut tightening. matt feels your walls flutter around him, and he starts thrusting up into you, his grunts getting noisier. “fuuuck, sweetheart—keep takin’ it just like that. squeezin’ me so good—makin’ me so proud.”

“m-matt—“ you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders as he starts hitting your sweet spot dead-on. “yeah, baby? you close?” he grunts, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. you nod desperately, eyes squeezing shut and jaw falling slack. “just a little longer, princess…m’almost there.”

your whiny moans get more prominent, which only drives matt closer to the edge. you feel his cock twitch inside of you, and you’re not sure if you can hold it any longer. “matt, i—i can’t—“ you babble.

“give it to me, baby. i’m right behind you.” matt encourages. you snap. you feel it first in your core, then in your chest, then everywhere—white-hot and all-consuming. your body quivers on top of him, tears pricking your eyes as you cry out. matt relishes in the feeling of you creaming on his cock, which sends him straight over the edge. he grips you tighter, hips stuttering as a rush of heat blurs his thoughts and leaves him gasping as his load shoots deep inside you.

you lift your head so you can see his face and god, he looks gorgeous. he leans in, lips brushing over your jaw with a quiet, “you okay, sweet girl?” you nod, too blissed out to speak. he smiles.

“good. ’cause i’m not even close to being done with you.”

author’s note . . . HI!! first fic of the marathon 🥳 hopefully this was a good kickoff! and thanks to bae @sturnsblogs for proofreading 😁 ALSO im doing a different layout and color scheme for this marathon, but afterward it’ll be back to usual!

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @zenithsturniolo @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @mattsgracie @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo

© cayleeuhithinknott

[syrecjh]

─ .✦ ˚˖🌷✧˚Windows Between Us

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

Bakugo’s room smells like the aftermath of something electric — scorched dust, citrus shampoo, and the lingering tang of his sweat after training. Kirishima once said it smells like wanting to impress someone.

He nearly got launched for it.

The BakuSquad is sprawled like fallen warriors across his bedroom floor — half into a video game, half into arguments about snacks. Laughter bounces off the walls, messy and unfiltered, as summer leans in through the open windows like an eavesdropper.

And then —

a thunk.

A sharp, featherlight sound against glass.

Bakugo’s gaze flickers, not startled, just… expecting.

Because he knows that sound.

It’s not the wind. Not a bird. Not a glitch in the universe.

It’s you.

The girl next door. The girl in the window across from his. The girl who throws things when she can’t knock.

A little scrunched ball of notebook paper rolls down his windowsill like it’s shy. There’s another just outside the glass — a second one, crumpled with intent. You’ve clearly missed once already.

Katsuki crosses the room with slow, practiced boredom, but his ears are already warm.

He pushes open the window a little more, and there you are — half-hanging out of yours, elbow propped, face alight with mischief. Summer clings to you like perfume. There’s ink on your fingers. Your braid is unraveling.

“Oi, Bakugo,” you call, a grin curling at your lips, “next time catch it. I’m running outta paper.”

Behind him, a chip hits the floor. Mina stills mid-bite. Kaminari’s eyes widen like he’s watching a soap opera unfold live.

Bakugo doesn’t even glance back at them.

He leans an elbow on the sill, all loose limbs and lazy confidence, but his eyes — gods, his eyes are soft like smoke just before it sparks.

“What, throwing rocks wasn’t an option?”

You scoff. “Didn’t want you thinking it was an attack. I know how you get.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“You could’ve answered.”

There’s a beat — just the buzz of a streetlamp, the rustle of the curtains, and the faint sound of Kaminari whispering oh my god, oh my god behind him like a cursed chant.

You smile wider, resting your chin on your hand. “You ghostin’ me, or are you just playing hard to get?”

Bakugo’s gaze dips to your mouth. “Wouldn’t ghost you. You know that.”

You hum. “Then why’d you disappear after last night, huh? I thought we were bonding.”

He shrugs, but his voice lowers. “Didn’t wanna say something stupid in front of you.”

“Aw,” you coo, voice drenched in teasing affection. “What, like how pretty I looked under the streetlight?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but the smirk’s already there. His hand tightens slightly around the windowsill. “You fishing for compliments now?”

“I’m fishing for attention,” you say, tilting your head. “And I caught you.”

And then, fate curses you with timing.

You lean forward just enough — and catch a glimpse in his mirror. A blur of crimson. A flash of pink. The unmistakable sound of Sero choking on his drink.

“Oh my god—” your whole body yanks back like the window frame bit you. “You have people over?!”

Bakugo doesn’t move. Just watches you vanish like mist into your curtains.

“You didn’t tell me you weren’t alone!” your voice shouts from somewhere behind your blinds.

“You didn’t ask,” he shoots back, smug.

Bakugo grins — a slow, lopsided, shit-eating thing that does things to your stomach.

“Didn’t think I’d flirt with you in front of witnesses?” he calls after you, still not glancing behind him.

You pop your head out again, mortified. “I—I would’ve worn lip balm or something!” and then you suddenly disappeared out of embarrassment.

He chuckles — low, deep, smug — and finally turns back to the chaos that is now his living room.

Mina has tears in her eyes. Kirishima is frozen in pure secondhand embarrassment. Sero’s already got a draft tweet written in his brain. Kaminari is vibrating.

“She’s adorable,” Mina whispers in awe.

“She’s doomed,” Kirishima mutters.

Bakugo pulls the crumpled paper from the sill and pockets it like it’s valuable.

Then, slowly, like a lion lounging in the ruins of his own chaos, he turns back toward the room. His face is unreadable. Except for that smile — that quiet, victorious, absolutely whipped curve of his mouth.

“She likes you,” Kaminari gasps.

“Damn right she does,” Bakugo replies, and plops back onto the beanbag like the whole world didn’t just catch him soft.

And no one says a word when he glances back at the window one last time, just to see if you'd peek again.

[jinjoohaa]

The Guard Dog

Pairing - Toji fushiguro x reader (bodyguard! AU)

CW: explicit content, oral, teasing, light degradation, p in v, penetration, obsessive behaviour, shower sex, breeding kink, titplay, cocktalk, begging kink, power dynamics, dom sub dynamics, 18+ MDNI.

prev | next | M. list

Chapter 9

You stepped into your room, your gait still slightly uneven from the ache blooming across your body. Toji followed behind you, slow and reluctant, like a soldier heading into battle.

You sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over your shoulder.

"I want oil," you said simply, voice soft but commanding.

Toji raised an eyebrow. "You think I came ready for this shit?"

You gave him a look. "You fucked me like you hated me last night. You're lucky I'm not asking for a chiropractor."

Toji grumbled something under his breath, disappearing into the bathroom. He came back with a bottle of almond-scented body oil you probably kept for spa days.

He locked eyes with you as he held up the bottle. "You better shut up and stay still. This ain’t gonna be romantic."

"It’s not supposed to be," you replied with a small smirk.

You were already face down on your bed when Toji walked in, towel slung over his shoulder, irritation practically radiating off him.

"You better not make me regret this," he muttered.

"You won’t," you said, glancing back with a sly smile. "Unless you’re too old and tired to handle giving me a massage."

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"You wanna get spanked again, huh?" he growled, voice low and warning.

You hummed, stretching slightly so your tank top rode up, revealing the soft slope of your back and the faint bruises he'd left the night before. "Maybe."

Toji let out a slow breath through his nose. "You're testing me."

"Shirt off. Shorts too. Don’t be a brat."

You shimmied out of your shorts, cheeks warm from his commanding tone. The air grew heavier when your tank top slid over your head, leaving you in nothing but your panties.

He climbed on the bed beside you, his weight sinking into the mattress. The first touch of his hands—large, rough, and warm—was a balm and a curse all at once. He poured a bit of oil onto your lower back and began to rub it in, fingers pressing into the sore muscles.

You hissed at the first deep press. "That hurts."

"Yeah? Maybe next time, keep your damn legs closed when I say stop," he muttered.

You turned your head to the side to glance at him. "You’re the one who lost control, old man."

Toji’s hand cracked down lightly on your bare ass cheek. Not hard, just enough to remind you who you were talking to.

"Shut it."

You giggled, despite the dull ache in your thighs. "You’re enjoying this."

He ignored that. His hands traveled lower, kneading into the curve of your hips, thumbs tracing bruises he left the night before. His touch softened slightly there, and for a moment, it almost felt like care.

"Didn’t expect you to take it all like that," he muttered. "Thought you'd cry halfway."

"I did cry halfway."

"And still kept begging. Fuckin’ insatiable."

You lifted your head. "Why don’t you flip me over and find out how insatiable I still am?"

Toji exhaled sharply, like you were testing every last shred of restraint he had.

"You keep pushin’, and you’re gonna get more than just a massage."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

He paused. His hands slowed at your lower back. Then, without a word, he pressed a hand to your shoulder and rolled you onto your back.

"You really don’t listen, do you?" he said, voice dark now. "Always so damn needy."

You grinned up at him lazily. "You made me this way."

Toji leaned over you, hovering, his body radiating heat. He poured a bit more oil in his palm and began rubbing it over your belly, just under your breasts, circling with deliberate slowness.

"So soft," he muttered, mostly to himself. Then, louder: "You know this is fucked up, right?"

"You already said that." Your eyes locked with his, bold despite the flutter in your chest. "But you still came back."

His jaw tightened. He dragged the oil down to your thighs, fingers spreading you slightly, brushing just barely over the places that made you twitch.

"Not gonna fuck you again," he said, though the thickness in his voice betrayed him.

You bit your lip. "Okay."

He looked surprised. "That easy?"

You nodded. "Just want your hands on me. That's all."

Toji’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He didn’t say anything else. He just kept massaging, his touch alternating between rough and tender, like he was still trying to figure out what the hell you were doing to him.

Toji straddled your thighs, his big hands settling on your lower back. You jolted slightly at his touch—warm, rough palms gliding over tender bruises.

"Hurtin'?" he asked gruffly, voice softening just a little.

"A little," you whispered.

"Good. You earned it."

Your toes curled.

His hands were maddening—firm, slow, possessive. He kneaded into your shoulders, gliding down the slope of your back, deliberately brushing the sides of your breasts as he moved.

"You're quiet," you teased after a moment. "Still mad at me?"

"Still thinking about smothering you with this damn pillow," he muttered.

You giggled, shifting your hips slightly. "That’s not very nice."

He leaned down, his breath ghosting over your ear.

"Neither are you."

You bit your lip.

His hands slid lower, slipping under the waistband of your panties, kneading into your hips.

"Fuck," he murmured under his breath. "These damn marks..."

"You made them."

He grunted, not denying it.

You arched back into his hands. "Feels good though. I could fall asleep like this."

Toji paused. "Don’t push it."

You smirked. "What? I’m just being honest."

His hands stilled.

"You keep wiggling your ass like that, you're not getting a massage—you’re getting bent over this fuckin' mattress again."

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes.

"Was that supposed to be a threat?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You little brat..."

You smiled wider. "Is that what you called me last night? Brat? Slut? Little cocktease?"

His hand landed lightly against your cheek. A light slap, but it echoed in the silence.

You gasped, eyes widening.

"You remember everything, huh?" he asked, voice low and filthy now. "You liked it."

You nodded, slowly.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. Then another. Then a bite.

"You wanna get teased? Fine. Turn over."

You obeyed, lying on your back as he pushed your thighs open, straddling your legs again. His eyes roamed your sore, marked skin.

"Look at you. All fucked out and needy."

You squirmed.

"Use your words. You want more?"

You nodded.

"Say it."

"I want more, Toji. Please."

He smiled darkly. "That's what I thought."

He grabbed the oil again and slicked his fingers, dragging them down your chest, over your breasts, rolling your nipples between calloused fingertips until they were aching.

You gasped, arching into him.

"Such a needy little slut," he whispered. "Gonna get my fingers now, huh? Not enough cock last night?"

You whimpered.

His hand slid down between your legs. "You're soaked. Filthy girl."

You tried to answer, but he shoved two fingers in deep, curling them instantly. You cried out, hips bucking.

He kept going, slow and torturous.

"Not gonna cum yet," he growled. "Gonna keep you on the edge 'til you beg me."

"Toji—please—"

He pulled his fingers out, slapping your clit lightly.

You whimpered.

And still—he smiled.

"Massage, huh? This is what you wanted?"

You choked a breathy yes.

He chuckled. "Then lie still. I’m not done with you yet."

He slicked more oil onto his fingers, pressing them against your tight slit before pulling them out slowly, watching your juices drip back into your waiting folds.

"Pathetic," he growled, lining his thick cockhead at your entrance. "Still leaking all over me. Want me to fill you back up? Or would you rather I just sit here and let you lick my cock?"

Your breath caught. "Lick your cock... please," you whispered, voice trembling.

Toji smirked. He sank onto the bed beside you, carefully positioning your head between his thighs. His large hand guided your mouth up his length. "Kiss it first. Show me you remember how hungry you are."

You obeyed, wrapping your lips around him gently, tongue sliding over the velvety shaft, tasting him. He watched you, eyes dark, head tilted back.

"Better," he murmured as you bobbed your head, squeezing your cheeks just enough to direct you. "Look at yourself, whore. On your knees, slobbering my cock like a good little slut."

He pushed your head down suddenly, forcing more of him into your throat. You choked, gagging around him, tears streaming, but the sensation of his thick girth filling your mouth stole any protest.

"That's it," he groaned. His hand closed around your hair, holding you tight. "Take it all. Show me how much of my cock you can deep throat."

Your eyes watered, but you inhaled, swallowing around him as he thrust into your mouth, edging his movements.

He pulled out with a loud pop and you gasped, sputtering. He didn’t wait.

With one swift motion, he flipped you onto your back, hovering over your hips. He slicked his cock with oil and pressed the tip against your entrance.

"One mistake and I pull out," he warned, voice low. "Don't you dare cum again. You sit on it and stay on it, do you understand?"

"Y-yes, Toji," you whimpered.

He positioned you, the thick head parting your folds and slipping inside. You felt every inch, burning and stretching you, hotter than last night.

He leaned back on his arms, watching. "Ride. Slowly. Don't ruin it. I'm watching that face."

You sat up carefully, impaling yourself on him. The weight of him inside you made your toes curl.

"Fuck, look at you," he growled. "All stuck on my cock like a desperate little slut. You love this, don't you? Love feeling me stretch you out."

You nodded, tears mixing with sweat. He leaned forward, pressing you into his chest.

"You wanna cum? Beg me. Beg like last night," he taunted.

"Please, Toji—please let me cum—from this cock—" you sobbed.

He slapped your ass, making you gasp. "Beg better than that."

"Please let me cum for you, Sir. Please..."

He smirked, but didn’t move. "Not yet."

He shifted his weight, making you moan around him. The friction threatened to push you over the edge, but he maintained perfect, cruel stillness.

Minutes passed, you riding him, marinating in your own desperation. Finally, his hand slid down to your clit, rubbing hard in circles.

"Soon?" he asked softly, voice tinted with pleasure.

"Yes... please... I'll be good..." you managed.

He nodded once. "Good enough."

With that, he pulled out completely and you fell forward onto his chest, both of you panting.

He rolled you onto your side, sliding back inside in one powerful thrust, filling you so deep that you both cried out.

"That's better," he murmured against your ear, stroking your hair. "Now, quiet."

Toji’s hand brushed along your thigh, warm and insistent, urging you upward. "Say it," he demanded, voice rough.

You blinked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "What... what?" you whispered.

He pressed his forehead to yours. "What do you want, princess?"

You swallowed hard, heat pooling in your stomach. He waited, patient and predatory.

"Do you want my cock?" he asked softly, thrusting another inch inside.

"Yes," you breathed, trembling. "I. . .I want your cock."

He groaned, hand tightening on your hip. "Where do you want it?"

You arched into him, voice husky. "Inside me. Deep inside me."

His lips curved into a dark smile. "And what are you going to do with it once I'm in there?"

You closed your eyes, lips parting around a breathy moan. "I'll bounce on it. I'll ride it. I'll take every inch."

Toji's grin turned feral. "Fuck me then. Show me how good my princess is at riding cock."

He pulled out slowly, then slammed back inside. You gasped as he held you flush against his chest.

"Say it!" he barked.

"I love it!" you cried out, determination in your voice.

He chuckled darkly. "Louder!"

"I LOVE YOUR COCK!" you screamed, trembling.

His hands fisted in your hair and thigh. "That's my girl. Now ride me."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, bouncing up and down, each movement making the heavy head of his cock slice in and out, thrilling.

"Like that?" you moaned.

"Like a good slut," he growled.

"More! More!" You moved faster, the bed thudding beneath you, your world a blur of ecstasy.

"I'm gonna cum!" you warned, thrusting hard.

He smirked. "Not yet. Beg."

"Please—please let me cum, Toji—" you begged, voice cracking.

He leaned in, voice low. "Say why you deserve to cum."

"Because I’ll be good!" you sobbed. "And. . . And I'll be behave!"

He paused, then slammed into you so hard you saw stars. "Then cum for me, princess."

You shattered, convulsing around him, your scream echoing in the room.

He followed you seconds later, groaning as his hot cum filled you deeply.

They both collapsed in a sweaty, sated heap, your breaths mingling.

Toji's hand found yours, thumb brushing your palm.

"You good?" he murmured.

"Yes..." you whispered against his chest.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Good."

And as you drifted toward sleep in his arms, you realized you never wanted anything else.

You woke to the ache of dripping water in your hair and the muted echo of the shower running. Toji was already inside the bathroom, steam curling around him like a haze, silhouette strong and commanding under the warm spray.

"Come here," he said without turning, voice low.

You stepped in behind him, pressing your bare chest against his back, wrapping your arms around his waist under the torrent of water. He stiffened for a moment before setting the bottle of shampoo aside.

"Hands off," he muttered, palm flat against your belly. "I’m cleaning you, not you teasing me."

You smiled against his shoulder. "I want to bath with you. Feels better when you wash me."

He sighed, but didn’t pull away. "Turn around."

You spun, water dripping down your cheeks as you faced him. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his chiseled chest.

He grabbed the soap and lathered your back in thick, slippery suds, the rough pad of his fingers scrubbing every curve. You closed your eyes, relishing the pressure.

"Mind if I help?" you asked innocently, grabbing the soap from his hands.

He frowned but didn’t refuse. "Fine. But don’t play."

You ran the sudsy hands over his torso, down his abs, teasing the trail to his hips. He shivered involuntarily.

You paused at the front of his boxers, the fabric soaked and clinging. Without thinking, you shoved your hand inside, rubbing the head of his cock, gently.

Toji hissed, hand clamping around yours. "I said no games."

You shrugged, continuing to stroke slowly. "Just rinsing you off."

He growled low in his throat, fingers squeezing your wrist. "One more move like that, and I’ll..." He swallowed hard, voice thick. "I’ll have to punish you again."

Your heart pounded, but you couldn’t stop. You freed his cock from the waistband, slick with water and soap, and began stroking harder, watching the droplets run down its length.

Toji’s free hand fisted in the shower rail. "Princess—stop it." His voice cracked on the word.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to the head and flicking your tongue before pulling back to stroke his shaft. "You want more? I can wash you real good..."

The handle of the shower rattled as he gripped it. "That’s enough!" he barked.

You bit your lip, tugging his boxers down further. "C’mon, toji..."

His mask of control shattered. He grabbed your hair roughly, yanking your mouth onto his cock in one violent motion. You gagged softly but bobbed your head, taking him deep.

He cursed above you, hands bracing on the tile wall. The angle made him jerk in your mouth, his hips stuttering.

You moaned around him, sliding your mouth up and down, letting the soapy water mingle with your spit for a slick, filthy taste.

"Fuck—shit!" Toji groaned, fisting his cock and thrusting into your mouth. "This is stupid..."

You looked up through watering eyes. "Stupid slut cleaning you, sir."

That was all it took. With a strangled roar, he pulled you off, spewing his hot release onto the tiled floor, chest heaving.

He stepped back, panting, water mixing with his cum and rushing down the drain.

You blinked at him, chest rising and falling. "Better?"

Toji swallowed hard, jaw working. Then he reached for the showerhead, rinsing you thoroughly.

"Stand still," he said, his voice softer now.

You nodded, allowing him to wash away the last traces of soap and cum. He shampooed your hair gently, massaging your scalp, fingers gliding through the tangles.

You sighed, tamping your wet hair to your shoulders. "Thank you," you murmured.

He shook his head, expression unreadable. "Don’t thank me."

You stepped out, dripping, and he handed you a towel. As you dried off, he rinsed himself quickly, then reached for a fresh towel.

He dried you first—body, hair, everything—wiping away the last droplets. Then he brushed his thumb over your cheek, collecting a drop of water.

"You alright?" he asked quietly.

You nodded, leaning into his thumb. "I am. Thanks to you."

He exhaled slowly. "You should go to bed. You look exhausted."

Your legs wobbled, and he caught you before you could collapse. He led you to your bed and tucked you into the rumpled sheets.

"Sleep," he said, voice gentler than you’d ever heard.

"Good night, Toji," you whispered.

He lingered at the door, looking at you with a rough tenderness. Then he turned and left without another word, heading off to resume his duties. You drifted off, comforted by the memory of his touch and the steady assurance that even after all the madness, Toji Fushiguro would always be there watching over you.

to be continued in the next chapter. . . .

Comment down to get tagged for the next chapters. Also I started a backup account in case something happens to my current one - just to be safe lol, So if y'all are interested, @jinjoohaa-blog do follow ! This is an 18+ blog. If you're a minor, do not interact or follow — you will be blocked. If your age isn't in your bio, I’ll assume you're underage.

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[elliesbabygirl]

PROLOGUE: SUBMARINE

SYNOPSIS: Midterms were crushing you—and so was she. Maybe she was the right person at the wrong time, or the wrong person at the right time. Either way, none of it mattered when she was next to you.

WARNINGS: 18+, alcohol + drug use, cheating, swearing, mentions of tattoos + body mods (piercings), arguments, blood, partying, pining, sexual tension, eventual smut. slow burn with fluff and angst.

SUBMARINE; MASTERLIST

“Ellie, just stop!” you snapped, voice sharp and cracking at the edges.

Your chest heaved, your hand white-knuckled around the doorframe. You were done. Drained, past the point of biting your tongue and hoping she’d figure it out on her own.

Ellie froze.

She stood in the hallway, rain still clinging to her hoodie, a crumpled paper bag of peach rings in one hand, and a wilting bouquet of lilies in the other. They looked pitiful in her grip. She looked worse—hair a mess, eyes rimmed red, like she hadn’t slept in days.

Like regret had finally caught up to her.

But it was too late.

I can’t keep doing this,” you said, each word like a slap across her face. “You show up with candy and flowers like that’s going to fix the way you cheated on me. Like I’m some backup plan you can crawl back to when the guilt starts eating you alive.”

Ellie’s eyes flicked down to her busted-up Converse, soaked and scuffed from the rain. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again—trying to force out another apology, but nothing came.

The look in her eyes wasn’t just guilt, it was panic.

It was the realization that maybe this time, she had actually wrecked something for good.

The apartment door hung halfway open between you, like a wound that hadn’t decided whether to scab over or bleed out.

Maybe both.

“I waited for you,” you said, quieter now, colder.

“I waited like an idiot. I defended you to everyone. I told them you were just ‘figuring things out.’ But what kind of person comes back only when it’s convenient?”

The words hit her hard.

She swallowed it all, but her silence said enough—this wasn’t a misunderstanding.

This was who she was.

Who she is.

“I’m tired of being an afterthought, of being something you run to when everything else burns down.” You took a shaky breath, voice cracking on the last line.

“This? Showing up here with some half-assed peace offering? It’s just another reminder that I mean nothing to you, and I can’t keep breaking myself to believe otherwise.”

Ellie’s face twisted, raw and wrecked.

Like she wanted to scream.

Like she wanted to throw the flowers and the candy and herself off the damn balcony.

But all she did was stand there, blinking fast, shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself small enough to disappear.

She’d tattooed dozens of people with trembling hands, but nothing had ever left her this unsteady.

She had hurt you.

Not with fists, not with lies.

But with absence, silence.

With her carelessness.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, finally.

But it was too soft, too late.

Too broken to be anything else but one more weight on your chest.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—that it had once all felt so easy.

cause, what if you hadn’t walked into her tattoo shop that night, back when midterms had fried your brain and the neon WALK-INS WELCOME sign in the window hadn’t felt like a cosmic invitation?

What if you hadn’t asked, awkwardly, if she was free—and what if she hadn’t looked up from her sketchbook with those tired green eyes and said, “Yeah, I got time”?

What if that night had ended there?

No late-night boba after your appointment.

No music passed between random texts.

No 2 a.m. rants about life, or the quiet way she’d trace the inside of your wrist when you laid next to her, like she was sketching a map only she could read.

What if you hadn’t fallen?

What if she hadn’t let you fall.

You could’ve been strangers.

You could’ve walked past her on campus, maybe noticed the sleeve of tattoos creeping down her arm, maybe even remembered her face—but that would’ve been it.

Just another passerby.

You’d never know how she kissed like she had something to prove, or how she pulled away when things got too real.

You’d never learn how she was all fire and retreat—how she lit you up just to leave you in the dark.

If you’d never met her, you wouldn’t be standing here now.

You wouldn’t feel like your ribs were caving in just from looking at her.

You wouldn’t be torn between missing her and hating how much you still did.

But you had met her.

And she had loved you—just not in the way you needed.

So now she just stood there, dripping rain and guilt, saying “sorry” like it could rewind time.

And all you could do was stare back and wonder how something that started with a simple walk-in ended like this—two lovers, on either side of the door, with no idea on how to close the distance.

author's note: hey....how y'all doing...! Welcome to SUBMARINE, Run Your Mouth's older sister😭 this series is from 2024, which I never ended up publishing since I didn't have the confidence to, back then. I've been revising this series for the past few weeks and I think it's tome to let you guys have it. Fair warning, that it's original ending was and WILL end in heartbreak, so no happy ending with ellie... sorry!

Do let me know...If you want to be featured in the taglist..considering I want to publish the first chapter tonight....hopefully😭

[callikari]

MOON RIVER ★ P.SH

PRECIS 。 two drifters off to see the world, there's such a crazy word to see. moon river, wider than a smile.

박성훈 x fem!reader 66O fluff angst soft romance ─ emotional intimacy comfort crying heavy emotions skinship kissing

REBLOG FOR A KiSS

the rooftop is warm with summer air, the stars blinking shyly above the quiet hum of the city.

the party downstairs is still going, but neither of you care. not when the sky looks like this. not when you’re beside each other like this. not when the night feels like a secret shared between two hearts that never really stopped beating for one another.

you sit next to sunghoon, shoulder to shoulder. his hoodie sleeves are pulled down over his hands like always, and he’s got that distant look again. the one that makes you ache a little.

you glance over at him. “what are you thinking about?”

he blinks slowly. then, “do you think there’s a version of us… somewhere out there, that never lost each other?”

your breath catches. “sunghoon…”

he doesn’t look at you.

you reach for his hand under the fabric, threading your fingers through. “i think there’s a version of us right now that’s still here. still trying.”

that’s when he finally turns.

his eyes are glassy. lower lashes wet. he tries to blink it away, but a tear slips down anyway.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbles, voice cracking. “i don’t—i didn’t mean to ruin tonight—”

“hey,” you whisper, heart clenching. “you didn’t ruin anything.”

he shakes his head, but the tears come anyway—thick and quiet and heartbreaking. he hides his face in his hands like he’s ashamed of it.

you move closer instantly, gently pulling his hands away from his face. your thumbs stroke his knuckles as you cup his cheeks with both hands.

“sunghoon,” you say softly. “look at me, baby.”

his lashes flutter, red-rimmed eyes blinking up at you. and god, he looks so young like this. like a boy who’s been brave for too long. like someone who just needs to be held.

“i’m so tired,” he chokes out. “i don’t know why it hit me now. i just… i miss when things were easy. when it was just us. i—i wanted to protect this. protect you.”

you hush him gently, thumbs brushing his damp cheeks. “you don’t have to protect me from your feelings. you’re allowed to cry. you’re allowed to fall apart with me.”

he leans into your palms like they’re the only steady thing in his world. his lip trembles a little. “i hate crying in front of people.”

you smile softly, brushing a tear from under his eye. “i’m not people. i’m yours.”

his breath hitches at that, a broken little sound in the back of his throat.

so you scoot even closer, tucking his head into the crook of your shoulder. your arms wrap around him completely now, warm and tight, and you kiss the crown of his head once. then again. and again.

“you’re okay,” you whisper into his hair. “you’re safe. i’ve got you, baby. i’ll always have you.”

he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, but you don’t. you just keep rocking him gently, like the world outside doesn’t matter. like he’s your whole universe.

and in a way, he is.

after a while, the sobs slow down. the hiccups turn to quiet breathing. and his fingers curl into the hem of your shirt like a child clinging to something soft in the dark.

“thank you,” he whispers hoarsely.

you kiss his forehead this time. “anytime. always.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, face still puffy but calmer now. “you make everything feel okay.”

you grin. “that’s because we’re two drifters, remember? off to see the world.”

he sniffles. “moon river?”

you nod. “you and me.”

and he smiles, all teary-eyed and soft. “i love you.”

your hands slide back up to cradle his face again, and you kiss his nose, then the corner of his lips.

“i love you more.”

he closes his eyes and lets himself melt into you completely.

and beneath the moonlight, two tired hearts rest against each other. not broken. not lost.

just finally safe.

vi says :: i absolutely love frank ocean oh my gosh

enhypen taglist :: @nocturnebite @cheruphic @chrrific @jungwonbropls @manariees @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ijustreallylike2read @nicholasluvbot

© CALLIKARI 

[randombush3]

DROGA

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Based on Droga - Mora, C. Tangana

I apologise for any whiplash experienced while reading this x

[…]

The sea breeze whispers through the open doors of Alexia’s room in this year’s off-season villa, curtains billowing as though they are gently signalling her to get on with her day.

She groans when she wakes up alone.

She hasn’t yet grown accustomed to that.

With groggy eyes and blurred thoughts, as she sits up, the only thing that comes to mind is you. Last year. Italy and beautiful memories in that suite. A balcony that wasn’t as private as you had decided.

She smiles. She frowns.

If it were up to her, she’d do it all again. “Fuck Ibiza,” she’d say, and book somewhere for the two of you. She would get to know you once more, close the chasm that ruptured your relationship.

“Alexia!” Someone is shouting her name from outside. Probably Jenni, already in a bikini, halfway to drunkenness despite the sun still lingering in the east. “Alexia-a!”

“¿Qué quieres?” she barks back, wincing at the tension in her tone. She told herself she would be cool. Adaptable. Even if the roof has been blown off her house of love and only the skeleton is left.

Alexia shakes her limbs as though the pricks on her insides will disappear. Methodically, she prepares herself to have fun. She will have fun. She’s fine.

Jenni and Leila. It’s Jenni and Leila who ruin her mood.

As she has already reassured herself, she’s fine. But now she’s drunk. And she’s thinking — thinking about things. You, mostly. What happened. How it was entirely accidental on her part.

She didn’t give you her heart. It was a robbery. Stolen by smashing down walls and sweet-talking her into staying the night and going on dates and falling love. Alexia didn’t do love before you. Drunk-Alexia declares to Jenni and Leila that she will not be doing love after you, either.

“You’re still in love with her,” Leila says, eyes glistening under the warm string-lights draped across the imaginary walls of the villa’s patio. Her smile is encouraging. Satisfied.

Alexia is shaking her head. “But if I saw her with someone else”—she’s still disagreeing at this point—”I’d make a scene.”

“Oh, surprise, surprise,” Jenni drawls.

The laughter comprises of only two voices.

Much later, when drunk-Alexia has forced water down her throat and, when that didn’t quite fix her wobbling vision and hazy bad ideas, two fingers, she stumbles into the bed she commenced this miserable day in. Still alone. Still fine.

Still tossing and turning as if she might replicate the feeling of your body beside hers.

Still talking to herself, because her thoughts don’t quiet even though she has no one to share them with.

When Jenni shouts at her from the next room (“SHUT UP, ALE!”), she accepts the prompt to embark on her next step to bring herself closer to sleep.

Alexia, who scoffed at deep-breathing during her recovery and despises the inertia of yoga, meditates.

And it doesn’t fucking work.

Perdona la hora

It’s the first test she has sent you in three weeks. Perhaps it is pathetic that she hasn’t even lasted a month without you.

You read the message instantly.

You don’t reply. She doesn’t really know what to say past sorry.

The pain doesn’t get better. Alexia considers investing in pharmaceuticals — only some miracle drug could fix this.

You’re driving her wild and you’re not even here. No, you left. The absence is felt.

Your lingering presence is loathed.

Three dots appear as she continues to stare at the violation of post-break-up etiquette she couldn’t help but resign to.

Hola…

You must have spent a long time thinking about what to say. She’s comforted by the idea of you struggling just as much as she is. She is obviously more fine than you. So she’s winning. Even if she didn’t get a choice to participate in this competition.

Ibiza passes then. Almost in the blink of an eye.

On the final night, they get her drunk again and she calls you. “Try it with me again, even if it doesn’t last long.” She’s begging. She never does that.

“Alexia,” you warn. Your voice is hoarse. She must be upsetting you.

“I don’t want to look for you in other people,” she confesses.

You close your eyes.

“Please don’t say that.”

“But I mean it.”

“She means it,” chimes in an equally-hammered Leila.

You wince at how your ex’s friends are mocking her. You wince again when you catch yourself pitying your ex.

“Venga, vale.” Oh, that sounds like Jenni, although her tone is unusually responsible. “Say sorry for the late call, Ale.” You catch a murmured apology down the line.

“It’s fine, Jenni.”

Jenni chuckles, but this is separate from anything else you’ve been subjected to for the past twenty minutes.

“Have a nice evening,” she replies.

You’re free after that. Lying alone in your bedroom, boxes packed up and stacked in the corner. The ceiling is dull and grainy as your eyes slowly lose focus. You will yourself to sleep but the aching in your chest won’t let you float away.

In a month’s time, you will no longer feel this way. You’ll be somewhere else — somewhere free and new and exciting. You’ll meet someone else.

You solidify the mantra in your mind. You march around Barcelona with the promise silently playing on repeat. Your final days in the city are carried out with the enthusiasm of a dilapidated merry-go-round.

“You’re a pessimist,” is what your best-friend labels you as she chains you to her on her overly extensive shopping trip. “Or a nihilist.”

“I just no longer give a fuck.”

Her lips press tightly together. Then she looks you up and down.

“Mhm.” It’s not a sound that a convinced person would make. “You know, you’re allowed to admit you’re sad.”

“I’m the one who wanted it,” you protest. You’re not sure why you are arguing.

“I mean…” She trails off and doesn’t finish her sentence. You glare.

You know what she wants to say.

“Go on.”

“No, no,” she insists with a smirk. Perhaps this is a trap.

“No. Say what you wanted to say.”

Your firmness makes her laugh. Ridiculed, you turn your back and bless a rack of linens with your attention instead. She can fuck off with her truths and assumptions and oddly perceptive advice.

“She’s angry,” says Alba at the dinner table, fingers rubbing the dents in the wood she herself had made as a child in this very house.

Alexia looks up from her plate. Her mother has been alert to this impending topic since they all sat down for dinner, but she delays her intervention, awaiting a response from her eldest child.

The women hear a loud gulp. “How do you know that?” It’s sharp. Cutting. Alexia’s investment is poorly veiled.

“I saw her the other day. With a woman.”

“What did she look like?”

Alba thinks for a moment, trying to recollect details that really were just meant to provoke. She probably should have expected an interrogation so that’s on her. When she remembers, she says, “brunette. Small. Pija, I don’t know.”

“Her friend.”

Alba raises an eyebrow at her sister’s firmness. “Anyway, yeah. I saw her with her friend or whatever. She looked bummed the fuck out. And kind of… bored.”

“Sad and bored?” Alexia could jump for joy at this very moment.

She’s so winning.

She doesn't need to invent a drug because maybe you’ll do it before her.

You performed some kind of witchcraft on her, she has concluded in recent days; you put a spell on her. Perhaps you had read about it. You were always reading.

You remind her of a dog who always runs away but goes straight home when it is finally set free.

She should resent it, but she feels mildly inclined to remind you what it feels like to be close to each other. Plus, she’s not sure anything else will blunt the knife piercing through her chest.

Perdona la hora

Her teeth sink into her lip as she sees her message go through.

Otra vez, she adds.

She imagines you must be more reluctant to read it now that you have no certainty regarding her alcohol intake.

Hola Alexia

Something like disappointment settles in her gut.

K quieres?

Alexia signed her way into this without reading the small print.

No sé — typed out hesitantly.

Three dots appear. It’s as if you can see her burning alive and are finding even more cans of fuel to douse her in.

Your response is a statement. A deflection.

You called me

Alexia could make a thousand excuses. She settles on ‘I was drunk’. She cannot bring herself to explain the truth.

You begged, you text back, instantly. You said “try it with me again”

This could be an addiction. She’s never satisfied. She never will be — not when it comes to you.

Well I still mean it.

You take a long time to even start typing. She rolls over onto her side, tucking her elbows into her stomach and bringing her phone closer, as if examining it with care will provide solutions for unspoken problems.

You left without saying goodbye: Alexia wants to say that, to send the message she has already typed out. It’s hardly productive but it means a lot to her. If you knew the impact your stupid fucking breakup text has had on her life this last month… well, maybe you’d at least grant her the mercy of no longer replying to her.

Alexia doesn’t even know why the hell she’s texting you right now in the first place.

You type. You stop. You restart.

You bite your lip and kick at your duvet, suddenly far too hot under the covers.

You sigh and you delete a word.

You type some more.

You take a deep breath.

Then come here.

You both know that she will.

[clementineinn]

listen to the bookman!

abstract: two BAU agents find themselves caught in a different kind of tension — not the kind that cracks cases, but the kind that lingers in glances and slips between the lines of shared quotes.

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

genre: fluuuuuff

word count: 8.5k

note: i've been writing sm, but i haven't posted anything bc lowk i feel like my stories suck lol, but i'm just gonna pull the trigger and post this one. it is fluffy, which, sorry, i can't help myself, but i do have some angsty pieces in the works! enjoy!

The rain had started just after nine.

Not with thunder, not with fanfare. No lightning stitched across the sky, no windswept leaves gathering like whispers in the gutter. Just the quiet insistence of it — that slow, silver curtain descending from nowhere in particular. It arrived without urgency, as if it had always meant to come, as if it had only been waiting for the world to quiet down enough to notice it. A soft percussion, delicate and steady, like fingers drumming idly along a windowsill — not to fill the silence, but to settle into it.

Each drop struck the windshield with the hush of intention, tiny cymbals against glass. They gathered at the edges of the wiper blades, collecting into trembling rivulets before slipping downward in uncertain paths, distorting the view beyond until the whole street looked underwater — houses sagging in reflection, lamplight warping into golden haze. Time itself seemed to slow beneath the weightless repetition of it. Not stopping. Just stretching, the way long nights tend to do when nothing moves and everything matters.

The wipers stirred only now and then, slow as breath, like they too had fallen under the spell of the storm. Each sweep was reluctant — a lazy gesture through the fogged glass that cleared a temporary view before the rain returned, gentler still, like it meant to stay. Outside, the town had curled into itself: porches darkened, curtains drawn, the world behind doors gone still. What little light remained flickered in warm, amber pools across wet pavement, refracted in puddles that looked deep enough to fall into and dream.

Inside the car, the rain made a kind of silence that had nothing to do with sound. A hush that lived beneath the noise, pressing in close, like a held breath waiting to be released.

Their SUV sat parked along a narrow, tree-lined street — the kind where the sidewalks cracked in quiet places and the air still carried the faint scent of cut grass and wet bark. The federal government plate gleamed dully beneath a film of rain and road grit, a muted badge among leaves clinging to the bumper like the last breath of autumn. The vehicle itself had become part of the scenery now: quiet, unmoving, patient.

The Bureau had been called in days earlier, summoned like a needle to thread together the frayed edge of a town unraveling. A string of disappearances — ordinary people, vanished in the soft blind spots of routine. No witnesses. No patterns that held. No certainty. Only shadows, and the kind of silence that pressed too close to the bone. And so tonight: surveillance. One house under suspicion. Two agents in the field. Spencer and Y/N, seated side by side in the long, slow hush of a stakeout that had yielded nothing but hours and the strange intimacy of shared breath.

It had been hours already — the kind of time that stopped meaning anything. The kind that crept into your bones and curled there.

Across the street, the suspect’s house sat inert, draped in a stillness that felt almost deliberate. Its windows were dim behind gauzy curtains, pale rectangles of nothing. No movement. No flicker of motion behind glass. Only a single porch light humming softly in the rain, casting its weak yellow glow over the sagging porch steps and the glint of wet shingles. A weathervane spun once above the roof — a slow, indecisive turn, more gesture than warning — then stilled again, as if it too had grown bored of waiting.

The rest of the neighborhood had long since folded into sleep. Porch lights clicked off, one by one. Televisions flickered behind drawn blinds, scenes playing to no one. Cars glistened in parked rows like resting beasts, their hoods wet and gleaming. Everything had gone hushed. Held.

At the far end of the block, a lone red bulb blinked on a motion sensor, pulsing faintly against the damp concrete of a driveway slick with rain. It flared, then dimmed, then flared again, like a slow heartbeat echoing down the empty street.

Somewhere deeper in the neighborhood — faint, almost imagined — a wind chime stirred. Not with wind, but with memory. A sound delicate and eerie in the stillness, like the echo of something forgotten.

It was the kind of street that, on nights like this, made even trained minds question what was real. The kind of quiet that softened the shape of fear. That made the air feel too gentle for anything to go wrong.

And yet.

They watched. Because danger never did ask permission. It simply waited, like they did now — cloaked in rain and silence, eyes fixed forward, hearts just a little louder in the quiet.

Inside the car, the air held the slow warmth of people who had stopped pretending they weren’t tired. It was the kind of warmth that built over hours — gathered from breath, from body heat, from shared silence that had nowhere else to go. It clung faintly to the glass, fogging in soft curves around the edges of the windshield, curling up along the side windows where no one had spoken for a while. The scent was a mix of things that didn’t quite belong together but somehow fit: the faint sharpness of old paper, the damp wool of Spencer’s sweater sleeves, and the thin, bitter ghost of gas station coffee steeping in the bottom of two stainless steel travel mugs in the console.

The dashboard lights glowed a dim green, casting soft geometric shadows over the interior — across the grain of the steering wheel, the uneven crease of Spencer’s slouched coat, the glint of rainwater still clinging to the doorframe. The SUV felt like its own small world now, floating somewhere just outside of real time.

Spencer sat in the driver’s seat, his posture relaxed in that very particular way of someone who never truly let his guard down. A worn paperback was open across his knee, its spine softened from too many readings, the corners curled. His fingers moved absently along the edge of the page, not turning it yet, just holding the weight of it. A pen was tucked behind his ear — not needed but always there. The sleeves of his cardigan were shoved to the crook of his elbows, revealing the pale, fine angles of his wrists, the delicate bones that made him look more scholar than federal agent. His coat was balled up behind him, crushed into the space between his seat and the door. It looked like insulation. Or a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

Y/N sat sideways in the passenger seat, curled toward the window like she’d grown into that shape — one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched lazily out, her socked foot resting against the center console in a quiet, unconscious nudge. Her boots were somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. The rhythm of her breath fogged the glass just slightly. Her head tilted, chin propped in her hand as she followed the rain across the windowpane — not watching the house, not really watching anything. Just letting the storm draw soft, meandering shapes down the glass, like an artist sketching something only she could see.

Outside, time moved on without them — steady, indifferent, marked by the soft blink of porch lights switching off and the deepening hush of a town folding itself into sleep. The world beyond the windshield turned in its usual way, unaware that anything was waiting.

Spencer turned a page.

The sound was nearly silent — just the faint rasp of paper moving against paper, the quietest breath of motion in a space that had forgotten what sound was. The overhead light remained off — too conspicuous, too artificial — but the dashboard cast a low, steady glow across his lap, enough for his eyes to follow the words without strain. In that dimness, he looked almost like a ghost of himself: all sharp planes and soft lines, caught somewhere between thought and presence.

He looked oddly comfortable for a man halfway through a ten-hour surveillance shift. But then again, Spencer Reid had never needed comfort to look at ease — only stillness. And this night, at least on the surface, had given him plenty of it.

Across from him, in the passenger seat, Y/N shifted.

It was the kind of movement that drew the eye without trying — slow, unhurried, the kind of stretch you made only when your body had started to mold itself into the shape of a seat. She drew her knees up onto the leather, curling into herself, not out of tension but out of familiarity. One hand rested lightly at the base of her neck; the other dangled off her knee, fingers relaxed, half-curled.

Her gaze still followed the long, translucent trails the rain carved down the glass — eyes tracking them like someone reading a foreign language slowly, line by line. Outside, the world blurred into shape and color: yellow porch light, dark trees, the soft distortion of reflections in wet pavement. But her eyes didn’t flinch from the blur. She just watched, quiet and still, like she might stay that way until morning.

They hadn’t spoken in some time.

But silence, here, was not a gap to be filled — it was a rhythm. A heartbeat. A third presence in the car, curling around them, holding everything that hadn’t been said.

Until—

“Any movement?” she asked, voice low — not tense, not expectant, just soft, like a thread being tugged out of habit more than hope.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward the house across the street, his gaze cutting through the layers of fog on the windshield and the distortion of raindrops sliding down the glass in lazy, luminous streaks.

Nothing.

No lights. No shift behind the curtains. No silhouettes pacing in backlit windows. Just the soft, constant hush of the storm and a porch that had grown too still to feel natural.

He shook his head, eyes drifting back to his page. “Nope. Not since the cat around eight-forty.”

That pulled a sound from her — not quite a laugh, more like a small, amused exhale. A puff of disbelief softened by affection. She turned toward him, one brow arched in gentle accusation.

“You logged the cat?”

Spencer didn’t look up. Just flipped a corner of the page with the back of his knuckle, as if this were the most obvious response in the world.

“He was orange. Limped on the right paw. Could be important.”

She smiled then — faint, but real. Not at the cat. Not even really at the joke.

At him.

At the way he said it with no trace of irony. At the way he watched the world like every detail might hold the thread that could unravel everything. At the way his voice had settled low for the night, mellow and worn like the spine of the book in his hands.

It was barely anything.

And still, she found herself holding on to it.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

But it wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded explanation. It wasn’t brittle or impatient. It simply stretched between them, soft and steady, the way old friends might fall into rhythm without needing to fill it with sound. The rain had become a background hum — steady, hypnotic — wrapping the SUV in a cocoon of warmth and fog. Every so often, the wipers traced a slow arc across the windshield, a half-hearted attempt at clarity.

Spencer flipped a page with the careful precision of someone who didn’t just read — someone who studied, who inhabited, who listened to the echo of every sentence long after it was gone. The movement was unhurried, like time didn’t touch him here.

Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, the curve of her neck exposed in the dashboard’s low green glow. Her eyes slipped closed, lashes brushing the skin beneath her brow. Not sleep. Just stillness. The kind that only found her when the storm outside was louder than the one inside her mind.

Then — a pause, a breath, a beat too long.

Her voice broke the hush like a pebble tossed into a still lake.

“What are you reading?”

Spencer didn’t glance up. Just lifted the book slightly, eyes still scanning the page.

“Persuasion. Austen.”

That made her lift her head again, brow raised, an amused spark catching behind her gaze.

“Seriously? I pegged you more as a Brontë man.”

“I like the Brontës,” he said easily. “But Austen’s prose is more psychologically nuanced. And Anne Elliot is arguably one of the most emotionally complex heroines in English literature.”

Y/N blinked once, slowly.

“Okay, but does she walk across moors dramatically in the rain?”

Spencer arched a brow at that, finally looking up, mouth twitching at the edge.

“You do know it’s raining right now, right?”

She smiled — wide this time, unguarded, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and didn’t rush away. She stretched her legs out, shifting in her seat until her sock-clad foot nudged his knee lightly — a small, familiar touch that didn’t feel like much until it did.

“Fine. Read me something.”

He hesitated, thumb holding his place on the page.

“From this?”

She gave him a look, dry and warm.

“No, from your weather log. Yes, from that.”

He didn’t ask why.

Didn’t smirk or prod or ask if she was serious. He just flipped back a few pages, slow and unhurried, his thumb dragging lightly over the paper as though reacquainting himself with the rhythm of the words before they even met the air. A quiet breath slipped past his lips — not a sigh, not nervous — something centered. Then he cleared his throat gently, and began to read.

“My idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation.”

His voice was softer when reading — less clinical, less tightly wound than usual. Like the cadence of someone telling a story they remembered too well. It slipped easily into the space between them, filling it with something light but tangible. Familiar. Almost fond.

She smiled again, but this time it was smaller — quieter. The kind of smile that tugged at one side of her mouth, just enough to mean something, just enough to give her away. It wasn’t for him, not fully. It was for the moment. For the sound of his voice. For the line.

“And is that why you’re stuck in a car with me?”

Spencer looked over at her, gaze steady, not blinking. Not teasing.

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.”

Y/N gave him a look — half-amused, half-skeptical, but undeniably warm — then turned back toward the window with a faint shake of her head, lips still curled. Her breath touched the cold glass in front of her, fogging it just enough to leave a small, crescent bloom where her exhale had landed.

For a while, the only sound was the rain — a steady hush against the roof, soft and constant. Like the sky had decided to whisper all night and had no plans of stopping.

Time passed like that — not fast, not particularly slow, but in that strange, viscous way time has when nothing moves and everything feels like it might. The kind of time that didn't announce itself, only lingered in the stillness, tucking itself into corners: the curve of a seatbelt, the soft click of a shifting jaw, the rhythmic sweep of wipers.

Outside, the street held its breath. Inside, the car did too.

Spencer had already read two chapters. Probably more, if she was being honest. His eyes flicked across the pages with that impossibly fast rhythm she’d grown used to, but still found quietly bewildering. He turned each one with the same reverent calm, the motion so habitual it was almost unconscious — as if his hands knew the story before his eyes did. Not a single sentence read aloud since the last one she’d asked for. But the air still felt full of his voice.

The silence had begun to thicken. Not unpleasantly. Just noticeably. The kind of quiet that made you suddenly aware of the sounds your own body made — the shallow pull of breath through your nose, the slow shift of fabric over your knee, the faint, traitorous beat of your pulse.

It was sometime past ten.

Y/N had already counted the porch lights on the block — seven, two dimmer than the rest. She’d played a mental guessing game with the silhouettes behind living room curtains: game show, drama, rerun of something laugh-tracked. She’d reorganized the snack bag in the backseat by color, then by noise level, then by expiration date. Her left sock was bunched and bothering her, but not enough to fix. Her boot had begun to tilt inward from where it sat abandoned under the dash.

Meanwhile, Spencer remained exactly as he’d been: spine straight, expression unreadable, a small vertical crease between his brows — not from stress, but from focus. That peculiar kind of stillness that only sharpened his edges.

And it was all just a little too much.

She couldn't take it anymore.

“Okay,” she said at last, her voice slicing softly through the quiet — not a jolt, but a ripple. Like a pebble skipping across still water, breaking the surface just enough to catch his attention. “Let’s play a game.”

Spencer glanced up from his book. The low green light from the dash slid across the lenses of his glasses, catching on the faint smudge of a fingerprint. His pen was still poised between his fingers, tucked neatly into the crease of the page like a placeholder he hadn’t meant to use. He blinked once, slow, thoughtful.

“What kind of game?”

Y/N turned toward him more fully now, folding her leg up beneath her, sock brushing the console. She narrowed her eyes with a mock-serious squint, the dramatic tension undercut by the small smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Quote battle. You read a line, I name the book, and vice versa.”

Spencer tilted his head — that precise, birdlike angle she’d come to recognize as curiosity. He looked at her as if analyzing the strategic value of her challenge, weighing outcomes and probabilities in real time.

“What do I get if I win?”

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, lighting her face like something just a little dangerous. “What do you want?”

He blinked once — visibly computing, as if she’d just asked him to solve something unexpectedly complex. His eyes darted slightly, then settled.

“Control of your iPod on the jet for a week.”

“Deal,” she said immediately, hand flicking outward like she was signing a contract in the air. “And if I win, you buy me coffee every morning until next Friday.”

Spencer considered this with the seriousness of a man preparing to enter diplomatic negotiations.

“So… eight days?”

Her brows arched, delighted. “You already did the math?”

His mouth twitched — just slightly. “You challenged me.”

She gestured toward the book in his lap, chin tilted like a dare.

“Go on then. Hit me.”

He flipped a few pages back, fingertips grazing the dog-eared edges with the ease of someone who had memorized the landscape of a book — its weight, its breath, the way the spine folded in his palm like it belonged there. His eyes moved fast, scanning the text like wind moving through leaves. Then he found it. He cleared his throat quietly, a low sound that somehow deepened the stillness between them, and read aloud:

“She had the kind of beauty that hurt to look at—sharp, aching, and likely fatal if mishandled.”

His voice dipped naturally into the rhythm of the line — not performative, not dramatic, just soft and sure, shaped by memory and admiration. The words seemed to hang in the warm air of the car long after he stopped speaking.

Y/N squinted, angling her head toward him like she was turning a puzzle over in her mind.

“That’s not Austen.”

“No,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, equal parts pleased and impressed. “It’s Tana French.”

She hummed, a low sound of appreciation, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Well played.”

“My turn?” she asked, already shifting her weight, her voice curling with anticipation.

He nodded once, resting the book lightly against his knee. “Hit me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

Her voice was steady, quiet, but carried the weight of something familiar — a line so worn it gleamed like glass:

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Spencer blinked. Once. Then again — not out of surprise, but recognition.

“Jane Eyre.”

“Too easy,” she sighed, the corners of her mouth twitching with mock disappointment. “Fine. You go.”

He thumbed through another page, slow and deliberate now, though his eyes still moved with that rapid, uncanny rhythm — like he wasn’t just reading but indexing, cataloging, selecting the perfect thread to pull. His fingers paused near the middle of a chapter, pressed gently to the margin like he needed to feel the weight of the words before he let them leave his mouth.

When he read, his voice was casual — too casual. That smooth, practiced kind of nonchalance that only ever meant someone was trying very hard not to reveal too much.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The words drifted out into the warm hush of the car like smoke — slow and curling, heavy with implication. And for a beat, they just hung there. Not long. Not really.

But it pressed.

Pressed into the stillness. Pressed into her.

Y/N turned to look at him — slowly, like she already knew what she’d find. Her lips curved upward just enough, not a full smile but something sly and edged with disbelief.

“Are you quoting Pride and Prejudice at me right now?”

Spencer kept his gaze trained on the page in front of him, but the corner of his mouth twitched — a single, unspoken tell.

“Would it be weird if I was?”

“Only if you keep using Mr. Darcy’s lines on me.” She nudged his knee with her socked foot — not hard, just enough to feel him there, solid and warm beside her in the dark. “That man proposed like he was submitting a complaint to management.”

That did it.

Spencer finally looked up — really looked — and smiled in a way he rarely did. Wide, teeth showing, the kind of grin that cracked across his usually composed face like sunlight through drawn curtains. His dimples appeared, sharp and genuine, softening the angles of him until he looked startlingly young. He wasn’t trying to hide it. Not tonight. Not from her.

“And yet,” he said, tone rich with mock solemnity, “he’s one of the most beloved romantic heroes of all time.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, letting the words tumble out on a half-laugh, half-breath, “everyone loves a man who can’t express emotion without sounding like he’s about to faint.”

Spencer tilted his head, still smiling, eyes never leaving hers.

“That likely depends on whether you’re Elizabeth or Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

She let out a laugh — not loud, not sharp, but quiet. Contained. The kind of sound that stayed close to the chest. The kind that wasn’t just amusement, but recognition. Affection. A small flare of something bright held carefully in her hands.

“You know,” she said, nudging his knee again — gentler this time — “this whole thing is starting to feel suspiciously like flirting.”

Spencer looked up slowly.

His smile stretched wider this time — all teeth and dimples, that rare, utterly unguarded kind of grin he only seemed to wear around her. It softened everything. His posture, his face, the ever-present weight between his brows. He looked… happy. Genuinely so. And that alone made the moment tip slightly, like the air around them had taken one breath too deep.

“Only suspiciously?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Well, if it is,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “you’re doing it very… academically.”

“That’s the only way I know how.”

“I figured.” Her lips quirked, but there was affection behind it now — warmer, quieter. She shifted in her seat again, drawing her knees back up beneath her, curling into the corner like she meant to stay there. Her shoulder bumped the inside of the door; the toe of her sock pressed softly to the edge of the console.

“Next quote, Doctor Reid.”

He turned another page, but this time his fingers slowed at the edge — like they were no longer moving just to move. His eyes flicked down the page, scanning, not quickly now, but deliberately. He stopped halfway down, and when he spoke, his voice was lower. Smoother.

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.”

The quote settled in the warm dark between them like smoke. Light, but dense. Fragrant with intention.

She didn’t guess this one.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, she watched him — not startled or shy, just there with him in the moment, fully. Her gaze held steady on his face for a second too long, her expression unreadable but soft, like she was seeing something she hadn’t let herself look at before. Then she turned her head slightly, eyes drifting out the windshield toward the still-dark house.

Her voice followed a moment later — quieter now, but not hesitant.

“You always pick the romantic ones when it’s just me.”

Spencer didn’t reply.

Didn’t have to.

The words didn’t need answering. They weren’t a question. They were something else entirely — a thread unspooling gently in the hush between them, tying things together she hadn’t named until now.

They hung in the air — not heavy, not awkward, just suspended. Like a truth neither of them had to rush to touch.

And still, it pulsed there. Quiet. Unspoken. Real.

Outside, the rain picked up.

Not all at once. Not with drama or force. Just a slow thickening — a soft insistence in the air, the kind of weight that settled gently over rooftops and sidewalks until the world seemed wrapped in water. The drops came heavier now, tracing long, uninterrupted streaks down the windshield like tears that didn’t know they’d fallen. The rhythm changed — not frantic, but full. A lullaby in another room, low and constant, the sound of the earth exhaling.

Thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, too far to startle, too soft to fear. It rolled low and wide, more suggestion than presence — a storm that circled like a thought you couldn’t quite finish.

Inside the car, the change was quieter still.

But it was there — the kind of shift you felt more than saw. In the way her hands stilled completely in her lap. In the way his thumb lingered on the edge of a page, but never turned it. In the way he closed the book softly, without ceremony, and let it rest across his thigh like something that had given him all it could for the night.

The space between them wasn’t wide. It hadn’t been for hours. But now it felt different — a kind of nearness that didn’t ask for attention, only acknowledgment. A quiet hum building beneath the sound of rain, shaped like something waiting to be named.

Y/N stretched again, slow and languid, like the warmth of the car had melted into her bones. Her jacket was folded between her seat and the door, a makeshift pillow that carried the faint scent of wet wool and worn leather. One leg tucked beneath her, the other lazily extended until her knee nudged against Spencer’s on the console — light, casual, but not accidental.

“You look comfortable,” he said, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. The corner of his mouth tilted up, that soft glint in his eyes reserved only for her.

She shrugged, gaze still half on the glass, where the rain stitched silver threads across the surface.

“We’ve been here for hours. I’m adapting. Survival of the fittest and all that.”

Spencer glanced toward the house again, letting the moment breathe.

Still no movement.

“It’s not like you to go stir-crazy,” he said, voice soft, shaped around the edge of a smile.

Y/N turned her head toward him, slow and deliberate, the overhead glow catching the curve of her cheek. Her voice was quieter now, touched with teasing, but threaded through with something gentler.

“Yeah, well,” she murmured, mouth curving, “you’ve been reading Austen aloud like it’s bedtime, and frankly, I’m beginning to feel a little wooed.”

Spencer blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and mild academic protest.

“Austen is statistically one of the most romantic authors in the Western canon.”

She grinned, shifting her weight just enough for her knee to bump against the console again — light and unthinking, like contact was instinct by now.

“That’s what I’m saying. I feel like I should be fanning myself.”

He turned slightly in his seat, angling toward her without seeming to think about it — the space between them closing in degrees, subtle and slow. His hands rested in his lap, but his focus was fully hers now.

“Would you prefer I quote something less romantic?” he asked. “Something clinical?”

She narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching as she stared him down.

“If you quote a math theorem at me, I’m getting out of the car.”

“In this weather?” he deadpanned, glancing meaningfully toward the rain-streaked glass.

“Dramatic exits don’t wait for ideal conditions.”

That pulled another smile from him — unguarded, his dimples deepening as his features softened in the glow of it. He looked younger that way. Brighter. Like someone who had just been handed permission to be seen.

And then, quieter:

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Her brows pulled together immediately, the shift in tone catching her with something almost like concern.

“You didn’t.”

Spencer looked down briefly, then back up, his voice a little steadier now — like it mattered to say it right.

“I just… wasn’t sure if the quoting thing was crossing a line.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, eyes still on his face, watching him with the kind of attention that always made him feel like she saw more than he said. The light from the dashboard cut softly across his features — caught the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the almost imperceptible movement as he swallowed.

And still, her gaze didn’t waver.

She caught the flicker in his eyes — the way his gaze dropped for a beat too long, as if a thought had slipped loose before he could catch it. Just a brief shift, but enough. Enough to feel the weight behind the silence. Enough to see that he was second-guessing something, maybe everything.

So she leaned in. Not dramatically, not to close a distance, just slightly. The kind of movement you made when you didn’t want to startle a bird. Her voice was low when it came, warm and unhurried — teasing in that familiar, sideways way that made space instead of closing it.

“Relax, Romeo,” she murmured, the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth easy, natural, hers. “If I didn’t like it, I would’ve made you switch to case reports an hour ago.”

That earned his attention.

Spencer glanced over at her — and this time, he didn’t just look. He saw. Really saw her. Not as the agent beside him. Not as the person he’d been sitting with for hours. But as something else. Something specific.

It was the kind of gaze he usually reserved for the rare things — uncrackable ciphers, strange celestial maps, pages too dense for most to decipher. But it was softer now. Focused. Unflinching.

And all of it was hers.

Y/N held his gaze, still smiling, still pretending — barely — that her heart wasn’t crashing against her ribs like it had just realized it had skin to break through. She didn’t drop her eyes. Didn’t tease further. Just let the quiet bloom around them.

And then, a little quieter, more honest than before:

“You don’t do it with anyone else. Just me.”

The pause that followed wasn’t long.

But it held.

Not because he didn’t have something to say — but because she’d already said enough.

Then she huffed a breath and leaned back again, her body folding into the curve of the seat like she was trying to retreat from the tension she’d just sewn into the air. She reached for levity — not to deflect, but to steady the moment, to give it room to breathe. Her voice dropped just enough to sound offhanded, even as something more trembled just beneath the surface.

“You’re going to make someone very confused one day, Spencer. Using Austen as a flirtation tactic is very dangerous.”

He turned to her fully now, one brow arching with exaggerated skepticism, the edge of his mouth fighting a smile.

“Dangerous?”

“Highly.” She waved a hand vaguely in the space between them, her tone mock-serious, but her gaze held steady on his face. “All this charm and intellect and emotional repression—it’s a lot.”

Spencer laughed — really laughed. The sound burst out of him light and breathless, and it startled even him a little. He tipped his head back, shoulders shaking for a beat, that rare, beautiful sound filling the car like light through fogged glass.

“That’s… an interesting interpretation.”

She smiled too, lopsided and knowing. A little crooked, a little fond. The kind of smile that came from watching someone unravel gently, willingly.

“I’m just saying,” she said, voice softer now but still playfully edged, “if you keep quoting Persuasion at girls in the dark, someone’s gonna fall in love with you.”

This time, he didn’t laugh.

But the smile lingered — soft and shaped with something quieter. Something he didn’t need to dress up in humor or hide behind logic. It tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth like a secret wanting out.

He just looked at her.

And said, voice barely above a whisper:

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened.”

That was when the air changed.

Not in a loud, crashing way — but in the way the atmosphere does before a storm rolls in. The kind of shift you feel before you see. Pressure dropping. Something pulling low and deep in your chest. The hush before lightning splits the sky.

Her heart stuttered once — a quiet, startled rhythm behind her ribs.

But she didn’t move.

Neither did he.

They just sat there.

Knees brushing. Shoulders angled slightly toward each other. Breath held just below the surface. The thunder rolled again, low and blooming in the distance, but it felt closer now — not in the sky, but in the space between them.

And the silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was brimming with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they almost had.

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say — but because whatever had just passed between them was still in the room, still in the air, like dust lit by a headlight beam. It hovered. It clung. It needed space to settle.

And when the quiet returned, it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t companionable or easy. It was charged. Dense with possibility. Like a radio dial turned just off-center — all static and hum, vibrating with the shape of words that hadn’t been spoken but still somehow filled the space.

Neither of them moved.

Not at first.

The rain whispered steadily against the windows, carving glass into trembling river lines. The cabin of the SUV had grown warmer, breath-fog softening the edges of the world beyond it. The outside was blurred. The inside was bright with everything they weren’t saying.

Eventually, Y/N shifted — slowly, like she didn’t want to startle the moment. Like she was wading through it. A deer through tall grass.

She stretched her legs down from the seat, her sock brushing the base of the console as she moved. Not restless — just closer. Her spine curved slightly inward, instinctive, unconsciously tilted in his direction. Her hand dropped into her lap, fingers tapping out a rhythm that didn’t match the rain, didn’t match anything at all — except maybe the quick, uneven beat of her pulse.

She glanced sideways, not quite meeting his eyes, her voice soft — but edged with mischief, like a spark under velvet.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out like a thread between her fingers, the kind that unraveled slowly just to see where it led, “how long have you been using Regency-era romance as a seduction technique?”

Spencer blinked — once, then again, as though her question had short-circuited some internal circuit he’d previously thought infallible.

“Excuse me?”

She smirked, lips curling with the satisfaction of someone who’d just set off a particularly elegant trap. Her gaze slid sideways, head tilted, playful but precise — like she was enjoying watching him squirm just a little.

“You heard me. You’re weaponizing Austen, Reid.”

“I’m not—” He stopped, mid-breath, brows drawing together in a furrow of genuine confusion. His tone shifted, caught somewhere between defense and self-doubt, like he was suddenly evaluating all his life choices. “I’m not weaponizing anything.”

“You say that,” she murmured, voice softer now, eyes narrowing with mock scrutiny. She leaned in just enough to make it feel like a secret. “But you’ve been sitting over there all night quoting Anne Elliot like it’s nothing.”

Spencer’s hands lifted slightly, as if ready to explain himself with a logical breakdown and supporting footnotes.

“It was relevant to our conversation.”

“Mhm. Sure.” She nodded, slowly, exaggerating the motion like she was humoring him. “Totally casual. Just a normal thing you do with coworkers during a federal surveillance op.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again — the movement small but visible, the rhythm of a man realizing too late that he’d walked right into a thesis statement he hadn’t prepared for. He looked at her, a little wide-eyed, somewhere between horrified and completely disarmed.

And she was still smiling.

That same knowing smile that always made him feel like she could see straight through him — not in a threatening way, but like a flashlight through fog.

She leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on the console between them like she was settling into a chess match she already knew she was winning. The space narrowed — not dramatically, just enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, see the faintest shift in his expression as she moved closer.

Her voice dropped, teasing and low, her words brushed with deliberate mischief.

“Be honest—do you quote Virginia Woolf to Hotch when you’re trying to butter him up?”

Spencer blinked at her, visibly startled — then gave her a look so affronted, so utterly scandalized, it made her laugh under her breath. It was the kind of expression he reserved for things like inaccurate statistics or poorly alphabetized books.

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay,” she said, pressing now, enjoying the way the tips of his ears turned just a shade darker in the dim light. “So what’s my category?”

Her eyes gleamed as she listed them off, slow and deliberate, watching the way he tried not to react.

“Austen? Brontë? Bit of Plath if I’m cranky?”

He was trying not to smile. She could see it — the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the fight behind his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly like holding in laughter required muscle.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being thorough,” she corrected, tapping the side of her temple like it was all part of a formal diagnostic process. “Profiling, remember?”

He shook his head once, but it was hopeless now — the shape of his mouth gave him away. That soft, helpless curve he only wore when it was her.

And then, quieter. So quiet she almost missed it, but not quite:

“You say that like it’s a theory,” he murmured, “but it sounds a lot like hope.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Not loudly. Not visibly. But it caught — sharp and low in her chest — and her whole body stilled for just a fraction too long, like something delicate had been named.

The space between them had grown impossibly small.

Inches. Maybe less. The console between their seats felt like a formality now — a boundary that had once meant something, back when lines were clearer. But those lines had smudged hours ago, and now the air between them pulsed with everything that had risen in the silence.

Every glance. Every quote. Every moment of not looking away.

Y/N blinked — just once — suddenly uncertain of her footing, like the room had tilted and she wasn’t quite sure what her next step would do. So she did what she always did when the ground started to shift beneath her.

She reached for levity.

“Alright, then. If you were going to write me a love letter, would it be annotated?”

Spencer huffed out a breath — something between a laugh and a sigh of relief, like she’d just let the air back in.

“Only lightly,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving again. “A few citations. Footnotes. Maybe a reference table.”

“Oh, good,” she breathed, the smile tugging at her lips returning with a softness that hadn’t been there before. “I love when romance comes with appendices.”

He turned toward her fully now — not just his head, but his whole body, his knees brushing hers again, their shoulders angled like a conversation only they could hear.

“You joke,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in a way that made the walls of the SUV feel smaller, closer, “but I could quote you half a dozen passages from 19th century literature that remind me of you.”

She blinked once. Quick. Like her breath had caught behind her ribs.

“…Name one.”

But he didn’t.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for the book. Didn’t chase the question back with logic or wit.

He just looked at her.

And the look was a thing unto itself — unguarded and direct, like a thought that had lived too long in the dark and was finally stepping into the light. His mouth parted slightly, like he might speak, but no words came. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of his seat, as if he needed something solid to hold onto.

The silence between them swelled, not awkward, not unsure — just full. Brimming. Close enough to touch.

And neither of them moved.

Because if they did — if even one of them leaned closer — it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

It would be everything.

Because the truth of it—that aching, unnamed thing that had stretched and shimmered between them all night—was louder than anything he could have quoted.

It hung in the air now, full and real, vibrating like a string pulled too tight.

The windows had begun to fog.

Not completely. Just at the corners, where their breath mingled in the air, warm and quiet. The edges of the world blurred out, as if even the SUV had started to breathe slower. Everything inside the car felt thick with weight—with them—their bodies no longer separated by anything that mattered.

Outside, the street was still. No footsteps. No shadows in the house across the way. Just the hush of rain, soft and constant, and the low purr of the engine like a heartbeat they’d both forgotten to hear.

It was too much. Too quiet. Too full.

So Y/N broke it—because she had to. Because it was either that, or let it swallow her whole.

“So,” she said lightly, trying for teasing but not quite reaching it, the word catching slightly at the edges, “was that the part where you were going to kiss me or just emotionally devastate me with more well-placed metaphors?”

Spencer turned his head.

Slowly.

Like he’d been waiting for permission.

Like he’d been still all this time not out of hesitation, but out of reverence—like he knew this wasn’t something you rushed.

“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” he said, so softly it nearly dissolved into the air between them.

She blinked.

“I’m not—” she started, but her voice caught—right on the edge of certainty. She cleared her throat and tried again, masking the tremble with a crooked smile. “I’m not nervous. I just didn’t want to ruin your perfectly curated quote-to-eye-contact ratio.”

Spencer’s lips twitched.

But the look in his eyes didn’t shift.

It stayed steady. Bare. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch from the truth anymore. It held her without demand, like he was showing her the most vulnerable part of himself and trusting her not to look away.

And she didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t dodge. Didn’t retreat into metaphor or distraction or some clever turn of phrase.

He just looked at her.

The kind of look that reached deeper than words. The kind that unraveled things. The kind that said I see you — and always have.

“I’ve been in love with you,” he said, quiet as a breath, “since your first case.”

No dramatic pause. No swelling music. Just a soft truth offered in the smallest of spaces. No less earth-shaking for its gentleness.

Outside, the rain kept falling — slow and constant, threading silver down the windshield like time deciding not to move.

The windows continued to fog, blurring the world beyond them until it was gone entirely. Only the inside remained now. Only this space. Only them.

Inside the car, the world stilled.

Y/N felt it in her chest first — a quiet catch of breath that slipped beneath her ribs and stayed there, trembling. Something had shifted — tectonic, deep beneath the surface — and everything realigned around it.

Her pulse fluttered. Her fingers curled in her lap, grounding her in the fabric of her jeans, the grain of the seat beneath her. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t look down.

She didn’t ask if he meant it.

She didn’t joke. Didn’t tease.

She just looked at him.

And the silence between them wasn’t silence anymore.

It was something whole.

She moved towards him, unhurried and certain, as though the moment had long since been ordained. There was no fanfare in the gesture, no trembling flourish — only the quiet conviction of a woman who had made up her mind. Her hand came to rest at his neck, her fingers light and reverent, and then — with the gentleness of breath and the steadiness of affection long harboured — her lips found his.

It was not a kiss of passion unbridled, nor of haste or vanity. It was a confession, tender and unspoken, offered in the only language she could summon. And he received it as such — returning the kiss with the astonishment of a man long denied happiness, scarcely daring to trust that it had come at last.

When they parted — for breath, for sense, for the sweet necessity of drawing nearer still — her hand lingered at his jaw, thumb brushing the fine curve of it with something very near reverence.

His eyes opened slowly, as though waking from some long, aching dream.

“I wasn’t planning on saying it like that,” he whispered, breathless.

A smile touched her lips — quiet, wry, and altogether disarming. “How were you planning to say it?”

He shrugged slightly. “I was… maybe going to write it in the margin of a book and pretend you found it by accident.”

Her laugh then was soft and genuine, surprised by joy. It caught in the air like a lark in morning light.

“You still can,” she said. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. For dramatic effect.”

They remained there, foreheads pressed together in the hush that follows great change — the kind of silence that no longer feels empty, but earned. Rain murmured against the glass. The world around them faded to stillness.

And though neither dared to say more in that moment, it was understood between them — wholly and without embellishment — that the waiting was over.

And then — through the fogged glass, through the hush that had wrapped itself around them like a secret — a light blinked on across the street.

They both turned, instinct kicking in hard and fast, muscle memory overriding everything else. Adrenaline over romance. Duty over daydream.

Spencer reached for the binoculars. Y/N grabbed the radio. Their movements overlapped — smooth, practiced, nearly synchronized.

It was like slipping back into step. The rhythm of a thousand stakeouts before. The urgency. The protocol. The clarity of purpose. Familiar. Rehearsed.

But when her shoulder brushed his— 

when her fingers lingered just a moment too long on the gear shift— 

when he looked at her and couldn’t help the way his smile pulled, unbidden, real—

It wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

The rain had finally let up by the time they made it back to the precinct.

It was early — the kind of early that belonged more to the night than the day, sky still a gray-blue smear above the rooftops, low and hesitant. The pavement glistened, slick with the memory of rain, and steam curled in lazy tendrils from the sewer grates. Every surface gleamed like it had just woken up. So had they.

Y/N still felt the ghost of his lips on hers.

They walked side by side, steps in quiet sync. A little too close.

Their shoulders bumped once. Neither of them moved away.

She glanced up at him, trying — and failing — to bite down a smile. “You’re being weird.”

Spencer blinked, eyes wide in theatrical offense. “I’m being weird?”

“You keep doing that soft smile thing.”

“I always smile.”

“You smile in footnotes. This is new.”

He tried to school his face into something neutral. Failed miserably.

“Okay,” he admitted, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this yet.”

“Me neither.”

And then, grinning: “It’s kind of fun watching you short-circuit.”

He opened the precinct door for her with a small shake of his head, but his cheeks were unmistakably pink.

Inside, the station was half-asleep. Fluorescent lights hummed low. Agents drifted through the bullpen like ghosts with paperwork — coffee in hand, conversations murmured over case files, the scrape of chairs against tile. It smelled like burnt espresso and printer toner.

Emily looked up from her laptop as they stepped in, her brow immediately furrowing. 

“You two look… suspiciously chipper for a stakeout,” she said slowly, tone sharp with amusement.

From behind her, Morgan appeared with a mug in hand. “Right? You catch the unsub or just catch up on some really good conversation?”

Y/N paused mid-step. Spencer made a sound that could only be described as an intellectual cough.

“We—uh,” he started, eyes darting toward the coffee station like it might offer rescue.

“Read Austen,” Y/N said quickly, deadpan. “He read. I listened. Riveting stuff.”

Emily narrowed her eyes.

Morgan lifted a brow. “Austen, huh?”

Spencer nodded. “She likes the metaphors.”

Y/N shrugged. “They hold up.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with implication.

JJ passed them on her way to the coffee pot, casting a glance sharp enough to cut paper.

“Cute,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard — and kept walking.

Spencer looked like he might spontaneously combust. Y/N just smiled, hands in her pockets, a quiet glow still tucked behind her eyes.

Maybe they were terrible at hiding it.

Maybe they never really stood a chance.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to hide anything at all.

[theseh00perscanh00p]

Coaching Violation: Part 3

paige x azzi

a/n: sorry in advance i think...

word count: 4.1k

Paige’s Apartment – Late Night

Paige’s POV

Her phone buzzed once.

She didn’t rush to check it — she was already bracing herself, like some part of her knew who it would be.

She flipped it over anyway.

#35

This probably breaks like… eight rules, but I can’t stop thinking about your hands.

Paige blinked.

Then stared.

Her body didn’t move, but her heart dropped like it had missed a step.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the glow of that message. To the weight of her name on the screen. To the heat rushing up the back of her neck like she’d just been caught doing something wrong — or worse, wanting something she couldn’t have.

God. Fuck. No.

She stood up.

Sat back down.

Stood again. Walked halfway across the room and doubled back, phone still in her hand like a live grenade.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She typed:

Azzi. Don’t do this.

Deleted.

Typed again:

You’re making this harder than it already is.

Deleted.

Another one:

I miss you too.

She stared at that one the longest.

It felt the most like truth.

It felt dangerous.

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

Still no read receipt. Still no second text. Just that one. Blunt. Raw. Hers.

She opened the thread.

Paused.

Closed it.

Opened it again. Let the “typing…” bubble appear. Vanish. Reappear. Disappear again.

And then—

She just left it. Open.

Let the message sit there like a wound she didn’t know how to clean.

Read.

No reply.

The silence was louder than any words she could’ve sent.

She tossed the phone across the bed and climbed in after it, limbs heavy with everything unsaid.

Stared at the ceiling.

Cursed under her breath.

“Goddammit, Paige.”

Her hands dragged over her face. She could still feel Azzi’s voice in her ear, warm and teasing from a time that felt both too far and too close.

You’re not gonna say anything? After that?

You gonna ghost me after I just…

At least tell me what this was.

The texts Azzi had sent in the days after Vegas hadn’t stopped at one. Paige had ignored all of them. Until eventually, they’d stopped coming.

No closure. No honesty. Just silence.

And now here she was — doing it again.

Making the same mistake. Choosing the same cowardice.

Because that was easier than admitting the truth.

That it had meant something.

That it still did.

And that she was terrified of what wanting her again might cost them both.

So she closed her eyes, heart still racing, and let the guilt settle in beside her like a second pillow.

Across the city, Azzi’s screen lit up once more — Read.

No dots. No reply.

Only the ghost of a conversation Paige wouldn’t let herself start.

Not again.

Not yet.

Azzi’s Apartment – Just Before Dawn

Azzi’s POV

She didn’t sleep.

Not for a second.

The couch cushion beneath her was stiff, the blanket she’d thrown over herself half-fallen to the floor, and her phone rested like dead weight on her chest — screen still glowing, still open, still waiting.

She had told herself she wouldn’t expect anything.

That it was reckless. That Paige was her coach now. That it didn’t mean anything anymore.

But she had sent the message anyway.

Because some desperate, half-drunk piece of her had hoped that maybe — just maybe — this time would be different.

That maybe she’d wake up to a reply.

Even if it wasn’t sweet.

Even if it wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

Even that would’ve been better than nothing.

But there was no reply.

Just a tiny read receipt.

Seen.

And then nothing.

Azzi stared at the ceiling, arms crossed tight over her ribs like she was trying to hold herself together. Her eyes burned, but not from sleep. Not exactly.

She hadn’t cried. She wouldn’t give herself that.

But the ache? The ache was everywhere. It crept into her fingertips, her throat, the space behind her knees. She felt bruised by it. Hollowed out.

The message ran circles in her mind:

This probably breaks like… eight rules, but I can’t stop thinking about your hands.

God. What was she thinking?

She should’ve known better. Should’ve known Paige wouldn’t cross that line — not again. Should’ve remembered what it felt like last time, after that night in Vegas, when she’d texted and texted and waited days just to be left in silence.

She thought maybe time would change something.

It hadn’t.

The sun started to rise, casting a pale gold wash across the hardwood floor.

Azzi sat up slowly, joints stiff from the weight of stillness. She looked down at her phone one last time. No new notifications.

Just the same message.

The same silence.

She didn’t bother responding to it with anything else. Didn’t delete the thread either. Just locked the screen and dropped the phone into her gym bag.

It was time for practice.

Time to be an athlete again.

Time to pretend like none of this had ever happened.

Because clearly —

To Paige, it hadn’t.

Sparks Practice Facility – Early Morning

Azzi walked in like a ghost — like something left behind by the storm it survived.

First one in.

Even the lights weren’t fully on yet. The court glowed dim under the early fluorescents, shadows dragging across the hardwood like they hadn’t decided whether to stay or vanish.

Her bag thudded against the floor harder than she meant it to. Her shoes felt too heavy. Her limbs too slow. Even her hoodie clung wrong.

She didn’t stretch. Not really. Just went through the motions — ankle rolls, quad pulls, a few hip openers. Muscle memory only. Her brain wasn’t there.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the long glass window along the wall that separated the court from the offices and weight room. The reflection didn’t lie.

She looked like shit.

Eyes tired. Shoulders slumped. Face pale under the gym lights. And yet — she didn’t feel like crying. She just felt empty.

Like the night had scraped her out and left her hollow in all the worst places.

She stood there, frozen in front of her reflection, hands on her hips, trying to breathe.

And then—

She heard it.

The click of the staff hallway door. The soft tread of sneakers. That familiar rhythm.

Paige.

Azzi didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. She felt her presence before she saw it.

Paige walked in — clean, composed, hair tied up, clipboard in hand like nothing was amiss.

And she looked at her.

A full look. Not a glance. Not a pass-by.

Her eyes scanned Azzi’s entire frame, and for a moment, it almost looked like concern. Almost.

But she said nothing.

No nod. No comment. No reaction that said, I saw your message.

No reaction that said, I read it a dozen times but still didn’t know what to say.

No reaction at all.

Just a look.

Then Paige turned and walked straight into her office, the door shutting quietly behind her.

Azzi stared at the door for a long moment, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat.

That was it, then.

Not even a nod.

Nothing.

Paige’s Office – Same Morning

Paige’s POV

The door clicked shut behind her.

And the second it did, she exhaled — a long, guttural breath that sounded too much like a curse and not enough like relief.

“Fuck,” she whispered into the quiet. Her clipboard thudded onto the desk.

She pressed both palms against the edge of it, head bowed, eyes closed.

She looks like shit.

Not in the way someone lazy or unfocused did. Not like someone slacking. No — Azzi looked like someone who hadn’t slept. Like someone whose armor had cracked. Like someone wrecked by silence.

And Paige knew exactly why.

“She looks like shit,” she whispered again. “And it’s because of me.”

She hated how true it was.

The way Azzi didn’t even lift her head when she walked in — the dull weight in her shoulders, the way her hoodie was bunched like she hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared. Paige saw it all in that one glance.

And still, she said nothing.

Because what could she say?

She wanted to fix it. God, she wanted to. She wanted to walk back out there, call Azzi by name, say something — anything — that would soften the edges again.

But she didn’t know how to do that without crossing a line. Without unraveling the tightrope she’d built to survive this new reality.

She couldn’t be what Azzi wanted.

She couldn’t even be honest about what she wanted.

And that was the worst part — it all felt like too much and too little at the same time.

Too much responsibility.

Too little room for mistakes.

Too much history.

Too little future.

She rubbed her temples hard, then leaned her weight against the desk like it could hold more than her clipboard.

Azzi was breaking.

And Paige?

She wasn’t far behind.

Sparks Practice Facility – Mid-Morning

Paige blew her whistle harder than necessary.

“Again!” she barked. “Reset from the wing. Clean screens, clean cuts — let’s go!”

Her voice echoed through the gym, sharp and commanding. She watched the players shuffle back into place, sneakers squeaking, water bottles forgotten on the sideline.

She paced the baseline with her arms crossed, keeping her eyes everywhere and nowhere all at once — because the truth was, she only saw her.

Azzi.

Off rhythm. Off timing. A step slow. A second late.

She was off, and not in a small way.

Her passes were lazy, her footwork was wrong, her shots weren’t falling. She didn’t even argue calls like she normally would. She just took them. Swallowed them.

And the worst part? Paige knew exactly why.

And it was her fault.

She saw the dark circles under Azzi’s eyes. The stiffness in her movements. The way her mouth stayed flat no matter what her teammates said to her. Paige saw all of it — and she knew. She knew it was the aftermath of being left on read. The aftermath of silence.

The aftermath of her.

She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood.

But she couldn’t make excuses. Not now. Not for her.

She couldn’t let the team see her pulling punches. She couldn’t go easy just because the girl she couldn’t stop dreaming about also happened to be fucking up every rep.

So when Azzi turned the ball over again, Paige didn’t hesitate.

“Fudd!” she shouted. “You’re telegraphing every pass — defense is two steps ahead of you every time. That’s three turnovers in a row.”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up, hollow and tired, but she said nothing.

Paige took a breath. Willed herself not to let it show how hard this was.

“If you’re tired, say so. If you’re not locked in, get locked in. You want to be a leader on this team? Play like it.”

A few teammates shifted uncomfortably. The gym got quiet.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

It was weird.

Because Paige was trying too hard not to look like she was trying at all.

And everyone could feel it — the tension. The imbalance.

Paige looked away. Blew the whistle again. “Run it back. From the top. Let’s clean it up.”

As the team moved, Paige stayed still, her stomach twisted into knots.

This wasn’t just on Azzi.

This was on her, too.

Because how the hell was she supposed to coach her when all she wanted to do was go back to last night and say something — anything — besides nothing?

Sparks Practice Facility – Two Hours Post-Practice

Azzi’s POV

The gym was nearly silent now — just the rhythmic bounce of the ball and the screech of rubber soles pivoting against the hardwood.

Azzi’s hoodie was long gone. Her tank clung to her skin, soaked straight through. Her legs burned. Her arms shook. Her lungs felt like they were operating on borrowed time.

But she wasn’t leaving.

Not until she made ten in a row.

Clean. No rim.

She’d hit seven once. Five, twice. But every time she missed one, she started the count over.

Because today, she refused to be the girl Paige had to correct.

Refused to be the weak link.

Refused to be the one left behind again.

The ache in her quads was blinding now. Her shoulder was screaming. Every missed shot felt like a taunt.

But she couldn’t go.

Wouldn’t.

Her pride had a death grip on her body, and her body was too stubborn to ask for a break.

So she reset. Again.

Shot.

Clink.

Reset.

Shot.

Swish.

Again.

Again.

Again.

She was somewhere in the middle of attempt number who-the-fuck-even-knew anymore when she heard it.

A door creaking open.

Soft footsteps.

Then:

“Azzi,” Paige said, voice low but firm. “That’s enough.”

Azzi’s stomach dropped.

She didn’t turn. Just retrieved the ball and lined up another shot.

“No, it’s not,” she muttered, letting it fly.

Rim.

She cursed under her breath. Bent down, snatched the ball off the bounce, and spun back to the arc.

“Azzi.” Paige’s voice was closer now. “Stop. Please. You’re done.”

That landed harder than it should have.

Azzi finally turned, slow and sharp, ball tucked under one arm.

“Oh, now you have something to say?”

Paige froze.

Azzi swallowed hard, blinking past the sweat and sting in her eyes.

“You’ve got nothing to say when I’m looking right at you. Nothing to say when I’m dragging through drills and barely sleeping and getting benched in spirit before the season even starts. But now that I’m pushing through on my own time, now you step in?”

Her voice cracked slightly at the end. She hated that it did.

Paige didn’t move. Just stood there — hoodie sleeves still pushed up, eyes dark and unreadable.

Azzi shook her head once, biting the inside of her cheek. “Right. Coach’s orders, I forgot.”

And just like that, she turned back to the arc. Ball in hand. Shoulders squared.

Shot.

Miss.

But this time… she didn’t reset.

She just stood there, staring at the rim, not sure what hurt more:

Her shoulder.

Her pride.

Or the fact that Paige still hadn’t said a word.

Paige’s POV

She didn’t mean to walk toward her.

She told herself she wouldn’t.

She told herself she’d stay by the door, say her piece, and leave. Be the coach. Be the adult. Be the composed, capable leader everyone expected her to be.

But watching Azzi miss again — and still reset, still dig her heels into the floor like the weight of everything she was carrying could be outrun by stubbornness — it broke something open in Paige.

She just stood there, stunned at first, watching her.

The way Azzi didn’t even wipe the sweat from her eyes anymore. The way her form had started to collapse in on itself from sheer exhaustion. The way her arms trembled before every release.

It wasn’t about shooting anymore.

It was about pain. And pride. And punishment.

And Paige couldn’t fucking take it.

So her legs moved. Fast. Before her brain caught up.

Azzi had just caught the rebound and was stepping behind the line again when Paige reached her. She didn’t speak — just stepped into her space and gently, but firmly, pressed both palms to Azzi’s arms, stopping the shot mid-motion.

“Please,” Paige said, voice barely holding together. “Just stop.”

Azzi stiffened under her touch — too aware of how close they were. So was Paige. She could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the tremble in her biceps, the way Azzi’s chest rose and fell like she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

“Let go,” Azzi said, barely more than a whisper.

“No.”

“Paige—”

“You’re hurting yourself,” Paige said, fingers still curled around Azzi’s arms. “You’re exhausted. You’re gonna tear something.”

“I don’t care,” Azzi snapped, voice cracking hard. “I can’t leave like this.”

Paige swallowed, jaw tight, heart hammering.

“I know what this is,” she said, softer now. “You think if you just push harder, it’ll go away. That the pain will make the silence easier. But it won’t.”

Azzi looked down, eyes burning. Her voice came out uneven. “Don’t talk like you know what I’m feeling.”

“I do,” Paige said, thumb brushing lightly over Azzi’s skin without meaning to. “Because I’m the one who left you with it.”

Azzi flinched.

Paige exhaled shakily, fingers still holding on.

“You said you couldn’t stop thinking about these hands,” she said, almost too quiet to hear. “Well, neither can I. I think about what they did… and what they didn’t do.”

Azzi’s breath hitched — the kind of sound you make when you’re one word away from shattering.

Paige stepped back, slowly, finally letting go.

“Go home,” she said, gently this time. “Please.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned.

And this time, when she walked away, it felt like the hardest thing she’d ever done.

Azzi’s Apartment – That Night

Azzi’s POV

She didn’t remember driving home.

Everything after the gym felt like a blur — muscle memory on autopilot. Unlock the door. Drop the keys. Ditch the shoes.

She stood in the middle of her bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. Red eyes. Chapped lips. Her hoodie soaked through with sweat. The girl looking back didn’t feel like her — not the version she spent years building. Not the player. Not the face of a franchise.

She peeled the hoodie off slowly, then her tank, then her shorts — each movement slower than the last, like her body was threatening to shut down if she didn’t stop pushing it.

She turned the shower on.

Hot. As hot as it would go.

She meant to stand. To wash off the day. To scrub away whatever invisible weight had taken residence beneath her skin.

But when the steam hit her face and the first droplets hit her collarbone, her knees buckled, and she let them.

She sat on the tile floor, back against the cool wall, legs pulled to her chest. The water poured over her head like it was trying to baptize her into a new kind of numb.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t scrub. Didn’t soap. Just sat there. Let it run.

The heat turned cold eventually — ice-cold — but she didn’t notice.

She was somewhere else.

Still standing at half court, Paige’s hands on her arms.

Still hearing her voice — You said you couldn’t stop thinking about these hands… well, neither can I.

Still wondering what the hell any of it meant.

Still wishing she’d stayed.

Azzi buried her face in her knees, forehead pressed to skin, water pooling at her feet.

She felt like she was locked in something invisible. A prison built from silence and memory and all the words they weren’t allowed to say out loud.

She wasn’t crying.

Not really.

But her throat ached like she wanted to.

And she stayed there.

Alone. Cold. Still.

Trapped inside a storm she didn’t know how to weather.

Azzi’s Apartment – Early Morning

She hadn’t slept.

Not really.

Her body had finally given out somewhere around 3 a.m., damp towel still wrapped around her, comforter only half-pulled over her legs, her phone facedown on the nightstand — still unread, still unanswered.

She blinked awake to the chime of a new notification.

Subject line:

2025 WNBA Season – Final Travel Schedule + Game Week Protocol

Azzi stared at it for a second before dragging her thumb across the screen, opening it like it might bite her.

The full season stared back at her in bold block letters.

First game.

Away.

Las Vegas.

She groaned, dropping her head back against the pillow with a thud. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Viva Las fucking Vegas.

Of course it was.

Her stomach twisted, not from nerves — from knowing.

Knowing exactly what city they’d be stepping into. What memories lived in the seams of hotel sheets and blurred hallway lights. What ghosts she’d left behind there… and what one very real person had taken with her when she walked out without a word.

Flash—

Same hotel.

Same sun-bleached morning.

The curtains had been cracked just enough to let in light across the white sheets tangled around Azzi’s legs.

She’d woken up alone.

No knock. No note. No text.

Just the imprint of Paige’s body still faint on the mattress, like a lie she wasn’t brave enough to believe.

Azzi had laid there in that silence for what felt like an hour — staring at the ceiling, replaying every laugh, every kiss, every look that had felt too real to be nothing.

But nothing was exactly what she got.

Not a word.

Not a reason.

Just air.

And in that moment, everything inside her had shifted. Something sweet turned bitter. Something soft turned guarded.

She hadn’t been the same since.

She wasn’t sure she ever would be.

Her fingers hovered over the email. Her eyes glazed over the rest of the schedule.

But all she could see was the city that took her breath and never gave it back.

Vegas.

And now they were going back — together. But still worlds apart.

Las Vegas – Team Hotel Arrival

Paige’s POV

The team bus rolled to a stop under the sprawling awning of the Bellagio — all glittering lights, high ceilings, and mirrored elevators. Paige barely glanced out the tinted window, too busy mentally running through curfews, arrival checklists, and the playbook updates she’d still need to finalize tonight.

Then the doors opened.

And her stomach dropped.

The carpet.

The chandeliers.

The exact same goddamn lobby.

Of course it was.

She blinked slowly, once, like maybe if she reopened her eyes it would be somewhere else — somewhere new. But no. It was the same hotel from ten months ago.

The hotel where she’d sat beside Azzi at the bar.

Where everything had shifted with one long look and two drinks too deep.

Where they’d laughed — like nothing else mattered.

Where she’d touched her like she already knew how it would all fall apart.

“Alright!” KK clapped, breaking through Paige’s spiral. “Let’s grab keys, get upstairs, and not be a headline, yeah?”

Players peeled off in groups, bags rolling behind them, excitement buzzing from the glitter and chaos that only Vegas could manufacture. Paige handed out a few cards, nodded through light banter, and gave the same calm, dry warning she always gave before game nights in big cities.

“Breakfast is at eight. Bus leaves at nine. Don’t make me call your mom. And if any of you end up on TMZ tonight, I’m making you run until you cry.”

Laughter echoed through the group.

She softened her tone just enough. “Seriously — be safe. This city’s loud, but I don’t want to hear about it unless it costs us a W. Understood?”

A chorus of “yes, Coach” followed.

Paige didn’t exhale until she was alone in her own room. Door shut. Bag dropped. She kicked off her sneakers, pressed her back to the door, and finally let herself sit in the quiet.

Then she remembered the player roster printout — the one with room assignments, just in case noise complaints came in.

She reached for it on the dresser, unfolded it, eyes scanning casually.

Room 1121…

1123…

1125—

Her heart stuttered.

Fudd, A. – 1125

Of course she was.

Of all the rooms in all the hotels in Vegas.

Room 1125. That room.

The one with the wide windows and the velvet headboard and the memory of Azzi’s laugh wrapped around Paige’s throat like a secret.

She sat on the edge of her bed, list still in hand.

Her voice cracked the silence:

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It wasn’t just déjà vu. It was cruel. Cosmic.

She dropped the paper onto the nightstand like it had burned her fingers.

All night she’d be haunted by it.

The knowledge that just three floors below, Azzi was sleeping in the same bed they once shared — the one Paige had walked away from like a coward. No explanation. No goodbye. Just absence.

And now, it felt like the universe was daring her to do it again.

But this time… it already felt worse.

The night moved slower than molasses and Paige couldn’t sit still.

1:07 AM.

She’d paced her room for forty-three minutes before she moved.

Put on sweats. Tied her hair up. Told herself she was just going for a walk. Just to get out of her own head. Just to stretch.

But somehow… her feet knew exactly where to go.

Now she stood in front of Room 1125. Fists clenched. Pulse hammering.

She stared at the door like it might open on its own. Like Azzi already knew she was there — already awake, waiting.

Paige almost turned around. Twice.

But then her hand lifted. And knocked.

Soft. Once. Twice.

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. Her breath caught as footsteps approached on the other side.

A shadow moved beneath the door.

The handle turned.

The door cracked open.

Paige held her breath. And closed her eyes shut.

And then—

[uniquexusposts]

The one-off | Carlos Sainz Jr. x reader (3)

Summary: She’s not from the world of F1, she’s a sunshine-soft emergency medical specialist used to cracked ribs and bloody football pitches. But when a one-time case calls her into the paddock, she ends up face-to-face with the man she once loved and left behind. Carlos drives for Williams now. She’s just here to fix a shoulder. It’s clinical. Temporary. Professional. So why does it feel like everything unfinished between them is waiting just under the surface?

Part 1 Part 2

Y/n didn’t expect her phone to ring at midnight.

She almost didn’t answer when she saw the name flash across the screen; a Williams team liaison, someone she barely remembered from the emergency case weeks ago. But something in her gut made her take the call.

“Carlos Sainz needs you,” the voice said.

There was something about Carlos she couldn’t let go, no matter how badly she wanted to. And this wasn’t just about the injury. Not anymore.

The room was dim when she arrived, half-lit by tired fluorescents humming faintly above. Despite the urgency of the call, the space was eerily still.

Carlos sat on the edge of the table, head down, elbows on his thighs, a towel draped loosely around his shoulders. When he looked up at her, it was like time collapsed. For a second, just one, she saw it again. What she’d seen during their last session. What she’d seen the very first time they met.

The thing he never said.

“Hi,” he said, his voice lower than she remembered. Tired. Strained.

“I was told you re-aggravated the injury?” she asked, setting her bag down, tone steady. Professional. Always.

He nodded once. “Sharp pain mid-run. Same spot.”

Without thinking, she crouched in front of him and let her hand hover just over the small of his back, a familiar place now, even through his shirt. When she made contact, his breath hitched.

Not from pain. She knew that breath. She remembered it from the night years ago; quiet, charged, like a held secret.

“What have you done in the meantime to recover?”

“Following the recovery plan.”

“Hmm.” Her fingers paused. “Just a bit? Or all of it?”

His jaw tensed. “I did. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” she repeated quietly, more to herself. “Carlos, this could’ve sidelined you for weeks again. You got lucky the first time.”

“I’m not made to sit still.”

She stood slowly. “You’re not made to be reckless either.”

He didn’t respond. Not right away.

She handed him a pillow and pointed toward the padded table. He obeyed, hesitantly. As he lay down, she rolled her sleeves up, pulled on gloves, and let her hands begin their work.

She worked in silence, her touch gentle but methodical, fingers tracing the long line of his spine, pressing into the places that held too much tension. There were knots, literal and emotional, wound too tight beneath the surface.

Frustration lived there too. With the injury. With himself. With her.

“You should’ve called someone sooner,” she murmured.

“I didn’t want someone,” he said, voice muffled into his folded arms.

She paused. “You didn’t want someone?”

He turned his head, just enough to catch her eyes. “I wanted you.”

The silence cracked, not loud, but sharp. Like ice shifting under weight.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you after that night,” he continued. “Not the session. I mean before. Years ago.”

Her hands stilled.

“I kept thinking about it,” he said. “About you. That weekend. How easy it was. How hard it was to leave without saying something real.”

“Carlos…”

“I waited too long then. And again now.” He pushed up slightly on his elbows. “I didn’t call after the injury because I knew I’d want more. And I didn’t know how to want you without fucking everything up.”

She stepped back slightly, peeling off her gloves. “You think telling me that fixes it?”

He blinked. Her voice was sharper than she meant it, but it didn’t stop.

“You can’t disappear for years, show up in my work life, and pretend we’re strangers. Then ask for more only when it suits you.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” he said, standing slowly. “I’ve thought about you every time I passed the café we went to. Every time I’ve hurt since that first session.”

Her chest tightened.

“I know I left it unfinished,” he said, voice low. “But so did you.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

There had been no fight back then. Just… quiet. The kind of silence you tell yourself you’ll break tomorrow. Then tomorrow becomes two years.

“You don’t get to say you want me now unless you mean it,” she said finally, softly.

He stepped closer. “Then let me say it clearly. I want you. Not just to fix my back. Not just tonight.”

Y/n blinked. Once. Twice. But the heat rose anyway.

Her voice wavered. “Then stop talking.”

And he did.

He kissed her like he had held it in for years, and maybe he had. It wasn’t rushed. Just urgent. Like something sacred they’d both nearly lost and finally had the courage to claim.

She kissed him back without hesitation, her fingers curling in his shirt. His hands were steady on her waist, grounding her.

When they finally pulled apart, breath unsteady, Carlos leaned his forehead against hers.

“Tell me if this is a mistake,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel like one.”

They didn’t say much after that.

She treated his back properly, again. He winced when she hit a knot, and she muttered a soft “karma” under her breath that made him laugh. But when they were done, he walked her to the exit.

He walked her out when it was done.

They still hadn’t defined what this was. But maybe they didn’t have to, not tonight.

Because this time, as she turned to leave, he stopped her.

“Let me call you tomorrow.”

She smiled, tired but real. “You better.”

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris @freyathehuntress

[blueberrypancakesworld]

I love your writing can I request a yandere Yelena with younger female reader who is in college please and thank you ♥️💕

My little spider

Yelena Belova x fem!reader

warning : yandere, stalking, kiss, age gap, manipulation

Summary : Before the Thunderbolts, her only redemption seemed to be the little bit of hope a single student had in her. Something the blonde older didn't want to lose, she never wanted to lose her love, she would never lose it. She had lost family and loved ones before, the former Black Widow would make sure not to lose anyone again.

info : Hi, of course you can have something like this, I'm glad you like my writing so much. I hope you like this little one-shot here, have fun reading ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They shouldn't have met at all, they should never have met, they lived in two different worlds from an early age.

She was a trained assassin, an assassin, someone who could start wars, overthrow governments and destroy families with one precise shot and the younger one was a simple art history college student who was busy with books and paintings.

They were two worlds that would never have met until the moment a small spider seemed to meet the Black Widow, one dark night in crowded New York, the younger one was simply on her way home from the library.

Still a little lost in thought about the report she had to hand in the day after tomorrow, she had barely noticed the shadow in the alley next to her and would actually have kept walking if she hadn't heard the distinct sound of pain.

No crying or screaming, just a muffled curse and a pained gasp as she saw the dark suit, the holsters, the weapons.

The person who suddenly seemed far too unrealistic, a woman holding her bleeding side, “Do you have a bandage?” was the only question she was asked.

A question so banal in the face of a serious gunshot wound that she barely realized it at first before she picked herself up and went to the older woman to support her.

Who would have thought that a mission with serious consequences would lead Yelena to someone so innocent, someone who didn't know her, who didn't know the dead...someone who looked at her with kindness and genuine concern and made the older girl wonder how she had earned such a thing when she left with the younger one.

This initial encounter a pure coincidence, Yelena had only told a couple of half lies and half truths, “I'll be gone soon bookworm” she mumbled the accent stronger through the pain as she was on her second beer the younger had left in the fridge.

It was strange to have a stranger in front of her like this, a stranger whose eyes were all over her, whose upper body was exposed and only covered by her top, the bandage and compress lying at her side over the emergency wound Yelena had received.

Despite everything, after a few hours of exchanging a few sentences, Yelena decided to sleep on the couch and the "Good night...Russian spider" made her smile, as the other girl had no idea.

The next day she was gone and even though she had only known Yelena for a few hours, the interest she had shown in the books and pictures was somehow cute.

She was pretty even when she was so cute and yet she seemed dangerous, like a spider that spun a web before it struck.

Was it good that she had disappeared again?

A question that arose even a few days after the incident and which prevented her from concentrating on her studies again on the evening of the weekend.

It had been a week since the blonde had been with her, she still had to think about the stranger from time to time, but in a world where aliens had attacked the city more than once, anything seemed possible.

Just as she reached for the key to her apartment and opened the door, the door inside bumped against something she heard a small thud, going inside she was surprised to see that she had knocked over a package.

The problem was when the surprise turned to surprise when she realized that she hadn't ordered anything, that there was no return address on it, that it wasn't from a known company...it was from Yelena.

When she had put her bag down and sat down on the couch in the same place as Yelena, she unwrapped the package and a small showcase with a preserved spider came out next to a note.

Will you come back to me as a spider? she asked herself and put the box on the table before she read the note and couldn't help smiling a little.

The older woman thanked her for the help, for the canned ravioli, the beer and the night on the couch, but most of all she thanked her for caring, something that was actually taken for granted, but apparently in Yelena's world such a thing didn't seem to exist.

It could have stayed that way, but in the days and nights that followed, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, like when she saw shadows everywhere.

She swore she felt the same watchful eyes on her, saw the blond hair and once even felt in a half-sleep state that someone had touched her.

How could she not think so when the older one had been following her since the night before, never letting her go and, apart from the initial lack of gifts, always making sure that the younger one was well.

What was a simple daily task for her in the free time between the hours was breaking into the apartment at night and lying next to her in bed, patting her, holding her hand carefully and whispering “Thank you”, she never heard it, because once again there seemed to be something between them.

Until the moment when the fear and discomfort increased, when this gratitude, the obsession and perhaps something more spilled over and she ran straight home.

The shadows of the night were deceptive, but their own fear was even more deceptive.

What was out there that was after her?

Slamming the door behind her, just wanting to make a cup of tea, get some rest, just try to get back to normal life, a cry escaped her when she saw someone sitting on her couch, “Yelena! You scared me to death” she shouted as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

In the light that was now on, Yelena was sitting on the table with two beers in front of her and seemed to have been waiting for her for hours.

The question of how she had come in, what she was doing and what she was doing was burning inside her, but the exuberant look, the joy and somehow also the gratitude were a total contrast.

"Sorry lovely, I thought we could have a drink together again", she said casually as if nothing had happened, waiting for the younger woman to calm down and come over to her voluntarily.

Because if there was one thing Yelena wanted to do better was to learn from her mistakes, she had killed enough, had enough blood on her hands...she wanted to be gentle for once, she wanted to have that chance for once.

And when she saw how the little spider, struck by the poison of kindness, came to her, believed her lies and rhetoric, sat down next to her and drank the beer, Yelena knew exactly that everything was going according to plan.

How she gained her trust, how she willingly drew closer, placed her hand on Yelena's, a contrast so soft and small compared to the older woman's that she realized she had never killed anyone before. That her gaze was honest, that there had to be affection in it, it couldn't be any other way, it had to be so.

Yelena would get rid of her sins and guilt so easily when, after hours, the younger one leaned against her as she fell asleep and the older one kissed her on the head, “Sleep well, I'll take care of you forever”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[starkwlkr]

Heyyy, this is my first time requesting anything anywhere so not sure how this works xD But for the marvel series could I get the 21 with Fernando Alonso? Maybe something along the lines of childhood friends to strangers to lovers, or maybe they hooked up once when he became world champion but didn't have much contact afterwards until now? I'd prefer no big age gap but I don't really mind that much either. Thanks <3

an: anon you are breaking my heart!! this is the last request in my marvel series :( thanks to everyone that requested!! this was definitely fun! their age gap isn’t specific for this one!

jen’s marvel series

“It was real to me”

You never expected to see him again.

Not here. Not in the small town where you both grew up, where time stood still while the rest of the world rushed past. But there he is—Fernando Alonso, two-time world champion, standing in his mother’s backyard, holding a glass of wine and looking at you like you were never gone.

Like he still remembers.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he says with a small smile.

You shrug, arms crossed over your chest to fight the chill. “Didn’t think you’d remember I exist.”

He laughs softly. “Hard to forget someone who used to steal your bike and beat you at karting.”

You grin despite yourself. “You let me win.”

He gives you a look. “I let no one win.”

You both fall quiet, the only sound the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional laughter from inside the house. It’s some family party. His mother invited you—insisted, really. Said it would be “like old times.” You didn’t have the heart to tell her there hadn’t been “old times” in nearly a decade.

Because after childhood, there was nothing. Not really. He went off to chase speed, and you stayed behind, chasing something else—something slower, maybe steadier. You lost touch. You watched him from TV screens, from magazine covers, from miles and years away.

And you hated how much you missed him.

“Do you ever think about back then?” you ask finally, not looking at him.

“All the time,” Fernando says. “Mostly when I come home.”

You glance at him, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice.

He steps a little closer. “That summer before I left. . . you remember that night? In your parents’ shed? When we—”

“Kissed,” you finish, voice small.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You try to smile. “We were kids.”

“Teenagers,” he says softly. “Thought I was being noble, not dragging you into what my life was about to become.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So instead, you disappeared.”

He sighs. “I thought it was the right thing.”

“And now?” you ask.

Fernando hesitates. Then he meets your gaze, voice low. “Now I know it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

Your throat tightens.

He steps closer. “You looked at me like I was more than some kid who wanted to race cars. Like I was . . . already someone.”

“You were,” you say quietly.

There’s a beat. Then another.

“I don’t know what that night meant to you,” you add. “But I spent a long time wondering if I made it all up. If it was just some teenage moment to you.”

His voice breaks a little when he says, “It was real to me.”

You exhale, the weight of it hitting harder than you expected.

“You left,” you whisper. “And I thought I was the only one who remembered.”

Fernando shakes his head slowly. “You were the first thing I missed.”

You stare at each other, ten years of distance burning between your bodies like heat. And then—without permission or preamble—he closes the gap and kisses you.

This time, you kiss him back.

This time, no one leaves.

[themology]

(au) joel miller x runaway!reader

summary: a runaway girl and a grieving man drive through the belly of a burning america—fucking, fleeing, forgetting. she’s his ghost in the passenger seat; he’s her ruin in the driver’s side. they don’t call it love. they just never stop driving.

notes: i’ve been painfully inactive in this account since 2022, and it seems i have rise from the dead because of the influx of dbf!joel miller fanfictions and i wanted to write my own rendition but with an ethel cain-esque twist. this was written in a whim and my writing may be rusty! english is not my first language. also not proofread!!!!!

disclaimer: this is au-ish, the outbreak never happened and loads of stuff has been changed for better immersion and i’m kinda lazy to research. reader is in their 20s.

warnings / contains: i don’t even know anymore, angst, strong and explicit language, allusion of sex/sexual themes.

♱

You leave like you’ve committed a crime, something unforgivable.

One night, your mama’s stirring soup and asking about job interviews. The next, there’s nothing but a note that says I had to go. Even that’s a lie—you didn’t leave because you had to. You left because staying was the loneliest thing you’d ever done. That house felt like a coffin with curtains. The town was all eyes and whispers and dust that never left your skin. Your dad works too hard overseas for a future you feel like you don’t wan’t anymore.

So you disappear.

Just a drawer emptied. A toothbrush gone. The fridge light blinks like it’s lonely when your mother opens it at midnight, calling your name into the kitchen like it might answer back. You leave your cap and gown on the back of the chair—pressed, still smelling like sweat and lilies. The perfume you wore is clinging to the collar. She keeps it hanging for weeks, like it might walk back in with your shoulders in it.

There’s a switchblade in your worn down boot, a prayer you never meant whispered to the ceiling fan. You take the money you’ve been hiding in a sock since sixteen, shove it into a cracked wallet with stickers from old bands you forgot you loved. One missed call. One unread message. You pack it all in silence, like a sinner making their bed for God.

You don’t have a plan.

You just drive until the mountains start to feel like teeth.

Oregon is quiet in a way you weren’t ready for.

A little wet. A little dead. A little his.

You find him out near Eugene, where the woods swell thick around the road like a throat about to close.

Joel Miller opens the door with a gun in his hand and a look in his eye like he’s been waiting for you in his sleep.

Now he opens the door and stares at you like a ghost.

Like you’re another funeral come early.

He’s older. Meaner. That permanent Texas squint like he’s staring into the sun, even when it’s raining. You remember his voice from that backyard once—soft Southern drawl, wrapped around a beer bottle. You were just a kid then, Sarah still alive and laughing over fireworks, your father and him laughing about something you’re too young to understand.

He hasn’t laughed since.

He doesn’t ask why you’re there. He doesn’t ask your age. He just lets you in.

You stay three nights. You never leave.

The first night, you sleep on his couch.

The second night, you sleep in his bed.

The third night, he fucks you like you’re both being punished in the kitchen table.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not tender.

It’s mouths torn open, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise, a need that’s closer to violence than love. You pull him in by the belt, spit on your palm when he isn’t fast enough, whisper please like a curse against his throat.

He groans when you ride him, low and strangled, like it’s the only thing keeping him human. Like he wants to ruin you just to keep you.

You sleep on his chest after, breathing like you’re afraid to wake up.

There’s a photograph of Sarah in the hallway. You see it once and never again.

The whole house is haunted.

Not by ghosts—by absence.

By the sound of silence where a little girl used to sing along to the radio.

You don’t ask.

He doesn’t offer.

But sometimes, when he touches you, it feels like he’s begging something dead to forgive him.

You both drive.

Through America’s rotten belly. Past strip clubs turned churches. Past boys in trucker hats that whistle when you walk into gas stations. Past women with bad eyes who stare too long and smell the sin on you.

The pickup rattles like bones. The cassette deck is broken and plays nothing but static when you try. You hum instead, let your voice fill the gaps. He never sings. Just grips the wheel like he’s keeping it from slipping into the past.

You fuck in parking lots and roadside motels with cracked mirrors and cigarette burns in the curtains.

You fuck in the backseat while it rains so hard you think the world might flood again.

He pulls your panties aside, lips wet and eyes half lidded and mutters your name like it hurts.

You kiss him until your jaw aches.

You call him sir once.

He nearly stops breathing. His eyes darken.

Sometimes, you wonder if Sarah would hate you.

Would she see what this is?

Would she see the way Joel holds your hips like a lifeline? The way he makes you beg?

The way he growls, That’s it, baby girl, open up for me, like it’s your goddamn name?

Would she know you’re not replacing her—just filling in the silence she left behind?

You think maybe Joel doesn’t even know the difference anymore.

He watches you sketch him with a dull pencil on the back of receipts. You don’t show him the ones where he looks too lonely. You keep those tucked in your book like pressed flowers, like evidence.

He rolls cigarettes he doesn’t smoke. Just feels them between his fingers like muscle memory, like pain he doesn’t want to forget. You light one just to feel something warm in your mouth. The paper burns crooked. You ash it on the map.

“You’ll outlive me at this rate,” you tell him, exhaling.

“Not likely,” he replies. You don’t laugh. Neither does he.

In Missouri, you wake up to him crying into your neck. Quiet, ashamed.

He thinks you’re asleep.

You’re not.

You close your eyes tighter and pretend.

You press your thighs together and ache.

He never says he loves you.

But he touches you like worship. Like desecration.

His hands on your thighs are scripture. His mouth between your legs is a benediction. You bite your fist when he fucks you slow, like he’s unraveling a hymn. You dig your nails into his back and mark him up like territory.

“You’re not gonna leave me, are you?” you ask once, during a thunderstorm.

He doesn’t answer. Just takes your hand and puts it over his chest.

This is yours now, it says. Don’t break it worse than it already is.

You sleep in cheap motels where the neon signs flicker like bad thoughts. He pays in cash. You always take the bed closest to the window, even though you never sleep well.

You press your head to his chest in the middle of the night and whisper, “Do you think my mom thinks I’m dead?”

His breath stutters. “Maybe,” he says, quiet like an apology. “Do you?”

You don’t answer. You just close your eyes and listen to his heartbeat.

Slow. Wrecked. Steady like regret.

You don’t talk about the future. The present is too loud. Too wet. Too feral. Too hot with things you can’t name without blasphemy.

In Alabama, you fuck like you’re punishing each other. Like the world did something wrong and you’re gonna fix it with blood and spit and bruised hips.

You cry after. He watches you in the dark and doesn’t touch you.

Just breathes like he’s drowning again.

In Arizona, you pierce your ear with a safety pin in the rearview mirror. “This is my penance,” you say, more to yourself than to him. He wraps the bleeding edge with a piece of his shirt and doesn’t say anything.

In Oklahoma, a cop pulls you over. You lie. Smile like sugar rotting your teeth. Say you’re his daughter. Say you’re headed to school. He nods, lets you go.

Joel doesn’t talk for hours. When he finally does, it’s just your name. Your real name. Like it tastes bad.

You let him fill you raw. You let him press his lips to your bruises. You let him call you baby girl like it’s the last good word he knows.

You drive through states like you’re shedding skin.

You take photos of each other you’ll never print.

You fuck with the windows down.

You sleep with a knife under your pillow and his arm around your waist.

It’s not safe. It’s not holy. But it’s yours.

He calls you beautiful in the mornings, rough and ragged.

Like a curse. Like a blessing he’s not allowed anymore. You call him Joel like it’s a psalm. Like if you say it enough, he might believe in it again.

He flinches when a teenage girl laughs too loud.

You see it—the way he shuts down, turns away like smoke.

You don’t ask about Sarah. You asked about Tommy once and merely received a grunt.

But their name lives in the silence between every mile. They’re in the way he drives. In the songs he won’t play. In the way he sometimes looks at you and then turns his head too fast.

You think about dying more than you should.

Not in a sad way. Just in a curious one.

Would it hurt? Would it be quiet? Would he care?

You wonder if he thinks about it too.

Once, at a gas station in Georgia, he cups your face and says, “I’d bury the whole damn world if it meant keeping you safe.”

And you believe him.

God help you, you believe him.

You never talk about the future. You don’t dare.

You steal peaches from roadside stands.

You eat gas station pie on the hood of the truck. You kiss until your mouths taste like fire and forgiveness.

People stare at you sometimes—you, too young and wild-eyed, him, all gristle and grief and oil under the fingernails. Like you don’t belong together.

Maybe you don’t. Maybe that’s the point.

You don’t call it love. But it is.

Ugly, feral, holy.

Filling you raw with tears in your eyes and ‘I love you’ is on the edge of your bruised lips but you can’t. You really… just can’t.

There’s a kind of heaven in the rearview mirror.

And it’s burning like the end of a prayer.

♱

additional notes: if this blows up i MIGHT take fanfic requests since i’m bored out of my mind—also speaking of ethel cain, shameless plug but please follow my ig (@withlovelovi), i post arts, writings and other cool stuff there :P