#and the other pair that forms the other half of their team
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One Too Many
Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader Early seasons nerdy spencer vibes
warnings: Fluffy, nerdy, slow burn, alcohol consumption A/N: Hey again! It's been a while lol. I hope you guys enjoy!
Words: 1300
Spencer was beginning to wonder if sitting in the bar’s dark corner was worth it. He’d definitely been coaxed into coming. Penelope had all but skipped into the bullpen earlier, announcing a team bonding night after work like it was a holiday.
He’d meant to say no, had the words half-formed on his tongue, when he glanced at you. You were already sitting up straighter, eyes bright and expectant, a smile tugging at your lips. And just like that, his peaceful night curled up with the works of Edgar Allan Poe vanished like mist.
Now, here he was.
You pushed through the bar, a fruity cocktail in one hand and Penelope’s wrist in the other as you tugged her behind you with a laugh. You plopped the drink down on the booth’s table, sliding into the seat beside him. One hand came up to your cheek, trying to coax away the blush that the alcohol had drawn to the surface.
Derek and Rossi were huddled close, shoulders nearly bumping, deep in some lively debate about types of scotch. You were pretty sure you saw Emily drag JJ out to the dance floor, but moving your head too much made the whole room tip sideways, so you stayed right where you were.
“Penny, try mine,” you grinned, nudging your pornstar martini across the table. The glass wobbled slightly, but Penelope caught it with practised fingers. “Just sip the champagne after it’s supposed to be a palate cleanser,” you added, gesturing vaguely between the two glasses like you were explaining something very scientific.
Penelope gave you a look, amused and indulgent. “Sweetie, if the drink needs a chaser, I already don’t trust it.”
You pout at her, lips drawn in exaggerated offence. “That’s how it’s supposed to be drunk, Pen… It’s French? Italian?” you mumble, waving your hand vaguely.
“English,” Spencer mumbles from next to you, taking a sip from his nearly untouched beer.
You grin, turning to look at him. “You’re making that up.” Bending over your glass for a sip, you accidentally slosh some of it onto the table.
“Nope. Made in London in 2002 by Douglas Ankrah,” Spencer replies, picking up a napkin and dabbing at the spilled liquid.
You smile dopily and lean your head on his shoulder.
Spencer had always assumed he’d feel a flicker of discomfort in a moment like this. Not because of you, never because of you; but because he introduced himself to strangers with facts like “a kiss is more hygienic than a handshake.”
But instead, he felt… warm. Light. Almost as if he’d had as much to drink as everyone else, though he hadn’t.
Your hair tickles his neck from where you’re leaning, the music rumbling through the floor of the bar. You smell sweet, like something he can’t quite place. Plum and vanilla, maybe? Like the pies his mother used to make on her good days.
The silence lingers, you still tucked against him, quietly fiddling with a menu. What could he even say right now? You seem content enough, relaxed into his shoulder.
Spencer tenses. He takes a breath and wraps his arm around you.
“You’re warm,” you sigh, snuggling into his soft cardigan.
Spencer forces himself to relax, if only for your sake. Physical touch was regular for you: a hug after a long day, a hand on the shoulder. Spencer always had to turn away and hide his red cheeks from your view. When you were new to the Bureau, you thought you had offended him somehow.
But this, this was new.
Spencer decides the right thing to do is to lame your actions on the alcohol you had tonight. If he thought too long about this, he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep for the rest of the night.
Was this allowed? How could you sit here so calmly when his world had just tipped on its axis?
He glances down and notices your eyes have drifted shut, the menu now twisted into the shape of a heart and clutched in your hand.
He sighs and cards his hand through your hair, justifying his actions to himself by thinking about the release of oxytocin, which is known to support calmness and better sleep.
He is content to sit here like this for as long as you would let him, stroking your hair, counting your breaths, feeling the rise of your shoulder against him.
A moment later, Morgan appears, gently supporting Penelope as she clings to his arm, her heels clicking unevenly against the floor.
“She’s had one too many,” Morgan murmurs with a half-smile, adjusting his grip as she giggles softly against his shoulder.
He casts a glance around the room, taking in the half-finished drinks and the softened energy that comes when the night’s winding down. “Alright, team, let’s wrap it up. It’s been a long day. Let’s get our girls home.”
You wake up at the noise, smiling up at Morgan fondly. Trying to push yourself up out of the booth proves difficult, and you slump back down against Spencer.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he paused, the nickname slipping out.
‘Mm fine,’ you sigh, ‘just waiting for the room to stop spinning.’
Spencer stands helping you up to your feet, grabbing your handbag, and scooping up a stray lip balm that had fallen onto the table.
You wander outside, the chill in the air biting gently at your cheeks. Spencer hovers just behind you, close enough that you can feel his presence without him saying a word. The night is quiet, the glow of the streetlights painting the sidewalk in golden streaks.
Morgan gets Garcia settled into the Uber, her head resting on his shoulder as he murmurs something reassuring. Once she’s tucked in safely, he turns to you and Spencer, pulling you both into a quick, warm hug before sliding into the car beside her.
You’re left in the hush that follows, a kind of peaceful silence between you and Spencer.
“How are you getting home?” he asks, his voice soft, eyes lingering on the way the streetlight reflects off your face.
“I’m walking,” you say with a sigh, rubbing your arms for warmth. “I live just down the road. No point paying for an Uber.”
He hesitates, then speaks, a little tentatively. “Let me walk you home?”
You glance at him, surprised, but there’s something open and sincere in his expression, his hands tucked into his coat pockets like he’s trying to keep his nerves contained.
You nod. “Okay.”
The walk home is quiet, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, the only sound between you. You sway slightly, a drunken smile tugging at your lips as you pause beneath a canopy of trees, eyes lifting to the stars scattered between the branches.
“You’re perfect, you know,” you murmur, voice dream-sweet and a little slurred. “God, I haven’t been able to like anyone else since I met you.”
Spencer stops mid-step, eyes on you, trying to hold onto the words, let them mean what he’s always hoped they might.
You reach your doorstep sooner than he wants. The familiar house stands quietly before you, porch light glowing faintly. He turns to you, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth, uncertain but full of something soft.
“Good night, Spence,” you say gently, stepping close to press a kiss to his cheek. “And thank you.”
The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, leaving Spencer alone on the front step, hand brushing the spot where your lips had been, the echo of your words still fluttering in his chest.
#gublersquill#spencer reid#criminal minds#fanfiction#criminal minds fanfic#spencer reid x reader#dr spencer reid#early seasons spencer reid
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who was gonna tell me u can only @ up to 50 people on a post
#screaming and throwing up#i sorted everyone whos submitted the reading rumble form into teams#andddd i was trying to set up the post that'll go up on feb 1st. and it WONT WORK!!#whatever.. ill probably just end up making 2 posts. with half the teams on one and the other half on the other.#praying that no ones changed their url since submitting the form bc i dont want to go on a scavenger hunt 🙏#lowk the pairings worked out perfectly tho#genuinley thought id have to do multiple drafts but i found one where everyone gets someone in their top 3!😁
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cw: fluff, cowgirl afab reader x ghost, grumpy x sunshine, clumsy reader
HEADCANON: the team meets Ghost’s little bird
PAIRING: Simon Riley x reader
It all started when Soap, half-joking -- not really -- asked over a pint of that terrible guinness that one of the recruits mentioned that he voiced out a lingering thought out loud,
"So, Ghost. Ye ever gonna introduce us to yer missus? Or is she just some hallucination ye made up tae wind us up aye?"
Ghost, who had never confirmed nor denied anything about his personal life, simply shrugged. "Pub. Friday. Seven."
Soap thought he was joking.
At exactly Friday, seven-fucking-pm though. Soap. Soap realized he was wrong.
They met at a grimy pub near base. Price was wary. Gaz looked openly curious. Soap just looked excited, because how normal could Ghost’s wife possibly be? Some goth lady with a death glare? A sniper with a scar over her eye? A shadow in human form?
None of the above.
What actually walked in was—
A tiny woman in a beat-up leather jacket, dusty denim jeans, a battered cowboy hat tilted low over her messy braid. Coupled with a pair of cracked leather boots that clomped across the floor like she owned the place.
Holy shit
She looked like she could ride a bull, shoot a rifle, and kiss you breathless — not necessarily in that order.
She waved frantically the moment she spotted them though — knocking over a chair and nearly tripping over her own boots as she did.
"HEY, SI" she yelled across the entire bar.
Ghost — stoic, terrifying, 6'4" Ghost — immediately straightened in his seat like a teenager seeing his crush. He actually moved. Stood up. Went to meet her halfway like she was the only thing that existed.
Soap’s jaw was physically on the table.
This tiny woman. Small. Wiry. Sun-kissed and with the greatest pair of tits Soap has ever seen immediately launched herself into Ghost’s arms like a missile. He caught her easily -- of course -- one hand on her lower back, the other ruffling her tousled brown hair with ridiculous tenderness.
Leaning down to let her smack a kiss right onto the cloth of his mask like she couldn’t give a single shit about what people thought.
She yanked the brim of his hat down over his eyes — wait! when had he gotten a hat?? — and laughed that big, reckless, wild West laugh that turned every head in the pub.
The team stared in horror and awe.
"This can’t be real," Gaz muttered. "I’m dreaming. I died in Syria."
"She's so small," Soap whispered back, scandalized. "And she’s—she’s—hot??"
They made it back to the table, Ghost’s hand resting casually on her hip like a leash.
When they made it back to the table, she shoved Ghost into a chair, plopped herself onto his lap without ceremony, and grinned at the rest of them.
"Howdy, boys," she said, tipping her hat.
Soap almost cried.
She was absolute chaos. Stole the darts right out of the wall and challenged Soap to a game ("loser buys shots, city boy" "'m from Scotland, lass" "Cattle country ain't like sheep country, sugar" "we have cows. They moo too").
Gaz: "You're so fucking stupid mate"
Soap: "Shut it aye?"
Flirted shamelessly with Ghost across the table — calling him "sugar," "cowboy," and "my big strong man" with zero shame in her Southern-twanged voice. Told Price he looked like a "sheriff with a broken heart."
Somehow wrangled Ghost into a pool match where she used him as her pool cue guide — pressed up against him, his huge hands guiding hers, while she winked at the others over her shoulder.
Ghost never smiled. Never joked. Never talked much. But with her? He was... different.
Softer. More human. Maybe even a little helpless, the poor bastard.
Price, to his credit, kept a straight face. Barely.
Soap, meanwhile -- after losing to her on those stupid darts and took on the challenge of guzzling down the said shots -- was vibrating with suppressed laughter.
She was chaos. Pure, distilled chaos — loud, funny, mean, fun, but also wildly affectionate. She stole a chip off Gaz and a stranger's plate without asking. Shooed off two creeps with a death glare who wouldn’t stop pestering the girls at the counter. Challenged the bouncer -- a hulking and massive bloke -- to arm wrestle and actually fucking won! Spent half an hour helping to take pictures of an old couple on a vacation to send to their grandkids. And started a chant for Price to shotgun a beer (he declined, though grimly but... endeared).
And through all of it, Ghost just... watched her. Silent. Steady. The same way he’d scan a perimeter — except more devoted. Soap swearing that he could even see him smile behind the mask.
At one point, she tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear that made him let out a genuine, low chuckle. An actual laugh. Gaz's drink came out of his nose at that and Soap almost passed out from the shock.
By the end of the night, they were all completely obsessed with her.
(And slightly terrified. She challenged another guy twice her size to a pull-up contest and won.)
As they stumbled out of the pub, she looped an arm around Ghost’s waist and shouted, "THIS IS MY HUSBAND! HE’S BIGGER THAN YOUR HUSBAND!" at absolutely no one.
Ghost didn’t even blink. Just tugged her closer and murmured, "Alright, birdie. Inside voice yeah?."
"YOU LOVE ME BABY," she hollered back.
"Yeah," he said simply, not caring who heard. "I do."
And if anyone at the pub dared to stare — well, nobody wanted to make eye contact with a man wearing a skull mask who looked like he could bench-press a car and the woman who looked like she could drive said car through you and still smile while doing it.
Soap later: "Lass is unhinged aye?." Gaz: "You’re just mad she drank you under the table, mate." Price: "I like her. She’s good for him." Soap: "Naw, like... she’s pure mental. He’s just as daft. It’s a match made in hell, I’m tellin' ye.
Ghost, hearing them gossip: (Just shrugs.) "I like her loud. Makes it easier to find her."
masterlist
#cod men#simon ghost x reader#simon riley cod#simon riley x reader#cod fanfic#cod modern warfare#cod mw2#cod mwii#cod x reader#ghost cod#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ghost x you#simon ghost fluff#ghost x y/n#ghost x you#ghost fluff#tf 141 x you#tf 141 x reader#cod mobile#cod mw3#cod mw ghost#john soap mctavish x reader#john soap mactavish#john price#john price x reader#john price x you#john price x y/n#simon riley fluff#simon riley x you
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SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni
PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁
prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?
pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader
warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)
word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa
a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!
dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!
gojo in this fic:
ACT I. don't puck around and find out!
"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."
"gojo satoru?"
"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."
you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.
"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."
"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.
"so?" you press on.
"so, what?"
"what did gojo say?"
"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."
"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"
not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.
it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.
"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."
right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.
"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.
choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.
this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"
choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"
"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.
choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"
"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."
choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."
"we are friends. and i don't get weird."
"you get so weird. even yuki said so."
"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"
the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.
"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.
"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.
"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.
choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"
"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.
"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"
"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"
your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.
ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine
you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.
study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.
your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.
gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.
but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.
"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.
"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.
"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.
but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.
study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.
"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.
"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"
you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."
gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."
you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."
"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."
"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.
"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."
his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.
besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.
and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.
"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"
as in why are you really here? please ask me out.
gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."
the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.
you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."
"why wouldn't i be?"
"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"
absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.
"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.
"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.
but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."
gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."
you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.
but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.
ACT III. between the covers
the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.
you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.
you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —
thud!
your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.
"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.
"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.
gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.
he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.
"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."
you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."
gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?
"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.
"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."
you blink, "you're actually studying?"
gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"
you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."
he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.
but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'
it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.
and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.
but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.
"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."
you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."
gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."
you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.
"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"
ah, now that's a curveball.
because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.
and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.
"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."
gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"
"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.
"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.
you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."
"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."
you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"
gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."
"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"
gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."
"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."
"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.
as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.
ACT IV. blush confidential
there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.
"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.
"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."
you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."
shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"
"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.
"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"
you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."
your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"
"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.
you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."
shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.
"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."
"and the other half?"
"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."
"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."
yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.
"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"
you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."
"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.
"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"
shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"
"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.
"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"
utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."
"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."
yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."
you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."
"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.
"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.
ACT V. stereo love
normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.
but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.
so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.
"you good?"
suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.
gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."
suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."
"you think too little of me."
"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"
gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"
suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."
this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.
truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.
but now the joke was so clearly on him.
because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.
suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.
but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.
"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.
"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."
"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.
"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."
gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."
suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."
"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"
"and are you?"
gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"
"a loser."
"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"
"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."
gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."
"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."
"excuse me?"
"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."
"did you pick up a self help book?"
suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."
"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.
suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."
"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?
but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.
suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."
oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?
gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.
if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.
gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.
ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.
"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."
gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.
you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.
"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —
let's rewind.
five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.
his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.
still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.
from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.
"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."
for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.
"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."
naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."
and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.
"hey!"
you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.
but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...
you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.
"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.
your brow furrows, "what?"
"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."
you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?
the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.
and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.
"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."
"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"
the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"
"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.
"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."
he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."
you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"
gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.
"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."
"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."
gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."
he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."
you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.
"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."
gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"
"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."
gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."
"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.
gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."
"with your future oscar nomination?"
the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."
"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"
"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"
you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.
gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.
you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.
when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.
gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."
shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"
utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"
suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."
ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!
gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.
right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.
"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.
"s-satoru!"
"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.
no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."
his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.
it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.
the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.
and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.
"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.
it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.
his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.
but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.
that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.
gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.
his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.
"satoru, c-can't you...?"
he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"
and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.
"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"
he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.
he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.
grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.
gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.
making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.
"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.
"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.
what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.
and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.
you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.
you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.
only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.
"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"
you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.
"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"
geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.
geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."
"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.
you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.
choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.
before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."
choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.
to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."
your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"
yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."
sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."
"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."
yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."
"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.
and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."
your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.
satoru 🪐
good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]
"ugh, gross."
sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."
"get a life, holy fuck."
#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#gojo smut#gojo satoru smut#jjk x reader#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk fluff#gojo fluff#gojo satoru fluff#works#gojo#gojo x you#gojo x y/n#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#lmfao i was meant to post this 3 days agoooooo#daphworks
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OKAY OKAY OKAY this might seem really simple but i love the simple stuff
spence x reader
spence is just yapping about whatever, the quantum mechanics of coffee beans, as you said in one of your posts i think, and reader just cuts him off by kissing him IN FRONT OF EVERYONE on the jet.. and everyone’s there like.. oh! im imagining he kisses reader like he kissed lila in that pool scene IM FERAL. yes he kisses back.. and then the rest of it’s just garcia being a squeaking happy person and hotch and morgan are like “that’s my boy” but rossi and jj are just gagged
please im like
Reid the Room - S.R
spencer reid has never met a bad time to discuss aviation disasters. and before your survival instincts can stop you, you're kissing him just to make it stop
pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: gn!reader (correct me if im wrong), secret relationship, pda, mild workplace inappropriateness lol, teasing/banter, spencer reid being spencer reid, mentions of plane crashes! wc: 0.9k
The words don’t just come from Spencer, they pour — fast and inevitable, like water rolling down slick stone, shaping everything in its path. You’ve spent months memorizing the subtleties of it, the tiny furrow between his brows when he’s thinking too hard, his fingers twitching mid-sentence, like even his body can’t quite keep pace with his brilliance.
He becomes more animated when he’s passionate. It should be illegal, you think, for someone to be this smart and this pretty at once. If the team ever noticed how intently you watched him, they’d know. They’d know everything.
“— the likelihood of a plane crash is about one in 11 million, but what’s really fascinating is that 95.7% of people actually survive crashes, assuming they’re seated within the five rows of an emergency exit. Though, of course, the probability of surviving depends on factors like impact angle and —”
Morgan leans forward, bracing an arm against his knee, eyes locked on Spencer with the patience of a man debating the ethics of shutting someone up by violent force.“Hey, man, you ever hear of a bad time? We are currently on a plane. Read the room.”
For once, you don’t leap to his defense. No well-timed he’s just trying to educate us, Morgan, or an indulgent I think it’s interesting thrown in to buffer the onslaught.
Instead, you glance at him, eyebrows lifting into something dangerously close to betrayal. Because, yeah. This might actually be one of those times. One of the Morgan is completely justified in wanting to tape Spencer’s mouth shut for the next four hours.
“I have heard of a bad time, but the concept is largely subjective. What you’re experiencing is cognitive bias, your brain associating this discussion with immediate danger because of proximity. In reality, the likelihood of a crash remains the same whether I mention it or not, so from a purely logical standpoint, this is no worse a time than any other.”
Morgan drags a hand down his face.
“...In fact, not talking about it could be considered the real danger. Avoidance leads to complacency, and complacency leads to fatal mistakes. Did you know that the most survivable crash positions involve bracing at a 60-degree angle? Although, of course, survivability depends largely on the structural integrity of the fuselage upon impact, and in cases of explosive decompression —”
It happens before you can think about — before the gnawing, frantic need to make him stop talking about plane crashes while you are actively inside one overrides all rational thought.
You turn, grab Spencer’s collar, and yank him in, your own common sense careening into a tailspin somewhere at 30,000 feet.
The moment your lips collide, Spencer’s entire body goes rigid, frozen mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-existence. His mouth is still forming a syllable that dies in a half-swallowed exhale against your tongue. His hands, previously conducting an invisible orchestra of statistical doom, trap in mid-air like he forgot what hands are.
But he catches up fast. One second he’s buffering and the next his fingers twitch — once, twice — and then lock onto your waist like he’s just decided physics no longer applies and you need to be closer. It starts semi-tentatively, inhaling against your lips, breath uneven, before he presses deeper. A lit match dropped straight into gasoline.
You pull back, breath coming fast, Spencer still leaning in like he isn’t done yet. “Anyway. What were you saying?”
Spencer stares, lips parted, pupils blown wide. For a second, he seems to genuinely try to answer, searching his mind for whatever deeply important fact he was so adamant about a minute ago. “...I don’t remember.”
The jet is quiet — too quiet — and that’s when it hits you.
You kissed Spencer. In front of everyone.
Something cold and hot spreads through you, and suddenly, your limbs don’t seem to be operating under your jurisdiction anymore. Do something. Anything. Breathe. Blink. Move. But nope, your brain is still buffering, and Spencer – dear, sweet Spencer — looks just as dazed, which means absolutely no one is saving you from this.
You could just… not turn around. Avoid whatever is waiting for you. Live the rest of your life facing forward like a malfunctioning animatronic. But the weight of twelve pairs of eyes boring into your back is impossible to ignore.
So, with all the grace of a person walking into their own execution, you turn.
Garcia has both hands glued to her mouth, body vibrating like she’s one second away from either screeching at a frequency only dogs can hear or launching herself into the air like a bottle rocket. Her eyes are huge, pupils dilated. JJ, meanwhile, is just staring. Frozen, lips parting as if she wants to say something but has no idea where to start.
And then there’s Hotch.
You swallow hard as you meet his gaze, expecting some level of seriousness, some stern professional acknowledgment of the wildly inappropriate display that just took place — but instead, he just exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man who is simply too tired for this.
And then, breaking the tension with the ease of a wrecking ball, Morgan lets out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Damn. I knew there was something going on, but damn.”
After the initial shock wore off — and after Garcia had texted Emily a summary in all caps, Morgan had called you both a lost cause, and Rossi had actually applauded — things mostly went back to normal. Mostly. Except now Spencer absolutely knew what he was doing.
And later that night, as you sat beside Spencer on the couch, he turned to you, utterly serious, and murmured, “You know, in the U.S., the majority of residential break-ins occur between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. —”
You groaned, yanked him in, and cut him off the same way you had earlier. He made a very pleased noise.
💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid oneshot#spencer reid#spencer reid x you#reid#criminal minds fic#spencer reid fic#spencer reid one shot#🌺 maria writes
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pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, afab reader, phone sex, pillow humping, faint overstimulation, mentions of nursing, mentions of breeding.
this had been your third away mission this month.
you and ava—who still didn’t talk much unless it was necessary—had been flown out to mazar-i-sharif, a city currently red-flagged in quiet backchannels between the cia and what was left of stark intelligence. there were reports of reality seams warping in the industrial district, things slipping through and slithering back—too fast to record, too quiet to leave proper trace. the initial scout team sent out—disguised, civilian—had stuck out like fucking neon in a blackout. none made it back. one body was recovered, bloated and arched backwards like it had been hit with a concussive blast inside its own skull. a single tooth embedded in the inner cheek.
being part of the so-called “new avengers” made your gut churn with something like betrayal. not just guilt. the name “new” carried a kind of sacrilege in it, like pissing on an open grave and calling it progress. it was a marketing team’s word—something valentina must have approved while chewing her way through a cocktail olive and a classified kill list. natasha. steve. even sam had ghosted off radar, half the team scattered or dead or morally gutted. “new” meant hollow.
you and ava tried not to talk about that. you blended as best you could. ava knew how to disappear; you knew how to talk. it worked.
by the seventh club of the night—a collapsed-looking industrial rave wedged into a half-burnt bakery—you were raw-eyed and bone-tired. the music had teeth. the air reeked of cheap rum, cannabis tar, and that too-sweet, too-human scent of sweat and sex. the man wasn’t there. neither of you had even a quarter ounce of faith in the blurry polaroid that had come paper-clipped to the mission folder. ava didn’t even look at it. you had stared at it until you swore it moved.
you called it a night. no leads. nothing but phantom static and whispered names: “the gold man,” “shining eyes,” “godflesh.”
once you’d gotten back to the hotel—an over-warm maze of marble and carpets worn to threads—you muttered a soft “goodnight, ava,” and she returned it without looking at you.
you peeled out of your mission gear like shedding skin. the hot water from the shower felt criminally good. you wrapped yourself in a towel that smelled faintly of bleach and cigarette smoke, then finally dropped into bed. the hotel’s linen was too soft, luxurious in a way that felt untrustworthy. like it had been cleaned too well. like it had something to hide.
you reached for your phone without thinking.
and then you froze.
the screen lit up, casting a cold white glow over your face—and what stared back at you made your stomach drop. a few texts from bob earlier that morning, just the usual: updates, soft check-ins, his quiet way of saying he missed you without actually using the word. but then—beginning at 10:47 pm and flooding up until three minutes ago—your entire notifications tab was nothing but his name. call after call. message after message. some in all lowercase, your name typed out like a chant. others blank. just missed connections. pleas, maybe. the sheer volume of it made your skin prickle.
you glanced at the hotel clock. 11:52.
you didn’t even bother scrolling through the texts. the knot forming in your chest was too tight, too familiar. you hit “call” immediately, heart crawling up your throat with the kind of panic you usually reserved for the aftermath of gunfire or something moving behind your reflection.
it rang once.
then—his voice.
not even his full voice. just a breathy, broken whisper of your name, dragged out and trembling like it hurt to say. a soft whine that slipped through the line like he was trying to crawl through it.
in the background, something wet echoed faintly—too loud, too slick, unmistakable in its rhythm. the kind of sound you knew couldn’t be faked. there was too much of it.
“‘m sorry—couldn’t help it.”
the desperation in his voice was so thick it lodged in your chest, cracked open something you weren’t ready to look at too closely. warmth stirred low in your belly, sharp and immediate.
“tell me what’s the matter, baby,” you cooed, soft and coaxing, a slow sweetness that you knew would ruin him. you heard the stutter of breath, the shudder on the other end of the line—and then a choked, broken sob.
“need—more,” he gasped. “need you, please.”
your fingers tightened around the phone.
“are you touching yourself the way i taught you to?” the question came out hushed, threaded with something tender beneath the heat.
it had taken time—real time—for bob to even see masturbation as something other than a task. something he rushed through with clinical detachment, like brushing his teeth. just another way to get his body to shut up. before you, it was never pleasure. it was barely release. just something to get over with, to check off in silence before staring at the ceiling again and wondering if he still belonged to himself.
“mhm,” he breathed.
you heard the shift of fabric, the rustle of movement as he repositioned. his voice came through again, this time soaked in shame and need both: “i wanna touch you—please, can i use your pillow? mine won’t feel the same… it—it doesn’t smell like you.”
you sighed, deep and indulgent. as if you weren’t already aching. as if your thighs weren’t already pressing together.
of course you were going to say yes. you always did. bob using your pillow as a makeshift toy wasn’t exactly a surprise anymore. it had become a habit. one you were still trying to break him of—not because you didn’t like the thought, but because it was a nightmare to clean. you’d caught him more than once trying to sneak it into the laundry pile like it hadn’t been completely soaked through the night before.
but what did catch you off guard—what dragged a small, stunned exhale from your lips—was the sudden flicker of movement on your screen.
his camera had turned on.
the phone had been propped up against the lamp on his nightstand in a rush, tilted just enough for you to see the full, devastating picture: bob, flushed and panting, his boxers shoved halfway down those strong thighs. a plain white t-shirt clenched between his teeth, his jaw tight from biting down. his chest heaved. his arms were braced on either side of your pillow, caging it in like it was alive—like it was you.
his hair was damp and curling against his forehead, clinging in slick strands. his hips were moving in slow, desperate grinds. the pillow beneath him was already soaked.
“you’re such a pretty boy, bob,” the words tumbled from your lips unfiltered, thick with heat. you didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard the tiny, helpless whimper he gave in response.
you shifted under the covers, already sinking down into them. your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts without hesitation. your body answered for you.
patience.
but just barely.
“oh—oh! fuck—”
bob’s voice pitches up, ragged, cracking in a way that sounds like it’s being wrenched out of him, not spoken. you hear the slap of skin against fabric and the low, animal creak of the bedframe with every thrust. the rhythm’s brutal now, desperate and without elegance—he’s fully rutting against the pillow like something that forgot how to be human, all survival and instinct and you.
tiny, pitiful 'uh-huh's slip from his throat like affirmations, little nods to some fantasy playing out behind his glassy eyes. your name gets lost in there too, choked on the back of each whine like it’s the only word he knows anymore. you can’t even tell if he’s aware he’s saying it, or if it’s just muscle memory now—etched into him like scar tissue, something old and automatic, something holy.
and despite the slight tilt of the camera—angled just-so against the lamp, like he couldn’t even wait to set it properly—you can see it. all of it.
his cock, flushed and leaking, glistening wet in the low yellow light of his room, absolutely soaking the pillow beneath him. the precome is everywhere—slicking down the shaft in thick ropes, pooling at the head, gluing soft chestnut curls to his pelvis in damp little tufts. a dark, spreading circle blooms on the pillowcase like a halo, obscene and devotional, a shrine made of mess.
the cotton’s clinging to him now. you can tell it’s started to catch—too saturated to offer any friction anymore, but still he grinds against it like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. like if he stops, he’ll fall off the planet completely.
“fuck, fuck—please,” he keens, voice cracking, “are you… are you touching yourself? please, just wanna make you feel good, ‘jus wanna—”
his words dissolve into a hitching moan, his hips stuttering.
the way he says it—make you feel good—it’s not about control. not with bob. it’s always been about purpose. something to do with his hands that isn’t destruction. something to be useful for, other than ripping the sky in half. it’s service. it’s worship. he wants your pleasure like a man wants salvation, like maybe if he brings you there, he’ll be pulled from the pit too.
and it hits you then—how much of bob exists in this exact moment. every part of him that doesn’t know how to exist quietly. every ugly, wanting corner he doesn’t show the others. not to walker. not to bucky. not even val. none of them would believe this part of him even existed—the part that mewls your name while soaking through your pillow, raw and exposed and beautiful in a way that would terrify them.
you let your fingers dip lower, slipping through your own wetness, and it’s instant. a spike of pleasure that borders on pain, aching and hot as it shoots up your spine. you groan low, and the sound must’ve carried through the speaker because bob freezes, chest heaving.
then—
“are you—are you really?” his voice is breathless, full of awe, like the idea of you actually touching yourself for him is some miracle. he groans, hunching deeper into the pillow, fucking it harder. “jesus, oh my god—thank you—thank you—”
as if you’d gifted him something sacred. as if your body was an answered prayer.
your thumb brushes your clit and your legs jerk. a slick wet sound rises between your thighs, echoing faintly through the call—and bob sobs. sobs.
he keeps swallowing—again and again, compulsively—his throat working like it hurts, like the absence of you is something stuck in it. you can see the way his adam’s apple bobs with each gulp, frantic and shallow, as if he’s trying to tamp something down but it keeps rising, flooding.
you know what it is.
he’s used to having something in his mouth—you. his tongue, his lips, his whole desperate mouth always latched somewhere: your tits, your shoulder, the inside of your thigh. nursing. nuzzling. mouthing. needing. it’s never been about sex, not just—not only. it’s something older, more infantile, more devout. a craving that doesn’t end at climax. a part of him that needs to cling. to suck. to soothe.
and now?
now he’s alone. no skin to mouth. no nipple to drink from. nothing to suck between his flushed, spit-slick lips except air, which he swallows like a starving man pretending it’s soup. you can see the gloss at the corners of his mouth, how they twitch like they’re trying to shape around your name again. it’s almost sad. it’s almost holy.
then it hits him—fast, like he didn’t see it coming. like his body made the decision before his brain could catch up.
“i’m—cummin’!”
the words rip from his throat like a gunshot, fast and panicked and soaked in relief. his whole body seizes—a full-body convulsion like his bones are short-circuiting. he hunches deeper into the pillow, the muscles in his back flexing so hard you can see them ripple even under the shitty lighting.
his fingers claw at the sides of the pillow, gripping so hard you swear you hear it tear, the fabric giving under his strength with a muted ripping noise that makes your breath catch.
“fuck, fuck, fuck—gonna get you pregnant—fuck, gonna fill you up,” he’s babbling now, coming so hard he’s barely even conscious of the words leaving his mouth. “make you warm, make it stick, i—ohhh—”
and then it happens.
you watch it happen.
the pillow’s already soaked, but now it’s worse—somehow wetter. the flood of come from his cock is viscous, obscene, splattering thick into the ruined fabric like he’s pouring himself into it. it’s leaking from the tip in heavy, twitching spurts, trailing down the plush cotton and sticking to his thighs, the base of his cock smeared in creamy slick and sweat and saliva from where he’d drooled earlier without noticing.
you swear you can hear it—the wet sound of him milking himself against your ghost. the cum doesn’t even soak in fully anymore; it pools, thick and syrupy, catching the yellow glow of the lamp in a way that makes your stomach twist with hunger.
your own fingers stutter.
he’s still grinding, even through it, rutting forward like he doesn’t know he’s finished. his hips have a mind of their own, cock pushing against the hot mess he’s made like he wants to fuck it in deeper, like he believes if he presses hard enough, it’ll reach you.
he’s letting out plaintive little cries now, weaker, softer, like his body’s finally started to register that it’s empty. that the release didn’t fix it. that even in the wreckage—come-sticky, thighs trembling, pillow soaked and unusable—he’s still hungry for something he can’t reach through a screen.
still, he rocks lazily against the pillow in slow aftershocks, hips twitching like muscle memory won’t let go just yet. it’s less about getting off now and more about staying close to the feeling of you. the last trace. the last pulse.
then he turns his face toward the phone—his cheek pink, wet with sweat and saliva—and smiles.
it’s a dreamy, breathless little thing. a laugh spills from him, all shaky and sugar-sick, like he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling anymore. he just knows it was for you. that it meant something.
it doesn’t matter, though.
not when he lets himself melt across the bed like butter left out too long, one arm sliding off the mattress, his legs spread open and useless. his boxers are barely clinging to one ankle now, and there’s a damp patch on the sheets beneath him where the mess finally leaked through the pillow.
his eyes flutter shut.
“love you ‘s much,” he murmurs, voice thick and blurred at the edges. “miss you ‘s much.”
he says something else, low and soft, words smudged like watercolor. you don’t catch it, but it doesn’t really matter. you get the shape of it. the feeling.
you pause for a second, letting the sound of his breathing settle into you—deep and rhythmless, the kind of sleep that only comes after something raw. then you slip out of bed, padding softly toward the bathroom.
there’s the brief rush of water, the soft hush of skin meeting towel, the familiar ritual of cleaning up under sterile hotel light. you avoid the mirror. avoid looking at your own flushed face. not out of shame—no, never that. just reverence. quiet.
when you return, you glance down at the phone still glowing on your bedside table. the screen’s dim, but the call hasn’t ended. bob’s still there. his camera’s tipped just slightly now—angled toward his chest, rising and falling, slow and steady. his mouth is slack in sleep. he’s beautiful in the way aftermath is beautiful—ruined and soft and done.
you smile.
sliding back under the covers, you nestle the phone beside you like a second heartbeat. you don’t even bother turning it off. just let the weight of his presence settle into the bed with you, real as anything. real as warmth.
you fall asleep to the sound of bob’s breathing.
(bob now has such a nasty habit of sending you the most filthiest things while your away, from little voice messages of breathless whimpers to full on videos of him fucking himself into his fist.
always paired with a message under it reading; 'love you so much, look at the mess i made' all while you're seated on a plane right next to ava on your way back home)
#robert reynolds#bob reynolds fanfic#bob thunderbolts#marvel#robert reynolds x reader#sentry#the void#thunderbolts#thunderbolts fanfic#bob reynolds smut#bob reynolds#bob reynolds x reader#x reader#smut#thunderbolts*#mcu#bob thunderbolts x reader#thunderbolts x reader#marvel fanfic#the sentry#the new avengers#new avengers#the void x reader#the void smut#mutual pining#pining#mcu smut#the void mcu#the void marvel
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In sync
Pairing: Jack Abbott x Wife!Reader
Warnings: none
Summary: Two doctors work in perfect sync, sparking curiosity among new interns. After shift, subtle truths begin to surface.
Requests are open | Main Masterlist
[...]
The Pitt was humming with life, chaos, and fluorescent light. It was one of those shifts where no one had time to breathe, much less eat, yet somehow, Dr. Jack Abbot and Dr. Y/N L/N never missed a step.
It wasn’t flashy. It was like muscle memory, the way they moved together. Jack would glance at a monitor, and Y/N would already be adjusting a vent setting. She’d murmur a stat order under her breath, and he’d be handing over the form before she finished.
“Jesus,” Whitaker muttered as he watched them intubate a patient in tandem. “It’s like they’re… psychically linked.”
“Or they have earpieces we can’t see,” Javadi whispered, eyes darting back and forth between the two attendings.
“They don’t even look at each other,” Dr. Santos added. “It’s eerie. What are they? Married or something?”
“Old,” came a voice from behind them. Dr. Robby strolled by with a chart tucked under his arm and a half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Old and terrifying. You’ll get there in ten years.”
The newbies blinked. Still, none of the new hires knew the real kicker.
Because no one told them.
The nurses, the residents, even the cafeteria staff. They all kept the secret locked tight behind knowing smirks and barely-contained laughter. It was tradition.
And tonight, the setup was perfect.
The shift ended just past 8:00 p.m. The team trickled out to the park across from the hospital. An unofficial post-shift ritual. Six-packs were cracked open, greasy takeout was distributed, and bodies collapsed onto benches and grass with groans of exhaustion.
Jack sat down on the bench beneath the park’s old oak tree. Y/N followed a moment later, plopping down beside him and handing him a cold beer without a word. He took it, nodded once in thanks, and rested his hand casually behind her on the bench’s backrest.
The newbies were huddled together with their drinks, watching the two of them closely.
“She just… handed him a beer. Didn’t even ask.”
“He just leaned closer. Did he smile?”
“Is this… are they…?”
And then, it happened.
Y/N, hair frizzed from the day, leaned her head gently onto Jack’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch or look surprised. He just shifted slightly so she’d be more comfortable, gave her a kiss at the cheek, and took a slow sip of his beer.
Javadi gasped audibly.
Robby was right there. He stood up with theatrical slowness and clinked his bottle against Jack’s with a smirk. “About time. PDA on the first date, huh?”
Jack rolled his eyes, and Y/N chuckled, nudging him with her shoulder.
“Wait, wait, what?” Whitaker sputtered, beer halfway to his mouth. “Are they together?!”
Dr. Santos, three bites into her falafel wrap, didn’t even look up. “Called it”
"We are married" Y/N said with a chuckle
“What?!”
Jack reached into his scrub top and pulled out a thin chain. On it, a modest gold band. Y/N mirrored him, revealing the matching ring around her neck.
The interns looked like they’d just been hit by a trauma case themselves.
“Four and a half years,” Y/N said with a shrug, sipping her beer.
“You knew?” Mel asked Langdon, stunned.
Langdon snorted. “Of course I knew. Everyone knows.”
“Everyone?” Javadi asked, eyes darting around.
A chorus of nods followed
Matteo added “We like to see who figures it out. It’s the only entertainment we get some nights.”
The newbies just sat there, stunned.
Jack and Y/N? Married? The most professional, zero-nonsense duo in the hospital?
Robby smirked at their dumbfounded faces and muttered to Jack, “Still can’t believe she said yes to you, man.”
Jack didn’t respond. He just leaned a little closer to Y/N, who was now resting comfortably against his shoulder, completely at ease.
And in that moment, everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.
#jack abbot x ofc#jack abbot x you#jack abbot x reader#jack abbott x reader#dr jack abbot#dr jack abbot x reader#jack abbott fanfic#dr. jack abbott#the pitt#the pitt fanfic
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White Horse - Chapter 8: October 2023
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)
Summary:
Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.
She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.
But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.
Warnings and Notes:
we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Max wasn’t someone who forgot how to be an adult.
He was a World Champion. He kept a strict training regimen, remembered which hand luggage worked best for long-haul flights, and could navigate a grid penalty strategy like it was second nature. He wasn’t helpless—not at the track, not at home.
But still, there was something quietly astonishing about how easy his life had become since Isabelle moved in.
It started off small.
After the first race weekend they spent apart post-move, he came home expecting the usual chaos—half-unpacked suitcase, laundry to do, a fridge with maybe one sad yogurt and some questionable cheese.
Instead?
His suitcase was already unpacked. Laundry sorted and in the wash. There was a folded stack of clean gym clothes on the bed, and a small sticky note on the bathroom mirror in Isabelle’s tidy handwriting:
Welcome home. You did great. There’s soup in the fridge and the cats missed you.
He’d blinked at it for a solid minute before laughing quietly and thinking, Huh. That’s new.
But it didn’t stop there.
By the third race weekend, it had become a rhythm. The fridge was magically stocked with all the foods he craved after long travel days—cut mango, chocolate granola, oat milk, the fancy yogurt he’d once mentioned liking.
His sim racing gear? Charged and ready before he even thought to use it. A small corner of the closet had somehow become better organized than Red Bull’s race strategy board.
She started refilling his supplements without saying a word. She pre-scheduled his haircuts, left Post-Its on the mirror when he needed to sign something for the team, and quietly placed noise-canceling earplugs in his carry-on.
And she worked. Isabelle had a full-time job. Not a desk job where she could casually scroll through her phone or delegate her way through the day—she was an architect, doing interiors, managing clients, deadlines, contractors. Max had seen her calendar. It looked like someone had lost a game of Tetris.
And somehow—somehow—she still remembered to order new toothpaste before they ran out. Or add his vitamins to the grocery list. Or restock the snack drawer in his sim room without ever saying a word.
It wasn’t flashy. She didn’t make announcements about it. She just did it, quietly and efficiently, like she always had.
It wasn’t until Max found himself halfway through folding his laundry before realizing he hadn’t had to fold laundry in over a month that the realization hit him fully:
Isabelle had spent most of her life running in the background of other people’s chaos.
He’d seen it before, on the edges of Leclerc family race weekends. Isabelle, the sister who stayed back to make sure Arthur had the right tie packed, or that Charles had signed the right forms. The one who found a florist for Lorenzo thirty minutes before an event, or remembered which water bottle brand their mother liked for travel.
She had always been the quiet buffer.
The fixer.
The forgotten problem-solver.
And now… she was doing it for him.
Not because he expected it. He didn’t. He’d told her repeatedly he could handle himself. But Isabelle wasn’t someone who waited to be asked. She anticipated, gently rearranged the world around her people, and made their lives easier before they even noticed they were stressed.
He found her that night curled up on the sofa, hair damp from the shower, laptop open with her architectural renders glowing softly against her face. She was eating grapes and typing one-handed, her legs tucked under her like always.
“You know,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her, “I haven’t had to do a single thing since I got home.”
Isabelle didn’t look up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… I haven’t done laundry. My flights are in my calendar. My snack drawer is mysteriously refilled. I have socks again. And coffee. And peace.”
She blinked, paused her typing, and smiled. “It’s really not that much.”
“It is,” Max said gently. “You work ten hours a day and somehow still run this apartment like it’s an F1 garage. I don’t know how you do it.”
She shrugged a little, looking sheepish. “I like doing it. I like making things easier for the people I love.”
“Do your brothers ever thank you?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think they realize half of what I do,” she admitted drily.
Max nodded slowly. “Well, I notice. Every little thing. You don’t have to do it all, but when you do… I see it. And I’m grateful. Really.”
Her smile wavered just a little, like something fragile cracked open inside her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I… I’m not used to hearing that.”
Max pulled her laptop from her lap, set it gently on the coffee table, and tugged her into his arms.
Max cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye. “I see it now. All of it. Every time you notice something before I do. Every time you put something away or refill something I didn’t even realize was empty. You’ve made this place feel like home.”
She smiled softly. “That’s what love is, isn’t it?”
***
Leclerc Sibling Group Chat
(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)
Arthur: I’M SCREWED.
Lorenzo: Again?
Charles: What now?
Arthur: I FORGOT MY ANNIVERSARY.
Charles: …
Lorenzo: …
Charles: You absolute moron.
Lorenzo: You have ONE job.
Arthur: HELP ME.
Charles: Help you??? Maybe try remembering important dates next time?
Lorenzo: Yeah, I don’t really see how this is our problem.
Arthur: ISABELLE. SAVE ME.
Isabelle: What kind of dinner does she like?
Arthur: She likes Italian? And wine? And… romantic lighting?
Isabelle: …Do you know anything about your girlfriend?
Arthur: I KNOW I LOVE HER AND I DON’T WANT HER TO DUMP ME.
Isabelle: Right. I’ll take care of it.
Arthur: YOU’RE A HERO.
(20 minutes later)
Isabelle: You have a reservation at La Chèvre d'Or at 8 PM. I also ordered that perfume she keeps in her bag and had it gift-wrapped. It’ll be at your place in an hour.
Lorenzo: Oh, while you’re at it, what should I get my girlfriend for her birthday?
Isabelle: Jewelry. She’s been eyeing those gold earrings from Cartier.
Lorenzo: You’re actually a genius.
(Several hours later)
Isabelle: You’re welcome, by the way.
Arthur: Huh?
Lorenzo: For what?
***
Max was still buzzing with adrenaline when he finally stepped into his apartment, championship celebrations still ringing in his ears. The moment he closed the door behind him, silence settled over him like a warm blanket, the contrast almost jarring after the chaos of the paddock.
And then he saw her.
Isabelle was curled up on the couch, one of the cats nestled beside her, a book resting open in her lap. She must’ve heard him come in because she looked up immediately, her expression softening.
“Hey,” she said, setting the book aside. “How does it feel?”
Max huffed out a breath, toeing off his shoes and crossing the room in a few quick steps. “Like I need you,” he muttered, dropping onto the couch beside her and pulling her into his arms.
She let out a quiet laugh but didn’t resist, settling against his chest as his arms tightened around her. “That exhausting, huh?”
He buried his face in her shoulder. “So many people. So much noise. This is better.”
Her fingers threaded through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “You did just win your third world title. Kind of a big deal.”
He smirked against her skin. “Mm. They wouldn’t shut up about it.”
“Annoying, really,” she teased.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. The soft glow from the nearby lamp illuminated her features, her eyes filled with something quiet and fond.
“You should’ve been there,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along her jaw.
She sighed, shaking her head. “You know why I wasn’t.”
He did. She wasn’t ready for the cameras, the attention, the inevitable questions. And he would never push her into something she wasn’t comfortable with.
But fuck, he wished she had been there.
Still, she had waited up for him. She was here. That was enough.
His thumb traced slow circles over her hip as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You watched?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “You were incredible.”
His chest tightened at the quiet sincerity in her voice. He’d spent the entire night surrounded by people telling him how great he was, how historic his achievement was. But this—hearing it from her—meant more than any of it.
He let out a long breath, finally starting to feel the exhaustion creeping in. “Come to bed with me?”
She nodded, taking his hand as they stood. As they made their way toward the bedroom, one of the cats darted ahead of them, already claiming Max’s pillow.
Isabelle laughed. “Looks like you’re not the only champion in this house.”
Max just smiled, pulling her close again as they climbed into bed. “Doesn’t matter. I already have everything I want.”
They settled into bed, limbs tangled, warmth shared beneath soft blankets. The city was quiet outside the windows. The adrenaline was finally ebbing.
And then, just as the stillness settled, Isabelle spoke.
“You never ask,” she said quietly.
“Ask what?”
“Why I haven’t told them.”
She didn’t have to specify who them was.
Max exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It wasn’t that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He had wondered—more than once—why she still kept their relationship a secret, why she hadn’t told her brothers, her mother, anyone. But he had never pushed.
“Do you want to tell them?” he asked carefully.
Isabelle was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she looked up at him, her gaze steady.
“No.”
Max blinked. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting.
She sighed, shifting so she was facing him fully. “It’s not because I’m ashamed of you. Or because I don’t care.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s because you’re important to me.”
His breath hitched slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting her continue.
“My whole life, I’ve felt like I had to fight to be noticed. To be heard. And with my family, it’s always been about Charles. About Arthur. About Lorenzo. I love them, but—sometimes, it feels like I’m just a shadow in their lives.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want you to be part of that. I didn’t want us to become something that gets brushed aside, just another footnote in their world.”
Max’s jaw tightened. He had seen the way her family overlooked her, how they spoke over her, how they forgot things that should have mattered. And now, hearing it from her directly, it made something inside him ache.
“So you kept us just for you,” he murmured.
She nodded. “Just for me.”
Max reached out, his fingers threading through hers. “I don’t mind,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “If you want to wait. Whatever you decide—I just want to be with you.”
She squeezed his hand, and he lifted it to press a kiss against her knuckles, his lips lingering there for a moment.
“I hope you know,” he added quietly, “that you’ll never be a shadow to me.”
A small, wobbly smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.
“I know,” she whispered.
Max let the words settle between them, his grip on Isabelle’s hand firm but gentle. He could feel the warmth of her fingers, the slight tremble she tried to hide. He had never truly understood what it felt like to be overlooked—his entire life had been under a spotlight, from karting to Formula 1. But Isabelle? She had spent years fading into the background of her own family’s story.
And yet, here she was, choosing to keep him separate from all of that. Not because she was hiding him, but because she wanted something that was only hers.
He squeezed her hand lightly. “You know,” he said, voice softer than usual, “I’d never let them brush you aside. If they knew about us.”
She let out a quiet breath, her eyes flickering down to where their hands were intertwined. “I know,” she admitted. “But that’s not what I’m afraid of.”
Max frowned. “Then what is it?”
She hesitated, then sat up a little straighter, pulling one knee up to her chest. “If I tell them about us,” she said slowly, “it changes things. Not just for me, but for you. For us.” She exhaled. “Suddenly, I won’t just be Isabelle anymore. I’ll be ‘Max Verstappen’s girlfriend.’ And to them, that will mean something.”
He stayed quiet, letting her put her thoughts into words.
“They’ll look at me differently. Maybe they’ll suddenly start paying attention, maybe they’ll act like I matter more just because you matter. And I don’t want that.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed forward. “I don’t want their attention just because of who I’m with. I want them to see me.”
Max felt something twist in his chest. He had never thought of it like that. To him, she had always been important. But her family? They had overlooked her for so long, and she didn’t want their sudden interest to be because of him.
“You think they’d only start noticing you because of my name,” he said quietly.
Isabelle gave him a small, sad smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s only cared because of who you are.”
That stung. Because she was right. He had seen it time and time again—people wanting to be close to him because of what he could offer, not because of who he was. The idea that her own family might finally pay attention to her for the same reason made his jaw tighten.
“Belle.” He turned to face her fully, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I don’t care how long we keep this just between us. But don’t ever think for a second that I don’t see you. That I don’t love you for exactly who you are.”
Her breath caught, and he saw the way her eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t said it before—not like this. Maybe he should have waited for a different moment, something more planned, more perfect. But she deserved to hear it now.
She swallowed hard. “Max.”
“I mean it,” he said, his voice steady. “I love you, Isabelle. And it has nothing to do with your last name, or your family, or anything else. Just you.”
Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she just looked at him—like she was trying to memorize him, like she was searching for any trace of hesitation. She wouldn’t find any.
Then, finally, she let out a shaky breath and leaned in, pressing her forehead against his. “I love you too,” she whispered, so soft he almost didn’t hear it.
But he did. And that was all that mattered.
***
The shift had started quietly.
Snide comments. Backhanded compliments. Passive exclusion from group meetings she used to lead. Isabelle’s project folders were “misplaced,” her samples “forgotten,” and her renderings were somehow always “accidentally deleted.”
But by now it was blatant.
Last week, she’d walked into the break room and found her concept sketches tossed into the trash beside half-eaten croissants.
Today, someone had keyed in over her CAD file—over it, not on a copy—and added a caption across the top of the screen in bold red text:
“Thanks, nepotism. We’ll take it from here.”
Isabelle stared at it for a long time, her stomach turning.
The worst part was that no one tried to hide it anymore.
When she glanced around the office, no one made eye contact. No one looked guilty. They just went on with their day like she was background noise.
Like she hadn’t worked twice as hard. Stayed twice as late. Fought for every inch of credibility.
Like Max’s penthouse had erased everything she’d ever done before it.
She backed away from her desk, air thick in her lungs, and walked straight to the glass-enclosed materials library. Closed the door. Pressed her back against it.
Breathed.
You live in peace, she reminded herself. You wake up next to Max. This doesn’t get to break you.
But it did hurt.
She didn’t cry—she wouldn’t give them that. But her throat ached with all the things she couldn’t say.
***
Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie
Isabelle: Okay I’m officially done. I just had the worst day and I need to get out of my own head.
Emilie: What happened?? Are you okay?
Isabelle: Just… work stuff. People not listening. Clients who think Pinterest means they’re architects now. And my colleague took credit for something I spent three weeks on.
Emilie: I will start swinging.
Isabelle: Please do. Preferably with one of those cartoonishly large handbags.
Emilie: Already packed one. Where are we going?
Isabelle: Let’s go shopping this afternoon? I still haven’t bought birthday presents for Charles and Arthur, and if I stay in this office any longer I’ll start crying over the wrong throw pillow.
Emilie: Say no more. I’ll pick you up in 30. You can buy emotionally motivated gifts and I can be your moral support/human espresso.
Isabelle: You’re my favorite person.
Emilie: I know. And I’m dragging you to get cake after. No arguments.
***
Alexandra had only come in to browse.
The gallery had been quiet all morning, the kind of rainy-day lull that left her restless, so she’d taken a walk, turned a corner, and ducked into a tucked-away boutique that specialized in little luxuries—silk scarves, handmade ceramics, niche perfumes. The kind of place you didn’t go to with intention, just curiosity.
She was halfway to a display of glass jewelry trays when she heard a familiar voice.
“Alex?”
She turned—and blinked.
“Emilie?”
The other woman—sleek dark coat, sunglasses perched in her hair, a woven tote filled with rolled linen and a jar of fig jam—smiled.
“I thought that was you,” Emilie said, her voice warm but always laced with sharpness, like she couldn’t quite switch off the part of her brain that was evaluating everyone in the room. “It’s been a while.”
Alexandra smiled. “Yeah, since the preview at the gallery. You were with that collector from Paris.”
“He’s still deciding between three paintings he can’t afford,” Emilie said dryly. “But I’m sure he’ll make a confident choice any day now.”
They both laughed.
And then Alexandra’s eyes shifted—to the person standing just behind Emilie, holding a pale blue shopping bag and smiling politely.
Next to her stood Isabelle.
And that—that was the part Alexandra didn’t quite expect.
Because Isabelle Leclerc, as Alexandra knew her, was quiet. Sweet, yes. Polite, yes. But always a little faded at the edges. Always deferring. Always on the outside, even when she was technically inside the room. Always smiling without saying much.
But here—standing next to Emilie, twirling a delicate silver ring between her fingers, visibly debating whether to buy it—Isabelle looked alive.
Her cheeks were pink. She was smiling, not the polite, folded sort of smile Alexandra knew, but something real. Something that reached her eyes. Her body language was open. Confident.
And Emilie was watching her like she’d personally fight anyone who dimmed that light again.
“Hi, Isabelle.”
“Hey, Alex. How are you?” Her voice was as warm as ever. Kind, even. That was the thing about Isabelle—she was never unkind. Always soft-spoken, always thoughtful. Alex couldn’t remember her ever being cold or rude.
And yet… she realized with a flicker of guilt, she didn’t know a single personal thing about her. Not really.
“I’m good,” Alexandra said, hesitating. She wasn’t sure how long to linger. But Emilie stepped aside slightly, making room, and something about the way she did it—reluctantly welcoming—made Alexandra stay.
“You two shopping for anything in particular?” she asked.
Isabelle tilted her head. “A birthday gift. Possibly. Unless I end up keeping it for myself.”
“She’s been buying presents for everyone but herself,” Emilie said dryly. “As per usual.”
“I’m selective,” Isabelle said mildly.
“No, you’re selfless,” Emilie corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Alexandra watched the exchange, slightly stunned. There was an ease between them, a quiet rhythm. They spoke in a way that implied history. Real closeness. It made Isabelle seem... whole, somehow. Grounded.
Alexandra suddenly felt like she’d only ever seen the outline of a person.
“You’re really good at presents,” she said after a pause. “Honestly, I was just thinking about what to get Charles, and I have no idea. You always find the perfect thing.”
Isabelle blinked in surprise. “Oh—thank you. I just try to think about what makes people feel like they’ve been seen.”
“She’s too good,” Emilie said. “It’s genuinely annoying. I once said I liked the color of a book cover and two months later it showed up wrapped in silk ribbon with a handwritten note and a matching bookmark.”
Isabelle flushed slightly. “You needed cheering up.”
“She’s the personal shopper of the entire Leclerc family,” Emilie said flatly, reaching for a small candle. “Has been since she was old enough to know how to wrap a box. Half the birthday gifts your boyfriend has ever given were probably vetted or bought by her.”
Alexandra blinked. “Really?”
Isabelle looked embarrassed. “Sometimes they ask for help.”
Emilie raised an eyebrow. “Isabelle picked out Arthur’s last three girlfriend gifts and Pascale’s Christmas gift for the last 10 years.”
Alexandra laughed, but something about Emilie’s tone lingered.
Not unkind. Just sharp enough to say: Yes, Isabelle is good. And yes, they take her for granted.
It was the sort of thing Alexandra might have thought herself—but would never have said out loud.
“I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Isabelle said lightly.
Alexandra felt something twist in her chest.
She hadn’t known that. She’d never thought to ask.
She’d always liked Isabelle. Truly. Isabelle was kind, warm, undemanding. But also... elusive. Hard to reach. Like there was a door half-closed between them, and Alexandra had never known how to knock.
The three of them wandered through the boutique a little longer. Isabelle offered two suggestions for Charles—one sleek, one sentimental—and Alexandra made a note of both.
And then, as they paused by a shelf of men’s shirts in soft cotton and subtle patterns, Isabelle’s hand brushed one.
Alexandra watched her hesitate over it—thoughtful, considering—before she gently placed it back.
“For Charles?” Alex asked, puzzled.
Isabelle looked over, surprised. “What? Oh—no. Just a nice cut. The collar’s clean.”
And for a flicker of a second, something tugged at Alexandra—some thread she couldn’t quite pull free.
There was something else here. Something under the surface. And now that she’d seen it—how Isabelle lit up beside Emilie, how open she seemed in the right company—Alex couldn’t unsee it.
She’d always thought Isabelle was just shy. Or private. Or soft in that way people could overlook.
Now she wondered if Isabelle was simply guarded.
And Alex, for the first time, found herself wondering what it would take to really know Isabelle Leclerc.
Because she was starting to think—quietly, uneasily—that her boyfriend’s sister was not at all the girl they all assumed she was.
***
Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charles Leclerc
Alexandra: Just ran into your sister. In a boutique in the 6th.
Charles: Oh yeah? What was she doing?
Alexandra: Shopping. Birthday presents, apparently. But Isabelle looked… different.
Charles: Different how?
Alexandra: Happy. Confident. Like… I don’t know. Not the version of her I usually see at family stuff. She was laughing. Really laughing.
Charles: She’s always laughing.
Alexandra: Not like this, Mon amour.
Alexandra: Do you think she’s seeing someone?
Charles: What?
Alexandra: I’m serious.
Charles: Yeah, no way.
Alexandra: Are you sure?
Charles: She would have mentioned it.
Charles: Trust me, it’s not happening.
Alexandra: So confident about that, huh?
Charles: I’d know if she had a boyfriend. And she doesn’t.
***
Instagram Stories -@/isabelleleclerc
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/f1chaosupdates GUYS WHY DID ISABELLE LECLERC POST A CAT SINCE WHEN DOES SHE HAVE A CAT???
[Attached: Isabelle's story — a photo of a cat’s paw]
@/paddocktheories: okay but like this cat looks suspiciously like it could be max verstappen’s cats sassy or jimmy reincarnated
@/wheresmygrid: STOP I THOUGHT THE SAME THING
@/gridgoblins: Wait wait wait what if it IS Sassy or Jimmy and she’s just at Max’s place 👀👀👀
@/redbullstan4life: This is literally a picture of a cat’s paw. It could belong to a thousand other cats. It doesn’t even need to be a Bengal!
@/charlesdefensesquad: isabelle posting a cat and everyone immediately connecting it to max’s cats is so funny. the girl can’t even post her own furniture without y’all screaming “VERSTAPPEN???”
@/gossipgridf1: i will be NORMAL about this… except no because that cat 100% looks like Jimmy or Sassy
@/monaco_mess: to be fair if i was secretly dating max verstappen i too would post soft pictures of his cats like a declaration of love
@/oscarstan22: everyone in the comments like 🕵️♀️ enhance 🕵️♀️ zoom 🕵️♀️ cross-reference sassy and jimmy’s stripe patterns
@/gofasterbaby: if it IS sassy or jimmy and isabelle is just chilling with them…. that’s basically a marriage announcement in Verstappen family terms
***
Oscar Piastri didn’t think grocery shopping could be stressful.
Until Monaco.
Until Monegasque grocery stores, specifically, which didn’t believe in helpful signage, organization, or—apparently—labels with pictures.
Oscar just wanted cheese.
That was it. Cheese. Maybe some pasta. Possibly bread if he was feeling adventurous.
But standing in the middle of a charmingly cramped French grocery store, blinking at six nearly identical wedges of something called tomme de brebis and a handwritten sign that might have been a threat—or a discount—he was beginning to spiral.
He’d committed to doing this errand without help. Without Google Translate. Without texting his girlfriend.
He was trying to be independent.
But now the shop owner was hovering, and Oscar had been standing in the cheese aisle for nine minutes, and he was starting to feel judged by a 72-year-old woman with a very intense stare.
And then—
“Do you need help?” a soft voice asked beside him.
Oscar blinked, turning to find a woman about his age, brown hair twisted back, a linen tote on one shoulder, expression kind.
“I’m sorry?”
She smiled, switching to English immediately. “You’ve been staring at the cheese like it owes you money. I figured you might be lost.”
Oscar exhaled in relief. “I am, actually. I don’t know what any of this is.”
She stepped forward and scanned the shelf. “That one’s sheep’s milk—really good, a bit nutty. That one’s stronger, aged, smells like feet but tastes amazing if you like that sort of thing.”
Oscar stared at her, impressed. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“I live around the corner,” she said. “And I’ve made every grocery mistake there is.”
He laughed, properly now. “Thanks. That helps a lot.”
She smiled again—polite, gentle, unassuming.
There was something… familiar about her.
Not in a hey-we’ve-met way. But in the I-know-that-face-from-somewhere way.
Soft brown hair, loosely braided. Pretty green eyes. Very Monaco. Very… vaguely connected to something in his brain.
Oscar hesitated. “Do I… know you?”
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “Probably not. I mean—we’ve technically met. But you probably wouldn’t remember.”
Oscar narrowed his eyes. And then—lightbulb.
“You look like—” He blinked. “Oh. Wait. You’re Charles’ sister.”
Her smile faltered for just a second. “Yes. Among other things.”
“Right,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward. “I didn’t recognize you outside the paddock.”
“It’s okay,” she said, grabbing a carton of eggs with practiced precision. “I usually disappear into the background there.”
“They didn’t have the peach one. So I got apricot instead,” Came a voice behind Isabelle.
Oscar looked up to see none other but Max Verstappen.
“Perfect,” Isabelle said brightly.
Oscar could just stare.
“Oscar,” Max greeted him like it was a normal day. Like he wasn’t currently grocery shopping with Charles Leclerc’s sister.
“…Hi,” Oscar managed, eyes pinging between them. “I—uh. Hey.”
Max moved to toss something else into Isabelle’s cart—like this was normal. Like they hadn’t just revealed themselves as Monaco’s most covert domestic power couple in front of the yogurt aisle.
“Groceries?” Max asked, like that was the confusing part of this moment.
“I—yeah,” Oscar said, holding up his sheep cheese wedge like it was a peace offering. “You guys are… together?”
Max looked over his shoulder. “Shopping?”
Oscar blinked. “No, I mean… like. Together.”
Isabelle flushed slightly but didn’t deny it. Just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “For a while now.”
Oscar stared. “Like. Secretly?”
Max shrugged. “Privately.”
“That’s the same thing,” Oscar said.
Max looked unbothered. “Is it?”
“I thought you two barely talked,” he said, still trying to catch up.
“We don’t. Publicly,” Max said.
Oscar opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Does Charles know?”
Max shot him a look that said absolutely not.
Isabelle just gave a small smile and added, “Please don’t tell him.”
Oscar held up both hands. “I’ve never kept a secret faster in my life.”
Max nodded approvingly. “Good.” Then, off handedly. “Lando knows. Danny does too.”
“Cool,” Oscar said. Then: “I’m gonna go… buy cheese and rethink everything I know.”
Max gave him a thumbs-up. “See you at the track.”
Oscar wandered away in stunned silence, still clutching his cheese like a lifeline, already trying to figure out how he of all people became the latest keeper of Verstappen-Leclerc classified information.
***
Group Chat: HELP ME
(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris and Daniel Ricciardo)
Oscar: I just ran into Max Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc in a grocery store.
Oscar: Help me.
Lando: oh yeah? how was monaco’s finest domestic couple?
Oscar: I thought I hallucinated it at first
Oscar: I looked up and Max was holding her jam
Oscar: and then he put it in her cart
Lando: 🥹 precious
Oscar: HE KNEW WHAT KIND OF JAM SHE LIKED LANDO—HE SAID “THEY DIDN’T HAVE THE PEACH, SO I GOT APRICOT” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN
Daniel: It means they’re in love and hiding it from Charles.
Lando: welcome to hell.
Oscar: How can Charles not know.
Lando: he’s oblivious. like truly, impressively blind
Oscar: When Charles finds out we are going to die. I’m not built for this. I was buying cheese. Cheese.
Oscar: Is it serious??
Lando: max let her redecorate his penthouse
Oscar: I hate it here. I just wanted cheese.
Daniel: And instead you got a lifetime of emotional responsibility. Congrats.
Oscar: How did you find out?
Lando: you remember when i broke max’s trophy? he let me bring home the replacement to help my guilty conscience, and guess who is living with him
Daniel: The hotel disaster. That was when I figured it out
Lando: ???????? Lando: What hotel disaster
Oscar: What happened??
Daniel: Zandvoort. Her brothers forgot to book her a hotel room.
Daniel: Straight up just didn’t even think about it.
Daniel: She landed. No room. No backup plan.
Daniel: Was about to sleep in the damn lobby before Max found out.
Lando: YOU’RE JOKING.
Oscar: THEY WHAT. Oscar: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.
Daniel: Not done
Daniel: Next morning?
Daniel: They LEFT HER at the hotel.
Daniel: Like… packed up, went to the track, forgot she existed.
Lando: I’m gonna throw something
Lando: THEY JUST FORGOT HER????
Oscar: SHE IS THEIR SISTER Oscar: NOT A MISPLACED WALLET
Lando: i have two sisters if i did that my mum would reassemble me from scratch just to kill me again
Oscar: If I did that my mother would drag me by my ear to the cameras of Sky Sports and berate me live on air.
Oscar: What is WRONG with them
Daniel: Max was FUMING. So he asked me to pick her up.
Oscar: GOOD.
Oscar: No wonder they kept it secret
Oscar: If my girlfriend was treated by her family like that I’d go full vigilante too.
Daniel: 😂 welcome to the secret society of "We Would Kill For Isabelle Leclerc"
Oscar: Sign me up
Lando: same.
Lando: also Charles is dead to me now until further notice
Daniel: don’t worry
Daniel: karma’s real
Daniel: and Max is scarier than any big brother
***
Lando Norris was pretty sure Oscar Piastri was about to crack.
He could see it happening in real time—the hairline fracture of panic starting just behind Oscar’s eyes. One more question. One wrong look. And Oscar was going to blurt out everything.
Max. Isabelle. The groceries.
And the worst part? Charles was right there—calm as ever, sipping an espresso in the hotel lobby like he wasn’t a ticking time bomb of impending betrayal. Like he wasn’t five seconds away from having his entire reality rearranged.
Lando shifted in his seat, chewing on a straw wrapper so aggressively he was surprised it hadn’t disintegrated yet. His knee bounced up and down, a desperate outlet for the nerves clawing at his insides.
They hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.
It was too quiet. Too weird. Too dangerous.
Which, obviously, was when Carlos strolled into the lobby, clocked the tension immediately, and frowned.
“What’s going on here?” Carlos asked, grabbing a protein bar from the snack stand like he had all the time in the world. “Why do you two look like you’ve committed war crimes?”
Oscar opened his mouth—probably to lie terribly and make it worse.
Lando, being the (barely) more functional one, jumped in first.
“It’s just—Charles,” Lando blurted.
Carlos raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”
Lando leaned forward, instantly deadly serious. “Have you ever noticed how he treats Isabelle?”
Carlos blinked. “His sister?”
“Exactly,” Lando said, nodding like he was revealing a state secret.
Oscar made a faint strangled noise next to him, probably reconsidering his life choices.
Carlos unwrapped his protein bar slowly, suspicious. “I mean… he loves her?”
“Sure,” Lando said, wide-eyed. “But does he see her? Or does he just… expect her to float quietly in the background of his life like a nice decorative houseplant?”
Oscar buried his face in his hands. Good. He deserved that.
Carlos stared at them like they were the ones malfunctioning.
“Where is this coming from?” Carlos asked, suspicious.
“Just answer the question,” Lando said, channeling his inner investigative journalist. “Do you think he actually appreciates her?”
Carlos hesitated, tilting his head like he was actually giving it thought. “I think… he assumes she’s fine because she doesn’t complain much?”
“EXACTLY,” Lando said, throwing his hands in the air. “She doesn’t complain. That doesn’t mean she’s fine!”
Oscar groaned again, muttering into his hands.
Carlos took a slow bite of protein bar. “Is this about the hotel thing?”
Oscar’s head snapped up. “You know about the hotel thing?”
Carlos nodded. “Yeah, I heard she didn’t have a room. I figured it was a mix-up.”
Lando let out a high-pitched laugh. “They also left her at the hotel the next morning. Like a pair of emotionally unavailable golden retrievers.”
Carlos shrugged. “They didn’t mean to.”
“THAT’S WORSE,” Lando exploded. “You don’t just ‘accidentally’ forget your SISTER.”
Oscar nodded vigorously. “That’s literally child abandonment but for grown-ups.”
Carlos stared at them, bemused. “You two are acting very emotionally involved.”
“NOPE,” Lando said immediately, standing up so fast his chair skidded backward.
Oscar scrambled after him. “Not emotionally involved. Just very passionate about…sibling rights. And human decency.”
“And basic hospitality standards!” Lando added, pointing accusingly at the air.
Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You’re both incredibly weird today.”
Lando clapped him hard on the shoulder. “We’re always weird, mate. But seriously. Watch how Charles talks to her next time. It’ll ruin your day.”
Carlos just blinked, chewing thoughtfully.
Oscar grabbed Lando’s arm before he could say anything else truly unhinged. “Come on. We have… tires. Very important tires to look at.”
“Yeah. Tire research. Super urgent,” Lando agreed.
They power-walked out of the lobby, leaving Carlos watching them, baffled.
Carlos shook his head slowly, muttering to himself, “Okay, but seriously… why are they so weird about Isabelle?”
***
Max trudged through the front door, dropping his bag with a dull thud. Isabelle had been waiting for him, curled up on the couch with a book, but the moment she saw him, she sat up straight.
“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question.
Max huffed out a breath. “I’m fine.”
Isabelle was already on her feet, walking toward him. “You’re pale.” She placed the back of her hand against his forehead, frowning. “And warm.”
“I was just on a plane.”
“You also sound stuffy.” She folded her arms. “Go to bed.”
“I just got home.”
“And I’d like to keep you alive long enough to enjoy it. Bed, Max.”
Max sighed but didn’t argue. He was too tired for that. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead before mumbling, “You’re bossy.”
“I’m effective.”
She watched as he trudged toward the bedroom, shaking her head. A moment later, she followed, scooping up Jimmy from his spot on the armchair. When she walked into the room, Max was already under the blankets, eyes half-lidded.
“Here,” she murmured, placing Jimmy beside him. The cat instantly curled up against his chest, purring loudly.
Max cracked a small smile, rubbing behind Jimmy’s ears. “You’re trying to bribe me with my own cat.”
“Whatever works.” She kissed his temple. “Sleep.”
***
Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Sophie Kumpen
Isabelle: Hi Sophie! I hope you’re doing well! I need your help with something.
Sophie: Hello, dear! Of course, what do you need?
Isabelle: Max came home from the race and he’s definitely getting sick. He’s trying to act normal, but he looks exhausted and keeps sniffling.
Isabelle: I sent him straight to bed with a cat for company, but I wanted to make him something comforting. He once told me you used to make tomato soup for him when he was sick—would you mind sharing the recipe?
Sophie: Oh, poor thing. He never knows when to slow down.
Sophie: And of course! Here’s how I always made it:
Sauté onions and garlic in olive oil until soft.
Add chopped tomatoes (fresh is best, but canned works too!)
Pour in vegetable broth and a pinch of sugar—Max never noticed, but it makes all the difference!
Lots of basil, always extra for Max.
Simmer, blend, then stir in a little cream to make it smooth.
Serve with bread—he used to insist on dipping half a baguette in it!
Isabelle: This is perfect! Thank you so much.
Sophie: You’re very welcome, sweetheart. He’s going to love it.
Sophie: And if he’s still feeling bad tomorrow, make him tea with honey. That’s what I always did.
Isabelle: Noted! I’ll make sure he drinks it.
Sophie: You’re taking such good care of him. He’s lucky to have you.
Isabelle: I’m lucky to have him too. ❤️
***
By the time he woke up, the apartment smelled like tomatoes and garlic. Max blinked, slowly sitting up. Jimmy was still pressed against him, and Sassy had taken up residence at his feet. He groggily reached for his phone and saw a notification from Isabelle.
Isabelle: Texted your mom for her tomato soup recipe. You’re getting the Verstappen childhood classic.
Max stared at the message for a second before a slow, warm feeling spread through his chest. He pulled himself out of bed, padding toward the kitchen. Isabelle was stirring a pot on the stove, hair tied up, her phone sitting next to her with messages from his mom open on the screen.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Hey, how are you feeling?”
Max leaned against the counter, taking in the sight of her making his childhood comfort food, and felt something deep and certain settle in his bones.
“I feel like I should marry you.”
Isabelle blinked, then huffed a laugh. “You have a fever.”
“I’m serious.”
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were pink. “Eat your soup, Verstappen.”
Max watched as Isabelle turned back to the stove, stirring the soup with careful, practiced movements. He could see the little notes his mother had sent still open on her phone—things like "Don't forget a little sugar to balance the acidity" and "Max always liked it with extra basil".
Something about it made his chest ache, but in a good way.
“Sit down,” Isabelle said without looking at him. “I’ll bring it over.”
Max didn’t argue. He knew better. Instead, he shuffled over to the dining table, rubbing a hand over his face. He still felt like hell, but the warm smell of tomato soup and the sight of Isabelle in their kitchen softened the edges of it.
A few minutes later, Isabelle placed a bowl in front of him, along with a plate of bread. She even cut the slices into smaller pieces, making it easier for him to eat.
Max raised an eyebrow. “Are you about to start feeding me, too?”
“If I have to.” She sat down across from him, resting her chin on her hand. “Go on. Try it.”
He took a spoonful, letting the warmth spread through him. It tasted exactly like how he remembered—rich, slightly sweet, the basil bringing a fresh note to it.
“Good?” Isabelle asked.
Max swallowed, nodding. “Perfect.”
She looked pleased with herself, tucking one knee up against her chest. “Your mom was really sweet about sending me the recipe. She told me to tell you that if you’re still feeling bad tomorrow, I should make you tea with honey.”
Max smirked. “You and my mom are conspiring now?”
“Obviously.” She smiled. “Someone has to keep you in check.”
He took another sip, watching her from across the table. “Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.
Isabelle just shrugged, brushing it off like it was nothing. “You take care of me all the time,” she said simply. “Why wouldn’t I do the same?”
Max didn’t have a good answer for that.
Instead, he reached across the table, curling his fingers around hers. Isabelle let him, her thumb brushing absently over his knuckles.
“If I ever win another world championship,” he said, voice a little rough, “just know it’ll be because of you and your soup.”
She laughed, squeezing his hand. “Good to know my cooking has that much power.”
Max just smiled, his fever making him feel a little loopy, a little sentimental.
He didn’t mind.
***
Max was a terrible patient.
Not in the dramatic, clingy, "I think I’m dying" kind of way. No—he was quiet, still, and deeply put out by the fact that his body dared to betray him for more than five seconds.
Which meant he was now cocooned in the middle of their bed, surrounded by three pillows, and the comforter pulled halfway up to his chin like a grumpy Victorian child home with the flu.
His nose was pink. His curls were a mess. And he was definitely running a fever.
Isabelle pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and shook her head fondly. “Still warm.”
Max blinked up at her, expression solemn and glassy-eyed. “I feel like someone hit me with a tyre gun.”
“Very specific,” she said, setting the thermometer aside and handing him another cup of ginger tea.
He took a slow sip. Then sighed. Then blinked at her again like something important had just occurred to him.
“We should get another cat,” he said hoarsely.
Isabelle paused. “Sorry?”
“A kitten,” he clarified, like it was obvious. “Small. Would follow me around.”
She tried—really tried—not to laugh.
Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, currently wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and nursing a cold, was looking at her like he’d just solved a national crisis.
“You want a kitten,” Isabelle repeated.
He nodded solemnly, already settling back against the pillows. “It’d be good practice.”
“For what?” she asked, amused.
Max blinked at her again, slow and drowsy. “You know.”
“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”
He looked at her, expression perfectly serious despite the fever. “A baby.”
Isabelle choked on her tea.
Max didn't flinch.
She stared at him for a full ten seconds. “You think adopting a kitten would be… baby practice?”
He nodded again, very sure of himself. “Feeding. Naps. Picking the name.”
“And the kitten would be our test run for parenthood?”
“Exactly.”
Isabelle smiled—gently, deeply—and brushed a hand over his curls, pushing the hair back from his forehead.
“You’re feverish,” she said softly.
He nodded. “But I’m also right.”
She leaned down, kissed his too-warm cheek. “We’ll talk about the kitten when your temperature is below thirty-nine.”
Max hummed. “Good. I think you'd be a good cat mom. And baby mom.”
Then he promptly fell asleep with one hand still loosely curled around hers.
And Isabelle—heart full, smile helpless—sat beside him and thought, yeah, maybe I would.
***
Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen
Victoria: Hey—how’s Max doing? Still being dramatic or has he entered the sleepy kitten phase of being sick?
Isabelle: Definitely the kitten phase.
Isabelle: Currently wrapped in a blanket burrito with Jimmy on his chest.
Isabelle: Looks like he’s been defeated by soup and his own body heat.
Victoria: Incredible.
Victoria: Has he started saying weird fever things yet?
Isabelle: …Depends what you consider “weird.”
Victoria: Uh-oh.
Victoria: Hit me.
Isabelle: He told me we should get another cat.
Isabelle: Which sounded normal-ish. Until he said it would be “good practice.”
Victoria: Practice for what?
Isabelle: A baby.
Victoria: A baby?
Isabelle: Yep. I laughed at first. But he was serious. Or fever-serious.
Isabelle: He looked at me like it wasn’t even a joke.
Victoria: …Do I get to be an aunt?
Victoria: Because I will cry.
Isabelle: He was feverish. It could have been the paracetamol talking.
Victoria: But you didn’t panic.
Isabelle: I melted. And then I panicked about melting.
Victoria: You want it.
Isabelle: I always have. I just never let myself imagine it.
Isabelle: And now suddenly he’s sick and talking about babies and I’m feeling things.
Victoria: Okay, well… since we’re being honest about baby feelings… You’ll get to practice sooner than you think.
Isabelle: What?
Victoria: I’m due in June.
Isabelle: WHAT.
Victoria: Surprise?
Isabelle: ARE YOU KIDDING ME
Victoria: Nope. Tiny Verstappen-Bluth incoming.
Isabelle: VIC.
Isabelle: You cannot just drop that in the middle of a conversation about your brother wanting a baby.
Victoria: I thought it was great timing!
Victoria: What’s better than your fever-delirious boyfriend mentioning fatherhood right before I tell you you’re about to be an aunt?
Isabelle: I’m crying.
Victoria: You’re going to be so good with them.
Victoria: And if you and Max do decide to start practicing sometime soon… well.
Victoria: Built-in cousin. You’re welcome.
Victoria: Get ready, Tante Belle.
Victoria: Big Verstappen family era incoming.
Isabelle: You’re all insane.
Isabelle: And I love you.
Victoria: Love you too.
***
Max heard the door slam—really slam—before he even saw her.
Not the usual soft click of someone slipping home after a long day. Not the tired shuffle of keys or the muted rustle of her bag hitting the floor. No, this was different. Sharp. Final. Frustrated.
He looked up from where he was half-dozing on the couch, immediately alert.
Isabelle stood by the door, hands clenched into fists, her chest rising and falling in short, uneven breaths. Her tote bag—usually treated carefully—was now abandoned at her feet, one strap twisted. She shoved her hands through her hair roughly, tugging it out of its neat twist, and paced a tight, angry line across the room.
Max stood without thinking.
"Bad day?" he asked quietly.
Isabelle laughed—a short, humorless sound—and shook her head, still pacing like she couldn't physically stay still.
"Bad?" she repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. "No, Max. It was a disaster."
He stayed silent, waiting, giving her the space she clearly needed to let it spill out.
"My boss dumped an entire project on me today. A major one. Because the senior architect left, and apparently—" she threw her hands up, exasperated, "—obviously it's my problem now. No heads-up. No discussion. Just, 'Congratulations, Isabelle, here's an entire portfolio of someone else's half-finished work. Good luck.'"
Max's jaw tightened. His hands itched to do something—fix it, protect her, something. But he stayed where he was, steady.
"And it gets better," Isabelle said, turning to face him, her green eyes sparking with a tired, furious fire he didn’t see often. "When I tried—politely, professionally—to point out that my current workload is already full, he told me to 'prioritize better.' And walked away. Just—walked. Like it wasn’t his problem."
She laughed again, but it cracked midway through. Her hands dropped to her sides helplessly.
Max exhaled slowly, moving toward her. "You know what I’m going to say."
She groaned, already knowing, already bracing. "Max—"
"You don't need this," he said firmly. "You're running yourself into the ground for people who don't even see you."
She closed her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms against them like she could block out the whole world.
"I like my job," she said, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
Max stopped right in front of her, close enough that he could reach out—but he didn’t, not yet. He knew better. She wasn’t looking for comfort yet. She was still in the fight.
"Do you?" he asked, softer now. Not accusing. Just... careful. Gentle.
Isabelle’s shoulders slumped a little.
"You sure don’t look like someone who likes what they’re doing," Max added, his voice rougher, threading frustration and concern together. "You look like someone who’s trying to survive it."
The room was quiet for a beat, just the low hum of the evening city outside the windows.
Finally, she sagged forward, her forehead pressing into his chest like she physically couldn't hold herself upright anymore.
Max didn’t hesitate then. He wrapped his arms around her, firm and grounding, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.
She let out a long, shaky breath, the tension bleeding out of her in slow, heavy drips.
"I just..." she started, her voice muffled against him. "I don’t know what to do."
Max closed his eyes, holding her tighter.
"You don’t have to have all the answers right now," he said quietly. "But you have options, Belle. You always do. You don’t have to stay somewhere that treats you like you’re disposable."
She let out a quiet, broken sound that made his chest ache.
He kissed her hair, slow and steady.
"You are not a stopgap. You're not a backup plan. You're not someone they can just lean on when it's convenient and forget about the rest of the time," he murmured against her. "You are brilliant. And you deserve people—and a job—that sees that."
She was silent for a long time, just breathing against him.
"I don't want to quit," she whispered eventually. "I don't want it to feel like they chased me out."
Max rubbed small circles over her back, patient. "Then don't. Fight them, if that's what you want. Prove them wrong. You’re strong enough."
He pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing her messy hair away from her cheeks. "But don’t stay just to prove a point if it’s breaking you in the process."
Her eyes were glassy but clear, staring up at him like she was trying to pull strength out of the way he looked at her.
"You’re not alone," he said simply. "You have me. Always."
For a moment, she just stood there, letting that settle between them.
Then she nodded—tiny, but certain—and leaned back into his chest.
Max smiled into her hair.
They stood like that for a long time, the city lights flickering quietly outside, the cats curling around their feet like they, too, understood that the whole world narrowed down to this.
Max holding her. Her letting herself be held.
And for now, that was enough. ****
The envelope looked expensive.
That was the first red flag.
Matte paper, gold foil edges, no return address on the front—just her full name printed in elegant, serif font.
Her full, full name. Because apparently her parents hadn’t been done after Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, and so she and Arthur had ended up with similarly ridiculous, vaguely royal-sounding names.
Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc.
There it was.
On the kind of envelope that looked like it came with obligations.
She hadn’t ordered anything. She hadn’t opened a new account.
She frowned as she sliced it open. She wasn’t expecting anything. Max paid the bills on the penthouse. Her own account was small, manageable, predictable. Her work was steady.
The card slipped out first. Heavy. Polished. Black.
Hitting the kitchen island.
Her name, again, embossed in silver.
But it wasn’t her account.
It was his.
Linked cardholder – Max Emilian Verstappen
She stared at it for a full minute. Long enough for the air to change. Long enough for every messy, unspoken thing she’d been trying not to feel to crawl back up her throat.
She swallowed.
They had had that conversation.
You quit your job. Become my incredibly spoiled, disgustingly pampered trophy wife. No more late nights, no more stress. Just you, spending my money and riding your horses.
She had said no. Because she was ambitious. Talented. Smart.
But the truth?
The truth was that she’d wondered.
What if she could be that person?
What if she’d be fine being that person?
His person.
The woman who did yoga at ten, had coffee by eleven, picked up their kids from school in designer flats and knew the best lunch spots in three countries.
The one who didn’t constantly doubt her place, didn’t flinch every time someone whispered "nepo baby" under their breath, didn’t fight to be taken seriously in rooms that were already decided before she entered them.
There was a part of her—a very small, very quiet part—that wondered what it would be like.
To let go.
To stop clawing for approval from people who didn’t care if she drowned.
To let herself be loved, wholly and visibly.
To marry Max.
To have his name. His children. His cats.
To be someone soft and kept and adored.
What if she didn’t want to fight so hard all the time?
What if a part of her—small, shameful, stubborn—wanted to be kept?
And now… this.
Not a proposal. Not a ring.
But a card.
With her name.
On his account.
A card that wives got.
That long-term partners with shared mortgages and Sunday routines and matching key fobs got.
A gesture that said: this life is yours too. You’re allowed to be at ease.
And it terrified her.
Because Max didn’t do anything halfway. He wasn’t careless with people. He didn’t toss around trust like confetti. He was sharp, observant, and maddeningly meticulous.
He was deliberate.
This wasn’t about convenience.
This was a line drawn. A stake in the ground.
A declaration.
And Isabelle?
She wasn’t sure she trusted herself not to disappear into it.
Not because Max would ask her to—but because it felt so good to be seen by someone who didn’t require her to earn it. To prove it. To perform.
Max knew her fears. Her fault lines. Her quiet cravings.
And instead of mocking them, he made room for them.
Which, somehow, made it worse.
She’d spent so long trying to prove she was more than someone’s sister. More than a background fixture.
But here she was.
Here she was feeling safer just being Max’s than she ever had trying to be anyone else’s.
Here she was, considering if being Belle Verstappen might actually make her happier than being Isabelle Leclerc ever had.
And wasn’t that the most terrifying thought of all?
***
“Hey,” Max called as he stepped inside, the door shutting with a familiar click behind him. “I grabbed those oat crackers you like—the ones with the seeds that taste like cardboard.”
He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, his tone light, teasing.
No answer.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen and—
Stopped.
Isabelle was standing still. Very still. Right beside the counter, her body folded in on itself like she was trying to take up less space.
The envelope was open. The card—that card—lay face-up on the marble. Black. Sleek. Heavy. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, like she needed the pressure to keep herself grounded.
Max’s eyes flicked from the card to her face and back again.
And then he felt it—the shift.
The air in the room had changed. Gone quiet. Weighted.
He knew that look on her face.
He’d seen it before—on days when she came home from work braced for someone to doubt her, challenge her, chip away at her. It was the expression she wore when she felt like she was too much and not enough in the same breath.
“Oh,” Max said softly, carefully. “You got it.”
He didn’t say I meant to tell you in person. He didn’t say I’ve been watching you stretch yourself thin, giving more than anyone asks, and never— never— expecting to receive anything back.
She didn’t smile.
“Max,” she said, her voice low and unfamiliar, “what is this?”
She wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. Anger was clean.
No—this was something else.
Fragile. Quiet. Like she'd been cracked open without warning.
He stepped toward her slowly. Like he was trying not to spook something delicate.
“It’s just…” he tried, “a card. For you. In case you ever need it.”
Her eyes—green, glossy, wide—didn’t leave his.
“You just handed me access to everything.”
He could’ve argued that. Could’ve said it’s not everything. But he didn’t lie to her, and this wasn’t about technicalities.
So instead, he said the truth.
“I handed you ease,” he said gently. “Because you never ask for it. Even when you need it most.”
He’d thought about that a lot.
That was why he’d had the card made.
Not because she needed it—not practically, not financially. Isabelle was capable in ways that astonished him daily. She ran her life on spreadsheets and discipline, all soft voice and steel spine.
But she’d been conditioned—by her family, by the world—to believe she had to earn everything. Love. Rest. Comfort. Even kindness.
So he’d done what he did best.
Planned ahead.
He’d spoken to his advisor. Had the account adjusted. Added her name. Put in the request quietly. Privately. No fanfare.
Not to control her.
But so that, if ever the moment came—
If she was tired, overwhelmed, caught without breath—
She’d have something already waiting.
No questions. No performance. Just trust.
But now, watching the way her fingers dug into her elbows, Max understood how even trust could feel like a trap when you’d never been given it freely.
“We just had a conversation about trophy wives,” she said suddenly. Her voice shook like she hated herself for even bringing it up.
He blinked. “Yes. And you said you didn’t want to be one.”
“What if I’d be fine with that life?” she said. “What if part of me wants it?”
His heart clenched. Not because she said it—but because he knew exactly what she meant.
“Then I’d tell you,” he said calmly, “if you ever want to be my trophy wife, just let me know. I’ll buy you a designer handbag and get very into being your arm candy.”
That earned him a look. A slight wobble in her mouth like she was trying not to smile, even while her throat worked against tears.
She let out an unsteady laugh that turned halfway into a sigh. “Max.”
“No pressure,” he said quickly, his voice low and warm now. “But if you ever wake up and decide you want that kind of life—that kind of ease—I’ll give it to you. Without question.”
“I don’t want to lose myself,” she whispered. “I don’t want to stop being… me.”
“You won’t,” Max said, voice steady. “I know who you are. And I’d never let you forget.”
Because she was the strongest person he’d ever known. She had survived a thousand quiet dismissals and overlooked brilliance. She’d clawed her way into a space she was never given, and never once asked for credit.
He wanted to say more. Wanted to tell her that he’d never met anyone who held herself so tightly together with so little help. That watching her try to hold back softness like it was weakness made his chest ache. That the thing she feared—disappearing—was impossible, because the moment she walked into a room, his world shifted.
She deserved to feel safe. And not just safe—but held.
But he didn’t say all that.
He just said what she needed.
“I didn’t give you this card to change you,” Max said. “I gave it to you so you’d never feel like you had to earn the right to feel safe.”
That word hung there between them. Heavy. Final. The real gift.
Not the money. Not the access.
Safety.
After a long, breathless silence, Isabelle reached out. Slowly. Carefully. She picked up the card with both hands like it might still burn her.
Held it in her palm. Looked at her name. His name. Their names. Together.
“Okay,” she said finally, voice soft, breaking open. “But you’re not allowed to joke when I buy toothpaste with it.”
He smiled—one of those rare, slow smiles he reserved just for her.
He stepped in and kissed her temple gently, grounding them both.
“Toothpaste, muffins, a yacht,” he murmured. “Whatever you need.”
She let out a wet laugh. “A yacht?”
“I’m just saying,” he said lightly, brushing his knuckles along her arm, “it’s good to have options.”
“I’m not buying a yacht, Max.”
“I know.” He paused. “But I wanted you to know you could.”
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DREAMWALKER

pairing: bob reynolds x enhanced!reader
summary: you use your dreamwalking abilities to try to soothe the storm in bob’s head.
warnings: mentions of nightmares, trouble sleeping, childhood abuse, and themes of despression. very soft with bob getting some more much needed comfort. gen!reader.
word count. 2.3k | masterlist
The Watchtower was bathed in silence as most of its inhabitants slept. You were among them for a while, free-floating through their dreams as your abilities overtook your sleeping form as they did every night. Your body needed the rest, but dreamwalkers’ minds never could, as when their eyes fluttered closed, their minds roamed from dream to dream of whoever was near.
Before you moved in with your newfound team, you simply observed dreams as a passerby when you slept. But since living in the Watchtower, you learned quickly that your tough-skinned roommates suffered from an endless brigade of nightmares, whether they remembered them when the morning sun rose or not.
You felt their fear, their regrets, the cold submergence of dread that flooded the depths of their subconscious. It was invasive, your abilities, something you could not turn off. Instead of watching their nightmares, you busied your wondering mind by re-painting the dark scenes of their minds. Shadow-filled rooms and unforgiving hands, you spun into warm homes and gentle caresses. You spent your nights scrubbing their minds of bloodstained missions and unhealed wounds, replacing them with scenes drenched in hope and reminders of the goodness that resided inside them.
It was your secret, your silent mission to remind your friends both when they slept and when they were awake that they were not too broken that they could not be put back together. You drenched their dreams in lightness, in goodness, hoping that it would bleed into their waking form.
That night, however, as you floated from dream to dream, one was missing. You forced yourself to wake, following your instincts to where the only mind you could not find may be hiding, avoiding the scenes of his mind that were the most complicated you had ever witnessed.
You had never encountered a dream you struggled to fix. Even the darkest, most horrible nightmares you could reshape with ease. Memories of torture, of gut-wrenching deaths, you could soothe and redirect to soft touches and pull the sweetest memories of those lost loved ones to the forefront of that person's mind.
Bob’s mind was the only one you had met that was so resistant.
“You’re up late,” you said, softly approaching the hunched figure at the kitchen counter. Bob’s hands were wrapped around a mug of half-drunk tea, and his eyes looked heavy with each slow blink.
He did offer you a small smile, but he tensed as you caught him awake at such an hour. “Oh, y-yeah.”
You leaned on your elbows across from him at the counter, taking him in. His figure was swallowed in a sweater and hair askew, which told that he had attempted to sleep.
“Trouble sleeping?” you asked.
Bob nodded as his eyes slipped onto his mug. “You too?”
“Not exactly.” His brows furrowed, confusion melting with the clear exhaustion that shaded his face.
You hadn’t told the others of your unavoidable venturing into their minds because you knew how vulnerable dreams and nightmares were. They were personal, uncontrollable by most. While you had no judgment in any of what you had seen, the good, bad, and ugly, you didn’t want them to feel any shame. Perhaps it was wrong, but there was no controlling or preventing stepping inside their dreams unless you gave up on sleeping entirely. You only touched their nightmares, lingering just long enough to reshape the scene to something nice that would not leave them reeling in the morning. The deep, soul-boring personal things you did your best to block out and erase from your mind come morning. You would only tell when it could be helpful.
“I was looking for you, for your dreams, but I couldn’t find them.”
“My dreams?” Bob repeated, his fingers fidgeting with the paper on the end of his tea bag.
You nodded. “I can only control my abilities when I’m awake,” you explained. “When I sleep, I end up in everyone’s head. Since I started living here, I make sure you guys are having nice dreams and I get rid of your nightmares.”
Bob blinked, surprised and still confused, rightfully so. Your abilities were complicated, but he knew what that was like better than most. “You’ve seen inside my head?” he asked quietly, eyes cast downward, and lips drawn in a frown.
“Sometimes, you're a bit trickier than the others.” He closed his eyes briefly at your words, his body leaning forward like it was too heavy for him to carry. “Their nightmares are easy to change. Yours are…are stubborn.”
“Sorry,” Bob apologized like a reflex. It was your turn to frown.
“It’s not your fault. If anything, I’m sorry. I just want to use what I can do for good instead of just peering into people’s heads without them really wanting me there. If I can help, it makes me feel less bad about it.”
Glancing upwards, Bob hesitantly met your eyes that hadn’t left him. “But you can’t control it,” he said, too understanding for you but not for himself.
“I can’t,” you said. “Just like you can’t help that void inside of you. These things are a part of us, Bob. They don’t go away, so we have to do what we can with what we’ve got.”
He seemed to soak in your words, going quiet for a few moments before he shook himself out. “At least you can do good with yours,” he sighed. “I still don’t know how to be Sentry without…the other part taking over.”
You reached out across the counter, gently brushing your fingers over the back of his hand, allowing him the time and space to pull back if he wanted to. Instead, he slowly flipped his hand over, and you grasped it with a comforting squeeze.
“One day you will,” you assured him. “One day you’ll learn how to balance both. But it’s not going to work if you don’t get some sleep.”
He squeezed your hand back. “Yeah, I don’t know if I can do that. I mean some nights are fine, but others are…uh, bad. Really bad,” he said. “I think it’s better if I don’t sleep sometimes, you know?”
“What if I could help you?”
Bob slowly let go of your hand. He never liked to touch someone for too long, too scared he’d pull them back into a shameful, tragic, or agonizing memory. He was working on little touches: hugs from Yelena, pats on the shoulder from John, or holding your hands to calm himself down when everything was too overwhelming.
“You said my mind was stubborn; that you had a hard time figuring it out?” he questioned.
“When I’m free floating through everyone, it is. I don’t have direction really, or an anchor when I’m alone. But if I had a tether, I think I could chase away the nightmares.”
Bob looked hesitant, but curious too. “How would you do that?”
You smiled softly. “Do you trust me?”
Without thinking about it, Bob answered, “Yes,” almost automatically.
With his answer, his trust in you, you led him from the kitchen and into his bedroom. It was an organized mess, a reason for everything's placement in Bob’s eyes but no one else's. Books were stacked all around, and Yelena had bought little plants for everyone’s room as housewarming gifts. Bob had clothes strewn in piles, but the sweaters he wore more often were carefully placed over the back of his desk chair.
You rounded his bed to the side he didn’t look to sleep on, by the way the pillows and blankets were settled. He watched you, lingering and fidgeting in the middle of his room. As you sat on the edge of the mattress, you patted the comforter, beckoning him to join you.
“I-I don’t know about this,” he said. “What if I bump you in the middle of the night, I send you into a nightmare? I don’t know if I can stop that from happening when I sleep, and you could-”
“Bob,” you said his name with such gentleness. It caused the worry on his face to start to melt just slightly. He looked exhausted, too. “You said you trust me. And I trust you. While we sleep, it’s my mind that’ll be in control, not yours, I promise.”
He dragged his feet across the floor, pausing at the edge of his bed before climbing in. His body was stiff as he lay down beside you. You rolled onto your side, studying him. If you also hadn’t been so tired, you could have gazed at him for hours, remembering every curve of his face and curl of his hair. In your eyes, he was intriguing and impossibly handsome.
You brushed some hair away from his face, allowing you to see him better in the low glow of moonlight and the city lights that snuck in through a crack in the curtains. Bob’s eyes fluttered before he forced them open, peering at you with a tense jaw. Dragging your fingers down the side of his face, you rested your hand on his jaw.
“Just relax,” you whispered. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to keep fighting sleep, but as your fingers ghosted against his jaw, his eyes closed.
You did the same, resting your hand on his shoulder as a way to tether yourself to him. It only took a simple touch for you to gain more control over the person whose mind you wanted in. For so long, you had used that ability to manipulate and hurt people, hurting yourself in the process. But you wanted to do good, to be more than a weapon. Instead of causing nightmares, you turned to easing them back into lighter dreams.
You weren’t going to let Bob’s complicated mind fight you when he also deserved beautiful dreams instead of being tormented by the one thing no one would escape.
Falling into someone’s head had become more graceful for you over time as you grew stronger and more sure of your abilities. There was a ghost of resistance that met you, but your sleeping form lightly curled their fingers around Bob’s shoulder and surged on, bypassing the darkness that snaked out from the corners of his mind, determined to remind him that they were still there.
The nightmare that Bob found himself in was similar to the one you recalled occurring through a cracked floorboard in the attic he hid out in when the Void spread across the city streets.
When you were tethered to a person, your person appeared in their head, rather than watching the scene from above in your free-floating state, unable to be perceived by whose mind you were in. You stood in what looked like a little boy’s bedroom, fit with science posters on the wall and toys scattered across a plush rug in the middle of the room.
The toys were abandoned, and there was a coldness that drenched the room. In the corner stood a little boy, a young Bob with unruly hair and matching pajamas. He sat on the ground, holding the side of his face with trembling fingers as a shadowy figure loomed over him. A man three times the little boy’s size screamed, waving his hands around, which elicited a flinch each time from little Bob.
Tears fell down the kid’s face, and a growing, angry redness showed on the skin half-hidden under his hand.
You felt hot with anger and cold with sadness at the same time, the two emotions bleeding into one. You were there to change the scene, but for a moment, you stepped forward, wanting nothing more than to place yourself between the little boy and the angry man screaming how much of a burden he was. You wanted to hold the little boy, tell him how wrong his father was. But instead, you heard your name whispered from behind you.
Spinning around, you came face to face with the grown-up version of Bob, wet eyes and something between embarrassment and heartbreak written on his face. You let out a breath, unraveling the feelings of the nightmare from around you, allowing something else to take hold.
You let Bob’s mind to the talking, telling you the things he associated with goodness, hopefulness. Piece by piece, the nightmare fractured before it was replaced entirely.
When you opened your eyes, a sun-soaked scene took hold. It was warm, smelled like cut grass and a distant barbecue. An empty swing set sat in a bed of mulch, which was soft under your feet.
Young, peaceful, safe. Those words echoed in your mind as you observed the scene.
“I remember this place,” Bob said, wearing a small smile that fit him so beautifully in the sunlight. He approached the swing set, running his hands over the dark green posts that looked freshly painted. “I used to come here when I was little, when my parents would fight. I’d sneak out and wait here until the sunset.”
He grasped the chain of the swing, tension falling from his shoulders as he then took a seat. You joined him at the second swing, lowly pushing yourself back and forth as the chains squeaked.
“Thank you,” Bob rushed out after a beat.
You smiled softly at him. “You deserve more dreams, Bob. Less nightmares.”
“More dreams,” he repeated, chewing on the words in deep thought. Then, he gazed at you, his eyes sparking and cheeks flushed as if he were a young boy who spent the day outside playing. “I-I think I have a few in mind, now.”
Back in his bedroom, you slept with your hand falling down onto his chest, resting over his heart and head comfortably on his shoulder.
The darkness stayed put, cast out for the night as he dreamed of you seated behind him in the one place he found solace in as a child. And as an adult, he started to find solace in you, in his dreams, and when he was wide awake.
#bob reynolds x you#robert reynolds x you#bob reynolds x reader#robert reynolds x reader#bob reynolds#robert reynolds#thunderbolts#thunderbolts*#marvel#mcu#marvel fanfiction
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The Shirt Between Us







PAIRING: Bob Floyd X Pilot!Reader
CATEGORY: Fluff
SUMMARY: Laundry day at the barracks is a disaster waiting to happen. But accidentally ending up in Bob Floyd’s shirt? That’s a whole new level of chaos. What starts as detergent-soaked embarrassment quickly spirals into squad-wide teasing, a not-so-subtle claim, and a quiet late-night moment that feels a lot like something more. Turns out, one shirt can say a lot.
WORD COUNT: 1.7k
WARNINGS: first fanifc. beware.
Laundry day at the Barracks was always a war zone itself.
It was a free for all. No one labeled anything, you were always mixing up your clothes with others, and getting frustrated at highly trained pilots who treated folding like it was a foreign language. The base laundry smelled faintly of bleach— warm cotton, and cheap detergent. Functional.
Since getting assigned to TOPGUN, you and Phoenix had figured out the only way to survive laundry day was to tag-team it. Split the load, complain together, and avoid losing any more clothes to the great unknown.
So here you stood beside Phoenix, both of you in athletic shorts and worn out tank tops. Half-sorting uniforms, half-rehashing training drama. Phoenix was elbow-deep in a pile of flight suits, mid-rant.
Phoenix was once again ranting about Hangman, and you were trying to one-hand a detergent jug open while half-listening.
“So I go to the fridge right, and it's gone. Gone. Not even a note—“
You gasped as the cap slipped form your fingers.
Bright blue detergent splashed across your chest and down your front, cold and slick. Your tank top went instantly see-through, clinging to your skin like a second, icy skin. You stumbled back a step, arms out like you’d just been hit by a wave.
Phoenix blinked, “Well.” She said, unphased, “that’s one way to clean yourself.”
“Shut up.” You groaned, flapping your arms like a wet cat- trying to get off whatever detergent you could, the fabric of your tank top clinging to your skin unpleasantly. “Ugh— I’m gonna smell like dryer sheets for weeks.”
Your clean clothes bag was useless—just uniforms and gym stuff. Nothing dry. Nothing casual. You looked over at the community pile of random shirts stacked near the folding table. No one really knew where they came from. No one asked.
You shrugged, desperate times, quickly grabbing the first soft one you saw.
“Not my fault,” you muttered, tugging it on over your head.
Phoenix raised a brow but said nothing. You pulled it over your head. It was long on you— not absurdly oversized, but enough that it clearly wasn’t yours. This fabric was worn out and smelled like pine soap a faint scent of aftershave.
You felt like you smelled it somewhere before but couldn’t pin point it.
You didn’t think twice about it.
Later out near the tarmac, the recruits were already gathering. Everyone lingering in the lazy hour between lunch and post training discussions with Maverick. You and Phoenix walked up, coffee in hand, laughter low between you two.
Bob was already there, standing beside Rooster and Fanboy, arms crossed, listening to whatever nonsense they were trading back and forth.
The second he looked up and saw you in his shirt, something subtle shifted in his expression.
His posture straightened a little. His mouth opened to say something but... he didn't. He just blinked, adjusted his glasses, and tried really hard not to stare.
You blissfully unaware, kept chatting with Phoenix.
Until Hangman noticed.
"Wait a minute," Hangman's voice cut through the air with a smirk, "That shirt's not standard issue." He tilted his head at you with a grin.
You blinked. "What?"
Rooster turned to look. "That's not yours, is it?"
“She spilled detergent all over herself. Grabbed something off the laundry pile.” Phoenix tried cutting in, but none of the boys seemed to notice. To busy in whos shirt you were wearing.
You quickly nodded at her words, eyebrows scrunched from not getting at what the others were.
Coyote pointed with his water bottle. "Is that a 'Floyd' tag on the back?"
You craned your neck to check, pulling the collar forward. Sure enough- faint lettering stitched at the inside of the tag: FLOYD.
The entire group turned to Bob.
He froze. Then, after a long pause, said very quietly, "...Yeah. That's mine." Bob could feel the tips of his ears turn hot red.
And that was all it took.
"Oohhh," Fanboy smiled cheekily, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly at you.
"Domestic already?" Rooster teased as well. "You guys doing each other's laundry now?"
"She's wearing his shirt, man," Hangman said, nudging Bob with an elbow. "You know what that means."
Fanboy whistled at his words and clapped, muttering something along the lines of. "Wow Bob- didn't know you had it in you."
Bob’s ears went red, but he didn’t deny it. Just stood there, glasses slightly fogging up, trying to play it off while everyone else leaned into the teasing.
Payback clapped slowly. “We calling that a soft launch or what?”
You rolled your eyes, but your hand instinctively tugged at the hem of the shirt. The fabric was warm now from the sun, and yeah, it did still smell like pine and Bob.
You opened your mouth to brush it off—but Bob beat you to it.
“She needed a shirt,” he said simply. “Mine was there. Not a big deal.”
Which, in theory, was the end of it.
“Oh, it’s a big deal,” Hangman grinned, clearly delighted. “Shirt’s basically a declaration. Isn’t that what the internet says? ‘If she’s in your clothes, you’ve already lost.’ Or something like that.”
“That’s not how that goes,” Rooster said.
“Close enough.”
You shook your head, trying not to smile. “It was either this or parade around smelling like lavender detergent in a see-through top.”
“Honestly, I’d pay to see that,” Hangman said, and Phoenix threw a balled-up napkin at him.
Bob shifted slightly beside Rooster, silent again but not retreating. He didn’t look away from you, though. Out of the corner of your eye, Bob gave a small, sheepish smile—one hand still shoved in his pocket, the other adjusting his glasses. His ears were still a little pink.
But when you caught his eye, he didn’t look away.
Bob cleared his throat. “You can... keep it. If you want.”
That got a fresh round of hoots and laughter from the squad, but he didn’t take it back.
You didn’t say much else. Just sipped your coffee and stood beside Phoenix, pretending not to notice how often Bob glanced your way—or how much he was still smiling to himself twenty minutes later.
It was late when you found yourself outside Bob’s door.
Barracks were quiet—just the low hum of AC units and the occasional metallic clunk of someone dropping gear in the hallway. Most of the squad was either passed out or still pretending they weren’t scrolling through their phones under regulation sheets.
You shifted the folded shirt in your hands. It was warm from your room and still smelled faintly like him, even after a half-hearted rinse.
You weren’t sure why you’d brought it over. He’d said you could keep it.
But still.
You knocked.
It took a second. Then the door opened.
Bob stood there in a soft gray t-shirt and sweatpants, glasses slightly askew, hair damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He blinked when he saw you, surprised—but didn’t look annoyed.
“Oh,” he says, voice quiet. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you replied, holding out the shirt, a little too stiffly. “Figured I should return this before the squad makes wedding jokes at breakfast.”
He looks at the shirt, then back at you, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips. “They probably will anyway.””
You cracked a grin. “Yeah, probably.”
There was a pause—just a few seconds too long to be casual—and then he stepped back.
“You can come in… if you want.”
You hesitated. Not out of discomfort. Just... aware of the shift. The slight weight behind the invitation.
But it didn't stop you from stepping inside.
His dorm is tidy and quiet. Military precision in the made bed and neat desk, but a book lies open on the nightstand. Photos of aircraft and a Spaceballs poster decorate the walls—this place is unmistakably him.
He closes the door gently behind you.
“Sorry about the guys,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering to the floor. “They get carried away.”
You shake your head. “Don’t worry. Honestly…”
Your eyes drop to the shirt in your hands, then meet his again.
“At least it was you.”
His eyebrows lift, and for once, he doesn’t have a reply.
You smile softly, feeling the moment deepen. “Could’ve been worse. Imagine if it’d been Hangman’s shirt—I’d have to burn it.”
He chuckles quietly, real and warm.
“I’m glad it wasn’t,” he admits, voice dropping lower.
Another pause hangs between you. It’s not awkward—it’s full, heavy with something neither of you wants to name.
The room feels smaller now, closer, softer. The hum of the base muffled beyond the walls.
You set the shirt gently on the edge of his desk, fingers lingering on the fabric a beat too long.
You stood there in the low light of his room, soft shadows stretching along the floor, the hum of the base muffled behind heavy walls. You could still hear the faint buzz of the overhead light, the distant click of someone turning on a faucet in another dorm. But in here—it felt quiet. Still.
“You sure you don’t want it back?” you asked, not really looking at him.
He cleared his throat softly ,"No it's fine," He smiled sheepishly, he opened his mouth but paused for a second. Before finally getting the courage to say, "It looked better on you anyway."
You felt your lips tug upward, just slightly. “Is that so?”
He nodded once, slow. “Yeah.”
There was no grin, no smirk—just quiet sincerity. And it landed harder than anything else could have.
You stepped a little closer, until you were just inside his space. Not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth coming off him.
“You could’ve said something earlier,” you said, voice low. “Before the whole squad got involved.”
“I almost did,” he admitted, eyes flicking to yours. “When I saw you. In it.”
“And?”
His smile twists, nervous and soft. “I panicked.”
You laughed softly, then fell quiet again. The silence that settled between you now wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. You could feel the electricity in your fingertips, in the air between your bodies.
“I didn’t mind the teasing,” you said after a moment.
Bob tilted his head, curious. The tips of his ears slowly turning hot red.
You gave a small shrug, your eyes never leaving his. “It was flattering. Kind of… sweet, actually.”
His expression softened. “You sure?”
“I mean,” you said with a teasing lift of your brow, “Like I said.. if it had to be someone’s shirt, I’m glad it was yours.”
Bob swallowed, his gaze flicking down to your lips for the briefest second before coming back up. “Yeah. Me too.”
Neither of you moved for a beat. Then your hand, without thinking, brushed against his—just a graze. Testing the space between you.
And this time, he moved.
Slowly, carefully, his fingers curled around yours.
His voice was barely audible now. “You want to stay a minute?” Bob smiled softly, his glasses fogging up.
Your heart skipped.
You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Bob stepped back slightly, just enough to give you room, as though to say: You can come closer now, if you want.
And you did.
Neither of you rushed it. But that space that had held so much tension—so much almost—was finally gone.
And the room didn’t feel so quiet anymore.
#bob floyd x female reader#bob floyd x reader#bob floyd x y/n#bob floyd x you#fanfic#lewis pullman#lewis pullman x reader#bob floyd#bob x reader#lewis pullman x you#lewis pullman x y/n#bob floyd imagine#bob floyd fic#robert floyd#robert bob floyd x reader#robert bob floyd
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Holiday request: child support
John is in a meeting with the Justice League when Clockwork comes knocking. It's a regular update on security and safety procedures, the kind of boring stuff John would have customarily skipped out on, except that this meeting also covers how to provide younger teams support.
Teams that his son was a part of. If Danny was ever on a mission, that could have ended in him passing simply because some wanker didn't know how to find him or how to help him in time?
So here was John, half slumped over his chair as Batman droned about procedures and policies. He had barely gotten through Wonder Woman's long lecture on support combat.
He was thinking of grabbing a coffee- John's been working on his drinking after making a promise to try and get sober for his son- so he was replacing the urge for alcohol with coffee. It was one of the hardest things he's ever done.
Thankfully, he knows some spells that help with withdrawals. It's better than the alternative, even if some days are shitter than others.
"Hello, Johnny," Coos, the Ancient being of Time, flouting before him in his human form. John can feel every hero's jaw drop even as he smiles awkwardly at the other parent of his child.
"Clockwork." He greets, eyes taking in the gorgeous features of Time. He nods his head towards the bag, flouting by Clockwork. "Lovely to see you as always. Got a gift for me?"
"Hmm." Clockwork flouts down, landing on his feet and surveying the room. His pure red eyes sparkled in amusement as the awestruck members of the Justice League. Even Batman seemed momently thrown- though if that was because of Clockwork's beauty or the insane amount of power pushing down on all their souls was anyone's guess.
"I've come to spend a weekend with my son. And you, I suppose, if you do not mind housing me." Clockwork says, at last, patting the bag. John feels his mouth go dry. Yes, he slept with Acient before and wouldn't be opposed to another round, but Clockwork wasn't his average ex.
Clockwork held the entire multiverse at the tip of his fingers, suspended on his amusement, and it could all be destroyed with a mere snap from the other. If he found disproved of even the slightest thing about how John was raising Danny, he could kill billions of people, or worse, he could take Danny away.
John feels cold dread grip his heart even as he laughs. "Of course, I can house you. I hope you won't find being in the human world too much hassle."
"Oh no. I have the perfect disguise to blend in with the humans." Clockwork assures, pulling out a pair of fetching glasses and a white cane. He places them on his head and taps his stick on the ground before grinning. John finds himself instantly spotting the same cocky curve to Danny's own grin, and his heart swells.
"Now, where is my boy? It's been years since I last saw him." Clockwork pauses before shrugging his head. "Or it's only been nine months in this realm. Still a long time for my son."
The Ancient snaps his fingers, ripping a portal open to the front of Danny's school. He offers his arm to the blond man, nodding toward Gotham Academy. The soft ring of the dismissal bells rings as students start pouring out of the front door in drones. Classes for the day have just ended.
"Come along, Johnny. Guide me." John shoots the Leauge an apologetic smile, knowing they will understand how important this visit is. He loops his arm through Clockwork, while heaving the man's bag over his other shoulder. The soft tapping of Clockwork's cane on the ground is the portal's only sound before it slams closed.
It cuts off the explosion of noise the Leauge makes, but with all those overlapping voices, John has no idea who said what.
Danny walks out of the school with Damian, Jon, and Colin, laughing and beaming at the younger boys. Clockwork pauses for a few seconds before he beams.
"You're doing a great job, Johnny." The Ancient says just as Danny's gaze locks on them. His face fumbles with ripples of emotion before lighting up in glee. He races towards them with a gutted shout, "Father!"
Clockwork opens his arms just as Danny slams into him. John steps back, but the Ancient grabs the sleeve of his trench coat and drags him into the hug.
"A really great job." The non-human whispers into John's ear. He feels a soft caress against his magic as if Clockwork was brushing the hair out of his face. His heart flutters softly, even as Danny beams at them, and various teenagers panic at his boy's beauty.
Something tells John that having his ex visiting won't be as bad as he initially thought.
#dcxdpdabbles#Child support#Part 6#Holiday requests#Clockwork wants a vacy#John/Clockwork#Clockwork plans on messing with John's head while on his vist#Danny is just so happy to see his mentor again#Clockwork is in fact in love with John#Sorry about the delay! I didn't ahve much time to write without my cousin's charger
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A Bit Rougher (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)
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Author Masterlist
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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.
Summary: You and Spencer have been in a relationship for a little bit more than four months now, and the team doesn't know. One day, the BAU girls ask you by your mystery partner they know you have - even if they don't know who it is - and bring up a topic you are not so sure to share with Spencer yet: your kinky side in sex. What happens when the same Spencer puts a test on you on that matter?
Word Count: 6.5k (I'm not sorry)
Warnings: SMUT/18+/MDNI. Where do I start? Reader sleeps with Spencer (obviously). Talks about sex life. Mentions of tantric sex and rough sex. Mentions of some kinks like choking, spanking, and dom-sub dynamics. Clothes get ripped, Spencer calling you 'my girl' (oh God), masturbation (f receiving), fingering, kind of choking, dirty talk. Spencer does his best as a dom (soft!dom because it can't be any other way), penetrative sex, spanking, begging, more dirty talk, creampie (it really doesn't exist another word for this?), and aftercare. Spencer is the best boyfriend in the world. If I forgot something, please let me know.
A/N: This one was a request. I can't find the original message, and I don't know if the person who asked wanted their name here (I can quickly add it if they want to).
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The moment rays of sunlight peek through the curtain and hit my face, I turn to my back to avoid them, not ready to fully start the day yet.
Still half awake, half sleepy, I can feel a pair of hazel looking at me. I peek one eye open, and I see Spencer smiling at me.
"Good morning, beautiful," he rasps. And I don't know why such simple words have me blushing like a schoolgirl. Beaming, I return the greeting.
"Morning, handsome."
I get my reply with a lingering kiss on my lips, which I fully savored until a sudden thought came to me.
"What time is it? We need to get up."
Spencer, with his calm voice, shakes his head.
"It's a bit early yet. We have time. Also, you have some clothes here, so you don't need to go to your apartment before driving to work."
Smart me for bringing clothes to his apartment. It's an obvious decision, though, considering I have spent more nights here in the past weeks than in my place.
A devilish smirk makes an appearance on my face.
"So, we do have time, don't we?"
"Yes, sweetheart. We do," Spencer mumbles, scooting closer and peppering kisses on my face and then down to my collarbone.
Oh boy, this is what I call a good way to start the day.
-
How much time can you fool a bunch of the best profilers in the country, hiding your relationship with one of your coworkers? Spencer and I keep the count. The mark is set now in four months and two weeks.
It's not that we are embarrassed by what we have or anything close to that. It's just that things started so casually and naturally, and they're running so smoothly, so we want to keep it to ourselves as long as we can.
And by now? It's working.
We have also been careful about it. On our first nights together, we woke up early and went home for a shower and a change of clothes. After some weeks, we started to pack extra in our go-bag. Now, we have at least a change of clothes in each other's places. The second rule is never to get to work at the same time or on the same transportation. Spencer usually takes the metro even if I can drive and make time in the parking lot. Just one day, we did it, and we were so worked up in our making out session that we almost got caught by Morgan, who parked two cars away from mine.
Naturally, any form of PDA at work is completely off-limits. That's the toughest rule to follow. After all, we spend more time at the office and on the road than we do at home, so avoiding any kind of touch is definitely a challenge.
Despite all that, I can't help but feel happier every day as I fall deeper for Spencer. I often feel like a schoolgirl with a crush, constantly distracted by thoughts of him. Clearly, my behavior hasn't gone unnoticed, at least not by the three girls cornering me right now in the BAU kitchen.
"So, are you going to deny you're having fun these days?" Emily teases me while JJ and Penelope giggle in agreement.
"Where did that come from?" I say, intentionally diverting my gaze to the mug I'm filling with coffee.
"It's just basic observation, my dear," Penelope chimes in.
"Basic observation? I honestly don't follow you guys at all," I reply, feeling a bit overwhelmed by this unexpected Tuesday morning interrogation. This time, JJ steps forward with her evidence laid out right before me.
"We have all noticed the changes in you over the past few months—the giddy smile that lights up your face when you read a text on your phone, the new pep in your step, and how you hurry home every time we finish a case. Do I need to say more?"
"Busted!" Garcia points a mocking finger at me. I roll my eyes in fake annoyance. After all, they are completely right.
"Okay, okay. Yeah. I'm seeing a guy. Happy?" I confess, and Garcia squeals.
"Yay! We need to know everything about him."
Oh. That's dangerous territory.
JJ notices my discomfort and tries to ease it a bit.
"Penelope, I'm sure we'll know more with time. Right?" JJ looks at me, and I nod appreciatively.
"Okay. But the basics. Is the guy good?" Emily asks. A silly smile appears on my face.
"Of course he is. He's caring, fun, always attentive-" I'm about to start a rant about how my mystery man is perfect. But Emily's snort stops me at mid-sentence.
"What?"
"Emily is asking if he is good in bed!" Penelope clarifies, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Oh, Lord. What have I got into?
"Are you really expecting me to tell you about my sex life?"
The three girls nod in unison with no shame. Well, I guess I got my answer.
"Like if you haven't done it before. And for what it is worth, we all have said something about it more than once. That's why we created girls's night in the first place," Emily points eloquently, as always.
Touchè. They are right. I have said more than I would like to admit about my sex life. But now it's not that simple. We are talking about Spencer, even if they don't know it yet.
"Then? Is he good or not?"
I contemplate my answer not because I don't know what to say but not revealing more than necessary.
"I don't think good is enough to describe sex with him. The first time we slept together was amazing. The whole night was if you know what I mean. Since then, we have taken our time, savoring the moment, giving, and receiving a new part of ourselves when we do it. So, yes, sex with him is more than good."
"But it could be better," Garcia interjects, and I look at her baffled.
"How's so? Didn't I just say the sex is great?"
The three women nod in agreement, but I think I'm missing something here.
"Don't take it the wrong way, my lovely. We are really happy you are having fun and enjoying yourself," Garcia says, patting my shoulder. "But it sounds pretty vanilla to me. And it's not bad! Not at all!"
I frown, and Emily rolls her eyes, continuing Garcia's idea.
"What Penelope tries to bring here is what we talked back then about your last partner. Remember? The one who liked tantric sex?"
Oh. Yeah. I remember that one. It's not one of my finest choices, if I have to be honest. But it wasn't the guy's fault.
"Yeah. What about him?"
"You forgot how you complained about him being basically a statue? That you wanted it rough, and the guy never got the memo?" Penelope fills in, arching an eyebrow. My cheeks are flush crimson right now.
"I can't believe we are talking about this in the office kitchen," I mumble, embarrassed. "But that was different."
Emily scoffs. "What? Did you change your kinks now? What happened with the choking, the spanking, the begging, and all those things?"
"Emily Prentiss, can you please shut up? This conversation is too much for a morning in the office," I complain, shaking my head to try to cool my red face.
"Okay, okay. I'll stop. But if you are still into it - and I'm sure you are - maybe it's a good idea to share it with your partner. Healthy sex life and all that, so it doesn't happen what it did with the tantric guy."
"Well, thank you all for your concern. But I think I'm good. Now, can we please drop the subject?"
Luckily for me, the girls listened and changed the topic. By the time we leave the kitchen, I feel less embarrassed and ready to continue my paperwork.
But the conversation kept popping into my head from time to time during the day. My sexual preferences haven't changed 180 degrees, that's true, but with Spencer, it's different. I wouldn't want to bring something like that up if it's going to make him uncomfortable. Our relationship is still fresh, and I'm happy with our current sex life.
And talking about Spencer, I haven't seen him the whole morning. By the time lunchtime arrives, he doesn't come back to his desk, so I go with the girls and Morgan.
When we come back from lunch, I finally see him at his desk, concentrating on a pile of files. A smile creeps in my face. He looks so damn good with the crocked tie, messy hair, and shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms. This man has ruined me just sitting there. I'm doomed.
"Hey," I call his attention, and he turns his head to look up at me.
"Hi," he returns a smile.
"I haven't seen you around in hours. Are you okay?"
A frown appears on his face, but he brushes it off quickly.
"Me? Oh, yeah. Fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. It's just Hotch that had me checking and analyzing a pile of boxes with folders from old cases in the store office. That's all."
It makes sense. Spencer's fast reading is a blessing and a curse, and obviously, people tend to use it often in the office.
"I'm sorry, sure it wasn't a very entertaining task."
A shy smile creeps on his lips, and I have to use all my self-control not to pounce on him right now and pepper his face with kisses.
"It's okay. I'm already done, anyway. How has been your morning?"
"Oh. Mostly paperwork. As everyone. But I think I'll be done soon, too." Before continuing, I check my surroundings to ensure nobody else is listening. "Maybe we can go home early?" I suggest seductively.
The flush in Spencer's cheeks is endearing. It's like the ones I sported this morning when the girls were interrogating me. And they want me to tell this boy about my kinks? No way. I won't do that if it means he won't feel comfortable with me again.
"We could. But I'm afraid plans will have to wait," Spencer says as his gaze shifts from me to Garcia and the quick tip-tap of her heels, heading to the conference room.
Fuck. A new case.
-
Don't get me wrong. I love my job. But being stuck in the middle of the desert, looking for an unsub that seems to be a ghost? And I say 'ghost' literally because we are looking for a guy who is dead for the town records. No, this is not my idea of a 'normal work day.'
It's frustrating, and not only for the lack of progress. The heat here is like hell. The AC barely works, and everyone's mood is bitchy.
We are not making any progress by now, so Hotch sends us to the hotel for the night. Once in my room, I text Spencer, not with an explicit purpose but to talk to him for a while. But he doesn't answer my texts. Is he sleeping by now? Considering he's a night owl, I found it very rare. But maybe he's drained like everyone else, so I let it slide.
In the morning, after my shower, I'm checking my phone, and I don't have any messages. Has Spencer received my texts?
I don't want to sound paranoid, but it's like something is going on. At the precinct, I barely get a hello from Spencer. Okay. Maybe it's the stress. I don't give it too much thought, either. Not when we have work to do.
And boy, we have been working hard on this one. Some clues give us hope, but we're far from catching the unsub.
In the little spare time we have between interrogations and visiting dumping sites, I try to share moments with Spencer, but it definitely seems like he doesn't want to be alone with me in the same room, even if he doesn't say it or shows signs of annoyance or animosity towards me.
I can't tell why he is so distant, but it's starting to worry me. Did I do something? And it's killing me because the more I think about it, the more I miss him. A kiss, a hug, anything from him would ease the ache I'm starting to feel.
It doesn't help that he has been choosing to wear the sexiest clothes he has in his go-bag. Those tight grey pants that accentuate his ass, those button-ups with sleeves rolled up.
We have been here for six days, and I think I'm going crazy. I have been trying to be subtle and professional. But I swear that if one more day goes by without being able to feel Spencer's touch, I don't know what I'll be able to do.
It seems heaven has listened to me because we finally managed to catch the unsub, and we're on the jet on our way home. But I'm nervous. I didn't even want to sit next to Spencer like I usually do. I don't know why. What if he wants to break up with me, and I'm just dragging things out?
What the hell am I talking about? I don't believe I'm thinking clearly here. But this week has been so odd that I don't know what to think.
Maybe when we land, I can finally talk to Spencer and put an end to my overthinking. With that in mind, I doze off for the rest of the trip.
Once the jet is down, I'm starting to gather my things when I hear Spencer rushing out, saying goodbye to everyone.
Disappointed and frustrated, I leave the tarmac.
Maybe a full night of sleep in my bed isn't a bad plan after all.
But be that as it may, fuck you, Spencer Reid.
-
As if all that had happened wasn't enough, when I got to the parking lot, my car fucking didn't start. I knew I had to get it checked before.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
That delayed my arrival home for another 45 minutes.
Now, disappointed, frustrated, and with no car, I slam the door shut. The apartment is pitch black, and I have no energy to flick the lights on, so I drag myself to the bedroom. When I open the door, a yelp escapes my mouth when I see a silhouette of a man sitting in the chair I have in one corner.
I'm about to reach for my gun when the bedside lamp flicks on, and the scare turns to confusion when I see Spencer sitting there.
"What the fuck!"
"Hi," he says as if he hadn't almost scared me to death two seconds ago.
"Spencer! What are you doing here?" My voice sounds harsher than I intended, but Spencer brushes it off quickly.
"Waiting for you," he says matter-of-factly.
I'm officially confused. We were together an hour ago? He left without saying anything.
"I don't understand. The way you left the jet in such a hurry, I thought I was the last person you wanted to be with."
My words come out resentful, but I can't help it. Spencer's eyes soften. I averted his gaze as I dropped my go-bag, unholst my gun to set it on the safe, and sat at the end of the bed to remove my boots.
"Hey, don't say that. Of course, I want to be with you," Spencer says, standing from the seat and kneeling to help me remove my boots.
"I'm sorry, but it didn't show that way. You avoided me all week!"
Great, now I sound like I'm making a tantrum.
From his place where he knelt on the floor, his eyes met mine, and I don't know why suddenly I felt a shudder running down my spine.
"Sweetheart, you know we were working, weren't we?"
That condescending tone escaping Spencer's lips? It is something unexpected. But why does it make me kind of nervous? It's a type of nervousness that gives me butterflies in my stomach.
"I know! But- but then in the jet. And you left."
Why am I babbling? Since when did Spencer have looked at me with those piercing eyes?
He stands and offers me a hand to help me to do the same.
"Is my girl upset?" He asks when we are both upright.
'My girl'? That's new. Spencer always calls me by my name, a short version of it, or beautiful, or sweetheart. But thinking about it, 'my girl' doesn't sound bad at all.
"No! I'm not-"
"Oh yes, you are. Look, I wanted to prepare a surprise for you tonight, so I left in a hurry. I was thinking about a bubble bath, dinner, wine, and a movie. I even had the table done with candles ready to lit," he says nonchalantly, and I feel silly for thinking the worst scenarios all week.
"Oh," is the only thing escaping my lips.
"But now, thinking about it, maybe you don't deserve it. Not if you're questioning me like this," Spencer shakes his head in fake - I hope - disappointment.
Okay. Stop right there. What the hell is going on here? Why is Spencer talking like that? About me as 'not deserving' something? What's next? That I'm a naughty girl? - Uhm, I wonder how it could be hearing those words from his lips.-
"What? Why I-"
"Come here," he requests as now he is the one who sits at the edge of the bed and pats the spot in his lap. It doesn't sound too commanding, but sure as hell, I don't need anything more to comply. I need to know where this is heading.
As I'm at Spencer's reach, he pulls me by my wrist to land on his lap while his other hand cradles my face.
"Tell me, uh? Why are you upset?"
His voice drips like honey, and I start to feel hot here.
"I- I don't know. I just missed you, I guess."
"You guess?" He arches a questioning eyebrow.
"Yes. I mean, I do know. I have missed you," I confess, defeated. Oh yeah, now I'm the needy one.
"It helps if I say I have missed you, too?" he says, caressing my cheek tenderly with his knuckles. "I have seen you tense all week; that's why I thought I could do something special for you tonight."
I close my eyes, and for the first time tonight, I let myself enjoy Spencer's embrace.
I exhale a heavy breath as I get lost in his arms.
When I open my eyes, Spencer's are fixed on mine. But his look is not as sweet or reverent as it usually is when we are like this. No, this one is dark and raw. His pupils are fully dilated, and I feel like the breath leaves my lungs.
"Spencer-" I barely mumble.
"I know," he whispers, moving one hand to cradle my neck and bring my lips to his.
Oh God, what I have been craving for days is finally happening, and I can't stress enough how happy I am.
The kiss starts slow and sensual. But not far from that, it gets needy and messy, charged with all the pent-up emotions from the past days. If I had any doubt about Spencer's distance in the last week, this kiss quickly eased my anxiety.
My fingers go to undo the buttons of his button-up, but Spencer stops me with one of his hands, grabbing both of my wrists.
Why didn't I notice before how big and strong his hands are compared to mine? I mean, I always admired his long and deftly fingers, but this? Wow. It's new territory.
"But I want to touch you," I pout when he keeps hold of my wrists in his hand. The cocky bastard raises an eyebrow, contemplating my request.
"You will have to be patient this time and earn it, darling," he says casually, and as my eyes go wide, my jaw goes slack. These words have never come out of Spencer's mouth before. But why am I suddenly starting to feel hotter and more worked up? I blame it on sex abstinence.
"Please, I have missed you so much," I insist, trying to escape his grip to get what I want: undress him. But he doesn't budge, tsking his tongue.
"I already told you. You need to earn it. To my knowledge, only good girls get what they want, and I don't think I'm wrong, do I?"
Jesus Christ! I had never heard Spencer say 'good girl' before, and I'm sure now I'll be addicted to hearing it every chance I get.
"Spencer, please. I'll do anything. I promise. I want to be a good girl. I want to be your good girl."
Spencer's smirk tells me he likes my response, and I'm not at any ounce ashamed of sounding desperate.
He maneuvers me so that I am now on my back on the mattress. I watch his every move intently, and I get lost in his gaze, which screams lust and desire.
He kneels between my spread legs, staring at me intently as his hands move to the edges of my blouse. Just when I think he's going to work on unbuttoning it, he grabs it and rips it open.
A yelp escapes my lips at the raw sound and the view of buttons flying. Spencer doesn't seem fazed by his display of caveman style. And me? I won't mind if he rips all my clothes right now. His hands go to caress my breasts over the fabric of my bra. And then pull it down to free the skin. The cool air quickly stiffens my nipples.
Spencer leans down to suck one of them, twirling the other one with his fingers. A moan escapes my lips at the pleasure his touch is giving me.
"You like that, uh?" he mumbles, still with his mouth sucking and lapping.
"Yes!" I say, as my hands fly to his hair so I can ground myself in something.
After giving enough attention to both of my nipples, he helps me to get rid of the fabric of the ruined blouse and my bra. Now his mouth is sucking a hickey under my jaw, and I feel like I can faint of how aroused I am. One of his hands goes south and stills at the button of my work pants. His breath is hot in my ear.
"I'm going to take care of you. If I do something you don't like, just say it, okay?"
That's a sliver of the Spencer I know, and I can't even think of something this man can do to me that I wouldn't like.
"Okay," I manage to blurt when his fingers work on my pants, leaving me clad only in my panties in a matter of seconds.
Under his intense gaze, I feel exposed, but I also feel safe. There is no place where I would rather be right now.
"You're gorgeous. You know that?" Spencer says, trailing feather touches on my skin aflame with desire. "You don't know what you do to me, do you? I barely can control myself," he continues his praises, thumbs toying with the waistband of my panties.
I'm about to combust.
"Spencer, please."
"What is it, my girl?" he asks, kissing my neck as his fingers slide down my legs, removing the soaked fabric that used to cover my most intimate part.
"I - I need more."
"Are you already desperate for me?"
I can feel how his fingers trace soft patterns in the skin between my thighs, explicitly avoiding the spot where I need him the most.
"Yes! I am. I - I can't-"
I don't even care if I sound coherent at this point. I'm already so turned on and desperate that I can't be bothered by my lack of speech. Spencer still doesn't budge, though.
"I know you want to beg. And I know you can do better than that."
Oh God. I don't know how Spencer's words manage to make me more aroused, but they do.
"I need you," I croak, eyes pleading him to take me. I can feel his fingers ghosting my throbbing clit.
"I need you, sir. Please. You can use me whatever you want, but please, touch me!"
What the fuck? I just called Spencer' sir' and offered my body explicitly to him to use. And the bastard doesn't even flinch? Who is this guy in full control, and who am I acting like a pathetic submissive?
I don't have the answers, but honestly, I don't care. Did he want me to beg? If this isn't begging, I don't know what it is.
"I know you do, baby. Do you think I didn't notice how needy you have been all week? How have you tried to get my attention all these days?" Spencer's voice drops almost two octaves as his finger finally starts rubbing circles on my clit.
Just feeling his touch makes me whimper pathetically.
His lips ghost in my ear, and I can feel his breath heating the spot before his teeth nibble my earlobe.
A mewl leaves my mouth, and if I wasn't soaked before - which I was - now I'm dripping.
"Tell me, this is what you wanted?" His voice is commanding but feels like honey leaking on my body.
"Yes! Please, don't stop."
His movements are deliberate and precise, and when he buries a finger into my core, I can feel the coil in the pit of my lower belly beginning to form. My moans increase in number and volume.
"So needy, my sweet girl. Like that? That's how you want me to touch you?" Spencer coo as he watches me tremble under his touch, adding a new finger to fuck me.
His ministrations continue, but his free hand moves slowly from my cheek down to my neck, caressing the exposed skin with his thumb.
"Or maybe you want me to touch you like this?"
A mewl escapes my lips when he poses his open palm over my throat, not squeezing but seizing how much of my neck he would be able to cover with his huge hand.
"Yes! Please, do it. Please Spencer," I babble, feeling my orgasm closer and closer. And he complies. Applying the minimal pressure in my throat is enough to highlight all of my senses. That, plus the way his ring and middle finger pound in and out of me and his thumb toy with my clit at the same time, sends me to the edge.
"Spencer!" I scream as my climax washes over me.
I don't remember having an orgasm like this in a long time. My vision blurs and I feel like I'm floating on a cloud of pleasure that I don't want to come down from. I can hear Spencer's encouraging words in the distance as he helps me ride my orgasm.
"That's it, my girl. You did so good for me. See how good I can make you feel?"
With hooded eyes, I see Spencer sucking clean the fingers that were fucking me seconds ago.
"You taste amazing. I'll never get tired of it," Spencer says, with a satisfied grin on his face.
Still dizzy, I gesture for him to come closer. When he does, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for the most passionate kiss my current post-orgasmic state will allow. I can taste myself on his tongue, and it is like my sex drive reminds me I want more. I need more.
"Please, fuck me," I mumble between kisses, and I can feel the smirk forming on his lips.
"I just did that," he states when we part from the kiss. "Are you being ungrateful?" Is he joking? I hope he does, but I won't take the chance of not having his dick in me tonight.
"No, baby. I'm thankful for the way you have touched me tonight, but I want you to feel good, too."
Spencer looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Is that so? Are you willing to do what I want to make me feel good? It's not only for your benefict?"
"Yes! Whatever you want. I'm yours. Take me the way you want to do it. Whatever you want to give me."
I don't know at what moment I became this kind of submissive, but if I have to beg again to have Spencer inside me, I will do it without complaining. And considering he's still fully clothed, I don't know what kind of plan he has right now.
"On your elbows and knees."
It's simple, and the moment the words leave his mouth, I move quickly to obey.
Unfortunately, from this position, I can't see Spencer, but I can hear him undressing. When I listen to him undoing his belt buckle, I have to do everything in my power not to rub my thighs together in search of some friction. And Spencer notices.
"I can bet you're dripping again. Don't you?"
The anticipation is killing me. When I feel the mattress dip with Spencer's weight, I can't stop the mewl that leaves my lips. It doesn't help when he presses his body to mine, and I can feel his hard cock pressing my ass.
"Can you feel what you do to me? I want to fuck you so bad. I want to ruin this pussy." Spencer's voice is husky and low, almost predatory, and I can't wait to feel him.
While we've used dirty talk before, I think this is the first time I can feel it coming naturally from Spencer. I'm usually the one with the filthy mouth.
When I feel his tip teasing my entrance, I instinctively push my ass back, gaining a laugh from Spencer.
"Be patient, once inside there is no coming back." Before I can say anything in reply, I feel him push his cock between my folds, and the stretching is painfully delicious.
"Oh, fuck!" I yelp as I hear Spencer hissing when he bottoms it out. He is still there, grabbing my hips to keep me from moving.
"So warm. So tight. Made for me," he mumbles, leaning to kiss my shoulder blades.
"Just for you, it was made for you," I agree, in a new state of pleasure and urging him to move. Spencer pulls back almost completely, only to thrust hard again, setting a slow but deep pace.
"That's my girl, taking everything I give her. You wanted this, didn't you? I know you do. Fuck! So good for me."
Another thing I'm not used to is Spencer being a talker during sex. I mean, yeah, he's very vocal, moaning, whining, cursing, and so am I, but his words are now taking me there faster than I expected.
"Spencer, yes! Don't stop, please!"
"I won't, baby, I won't. Not when this pussy tighen me like this."
His pace quickens, and in the room, you can only hear the sinful sounds of skin hitting skin, our moans, and the dirty words escaping Spencer's mouth.
"Spencer, please, harder," I beg to him. I don't know why, but I want to go to my limit, and I trust Spencer. I need it. He's quick to deliver, and with every thrust, I'm entering into a new space of ecstasy.
He is pounding me harder, and my broken moans are testimony to the brutal pace he leads. I can feel him hitting in all the right places.
"Like that?" He asks, panting in my ear.
"Y-yes."
"I can't hear you, darling," the bastard demands, not faltering his thrusts.
"Yes! Fuck, yes! Like that! Oh, fuck-"
My voice cracks when I feel a sharp smack in my ass.
And I can't stress enough how good it feels and how it helps the ball forming in my lower belly to grow.
"What a sight. You should see how my fingers are red imprinted on your skin," Spencer says, amazed with his doing, not ever slowing his thrusts, and I can feel closer to a new earth-shattering orgasm.
"We need to even the score, right baby?" I can't even catch what he's talking about when I feel a new smack in my other ass-cheek. And then I lose it. I'm teetering to my end, and I need Spencer to fall with me.
"Spencer, I'm so close. Please, I need-"
"Are you going to come? That's what you're trying to tell me?"
"Yes! I need to cum, please-"
"I'm right there with you, my girl. Come on, cum on my cock. Show me how you fall apart because of me."
And I did. My orgasm crashes me like a freight train, screaming Spencer's name once and again until my throat goes dry. He keeps his pace, chasing his own end, and after three deep thrusts, he stills, and I feel him spilling inside of me, grunting as he does so. The feeling almost makes me cum again.
We stay in that position for a few moments, him inside me and trying to catch our breath. I feel like I'm out of this world, savoring the post-orgasmic euphoria of the best sex of my life.
Spencer pulls out, and I hiss at the loss of him. Carefully, he helps me turn over and lie down to rest my back on the mattress. I close my eyes, regulating my breathing, content and completely satisfied.
"Are you okay?" Spencer asks me, but I'm still lost in the haze of pleasure. I can barely acknowledge the moment he goes to the bathroom to bring a warm cloth to clean me up.
"Uh? Yeah. Amazing." My words escape before I can process them, but I'm not lying. And I can feel the tons of endorphins running in my brain right now.
"Are you sure?" Spencer checks again. And because I'm more alert now, I can see his worried eyes.
A tired smile forms on my lips as I turn to the side and bring a hand to his cheek.
This man just has fucked me senseless, and now he sees me with those panicked eyes as if he had broken me. And maybe he did, but in the best way possible.
"I'm fine, Spencer. I'm more than fine, actually. That was something else," I confess, caressing his jaw. He lets out a breath of relief, and his cheeks turn a shade of pink.
"So you liked it?"
"Liked it? Did you just forget how I was screaming your name just minutes ago?" A satisfied chuckle escapes Spencer's lips. "But I need to know something," I prompt, propping myself on one elbow to have a better view of Spencer's face.
"What is it?"
"Where did this idea come from? It's not like you woke up one day and said, 'Next time, I'm going to choke her and spank her,' right?"
"Well, yeah. It wasn't that kind of spontaneous idea, even though I have thought about it before," Spencer looks at me sheepishly.
"Yeah? Well, then?"
"I heard you. Talking with the girls the other day at the BAU's kitchen." I narrow my eyes, trying to pinpoint the exact moment, and when recognition washes over me, my entire face flushes.
"Oh, God."
"I know I did wrong. It wasn't a conversation for me to hear, but you were talking about your mystery man, and I - I don't know, curiosity got the best of me."
Spencer looks apologetic, and I feel kind of embarrassed right now. It's funny for two people that minutes ago were fucking like there is no tomorrow.
"Don't apologize. It's my fault for spilling those kind of things in the office kitchen." Wait a minute. "From what part you heard?" Spencer purses his lips in thought.
"The part when you admitted seeing someone."
"So you heard when I said I was happy with our sex life, right?" He nods. "Why did you feel compelled to try something different, then? I'm not complaining at all, but I don't want you to feel obligated to do something because of me."
Spencer shakes his head. "I don't feel obligated. I wanted to. But can I ask why you didn't tell me what you liked before?"
That's a valid question, and I don't want to make him feel like I don't trust him because it is not like that.
"It's just- I mean, I love what we have. And I'm falling for you even more each day. I don't want to lose that, and I thought maybe I would have made you uncomfortable saying those things. I didn't want that."
Spencer's eyes glisten with warm understanding. How could I have doubted that he would comprehend? One of his hands goes to push back a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
"I love what we have, too. And you won't lose this or me if you share those things with me. I know I'm not the best example of a sharing person, but I'm learning to do that with you. And I want you to be happy and satisfied in this relationship."
"I really am. Seriously!" I quickly reply. God forbid Spencer from thinking I'm not happy and satisfied because it's far from the truth.
"And I'm happy to hear that. But there is no harm in experiencing new things, right?" He says, caressing my cheek.
"You really mean it?" Spencer nods and chuckles.
"It's not an altruistic offer, you know? I pretty much enjoyed what we did tonight." Only remembering what we did minutes ago brings a wide grin to my face.
"Sure you did. Okay. We can keep trying things. One condition, though."
"Name it," Spencer states, opening his arm for me to scoot closer to his side, which I happily do.
"I want you to choose the next kink to explore," I request, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.
With narrowed eyes, Spencer is contemplating his answer. After a few seconds, his lips turn into a mischievous smirk, and he looks back at me.
"Have you heard about temperature play?" he asks, and I immediately bit my lower lip in excitement.
What can I say? This man is full of surprises, and I'm the lucky one who will experience all of them. I can't wait.
------------------
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#spencer reid#criminal minds#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid x you#dr. spencer reid#spencer reid smut#a bit rougher#amanda perry williams#aperrywilliams#spencer reid fanfics#spencer reid fluff
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𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞
What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?
description:
pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader
genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? smut.
warning: explicit smut (p in v), oral (f! receiving), DRY HUMPING (sooo hot), unprotected sex (never do this in real life, ever—couldn’t help myself lmao), age gap relationship (present time! robby late 40s, reader mid 30s—flashback! robby late 30s, reader mid 20s), problematic power dynamics (in the flashback reader is an intern, robby is a junior attending), inappropriate use of hospital property (?), female reader.
notes: idk what happened. this wasn’t in my outline. I started fleshing out the chapter and BOOM, the smut just appeared. Also, I am so sorry to any filipino people reading this, if I butchered the tagalog please lmk. THIS WAS NOT BETA READ.
word count: 10.3 k.
extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ (ko-fi)
Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:・゚✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.
series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

12 years ago...
The vibe was off.
It wasn’t the usual exhaustion from a tough shift or hospital malaise—it was sharper. The kind of wrong you could taste in the back of your throat.
Robby could feel it the second he stepped onto the floor.
Felt it when his gaze skimmed across the nurses’ station, caught your pink-scrubbed form bent over a chart—and you didn’t look up.
Didn’t flash him the usual quick smile. Didn’t so much as acknowledge him.
Good, he thought viciously. Better that way.
He knew he was being short—clipped orders, tight jaw, no eye contact—but he couldn’t seem to stop it. It was either that or let something uglier bleed through.
You weren’t any better.
You charted like the pen was a weapon, avoided him like a live wire. No smart remarks, no quick glances. Just silence and a careful, perfectly crafted space between them.
Which made it worse. Somehow.
He stayed terse, barking out orders with a little more edge than necessary.
You stayed busy, answering questions without once meeting his eyes.
They orbited each other in a strange, broken rhythm—like magnets flipped the wrong way, close enough to feel the pull but fighting it every step of the way.
When the call came over the PA—Trauma incoming. OB consult needed. ETA four minutes—he felt it like a crack down his spine.
Of course.
Of course it had to be you on consult rotation today. Of course it had to be on his case.
He reached the trauma bay first, pulling on gloves with brisk, jerky motions. You arrived seconds later, steps light but purposeful, pink sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile.
You caught sight of him and flinched so subtly most people would’ve missed it.
He didn’t.
You hovered at the door like you considered staying back.
But then you squared your shoulders, locked it all away behind that bright, professional mask he hated so much, and stepped in beside him.
A nurse at the desk, watching them assemble, snickered under her breath, teasing, “uh oh. Dream team’s back together.”
There was a ripple of laughter from behind the desk—not cruel, exactly, but knowing. Like the whole fucking hospital had gotten a whiff of whatever was simmering between them lately.
Robby forced a half-smirk, the kind he used to disarm patients’ families in bad news consults.
“All part of the service,” he said dryly, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Premium package: expertise and entertainment.”
It got the intended effect—a few more chuckles, a little of the tension bleeding off the room.
But when he glanced sideways, you were already moving toward the gurney bay, chart in hand, shoulder brushing past him.
Over your shoulder, syrup-sweet, you chirped, "Just smile and nod—it’s easier that way.”
The nurses chuckled, thinking you were just poking fun at yourself.
Someone called after you, “Ain’t that the truth!”
“Lucky you. You get to watch us work our effortless magic."
The nurses cracked up, tossing you good-natured jabs. But Robby felt the gut punch underneath it.
Effortless.
Right.
The bitterness laced through honey.
But he caught the way your fingers tightened around the edges of the chart you held. Caught the way you shifted a fraction farther from him—no closer than you absolutely had to be, not even to grab a sterile gown.
He almost said something.
Almost reached for you.
Instead, he turned toward the incoming gurney and bit down hard on whatever reckless thing was clawing up his throat.

When they reached the trauma bay, the patient was already there—a woman in her late twenties, panting through a contraction, one hand braced under her swollen belly, eyes wide and terrified.
"Name's Emily," the nurse called quickly. "Third baby. History of a ventricular septal defect follow-up, but no set delivery plan. Presented in active labor about an hour ago. No prenatal records on file yet. No beds upstairs, so she’s ours for now."
"Vitals?" He asked, already snapping on gloves.
"Stable for now. Cervix was seven on arrival. Labor’s progressing fast."
He flicked a glance toward you, and caught the tight nod you gave, all business.
Still so damn new, scrubs just slightly too crisp, name badge gleaming, but already standing your ground like you’d been born for this.
No panic. No dramatics. Just pure focus.
"We’ll need NICU on standby when the baby’s out," you said, voice steady. "And page Cardiology for a newborn ECHO, stat."
"On it," a nurse answered, jogging off.
Meanwhile, you stepped closer to the bed, voice softening as you addressed the laboring woman directly.
"Emily, you’re doing great," you said, one gloved hand resting lightly against the patient's shaking thigh. "I know it hurts, but you're not alone, okay? We’re right here with you. We’re gonna take care of both of you."
"My husband—" Emily gasped between breaths. "Where's—"
One of the nurses answered quickly, squeezing her shoulder. "He's on his way, sweetheart. There was a pileup on the bridge—traffic’s slow, but he’s coming."
Emily nodded shakily, biting down on a cry as another contraction tore through her.
The intern immediately stepped in, resting a reassuring hand on Emily’s arm. "You're doing so good, Emily. Breathe with me."
You turned to a nearby nurse. "Page Dr. Levin. Let them know labor's progressing quickly."
The nurse nodded and hustled away.
Robby hovered close, not interfering, just...watching. Ready. His hands itched to help, but he knew better. This was her case to lead. And hell, if he wasn’t a little awed.
When the nurse returned, slightly breathless, she reported, "Dr. Levin's tied up with another delivery. They said you're clear to manage—hold steady."
For half a heartbeat, something flickered across your face—the barest tremor of uncertainty.
He saw it. Of course he did.
But then you lifted your chin, took a deep breath, and turned back to Emily with firm hands and a gentler voice.
"Okay, Emily. Looks like I'm here with you for now. You're not alone. We're right here."
Emily’s eyes—wild with fear—locked onto yours. "Is my baby okay?"
"She's strong," the intern said firmly. "She's a fighter, just like you."
Emily squeezed her hand—a desperate, sweaty grip—and nodded, teeth clenched against the next contraction.
There it was. That thing you had. That quiet, steel-threaded kindness no textbook could teach. You just had it, in every fiber of your being.
The next hour blurred.
Emily’s labor accelerated at a breathtaking pace. There was barely enough time to pull together a sterile field. Barely enough time for you to snap on gloves and don a gown before the baby crowned.
"Almost there, Emily," you murmured, voice low and encouraging. "You’re doing beautifully. Just breathe."
The patient whimpered through another contraction.
"It hurts," she gasped, panicked.
"I know," you said—gentle, but firm. "It means you’re close. When you feel the next urge, I want you to push right through it. You can do this. We’ve got you."
Robby was there at her shoulder, mirroring her calm, matching her rhythm. He coached the patient through each final push while you supported Emily with both words and hands, working seamlessly together.
You moved in perfect tandem without needing a single word.
"Big breath, Emily—now!"
The baby slid free, slick and furious, and Robby caught her deftly, heart thudding—clamping and cutting the cord.
"Female, vigorous, crying," he called out.
"Taking her for ECHO! Mom informed!" a NICU nurse shouted, rushing the newborn away, tiny fists punching the air.
Emily sobbed, half in relief, half in terror.
"They’re checking her heart," you reassured, leaning close. "That's all. She's strong."
One last glimpse of tiny fists and furious wails—then gone.
Emily clutched at her gown with a trembling hand. "My husband—"
"Still on his way," Robby said quietly from her side. "He knows you're both okay. He’s getting here as fast as he can."
Emily squeezed her eyes shut, another broken little sob escaping, but she nodded, trusting them because she had no choice. Collapsing back onto the bed, half-sobbing, half-laughing.
Robby exhaled slowly, swiping a forearm across his forehead as he watched you work. Gentle hands palpating the uterus, checking for bleeding, even whispering reassurances too low for him to catch.
Emily cracked a watery smile at them.
And he saw it hit. The way you blinked hard, throat working around whatever emotion you were swallowing down.
God, you cared. You cared so much it made him ache.
He turned to find you stripping off your gloves.
"You good?"
You didn’t even look up.
"Fine," you said, too quickly. Your brows furrowed briefly—just a flicker—as your hands moved lower, more deliberate now.
"Uterus firm?" he asked under his breath.
"Borderline," you murmured, careful to keep your tone light, soothing the patient with your free hand. "Placenta delivered intact. No tears. Mild vaginal bleeding—expected. Nothing alarming, yet."
Before he could say anything else—before he could betray how hard he was trying not to reach for you—the charge nurse leaned in.
"Still no beds upstairs," she said. "Mother's stable. She can stay put for now."
He nodded. You nodded.
And just like that, the moment disappeared—tucked away like something too dangerous to look at directly.
You turned back to work.
The current pulling you both under, once again.

It wasn’t until nearly an hour later—after two more traumas and a screaming match in a back hallway neither of you would even remember the details of—that the call came.
"Your patient, Emily" a nurse said, tugging at her sleeve. "She says something hurts. Down there."
Your forehead furrowed. Instinct snapped into place.
"Vitals?" you asked sharply.
"Stable for now. She's pale, though."
Without thinking, you gestured for Robby to follow—habit, muscle memory—but he hesitated. Watched you.
Still, he stepped in behind you.
When they got to the room, Emily’s husband was already there, sitting at her bedside, hunched over her hand like it was a lifeline. He looked like he was about to cry.
“She said it hurts," he said immediately, desperate. "She said it feels wrong—please, can you—?"
“We’ll take care of her," you said, already pulling on gloves.
At Emily’s bedside, it took seconds to see it: a deep, dark bulge along the right labia, swollen and angry under the skin.
You pressed gently. Emily cried out.
"Hematoma," you muttered.
"Expanding," Robby confirmed, grim.
Your eyes met, just for a moment, over the patient’s trembling body.
Then you moved. Hands colliding, breath held, adrenaline buzzing through every shouted word.
"Type and cross two units. I want blood at bedside!" Robby snapped.
"Two large-bore IVs, wide open," you called to the nurse. "Start fluids—ringers, fast."
"Ready the sterile tray. Lidocaine. Scalpel. Suction!"
The portable scanner whined to life as they prepped the site. One nurse darted in with meds, another with a sealed tray.
"Ready?" he said.
"Ready."
The blade kissed skin, and a flood of blood spilled out, hot and dark and wrong. Way too much blood, too fast. Way deeper than a simple hematoma.
The suction whirred to life as they worked, fighting to keep up with the flood of blood.
But your gut twisted. Something was off.
“Emily,” you said, clamly, “I know it hurts, but stay with us, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe.”
Emily let out a broken moan, almost animal. Suddenly her blood pressure monitor started to shriek.
"Ultrasound, now," you snapped.
The tech swung the wand over Emily’s belly—and there it was: fluid pooling deep in the abdomen. Liver involvement. Bleeding into the cavity.
Recognition hit like a gut punch.
“Fuck. It’s not just the hematoma. It’s systemic.”
"HELLP?" Robby asked tightly.
"Or DIC, probably both," you answered, voice flat. "Page Dr. Levin—911."
No simple fix. No easy out. A fucking bloodbath.
One of the nurses bolted from the room.
“Pressure's tanking,” a nurse called. “Sats dropping!”
“Keep packing! Give a bolus now—what’s the status on the blood?”
“Almost here!”
“We need to move now,” you said under your breath, voice slicing through the rising disarray.
“I’m aware,” Robby snapped, harsher than intended.
You recoiled, just for a second, then planted your feet and met his eyes again.
Emily cried out, this time weaker.
"Prep for surgery!" He barked.
Gloves snapped on. Tray rattled. He grabbed a line. You grabbed suction. You complemented each other seamlessly. The fucking dream team.
Everything was chaos.
Gurneys squealed. Monitors howled. Gloves snapped on in a dozen frantic beats.
Dr. Levin stormed through the door, barking orders—body already covered in a half-tied surgical gown.
"Vitals?" she demanded. "Blood loss? Labs? Is the OR ready?"
Robby stepped back instinctively, clearing the way. He was there to help if it were needed, but he knew it wasn’t his fight anymore.
He caught a glimpse of you across the chaos—bloodied, but still beautiful—as you followed your attendings' lead, and it kicked something vicious inside him.
Dr. Levin snapped a glance toward you. "You scrub or you step out," she said, curt but not cruel, simply expecting a quick answer.
But he saw you hesitate—just for a second.
You turned and saw him. The husband. Still there. Still clinging to the bedside, white-knuckled and weeping quietly now, his hand shaking as he tried to hold onto Emily’s fingers through all the tubes and wires.
In that instant, your mind was made up.
"I’ll stay with him," you said, quiet but certain.
The words knocked the breath out of him, almost leaving him stupid.
Without another word, you peeled off her bloody gloves, yanked on clean ones, and crossed to the husband. Soft hands guiding him out of the blast zone.
Robby stayed where he was, frozen. Watching and wanting.
He had no right to feel this. No excuse. And still—it was there, scorching him from the inside out.
The husband crumpled halfway into the hallway, sliding down the wall, burying his face in his hands. You went with him, unflinching. Dropped into a crouch beside him, your hand bracing lightly between his shoulder blades, anchoring him when the rest of the world was spinning out.
You murmured something, words Robby couldn’t catch over the shriek of monitors and boots pounding past.
But he knew the cadence. Knew the shape of it.
You were praying with him.
Not loudly, or taking the lead. Just quietly, like it was the only thing you had left to offer. The only thing that mattered.
God, it wrecked him.
Don't do this, he thought. Don't you dare go to her. Don't you dare make this worse.
But he was already drifting—helplessly, blindly—toward you like a man leaning into a fire without noticing the heat until it was too late.
You shouldn't be able to gut him like this. Not yet. Not like this.
But you did.
He turned toward the door without waiting for orders. Not because he wanted to leave. But because if he stayed another second, he was going to lose the last thread of control he had left.
Because some reckless, broken part of him already knew: you didn’t even have to touch him to own him.
You already did.

He stayed longer than he should have. Long after the OB team left the ER. Long after the adrenaline bled out of the room, leaving only the wreckage behind.
He found himself leaning against the wall across from the trauma bay, pretending to review his chart, pretending not to watch you.
You were still sitting with the husband. No gloves now, no sterile gown, just you and your pink scrubs. He could see your face was calm, but your voice was still too soft to hear from where he stood.
Then a nurse approached, murmuring something in your ear.
Robby’s gut twisted before he even heard the words. He could see it in the nurse's face, in the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
The patient hadn't made it.
He watched—couldn't not watch—as you rose to your feet, moving carefully toward the husband.
Watched the way your hands hovered for a second, wanting to reach for him, not sure if you should.
Watched the moment the words hit.
The husband reeled back from her like you'd slapped him. A choked, animalistic sound tore out of him, and for a second Robby thought he might hit you.
He moved instantly, stepping forward, already halfway between you. He was ready to use himself as a barrier—no hesitation, no second thought. But the man didn’t strike.
He didn't. He just broke. Collapsed into your arms like a man whose world had ended—because for him it had.
You held him without flinching. Held him like you’d been built for this, for carrying other people's grief when it got too heavy for them to bear alone.
Robby’s throat burned.
He turned his head, couldn't look anymore.
By the time he looked back, the damage was done. The husband was crumpled on the floor, sobbing. And you sat with him—shoulder to shoulder—saying nothing.
After a while, someone from NICU came and talked to the husband. Something about the baby.
A chance to go meet his daughter. A chance at something salvageable.
The husband staggered away, still weeping.
And finally, finally, you were alone.
You sat there for a moment longer, head bowed, hands limp in your lap. Then you stood, moving like someone twice your age, and started toward the back hallway.
Robby followed without thinking.
"Hey," he called after you, low.
You didn’t stop.
He caught up easily, staying at your shoulder.
"You did good," he said, rough. "You stayed."
Nothing. Not a glance. Not a breath.
You barged into an empty on-call room without slowing. He followed.
"You could’ve scrubbed in," he said, almost defensive now. "That was a big case. A huge learning opportunity. You let it go."
You stripped off her bloody scrub top and threw it into the bin with a vicious flick. The sound of it hitting the mattress was louder than it should’ve been.
He edged closer.
"It was...decent," he fumbled, hating himself for not being able to say what he meant without faltering. "Uhh—selfless. You did the right thing."
Still nothing. An awful fucking silence.
Something in him twisted sharp and stupid. "You should be more careful about getting attached," he said before he could stop himself.
God why the fuck did he say that? How is that the only thing that came to mind? What a fucking idiot.
Now that made her come back. You turned slowly and leveled him with a look so furious it made his mouth go dry.
He’d never seen her so angry. Furious, yes. But something deeper too. Something that had his gut clenching before you even opened your mouth.
"That's rich," you said, voice shaking with rage. "Coming from you."
He opened his mouth—tried to speak even.
Too slow.
"You think this is about getting attached?" you asked, stalking toward him. "You think I stayed because I’m green? Because I don’t know any better?"
He took a step back, but you followed, relentless.
"Maybe because I’m soft? A little bit stupid?"
He shook his head, but it didn’t matter.
"No, Robby. I stayed because someone fucking had to," you hissed. He swallowed hard, jaw flexing.
"You think I don’t know what’s going on?" you said, voice raw now. "You think I don’t feel it too?"
You jabbed a finger into his chest, not hard, but enough to make him flinch. "You think I don’t know what this job costs? You think I don’t know exactly what this does to us?" Your voice was going hoarse now, brittle from all the things you hadn’t said for weeks. “What it does to you?”
"You’re not the only one scared, Robby. You’re not the only one who knows this is dangerous. I get it." Her voice cracked, fury burning through it. "But you don't get to use that as an excuse to punish me for something we both feel."
He swallowed hard and opened his mouth, but you cut him off—you weren’t done.
“You kissed me. And then you disappeared. For whole goddamn week. Not a fucking word.”
Your eyes were wild, glassy. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I didn’t feel it too?”
You stepped in, close enough that he could smell blood mixed in with whatever coconut-vanilla soap you’d used that morning.
"You act like we’re fine one second and then you treat me like a fucking stranger the next. You pretend none of it’s happening—and when it does, you shove it all onto me like it’s my fault."
You took a shaking breath, close enough now that he could feel the heat rolling off you.
"I see it in your face," you whispered, furious and gutted all at once. "You don���t look at me unless I’m fucking up. You don’t talk to me unless you’re trying not to want me."
He said your name, wrecked, a broken apology without words.
You flinched like it physically hurt to hear it.
"Don’t," you said. "Don’t you dare say my name like that."
And for a second, just a second, you stood there, breathing hard. Rage and things said undone, bubbling between them.
He reached for you without meaning to. You didn’t stop him.
When your bodies crashed together, it wasn’t soft. It was rough, and messy, and inevitable, and everything you’d been avoiding.
His hands landed on your waist like he'd needed something to hold on to—like you were the only solid thing left in a world he no longer trusted. You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, hauled him closer with a force that was almost violent.
He was fucked.
You were fucked.
You were both fucked.
Everything you’d buried under sharp words and longing glances and the unbearable weight of being near each other for so long without touching.
A mix of harsh breaths, spit, heat. Your nails scraped down his arms. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling your mouth harder and harder against his like he could climb inside you and disappear.
God, you were warm. Warm and trembling and there, finally there.
He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you—lips swollen, eyes glassy, breathing uneven like you’d run miles just to get to this moment.
“I hate you,” you whispered, voice cracking once again.
“I know,” he said. It tore him open.
You grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back in.
Your bodies locked like puzzle pieces that never should’ve fit, but somehow did. You pushed him until his back hit the door and then kissed him again, deeper, slower now, like you needed to make sure this wasn’t a dream.
He let you take control for a second, hands hovering at your waist, not sure where to touch, afraid of pushing too far. Thinking that maybe he didn’t deserve to.
But sensing his hesitation, you took his hand and placed it flat over your heart.
“Feel that?” you asked.
His fingers curled instinctively, as if to shield it.
“I feel it,” he whispered. “I feel all of it.”
And maybe it was the sincerity in his voice, or the way his eyes looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever made sense—but something shifted.
His fingers skimmed the curve of your jaw, then lower—groping at your thighs as he lifted you, effortless, like he'd done it so a hundred times in a hundred other lives. You gasped into his mouth but didn't pull away.
Your legs tightened instinctively around his waist, the heat between you sparking sharp and immediate.
He didn’t break the kiss as he carried you to the cot, lowering you onto it with aching care. Your spine hit the mattress, and your breath caught, but he was already there again, bracing above you, forehead still brushing yours, waiting.
Always waiting—for you.
You breathed like that for a beat, into each other’s mouths. You clutched at his waist, your anger still burning low in your gut, but your mouth was soft now when it met his again.
His hands came up to your face, tentative. Fingers stroking the wet curve of your jaw, tracing the outline of your cheekbone, brushing damp hair back from your forehead. He kissed you like you were breakable. Like you’d splinter if he pushed too hard.
But you were breaking already.
Leaving your mouth, his lips kissed your wet cheeks. Trailing down to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. One kiss at a time. Slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing you.
Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt and slowly pulled it up. He let you. Raised his arms. Let you see him. Not just the body, but him. The man you’d seen come apart over the course of a hundred sleepless shifts, who’d touched you once and vanished into the walls after. The man who looked at you now like he was terrified and in love and trying not to drown.
His hands found you again, sliding under your soaked top, touching skin like it was a secret. You shivered at the contact, the warmth of his palms.
“Say stop,” he whispered.
But you didn’t. You didn’t even hesitate.
Instead, you leaned into his touch like it was the first real thing you’d felt in weeks.
He smiled—barely, just a flicker—and it broke you a little more. Because underneath everything, the storm of them, he was still gentle. Still him.
“I’m scared,” you admitted against his neck.
His arms came around you fully now, pressing you to his chest. “Me too.”
And that truth, soft and wrecked and shared between them, was what made this real.
You pulled back just far enough to cup his face in both hands. Her thumbs brushed the edge of his cheekbones. Her eyes searched his—like you were daring yourself to believe him.
This wasn’t just lust.
This was every moment you hadn’t touched.
Every glance across the trauma bay. Every almost. Every held breath. Every second of wanting that had turned into hurt.
It spilled over now, like it couldn’t be contained.
He kissed you again, slow, like a vow. His hands cradled your hips, not to take, not yet—but just to hold. Just to be close.
When you rested your forehead to his, you were trembling.
“Don’t let go,” you said.
He didn’t answer. Just kissed you once more, softer than any kiss that came before it.
He’d never let go.
His palms skimmed your waist, memorizing the soft give of your body. The subtle rise and fall of your breath. His thumbs circled the skin just beneath your ribs—bare now, exposed by the thin hem of your top riding up.
Your pulse beat fast at your throat. He kissed it. Then lower.
You shivered.
You wouldn’t meet his eyes, but you didn’t pull away. Not even when his hands slid under your top and flattened against your back, not even when his mouth brushed the hinge of your jaw.
“Hey,” he whispered. His voice had gone gravel-soft. “Look at me.”
You did. Slowly. Like it cost you something. So he kissed you again, slower, so he wouldn’t have to face the hurt gazing back.
Like he meant to prove something.
You let him undress you like you were giving permission for something you didn’t quite understand. He stripped your slowly, like the unraveling of a secret. Your top first. Then the bra beneath it.
His fingers trembled as he touched you, like the mere touch of him would corrupt you.
When you tried to cover yourself with your hands, he caught your wrists gently.
“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Please”.
So you let him. You let him see you. All of you.
And Robby just—stared.
You were completly undone, mouth kiss-bruised, your chest rising fast, like you hadn’t taken a full breath in weeks. Your skin was balmy, a little salty with sweat. You were trembling. But you didn’t hide. Not from him.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was swearing or praying. “You’re—”
But no words came to mind. Instead, he just dropped to his knees.
You gasped. One hand flew to his shoulder like you needed to steady yourself, like the sight of him there—kneeling, breath heavy, lips parted—was almost too much.
His mouth went directly to that sweet spot, where he could feel your pulse racing. He sucked gently, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat echo against his lips.
The scent of your bodywash—sweet and golden—rose up around him like steam.
It clouded his senses, made his head spin. He felt drunk on it, on you, on the fact that this was real. That you were letting him close. That he had your skin under his mouth and your hands in his hair had your breath catching just for him.
God.
He blinked—like he had to make sure this was real, like he didn’t trust what his eyes were seeing.
What had he done to deserve this? to deserve her?
He cupped one breast gently, reverently, and kissed the curve with a kind of aching awe. Your skin was hot here—almost scorching to the touch, like the heat was rising from somewhere deep inside you.
His fingers traced delicate paths along your ribs, brushing the swell of your breast, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps that bloomed under his touch. He could feel the hitch in your breath, and even the way your body leaned into his hands like it had been waiting for this
“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick. “You’re so beautiful.”
He circled her nipple with his thumb, slow and lazy, watching it tighten under his touch. Then he bent to take it into his mouth, sucking softly, then deeper. You gasped—high-pitched and raw—and grabbed fistfuls of his hair like you’d needed something to anchor you.
“Robby—”
He groaned at the sound of his name. God, that did something to him. Something deep and helpless and animalistic.
He switched breasts. Licked the sensitive skin before drawing it into his mouth. Your back arched against the thin mattress, hips shifting restlessly beneath him, like your body couldn’t decide whether to rise into him or melt into the sheets.
“You okay?” he murmured against her skin, still panting. “I can stop. Say the word and I’ll stop.”
“No,” You breathed. “Don’t stop.”
And thank fuck, because he couldn’t have even if he tried.
He dropped back to his knees, hands sliding up your thighs until they met the waistband of your scrubs. He looked up.
“Can I?”
You didn’t speak—just nodded again, hard.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband and peeled everything down. Scrubs. Panties. All the way to your ankles.
When he looked up again, he had to pause.
Because you were bare in front of him now. Completely. Sweat beading lightly at your sternum. Breathing so hard he could hear it—ragged and real.
His mouth went dry.
He swallowed.
His hands were shaking, but he didn’t even care.
He ran them down the outside of your thighs, slow and sure, until they found the bend of your knees. He gripped them, spread her open just enough, like he needed to feel the shape of you there, the trembling tension of your body under his hands.
Your skin was silky under his palms, your thigh muscles fluttering like they weren’t sure whether to resist or give in.
His breath caught in his throat, and he sank lower, drawn in by the scent of your skin, the impossible softness of it, the way you let him take his time.
He kissed your hipbone. Your lower belly. Tasting salt and skin and the ghost of your perfume—sweet and dizzying. Dragged his cheek along the soft inside of your thigh, inhaling the heat of you. Behind that bodywash, he could smell the faintest edge of something else—something completely yours.
It filled his lungs, made his head foggy, like he’d walked into a heatwave and couldn’t find the exit. Until the only thing in the world was you.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“So are you,” you whispered back, fingers slipping into his hair.
He let out a breath, forehead pressed to your stomach. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp—just enough to sting. He liked it. He wanted more of it.
“I’ve never wanted something so badly,” he said it so quietly, he was surprised you heard him.
Your hand slid into his hair. “Me neither.”
Then your grip in his hair tightened, not guiding—just holding.
So he knelt lower, shoulders between your knees, hands still on your thighs.
He kissed the tender skin at the crease, where thigh met pelvis, and felt you twitch beneath him. His heart was pounding. His mouth dry. And when his mouth finally touched you—just a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, truly tasting you for the first time—you whimpered.
You whimpered.
A tiny, involuntary sound—high and helpless and half-ashamed—but it cracked something in him. He moaned into you, deep and guttural, and started again. Licking you slowly. Carefully. Like you were something sacred, and this was a prayer.
The taste of you. The smell of you. The feel of your thighs tensing under his palms.
You were gasping now, uneven little breaths, and he could feel every sound you made in the flex of your thighs, the clench of your fingers in his hair. When you tugged—hard enough to sting—he groaned again, sharper this time, and pushed his tongue deeper, tracing circles, lines, little teasing patterns.
It was too much and not enough all at once.
Your other hand reached down blindly, landing on his shoulder, digging in as you rocked against him. He let you. He wanted you wild. He wanted you wrecked. Unraveled. Every breath a surrender.
“Robby—” you gasped. Not a request. Not a protest. Just his name stripped bare.
He slid a finger inside you, slow and careful, groaning at the sudden wet heat gripping him tight.
“God, baby,” he whispered. “You feel... fuck.”
You clenched around him, your back arching slightly, your breath catching on a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. He paused, eyes flicking up.
“You okay?”
“Don’t stop.”
So he didn’t. He added another finger, curling them just enough, angling until—
“Oh,” you breathed out. “Oh my God—”
That. That.
He latched his mouth to your clit, and sucked. Slow at first, almost tentative, then faster, more confident. Catching the rhythm of your hips and matching it, feeling you get closer with every broken whisper of his name, every helpless whine.
Your hand in his hair twisted hard, and he didn’t care. It only drove him harder, deeper, hungrier.
You came with a cry—his name falling from your lips like a sob—and he stayed right there, holding you through it, licking and kissing you softly through the aftershocks.
You trembled beneath him, gasping, hips jerking involuntarily every time he brushed you again.
He didn’t stop until you whimpered something like “please,” all airy and ruined.
You were panting when he rose again, chest heaving. Your skin was scorching hot. Eyes glassy and unfocused. Lips bruised and parted.
He kissed your stomach again. Your ribs. The underside of your jaw.
When your mouths met again, it was nothing like the first time.
You kissed him like you needed him to know. Like everything you hadn’t said was being poured into him through her lips. Like you were burning—and somehow, he was both the match and the water.
Your mouth opened against his, tongue slick and hungry, and he tasted you—really tasted you now. The sweetness of your skin. The heat of your breath. The faint echo of your own release still on his tongue.
You moaned into him, and his whole body tensed. Every muscle tight, every nerve ending screaming. He’d never felt this kind of hunger before. Not even close. It was overwhelming, terrifying. Addictive.
Your hands fumbled at his waistband, fingers clumsy with urgency. You were shaking, breathing like you’d run a mile, and your mouth never left his for more than a second.
“Please,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “I need you.”
The word nearly brought him to his knees.
He pressed his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe.
Because this was happening. You were asking for him. And there wasn’t a part of him—body or soul—that didn’t already belong to you.
“I need you too,” he said. And this time, it cracked.
You pulled him in again, and he kissed you like he meant it.
Like he was starving.
Like he'd been drowning for years, and you were the first breath of air.
Because he had. He had wanted this—you—for so long it had carved itself into him. And now you were here, under him, around him, letting him in.
Your legs tightened around his hips. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, until your chests pressed together, skin to skin, heart to heart.
All he could hear was your breath hitching.
All he could feel was your nails digging into his back, dragging him down like you couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.
All he could taste was your name, unspoken but alive in his mouth.
He doesn’t let you go.
Not after you cum, not after the trembling quiet that settles over you like fog. His face stays buried in your stomach, the heat of his breath still spreading over damp skin, his hands still firm around your thighs like he’s anchoring you in place. Like he’s not ready to surface. Like he might never be.
You’re shaking. Slowly, silently, in that post-release unraveling. And he holds you through it—like he’s the only thing that can keep you from dissolving entirely.
You thread your fingers through his hair, not gently, not just affection. It’s grounding. A silent I’m still here. A don’t stop touching me.
But then he shifts.
Your chest was still rising fast when his eyes meet yours—blown pupils, damp cheeks—and you look at him like you can’t believe he’s still there.
And he is. He’s not moving. Not pulling away or deflecting or pretending any of it meant less than it did. He stays above you, arms braced, heart hammering, caught in between whatever feelings you’re not ready to speak out loud.
He watches you trying to catch your breath and thinks: I did that. I got to do that. And it should scare him. It should make him bolt. But instead, it roots him in place. Makes him feel something terrifyingly close to home.
“I—” he starts, voice low and hoarse, but you don’t let him finish.
You pull him up to you. Fist your hands in the collar of his shirt and drag him up until your mouths meet. Kisses him open-mouthed, tasting yourself on him, swallowing the sound he makes into your throat. And when he groans—low, guttural, reverent—it vibrates through you like a second climax.
He breaks the kiss only to mouth at your jaw, your cheekbone, the soft, sensitive skin beneath your ear. Your body arches instinctively into the drag of his weight—hips tilting, thighs parting again, already needing more.
He’s not asking questions anymore, he’s moving on instinct.
When he shifts his hips, the front of his scrubs drags along your thigh—and her gasp punches straight through him.
You lift into it, chasing the contact like it isn’t just friction—it’s relief, a damn finally breaking open. Your legs tighten around him, and you grind against the hardness still trapped between you. It’s clumsy and frantic, but you want him, and he can feel it.
His breath shudders as you grind up again, the soft heat of you dragging against his hard, aching length through far too many layers. It’s clumsy, maddening, perfect. He clutches at your hips like he can’t bear to let you move without him.
And God, you’re killing him—rubbing yourself over him like you’re trying to carve the shape of him into you. Every movement makes him sink deeper into it. He buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a low groan, hips instinctively answering yours.
If they stay like this much longer, he’s not going to make it. He’s going to cum just from the feeling of you writhing against him. Clothes in between or not.
“Robby,” you whisper, almost a warning, almost a plea.
He hears it. Feels it. Freezes for half a second like he needs permission to keep going.
Your hands fumble between them—fingers unsteady and impatient—and he realizes you’re trying to undo his scrubs. The drawstring catches, knots. You curse softly, and he feels himself smile.
“Here,” he whispers, his voice gone rough, and he helps you. Together, you tear through the last of the barriers—cotton and a little hesitation and whatever thin line you’ve been pretending still exists.
And then he’s bare—finally—his scrubs kicked off, forgotten, the cold air licking over his flushed skin as he covers you again.
Your eyes drag over him—his chest, the line of his stomach, the flush across his throat, and that downright sinful happy trail resting a top his navel.
No more barriers. No more restraint. He chokes on the sound it drags out of him, the way your thighs fall open to cradle him, so ready for him.
He’s not calm anymore. Not careful. His control’s gone. He fits himself between your legs, shaking with it, dizzy from wanting you for so long. His hands frame your waist like he’s afraid he’ll fall through the moment if he doesn’t hold tight.
You’re everything he’s never let himself take. And now—God help him—he’s about to.
Your damp skin. The way your eyes darken as you drag them over him. He shudders under the weight of it. Not just desire—reverence.
He touches you again. Slowly, trying to memorize you. Trying not to lose his mind.
And when he settles between your legs, it's not dominance. It's gravity. It’s surrender.
And for a moment, you just look at each other.
Then he reaches down—between you—and touches you again, runs his fingers through the wetness there, swears under his breath when he finds you still open, still aching.
“I don’t—” His voice cracks. “I don’t have anything.”
“I’m on the pill,” you whisper. “And I trust you. Just—”
You break off. Her voice fails under the weight of the moment.
But your hands say it for you. The way you pull him down. The way you guide him.
The way your whole body opens.
He’s shaking as he lines himself up. Not from fear. From restraint. But also from something softer.
He has to breathe through it just to hold himself still.
You’re slick and hot and open beneath him, and when he lines himself up, it takes everything in him not to just take.
But this is you.
This is you.
He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and the sound you make—sharp, helpless, real—almost breaks him. Your back arches, nails dig into his skin, and he feels you take him in like you were made for this.
Like he’s not an intruder. Like he belongs.
Your fingers curl around his shoulder blades, your back arches, and you gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that drags straight from your lungs.
He groans, deep and raw, like he’s trying not to collapse.
You’re hot and tight and soaking, and he slides, trying not to rush, trying to make this last. But it’s overwhelming—you’re overwhelming—and his whole body is tense with the effort of not falling apart the moment he’s fully inside you.
When your hips finally meet—when he’s there, all of him—you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten years.
He doesn’t move.
Just rests his forehead against yours. Your noses brush. Your eyes open at the same time. And there’s nothing guarded left between them.
“This…” he says, barely audible. “God. This feels like…”
He never finishes. But you know what he means.
It feels like everything.
And then he starts to move.
Not fast. Not frenzied. Just deep. Slow. Like he’s building something, not just chasing release. His hips roll into yours with purpose, with rhythm, with care. Every thrust stretches something inside you that hadn’t been touched in quite some time—something you didn’t realize you’d been starving.
You wrap your legs around him, thighs cradling his waist, trying to bring him closer, deeper. He answers with a groan, thrusts harder, presses a kiss to your cheek, your temple, your lips.
It’s not just sex. Not to him.
You moan his name—quiet, almost shocked—and it wrecks him. Because he wants to answer it with everything.
So he holds your hand. Laces your fingers tight and pins it above your head—not to trap you, but to stay connected. To prove he’s still there.
He doesn’t say what he’s thinking.
That you’re undoing him.
That he might never recover.
That this is the beginning of the end, and he’d do it all the same.
He moves inside you like he’s afraid to wake from this—like each thrust might break the spell. Slow at first, reverent, then deeper, as your body rises to meet him, to welcome him in like it’s been waiting.
And maybe it has. Maybe you both have.
Your hips lift, chasing him. Your fingers press into your shoulders, then his hair, pulling him closer. Your mouth parts on a breathless sound, and it undoes him. Everything about you undoes him.
He’s not thinking anymore.
He’s feeling—with every inch of her wrapped around him, every soft gasp, every whispered plea. His heart pounds like it’s trying to speak for him. Like it’s trying to climb up his throat.
Every slick slide of your hips is a plea, every arch of your spine a surrender he wasn’t sure he was ready for. It overwhelms him—how much you give, how much he wants. It’s too much and still not enough.
He buries his face in your neck and lets himself break there, lets himself believe this is real, just for a second. That he gets to be here. That he gets to love you like this—without shame, without hiding.
Even if he’s never said the words. Even if it’s only here, in the silence between your bodies, that he ever could.
And somewhere in the middle of it—sweat-slick skin and shaking limbs and your name on a loop in his head—he chokes out, “God…” he pants. “You feel so good, I can’t—”
He thrusts deeper, slower. Shuddering. “I don’t wanna stop.”
It slips out without thought, raw and hoarse and truer than anything he’s ever said. “I don’t know how.”
His voice cracks on it.
You go still for a second, your breath caught between you.
Then your hand finds his jaw, trembling slightly as you coax him to look at you. And when he does—eyes blown, lips parted, ruined in the most beautiful way—you whisper, “Then don’t.”
Your other hand moves through his hair, cradling the back of his head as he rocks into you.
“Stay here,” you breathe, forehead against yours. “Just like this—with me.”
He stills for a breath.
God, you’re soft even now—sweet in a way he doesn’t deserve. And the way you say with me like you actually believes he belongs there—like you’re offering him something permanent—he can’t bear it. He won’t let himself believe in it, not really. But fuck it, does he want to.
He presses his mouth to your shoulder to keep from saying something too honest. To keep from telling you he’s never felt more home than right here, skin to skin, heart to heart.
“I’m here,” he mumbles against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.” A lie. A wish. A prayer.
And maybe you hear the crack in it, or maybe you’re too far gone to notice because then you’re falling apart beneath him, and the sounds you make aren’t words at first—just broken, breathy sounds punched out with every thrust.
“Oh—God—Robby…” you gasp, almost whines. “Please—don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”
Then your voice breaks into soft, helpless babble.
You shudder beneath him, thighs trembling around his waist, and when you fall over the edge, you clutched him and let your nails leave marks down his back.
“Michael,” you breathe.
Then again—broken, urgent. “Oh, michael.”
And he’s gone. Gone.
As he hears his real name fall from her lips, he knows he’s falling. Knows he’s already too far gone.
He stutters out a sound like a sob. And then it hits him.
Your body tightens around him, gripping him like you never want to let him go. Like you won’t. The way you pulse around him—hot, frantic, relentless—undoes him completely. It’s not just the friction, not just the pleasure, it’s you—all of you—wrapped around him, crying his name like a prayer.
His breath catches in his throat. He tries to hold on, tries to stop, but it’s no use.
He spills into you with a groan, low and wrecked, his face buried in the curve of your neck, one arm locked tight around your waist. His whole body shudders with it. Like he’s giving something back he didn’t know he still had.
He keeps his eyes clenched shut. Like if he doesn’t look, the world can’t take this from him.
They lie there like that, both of them shaking, breathing into each other. Your hand still in his, fingers sticky with sweat. Her chest pressed to his, rising and falling as their pulses slowly begin to settle.
Then—quietly—you let go.
Your fingers move to his hair, soft, reverent, stroking through the damp strands.
He stays buried in her neck, doesn’t want to lift his head. Doesn’t want to ruin this by speaking aloud, by naming it, by asking for something he knows he can’t keep.
But your touch undoes him all over again.
No one's touched him like this in years—maybe ever. Like he's not just wanted, but known. Like he could stay.
He swallows hard against the burn in his throat, his hand still gripping yours, like if he lets go, the moment will slip through his fingers and vanish.
“Robby,” you whisper.
God, he loves that. How you sabor his name whenever he says it out loud. Trying to feel every syllable and how they roll on her lips.
A little louder: “Robby…”
His breath stutters. He clings to the moment like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.
And then you say it again, louder, almost sharp now—“ROBBY.”

His eyes snaped open.
Bright light. Cold air.
The sound of his name—still echoing. But it’s not your voice anymore.
He’s standing just outside Trauma Room Two, a clipboard in his hand, with Dana waving her hand in front of his face like she’s been doing it for a while.
“Jesus, Earth to Michael,” she says. “You good?”
He blinks. His throat feels raw. “Yeah. I—I’m fine.”
Dana doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it slide—for now.
He pivots away before she can press further, walking down the hall like the fluorescent lights might burn him alive. His heartbeat still hasn't evened out. Every breath scrapes. Every step is a reminder that the past is bleeding straight into the present, and there’s nowhere in this goddamn hospital to hide from it.
He passes the nurses’ station, trying not to limp through the ache still in his chest, and that’s when he hears them.
Perlah and Princess, whispering in Tagalog, throwing glances in his direction like he can’t feel them.
“‘Yung reaction niya kanina? Sobrang weird,” Princess murmurs.
“Alam mo, baka may history sila nung babae,” Perlah whispers back.
He doesn’t know what they’re saying. Not exactly. But he knows what it feels like.
He knows the sound of people talking around him—about him. He can feel the weight of their stares, the way they try to glance without being obvious.
He catches Princess miming a fainting motion and Perlah responding with a wide-eyed shake of her head.
“Ang drama, ‘di ba?” one of them breathes. “Parang teleserye.”
They laugh, restrained but not unkindly. He knows it isn’t malicious. It’s curiosity. Speculation. The kind that blooms in places like this, where drama is the norm and gossip moves faster than blood through a vein.
Still, it grates.
Not because they’re wrong—but because they might be right.
Because he doesn’t have the language to explain it, even if he tried. Because there’s nothing he could say that would make this feel any less insane. Because some part of him—the part still stuck in that flashback—is screaming that he deserves to be talked about like this.
He keeps walking.
He doesn’t look back.
The files are digital now, stored on hospital tablets and synced between departments. He finds one, signs in, and scrolls until he lands on what he shouldn’t be looking for.
Noah. Age: Nine years, three months.
Sex: Male.
Arrival: cyanotic and unconscious after blunt trauma from an SUV. Brief cardiac arrest in transit. Bleeding from a head laceration. Resuscitation successful.
Blood type: AB positive. A rare enough match—compatible with his. And yours.
There’s no last name listed. Just “Mother: information withheld at patient request.”
His thumb freezes above the screen.
Noah.
He stares at the name for too long.
The word blurs and sharpens, then blurs again.
Noah, from the Hebrew—nuach—rest, comfort.
It’s almost funny. Or cruel. Or divine.
He doesn’t know which.
Because it’s not just a name. Not to him. Not now.
It’s a prayer.
It’s a mercy he’s long forgotten how to believe in.
It’s the kind of name whispered into linen blankets after a war. The kind spoken over sleeping children in stories passed down like blood. The kind rabbis preach about during parsha Noach, reminding congregations that even in destruction, there’s survival. That even in floods, there’s mercy. That one man, alone and chosen, can carry a future in the bow of a boat.
A name that carried the future in its hands. A name that meant someone made it through.
Noach matza chen b’eynei Adonai—Noah found grace in the eyes of God.
He swallows hard.
He hasn't thought about that in years.
Not since he stopped showing up to temple. Not since he stopped believing God had anything left to say to him.
This isn’t about loss. Not yet. This is about the possibility of something that lived.
The irony isn’t lost on him. He hasn’t known peace in years, not the kind that stays. Not the kind that sinks into your bones and says, you can stop running now.
He thinks of the Shema. The words that still curled around his ribs when he can’t sleep. Not a shield, exactly—more like a thread. A thread he pulls when the world spins too fast, when grief makes the ground tilt.
Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.
He closes his eyes.
He doesn’t know what he’s praying for. He just knows it feels like a prayer.
A boy named Noah. Nine years old. Hit by a car and still breathing. And his blood type—compatible with Robby’s. And hers. No listed father. No last name that gives anything away. Just—
Noah.
A name that shouldn’t mean anything, but feels like it knows him.
Like it’s been waiting.
His mouth goes dry.
He tries to focus on the chart again. On the vitals, the scans. Anything to keep the rising panic from pushing through his ribs. But he hears footsteps behind him and doesn’t even need to turn around.
Dana.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she says. Half-pissed, half-worried.
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit,” she snaps, tugging his arm. “Come with me.”
He doesn’t resist.
They step outside through the staff doors, onto the ambulance bay. Dana lights a cigarette, doesn’t offer him one. Just waits, arms crossed and her gaze burning through him.
He stands beside her in silence. Watches as rain starts pouring in. The once sunny sky now a dull gray.
He doesn’t know where to start. Or maybe he does.
“There was a girl,” he says finally, voice raw. “Before I came here.”
Dana raises her brows but says nothing.
“We We were together,” he says quietly. “A year and a half. She wasn’t just some girl—I loved her. Like, deeply. Fully. The way people only do once.”
Dana squints at him through the smoke. “And you left her?”
He nods. Once. Like the motion itself hurts.
A pause. The words come slower now, heavier. “Didn’t say goodbye,” he admits, voice breaking on it. “Didn’t give her a fucking word. I didn’t even tell her where I was going. I just disappeared. She woke up and I was gone.”
Dana doesn’t blink. “Jesus, Robby.”
“Yeah,” he snaps, his voice sharp with guilt. “Yeah. I know. You don’t have to say it—I say it to myself every goddamn day.”
He looks away, toward the street, where red lights blur in the rain. “She loved me. I know she did. And I—God, Dana. She was everything to me.”
Silence stretches between them. The rain hisses around them like static.
“I thought I was doing her a favor," he says. "I thought if I left… I don’t even fucking know. Maybe she'd be better off without me."
Dana lets the silence linger, smoke curling from her lips. Then she exhales sharply through her nose. "You’re an idiot."
He flinches, but she’s not done.
“You think you saved her? That wasn’t mercy, Robby. That was cowardice."
He bows his head soaking it all in. The taste of the word coward still burning on his tongue because it’s true. It's what he’s called himself every day since. Not in passing. Not just once. But like penance.
Dana watches him for a beat, then steps forward—barely a shift, but enough to make the air between them feel tighter. She speaks quieter now, but it still lands like a blow.
"You didn’t just disappear, Robby. You broke something. Something real."
That’s when it hits him. All at once.
His chest caves in on itself, his throat locking up around something sharp and guttural. The rain feels like needles now, every drop stinging against skin that suddenly feels too thin.
He steps back like her words were physical. Shakes his head once, hard, like trying to dislodge the thought before it roots.
“No—don’t—” he rasps. He tries to look away, but even the shadows feel too loud. His hand grips the railing behind him, white-knuckled.
“She—fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. His voice goes lower, fraying at the edges. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t lie awake every night trying to rewire it—trying to un-ruin it?”
And then quieter.
“I haven’t let anyone close since.”
Dana doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush in. She just lets him crash against the weight of his own words.
“You loved her,” she says, softer this time. “And you punished her for it.”
“I punished myself,” he snaps—but even he knows it’s not the whole truth. “I thought if I buried it deep enough, maybe it wouldn’t rot everything else.”
A pause. His breath shakes. Then he goes still, like he’s finally flatlined.
Dana takes one last drag from her cigarette, flicks it away into the rain.
“So what happened today?”
He presses the heel of his palm to his eyes. “I saw her. With a fucking kid”
There’s a pause—too quiet, too long.
Then: “How long ago was this?”
“Ten years.”
Dana stiffens. Her mouth parts like she’s about to say something, then closes again.
“The kid is…”
“Nine,” he says.
And that’s it. That’s the moment.
The math doesn’t just hang there—it detonates, slow and sharp, slicing straight through the humid silence.
Dana lets out a long, quiet, “Shit,” but there’s no real surprise behind it. Just gravity. Just confirmation.
Robby’s expression doesn’t shift, but something inside him buckles. His throat works like he’s trying to swallow glass.
“She looked exactly the same,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Like time skipped her. But then I saw the kid. And he had eyes like—”
He cuts himself off.
Dana’s voice is gentler now, but steady. “Like yours.”
For the first time all day, he doesn’t try to outrun it. He doesn’t shift the blame or dodge the truth or bury it under sarcasm. He just lets it hit him. Full-force.
The ache of it, the finality—the years lost, the silence, the what-ifs.
He might’ve left her.
But he didn’t just leave her.
He left them.
And now, the cost of that choice stands in front of him with wide brown eyes and a crooked smile—one he might’ve passed on without even knowing.

next chapter ↠

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© AUGUSTWINESWORLD : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting.
#𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (august)#𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.。.:*¤☆#𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬#michael robinavitch x reader#dr robby x reader#michael robinavitch#the pitt x reader#the pitt#young dr robby#smut#dr robby smut
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could you write a hotch x reader story where reader is literally a knockout bombshell and the team meets her for the first time and both are humbled and shocked tht Hotch could pull that. Also maybe she works in different department of the FBI, but not BAU and derek and others have always talked about how hot reader is but happy id they cnt have reaader that hotch can!
The Beauty and The Boss
Masterlist || Ao3
AN: Thanks so much for the request! Sorry, it took me so long to get it written :)
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader
Word Count: 4.5k
Tags/Warnings: Mild language, fade-to-black smut scene, reader wears makeup, workplace flirting, commentary about reader's appearance by BAU, jealous!Hotch, mention of a Holiday party, mentions of a bar scene.
Sypnosis: Aaron Hotchner’s professionalism hides a secret: he’s been in a relationship with you, the stunning agent who turns every head at Quantico. While his team spends months admiring and teasing about you—unaware of the truth—Hotch quietly enjoys keeping the relationship private. But when the BAU holiday party reveals the truth, the team is left shocked, realizing the woman they’ve been swooning over is already spoken for by the man they least expected.
The Quantico breakroom buzzed with life as Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, a grin stretching across his face. “I’m telling you, there’s not a person in this building who doesn’t turn their head when she walks by.”
Emily Prentiss smirked, crossing her arms as she perched on the edge of the counter. “Understatement of the year, Morgan. She’s practically stopped traffic in the hallways more than once.”
Penelope Garcia, seated with her tablet, chimed in. “More like a goddess descended from Mount Olympus, wielding a to-do list and a killer power suit. The woman is unreal.”
You had no idea you were the current topic of conversation as you breezed through Quantico’s corridors. Your heels clicked against the tiled floor with the kind of authority only a seasoned professional carried. Your fitted blazer hugged your form just right, the kind of attire that screamed competence but still left a trail of stunned admirers in your wake. You were a boss, and you knew it—not in an arrogant way, but in the way a woman who worked twice as hard to get half as far in a male-dominated field knew her worth.
Little did they know that, as much as they admired you from afar, you had a certain someone who saw all those layers they missed—someone who knew how you carried the weight of your team, your projects, and your life with equal parts grace and grit.
That someone was Aaron Hotchner.
Unbeknownst to the BAU, the stoic Unit Chief had been keeping a significant secret. You and Aaron had been together for over a year. Though you both worked under the same massive roof, your respective departments didn’t often overlap—an intentional boundary to keep things professional and out of sight from prying eyes.
Aaron entered the room just as Morgan’s laughter rang out. “No, but seriously, Hotch, you’ve seen her, right? You can’t tell me someone that fine doesn’t have half the men here wrapped around her finger.”
Aaron’s sharp gaze flicked to Morgan, his jaw tightening subtly. “Morgan, shouldn’t you be focusing on case files rather than office gossip?”
Morgan raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, man, beauty like that deserves to be appreciated.”
Emily grinned. “Don’t let Strauss hear you. She’d have you running sensitivity training for a month.”
Garcia waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe Hotch is just annoyed because she’s his type. Dark hair, smart, confident—maybe there’s some unspoken pining we don’t know about.”
Aaron’s lips pressed into a firm line as he reached for a file, “Let’s keep the speculation to yourselves. We have enough on our plates without playing matchmaker.” His tone was calm but carried enough weight to signal the end of the conversation.
He didn’t let his composure falter, but inwardly, he found himself caught in a tug-of-war between amusement and annoyance. You were undeniably stunning, and he couldn’t blame his team for noticing, but their casual banter skirted dangerously close to the truth.
Later that afternoon, the sun streamed through the tall windows of the BAU bullpen, casting golden streaks across the room as you entered. Your heels echoed confidently against the polished floor, their rhythmic click commanding attention as you moved with purpose. A fitted pencil skirt emphasized the natural sway of your hips, and your blazer was tailored perfectly, hinting at the strength and grace beneath. Loose curls framed your face, falling just so, and your makeup—subtle but flawless—added to the aura of a woman who meant business.
Conversations quieted as you passed by the desks. Agents glanced up from their work, some stealing longer looks than they should have, while others leaned toward their neighbors to murmur something under their breath. You didn’t acknowledge the attention. You were used to it. Your focus remained locked ahead as you carried the neatly bound folder in your hands, its weight a mere fraction of the responsibility you carried daily.
You reached the door to Aaron Hotchner’s office just as it opened. He stepped out, his posture as straight and commanding as ever, but his sharp eyes softened for the briefest moment when they landed on you. The shift was imperceptible to anyone else, but you caught it—it was the kind of look he reserved only for you.
“Agent Y/L/N,” he greeted evenly, his voice steady but low enough that it felt personal.
“Agent Hotchner,” you replied with a nod, the professionalism in your tone betrayed by the faint twitch of a smile at the corner of your lips.
Behind you, Morgan's voice rose in a stage whisper. “And there she is…”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, keeping your expression neutral as you extended the folder to Aaron. “I just need your signature on these budgetary adjustments. It’s time-sensitive.”
Aaron’s brow furrowed slightly as he accepted the folder, his long fingers brushing against yours briefly. “Of course,” he said, already flipping it open to skim through the pages. “Give me a moment.”
As he turned and walked back into his office, you followed without hesitation, pushing the door closed behind you. The muted sound of the latch clicking shut seemed to signal a shift in the atmosphere. The second the door was closed, your composed expression melted into something softer, teasing.
“I heard Morgan,” you said in a low voice, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes. You set a hand on your hip, leaning slightly as you watched him work.
Aaron’s lips curved into a subtle smirk as he scribbled his signature onto the documents. “They talk about you often,” he replied, not looking up right away. “Morgan more than most.”
You tilted your head, your brow arching playfully. “Jealous?”
Finally, he looked up, setting the pen down and stepping closer. “Observant,” he corrected, his tone dry but his gaze warm. He handed the folder back to you, and as his fingers brushed yours again, the slightest spark of electricity passed between you. “You look stunning today, by the way.”
“Today?” you teased, your voice dropping slightly as you tilted your chin. “What about yesterday?”
Aaron’s smirk deepened, the rare expression enough to make your stomach flip. “Every day,” he replied smoothly, his voice dipping into that low, velvety tone that sent a thrill through you. He stepped just close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne—subtle and clean, just like him.
For a moment, the space between you felt charged, but you straightened, breaking the tension with a soft laugh. “Careful, Agent Hotchner,” you said, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Someone might notice.”
He chuckled softly, the sound rare but rich. “Let them speculate.”
The corner of your mouth twitched in amusement, but you turned on your heel, your exit as purposeful as your arrival. Behind you, Aaron watched, his expression softening again as the door clicked shut. The office suddenly felt emptier without you in it, and the faintest hint of a smile lingered on his lips.
Moments after, when you stepped out of Aaron’s office, the door closing softly behind you, you nearly collided with David Rossi. The veteran profiler stepped back gracefully, offering you a warm smile as his eyes flicked to the folder in your hands.
“Agent Y/L/N,” he greeted smoothly, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “You’re lucky Hotch doesn’t have a ‘No Stunning Women’ policy in his office. Makes the rest of us forget what we’re working on.”
You gave a polite laugh, your smile measured but warm. “Always a pleasure, Agent Rossi. Don’t let me distract you too much.” With a nod, you stepped past him and continued down the hall, your heels clicking confidently on the polished floor.
Rossi watched you leave, shaking his head slightly before stepping into Hotch’s office, and shutting the door behind him. “You didn’t tell me your office doubled as a runway, Aaron,” Rossi quipped as he took a seat across from Hotch’s desk, still grinning.
Hotch didn’t look up from the report in front of him. “Rossi.”
“I’m just saying,” Rossi continued, leaning back in his chair. “Agent Y/L/N is quite the… presence. Can’t imagine you get much work done when she’s around.”
Hotch finally glanced up, his sharp eyes locking on Rossi with a calm but pointed look. “She’s one of the most competent agents in this building.”
Rossi raised his hands in mock surrender, the grin still on his face. “No offense, Aaron. I’m just appreciating fine talent when I see it. Professionally, of course.”
Hotch’s expression didn’t shift as he returned to his paperwork. “Make sure it stays professional, Dave.”
Rossi chuckled, standing up and adjusting his suit jacket. “Noted. I’ll leave you to your work, but for the record… you’ve got good taste.”
Hotch’s eyes flicked up for a brief moment, narrowing slightly as Rossi turned to leave. Once the door closed behind him, Aaron exhaled, his jaw relaxing as the corners of his mouth twitched faintly. You had that effect on people. Rossi wasn’t wrong about that, but Aaron wasn’t about to let anyone reduce you to just that. Not on his watch.
It wasn’t much later in the week when the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the dimly lit bar as the BAU team finally unwound after wrapping a grueling case. At their usual table near the back, JJ, Penelope, and Emily leaned close together, conspiring with mischievous smiles. Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, his beer in hand, as he glanced across the room toward you.
You were with your own team, sitting at the far end of the bar. The laughter coming from your group was infectious, and more than a few heads in the bar had turned to admire the sharp, confident woman at the center of it all. You were a vision, dressed in a fitted, dark emerald blouse that complemented your glowing skin, your hair falling perfectly into place despite the long week.
Emily nudged Derek, her grin widening. “Now’s your chance, Morgan. She’s right there, and she’s smiling. That’s basically an invitation.”
Penelope nodded eagerly, swirling her cocktail. “Seriously, Derek. You’re Mr. Smooth—to make one of your famous sweet moves. She’s gorgeous, brilliant, and, let’s face it, probably way out of your league, but you’ve got charm. Use it!”
JJ smirked, sipping her drink. “They’re not wrong. She’s definitely the type to keep you on your toes.”
Derek chuckled, shaking his head, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment. “You ladies make a good point. Pretty boy over here has been staring so hard, I think he forgot how to blink.”
Reid’s head snapped up, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. “I haven’t been staring—I was observing!”
Penelope laughed, reaching out to pat his arm. “Sure, sweetie. Keep telling yourself that.”
Meanwhile, Aaron Hotchner sat quietly at the edge of the table, nursing his drink and doing his best to keep his expression neutral. He caught Rossi’s amused glance and ignored it, his attention drifting toward you. Across the room, your eyes flicked to his, and in that instant, the noise of the bar seemed to fade. Your lips curved into a soft, knowing smile, and Hotch’s lips twitched in response, his gaze steady but warm.
“Alright,” Derek announced, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “Time to show you all how it’s done.”
As he sauntered toward you, the rest of the team watched with poorly concealed anticipation. Hotch leaned back slightly, a faint smirk playing at his lips as he took another sip of his drink, clearly amused.
At the bar, Derek slid into the seat beside you, his trademark charm on full display. “Well, well, Agent Y/L/N,” he began, flashing you a dazzling smile. “A woman like you at a place like this—it’s like a shooting star landing in a parking lot. Rare. Unexpected. Stunning.”
You turned toward him, your smile warm but professional. “Agent Morgan,” you greeted. “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, I’m just wondering if I can buy you a drink. You look like someone who deserves only the finest.”
You chuckled softly, tilting your head. “That’s kind of you, but I’m good for now. Thank you, though.”
Derek raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You sure? A woman like you turning down a Morgan Original? That doesn’t happen often.”
You smiled, leaning in slightly, your voice light but firm. “I’m flattered, Derek, really. But no, thank you.”
Derek blinked, clearly surprised but respectful, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Can’t blame a guy for trying. You have a good night, Agent Y/L/N.”
As he returned to the table, Rossi leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “I think I know why she turned you down.”
Derek arched a brow. “Oh, yeah? Enlighten us, wise old man.”
Rossi swirled his drink lazily. “She’s already seeing someone.”
That caught the team’s attention. JJ frowned thoughtfully. “She doesn’t wear a ring.”
Emily shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything. Rossi’s probably right—someone like her? Definitely taken.”
Penelope gasped. “She’s got to be dating some rich CEO type. Like a Christian Grey situation—minus the creepy stuff. You know, private jets, expensive suits, maybe even his own island.”
Reid tilted his head. “Statistically, high-powered women often prefer partners who are equally accomplished, so it’s not unreasonable to assume…”
Hotch, listening quietly, couldn’t help but chuckle softly under his breath. It was rare for him to indulge in such amusement, but their wild guesses about your personal life were too far from the truth to resist.
“Something funny, Hotch?” Derek asked, narrowing his eyes playfully.
Hotch met his gaze evenly, his lips twitching. “Just enjoying the show, Morgan.”
From across the room, you glanced at him again, your eyes meeting his with a spark of shared amusement. You knew, just as he did that the truth was far more satisfying than any of their guesses.
That night, the familiar warmth of your shared apartment enveloped you as you stepped out of the bathroom, your hair still damp from the shower. The soft glow of the bedside lamp lit the room in hues of gold, casting a gentle light over Aaron as he stood at the dresser, folding his tie with precision. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and his expression was calm, though you could tell from the faint tension in his jaw that something was on his mind.
There was something mesmerizing about the way he moved—calm, methodical, and yet there was an intimacy in the gesture that always left your heart fluttering.
You crossed the room, barefoot, wearing one of his old FBI academy T-shirts that hung just above your thighs. It was soft and familiar, smelling faintly of him, and you loved how it made you feel wrapped in his presence.
As you climbed into bed, you leaned back against the headboard, watching him with a small smile. “You’re quiet tonight,” you teased, running a hand through your damp hair. “That’s usually my thing.”
Aaron glanced at you, his lips quirking slightly before he shook his head and continued folding. “I’m just thinking.”
“About?”
He sighed, placing the tie in the drawer before turning to face you, his arms crossing over his chest. “My team.”
You raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. “Oh? What did the BAU do this time?”
Aaron smirked faintly, shaking his head as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his watch. “It’s not what they’ve done. It’s what they keep saying.”
You tilted your head, your curiosity piqued. “Do tell.”
He exhaled, his voice even but carrying a hint of frustration. “They don’t stop talking about you. Derek, Emily, Penelope… even Reid, apparently. It’s constant.” He turned to look at you, his dark eyes warm but serious. “I’ve been patient. I’ve let it slide because they don’t know. But I think I’ve hit my limit.”
A slow smile spread across your face as you scooted closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You’re jealous,” you teased, your voice light and laced with amusement. “Aaron Hotchner, stoic leader of the BAU, is jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” he replied firmly, though the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him. “I just don’t appreciate them… ogling you.”
You chuckled softly, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your chin against his shoulder. “You know I think it’s kind of hot when you’re jealous, right?”
He turned his head slightly to look at you, his expression softening. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” you said with a grin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “It’s sweet that you care so much. But you don’t have to worry, Aaron. I’m yours. Completely.”
He turned fully now, his hands coming up to rest on your knees as he looked at you with a rare softness in his eyes. “You have no idea how much I appreciate hearing that.”
You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “Good. Because it’s true.”
He kissed you back gently, one hand sliding up to cradle your cheek. When you pulled away, you saw the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Aaron lingered close for a moment, his thumb brushing your cheek in a rare display of vulnerability before he exhaled softly and pulled back. Standing, he moved toward the dresser with the same calm, deliberate manner that always captivated you.
His hands went to the buttons of his shirt, working them loose one by one. The sound of each button sliding free seemed amplified in the quiet of your shared space. You couldn’t help but admire the way the soft light played over his features—his strong jaw, the tension in his shoulders, and the faint lines around his eyes that only made him more striking.
Aaron shrugged off his shirt, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and the scar along his side that you knew he sometimes still tried to hide. He folded the shirt with the same precision as his tie, setting it neatly aside before slipping out of his slacks and into the lounge pants he favored at night.
“Don’t stop on my account,” you teased, your voice warm and playful as your eyes lingered on him.
He glanced back at you with a small, knowing smile. “Enjoying the show?”
You grinned. “Always.”
Aaron shook his head slightly, his smirk growing as he crossed the room and slid into bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, and the familiar warmth of his body radiated toward you as he leaned back against the pillows, one arm sliding around your waist to pull you close.
“You really don’t have to worry about what your team says,” you murmured, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his chest. “I only have eyes for you.”
His hand came up to cup your cheek, gently tilting your face toward his. “You’re sure about that?” he asked softly, though the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrayed the question’s seriousness.
“I’m sure,” you whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “You’re the only one who gets this version of me. The rest of them don’t even come close.”
Aaron deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that still sent your heart racing. His hand slid down to your hip, pulling you closer as your fingers tangled in his hair, and for a moment, the world outside your shared room ceased to exist.
The soft rustle of sheets and the low hum of your shared laughter filled the space as your words became unspoken reassurances, translated into the way he touched you, the way he held you, the way he kissed you as though you were his lifeline.
In the darkness, as the lamp flicked off and the night stretched on, you made it perfectly clear—he was yours, and you were his, completely. Always.
The annual Bureau holiday party arrived soon after and was in full swing, the large event hall buzzing with laughter and conversation as agents and staff mingled under the soft glow of festive string lights. Tables lined with food and drinks flanked the room, and a DJ played a mix of holiday classics and upbeat pop songs. The BAU team had claimed a table near the center, already deep into their drinks and holiday banter.
Derek leaned back in his chair, scanning the room with an easy grin. “Alright, I’m calling it now. This year’s party MVP? Gotta be me. I’ve got the charm, the moves, and the mistletoe strategy ready to go.”
Emily rolled her eyes, sipping her drink. “Your confidence is astounding. Let’s see how it plays out when someone turns you down again.”
Penelope chuckled, adjusting the festive reindeer antlers perched on her head. “Maybe don’t aim for anyone who’s already out of your league, like a certain Agent Y/L/N.”
“They’re never letting that one down,” Reid laughed.
Derek smirked. “She’s not here yet, but hey, holiday parties are all about surprises. Maybe she’ll get a look and change her mind?”
JJ raised a brow. “Speaking of surprises… does anyone else feel like Hotch is acting weird lately? He’s been way too quiet during our usual teasing.” Will was at her side, with an arm wrapped over her shoulders.
Rossi, swirling his glass of whiskey, gave a knowing smirk but said nothing.
The conversation halted abruptly as the door to the hall opened, and heads turned to see Aaron Hotchner entering with you at his side.
The two of you stepped into the room, hand in hand, your fingers loosely intertwined as Aaron scanned the crowd with his usual composed demeanor. You looked radiant in a fitted emerald dress, its sleek design effortlessly elegant, while Aaron’s sharp black suit was understated yet commanding.
The BAU table fell silent, their jaws collectively dropping.
“Is that…?” Penelope started, blinking rapidly.
“Hotch,” JJ finished, her voice barely above a whisper. Will let out a breathy laugh.
“And Agent Y/L/N,” Emily added, looking between the two of you as if she’d seen a ghost.
Morgan leaned forward, his grin faltering. “No way.”
Hotch’s lips twitched into the faintest smile as he caught their stunned expressions. He led you toward the table with a calm confidence, his hand still firmly in yours.
“Evening, everyone,” he greeted, his tone as steady as ever.
You smiled warmly, giving a little wave with your free hand. “Hi, guys. Hope we’re not late.”
The team exchanged glances, still struggling to process what they were seeing.
Derek was the first to recover, though his grin was more sheepish than his usual swagger. “Well, damn. Hotch, you really know how to keep a secret.”
Hotch arched a brow, his hand resting protectively on your back as he pulled out a chair for you. “It’s never been a secret. Some things are worth keeping private.”
Emily leaned closer to Penelope, muttering, “Okay, I officially feel bad for every single comment I’ve ever made about her in front of him.”
Penelope nodded vigorously. “Same. Oh my gosh, same.”
JJ shook her head, laughing softly. “And Derek, all the flirting?”
Morgan held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t know! But I’ll admit when I’m beat. Respect, Hotch. You’re a lucky man.”
Hotch’s expression softened slightly as he glanced at you. “I know.”
Rossi, still sipping his drink, chuckled. “For the record, I knew when to quit. The first time I made a comment about her, the look Hotch gave me said everything I needed to know.”
You raised a brow, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Oh? And what look was that?”
Rossi smirked. “The one that says, ‘Say one more word, and you’re not making it to retirement.’”
“Back into retirement,” Hotch corrected with an amused look. The table erupted into laughter.
Emily leaned forward, her curiosity winning out. “Alright, spill. How long has this been going on?”
You exchanged a glance with Aaron, his hand still resting lightly on your back.
“A little over a year,” you admitted, and Hotch nodded.
“A year?” Penelope gasped. “And you managed to keep it quiet this long? I’m impressed.”
Hotch’s gaze swept over his team, his voice calm but with a subtle warmth. “We wanted to keep things professional. But we both agreed it was time.” A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes as he added, “Especially before one of you asked her out on a date next.”
The team erupted into laughter, though Derek groaned, throwing his head back. “Aw, come on, Hotch! You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”
Emily smirked, leaning back in her chair. “You really did shoot your shot, Morgan. Respect for the boldness, but hindsight? Not your best moment.”
Penelope covered her mouth with her hand, barely containing her giggles. “I’m never going to stop picturing Hotch sitting back in his office, watching that go down and just... waiting.”
JJ joined in, shaking her head with a grin. “Honestly, Derek, if looks could kill…”
Derek held up his hands in surrender, chuckling despite himself. “Alright, alright! I didn’t know, okay? And for the record, I was nothing but a gentleman.”
You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand as you smiled at him. “You were, Derek. I thought it was sweet.”
“Sweet?” Hotch interjected, his tone laced with playful sarcasm as he glanced at you. “I’d call it… bold.”
You nudged his arm with your elbow, your smile widening. “Aaron.”
His lips twitched into a faint smirk as he looked back at the table. “But in all seriousness, I can’t blame anyone for noticing how incredible she is. I just happen to be the lucky one.”
The table quieted for a moment, the sincerity in his tone catching everyone off guard. Emily was the first to break the silence, raising her glass with a grin. “Well, here’s to the two of you. A BAU power couple if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Cheers to that,” Penelope chimed in, her eyes sparkling.
As the team raised their glasses once more, you glanced at Aaron, your fingers brushing his under the table. His quiet smile and the gentle squeeze of your hand told you everything you needed to know. You were his, and he was yours, and no amount of teasing or surprise from his team could change that.
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#aaron hotchner#criminal minds#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner x y/n#aaron hotchner x female reader#hotch#aaron hotchner fanfiction#aaron hotchner x you#aaron hotchner imagine#aaron hotch hotchner#criminal minds imagine#hotch x you#hotch x reader#kiwriteswords
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sleeping with the enemy ✮ au



pairing basketballplayer! rafe cameron x cheerleader! female reader
summary after getting dumped by the captain of the basketball team you cheer for, you find revenge in the form of rafe cameron, your ex-boyfriend’s worst enemy. based on this one-shot
rating explicit 18+
tropes both afraid of commitment, college rivalry, friends with benefits to best friends to lovers, everybody sees it, he falls first
timeline when they meet, she’s a junior and he’s a senior at rival colleges. they’re friends with benefits for three months before they start dating. they’re together for five months, then he gets signed with the nba and moves away. they stay together long-distance and she moves in with him a year and a half later. she gets pregnant six months after moving in, when they’ve been together for a little over two years. they get married four years later.
legend ⊗ smut / ❥ fluff / × angst
˚ ꩜ ︴friends with benefits ︵ 🏀
✮ ࿐ they meet and hook-up ⊗
✮ ࿐ rafe texts her after they meet ❥
✮ ࿐ her ex sees them together ❥
✮ ࿐she learns about his past ❥
✮ ࿐ she hears people talking badly about her ×
✮ ࿐ he takes her out to dinner ❥
✮ ࿐ he fights to defend her ×
✮ ࿐ she rides his thigh ⊗
✮ ࿐ she keeps his shirt ×
✮ ࿐ they hook up in the library ⊗
✮ ࿐ his first time getting jealous ×
✮ ࿐ their favorite position ⊗
✮ ࿐ she cleans him up after a fight ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ a new player on his team hits on her × ⊗
✮ ࿐ he takes care of her when she’s drunk ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ he accidentally calls her his girlfriend ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ they become official ❥ ×
˚ ꩜ ︴in a relationship ︵ 🏀
college days
✮ ࿐ he tells his friends they’re dating ❥
✮ ࿐ their first time having sex as a couple ⊗ ❥
✮ ࿐ people see the marks she left on him ❥
✮ ࿐ they compete ⊗
✮ ࿐ he does a body shot off of her ⊗ ❥
✮ ࿐ their first fight as a couple ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ he helps her when she’s stressed about school ❥
✮ ࿐ he consoles her after she fails a midterm ❥
✮ ࿐ they meet each other’s families ❥
✮ ࿐ they fight before he leaves ×
long distance
✮ ࿐ their roughest patch ×
✮ ࿐ he has a photo of her in his locker ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ her first night visiting him ⊗ ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ their first ‘i love you’s’ ❥
✮ ࿐ they almost break up ×
✮ ࿐ he misses her after she visits ❥
✮ ࿐ her ex hits on her ❥
✮ ࿐ she gets jealous ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ she drunk calls him ❥
after she moves in with him
✮ ࿐ he supports her career ❥
✮ ࿐ she tells him she’s pregnant ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ the public finds out she’s pregnant ×
✮ ࿐ he supports her through her pregnancy ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ he gets his first tattoo ❥
✮ ࿐ she gives birth ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ they announce the birth ❥
✮ ࿐ he sets up the nursery ❥
✮ ࿐ paparazzi find them at the hospital ❥
✮ ࿐ they struggle being new parents ×
✮ ࿐ rafe snaps at paparazzi following them ×
✮ ࿐ they deal with rumors that he’s cheating ×
✮ ࿐ a clip of her feeds the rumors ×
✮ ࿐ she sits courtside with their babies ❥
✮ ࿐ he’s away from the babies for too long ×
✮ ࿐ they’re overprotective parents ❥
✮ ࿐ rafe as a dad ❥
✮ ࿐ rafe does his babies’ hair ❥
✮ ࿐ their first night away after becoming parents ⊗ ❥
✮ ࿐ they hook up at a wedding ⊗ ❥
✮ ࿐ his daughter attends a conference with him ❥
✮ ࿐ rafe has a rough day with the kids ❥
✮ ࿐ their daughter loves attention ❥
✮ ࿐ he’s afraid to propose ×
˚ ꩜ ︴married ︵ 🏀
✮ ࿐ they have a problem on their wedding day ❥ ×
✮ ࿐ she gets possessive of him ❥
✮ ࿐ rafe tells their son’s friend to stop looking at her ❥
✮ ࿐ he’s overprotective of their daughter ❥
✮ ࿐ what they fight about as parents ×
#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron and you#rafe cameron and reader#rafe cameron and y/n
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𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 ☆ BUECKERS⁵ (ev's 6k celly!)



free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!
CELLY MASTERLIST
ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.6k
ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | dating paige means learning to share her — with fans, cameras, the league. you’re used to being in the background: her pregame text, her airport pickup, the face she looks for in the crowd. but when she finally has a bad game — one that leaves her jaw tight and chest guarded, you’re the one she lets fall apart.
ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst!! hurt to comfort, paige being a little mean, kinda stay at home vibe for reader but not really?? HAPPY ENDING!!
ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yaya!! day 3 of celly, i hope yall are enjoying so far. here's the angsty, hurt to comfort paige fic yall were promised. also i feel like i needed to add that im not trying to hate on the wings at all, this fic is more about the emotional side of things than any real commentary on the team.
also obviously i have no idea what paige is actually feeling or going through (obviously LOL), this is all just fictional and for fun. just wanted to explore a softer, more personal side of what that transition might feel like for someone carrying that much pressure. no harm intended, just feelings & vibes & sapphic yearning <3

You meet her in a grocery store just off of campus, which feels fake even as it’s happening.
She’s in a hoodie too big for her, hood up, cart half-full of protein bars and Smartwater, reading the back of a box like it's a scouting report. You’re standing in front of the oat milk. That’s it. That’s the origin story.
She asks if the oat milk is good. You say it depends on what she’s doing with it. She raises an eyebrow and says, drinking it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world . You tell her it’s fine but the vanilla one is better. And when she reaches for it, your fingers graze. You don’t look away first.
It starts there — two people in the milk aisle, pretending they don’t know who the other is or maybe pretending it doesn’t matter.
It matters.
Now it’s almost two years later. You know which pair of socks she has to wear on game days, how she retapes her fingers during halftime even if the wrap is fine, the way she likes her smoothies: blended twice, don’t ask why and that when she’s tired she gets clingy but insists she’s not.
You also know how to stay out of the frame.
You're the person who picks up her dry cleaning, triple checks her call sheet, drives her to the airport at 5AM with a thermos of coffee you’ll never get thanked for. Not because she’s ungrateful, but because she doesn’t realize she needs to. She’s Paige Bueckers. She gives pieces of herself away all day — photos, autographs, interviews, sideline hugs for kids she’s never met and by the time she gets to you, there’s not always much left.
But she always finds your hand. That counts for something.
You get used to watching her light up arenas from the shadows. You like it, actually. The background is quiet. Safe. You can watch her without worrying about being watched back.
You know she’s yours even if everyone else thinks she belongs to the world. And lately, the world’s been getting greedy.
The apartment still smells like new paint.
Not strong, not offensive, just that faint, chalky scent that clings to the corners of the rooms, reminding you that the place isn’t quite lived-in yet. Boxes line the hallway in uneven stacks, some open, some sealed, all of them with your handwriting scrawled across the sides. Kitchen stuff. Shoes, maybe?? PAIGE DON’T TOUCH.
She did, obviously.
You find the proof in the form of an empty protein bar wrapper tucked into the top of a box marked winter clothes and you roll your eyes as you toss it in the trash.
It’s quiet in the apartment, which is rare lately. For the past few months, everything’s been loud. Not just the literal noise, although there’s been plenty of that: roaring student sections, confetti cannons, draft night applause that rang in your chest like a second heartbeat but the kind of loud that lives under your skin. Constant motion. Constant attention. Eyes on her, hands on her, reporters leaning too close with too many questions, and her answering all of it with that same polished smile that means I’m good, I’m fine, keep moving.
You know what it costs.
Winning the natty should’ve felt like a finish line but it only cracked open another beginning. Draft week came less than a week later. There was barely time to breathe, let alone plan a move to a new city, a new team, a new life. You booked the flights. You signed the lease. You made sure the sheets were washed before she got here.
You haven’t unpacked fully. Neither of you has had time.
Right now, she’s at shootaround — early preseason workouts, a light day, though deemed light by Paige Bueckers standards still means running through plays like it’s the Final Four. You’re not there. She asked if you wanted to come and you said no. She didn’t push. She never does.
You like seeing her on the court but today you needed the silence. Needed to breathe in a room that didn’t buzz with her future. Needed to sit in the kitchen she hasn’t cooked in yet and just be.
You wash two mugs, even though you only used one. You start putting away silverware and get distracted organizing the drawer — forks facing one way, spoons the other, knives stacked like soldiers. You don’t know how long you’re standing there when you hear the door unlock.
“Babe?”
Her voice is hoarse. You glance up, startled by the way your heart still flinches at the sound.
“In the kitchen,” you call back.
She appears a second later, already halfway out of her sneakers, gym bag sliding off her shoulder. Her hair’s tied up in a bun, messy, a few strands stuck to her forehead. She looks tired, which means she probably went too hard, again.
She smiles when she sees you. It’s not a big smile, barely there, really but it’s the one she only gives you. The one that softens all the edges.
“Hey,” she says.
You lift an eyebrow. “Don’t ‘hey’ me. You went for an hour and a half.”
“Sixty-five minutes,” she corrects, coming over to press a kiss to your cheek. Her hand finds your waist without thinking. “I’m being good.”
“You’re being reckless.”
“I’m being prepared.” She grins like she knows you’re already over it and you are. Mostly.
You turn into her, letting her rest her forehead against yours. Her skin is damp. You don’t mind. For a second, neither of you says anything.
“I missed you,” she murmurs.
You hum. “You saw me this morning.”
“Still.”
This is how it’s always been. Paige flies too close to the sun, and you make sure there’s a place for her to land. You’ve never tried to stop her. You just make sure the lights are on when she comes home.
She pulls away slowly, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to memorize it, even though she’s already got it memorized a hundred times over.
“I know I haven’t been around much lately,” she says, quieter.
You could say I know, or It’s okay, or You don’t have to explain.
But you don’t.
Instead, you say, “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”
She blinks, then smiles again — wider this time. “You love bossing me around.”
You shrug, moving toward the fridge. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”
She sits. Watches you. You can feel her eyes on your back while you crack eggs into a pan and mumble about how she better not leave her sweaty socks on the kitchen chair again. She laughs.
For a second, the rest of it fades. The expectations, the cameras, the pressure. The whole world outside this apartment.
She’s here. And she’s yours.
The season starts badly.
Not technically — their opener is a loss, narrow but clean. The kind of win that looks okay in a box score even if you know, just by watching, that something’s off. Like the rhythm is a beat behind. Like Paige’s shot is just a little too flat. Like the whole team is waiting for someone else to wake them up.
After that, it’s four straight losses. One at home, three on the road. All of them ugly.
The headlines stay polite at first. Young team still finding chemistry. Bueckers adjusting to WNBA pace. But the subtext is everywhere. In the photos they run — Paige midair, Paige scowling, Paige with her hands on her knees. In the clips they replay: missed threes, turnovers, turnovers, turnovers. Even in the way the commentators say her name, like it used to mean something magical and now they’re not sure what it means anymore.
You try not to read the comments. You still do.
At home, she says she’s fine.
Fine when she’s up at 1:30 in the morning watching film with the volume so low you can barely hear it. Fine when she forgets to eat until noon. Fine when she gets back from practice with red-rimmed eyes and blames it on the wind even though it hasn’t been breezy in days.
You don’t press. Not directly.
You just hover. The way you always do. Fold her laundry. Wrap her knee even when she says it doesn’t hurt. Order in from her favorite Thai place and pretend you were craving it too. Make sure the lamp by her side of the bed is always turned on when she walks in.
You wait for her to let you in.
She doesn’t.
The apartment feels different now.
You don’t realize it until you’re halfway through cleaning out the fridge one day and it hits you: this is what distance feels like. Not loud. Not obvious. Just space. Gaps where the closeness used to live. Little things.
She doesn’t hum when she showers anymore. She texts you from the gym less. She doesn’t ask you to braid her hair before games. She doesn’t lose her phone and call out for you in a half-panic only to find it under a throw pillow. She just… moves quieter.
Sometimes she looks at you like she wants to say something. Like it’s sitting on her tongue, one syllable away from shattering the whole dam. But then she blinks and it’s gone, and she says something like “Did we run out of toothpaste?”
And you nod, and say “Yeah, I’ll grab some tomorrow” and pretend you weren’t holding your breath.
They lose again. Badly.
You watch from the tunnel, same place you always stand. You’ve watched her from this spot more times than you can count but this feels different. Wrong.
The buzzer sounds. 78–61. Another loss. Fifth in a row. You stand in the tunnel like always, heart clenched in that familiar way that used to mean nerves but now mostly means dread.
You watch her shake hands, high-five a couple fans who lean over the railing. The towel around her neck looks like a surrender flag. Her face is set, eyes sharp and far away. You recognize that look - it’s the one she wears when she’s trying not to feel anything. When the disappointment is too deep and too sharp to acknowledge in public.
She doesn’t look up at you.
Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t say your name like she usually does, even in passing maybe half a smile, quick reach for your hand if you’re close enough.
She walks straight past.
You wait for her anyway. You text her: I’m in the tunnel, I’ll be at the car.
No response.
She gets home almost an hour later. Drops her bag by the door and kicks her shoes off with more force than necessary. You’re curled up on the couch, pretending to watch a rerun of something, volume too low to actually follow.
You glance over. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she says, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter like she’s trying to miss on purpose. “God, what a night. I mean at least I only turned it over, what, six times? That’s practically an improvement.”
You pause. “Seven.”
“Oof.” She winces, exaggerated. “Even better.”
You don’t laugh.
She notices. She walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, stands there like it's a portal to another dimension.
“You hungry?” she asks. “I could burn some toast or reheat something and pretend I made it from scratch.”
“Paige.”
She doesn’t look over. “Or we could do popcorn and call it dinner. Real athlete shit.”
“Paige.”
That lands. She shuts the fridge, too loud and finally turns to face you.
“What?” she says. Light, teasing. Like she already knows what you’re about to say and wants to joke her way out of it. “Don’t tell me you’re mad at me for that disaster.”
You sit up. “I’m not mad at you for losing. I’m upset that you won’t talk to me.”
She blinks. “I am talking to you.”
“No, you’re deflecting. You’ve been doing it for days. You came home last night and made a joke about retiring to become a barista.”
“Hey, that’s a solid fallback plan.”
“Paige.”
She lifts her hands. “Okay. What do you want me to say? That I suck right now? That I’m letting everybody down? That I feel like I made a huge mistake coming here? Would that make you feel better?”
The words cut sharper than they should. Not because she means to hurt you -- Paige never means to hurt you but because you recognize the panic underneath them. The way her voice spikes, too high, too fast. The way she’s trying to outrun the truth before it catches up.
You step into the kitchen, across from her now. Arms folded. Quiet.
“I want you to be honest with me,” you say, low and even. “Not perfect. Not funny. Not brave. Just… honest.”
She leans back against the counter like it might hold her up better than you can. Her arms cross over her chest.
“I can’t do that right now,” she says.
You nod but it’s not agreement. More like acknowledgment.
“Okay.” You back away slowly. “Then I’m gonna go for a drive.”
She frowns. “What? Why?”
“Because if I stay, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.”
She doesn’t try to stop you. That hurts more than it should.
The silence stretches.
A day passes. Then another. The fight doesn’t explode: it simmers. You still talk, technically. You ask if she wants anything when you go to the store. She tells you she refilled your prescription when she picked up her own. You switch the laundry she started. She rewinds the show you missed.
But you don’t touch. You don’t look too long. And she doesn’t say your name like it’s a question anymore.
It feels like standing on a frozen lake, the ice too thin and the water too black and freezing underneath. And you're the only one hearing the cracks.
You find yourself spiraling in stupid ways.
You start overthinking texts that don’t need to be overthought. You stare at her Instagram comments longer than you should. You don’t mean to but you do. All the hearts, all the compliments, all the people who don’t know her but think they do. Who think they love her.
And maybe they do, in that empty, worshipful, social-media way.
But they don’t fold her socks. They don’t know how her voice sounds when she’s half-asleep. They don’t press a cold washcloth to her forehead when she’s sick. They don’t know she triple-knots her laces and tucks the ends in because she’s paranoid about tripping. They don’t know she cries at commercials but hides it by blaming dust.
You do.
And it’s not jealousy, not really. It’s more like… fear. Like maybe all this silence is the beginning of her forgetting that she needs you.
And the worst part? You get it.
You know what she’s feeling even if she won’t say it. You know she’s disappointed, overwhelmed. You know she thinks showing you that will make her seem weak. You know it’s not about you.
But it still feels like it is.
You lie awake beside her that night, staring at the ceiling. You can hear her breathing, slow and even. Either asleep or pretending to be. You don't reach for her. Not this time.
And she doesn't reach for you.
The arena feels different tonight. Not louder. Not quieter. Just heavier. Like even the air is bracing for something it can’t name.
You’re in the tunnel again, where you always are. That same spot, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves, the lanyard around your neck sticking to your skin with the sweat you won’t admit to. You watch the players file in, coaches in tow, heads bowed slightly in that ritual of unspoken hope.
Paige doesn’t look at you when she runs out for warmups. Hasn’t, not since the fight.
Her face is unreadable under the lights, jaw set and mouth tight in that way that means she’s focused, or maybe pretending to be. You’ve seen that look a hundred times before. In college stadiums, back at UConn. But never like this. Never this brittle.
You watch her miss three shots in a row during shootaround. Not by much but by enough. No one else seems to notice or maybe they’ve gotten used to it. You haven’t.
When the game starts, you try to focus on it like you usually do. Not in a fan way but in a quiet way. You keep your eyes on her. Always on her. Not the scoreboard. Not the other players. Just Paige.
She’s off. Again. And this time it’s not the usual, not just missed shots or a slow start or teammates who don’t read her cuts. It’s everything. Her rhythm is gone. Her body’s tight. Her passes are rushed. Her confidence, usually such a steady undercurrent in the way she moves is nowhere to be found.
She fouls early. A dumb reach-in that she wouldn’t normally commit. Then another, chasing a fast break she had no hope of catching. By halftime, she’s on the bench, staring at the floor with a towel over her head and a stat line you know she won’t be able to look at later.
2 points. 1 assist. 4 turnovers.
The team is down by 15.
You don’t know what to do with your hands. You keep rubbing your thumb over your ring finger, a nervous habit you picked up somewhere along the way and never broke. You watch her jog into the tunnel at the half, shoulders tense, mouth pressed into a thin line.
She doesn’t look up.
The second half is worse.
The game slips away before the fourth quarter even starts. Paige goes scoreless the entire third then gets pulled halfway through the fourth when it becomes clear the coaches are calling it. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just walks to the bench, plops down, elbows on her knees, eyes ahead like she’s watching something only she can see.
By the time the buzzer sounds, the final score doesn’t matter.
They lose by 22.
You wait for her in the same spot you always do. Tunnel. Left side. Just past the security guard who now knows your name.
The team walks by slowly. A few nods, a couple brief waves from familiar faces. But Paige isn’t with them.
She comes last.
No towel. No eye contact. Just her, walking like every step hurts.
She sees you — she has to, you’re right in her line of sight but she walks past without a word.
You follow.
The car ride is silent.
She doesn’t play music. Doesn’t reach for your hand at the red light like she usually does. Just keeps her eyes on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. She’s still in her jersey, sweats pulled over her shorts, hair damp from the shower and curled behind her ears.
You want to say something. Anything. But you’ve learned not to touch the wound while it’s still bleeding.
She unlocks the apartment, tosses her keys on the counter and moves straight to the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Closes it. Opens it again. Then just stands there with her hand on the handle, breathing like she’s trying to remember how.
You step inside, gently, quietly like someone trying not to startle a cornered animal.
“Paige,” you say.
She doesn’t move.
“Hey.” You reach out, touch her back lightly, right between the shoulder blades.
She flinches. Not from pain. From everything else.
“I can’t,” she whispers.
You don’t ask what she means.
Instead, you guide her hand off the fridge door and turn her to face you.
Her face crumples.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly. Like a wall finally giving way after weeks of rain. Her mouth twitches. Her eyes glass over. Her breath catches in her throat.
“I’m trying so hard,” she says, barely audible. “I’m doing everything I can and it’s still not enough.”
You move closer, carefully, and she doesn’t pull away this time.
“I know,” you whisper. “I know you are.”
She shakes her head, eyes rimmed red. “I’m not who they thought I’d be.”
You feel that like a knife. Because you know what she means. Not just the media. Not just the fans. She means everyone. The people who waited for her. The ones who wanted her to be a savior.
“They all thought I’d come in and just… fix it. Like I was some kind of answer.”
You reach up, thumb brushing under her eye. “You were never supposed to fix it all, P.”
She exhales and it sounds like a sob even though there are no tears yet.
“You don’t get it,” she says. “I used to love this. I used to be good at this. And now all I do is mess up and get benched and watch them lose and try not to cry in front of the cameras. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I don’t even feel like me anymore.”
That last part cracks something in you. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? She’s not afraid of losing. She’s afraid of losing herself.
You don’t say anything right away. You just take her face in your hands and hold her like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
“I miss you,” you say.
She blinks. “I’m right here.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been somewhere else for weeks and I didn’t know how to reach you.” Your voice shakes a little. “But I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. You can fall apart with me. You have to fall apart with me. That’s the deal.”
And finally, finally, she breaks.
The tears come fast and silent, her body folding into yours like she’s collapsing under her own weight. You hold her through it, arms around her waist, her forehead pressed into your shoulder. You feel every tremble. Every shudder. Every breath she takes like she’s trying to relearn how.
“I don’t want to be strong right now,” she mumbles against your collarbone. “I’m so tired of being strong.”
“You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Not with me.”
So she lets go. And for the first time in weeks, so do you.
Later, when the storm inside her has quieted, when her eyes are puffy and red and her breathing has slowed to something human again, you lead her to the couch like you’ve done a hundred times before. Like it’s ritual.
She lets you.
Still silent. Still raw. But softer now, like the sharp edges have dulled. Her hand lingers in yours longer than it has in weeks. She curls into you without asking, tucks her knees up under her and presses her cheek to your chest like she did during last year at UConn, after that Final Four game where she swore she’d never play that badly again.
You’d found her in her dorm that night, still in her travel sweats, hoodie pulled up like armor. She hadn’t said anything, just climbed into your lap, quiet and bruised and seventeen kinds of exhausted.
You held her then like you’re holding her now. Careful, steady, for as long as she needed.
You grab the fuzzy blanket from the arm of the couch, the one she pretends she hates because it’s “obnoxiously pink” but always ends up buried under after tough nights. You drape it over the two of you, then kiss her hair once, gently, where it parts at her crown.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs after a long stretch of silence.
You shake your head. “Don’t be.”
“I’ve been such a dick.”
You smile faintly into her hair. “Maybe. But you’re my dick.”
That gets the tiniest huff of a laugh out of her, muffled against your collarbone. It’s the first real sound of her in days.
You reach for the remote and scroll mindlessly until you land on the dumb baking show you always used to put on after her bad games. She pretends to hate it: “They’re just cakes, babe, why are they all crying?” but you know it makes her feel safe. Like the world is a little slower and a little sweeter.
You set the volume low, just enough to fill the room with chatter and clinking bowls and the gentle pressure of lives that have nothing to do with yours.
“I forgot how good this show is,” she mumbles after a few minutes.
You don’t answer. Just let your fingers drift through her hair, light and rhythmic. Her breathing evens out, one hand fisting lightly in your hoodie.
This is the version of her you’ve missed. Not perfect. Not polished. Just herself. Soft, sleepy, safe.
“You remember that night in Hartford,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “when you missed that game-winner and locked yourself in the locker room for an hour?”
She groans. “Don’t remind me.”
“You wouldn’t come out. I had to sneak in with that nasty gas station hot chocolate.”
She shifts a little, her smile pressing into your skin. “You bribed me.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
She hums. “Barely. I only opened the door ‘cause I thought you were gonna start sobbing outside it.”
You feign offense. “I was being dramatic for effect.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You let the silence settle again. It’s warm this time. Companionable.
“I used to think you only loved me when I was winning,” she says quietly, like it’s something she’s only just realized she believed.
You tilt your head down. “Do you still think that?”
She shrugs against you. “I don’t know. I think I forgot how to be loved when I wasn’t.”
You exhale slowly and tip her chin up with two fingers, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are tired, but clear.
“Paige,” you say, soft but sure, “you are loved when you lose. When you miss. When you fall apart. When you’re stubborn and snappy and full of doubt. There is no version of you I wouldn’t love.”
Her throat works around the lump there, eyes glistening again, but the tears don’t fall this time. She just nods.
Then she pulls you in and kisses you.
Not desperate. Not needy. Just real. Quiet and slow and full of apology and promise.
When she pulls back, she leans her forehead to yours.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not walking away.”
You shake your head. “I’ll always be here. Even when you’re not ready. Even when you push. I’ll wait. That’s the job.”
She smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes. It’s not big. Not flashy. But it’s real.
“You’re too good to me,” she says.
“Mm. Probably,” you tease, brushing your thumb across her cheek. “But I like the work.”
She laughs, and it bubbles out of her like it’s the first time she’s remembered how. The tension breaks. The ache loosens.
The couch holds you both.
Outside, Dallas hums on — noisier than it should be, traffic always loud and lights always spilling in through the windows. But the room you’re in is soft. Dim. Full of the kind of peace that only comes after a storm.
She nestles back into your chest, tugs the blanket up to her chin.
And you think; this is enough.
Not the win streak. Not the headlines. Not the perfect stat lines.
Just this.
Her body folded into yours. Her heart safe in your hands. Her breath warm on your neck. The worst of it behind you.
Finally, finally — home.

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