#i just want to know a little more that’s all | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sunnami · 3 days

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the 5 times you did (not) love each other and the 1 time you did.

summary. as the title suggests. this one was a request! i hope you enjoyed my version of this anon.

pairing/s. poly!marauders + lily / reader.

wc. 4.1k

tags. hurt/comfort, angst, peter pettigrew mention, not proofread, like seriously, fluff, happy ending.

cws: brief mention of violence and blood.

note: i am alive?? crazy. i began this fic, whilst sick, around august, nursing the worst headache ever. i wrote the middle of this fic, sick. and i think it's only fitting that i finished this fic. sick... honestly, i did not proofread any of this, i just know i lowkey love it. after the first one-thousand words, i just spiral and become delirious, so i don't even know what happened here. my first request finished! yippee! and thank you all for 2k :< i love you all so much.

SIRIUS BLACK did not love you—not even close, not even a little bit. Not even at all.

After Peter Pettigrew’s slight against his family, Sirius would never hold warmth or pity for the skittish mouse ever again. He was played for a fool. And, he did not know which betrayal had hurt more. Peter’s—or yours. (Had you known all along of your adoptive brother’s plans? Did you not think for one second that Sirius would, without a sliver of hesitation, put himself in the way of a killing curse to keep you safe? He’d have died before ever letting the fire in your eyes wither to ashes. Clearly, you did not share the same sentiment.)

He wanted nothing to do with you. Ever. And if the rat-bastard dared to show his face, not even Death would know where to put Peter’s body to rest. Sirius would keep him alive until he begged for death—until the idea of living frightened him more than dying. And for you—beholder of his heart, captor of his soul, and co-possessor of his mind—he could only hope that you stayed far away. You had wrecked him—all of them.

He wanted—

He did not know what he wanted.

For when it came to you, Sirius Black was reduced to a man wandering the deserts—mistaking clouds for water, and the sands for grass blades. You had ravaged every fiber of his being; consumed his every thought and word. The most ironic part of all was that if you had been the one standing there—Sirius would have let you Avada him. Dumbledore could scold him in the afterlife—Sirius could care less. He’d have snapped his wand in half and asked someone else to fight you because Sirius had vowed from the moment he met you that he would never harm a hair on your head. He would never be the reason that tears stained your pretty cheeks.

Well, apparently, trust and promises were not worth a damn thing nowadays.

No, he did not love you—even as you stood on the steps of Grimmauld, your hair ruined by the downpour of rain. Your lips bruised and bitten from a nervous habit Sirius had yet to break out of you.

“I didn’t know, Sirius,” you whispered—your voice the only sound falling on his ears amidst all the thunder and lightning. He only saw you. “Y-You have to believe me. If I knew—Gods, I would have told Dumbledore in a heartbeat. Fuck. I thought you knew me better than that.”

He thought so, too.

“Did you know?” Sirius began, taking a step forward and into the storm, a demeaning sneer on his lips. “That when Voldemort stood in our home, your portrait was right behind him? That was all I could look at. If I had died—you would have been the last thing I saw.”

You had not replied.

Sirius grit his teeth. “Go,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Go!” he yelled, grateful for the rain as it masked his own tears as you flinched from the sound of his voice. Not the thunderclap, the lightning strike—but it was him who scared you.

(But you had done so first.)

When you apparated away, Sirius crumbled to the ground and pounded his fists against the asphalts where you were moments ago, screaming and cursing until he saw blood flowing with the rainwater.

It was laughable, really. The way he did not love you.

It was not love that drove him to madness, pummeling Gideon Prewett into a bloody pulp for mentioning your name during a meeting with the Order. He had presumed you to be a Death Eater alongside your brother—Sirius instantly saw nothing but red. (He condemned Bellatrix, his own cousin, for becoming a madwoman. Yet, here he was, unraveled by the very thought of you. The very whisper of your name.)

But whatever it was that had turned him into a fool and a hypocrite all at once, it was not love.

ii.

JAMES POTTER had no love for you—make no mistake about that. He loved love, and he did so fiercely and truthfully. But you and Peter had broken his trust—defiled his loyalty from the moment your brother had brought Voldemort to his doorstep. (Did you know that as he begged and screamed for Lily to hide with their son, Harry—he thought of you? For a fleeting moment, he saw your face, marked by fear and tear-rimmed eyes. And James knew straight away that he would spit on Tom Riddle’s bare feet if only to keep his family safe. If only to see you once more. Alive and well. But, you must not have thought the same—if you had conspired with Peter to sell him and Lily out to the Devil reborn.)

The thought of you breathing was enough to keep James alive.

But, that was not love. It was a mockery of it.

No, he did not feel so much as a twinge of emotion for you. Not even as Mad-Eye Moody brought your limp body back to Grimmauld. It was not love that threatened the magic in his being—that simmered in his blood until the painted walls saw an indent of his fist. (“Poor thing,” McGonagall cooed as she pressed her palm over your forehead. Despite some of the members’ growing distrust for you, you still took an Unforgivable in their stead. “We can only wait. . . Four Cruciatus curses. . .”)

What more did James need to want to rip Peter apart limb by limb?

It was not love that rooted his feet by your side. Sitting hunched on a chair too small for his height, bags beneath his eyes, and the pale of his lips becoming noticeable to everyone who spoke to him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you lovelessly—hands desperately clutching your own. Sirius stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest, dagger-like eyes waiting for so much as a twitch of your finger. “I’m sorry.”

It was a plea this time.

He only hoped you did not ask him to love you. For James could give you the world, hand-pick the stars, and burrow his body deep beneath the ground if you had asked for it—but he could not love you.

Everyone had told him not to hope that you would wake up. That your pretty eyes would not flutter open, and you would no longer look at him as you had before. But James was stubborn. He was selfish as he was stubborn. He did not love you—but he needed to hear the sound of your voice. And James would take it any way that he could. The soft cadence of a whisper, or a rough utterance of a single word. Molly Weasley told him to accept reality for what it was. (“You need sleep, dear,” the matriarch fussed. “There’s nothing we can do. Look at the Longbottoms. . . We can do no more for this one as we had done for them.”)

In the still of the night, he left his reveries on the cold of your skin. “Wake up,” he demanded.

“Wake up or else you’re the traitor everyone thinks you are,” James hissed.

But his words held no heat—and his heart held no love for you.

Make no mistake about that.

Then, when you finally woke up, disoriented and throat parched—a hazy recollection of the weeks before—James made sure that no more than four people could enter the room. He did not care if a hurricane, or if Voldemort himself—James had faced him once already, after all—threatened to break the door down. You were theirs to protect.

(But not to love.)

“We need to begin the questioning, James, you know that,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, almost exasperatedly; weary lines written across his face. James would not allow even a toe beyond the doorway. An interrogation meant you had something to do with the attempted murder of James and his family. Whether or not you were innocent, James did not care—he just wanted you safe.

(And a small part of him already knew that you were not your brother’s keeper. Just as they had absolved Sirius of his family’s sins. It would be unfair to not show you the same grace. But before his mind knew that, James’s heart and soul had known the truth all along.)

He found Sirius gently tending to your every need, and already James knew that was Padfoot’s way of begging for forgiveness. The ebony-haired man hung onto your every word. He winced when you flinched, and pressed his apologies to your forehead, rasping for a kindness he did not deserve. Not after what he did. How he turned you away and cursed your name. How they betrayed you.

James did not love you.

But what else could he call the manacles that bound his hands and forced him to his knees when it came to you?

Not. Love.

iii.

REMUS LUPIN could not bring himself to love you. But, he could not love Sirius, Lily, and James either. He was undeserving of such a privilege. But he was not allowed to love you; Remus could only hope that you saw even a shred of worth in him—to wrest each word from his lips and every breath from his lungs. But, he did not love you. No.

Because loving you meant he was to tell you of your brother’s crimes. And Remus could not hurt you like that.

“P-Peter?” you had asked, wearing the eyes of a fretful sibling. Remus lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair gone astray behind your ear. Bellatrix had done a number on you—just as she had done to Alice and Frank. Remus was fairly certain that Sirius was off on a hunt for his cousin, his mind toyed with by the barbarity of war. What they could not do for the Longbottoms, they’d wring themselves dry to do for you. After the Lestranges’ attack, you suffered damage to your throat and memories. Remus could not bear to see you in such pain.

He could not give you love, but Remus would offer up to you his every limb, and the weary skin upon his bones.

“They. . .” Remus grimaced. How could he act as the bearer of bad news? He’d rather dive headfirst into shark-infested waters. Be anywhere else but here. In fact, Remus would rather snatch you away from the funereal walls, and hold you in his arms in the quietude of dawn, than be the one to bring anguish to your eyes. “They’re looking for him at the moment, love.”

One question lingered in your eyes: Why?

Luckily, Sirius was always the better one at sharpening a blunt knife. “He was a traitor,” he spat like acid. “A traitor to the Order. A traitor to us. He’s no friend of ours. Not anymore.”

But Sirius knew—better than anyone else—how difficult it can be to truly hate little brothers, especially once they’ve gone.

“No. . .” You trembled, almost retching as you sobbed into your palms.

Remus held you then, the front of his shirt soaked in your tears, eyes firmly shut as you trembled and heaved in his arms. The sound of your guttural screams bounced off the four walls, and Remus had to bury his nose in your hair. You were alive. Safe. Breathing. But you felt cold as ice; an empty husk stripped bare for grief to take over. And Remus could do nothing but hold you. (He just hoped that wherever Peter Pettigrew was, Remus would not be the first one to find him. Otherwise, they would not be able to recover even a fingernail from his remains.)

“Hush, love,” Remus whispered into your ear as you cried yourself sick. Mourning the loss of your brother, reeling from the betrayal of a bond that was supposed to be stronger than blood. Remus would make him pay, he vowed as much to you. No, Remus and the wolf in him did not know how to love. But he knew how to hurt. And, that, he’d gladly do for you. His body was for you to use as a shield, his soul for you to strip bare, and his heart for you to thieve and never return.

“Don’t cry,” said James, a shadow cast over his frames. “Not for Peter. Never. Fucking bastard will get what’s coming to him.” He laid on the vacant space of the bed, gently untangling your hands that were pressed over your heart. “I’ll make sure of it.”

They all would.

But not because they loved you.

It was not out of love, Remus had to remind himself in the coming days, when he stayed diligently by your side as you recovered. Daily sessions with the best healer St. Mungo’s could offer—as if James would allow anything else. There were days your eyes would glaze over, your words rough and sluggish, and Remus would try his damndest to make you smile.

It was the least he could do.

For failing to protect you.

But that was not love.

(It was hope. Wretched, disastrous hope as he fell to his knees, and your name in between his teeth.)

iv.

LILY EVANS was a fighter in all the ways that mattered.

And from the very first moment she held Harry in her arms, eyes raking over his wrinkly, bloodied skin; all ten fingers and toes, her soft cries over his loud screaming—Lily knew she would trade her life for his in a heartbeat. Little, lovely eyes that would soon see the world in his own time. Lily adored him. Cherished every tear, snore, and giggle. She knew then, that a mother’s love was entirely different from any emotion she’d ever felt before.

This was proven the first time Harry had gotten seriously ill. A few weeks after the attempted murder on the Potters, Harry was ceaselessly crying—screaming, even, every night—red-faced as he fussed every breakfast and dinner. Lily found herself at wit’s end. Her protectiveness had gone up a hundred measures; wouldn’t let anyone besides family or Madam Pomfrey see Harry. Yet, even with all the draughts and silly-flavoured syrups, Harry wasn’t getting better.

“Lily dear, you cannot actually be thinking about this,” worried Molly Weasley as Lily stood in front of your door, holed away in the room where you had been recovering for the last few days. It would be the first time she saw you since the incident. More than anything she was afraid. Frightened that you would look at her differently. Whether or not that fear stemmed from love, Lily was not concerned. “We can call for another Healer from Mungo’s to have a look at Harry. . . Who knows what might. . .”

Lily held Harry closer to her, lips firmly pressed, attempting to ignore the way his temperature was unnaturally high. “Might what, Mrs. Weasley?” She knew Molly was only talking out of concern, from a mother’s perspective at least. But she knew you better than anyone else. You would never hurt her, or Harry, that much she was certain of. And if you were the traitor everyone else was afraid of accusing you of, a sentence delivered by association to Peter—then let the guillotine fall, Lily would carry your crimes for you.

She remembered ever-so clearly in her sixth-year, you with dreams glistening in your eyes. (“I’m going to be a Healer, Lils! Minnie said I’d be a great one. . . I want to protect those I love. . . I know I can do it. . . Oh, I can’t wait to tell Peter that I’ve gotten recommendations already to work at Mungo’s after graduation.”)

And Lily recalled at that moment, she had felt a different kind of emotion that she had never experienced before. It was not love, of course. Tuney said she was too young and too stupid to know what real love was. But, at sixteen, what else could describe the way her heart fluttered and the way her lips threatened to break out into a smile whenever you lit up talking about your future? (It was just a crush, young Lily told herself.)

Only to be crushed and cast aside in the face of the war, where fighters took their place at the forefront of the lines, mothers and children hid; healers stretching themselves thin to be here, there, everywhere; where traitors walked in plain sight.

“There is no one else I trust more with my life,” replied Lily.

And that was that.

Lily skirted around Molly and opened the door to your room, where Sirius, James, and Remus all stood at attention at the sight of her and Harry. She ignored them, and headed straight to your side.

“Hello, love,” she greeted with all the gentleness she was made of, a smile creeping up to her eyes as Lily watched you turn your head at the sound of her voice. Truth be told, she did not know what her end-goal was in coming here. But being by your side had always made life a little more bearable, like all the illnesses in the world could not bring her down. And so, her magic had instinctively summoned her person to you. She, at least, was relieved to see colour returning to your cheeks, though the red in your eyes had dulled the hues she adored so much.

“Is that. . .?” you croaked.

Lily nodded. “Harry, meet—”

One of the loves of my life, the most loyal and pure witch anyone ever has the privilege of meeting, someone I want to stay in my life forever.

Lily’s smile wilted. “A friend.”

Later, she would place Harry in your arms—her little hope embraced by her dream—and Lily would wonder if it was by pure magic that Harry calmed in your presence.

For if love could hurt and destroy, could it mend and heal the broken as well?

But what a shame, for not one in that room carried an ounce of love for you.

(She would die for Harry, yes—but she would live for you.)

YOU did not love them, either.

The very idea, thought—insinuation—was absurd. (Why, they deserved much better than you, after all.) With hands that failed to protect them, were you even allowed to hold them anymore? Did your heart have the right to breathe for them? You had failed as a sister and a friend—how much more would you have failed as their lover? Well, you’d never know.

Because you did not love them.

Merely wished them happiness and for the world to extend them kindness. For the sun to look brightly down on them, and for time to heal their scars and wounds. For if they were in pain, the earth would stop spinning. But such a request was not borne from love.

Surely not.

Because, then, that would have meant that it was love that teared you apart when Sirius cursed your name, when James turned you away, when Remus could not look you in the eyes, or when Lily—for all your history together—called you a friend.

The whole of you was made by the parts of them. Each memory welded into the crevices of your soul. From the moment you had all found each other in the same train compartment, same common room—there was a shift in the fates that bound all five of you together. (The ties were red, but the thread was not of love.) You did not believe in Professor Trelawney’s talks of providence and destiny.

Because if you did, then why was the universe so cruel?

Falling—not in love—for four people who could very much do without you in their lives. Lacking severely as a sister to the point you had not noticed your brother fading and fading away into the shadows.

Was love that unkind? That merciless?

Then, you did not want to love at all.

Oh, but magic or not, every creature on this earth selfish.

You were no different.

You wanted.

Oh, how you yearned.

“I LOVE YOU.”

You barely had enough time to react before Sirius pressed his lips to the side of your head, arm covertly sneaking around your waist. The sound of the train whistling as parents yelled their goodbyes filled the station. You stood in the midst of the crowd, eyes never leaving one window in particular as you waved at Harry, now eleven-years-old and now off to Hogwarts.

“Quite a random thing to say, husband,” you murmured, leaning into his warmth. “What for?”

“Just because,” he replied in turn with a fiendish grin. “Well, perhaps for choosing us, for choosing me despite all my fuck-ups. For existing. For being the beautiful, wonderful, kind, precious you. I could keep on going, my darling. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

You wrinkled your nose, eyes rolling from fondness. “I love you too, quite unfortunately.”

He only laughed and pulled you closer to him. “Let’s go home.”

–

“I love you.”

In the house built by new memories, warded by stronger protection charms, and filled with warmth and love—James said this to you each morning before he left for the Ministry, promoted after the war as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Not one foot out of the door until he had showered you in kisses and the symphonies of his heart. James had always been loud, even in his time at Hogwarts. The war had not taken this part of him, and you figured James was too loud to let it be taken from him. He was unapologetically and unabashedly him.

And you had loved him fiercely for that.

“I’ll be home early tonight,” he said, a quiet intimacy washing over the both of you. The early birds of the cottage. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” you answered without an ounce of hesitation, delicately chasing after his lips. “I love you. Be safe.”

“I love you.”

“Are you saying that to me or are you reading from the book?” you teased from where you laid on Remus’s chest, hours after James left for work, the afternoon bringing you two together in the living room. Lily was in the gardens, and Sirius was in the shed working on his motorbike. It was perfect. You felt the rise and fall of Remus’s chest beneath you, his heartbeat close to your ear. He was perfect. It was a miracle you had not fallen asleep to the tender lull of his voice.

“Both,” he responded, hand coming up to trace the bare of your skin—a miracle you did not crumble or burn instantly from his touch.

You hummed. “Then, I love you, too.” Then, you grinned, lifting your head to stare up at him. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.”

And, oh, how photographs could not capture the beauty in Remus’s smile as his eyes regarded you with such fire.

“My heart, my light, my desire,” Remus began, one finger ever-so softly tracing the curve of your cheek. “In vain I have struggled, it will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

–

“I love you.”

Said Lily as she lied in your shared bed, red-nosed and her cheeks pale, sluggish. The Christmas holiday was generous enough to gift her with an unfortunate cold that had been going around the wizarding world. “But, please, go,” she commanded weakly, gesturing for you to join Harry who was stood by the door. “It’s a lovely day outside for making snowmen with carrots as noses and snow angels. Not for taking care of poor old me.”

You rolled your eyes as you sat by her side, swiftly pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I love you, which is why I would rather much be here, taking care of the prettiest snow angel to ever exist,” you countered, bringing a spoonful of broth to her lips. “Besides, Harry here has something to tell you. He’s made friends at school. One of them is Molly’s little one.”

“Oh, you did?” Lily cooed, before sniffling weakly. “That’s lovely, darling. Tell me all about them.”

“That’s not all, Lily mine,” you began mischievously as Harry’s eyes narrowed at you through his glasses. “This friendship apparently formed after fighting a troll.”

“You what?” Lily croaked, emerald eyes shimmering with concern and near-dread.

“Did you really, Harry?” James popped his head in the doorway, clapping his son on the shoulder before ushering him inside the room. A spitting image side-by-side as they took the empty space by the foot of the bed. “Good boy. Father approves.”

“Of course you would,” Lily shot at him weakly, melting when Sirius then entered the room and greeted her with a kiss to her cheek. “And where are you all coming from?”

“Outside,” announced Remus, tugging his tie from his neck. “Sirius and I took a quick trip to Diagon Alley to get some things that’ll make you feel better, Lily love.”

And as the snow fell outside, lazy winds against the window, your little family gathered in one room, there was one thing you knew for certain.

You loved them.

And they loved you.

a/n: i wrote all 4k words while sick. crazy. but anyway, i wanted to believe in love again so here i am. thank you all so much for being patient with me. i promise to do even better in the next fics!

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hoshifighting · 2 days

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is it possible to have a super jealous mingyu and a super clueless reader 🙏 they’re not usually close (and maybe that’s what frustrates gyu) but they’re from the same circle of friends!! reader is nice though she just doesn’t know how to approach him sometimes </3 (she’s actually a shy mess and has a crush on him but shhh) you can end it with some steamy stuff too hehe thank u sm 💗💗

where super jealous ! mingyu finally gathers the courage to confront you because he's totally crushing on you. he's jealous of how friendly you are with everyone and really wants your attention—he craves you so bad, but you are so clueless about it... — WARNINGS: smut, rough sex, jealousy, oral (f. receiving), overstimulation, nipple bite, reader have a lil crush on him, mentions of body fluids; cum, kitchen sex, g'spot/clit stimulation.

mingyu’s always been a little too hard to read, like there’s something he’s holding back every time you’re around. maybe it’s just because he’s mingyu—tall, handsome, popular, always surrounded by people who seem to hang on his every word. you’re just… you, quiet and unsure around him, too shy to know how to even start a conversation half the time. it's not like you're intimidated. okay, maybe a little. but still, every time you try to approach him, your throat tightens up, and you end up awkwardly shuffling away.

you guys aren’t exactly close. you’ve been part of the same friend group for a while now, but it’s like there’s this weird, invisible wall between you two. you see him laugh and joke with everyone else, and you wonder why it feels so different when it’s just you and him. he’s always polite, sometimes even too polite, like he’s keeping a distance, but you catch him staring sometimes—like, way more than you think he should be. but every time you try to catch his eye, he looks away like nothing happened. it’s confusing as hell.

he gets weirdly tense when the other guys are around, though, like he’s on edgge. tonight’s no different. you’re at a party, and your friend seokmin is telling some dumb joke that has you laughing way too hard, your hand playfully hitting his shoulder as you double over. you’re not even thinking about mingyu until you glance up and see him across the room, staring. his jaw is clenched, brows furrowed, and there’s this almost angry look in his eyes as he watches the way you’re touching seokmin.

you blink, your laughter dying out as you lock eyes with him for a split second before he looks away, jaw still tight. what the hell is his problem?

you’ve never been sure if he likes you, like actually likes you, or if he just tolerates you because you’re friends with his friends. sometimes he’s so distant, so cold, and other times, like right now, he’s burning holes through you with his stare, all while pretending like you don’t exist. “you okay?” seokmin asks, nudging you gently. you shake yourself out of it, giving him a small smile and nodding, but your mind is already elsewhere—on mingyu, on how weird he’s been acting lately.

the night goes on, and you try to avoid mingyu, but it’s impossible. every time you turn around, he’s there, hovering nearby, watching. the party’s winding down when you find yourself alone in the kitchen, grabbing a drink and trying to calm the nervousness bubbling up inside you. you can feel his presence behind you before you even hear his voice.

“you and seokmin… are you close?”

his voice is low, almost too casual, but there’s an edge to it that makes your heart race. you turn around slowly, and sure enough, there he is, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes unreadable as he stares down at you.

“uh, i guess?” you say, your voice coming out more uncertain than you’d like. “we’re friends. why?”

mingyu’s jaw tightens again, and he looks away, shaking his head slightly. “just wondering. you seem… real friendly with him.”

there’s something about the way he says it that makes your stomach twist. is he jealous? no, that can’t be it. why would mingyu be jealous? you’re not even that close.

“he’s a friend,” you repeat, a little firmer this time, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks. “just.. a friend.”

mingyu looks back at you then, and there’s something intense in his gaze that makes your breath catch. he takes a step closer, his towering frame suddenly way too close.

“is that all you are to him?” he asks. “just friends?”

your heart is pounding in your chest, and you don’t know how to respond, so you just stare at him, wide-eyed and confused. why is he acting like this? why does he even care?

“mingyu, what—what’s your deal?” you ask, your voice shaky as you take a small step back, trying to put some distance between you. but mingyu doesn’t let up. he moves forward again, closing the gap, his eyes boring into yours.

“my deal?” he repeats, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “my deal is that i can’t fucking stand seeing you with anyone else.”

you freeze, the words hitting you like a truck. what?

“what are you talking about?” you ask, barely able to get the words out. mingyu’s hand reaches out then, cupping your face gently, but his grip is firm, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

“i see the way they look at you,” he murmurs. “the way they fucking touch you. and you just… let them.”

you’re stunned into silence, your mind racing to catch up with what’s happening. mingyu’s jealous. of you. of the way you are with other guys. it doesn’t even make sense—you barely interact with him, let alone give him any reason to feel this way. but there’s no mistaking the possessiveness in his voice, the way his fingers tighten slightly against your skin.

“i’m not—i don’t—” you stammer, trying to find the words, but mingyu’s already moving again, his lips brushing against yours, softly at first, almost like he doesn't wants to scare you. but then he kisses you hard, his hand sliding down to your waist, pulling you against him as his tongue slips into your mouth. the kiss is desperate, almost angry.

you moan into the kiss, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer. mingyu groans against your lips, his hand sliding down to your ass, squeezing roughly as he presses his hips against yours. you can feel how hard he is through his pants.

when he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing heavily, your lips swollen and wet from the the kiss. mingyu’s grip on your waist almost bruising as he stares down at you. “nobody else gets to fucking touch you like this. got it?”

you nod weakly, too overwhelmed to do anything else. mingyu’s lips crash against yours again, and this time it’s even rougher, his hands roaming your body like he can’t get enough of you. he breaks the kiss just long enough to tug your shirt over your head, his hands immediately moving to your breasts, squeezing them roughly as he groans into your neck.

“fuck, you’re so fucking perfect, did you know that? bet you do.” he mutters, his breath hot against your skin as his hands slide down to your pants, quickly unbuttoning them and shoving them down your legs. you’re left standing in just your underwear, and mingyu’s eyes darken even more as he takes in the sight of you, his lips curling into a smirk. his hand slides down to cup your pussy through your panties. you can’t help but moan, your body arching into his touch. mingyu’s smirk grows wider, and he presses his fingers harder against your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that have you panting and writhing against him.

“say it,” he demands, his voice rough as he leans down to kiss your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “say you want me.”

“i want you,” you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he continues to tease you. “mingyu, please…”

“fuck,” he groans, his hands moving to yank your panties down before he lifts you up, carrying you over to the counter and setting you down on it. you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s kneeling between your legs, his mouth on your pussy, licking and sucking.

you cry out, your hands flying to his hair as you throw your head back. mingyu growls against you, his tongue flicking over your clit, wet and filthy.

“you taste so fucking good,” he mutters, his voice muffled as he devours you, his hands gripping your thighs tightly to keep you in place. “i could eat you all fucking night.”

he stands up then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks down at you with a smug grin. he pulls you to the edge of the counter, lining himself. mingyu's hands grip your waist as he presses his cock against you, teasing you with slow thrusts that have your thighs trembling. when he finally pushes in, the stretch is almost too much. he’s big—bigger than you expected—and the way he fills you has a choked moan escaping your lips before you can stop it. you slap a hand over your mouth, eyes wide, feeling the heat flood your cheeks as embarrassment starts to creep in.

mingyu notices immediately, his brow quirking in that cocky way of his as he watches you struggle to hold back your sounds. “nah, none of that, princess,” he grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth. “i wanna hear you. don’t hide from me.”

he lowers his head, mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking and licking in slow, wet circles that have you gasping. the stimulation has your back arching, your body betraying you as a loud moan slips out. “that’s it,” he groans against your skin, thrusting deeper into you, making your head spin. “so fucking pretty when you moan for me.”

you’re overwhelmed—his mouth on your tits, the way he’s thrusting hard and deep, filling you so perfectly. you barely notice the way your body’s moving, writhing under him, the counter cold against your bare skin, and you realize—fuck—you’re not alone in the house. the thought slams into you like a brick wall, and you push weakly against mingyu’s chest, your voice trembling.

“m-mingyu,” you stutter, your hand pressing against his firm chest, trying to get his attention. he freezes immediately, his hips stilling as he looks down at you “what’s wrong? did i hurt you?”

you shake your head quickly, biting your lip, your heart racing as you whisper, “there’s—there’s people. we’re not… we’re not alone.”

for a moment, mingyu stares at you, and then he bursts out laughing, the sound throaty, rumbling in his chest. “oh, baby,” he says, grinning as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “i already kicked everyone out. it’s just you and me now. so relax, okay?”

the relief soaks over you, and your body melts into the counter. mingyu chuckles, his hands sliding down your sides, thumbs brushing your hips. “there you go,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “now, just relax f’me, princess. let me take care of you.”

his hand snakes between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles that have your hips bucking up into him. you moan, your elbows giving out behind you, making you arch your back from the cold counter. mingyu watches you, “fuck, you look so good like this,” he groans, thrusting hard and fast into you, balls slapping your ass, echoing on his kitchen walls.

you’re too far gone to respond, your head spinning as you feel yourself clench around him. you can’t stop the moan that tears from your throat, your whole body trembling from the strength of his thrusts. mingyu’s grunts mix with your whimpers, and you feel like you’re on the verge of something explosive, that you can barely breathe.

and then he does something—thrusts deep and grinds against you, his hips rolling in a way that hits you just right, and you gasp, your breath catching in your throat. your eyes roll back, your mouth hanging open, and for a second, you’re not even sure if you can breathe.

mingyu freezes, his hand stilling on your clit as he watches you, “hey, hey, you okay?” he asks, his voice quiet but gentle as he strokes your cheek, trying to bring you back. “breathe, baby.”

you nod weakly, gasping for air, but the way he’s looking at you—like he knows exactly what he just did to you—makes your stomach flip, the arousal pooling even more between your legs.

he chuckles, his lips curling into a smug smile as he pulls out slightly, only to thrust back in, harder this time. you choke on a moan, your body arching into him as the pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave.

“yeah? that feel good?” mingyu growls, he starts moving again, picking up the pace, thrusting into you with a rhythm that has you curling your toes. “fuck, i knew you’d like that. let’s see if you can handle it again.”

he grinds his hips against you, hitting that spot over and over, you’re trembling, your legs shaking as you cling to him, your nails digging into his back. it’s too much, too intense, but you can’t stop, can’t even think about stopping.

“mingyu,” you gasp, you feel the coil in your stomach tighten, winding tighter and tighter with every thrust. “i’m—fuck, i’m gonna—”

“cum for me,” he groans, his fingers rubbing your clit faster, his hips slamming into yours. “cum all over my cock, princess. show me how good you feel.”

his words send you over the edge, your orgasm hitting you under his command, your body convulsing as you cry out, your voice breaking as your vision blurs, the world spinning around you. mingyu doesn’t stop, fucking you through your orgasm. his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own orgasm. you can feel him pulsating inside you, his cock twitching, growing thicker inside you as if he was ready to explode.

“mingyu, please,” you whimper, your voice hoarse as you cling to him, your body too sensitive, too overwhelmed. “i can’t—i can’t take it anymore.” mingyu’s grip tightens, his rough hand slipping to wrap around your throat, just firm enough to make your breath hitch, pushing you back into the counter when you try to rise. “almost there, baby,” he pants, his voice rough and hoarse, edged with desperation as his hips slam into you again and again. he’s so close, you can feel it, his thrusts sloppy and erratic.

you barely even register the overstimulation, your body too far gone, too sensitive, too full. every thrust feels like it’s pulling you apart, but fuck, it feels so good you can’t even find it in yourself to complain. instead, a dumb, satisfied smile starts to tug at your lips, your head spinning as mingyu fucks you deeper into the counter, his cock dragging against your walls, stretching you out in ways that have your brain melting into a pile of mush. he’s panting hard now, his breath coming out in shaky gasps, and you can hear the faintest little whines slipping from his throat. mingyu, the guy you’ve been lowkey crushing on for what feels like forever, is fucking you so nasty in his kitchen—your mingyu, usually so composed, moaning like a bitch as he loses himself in the feeling of your tight, dripping pussy.

“fuck, look at you,” he mutters, his voice wrecked as his hand slides from your throat to cup your jaw, forcing your head up so you’re looking into his eyes. “you’re smiling like a dumb little slut, huh? feels good, baby?”

you don’t answer—can’t answer—the words caught in your throat as he fucks you harder, his cock stretching you to your limit, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. the heavy weight of him inside you, the way his thick cock weighs down, presses deep into your slick, swollen cunt, makes you dizzy. your honey’s sticking to his pelvis, every thrust coating his skin in your wetness, slick and messy and so fucking obscene. you’re lost in it, him filling you up so completely, so perfectly, and your body reacts without thinking—arching into him, pulling him closer, as though you need even more, even though you know you can’t take it. but fuck, you want it. you want everything he has to give, every rough, deep thrust that makes your toes curl and your mind blank out.

“mingyu—” you manage to choke out, but it comes out more as a moan than anything coherent. the way he’s moving inside you is almost too much, the pressure, the friction, the way his hips grind into you with every thrust—each one pulling a shaky gasp from your lips.

his hand on your jaw tightens just enough to make you focus. “yeah?” he breathes, his chest heaving with effort, his lips brushing your ear as he groans. “say it. tell me how good i’m fucking you.”

you don’t even need to think. the words spill out of you like they’ve been waiting for this moment forever. “fuck, mingyu, so good—” you gasp, your voice shaking as he hits that spot deep inside you, over and over again. “you’re fucking me so good.”

he moans at that, his cock twitching inside you as if your words were all he needed to make him cum, you can feel him starting to unravel, the control slipping away, and that’s what gets you, that’s what pushes you over the line—seeing mingyu, your crush, losing his shit over you, fucking you like he’s about to die if he doesn't. “almost there, baby,” he groans, his voice rough and broken as he leans down, his lips grazing your collarbone. “just a little more—fuck, i can feel you, you’re so close. gimme one more, yeah?”

you can’t say no, not to him, not to his cock that is stretching you open and making you feel so damn full. and then you feel it—a jaw-dropper pleasure so strong it almost knocks the breath out of you.

“fuck—mingyu—” you gasp, your body shaking, legs trembling as you feel the orgasm slam into you again, wetter this time. your pussy clenches around him, your vision blurring as you cry out, your voice breaking.

mingyu’s breath stutters, his hips faltering for just a second before he starts to thrust even harder, “shit—fuck—” he groans, his voice tight and ragged, he slams into you one last time. his whole body trembles, and you feel it when he finally lets go, when he spills inside you with a whiny moan.

you’re both panting, mingyu’s body collapsing against yours, head laid between your boobs, the weight of him pressing you into the counter, his cock still buried deep inside you as he comes down from the high. then he raises up his face, looking you with the charming smile with the two sharp fangs shining at you, his eyes all nasty, before he bites one of your nipples.

“god, mingyu!”

#seventeen imagines #seventeen headcanons #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #svt imagines #seventeen smut #svt smut #seventeen #seventeen fanfic #kim mingyu smut #mingyu smut #kim mingyu x reader #svt x reader #mingyu x reader #kim mingyu #mingyu #mingyu x you #mingyu x y/n #mingyu x oc

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 2 days

Text

MILF

Tags: Toji x Reader, nsfw, mdni, breeding kink, unprotected sex, car sex, daddy kink

Synopsis: Toji loves fucking milfs. Send tweet.

An: I love how we all collectively as a fandom decided Toji is the nastiest mf out there. I just really feel like he is down w everything.

Toji thinks it’s adorable when you’re apologizing profusely for canceling plans on him again. Kid’s gotta come first, right? He knows that being a single mom is hard, and that you wouldn’t be cancelling plans so often if you didn’t have a kid.

He doesn’t mind sitting with your kid while you take a while to get ready. He sits next to your son on the couch and plays xbox with him, telling you to take your time. He knows you don’t get to get out too often. Hell, your kid probably doesn’t know what a babysitter is because you never know how to take a break.

Toji finds you stunning as soon as you walk out of the bedroom in that sexy black dress. He doesn’t even mind that your snot nose brat just killed him in whatever game they were playing. “Haha! I beat you!” Your son gloats. While you talk to the babysitter about what your kid can and can’t have, he leans over towards your son’s ear. “Yeah, well, I’m gonna go fuck your mom, so who’s really winning?”

He has to practically drag you out of the house, placing his hand on the small of your back as a firm guide towards his car. He knows how badly you need “adult time”. You’ve complained plenty about only hanging out with your kid and having no social life.

His excitement grows as he watches you get tipsy off one glass of wine. You really don’t get out much, do you? He carefully walks you back to his car after dinner, and you’re just gushing over your little brat back at home. He’s had to stop you from calling the babysitter like 5 times to check up on him.

“Too busy takin’ care of everyone else, ma. Let me take care of you.” He mutters in your ear as he parks his car in the middle of nowhere.

Toji fucking loves the curves that come from childbearing, and don’t even get him started on the stretch marks. He’s a fiend when it comes to your full breasts that aren’t as perky as they were before your son.

He adores how moms aren’t afraid to get it on anywhere. They know the value of time, and they never know when another opportunity will arise. They take it when they can get it, and right now, you’re taking it in the back of Toji’s car.

“Mmmn~ shit. You swear you’re not a virgin?” He moans as your gummy walls squeeze tightly around his length. You’d giggle at his comment if you weren’t so full of his cock. You can only manage to let out a pathetic quiet whine.

“Nuh uh, louder baby.” He instructs as he works on stretching your cunt out. “Tonight’s all about you. Let me hear you.” A more confident moan falls from your lips from his words, and he grins behind you, loving the way you sound while you struggle to take him all in.

Toji has you face down ass up in his back seat. Your ass ripples with each time he plunges his thick cock in and out of you. The car fills with the nastiest noises straight from your sopping wet cunt. He swears to god moms always get the wettest. Their bodies are experienced, knowing more lubricant helps ease his cock in and out.

“Fuuuck, ma. You feel so fuckin’ good.” He groans behind you as his hips continue to slap against your asscheeks. “Makin’ me want to breed this pussy for myself.”

“Ngh~ T-Toji!” You cry out as your face is pressed to the leather of the seat. Your mouth is slightly agape, drooling everywhere from being so cock drunk.

“Hm? What you think about that, ma? I could give you another little brat to raise.” The car creaks and rocks back and forth with each harsh thrust. His eyes are fixed on your juices that are pooling around the base of his cock.

“I- … oh god, fuck~” You don’t even have it in you deny him. His cock feels so fucking good; you don’t want to say anything to make him stop. You need this.

Slap!

His hand connects with the fat of your ass as he swats at you. “Not an answer, ma.” He grunts as he leans his weight onto you, using it to his advantage against your poor sticky cunt. His large hand presses between your shoulder blades, holding you down to the seat.

“B-breed me!” Your voice cries out in a tone you’ve never heard before.

“Thaaat’s it.” He drawls with a smirk as his hips start to pound harder. “Good girl. Usin’ your words like that f’me. Daddy’ll give you what you want.”

Toji leans his head back, basking in the way your pussy is practically crying for him. Oh, the things flooding in his mind right now are downright fucking filthy. Thinking about how pretty you’d look pregnant with his kid. Thinking about giving your son a little sibling.

“Ohh~ my g-god… pleaasee.. I’m gonna come..” Your poor voice sounds so fucked out, your hips start to move, bouncing back against him while chasing your orgasm.

“Fuck yeah, ma… That’s it. Fuck me back.” He praises as his hand starts to massage your pillowy ass. His lewdly balls are clapping against your clit, stimulating you as well as making the most erotic noises. “Cum on daddy’s fat cock. C’mon. I know you can do it.”

Within seconds, your pussy is clenching around him, milking him for all he’s worth while your orgasm washes over you. “Shiiiit~ ma.” He hisses as he has to force himself to keep thrusting. His cock is throbbing from how sensitive he is right now, on the brink of his orgasm.

“Fuck. Toji, Toji, Toji..” You feel tears spring into your eyes as he continues to fuck you into oblivion. Overstimulated tears stroll down your cheeks as your body is so sensitive.

“Keep sayin’ my name, ma. Keep sayin’ daddy’s name.” He groans as he leans more into you, almost mounting you at this point. “Ngh~ gonna put a baby in you, okay ma?”

“Please—“ You hiccup as your body is continually getting wrecked.

A growl rips through his throat as he yanks your hips back into him, shoving himself as deep as your body will allow, and his cock pulses as he spills deep inside you.

Toji loves takin’ pretty mamas like you home after he’s finished ruining them. The way they half waddle and stumble back onto the house with his cum still nestled in their cute cunts. He imagines they try to sober up enough to kiss their kids goodnight before they get the best sleep of their life.

It ain’t much, but it’s honest work for Toji. 🫡

tags: @lemonlimecrystal-blog @theuniversesnepobaby

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #fanfic #drabble #jjk suggestive #jjk toji #toji x you #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji zenin #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #jjk smut #smut #smut fic

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jaylalolz · 3 days

Note

Heyy girl i love ur writing so much! Could i do a request of Father Charlie Smut, with him and reader who loves wearing short dresses and skirts but like she’s innocent girl. She wears one during mass and he can’t stop eyeing her the whole time.

❛ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 ❜ . . . nicholas chavez

INNOCENT!reader x PRIEST!charlie 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

SUMMARY, charlie can’t take his eyes off of her while she wears those short skirts all the time. he realizes that she needs to be punished.

A/N, thanks for requesting!! hope you like it.

WARNINGS, smuttyyyy

Charlie stood at the altar, his voice steady as he read from the Bible. It was an ordinary Sunday mass, yet something felt off. His words were focused on the sermon, but his mind kept wandering, distracted by a presence in the crowd. A familiar one. He tried to ignore it at first, pushing through the scriptures, but every few minutes, his eyes darted back to the same spot.

There she was, sitting in the third row—his favorite girl. She had a way of turning heads without even trying.

Charlie noticed her as soon as she entered the church, the short, black skirt she wore clinging tightly to her legs. It was far from appropriate for a Sunday service, or for any visit to church. It wasn’t just the length—barely reaching mid-thigh—but the way she seemed completely unfazed by it, sitting there confidently, crossing and uncrossing her legs like the length didn’t matter.

He could feel a tension rising inside him, an unfamiliar mix of emotions that tugged at his composure. Why had she worn that here, of all places?

As mass ended and people began filtering out, Charlie couldn’t help but keep his eyes on her. He needed to say something, to address it before it gnawed at him further. With a sigh, he stepped down from the altar and walked toward her.

She was lingering by the restrooms, her usual smile playing on her lips. As soon as she saw Charlie approaching, her eyes brightened.

“Charlie,” she said warmly, tilting her head. “Your sermon was great today.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, his tone a little more serious than usual. He paused, looking at her outfit up close, his brow furrowing. “can we talk for a second?”

Her smile faltered just a bit, noticing the change in his mood. “Sure,” she said slowly, stepping aside with him.

Charlie took a breath, keeping his voice low. “Listen… I couldn’t help but notice what you’re wearing today.”

She blinked, her brows raising in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The skirt,” he gestured awkwardly, his eyes darting to the hem that barely covered anything. “It’s… not exactly appropriate for church.”

She looked down at her outfit, as if she hadn’t even thought about it before. Her expression was neutral, but there was a hint of something else in her eyes—maybe defiance. “Is it bothering you?”

He shifted on his feet, unsure how to respond. “It’s just… This is a place of worship. People come here to connect with God, and I think what you’re wearing might distract from that. Not just for me—for everyone.”

Her lips curled into a small smile, her voice softening. “Are you saying I’m distracting you, Charlie?”

His face heated up at her teasing tone, but he forced himself to stay serious. “I’m not trying to make this personal. I’m just asking you to be mindful of where you are.”

She studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his face as if weighing her next words carefully. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene. It’s just a skirt, Charlie. Can’t help it if people stare.”

“I know that,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But people judge, whether we like it or not. And in a place like this, modesty is important.”

Her smile faded, her expression softening. She looked him in the eye, sensing the sincerity behind his words. “I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. But… I’ll be more careful next time.”

He exhaled in relief, nodding. “Thanks. I just want to make sure everyone’s focus is where it should be.”

She gave him a playful nudge. “Well, maybe you just need to focus a little better.”

“You think this is appropriate? You’re drawing attention to the wrong things” Charlie ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his cool. He knew he wasn’t explaining it right, but the way she stood there, so confident in defying him, was only making his thoughts more muddled.

She cut him off, her eyes narrowing. “Drawing attention? Isn’t that a you problem? Maybe you’re the one who’s distracted, not me.”

Her words hit a nerve, and suddenly, everything Charlie had been holding back came flooding out. “Yes, I am distracted!” His voice was louder than he intended, but it was too late to stop now. “Do you think it’s easy standing up there, trying to give a sermon, trying to focus on leading a mass, when you’re sitting there in the front row, wearing something that… that—”

“That what?” she pressed, her tone icy now.

Charlie swallowed hard, the confession finally spilling from his lips. “That makes it impossible not to notice you. Every time I look out at the congregation, you’re the first person I see. And it’s distracting. It’s not just about the skirt, it’s about… you.”

The air between them felt heavy with his words, and for a moment, She seemed stunned. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, processing what he had just admitted.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “I bet you like it when I give you my attention.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt the color rise to her cheeks. She quickly looked away, trying to laugh it off, but her laugh came out awkward, a bit too high-pitched, betraying the nerves that were now crawling their way up her spine.

“What are you talking about?” she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice wavered. She could feel the heat in her face, the way her hands suddenly felt restless as she fiddled with the edge of the throw pillow beside her.

Charlie chuckled, leaning forward slightly, narrowing the distance between them. “You do this thing,” he continued, his eyes never leaving her, “where you act like you don’t care, like I’m not getting to you. But I can see it.” His voice dropped lower, his tone almost teasing. “I can always see it.”

Her heart raced faster now, a dull thrum in her chest. She pressed her lips together, unsure of what to say. He wasn’t wrong. Of course, he wasn’t wrong. She hated that he could read her so easily, hated that she couldn’t hide how his attention made her feel. Nervous, yes. But there was more to it than that, and she wasn’t ready to admit what that was.

“You’re full of yourself,” she finally managed, her words barely above a whisper.

Charlie’s smile widened, that maddening, knowing smile that only made her nerves worse. He leaned back again, but his eyes still held her captive. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong, am I?”

She swallowed, trying to hold onto whatever was left of her composure. “You’re imagining things,” she said, shaking her head, but even to her ears, the denial sounded weak.

“Am I? cause for some reason you always wear a skirt when your around me. I’m not stupid. ” he asked, his tone challenging now, as though daring her to keep denying it.

she looked away again, desperate to break the tension that was steadily building between them. But it was too late. His words had already burrowed into her mind, making it impossible to escape the truth she was trying so hard to ignore.

"Just admit it, already," Charlie said, his voice low and certain, sending a ripple of heat through her.

She swallowed, her hands fidgeting in her lap as she desperately tried to hold onto some sense of control. "Admit what?"

Charlie smirked, standing up from his spot and slowly walking toward her. He was too close now, his presence too overwhelming, the scent of his cologne filling the air around her. He stopped just inches away, his gaze holding hers captive, daring her to keep pretending she didn't know what he was talking about.

"You like it when I give you my attention," he said, his voice almost a whisper, but every word felt like it hit her with the weight of something inevitable. "You like it when I make you nervous."

Her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the heat rising in her face, the rush of adrenaline making her pulse quicken. She wanted to deny it, to brush off his words like she always did, but something about the way he was looking at her made it impossible to lie.

Charlie took another step closer, so close now that she could feel the warmth of his body radiating toward her.

She leaned back slightly, her back pressing against the wall as if it would give her some distance from the truth staring her in the face.

"Charlie, I-" she started, but the words got caught, tangled with her emotions.

He leaned in just a little more, his face inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin. She could feel the tension between them building to a breaking point. His eyes softened, just a flicker of something raw and real underneath the teasing. And in that moment, she knew he wasn't going to let her hide.

"Admit it," he whispered, his voice so quiet, yet so commanding. "You wear those skirts for me”

She hesitated for a split second, her heart pounding in her chest, her thoughts racing, before she finally let go. It was terrifying how right he was.

The way he made her feel, the way his attention seemed to pull her in, no matter how much she tried to fight it.

She couldn't keep denying it, not to him, and not to herself.

"I wear them for you," she finally whispered, her voice barely audible, but she knew he heard her.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Charlie's face, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them seemed to buzz with something electric, something inevitable.

Then, before she could overthink it, before she could take it back, Charlie's hand was at her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin as he tilted her face up to his. The world seemed to slow down, the room spinning away until there was only him, only them, in this moment they both knew was coming.

"Good," he murmured softly, his eyes locked on hers. "My naughty fucking girl."

And then, with a deliberate slowness, he leaned down and kissed her.

It wasn't hesitant or unsure. His lips were warm, soft, yet firm against hers, and the moment they connected, something inside her melted. She felt herself lean into him, her hands instinctively finding their way to his chest, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing holding her upright.

The kiss deepened, his hand slipping into her hair, pulling her just a little closer. She could feel the tension unraveling between them, all the unspoken words and hidden feelings pouring out in that one perfect moment.

Everything else faded away-the nerves, the fear, the constant push and pull-until all that was left was the warmth of his lips on hers, the way his touch seemed to set her skin on fire.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting against each other's. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, both caught up in the aftermath of what had just happened, of what had been building for so long.

He says, "I thought about you every single day after I met you for the first time," as he presses kisses to her cheek and slides his hands down her arms in a leisurely motion that mimics the path his wet lips followed on the way up.

She's trying to listen, but as they explore, the ache he's started between her legs feels like it's pulsating in her ears, and his hands are scratching her skin. He shakes his head and lets out a breathy laugh before giving her another painful kiss and nips in between his low, hoarse confessions. “Always thought about those fucking skirts you wore" When he traces his sharp nails from the inside of her knees up to the tops of my inner thighs, she gasps.

He presses his mouth to her ear, his hot breath making her shiver. "No one compares to you," he mumbles, his voice lowering to a low pitch that turns her stomach. He presses his face against her head and lets out a deep groan as the fingers on one hand slide higher and higher until they draw a slow, agonizing stroke up her heat. The other hand smooths back up her stomach.

Her eyes roll closed and she can only hold her breath as her head lulls back. "All those times you teased me.. I think you deserve to get punished," he says forcing her to a wall.

He exhales, "Shit, you're soaking." She can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against her back as he lingers, slowly and indulgently stroking his fingers along her shamefully damp folds, avoiding where she really needs them. Nipping at the flesh on her neck, he mumbles against her, "Such a good girl for me, yeah?" she nods eagerly.

One of Charlie's fingers sneaks up and softly wraps around her throat, while the other eventually slides up to rest on the area that has been throbbing ever since he had her pinned to a wall. He maintains his lips tight against her ear, matching the pants pouring out of her, starting to circle his fingers around her clit in the same rhythm.

"Do you feel that?" He flicks her nerves more quickly and puts more pressure on them while rasping into her ear. “your chest get tighter and your heart beating faster?"

She shifts her hips against him mindlessly, her mouth hanging wide, and she doesn't even know how she manages to say a breathless yes, but nevertheless, she manages. "How incredible that feels, you never want it to end?" He goes on, getting a closer hold on her throat, not tight enough to stop her breathing, but tight enough to pull a high-pitched groan out of her, taking her earlobe between his teeth. She panted out another yes and swallowed. "That's how I feel when you're around me, looking at me through your eyelashes- smiling at me. I can feel it in my bones."

She squirms, unable to keep still at the fire igniting inside of her, between what he's saying and what he's doing with his fingers, and her legs begin to shake. His loud, taunting voice reverberates around her, his untamed hair strewn about with strands falling in front of his hungry gaze. "No coming just yet, Angel. I need to taste you."

She can only fling her head back and hide a choked groan the moment he presses his lips to her warmth. He offers her one last slow, dimpled smirk as he wraps his arms around her thighs, holding onto her hips as he sits between her legs. His warm tongue flattens against her clit as his fingers bite into her skin while he lets a deep sigh that rumbles up through him and vibrates against her and she whine at the feeling.

Her back arches as she lets out wild cries that she can't control, and she's clinging to his hair for dear life as his tongue begins to circle and draw deft patterns against her nerves. Her senses are completely assaulted by the guttural moans and growls that are coming out of him as he relishes every response he receives from her. The stress within her was nearly too much for her to bear.

She cries out at the sensation as he his ring and middle finger enters her. The build-up to everything and the delicate way he's sucking and lapping at her pulsating core while his fingers coil inside of her to target that point that has her vision blurring are just too many sensations happening at once. He retracts his tongue while maintaining a fixed gaze on her. He accelerates the speed of his fingers, purposefully striking the area of her body that is producing such a strong pressure.

"Charlie" She exclaim, "What-What is, I don't know what's-oh fuck"; she squeezes her eyes tight, feeling a growing sense of violence inside of her. He examines her expression and quickens the tempo of his careful fingers. He purrs, encouraging her to go forward as he flicks his eyes down to watch his fingers thrust into her. "Don't worry baby, just go with it, it's okay, you're okay".

He moans as he continues to watch what he's doing. She begins to shake, her muscles contracting. She can no longer resist the sensation that her body is having a seizure and going into seclusion at the same time. "Charlie!" She throws her head back, arches off the wall, and yells until the pain tears through her like nothing she has ever experienced. When it finally fades, every part of her body feels as heavy as cement, and she nearly collapses on the ground, her chest heaving as she tries to take in as much oxygen as she can.

“Never wear that skirt again or you’ll regret it”

#nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez smut #nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas chavez imagine #nicholas chavez fic #smut #charlie mayhew x reader #charlie mayhew smut #charlie mayhew

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punkshort · 3 days

Text

Seasons Change

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: Miserable and lonely after Chucho drags him to the farmers' market in town, Javier's day turns around when he runs into you asking for his help.

Warnings: Javi being a little depressed/down on himself, fluff, meet-cute, tiny bit of possessiveness, flirting

WC: 3.2K

For @jolapeno & @goodwithcheese's fall challenge: I picked Javi P + Farmers' Market 🍂

thank you @saradika-graphics for the dividers ❤️

Javier stared out the passenger window of his father's old truck, sulking in his seat with his arms crossed. The changing leaves blurred by on the side of the road: deep reds, bright yellows and oranges, and the occasional stubborn green. Fall was certainly in the air, so much so that he had to pull on his red checkered flannel before Chucho practically dragged him out the door, muttering to him in Spanish about how he never leaves the ranch and getting a change of scenery would be good for him.

But Javier didn't like to leave the ranch. He didn't like the looks he got, the whispers he heard, and especially hated when some stranger insisted on stopping him with a firm handshake to express how proud they were of him.

He always had to bite his tongue. He politely nodded and smiled, but inevitably the ride home was always filled with distressing images of innocents caught in the crossfire, or the shady deals he felt he had to make with the wrong sort of people just to get a lead. Every time he shook one of their hands, more blood transferred to his own palm, and now he felt like he could never get them clean.

But he couldn't explain all that to his father, although Chucho likely had some inkling. He must have noticed the change in him, the shift, when he returned home. When he asked his son why he didn't want to buy a place of his own, why he didn't want privacy, Javier replied it's easier, don't have to wake up so early and drive over to help.

But Chucho wasn't stupid. He knew Javier had nightmares, he saw the clouds in his eyes the following mornings, could practically see the weight pulling his son down around his neck.

Javier didn't want to be alone, but he was too proud to say it.

"Quit pouting. Maybe you'll meet someone," he offered from the driver's seat. Javi scoffed and shook his head.

"What? You're a catch, m'hijo."

"It's not that, Pop," Javi said, although a big part of him was beginning to wonder if he really did have anything to offer a woman anymore. "I know everyone in this town. There's no one here for me."

"You don't know that," his father replied sternly. "The farmers' market brings in customers from all over. You could meet the love of your life today."

Javi tilted his head and gave Chucho an incredulous look.

"You gettin' sick of me, Pop?"

His father laughed heartily and shook his head as he turned into the parking lot.

"You know I love having you around, Javi. Just wish you'd have a reason to smile more."

Chucho abandoned him ten minutes into arriving, claiming he wanted to check in with a couple friends from neighboring farms, and encouraged his son to wander around to see if anything interesting caught his eye.

Javi was beginning to think his presence at the ranch wasn't as necessary as he thought. When he left Colombia, he had expected to arrive home to a mess, but the ranch was in surprisingly good shape. Not only that, but his father was busy. He had to give his dad credit - he had a lot of friends and a hell of a lot more night and weekend plans than himself. Chucho was even casually seeing a woman he met at the pharmacy two months ago.

Javier was wallowing in self-pity when he heard a man and woman's voices a few feet away discussing which cheeses they should buy that would best complement the crackers they had waiting for them at home.

He glanced up and saw the man and woman holding hands and gazing at one another like they were madly in love. Something sharp twisted in his chest at the display, so he tore his eyes away to focus on a package of bread he held in his hands, doing his best to ignore that familiar twitch in his fingers, the one that wanted to lead his hand to his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes that wasn't there.

"Hey, buddy, excuse us," the man's voice said, cutting through Javier's fog. His eyes snapped up and after a moment of confusion, realized he was in the happy couple's way. He dropped the bread and stepped back with a tight smile, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and turned away.

It took all of thirty seconds to realize he was completely surrounded by happy couples picking out flowers, fresh produce, and unique trinkets sold by locals. He normally wouldn't care. His focus lately had been entirely fixed on his father and the ranch, surprising even himself that women were the furthest thing from his mind. But something Chucho said that morning must have gotten under his skin because on that particular day, he felt lonely. Out of place. Tainted.

He saw a few people doing a double take as they passed by, no doubt recognizing him and whispering to their partner about his exploits. And just like that, it all felt like too much. The sun was too bright, the scent of apples and cinnamon was too heavy, the laughter was too loud.

He didn't belong there.

Javier swiveled around on his heel, deciding in that moment he would rather wait by his father's truck for an hour than subject himself to... whatever was happening to him. He managed to take one step when a pair of arms wrapped around his bicep, surprising him when he looked down to find a pair of bright beautiful eyes staring back up at him.

"I need your help," you whispered, fingers digging urgently into his arm. Immediately, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he scanned the crowd for danger. When you realized that you sounded a little alarmist, you quickly corrected yourself.

"Not like that. My ex is standing right behind you and I need you to play along because-"

You didn't get to finish your sentence and Javi hardly had a chance to process what you just said because the next thing he knew, your eyes flickered over his shoulder and you plastered a fake smile across your face.

"Charlie, hi!" you gushed, clinging to Javi's arm.

"Hey," a shorter man with light brown hair replied slowly, followed by your name. Javier repeated your name over and over in his head while Charlie's eyes bounced between the two of you, the gears churning. Even Javi could see the look of disappointment slide across his face.

"I've been thinking about you, wondering if you changed your number, but..." Charlie trailed off weakly. Then, for some reason, Javier stood up a little straighter when a flash of annoyance shot through him. Who the hell did this guy think he was? For all Charlie knew, you were in a loving and committed relationship with him. How dare he admit to trying to contact you with your boyfriend standing right there?

"Javier," he suddenly said, deepening his voice and stretching out an arm while simultaneously giving Charlie a stern look that said back off.

"Sorry!" you exclaimed from his side. "Charlie, this is my boyfriend, Javier."

Javi puffed up his chest and shook the man's hand a little harder than he usually would, secretly enjoying the look of discomfort on his face.

"Hey, man, nice to meet you," he replied, then Javi saw it. The flash in his eyes, the double take, the familiar look of someone trying to place who he was.

Javier cleared his throat and slid his arm out of your grasp, only to drape it protectively around your shoulders instead. Much to his delight, you leaned into his side and rested your hand on his chest, your touch making his heart unexpectedly flutter.

"Is there something wrong?" you asked Charlie innocently while batting your lashes. Slowly, your ex shook his head and forced an awkward smile.

"No, just... just happy to see you. Glad you're doing well."

"We're great," you replied. Javi's lips twitched and he had to look away. For just a moment, he wasn't the pathetic single guy at the Farmers' Market. For those few minutes, he was yours.

"Alright, well, I'll see you around I guess," Charlie said as he took a single step backwards. His eyes slid to Javi and he added, "Nice to meet you."

"Take care," he called after Charlie, his arm remaining around your shoulders until he slinked back into the crowd. You let out a huge sigh of relief and stepped out from under his hold, Javi's side instantly feeling cooler from the lack of contact.

"Thank you so much," you said, gazing up at him while you readjusted the bag over your shoulder. "You're, like, the only other person here without someone so I figured you were a safe bet, I hope you don't mind."

Javi smiled. So he wasn't the only one who noticed all the adoring couples. "Not at all. Is he bothering you? I know some guys down at the station-"

"No! Oh, god, no, nothing like that," you exclaimed with a giggle. "He's harmless, he just can't accept it's over, you know?"

"Yeah," he replied, but he didn't know. Not really. Not when he filled the past several years of his life with quick trysts.

You quirked an eyebrow at him, scanning his face for something, and then he felt that familiar churning in his stomach begin. You were about to connect the dots, about to recognize him for who he really was, so he dropped his gaze to the ground. But then your next question took him by surprise.

"How do you know people at the station? Are you a cop?"

He dragged his eyes up to meet yours again, searching for any sign that you were messing with him, but he found none. Just genuine curiosity.

"No," he replied, then awkwardly cleared his throat and shifted his weight. "Well, I used to be, but not here. I work on a ranch now with my Pops."

"Oh, that sounds nice. How kind of you to help out your dad," you said with a sweet smile that held him in a trance for a moment.

"Uh, y-yeah," Javi stammered before tearing his gaze away. "Seems like he doesn't need me as much as I thought, though."

You laughed again, the sound like music to his ears.

"I'm sure that's not true. I bet you're very helpful. You helped me today, so, there's that," you reminded him, leaning forward a little bit and biting your lip playfully. Were you flirting with him?

"That was nothing," Javi replied sheepishly. His mind began to race, trying to desperately think of ideas to keep you around before it became clear his usefulness had come to an end. Then, to his delight, you came up with an answer all by yourself.

"Well, do you mind continuing to help me? Because I wanted to buy some pumpkins and a hay bale for my front porch -"

"Yes," he responded almost immediately. The eagerness in his voice made you both blush and you reached out for his hand.

"My hero."

He grinned and let his fingers lace together with yours, your warmth spreading to his palm as you walked hand in hand through the market. Javi couldn't stop smiling. He was still surrounded by couples, all the smiling and happy faces, but now he didn't feel so out of place. Now he blended right in with everyone else because he had you by his side, leading him around to different vendors to show him something you found interesting or strange. And in those ten short minutes, he realized he wanted to hear it all. He wanted to know why you wrinkled your nose when you passed by some eggplants, or smiled fondly when you saw some colorful homemade crafts.

You suggested getting some hot chocolate and finding a spot to sit down, something he felt foolish for not thinking of first, but at least he had the good sense to insist on buying while he waved you off to find an empty bench.

"So, Javier," you began, saying his name in a way that made warmth bloom in his chest. "You said you used to be a cop and now you work on a ranch. Is there a story there or were you just looking to shake things up?"

He squinted at you over his hot chocolate, like he was trying to figure out if it was possible you really didn't know who he was. But you just kept looking at him so sweetly, your fingers curled around the paper cup, your lips blowing air over the liquid to cool it down, giving absolutely no indication you were being dishonest.

"Do you really not know who I am?" he blurted out. Your eyebrows shot up and you cocked your head to the side.

"Should I?"

Javi smirked and leaned back on the bench in disbelief.

"No. Well, not necessarily. Guess I'm just used to it."

"Used to... people recognizing you?" you asked. He nodded and figured now he was in too deep, so he told you. He told you about Escobar and the Cali Cartel while leaving out a few of the sensitive details, details that still haunted him at night. He didn't tell you why he wasn't a hero, he didn't tell you about Los Pepes. He didn't tell you how all the pain and lives lost made hardly any difference.

He didn't tell you he felt like a complete failure every time he saw those damn boats cruise by the ranch.

"Oh," you finally murmured when he stopped talking. He chewed anxiously on his lower lip, waiting for your reaction. But after you took a moment to absorb what he said, you brightened up and shrugged.

"I'm so glad you're working on a ranch, now. It sounds much safer."

He slowly nodded in agreement.

"Except when the cows get hungry, they get a little pushy."

You giggled and a wide smile stretched across his face.

"Jav! There you are," Chucho's voice called from a few feet away, putting a quick end to both your laughter. His heart sank when he realized his time with you was about to end.

"Pops," Javi said in greeting. You both stood from the bench to face him, ignoring the mischievous look on his father's face when he introduced you. Javi pulled nervously at his hair when he ran his fingers through the thick locks, scrambling to figure out what to say after Chucho announced he was ready to leave.

"Wait, I promised I'd help carry the pumpkins and hay-" he began, grateful that he thought of something to prolong your time together. Your eyes dropped shyly to the ground and you lowered your voice.

"I didn't actually come here to buy that stuff, I was just looking for a reason to keep talking to you."

His father coughed into his fist and hitched his thumb over his shoulder. "I'll meet you at the truck, m'hijo."

Javi nodded and he may have said something but for the life of him, he couldn't remember. His heart was thudding too loudly in his chest at your confession. You liked him. You wanted to keep him around.

"Well, uh, it was great meeting you," he said, thumb and forefinger swiping over his mustache. You smiled up at him, murmuring your agreement and thanking him again for saving you from Charlie.

Do it. Do it, you coward.

But he couldn't. His nerves got the best of him and he took a couple steps backwards.

"Maybe I'll see you around," he said, cringing at how stupid he sounded. You tried to hide the disappointed look on your face when you gave him a little wave, then turned back to the bench to collect your bag and hot chocolate.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

He shook his head at himself as he began to slowly walk in the direction of the parking lot. His hands balled up into fists at his sides, his anger and disgust with himself growing with each heavy step. He thought he knew everyone in town, thought everyone knew him. Or, at least, of him and his reputation. If it wasn't his work in Colombia, then the rest of the town would have remembered how he left Lorraine. He thought he had to hide away on the ranch to avoid the attention and scrutiny, and he was content enough to do that. But now? The thought of going back home to his quiet little life, knowing he would spend countless days wondering about you made him suddenly stop dead in his tracks and spin around.

He spotted you walking in the opposite direction, your off-white tote back draped over your shoulder, about to disappear into the crowd. Panic clawed at his throat and he broke out into a jog, calling your name as he made his way closer and ignoring the looks he got from strangers as he went.

When you heard him, you immediately swiveled around and broke out into a smile, looking just as relieved as he felt.

"Hey," he said, slightly short of breath when he slowed his pace to a stop in front of you.

"Hi," you replied, gazing up at him with those beautiful eyes he would dream about later instead of the nightmares that usually plagued him.

"I meant to - can I get your number? I'd like to take you out sometime, if you-"

"Yes!" you cried out excitedly, making both of you laugh. He handed you his phone, then wiped his sweaty palms over the backs of his jeans and watched while you entered your number. You handed the device back to him with a dazzling smile and he felt his nerves start to settle.

"I'll call you," he promised, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

"You better, Javier," you teased with a poke to his shoulder.

It might have been the way your eyes sparkled when you looked at him or the sweet way you said his name, but before he had a chance to overthink it, he leaned down and pressed his lips lightly against yours. He felt you melt into him once the shock wore off, and his lips curved into a smile before pulling away.

"You taste like chocolate," he said softly, mouth still hovering over yours, and you giggled when you swiped the pad of your thumb over his lower lip.

"So do you."

He grinned and forced his feet to move, walking backwards a few steps so he could continue to smile at you like a fool until he finally had to turn around before he ran into someone, but not before shooting you a quick wink just to hear you laugh one more time.

As he walked through the farmers' market, already dreading all the questions Chucho would be firing his way the entire ride home, he looked around at the happy couples in a completely different light. His stomach no longer churned and his chest no longer ached when he saw them kiss or laugh, because with any luck, he might just find himself in their shoes soon enough.

Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️

#javier pena fluff #javier pena fic #javier pena x you #javier pena x reader #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena narcos #narcos fanfiction #jolabrew + withcheese #coffee house fall challenge

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fastandcarlos · 1 day

Text

Best Nurse Ever : ̗̀➛ Lando Norris

summary: after a nasty crash over the weekend, lando is relying on you to help him get better again

As the door shut and you waved goodbye to Oscar, the smile on Lando’s face disappeared. Laid out on the couch, leg upright, Lando couldn’t help but stare with envy as the two of you walked through your apartment with ease, Oscar free to go outside again, whilst Lando was stuck within the same four walls.

When he injured his leg you knew he wasn’t going to take it well, bedrest was the worst scenario Lando could’ve dreamt of, and now here he was, barely able to move himself off of the sofa without screaming in pain.

The figure before you was one that you didn’t recognise, all his energy and enthusiasm had gone and was replaced by frustration and desperation. You were trying your best for him, doing what you could to help Lando’s recovery, but it was going to be a long way to go before he was back to his usual self.

You walked through the apartment, sitting on the end of the sofa as you placed your hand against Lando’s foot, making sure that you were careful to not catch part of the foot that would end up causing more pain for Lando.

“Everything good?” You asked, offering Lando a faint smile.

His head nodded as he wore a weak smile, but you could see straight through it. Recovery was already proving to be a lot harder than Lando could have ever imagined, he was used to living life at two hundred miles an hour, and now he was barely moving at one.

“Shall I give you some space?” You offered as Lando remained quiet. You could tell he was trying to keep it together, and with you clearly more able to move than Lando, you didn’t want to sit somewhere that you weren’t wanted.

Lando’s head shook as he tried to encourage the smile on his face to grow, not wanting you to ever feel as if he didn’t want you around. He loved having you there, even if he hated the fact that you were having to run around after him.

You could tell he was lost in thought still, his eyes staring down at the floor debating whatever was going on in his head to himself. “It’s going to get easier you know Lan, each day you’re already starting to make good progress.”

“I’m not used to just sitting and doing nothing,” he sighed, snapping himself out of his thoughts. “These exercises are killing me, usually they’re like a tame warm up for a workout.”

“I know it’s frustrating, but that’s what’s helping you heal,” you reminded him, reaching out to take a hold of your hand. “Everyone is here to help you; they care and want to see you get better.”

“I hate it,” Lando huffed, “I’m the one supposed to be taking care of you.”

Your head shook as Lando spoke, “we’re a team and we take care of each other. It’s far from ideal to be injured, especially with how fast paced you usually are, but we’ve just got to crack on. Sure, it’s a little bump in the road, but it doesn’t mean everything just comes to a stop.”

“How do you manage to make even this sound positive?”

“Because we can’t change it,” you chuckled, moving closer towards Lando. “There’s no point sitting and dwelling on something you can’t change; we’ve just got to try and be positive about what comes next.”

“Thank you,” Lando whispered, stretching his leg out slightly to try and wake it back up again. “I know there are some pretty cool nurses at the hospital, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re the best nurse ever.”

Your eyes rolled at Lando’s compliment, nudging your hand against his other leg. He chuckled back at you, knowing exactly how you were going to react before he even said anything, never failing to catch you out with his cheeky remarks.

“You’re going to heal and be alright Lando,” you assured him.

“I know, I just wish I could be alright now, not weeks down the line,” he frowned, squeezing against your hand. “I need to remember to walk before I start running though.”

You nodded in agreement, “you need to stop being so hard on yourself, these things happen.”

Lando knew that you were right, despite how stubborn he was. He didn’t ask to get injured, but there was very little he could do about it now. “The first race is on Saturday; do you think we could do something? I don’t feel like sitting and watching it knowing that I can’t be there to complete.”

You immediately nodded, anticipating this from Lando. As the build-up for after the summer was starting, Lando was finding it harder to listen to the headlines and watch the videos knowing that he wasn’t able to be there and be part of it.

“What sort of thing did you have in mind for us to do?”

“I was thinking cuddles and pretending that only we exist.”

“We can do that,” you laughed, watching his eyes light up. “I’m sure that Oscar would still like to know that you’re cheering for him though. The constructors is still on, and regardless you’ve been a part of getting the team there.”

“I’ll text him,” Lando promised you, “but I can’t bring myself to watch knowing that someone else is driving my car. I only want to be involved in F1 when I can be part of it, I don’t want to watch it knowing that I’m just going to sit here feeling jealous of everyone else.”

A sympathetic smile appeared on your face, “let’s spend that time focusing on your recovery instead and getting you back there even quicker.”

“I’d like that,” Lando mused, watching as you stood up, moving to sit beside Lando instead, allowing your hand to brush through his messy hair in front of his face.

“I’m proud of you for handling this so well, I can’t begin to imagine how tricky this is,” you told him. “I’m going to be right here with you getting you through the next few weeks, you’re going to be sick of the sight of me nagging you.”

Lando’s head shook in protest, “I could never get sick of the sight of you, being at home with you is the only pro of having this stupid injury.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you chuckled, as Lando nodded, assuring you that that was how it was intended. “I can’t believe an injury is what it’s taken for me to get you all to myself.”

“I’m always right by your side,” Lando assured you, “only now it means that I get to annoy you much more than usual.”

“You’re right...you are pretty annoying,” you teased.

Lando’s eyes went wide, “hey...I’m injured, you’re supposed to be being nice to me.”

“I’m always nice to you Lan.”

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

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nickfowlerrr · 3 days

Text

didn’t know if you’d care if i came back

pairing: bucky barnes x curvy!reader

warnings: sweetness. tiny bit of angst but mostly fluff fluff fluff. grumpy x grumpy sweethearts who haven’t defined the relationship lol. cuddling. blink and you’ll miss it mention of body insecurities. uhhh if i’m missing something that should be tagged pls let me know!

words: 1.7k

notes: idk where this came from but if you’re noticing repeating themes in my writings - no you’re not.

anyway! thank you in advance for reading, i hope you enjoy. as always, reblogs and comments are welcome and so appreciated! let me know your thoughts 🩵

“Get out,” you speak, your ever present annoyance clear in your voice while your stone face is completely unaffected as you type on your phone, not bothering to so much as glance at the door. You’re comfy in your bed while your space heater hums and you keep typing away as you hear the door click shut once again.

Your blanket is pulled and your bed shifts beneath you as you type faster, working to finish your thought before it slips away completely. Still not looking at anything but your screen,

“Get off my bed,” you demand to no avail.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, his own constant annoyance audible as he easily wraps you up in his strong arms. Your soft body presses against his as you maintain focus on your phone, rolling into his hold while maneuvering your device from hitting him. One last sentence and you’re done. You hit save and then let your phone drop after locking it.

“What happened to hello?” he asks harshly as he holds you close.

“You were busy,” you shrug matter of factly, face in his chest as you get comfortable.

“Look at me,” he demands, forcing you to angle your face to meet his eye as you sigh with a roll of your eyes.

“What?” you humph. “I’ve been gone three days, you haven’t even had time to miss me.”

“I don’t care if you’ve only been gone three minutes,” he squeezes your jaw a bit, eliciting a sharp breath from you as your gaze softens up at him. “If you’re not right next to me, doll, I’m missing you.”

The sincerity and warmth in his normally icy blue eyes has your heart melting just a little more. He missed you… he really missed you?

It’s atypical for you, but you don’t have anything to say in refute as you stare back at him - a part of you waiting to see something that will give him away and confirm your suspicions that he’s lying. The other just wanting to commit that look in his eyes and the gorgeous color to memory.

He missed you.

No one’s ever missed you before…not really.

He came to your room of his own free will, just to see you? He’s holding you so close and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so warm or welcome.

Or wanted.

And he’s not even trying to get you out of your clothes. He’s just here. To be here. To see you. Because he missed you.

He missed you.

“And for the record,” he continues speaking, interrupting your thoughts, “I won’t ever be too busy for you.” His eyes soften even more as he notices the growing emotion welling in them as you work to maintain your facade of careless, feel nothing, grump. He knows the feeling. He knows you.

He brushes his lips softly on your forehead and he feels your fingers tighten ever so slightly in his shirt as you let yourself relax a bit more into him, “Not for you,” he mumbles his promise.

You fight a shudder as you blink your eyes, batting your lashes in an attempt to fight the sting of welling tears before they have a chance to fall. Damn this man and his uncanny ability to have your walls crumbling around him within mere minutes.

You’re still not even sure how this all started. It was one night together on a mission.

And then another night together back home.

And then another.

And another.

And then an afternoon together. And then a morning.

And then a full day.

Into the next.

And then it was sharing beds every now and again.

And dinners.

And then more and more frequent sleepovers. And now it’s? You aren’t sure.

It went from just desperate late night sex to…to whatever this is.

But, whatever it is, you think it might be for the better. Bucky helps you feel…better.

Safe.

Cared for.

Loved.

You push that thought away. That’s just…too much.

Isn’t it?

You cuddle into him despite yourself, nuzzling into his chest for comfort.

“Sorry.”

It’s nearly a whisper, but he hears you. His big hand rubbing soothingly up and down your back as he keeps you to him.

“I wan-,” you bite your tongue, swallowing the lump growing in your throat.

I wanted to, you were going to say, to see you first. Just didn’t want to bug you.

You hear his response in your mind as you thoughtlessly press your lips. ‘You’re not a bug. You’re not a burden.’ You know what he’ll say, and you want to believe him. But you don’t think you can hear him say it right now without the damn breaking.

You try to clear your throat as you let your hands wander him and speak a little louder now,

“I missed you.”

He’s smiling softly, not that you can see it, as he grabs your hand gently caressing his side and brings it to his lips. Your gaze follows the movement curiously before you watch him kiss your hand. Your stomach flutters at the small act of affection.

Bucky tugs you closer and you lift your leg to hook over his, just wanting to be closer, to feel him more.

“And how dare you try to kick me out of my own room,” he scolds.

You laugh, real and true as you shove him a bit. “This is not your room,” you deny.

His toothy grin is infectious as he eyes you. “Oh yeah?” he says, reaching behind you to grab something, “then what’s my pillow doing in here?”

You freeze for half a second, he notices but doesn’t mention it, as your eyes widen ever so slightly. No, you think, you definitely put that back before you left.

You quirk a brow as you turn to see his pillow in his hand before he drops it back on the bed. You know you put his pillow back, and wait…that wasn’t even the pillow you had.

Why would his pillow be in here, unless…

“You slept in here?” you ask, your voice much softer than you intended as you look in his eyes.

His smirk has lightened drastically, but still gently tugs on the corner of his lips as he tries to read your thoughts. He nods a little, breaking eye contact for a quick moment as he wets his lips out of habit,

“I missed you.”

Your own lips quirk at the corner as you feel your heart swell.

“And you were due back here at four this morning,” he adds.

He was waiting for you.

You knew someone at the tower was monitoring the flight itinerary but you’d assumed it was Stark or Fury. Now you know it was him. And your heart somehow feels like it’s gonna burst out of your chest as your tummy tingles with something you don’t think you can actually name.

But it’s good.

Better than good.

Oh god.

Maybe it is love…

He turns to lay on his back and takes you with him as he does.

You groan a bit and try to shuffle off him, not wanting to crush him despite his super soldier status. He doesn’t let you, not that you’re surprised. He keeps his hands on you, one on your bent thigh and the other around your back, resting protectively on the curve of your waist meeting your hip.

He loves the feeling of your body on his, revels in your weight resting on top of him - in every circumstance. Your curves, your softness, your warmth.

You.

“Don’t even think about it,” he grumbles, letting his eyes close as he relaxes into the mattress. You sigh, staring at his contented face while his hands gently squeeze you comfortingly.

You watch him for a while, enraptured by his peaceful rest until you really feel his breaths even out. He’s sleeping like a baby as you lay on top of him and you can’t help your disbelieving titter. How this is comfortable for him, you’ll never know.

You let a hand touch his cheek gently, your fingers brushing his five o’clock shadow. You angle yourself to put a delicate kiss on his stubbly jaw. You don’t notice his nose twitch a bit or the tiniest furrow of his brow as you pull away.

Your fingers card through his hair as you admire him. You take a deep breath. If you can feel it, you can say it…

Another stuttered breath. “I,” you start, “I love you,” you murmur softly, sure he can’t hear you. You lean just a touch closer, lips just brushing his cheek. “I really love you.”

You feel a little proud of yourself as you pull away. You said it. You don’t know the last time you told someone you loved them. Can’t remember the last time you really felt it, or felt safe enough to say it. Sure, he’s sleeping, but still. You said it. And if you said it now, you know you can say it again. One day. When he’s awake. When you’re ready. You smile to yourself before you let your head rest on his chest, content now to sleep for a bit too in the comfort of his presence.

Bucky’s heart is beating so damn loudly he’s a little terrified you’ll hear it as you make yourself more comfortable atop him. He wants to squeeze you and tell you how much he loves you too, to kiss you til you’re dizzy and make sure you really understand just how deeply in love with you he is.

But he knows he wasn’t really meant to hear that just now. And despite that, he’s really glad that he did.

Because you love him.

You really love him.

He knows this is new to you, and you’re still trying to get used to it, to figure it all out, despite the fact that there’s no mystery here for you to solve. But he doesn’t mind moving at whatever pace you want or need. After so long, he never thought he’d find this. Never thought he’d feel this again.

And then came you.

You’re his perfect match. And his best friend.

And you love him.

Bucky’s never really felt lucky in his life. But here and now, with you starting to mumble softly as you lay on his chest, trusting him, loving him, well he’d consider himself the luckiest man in the world.

#i like to think reader is the only one who doesn’t know she’s explicitly dating bucky 😂#bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky barnes x plus size!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x grumpy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfic

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euthymiya · 2 days

Text

[ DUTIFUL, DEVOTED — FT. KAMISATO AYATO ]

SYNOPSIS: ayato falls first, unaware of the reason you’re so guarded. it’s not until you run into your former love does he realize the reason for the cold beginnings of your marriage

WORD COUNT: 2.3k words — not too long but when you consider it was meant to be a literal paragraph where i just share a concept…yeah. yeah.

INCLUDES: female wife reader ; arranged marriages ; temporary unrequited love ; reader is implied to come from an influential family ; reader has a former unnamed lover ; jealous ayato ; slightly insecure/bitter ayato ; very brief and vague smut but still 18+ minors do not interact ; mentions of fem receiving oral and fingering ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; implied multiple rounds and overstimulation ; typical references to morally gray ayato

NOTES: have to post this a second time :/ but cannot stop thinking about ayato who loses his mind realizing you’re his first love but he’s not yours

Ayato falls first. Hard.

It wasn’t ideal, the circumstances of your marriage. Your affections were hard to win—but after some rough beginnings, you slowly, surely start to form a romantic bond. He aches for you for a long, long time. To feel the warmth of your skin and the kindness in your gaze. To feel the softness of your lips and the tenderness of your care. He dreams of it most nights. And finally, when he’s earned the gift of your devotion, he falls impossibly harder.

It’s only once the two of you fall in love does he find out that you were once in love with someone else at the time of your engagement.

Your wedding happens very suddenly. Your father offers his precious jewel of a daughter as a token of your clan’s influence, all in exchange for some negotiations over the Yashiro commission affairs. Ayato knew you were intriguing at the very least since your wedding day. He can tell there’s more to you despite being seemingly obedient to your father’s wishes. It’s clear how unhappy you look with the whole affair—so he decides then and there that he’ll make you happy, treat you properly as a wife should be, show you love so that you don’t regret fulfilling your father’s wishes to join your clan with his.

But you make it difficult. For months, you make it difficult. You’re stubborn and just a little bratty when you want to be. You eat dinner before he’s arrived to your chambers after a long day of working, using it as an excuse to avoid meals with him. You’re out for strolls in the estate frequently but happen to be tired just when he has the time to spare to join you. You’re busy reading a book and happen to be at the most exciting part right when he’s free to come have a conversation with you. When you both need to make an appearance together, you’re stiff as you link arms—it’s a rare occasion as a whole, anyway, seeing as Ayato doesn’t show himself in public often, but he certainly doesn’t miss the way you seem extra on edge to be seen with him.

It’s not until the first time you witness him evade an assassination attempt do you start to shift in your demeanor. A little spooked by the blood he shows up covered in, you stay close enough to keep an eye on him for the night. Far enough away that it’s subtle, but certainly not too far. You’re softer with him from then on, a little cautious of what he does and who he trusts. Sure, you may not love your husband, but he is still the man you have vowed your loyalty too—it leaves you at a constant sense of unease to know his life is in persistent danger.

So you question where he’s off to more. You check him subtly over for injuries or tears in his robes. You slowly join him for meals sometimes and when he asks, you cave and let him accompany your strolls. Sometimes you willingly tell him about your book—you’ll lend it for him to read too, if he asks nicely. He notices you’re a little extra kind to him when he’s read your suggestions of what to read from the Yae Publishing House and can hold a discussion with you about the novels. And slowly….well, slowly, you’re prouder to be his wife. Happy, even.

Dare you say you’ve even fallen in love.

It’s not until you run into your old lover in the markets on a rare day off with Ayato does it become clear to him why you were so distant in the earlier days of your marriage. Why you were so unhappy to be wed to him. Why he couldn’t seem to earn your companionship let alone your affections. The man breathes your name, a touch too fond with a concerning amount of longing in his voice that makes Ayato stiffen. And your face says it all—the melancholic regret written all over it.

You pause. Linger your gaze over the man’s face for a moment before murmuring, “I trust you’ve been taking care? It was lovely to see you—I’ll be off, now.” Ayato doesn’t like the way your eyes hesitate for a moment before it pulls away from this mystery man. There’s a sadness to your pupils as you stare down at your feet, fingers gripping his hand tighter as you drag Ayato along.

“Who was that?” He asks.

“Oh, just someone I used to know,” you whisper.

He doesn’t like the vagueness of that answer. And more than that, he doesn’t like the sad, far away and guilt-ridden look on your face for days to come. Sometimes, at night, he can feel you tossing and turning beside him as you can’t seem to sleep. He stays carefully still, trying not to alert you that he’s awake when you inevitably cup his cheek and press a long, lingering kiss to his forehead—almost like it’s more for yourself than for him.

Ayato is not stupid. He knows that man means something to you. Meant something to you, he has to correct his own thoughts—he knows he’s the only man in your heart now. He’ll die before he faces a reality where that is not the truth. And if he’d wanted, he’d have dug up all he could about that man by now—but he wants to hear it from you. He wants to know from your own lips and your own words that this man is not someone who owns the strings of your hearts.

“You’ve been off,” he murmurs casually one day, “Ever since that run in with that strange man. Do tell, is there something I am missing here, my love?”

“No, my lord,” you say hesitantly, “He is just…a man of my past life, that is all.”

“A friend, perhaps?” He asks, lips curling into a cunning, bitter smile.

He’s caught on. More than anything, Ayato is intelligent. Exceedingly, painfully so. It’s how he’s come as far as he has. He was a smaller, frailer child in his earlier years, someone that earned the scoffs of those around him when they’d realized this boy was meant to be an heir.

Glory had fallen from the Kamisato clan when he was just a boy. Power had consumed every corner of his estate by the time he was a young man.

He’d done it alone. Sure, he is no longer that frail nor little boy of his youth—the small arms have been replaced by muscled biceps and the tiny frame is broader and wider now. But above all, his intelligence from the shadows has carried him as far as it has.

And he’s smart—he knows his wife and her tells. Ayato knows how you look when you’re in love. You look at him that way—he can tell there are shattered fragments of a broken love still littered on the tiles of your past.

“You could say that,” you say carefully. “We…knew each other well.”

“Do you wish to scare me?” He chuckles. Dry. Humorless. Almost acrid tasting on his tongue. His laugh is anything but joyful. “It almost feels like I should compete for your heart.”

“Don’t say that, Ayato,” you huff. Your fingers tremble a little when they grasp at his, linking them delicately as you give his hand a squeeze. “I am a dutiful wife, am I not?”

“Dutiful is not always the same as devoted,” he murmurs.

“Oh?” You quirk an amused brow, “Do I not seem as though I am devoted to you?”

“You have been off,” he repeats. His voice is a touch more vulnerable now. Something Ayato does not know how to be—but if there is one thing his father has left with him before passing, it is that love is not pursued from the safety of shadows and strength. It is best pursued on your knees, where you are weak and susceptible to pain. “Ever since you have run into him. Any husband would be rightfully worried at such a discouraging sign.”

“My husband has nothing to worry about,” you whisper. You mean it.

That much, he can tell—but it’s not enough.

“Tell me who he was,” he demands softly, “Tell me so I know what history I must rewrite.”

You laugh. It’s a fond, cherished sound. He feels his heart relax at least minimally at the melody of your joy.

“I loved him once,” you admit. The hurt on his face is palpable—raw enough that you sigh, and stroke his cheek. “Not as much as I love you now.”

"Bittersweet it is indeed," he murmurs, "to be not my wife’s first love, but the greater one. I cannot decide if I am fortunate or doomed."

“Love is a complicated thing, Ayato,” you murmur, “I feel fortunate to have loved at all. And to love the one I am wed to now.”

“He still loves you,” he all but grumbles. You don’t enjoy seeing your husband upset, but the Gods need not make him so precious when he is. You fight back a smile as you lean to press a kiss against his jaw.

“I never got to tell him of my marriage until much later. I suppose the guilt of breaking another’s heart has never quite stopped haunting me.”

“Is that why you did not like me?”

You throw him an amused look. “Who says I did not like you?”

“I could tell,” he mumbles petulantly, “I am a wise man, I shall have you know.”

“Perhaps not wise when it comes to the ladies, my lord,” you grin, cupping his cheek. Gently, you press a kiss to his forehead, leaning closer as he grips at your waist. “I did not dislike you. Ever.”

“Then why be so cold in the beginnings of our relationship?” He presses.

“I felt disloyal,” you admit. He quirks a questioning brow up at you. “I…I was troubled that my husband seemed to have charms that I was not immune to…despite being in love with another. It was conflicting, you see. I was not ready to accept that perhaps….perhaps loving you was meant to be in my nature.”

He blinks, registering your words for a moment before a smug, arrogant little smile tugs at the corners of his lips. You roll your eyes at the way he gives you a sly look.

“Ah,” he nods, “So it was my charms that drove you away? Dare I say my wife was falling much earlier than I had assumed?”

“No,” it’s your turn to grumble. “I did not like you.”

“That is not what you claimed but moments ago," he goads, shifting to loom over your body. In his gaze, hunger and desperation mingle with the faintest trace of fear as he softly declares, "I shall be your final love. It will be I, or no one at all.”

“An arrangement I find most agreeable,” you tease softly, your eyes warming with affection. “If you are to be the only man I shall love, then I count myself fortunate indeed—so long as you remain ever deserving of such devotion.”

“Shall I earn your devotion now?” He hums, hand grazing lower, lower, lower.

Your breath hitches before you whisper, “Go on, then. Earn my affections, my dear husband.”

“As you wish, my darling wife.”

He’s needy that night. Hard and leaking into his pants for quite some time as he earns your body’s approval first with his tongue and next with his fingers.

Like a good husband, he thinks—one who puts you above himself. No one will care to put you above all else the way Ayato would. He thinks Inazuma itself is not as important as you. So, like a dutiful husband, it’s not until you’ve come undone a second time does he prod the thick, warm tip of his cock into your folds.

He fucks you well, too—enough times that you’ve lost count and can’t discern much outside of the way he’s all but whimpering into your neck himself.

“Just one more,” he pleads, desperately rolling his hips into you, sweaty and quivering over your body as he buries himself deep into your cunt. “P-please, my love. Just one more.”

“Are you sure you can even handle it yourself?” You tease. It’s a silly effort, though—one more thrust of his hips as you squealing under him as your eyes roll back.

“I can handle more of you any time,” he grins smugly.

You both fall apart not long after that. His rips thrust in a quick, sloppy pace before he stills with a groan, emptying one last load into your abused cunt. You quiver around his length for what feels like eternity, coming undone around him once more.

“Ayato,” you sob, chanting his name as though it’s the only one you know. (It is. For tonight, it is.)

“My love,” he responds shakily, moaning into your neck as another wave of his orgasm pulses through his body. “Promise me you’ll love only me. I fear the lengths I would go if you shouldn’t are not pleasant.”

He slumps over you, tired. Spent. Stubbornly in love. Scarily devoted. You are the only reason he is tethered to the ounce of sanity he has.

“You are most needy when you’re envious,” you laugh, stroking his hair as he huffs into your neck, nuzzling closer. “Do keep in mind that should you love another apart from me, I shall take equally as unreasonable lengths.”

“I have vowed to you my life,” he murmurs, “Since the day I was wed to you.”

“And I have done the same,” you hum, delicately raking your nails over his back, scratching soothingly over the skin, feeling every mole that catches along the way.

“Then your friend shall be made aware of his place in your past,” he says contently.

You glance at the side of his head from the corner of your eyes, rolling them when he refuses to look up from your neck and meet your gaze. “Be nice, Ayato.”

“I only intend to drop a friendly visit,” he says innocently.

“You are anything but friendly,” you snort.

He grins before pressing a kiss into your neck, right over your pulse point. Right over the proof of your beating heart that belongs to him.

If ur ex has to move somewhere far away in inazuma and start a life where he can’t run into you so you never have to see him again…that’s got nothing to do with ayato he don’t know nothing about that!!! He’s innocent!!!

#writing tag #ayato x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #ayato x you #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #kamisato ayato x you #ayato smut #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #kamisato ayato smut

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gutsby · 2 days

Text

Stupid Prizes

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Before you head back to college, your dad wants to go on one last family outing: the county fair. The only problem? Your secret fuckbuddy, Joel, is there.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky, unprotected p-in-v. Joel pining for you while your dad is beside him, oblivious for now. Semi-public sex (on a ferris wheel—don’t ever do that). Gross misuse of a candy apple. Age gap. Jealous Joel. Teasing. Angst(!) Mentions of infidelity/abandonment.

Word count: 10.0k

The gingham dress was your best idea yet.

For Joel, nothing could’ve been worse.

He’d cum down your throat no more than ten minutes ago, and with just a glimpse of your new getup bounding down the stairs—you’d had to change after he painted your last one white—Joel almost inhaled his Heineken.

He coughed and sputtered and hacked the beer back up while you strolled past the sofa and grinned at your dad.

“Ready to go, old man?”

It was just a short red frock with a sweetheart neckline.

The fabric cinched at the waist and flowed with every step you would take. Turning slightly to toy with the hem, and teasing the only eyes on you, you corrected yourself:

“Sorry…old men, I mean.”

Something like amusement flashed in Joel’s eyes.

Didn’t seem to mind this old man’s cock down your—

“I was born ready, kid,” your dad answered, still messing with something on his key ring, “How ‘bout you, Miller?”

“Yessir.” Joel stood.

He recalled you saying something similar before opening your mouth in the guest bathroom just fifteen minutes earlier. Joel’s cock twitched in his jeans at the memory, and his cheeks might’ve tinged a little, remembering how fast he’d cum. You’d only smiled and sucked your thumb, getting a taste of the residue that had missed your chest.

“Quite a mess you made there, Joel.”

And you repeated those words, at length, with only you and him to know what it had meant to you both before.

You gestured to the smattering of crushed potato chips on his shirt, and your grin got bigger. Joel grew redder.

“Yeah…” he mumbled, brushing the crumbs off his front. He wasn’t nearly as fast with the comebacks as he was with other kinds of comings and goings, and he knew it. He set the bag of Lays aside and seemed ready to leave.

But when he’d licked the salt off his lips and caught you staring—when he saw his friend go back to the kitchen:

“I had to be quick,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, “You know better’n anyone what a messy eater I am.”

Of course you knew that. Joel winked at you, and you winked back, mostly making fun of the boomer move. He reached for you—the edge of your skirt scarcely hanging a fraction of the way down your thighs—and he opened his mouth to speak again, when there was the sound of heavy boots at the threshold of the room. Joel leaned past your body and snagged the bag of chips instead.

“Food for the road?” He turned to his friend.

“All you,” your dad replied, smiling and waving the chips off as he went for the front door, “I swear your stomach’s a bottomless pit, man. Eatin’ me outta house and home.”

Joel looked at you when your dad was past you both.

House and home ain’t the only thing I’m gonna—

“Let’s go,” you chirped, fast, “I call shotgun!”

This would be a long, long day, no doubt.

The county fair had been his friend’s idea. One last day of ‘family fun’ before his little girl went back to school out East, and Joel hadn’t seen Bellville in years, so he’d asked him if he wanted to join. After a shared, brief stint in abstinence camp, the answer should’ve been clear:

‘NO.’

But Joel hadn’t learned very much from the Fireflies in the less than 72 hours he’d spent living—and also fucking you—there, so he’d nodded and said ‘Okay.’

Now you were twenty minutes out from the fairgrounds with a near-depleted tank of gas in the truck, obliged to make a quick pit stop at a Texaco. It was the first time he’d been alone with you since you’d set off from Austin. The second his friend was gone and headed inside to buy a pack of smokes, he heard a seatbelt come undone.

Earlier, he had raced you and beat you to the car to lay claim on the passenger seat, so you’d been in the back this whole time. He barely saw you before he felt you, climbing over the center console and then into his lap.

Straddling him while the Eagles played faintly overhead.

“Feel fucking insane not being able to touch you right now,” you huffed against his lips, kissing him hungrily.

Joel groaned. Felt your lower half grind into his. Almost rutted his hips up and yearned to have you seated on something other than just his denim-clad crotch when he sucked in a breath and remembered where he was. He nudged your hips and fisted the fabric in his hand.

“You in this dress ain’t helpin’ me either,” he growled.

You grinned against him, then hiked the red-and-white material up your legs a little more. Joel felt something like a shockwave when he saw what was underneath it.

Or, rather, what wasn’t there at all: your panties.

“Bathroom quickie?” you said, already breathless, “I’ll tell my dad I got cramps. I’ve been so wet this whole ti—”

“Darlin’.”

Joel’s eyes had drifted down to the place where your body and his were touching—rubbing—now. Even from this limited vantage point, he could see a glistening patch sticking from your bare seam to his jeans, and it was pooling on the fabric. Practically oozing out of your cunt while you rocked your hips and begged him please.

“Please, just one. I’ll be good the rest of the day, daddy.”

“Fuck,” Joel hissed.

His pupils were wide, and his mind was seriously considering it. Stupidly so, he reckoned; your dad was bound to be back any second, and surely you couldn’t both be gone for more than five minutes without raising suspicions. It was a reckless endeavor, he already knew.

And when he saw his old friend strolling out the front doors of the Texaco, his decision was made for him.

He watched you scramble off his lap and back to your seat, body quick and lithe and giggling the whole way.

“Gonna get me murdered, girl,” Joel panted, gruff.

Your own smile didn’t waver; you just settled back into the middle seat and let your gaze trail out the window, trying to fix your eyes on something to calm you down.

You already had the sense that nothing would. Your teeth bit your bottom lip between them to forestall the threat of another laugh while your dad approached the vehicle.

From the radio, ‘Life in the Fast Lane’ kept playing.

As old as they were, Joel Miller and your dad had a funny way of acting more like kids than you ever had, at any age. As your trio approached the wide, gleaming gates of the Austin County Fair, you saw your dad nudge Joel, and Joel shoved him back, and somewhere in the midst of all the ribbing, you heard your dad say, clear as day:

“If I’m takin’ a whole day off work, I’m gettin’ hammered.”

You knew by that tone this would an interesting afternoon, to say the least. You held your ticket tighter.

And for a moment, you wished you’d worn underwear. It’d been a split-second decision to peel them off before skipping downstairs, and it had worked well enough—Joel walking with a limp all throughout the parking lot and trying to shield the tent in his jeans—but now you were the one in greater danger still. Seeing your secret family-friend-with-benefits in his tight, light, heather grey shirt and jeans, hips adorned with a hefty belt and moving deliciously with each new step he took, you were transfixed. Left to watch him and gawk and grow wetter between the legs with every passing second, there was nothing you could do about it now. Likely sensing this, Joel raked a hand through his grey-flecked hair and hummed to himself. His bicep bulged through the sleeve.

“Nice little view, ain’t it?” he asked, nodding to the outline of a dozen shining rides and attractions ahead.

Go fuck yourself, Joel.

“Can’t wait to ride that.” You pointed to the ferris wheel, though the finger in your mind was aimed closer to him.

“Funnel cake,” your dad beamed, eyeing a nearby stand.

The three of you weren’t walking for much longer before he insisted on buying one. Joel had had a hankering for lemonade himself, so he’d fallen in line behind you and your dad. When it was your turn to order, you paused.

Then, pointing again:

“Can you get me one of those?”

You’d had to stand on tiptoes to see it inside the display, but from Joel’s own height, he was certain to have seen what you meant. While your dad shilled out the cash, not batting an eye, the man behind him clenched his jaw.

Candy apple, hon? Real fuckin’ mature.

Your eyes met his as soon as you’d turned, treat in hand.

I thought you liked seeing big things in my mouth, Joel.

He would’ve scowled if he wasn’t next in line—and your dad wasn’t walking so close behind, sniffing his food.

Joel ordered his drink, drank it fast, and found his thirst no better quenched than when he’d started. You’d sat across from him at the table and made sure of that.

You dragged your tongue up the sugar-coated apple just like you’d done to his shaft that morning and blinked, savoring the taste. Feigning innocence as he looked on.

And what else could he do? If not watch you, then peer at your father, furtively, and make sure he wasn’t able to see so much as a second of this little show you were putting on now. Joel glanced around you, too. No one else seemed to notice what was going on, even when your lips left a soft, sweet suction near the top of the apple, and he could’ve sworn he’d heard you moan.

It was just in his head. He was remembering how you’d done it that morning, mouth sinking down his length and whimpering when you’d reached the base. The way your eyes had watered, your free hand had reached between your legs, and your lips had welcomed him in; it was all burned in his memory, and not retreating any time soon.

Neither was the blood rushing to his dick, he reckoned.

You didn’t seem to care. Even when a bright pink river of spit and sugar trickled out of your mouth, you didn’t flinch. You let it slide down to your chin. Right before it reached the end of your face, and you were certain Joel’s gaze was glued to the spot, you licked a little bit of it off. You didn’t get it all in one go, so you shifted your snack to the other hand and then swiped your thumb under your lips. You brought it up to your mouth and sucked it, just like you’d done with Joel’s cum on it earlier that day.

Joel chucked his cup in the trash. Your dad took another bite of his deep-fried pastry and, talking between chews:

“That was fast.”

“Need’a stretch my legs,” Joel announced, abrupt.

He turned to you, and your thumb came out of your mouth. The frown on his face was unmistakable, though your father probably thought it was just from having to squint against the sun. Not because he was incensed.

Out for revenge.

“Ready to get wrecked, kiddo?” he asked you.

Your eyes widened, and your tongue quit licking.

What?

Then you saw him nod to some spot over your shoulder. You didn’t have the nerve to follow his gaze as he did.

Faintly, you could make out a smirk crossing his lips.

“Arcade’s over there. Unless you’re too scared.”

Your dad raised a dumbass, not a quitter.

You’d accepted Joel’s proposal without a second thought, and your father seemed pleased to have the chance to peruse the food stands and beer carts to his heart’s content. You’d set off quickly. Your candy apple was still in your hand when you saw your friend lean over.

Joel opened his mouth, and he took a big, angry bite.

“You’re insane,” he said after, words muffled by fruit.

You took your first steps inside the dark, cool building littered with machines and fun activities of every kind, and deep down, you were happy you’d had that treat. You took a bite yourself, then discreetly patted his ass through his jeans and told him, ‘Only for you, Miller.’

You weren’t sure why you’d said it. As soon as the words came out of your mouth, you regretted it, no matter how stupid and playful the message was meant to be read. But then Joel nudged you back—actually wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side.

His mouth was close to you, and you could feel the smile:

“Just how I like it.”

Your cheeks heated a little. You weren’t so fond of the intimate move—in public like this, even as dark as the arcade happened to be—but you couldn’t deny the flutter in your stomach. You swallowed the rest of your apple, and with it, any shred of emotion, or so you were hoping. You nudged Joel off of you under the guise of trying to point to something new, and his eyes followed.

“C’mon. At least pick something you’ve got half a shot of winning,” he said, swiftly. Sounding smug as he spoke.

You plodded on anyway, not hesitating at all.

“I’ve got more than half a shot,” you assured him, tone arguably twice as conceited, “Now if you’re scared—”

“You can’t use my own lingo against me, little girl.”

“Then nut up or shut up, old man.”

Joel scoffed. You chewed. The two of you approached the Skee-Ball machines with near identical looks of ambition and zeal, and sensing this tension wouldn’t dissipate with any more shit-talking, you got to work.

The first game was close. You beat him by less than ten points, and you guessed that that had been due in part to Joel’s own will. You saw him make more than two pitches so outrageously bad that you’d had to have guessed he was going easy on you. As soon as you felt that, you’d scowled. Pointed angrily at the scoreboard.

“You can’t just let me win, Miller!” you said, shrill.

Joel’s hands went up, and you knew he’d deny it all.

“No need to gloat, now, honey—”

“Fuck off,” you snapped, all while fighting back a smile, “Gimme your A game or don’t bother playing, honey.”

And he did.

The next game left you destroyed, roughly 900 to 320. You stepped back from the machine, feeling a frown start to form on your lips but knowing you’d asked for this, and just as Joel was about to lean in to offer a conciliatory hug, he had to stop. Both of you turned.

Somewhere behind you, you’d heard a voice.

It was young, male, and audibly amused.

“He really whooped your ass, huh?”

Your eyebrows raised as soon as you saw the source. Your scowl morphed into a smile, and your eyes were bright—too bright, almost. You ran over to hug the boy.

He was a boy, after all. Likely no more than half Joel’s weight soaking wet and wearing the biggest, dumbest grin that could only belong to a guy your age. He hugged you back, and his arms tightened around you. Comfily.

“Wade!” you gushed, squeezing him hard. You stepped back and looked him over, as if in shock, “It’s been…”

“Forever,” Too-comfy-cozy Wade finished for you.

Joel frowned.

“And here I thought you were gone away for good!” you laughed, “Went off to get that fancy Stanford degree—”

“—and you, in Boston—” the boy chimed in.

Before the reminiscing could go on much further, you remembered yourself and turned back to Joel. Still beaming as bright as you’d been when you first saw the kid, you gestured indistinctly, tongue-tied for a second.

“This— Joel, this is Wade Pritchett, one of my friends from high school,” you introduced him. Letting the two men—or, rather, mustached boy and muscled man—shake hands. Evidently, you were too stoked to notice.

“He moved out to Sacramento our senior year, and none of us thought— well, we— we figured we’d probably never see him again. Fuckin’ west coast hot shot he is.”

You smirked as you nudged his ribs, and something in Joel turned to month-old milk: sour, rancid, and heavy. His stomach turned inside him, and he hardly knew why. All he noticed was that he didn’t like the eyes you were making at him, and he hated the face Wade had for you.

Joel was just looking out for you, really.

You could do so much better than this douche.

“This is my friend,” you said to Wade, motioning back. Then, reconsidering just a second, “My dad’s friend.”

Joel didn’t like that.

Wade gave him a brief once-over and hardly seemed to see him at all. In that millisecond of a look, Joel saw it:

‘Old family friend. No worries there.’

Foolishly, Joel wished the chump could’ve seen what you’d been doing the night before—impaled on his cock and riding him as hard as your knees would allow you:

‘Daddy, please, daddy, daddy, daddy.’

“Joel?” Your voice cut in his mind like a knife.

Joel blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Okay if Wade joins?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

Not that it mattered now. Royal pain-in-the-ass Pritchett was already getting the machine next to yours set up.

Joel eyed him once more and tried to swallow his pride.

Somewhere along the way, it got stuck in his throat.

Three rounds was all he could take.

You on Wade, Wade on you—goading each other on in the most sly, flirtatious ways. Or maybe it was just Joel imagining that. Regardless, the man didn’t feel guilty at all when, at the conclusion of the third game, he’d tried to feign a casual tone and told you your dad would be expecting you back any minute, better wrap things up.

“He texted me like twenty minutes ago saying he’d be neck-deep in craft beer for an hour. I think we’re good,” you replied, and the indifference in yours didn’t have to be faked. You grinned at Wade, and Wade grinned back.

“Well, he texted me a second ago that he was holding a spot for us in line at the ferris wheel, so let’s roll, kid.”

That was a lie.

Joel didn’t like himself for doing it. But, again, he didn’t like Wade Pritchett even more, and he reasoned that he was doing you a favor, anyway. He searched for the exit.

“It’s alright, my mom’s probably looking for me, too.”

We get it, Pritchett. You’re a mama’s boy.

“Ah, okay.” You almost sounded sad.

Don’t be, baby. You’re daddy’s girl, remember?

Wade pulled you in for a hug; Joel wanted to deck him.

“I’ll be in town all week if you wanna—”

“I wish. My flight leaves tomorrow,” you cut in. Now your tone was really despondent. Your mouth was pouting.

It was just Joel’s eyes. He was seeing things. He was thinking you cared for this guy more than you probably ever did, and he was getting himself worked up over nothing. He clenched one hand into a fist by his side and waited for the anger to subside. Sadly, it was slow to go.

“Maybe we could…go out for drinks later or something?”

That suggestion didn’t make things any easier on Joel.

“I’d love to.”

Your reply didn’t exactly set his mind at ease, either.

At last, he decided he’d had enough. Turning on his heels, he bid a terse goodbye to shithead Pritchett and walked out of the arcade. He didn’t stop until he’d hit one of the bar carts your dad had been raving about outside.

He contemplated buying a drink. Maybe two. In fact, he’d just been eyeing three cans of Coors Light and was fishing for his wallet when he heard your voice again.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?” His tone was clipped.

If you felt it, you didn’t show it.

“Are we riding the ferris wheel or not?”

He probably should’ve given a verbal answer in the affirmative. Instead, he’d just nodded his head and started off the other way, expecting you to follow.

The walk was short. You’d had to weave through a sea of fairgoers, including schoolkids, college-aged drunks, and more than a fair share of loved-up couples, but that wasn’t too bad. Joel just ignored each one and didn’t stop until you’d reached the line for the ferris wheel.

Or what was left of the line, anyway.

Unlike what Joel had told you, there was no wraparound queue for you to join. Your father wasn’t there. Once you’d passed a look over the dozen-odd people waiting patiently for it to be their turn on the ride, you felt your stomach turn. Joel had never texted your dad at all.

“He’s not coming, is he?” Dispensing with the obvious.

Joel still wouldn’t look your way. He’d just sidled up behind the last people in line—a group of older folks who all seemed eager to get on the ferris wheel. You scoffed when you saw Joel’s expression harden, and you planned to turn away. Then the people up front started to move. For a moment, you were torn between telling him off and leaving him there. At length, you settled on saying, low:

“You lied.”

Joel followed the moving line, and a few more people started to trickle in behind you. Before you could even think to speak again, you were nudged ahead by the force of that crowd, and had only to keep glaring.

“Hey—” you hissed, only five steps away from the platform now. The ride attendant was scanning the line, appearing to count the people approaching the gate, and when his eyes landed on you, you made out a little grin.

“Aww, your daughter scared’a heights or somethin’?”

He’d said it to Joel, sounding cheeky. His teeth gleamed in the light of a hundred different neon bulbs, and you had to avert your face to keep from revealing its disgust.

So everyone else still thinks he’s my dad. That’s nice.

You couldn’t see Joel’s expression, but you imagined it looked the same. You shuffled ahead, reluctantly, and heard a lady behind you laugh; the sound had a tipsy lilt.

“My kid’s the same way—you’ll be fine, hon,” she slurred.

Heights aren’t the issue here, you’d wanted to snap back, for no other reason than your own disdain for Joel and the present situation. He walked in front of you, still refusing to meet your gaze, and soon you were perched on the platform, sandwiched between two semi-rowdy throngs of fairgoers with no clear means of escape. You crossed your arms and stared up at the back of his head. The look you gave him probably could’ve burned holes in his skull if irritation had been the means of achieving it.

You were seated on the ride in minutes. The compartment was surprisingly large, and its walls high, with glass on every side. Under a waning afternoon sun, the views you expected to see were bound to be pretty. All that was left to detract from its splendor was Joel— hunkered down opposite you and manspreading. Wide.

Sitting in total silence with his denim-covered legs split in a ‘V’. Watching you and rubbing one thigh, absently.

“You’ve got some nerv—” you started in.

“Yeah, no. No. That kid was gettin’ on my nerves—”

It amazed you how fast Joel was to return your words with a hostile quip of his own, anger flashing in his eyes.

“What’d he even do?! He’s my friend— my best friend—”

Fury flitted to something like discomfort, momentarily.

“Oh yeah? Just friends?”

“What the fuck does it matter to you?”

In your own expression, rage flared unchecked. You didn’t particularly care what Joel thought now if he was immature enough to act like this, and the walls of the compartment were thick enough to prevent anyone else’s hearing a word of it. The ride continued to rumble along, letting on new passengers with each new stop.

Joel might’ve paused. Could’ve stared out the window for all you knew—everything but the wheel itself seemed to be moving at lightning speed, and time was sliding.

“Because I— I— I give a shit, kid. I care.”

“And that makes lying to me alright?”

“I was just worried for your—”

“Bullshit. What would you need to be so worried about? Me playing Skee-Ball with an old friend and maybe getting drinks? You can fuck right off with that.”

Joel opened his mouth to speak, but he shut it when the ride suddenly jolted to a stop. It sputtered. Then, after a long, tense moment, it slowly ascended again. You took this lull in speech as your own chance to re-intervene:

“That’s not ‘care.’ Or ‘worry,’” you continued, words dripping with condescension, “That’s controlling.”

“Controlling?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Joel Miller always did.

“It’s not—”

“It is—”

“Protecting you from assholes like him—”

“—he’s not—and I never asked you to do that!”

“So I just sit by and watch him touch what’s mine—”

“I’m not yours, Joel!”

Your last words echoed through the car like a shotgun’s report. You’d said it with such force—so emphatic for him not to be mistaken in what this was, or whose you were—when you hardly even knew how you felt yourself. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that Joel knew only too well. The last time you two fucked, he’d begged the same: ‘Say you’re mine,’ and no matter how close you’d been to release at the time, you simply couldn’t say it. Now, clear-headed and mostly clothed, you still despised those words. Emotions. Uniquely juxtaposed with Joel’s jealousy over Wade, you’d never wanted to say it louder:

“I’m not yours, and I never will be. So just stop.”

More cruel.

“Are we clear?”

The car came to a halt near the top. When Joel still hadn’t deigned to answer, you leaned in closer.

“I said, are we fucking clear, Miller?”

Then you didn’t have to wait.

“I hear you.”

Of course he heard. His face was hard. His eyes were like two brown stones in the sockets, and the line of his mouth was tight. Whatever use you might’ve had in trying to decipher that look was ignored for the time being; you were still too angry. And, perhaps owing to this state—with a white-hot look fixed on him and your head full of blinding, bitter thoughts—you were more than susceptible to surprise. You jumped when you felt it.

Felt him with a hand moving from his leg to yours.

It went quick but was almost too ridiculous to fathom—how swift Joel was in reaching for you, hoisting you into his lap, letting your limbs straddle his hips with all the ease of old, welcome habits. It might’ve worked just as well, were it not for the tension in your legs. The short, sharp, ‘Joel’ and a look flitting out to either side of you.

“What?” he grunted.

You heard a fly unzip.

“We’re on a—”

Before you could finish, and as if to furnish the answer for you, the ride shuddered back to life. Its descent was slow, but any movement now made your stomach churn. It didn’t matter that most of the cabin was encased in metal, the rest semi-tinted plexiglass, or that your space was almost entirely shielded from the view of other cars—it was too much of a risk, as was everything with him.

Joel remained blind to it all. Your cabin came to a stop, still high in the sky, and then you felt him grip something between you. In one swift motion, he had the head of his cock rubbing your seam. You sighed; his eyes were cold.

“C’mon then…show me what ain’t mine,” he murmured.

His voice was low. You hated those words. This was more than just that. Your cunt slid and accepted him anyway.

For a second, your gaze was level with his. Your hips hadn’t stirred, and he was crawling inch-by-inch inside you, pulling you down. The act could’ve been intimate, had the words that passed before not been so harsh—and the place not been a fucking amusement park.

When the ride resumed its slow, rumbling circuit, he didn’t make your bodies part, but instead flipped you around. Your back was flush with his front, and by all appearances, you were innocently perched on his lap.

What the tens, or dozens, or hundreds of strangers ambling around down below couldn’t see was that a cock was nestled inside you, too. That with every gentle bump of the wheel, a man several decades your senior was filling you to the hilt, sending waves of pleasure through your body and his while he stuffed you tight. What your dad didn’t know was that this was his friend. That the nose nudging the skin between your sleeve and your neck belonged to Joel, and his breaths were short.

Trying to calm the flutter of his pulse and the pull of his lungs, he flattened his hands on either one of your thighs. He rubbed his palms back and forth, and you glanced down to find the insides of your legs extra shiny.

Slick, pretty, and full of him. He tilted your chin back up.

“Nice and quiet for daddy—nice and still. No squirmin’.”

He nudged your hips forward, and his cock brushed a wet, spongy ridge inside you. You had to purse your lips to swallow a noise. You felt your cunt drool even more.

The car swung low, in the line of sight of far too many eyes, and then it stopped again. You weren’t at liberty to move at all, and still, the feel of Joel inside you was raw.

Grating, almost.

It made the prospect of conversation seem the tiniest bit easier, though—forced to face away from each other and act civil now. Right before the ride started up again, you gripped the armrest and anchored your feet to his boots.

“Feels…good,” you whimpered.

“That so?” Joel murmured back.

“So—oh.”

Your words fell apart at the next brush of his hand, sliding down to your heat and taking his index and middle fingers to the precious, pulsing bud in between.

Soon the car was up at a comfortable height. You sighed.

Your legs pressed together over Joel’s, and you felt him rub the tips of his fingers even harder, circles tighter.

“I know,” he said, sensing your words before they came, “I know it feels nice, baby. Keep that chin up for daddy.”

Don’t let them know I’m inside you. Stay quiet.

But his girth was so much. The tug of his smooth, throbbing manhood between your walls was almost more than you could take. You laced the fingers of your free hand with his over your thigh, and you held them tight as your hips wriggled back. You couldn’t help it, feeling a welt of pleasure start to blossom in your belly.

“Joel—” you started.

“Don’t talk,” Joel grumbled, stern, “It’ll draw attention.”

You sensed there was more to it than that. Your fingers threaded even deeper through his, and he squeezed them back. Between your bodies, there rose a soft, gentle tap, tap, tap with the thrusts Joel was able to deliver now that you were back up high and out of sight. If there was any time to speak, this was your window.

Joel probably wished you hadn’t, but you tried, anyway.

“You know it’s been years since—”

“Since?”

Now you didn’t want to say it. But you knew you had to.

“Wade’s been my friend since—”

Another influx of something soft and tender inside you. Joel holding your hand, pushing himself deeper, and trying not to groan when you clenched around him. Hating that he had to hear that name, most likely.

You despised the words even more before you said them:

“—since my mom left.”

It was an awful time to be bringing this up, admittedly. Both of you on the brink of release with Joel’s cock buried as far inside you as it would go, his fingers entwined with yours, and the ride drifting lower.

And lower, lower, lower still. Joel’s breaths picked up.

The car shuddered to a halt almost halfway down. You didn’t have to see his face to picture it a little more rigid than it’d been before. He’d known your dad long enough to remember the time his wife had walked out on him.

“When we were, like, thirteen—” You continued, as if you needed to remind him of any of the particulars. Joel hardly knew you back then, though, “—he was my friend. Wade’s been one of my— my closest— he was there—”

You couldn’t be sure if it was the subject of discussion or simply how close you were to cumming that kept your tongue from forming a coherent string of words, but here you were. Joel’s grip on your hand had loosened, and the movements of his hips had slowed considerably. You hoped he’d be too lost in his own pleasure to care.

“I remember,” he returned quietly.

That was all he said for a moment. Out of habit, your legs parted more for his touch, and you whimpered, feebly, as the fingers kept circling your clit. The ride started again.

“You don’t have to—” And again, his voice was low.

“I’m not saying that as an— as an excuse or anything.”

You didn’t know why you were saying it at all. You just wanted Joel to know he didn’t need to be jealous. That Wade had been a friend through a dark and bleak season of your life, and that was all it had ever, or would ever, be.

While the car was still suspended in air, and the sights below all relatively small, you got the sense you’d have to deal with this budding bliss inside you a bit quicker than anticipated. Joel was all wordless encouragement. You almost wished you could’ve seen his face as he urged you to come undone, keep making yourself feel good, that’s it, cum for me, but frankly, it was probably for the best you couldn’t look him in the eye right now. Beyond just needing release, you wanted him to see you in a more vulnerable light than you’d ever been—facing away seemed the least painful position to have that happen.

With your fingers and his still interlaced and your hips moving a little more quickly, Joel could feel your pleasure soaking his jeans, and he pulled you down closer to him.

He nudged the back of your neck with his nose. He panted against it gently, tenderly. Then he kissed it.

“Don’t need’a say anything else, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

Under any other circumstances, an apology from a man would have been the last thing to send you over the edge, but today, you couldn’t help it. Just as the car started up again, you hit your peak with Joel still stuffed inside you, and you gripped his hand as hard as you could. You fought to keep the moans contained behind your lips, but it was hard—and Joel’s constant, tender caresses with his lips and fingers made it that much worse. He trailed kisses down your neck and shoulder and told you gently, ‘That’s it, good girl, that’s my girl.’

My girl.

Again.

You almost didn’t mind it being said this time around.

Almost.

In truth, you didn’t have half a mind to think much of anything in that moment. You just curled your toes and pressed your back into Joel while the warm, euphoric waves coursed through you, and you let yourself be content with what he’d said. Whatever he meant by it.

In the minute that followed, you sensed he was perilously close to finishing, too. So, as soon as you’d made it down from your high—and the ride, too, was circling back and making its way through the final cycles—you crawled off of Joel. You got on your knees. For the first time in what seemed like hours, you locked eyes with him; your mouth moved lower still. You’d barely latched your lips onto the head of his cock before he was shooting off rope after rope after rope of his cum. Warmth splattered down your tongue and throat, and you swallowed it all obediently.

You didn’t need to be told when the ride was over. You heard a buzz, felt it jolt, and, unfortunately for you and Joel, your car was one of the first to be let off. You had to hurry off your knees and back into your seat, across from your panting, silver-haired friend, just seconds before the door to your left swung open. You began to stand.

Joel followed you out. His spend was still stuck to your throat in some places, the scent of his skin and his stubble and his extra heavy load all fresh to your senses. You wiped one corner of your mouth and kept walking.

And it was in this state you remained another second or two. You were just about to take your first steps off the platform, mind floating over somewhere tranquil and warm, when your thoughts were presently interrupted.

Your steps, too, were cut short. Joel had stopped you.

Then he grabbed your face, and he kissed you.

Your world froze a moment. You didn’t have time to think, or react, or even kiss him back, so you just stood there and let him hold you to him. It was over in a blink.

And one glance over Joel’s shoulder after he did it, to the ride attendant and nearly every last person in line, said they were just as stunned. Some sick, by the looks of it.

‘He’s NOT my dad!’ you wanted to yell, out of habit.

Seeing the eyes Joel had fixed on you—the smile that followed—their suspicions didn’t matter to him at all.

You walked off together, still considering those words:

My girl.

A month wouldn’t be so bad. Two was tolerable, even.

The next few hours spent with Joel made it seem like you could go a year or longer without seeing his face, and nothing between you would change too much.

He was a friend. A good friend. Not just your dad’s old companion, but your own. Whatever else was left beyond that could be explored down the road, but for now, you were content to just let him hold your hand in places you weren’t likely to be seen, and kiss you in those he hoped your dad wouldn’t be. Maybe fuck you on a ferris wheel.

At the thought of going back to college tomorrow, not seeing him again until Thanksgiving or Christmas at the earliest, you didn’t feel too sad. You did get an extra burst of yearning when Joel’s hands would find your hips and push you off to some shaded, semi-discreet area and he’d tell you, softly, ‘I don’t know what I’m gonna do without ya, kid’ before kissing you with a hunger all over again. That made you think you might miss him a little.

You’d warned him not to lie to you again. He promised he wouldn’t. You believed him, at least as far as your general mistrust of men would allow, and you had left it at that.

Now the tips of his fingers were brushing your own, and his mouth was grinning—coated in all sorts of sauces from the barbecue you two had been devouring. It was approaching six o’clock. He held the last Carolina-style pulled pork slider up to you, and you shook your head.

“I’m stuffed,” you said, pained.

Really, you were. You and Joel had decided to join in on the fair’s 25th annual BBQ and Chili Cook-off an hour ago, and now your stomachs were suffering immensely.

You made a face in disgust when he tried to push it closer, ‘Joel, I’ll projectile vomit if you don’t— don’t—’

You squealed when he leaned in, thinking he was planning to smush the patty in your face—you’d done that to him with some coleslaw not too long ago—but instead, he dropped the burger. He pressed what non-sticky parts of his hands he could get on your face and, cupping your cheeks between his palms, he kissed you.

Then he kissed you again, and again, and again.

This time, it felt more like an attack. Not an attempt at being affectionate, which he’d shown himself amply capable of all day, but really just a way to smear your lips and chin with sauce and get you extra pissed off at him.

It worked. You bit his lower lip at the last kiss.

And, instead of wincing in pain or biting you back, Joel surprised you by groaning a little bit against your mouth. His grip loosened from your face, and he leaned back.

‘Behave’ was all he said. Smirking.

If any one of Joel Miller’s quasi-fatherly lectures had ever met with success before, this would not be one of them. You only rolled your eyes and were about to reply with some variant of ‘Make me’ when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out to see the new notification.

Nothing more than a reminder to check in for your flight. But that sight also roused some awareness in you that it was just then starting to get late, and you hadn’t heard a word from your father in hours. You and Joel had been extraordinarily fortunate that day in hearing that your dad happened to run into some friends at the livestock show, and had been occupied—plastered, most likely—ever since. You hadn’t thought to question it before, just happy to have your dad out of your hair for the afternoon, but now that it was late and all the shows were long since over, you had to wonder if it wasn’t time to shoot him that text. Bring your last happy, fun-filled night with Joel for the next two months to an end, and head home.

You started to send him a message. Joel peered over your shoulder, absently wiping his hands on a napkin.

“He said he was headed over to a concert last time we talked. Some band he likes,” he hummed, “Wanna go?”

You weren’t too keen on seeing the likes of any Creed-adjacent artist your dad so loved to listen to himself, but if it gave you an excuse to stretch your time with him and Joel, you didn’t mind. You nodded, then deposited your phone back into your pocket. You were just about to stand when Joel held you back. He’d snagged your hand.

“Hang on, ya got a little—” he said, soft. Then he lifted his napkin and started wiping at the sides of your mouth. His motions had all the crude, brute force of a man who’d never wiped a person’s face before—he seemed more concerned getting the vinegar-based glaze off your cheeks than impressing you with how tender he could be—but the gesture was received well enough. For once, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes and just smiled.

“You’re taking me to the airport tomorrow, right?”

“Long as it’s alright with your dad.”

“You could spend the night, too.”

Joel paused. He flitted a look from your lips to your eyes, then, finding a sly playfulness in both, only hummed. Stopped wiping long enough to kiss you on the cheek.

“We’ll see—”

“I’ll be real good—”

“Oh, I bet you won’t.”

But by the end of it, Joel was grinning too. He didn’t protest when your lips returned the favor from his, and they left an equally sweet and clean kiss on his cheek.

He didn’t bat an eye when your hand slid up his leg either. He just squeezed yours back and helped you up.

“Gonna get me murdered, I’m tellin’ you,” he murmured in your ear as you stood, just like he’d said to you earlier.

You figured if he’d had his pick of ways to risk his life, sneaking into your room tonight wouldn’t be the worst possible option. You threw your trash away and started off for the entertainment pavilion, following the music.

It was almost like you could feel Joel contemplating whether to sling his arm over your shoulder while you walked. Not once, but twice did his fingers twitch beside him, and he looked around you both from side to side. He decided against it, at length, and contented himself instead to just nudge your elbow and tell you that he liked that dress a lot—he hoped you would wear it again.

Come up for a football game, and you might see it then, you’d urged him back. The red of your dress wasn’t quite the perfect match for your school’s hundred-year-old crimson and black color scheme, but that was alright. You’d bend the rules for him. The two of you were just approaching the outskirts of a big, noisy crowd when Joel was about to respond. Your eyes glazed over a sea of people, surprised by its size, when you cut back in:

“We’re never gonna find him in here.”

Joel assessed the crowd. Checked his phone. Heard the wail of a guitar from somewhere up at the front and instantly surmised this was a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band—and that your dad wouldn’t leave until he’d heard every song. Silently, he kicked himself for suggesting coming to look at all. He could’ve taken you on a few more rides, filled your overstuffed belly with a little more cotton candy, popcorn, or ice cream, if you’d been up for it, but instead, you were obliged to find your old man. It wouldn’t have been awful if it wasn’t so hot and—

“Hey,” Joel broke in, before he could think.

His eyes had landed on a person—a pair—in the crowd that you hadn’t seen, and his heart clenched in his chest.

You’d barely tilted your head to him, “Yeah?”

“We should go,” he told you. He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out so rushed, or strained, but it was.

He couldn’t help it, especially when your gaze had shifted fully to him. Your eyes searched his, curious.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I…” Joel trailed off, looking around. Scrambling to procure an excuse of some kind, “I gotta…go piss.”

“Then piss. I’ll wait here,” you replied.

You didn’t get it. Really, there was no way you could. You hadn’t yet seen the short-sleeve, turquoise-colored PFG shirt at the back of the crowd, the beaming face Joel spotted above it. You hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the man’s profile, much less the full, wide smile on his face, the beer in his hand, or the woman by his side. She was either laughing, or singing, or nudging his hip. They looked happy. And yet, you shouldn’t see it.

Joel would kiss you—that was it. It would be the riskiest thing he’d done, but at least it’d save you from seeing.

So he tried. Joel leaned in and ventured to press his lips to yours, gripping your face, but the second he did, you pushed him away. Your eyes were wide. Cheeks heating.

“What the hell, Joel?” you hissed, “Dad could be—”

Your gaze darted to the side, and then you stopped.

The eyes grew wider. Your lips stayed the course, as if to keep going, but no sound came out, and all that was left of your mouth was a round, stunned ‘o.’ You blinked, like you couldn’t believe it: the two people were kissing now.

Joel reached for your arm, but you were far too fast. You shot off to get away, toward them, and didn’t stop until you’d made it to the edge of the crowd where they stood. The music was loud, the audience was rowdy, but still, even at a distance, Joel could hear you as clear as day:

“Dad?!”

The man and the woman split as quickly as they could.

You were standing there, watching them watch you in utter shock for a second or two. Joel wasn’t counting, but he did find himself next to you before he could blink. He was reaching for your arm again, then stopping. Looking to his friend, whose gaze was plastered on his daughter with all the markings of awe. Embarrassment.

“Honey—” he started.

“What the fuck is this?”

Bad question. Terrible timing. Joel knew what it was—clearly his friend knew it too, but you weren’t supposed to find this out yourself for at least another month or two. That was what he’d told Joel back then, anyway.

“Sweetheart, this is my—this is Helen.”

You looked like you wanted to be sick.

“I know who she is!” you spat. You waved an angry, inarticulate hand in Helen’s direction. Helen looked away.

“Why don’t we go someplace quieter?” That was Joel, cutting in over the thumping bass and the strain in the air like he might’ve been a father to you himself. Wanting to shield you from what was coming next if he could help it.

Once more he reached for you, and still inflamed, you shoved him off. Your eyes were too hurt to turn away.

“What? This is y—your—” you started back, stammering.

“We were going to tell you, honey, I swear.”

In all the years he’d known him, Joel had never seen his friend look so contrite—or fucking moronic. The man had ditched his beer, was wringing his hands trying to pace a little more carefully your way while he spoke, but you weren’t having it. Or anything, really. When Joel brushed his touch against your elbow the slightest bit, about to murmur words low in your ear, like, ‘We’ll talk. C’mon,’ you’d jerked your arm away from him entirely.

He didn’t need to see your face to hear the pain in:

“Fucking stop, Joel!”

That caught your father off-guard. He didn’t hesitate before he cut back in, looking more pointedly at you.

“Hey. You don’t talk to your Uncle Joel that way,” he said, sharp. Joel winced. He went on, “I’m the one who told him not to say anything, okay? Now just calm down—”

And whatever effect his friend had intended to produce created just the opposite in you. Instead of focusing on your dad, your eyes shot to Joel, and in an instant, your body was turning. Your face was half-hatred as you did.

“You knew?!”

“Honey, I told him—” your dad tried saying.

But your look was too enraged. Your jaw was too tight. Your mouth could barely form the words you wanted to say, and your eyes were like two bloodied daggers. Joel was amazed you could speak a syllable at all, but when he heard it, he got a sense for why that was. He had to.

“You knew?”

You were hurt.

When you left, he followed. He wasn’t sure what he’d bothered saying to your father as he did, but it sounded like an excuse—‘It’s fine. I’ve got her.’ He didn’t, though. You were gone quicker than he could turn around, and by the time he’d made it far enough away from the crowd to yell your name, you were too removed to hear it. He saw the top of your head through a whole new cluster of strangers, and he yelled it again. You kept walking.

Joel was fast, but you were adept, all things considered. You slipped through the crowd with ease and gained more and more distance than he could attain in twice the time. Joel bit the inside of his cheek and kept going. He didn’t reach you until you were approaching the front gates, when he called out for you again, out of breath.

You probably wouldn’t have turned if you’d had a choice. But as it was, you were up against a bottleneck effect of more people trying to leave than the exit could fairly handle at once, and everyone at the back was at a standstill. Your jaw tightened when he said your name.

“Darlin’— hey— baby, just let me—” Joel had weaved his way around your neighbors, but the area was cramped.

You didn’t move. Your gaze was trained elsewhere.

“—explain. Let me explain, and I promise, I didn’t—”

The line shifted forward, and you moved with it. Your body was turned; while you kept walking, shuffling, Joel earned a few uneasy looks from the people around him.

“I didn’t mean—” he forged on.

But as soon as he reached for you, he knew he’d overstepped. Confirming every onlooker’s suspicion that you didn’t want to be disturbed, you snatched your arm away, and your eyes flared with anger. You faced him.

“Fuck you.”

Before he could reply:

“Leave me the hell alone, Joel.”

And, while the words were still fresh on your tongue and no one else tried stepping in themselves, you walked off.

You left him again—for what other place, Joel wasn’t sure. You just made off the other way, breezing past carts and stands and now-shuttered booths and more faces than either one of you could count. You kept walking until you found an open space a tolerable distance away from all the noise, then went further.

Your face was fixed in a hard, immutable stare when Joel approached you again. The look behind your eyes was worse; he could tell in a second you were about to cry.

“Darlin’—”

“You knew this whole time,” you said. Seething.

“I didn’t—”

“My dad’s been dating the woman he cheated on my mom with and you didn’t think to fucking tell me?!”

“I thought—”

“Not ONCE?! Huh?” you screamed it this time, “Known you my whole goddamn life and you hide that from me?”

Joel winced. He knew the tears were coming before they even filled your eyes, but the sight still made him hurt. You wouldn’t let him near you, either. You just shook your head and swallowed a lump and blinked hard, and he felt stupid. Whatever favor he’d thought he was doing your father—and you—seemed infinitely small to him now.

That knot you’d tried pushing down in your throat kept you silent for a minute. Joel opened his mouth to insert a word or two himself, but then you looked keen to keep hold of the conversation, no matter how much it hurt, and you were starting again. Blinking harder. Hating it.

“She’s the reason mama left,” you said, hoarse, “Helen was her best friend, and then she went and— and— and— fucked my dad, and because of that, I didn’t have a family for half my fucking adolescence. You knew that.”

Another beat. Joel’s own throat constricted considerably as he considered his next words, but there was no need.

“You saw how much I hated my father, and her, and myself for years, thinking there was something just…wrong with me not being enough to make her stay. And you knew all that, and you still kept it a secret from m—”

“I know, baby. I shouldn’t have kept it from you, I know.”

He’d also known your dad was in the wrong. That hadn’t stopped Joel from trying to rationalize his friend’s actions while they happened: it was a one-time hookup with Helen, then a casual, no-strings deal that the man only indulged when he was feeling extra lonely, then a thing, a relationship of two, three, six months now. Joel had known all along what kind of profound ramifications these decisions would have if you were to ever find out. But his friend wasn’t so easily swayed from old habits, and Joel couldn’t stomach having to break it to you.

Then the roadtrip from Boston happened.

You seemed to be remembering the same.

“Was fucking me a way to make yourself feel better?”

Your words had never struck Joel with more deliberateness or force. He croaked ‘No’ in a moment. You took a step back, and there came the look again—more spiteful than before and repulsed to its core.

“Is that why you offered me a ride back in the first place? Just felt guilty for all the stuff you knew my dad was—”

“No. No, no, honey, I would never, ever—”

“Then why hide it?! Why all this? Why bother?”

You gestured between his body and yours; you didn’t seem to know what you meant. Your cheeks were wet with tears. You had to scrape your palms down your face, sniffling and struggling to clear your own vision, but the efforts appeared to be in vain. You couldn’t stop crying.

“For you,” Joel said, and he hated the way his own voice was splintered. He didn’t know how to make it better, “You were off at school when it started, then— then Boston. Just thought it’d be safer…for you…for us—”

Somewhere in his brain, he’d meant to say that he didn’t want the news of your father to hurt you, or else jeopardize a shred of something Joel had had with you.

It was stupid. Your instantaneous reaction said as much.

“Us?!”

Joel blinked. The eyes across from his were alight.

“Us, Joel?! Are you fucking kidding me? There is no us.”

Their brilliance wasn’t appreciative by any means. If anything, the words made the flow of your tears even worse. You pressed your hands to your face, rubbing your cheeks and trying to shield your eyes, and saying again, ‘There is no ‘us,’ Joel, that’s not an excuse—you knew!’

With his insides in knots, Joel wanted to hold you again. You were still in pain, and your scowl wouldn’t move, and when he tried to touch you, you stepped back in disgust.

He knew better than to think he could reach you now.

“Whole thing was a mistake,” you spat, unfeeling.

“Baby—”

“You and me. Dad and Helen.”

“You don’t mean—”

“Anything you need to keep a secret probably isn’t worth keeping at all, right?” And when you said it, he could tell you’d meant it to hurt him. As if the tears and the time and the sheer resignation in your eyes didn’t say enough.

Now Joel felt an ache in his bones, worse than it’d ever been, and he still couldn’t touch you. Where the heart demanded comfort of a kind you couldn’t give, the head knew better than to ask, and his hands fell limply at his sides. He saw you cry and had only himself to blame.

You turned back to the fairgrounds’ exit. The crowd was as big as it had ever been, but anywhere away from him seemed to be as welcome as anything else, Joel guessed

He’d try something stupid. Again. Even more desperate.

Never in his life had he said the words to someone else, and he sensed it wouldn’t do a thing to change your mind right now, but he’d say it anyway. If not to extricate himself, to let you know what he felt beyond every thing that had taken place tonight. He reached for you again.

“Darlin’, I lov—”

But before the words could register with you, the simple act of pressing his fingers to yours made you blanch. You hadn’t heard him at all, and seemed only concerned with jerking yours away as fast as you could, then shrieking:

“I HATE YOU, JOEL!”

Then you choked back a sob, trained your glossy gaze on him in one last pitiless look, and left him. He didn’t move. He didn’t try to. Sights and sounds and the ground underneath him seemed apt to swallow him whole, and still, he couldn’t move an inch. Somewhere ahead of him—too serendipitous, really—he heard you call a name.

Of course, it wasn’t his. You weren’t running to him.

It wasn’t Joel in the crowd making its way out the gates. It wasn’t him standing a little ways off to the side, eyes wide and confused as he watched you rush over. Almost stumble over yourself falling into his arms and hugging him, burying your face in his chest. Joel watched it all with a raw and hollow heart and wished it were him.

But it was Wade.

Wade hugged you back and held you close, and the look on his face was too bewildered and distraught for Joel to blame him. He hadn’t been the one to hurt you. Joel had.

He watched you leave.

There was nothing more to say.

#HAHAHAHAHAHAHAi’mgonnashitmyselfHAHAHA #dbf!joel you will always have a special place in my heart #and my *****#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller #joel miller fic #joel tlou

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helen-with-an-a · 24 hours

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You Hate Me

Hiiiii - so I thought I'd have a little break between requests and so I wrote this. It's angsty and I probably won't have a part 2 cos I like the way it ended and I'm not even sure where I would take it to be honest. Anyways, I hope you like it <3<3<3

Lucy Bronze x sister!Reader

Description: Lucy has always hated R and she just wants to know why

Word count: 7.2k

You felt like an outsider in your family your whole life. You were the youngest sibling by quite some way. Lucy was 12 when you were born. She didn’t really want another younger sister. She was happy with the way things were. She was the middle child - crazy and reckless with a passion for sport that would take her all over the globe.

Her parents already struggled with money. She and Jorge already had to do jobs around the neighbourhood to help out wherever possible. Sophie was thinking about what she could do when she moved up to secondary school. They couldn’t handle a baby. They couldn’t handle the extra costs you would bring. Would she have to give up football? She knew it was selfish to think of that, but football was her life. She couldn’t … wouldn’t … give it up without a fight.

For Lucy, football wasn't just a pastime; it was her escape, her freedom, and the one thing in her chaotic life that she had complete control over. On the field, she could be anyone she wanted – strong, fast, unstoppable. The thought of losing that terrified her. It wasn't just about the sport itself; it was about the future she had envisioned. Scouts had already begun to take notice of her, murmurs of potential scholarships floated in the air, and dreams of playing professionally, of leaving this small, suffocating town behind, had started to take shape.

But now, with a new baby on the way, everything seemed uncertain. The baby meant more bills, more attention diverted away from her, and likely, more sacrifices to be made. The prospect gnawed at her, a constant weight in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to be angry at you – after all, it wasn’t your fault – but the resentment was there, simmering beneath the surface. Every time she laced up her boots, the fear that it could be for the last time haunted her.

The pressure at home only seemed to increase. Her parents were stretched thin, their arguments about money becoming more frequent and more intense. The once-occasional requests for her and Jorge to contribute had now turned into expectations. It was no longer about just helping out; it was about survival. Lucy found herself picking up extra shifts at the local café, babysitting for the neighbours, and doing whatever odd jobs she could find, all while trying to keep up with her schoolwork and football practice. She was exhausted, but she refused to let it show.

At night, when the house was quiet and the weight of the day settled heavily on her shoulders, she would lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. She couldn't stop thinking about what might happen if she was forced to give up football. It wasn’t just a game to her – it was her way out, her shot at something better. Without it, she feared she would be stuck in this life forever, trapped by the same financial struggles that had plagued her parents.

As your arrival grew closer, the tension in the house became palpable. Her parents tried to reassure her that things would be okay, that they would find a way to make it work, but their words felt hollow. Lucy could see the worry in their eyes, the strain in their voices. They were trying their best, but their best might not be enough. And that terrified her.

Lucy made a silent vow to herself: no matter what happened, she would find a way to keep playing. Even if it meant waking up before dawn to practice on her own, even if it meant working twice as hard to make up for the lost time, she wouldn't let go of her dream. Football was more than just a sport to her; it was her lifeline, her hope for a future that didn’t involve the same struggles her parents faced.

She knew it would be a battle, but Lucy had never been one to back down from a fight. If keeping her dream alive meant fighting harder than she ever had before, then so be it. She was ready for whatever came her way, even if that meant taking on the world with the weight of her family’s struggles on her shoulders.

There were complications. Mum had felt something was wrong. You were born too early. That’s what her dad had said one Thursday afternoon when they got home from school. Lucy could see the strain on her parents' faces as they tried to stay positive, but the cracks were beginning to show. The early birth meant more than just an unexpected arrival – it meant weeks, maybe even months, of additional stress. There would be doctors' appointments, hospital visits, and possibly medical bills that they wouldn't be able to afford. Mum and Dad would need to take more time off work, and that meant even less money coming into the house. They were already stretched thin, barely making ends meet, and this was another blow they couldn’t afford.

For Lucy, it felt like the family was being pulled even further apart. She knew what more time off work for her mum meant – less money for groceries, fewer new things, and more unpaid bills piling up on the kitchen table. The thought of how this would affect them all was overwhelming. Dad’s tired eyes and Mum’s forced smiles told her everything she needed to know – they were worried, really worried.

And as much as Lucy tried to focus on her own life – school, football, friends – she couldn’t shake the growing sense of responsibility she felt. She saw how hard her parents were working, how much they were sacrificing, and it made her want to do more, to somehow lessen the burden that had fallen on their shoulders. She picked up extra shifts at her part-time job and offered to help more around the house, even though she was already stretched thin. She stopped asking for new things, for trips, for anything that might add to the growing financial strain.

But no matter how much she tried to help, the reality was inescapable. The early birth meant more than just financial strain – it meant that your health would be a constant concern, at least for a while. The house became quieter, the usual buzz of activity replaced by a tension that Lucy couldn’t ignore. Conversations were hushed, and there was a heaviness in the air, a kind of unspoken worry that everyone carried with them.

She remembered how, before all this, her parents would talk about the future with cautious optimism – how they would make it work, how they would find a way to manage. But now, the future seemed uncertain, clouded by the reality of hospital visits and medical expenses. The joy that had once been associated with your arrival was overshadowed by the fear of what might come next.

You had turned out fine. You were discharged from the NICU six weeks later. You were a little small, a little underdeveloped, but you were fine. The doctors’ visits still happened regularly until you were about three years old, but then you were declared fit as a fiddle. A perfectly normal, healthy child.

Except you weren’t, or at least you didn’t feel like it. From an early age, you could sense that something was off. You couldn’t quite understand it back then, but you felt it in the way Lucy would close her bedroom door just as you toddled over, eager to join in whatever she was doing. You felt it in the way she would snatch things out of your hands, things you just wanted to look at, things she was showing Sophie and Jorge without a second thought. The sting of rejection was something you became all too familiar with, even before you could fully comprehend what it meant to be unwanted.

You didn’t understand why Lucy seemed to dislike you so much. You were just a child, desperate for her attention, for her approval. But no matter how hard you tried, you could never seem to break through the wall she had built between you. You remember watching her from a distance, her laughter and excitement as she talked about football with Sophie and Jorge. You wished you could be a part of that world, but it always felt like there was an invisible barrier keeping you out.

Your parents, older than those of your friends, were tired. You could see it in their eyes, in the way they moved through the day with a sort of weary determination. They did their best, you knew that. But their best often wasn’t enough. They were stretched thin – between work, bills, and keeping up with the demands of raising four children, there wasn’t much left over for you. The attention you craved, the affection you needed, was often redirected elsewhere – toward Lucy’s burgeoning football career, Jorge’s new hobbies, Sophie’s interests.

You lived in hand-me-downs – clothes that didn’t quite fit right, toys that had lost their newness long before they reached you. You quickly learned to ask for little, to keep your wants and needs to yourself. Birthdays became a delicate dance of low expectations. You remember the time you asked for that big Barbie dollhouse when you were five. You had seen it in a catalog and had imagined how much fun it would be, but when you shyly mentioned it, the reaction was swift and harsh. Lucy shouted at you, her voice filled with anger and frustration. “Are you kidding? We can’t afford that! Stop being so selfish!” The words hit you like a slap, and you learned that day to make your wishes smaller, quieter, more manageable.

It wasn’t just the material things, though. It was the sense that you were always in the way, that your presence was more of a burden than a joy. The more you tried to blend in, the more you felt invisible. Your parents were simply too tired, too overwhelmed to notice the small things – like the way your face lit up when you finally mastered riding your bike, or how proud you were when you brought home a picture you had drawn at school. There was no one to share those victories with, no one to tell you that you were doing well.

Lucy’s disdain only seemed to grow as you got older. She was focused, driven, her eyes set on her future in football. Every spare penny went toward her training, her gear, her travel expenses for matches. And you, you were just there, existing in the shadow of her ambition. It wasn’t that she went out of her way to be cruel; it was more that she simply didn’t have the space in her life for you. You were the uninvited guest, the afterthought.

You remember the looks – the ones she would give you when you tried to talk to her, or when you reached out for some connection. They were cold, distant, as if you were a stranger in your own home. It made you feel small, insignificant, like you didn’t belong. You tried to be helpful, to stay out of her way, but nothing you did seemed to change how she felt about you.

It was confusing, the way you were treated differently. Sophie and Jorge seemed to get along just fine with Lucy. They had their own interests, their own ways of bonding with her, and you were always the odd one out. It hurt, more than you could put into words. You wanted to be close to them, to be part of the sibling camaraderie you saw in other families, but it always felt just out of reach.

As the years went by, you withdrew into yourself. You learned to entertain yourself, to find comfort in solitude, because trying to fit into their world was too painful. The isolation was lonely, but it was safer than risking the rejection that had become all too familiar. You built your own little world, where you didn’t have to worry about whether or not you were wanted, where you could be yourself without fear of being turned away.

You were thirteen when you were gifted something that changed your life. It came at a time when the house had finally quieted down, the once chaotic energy of your siblings replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. All three of them – Lucy, Sophie, and Jorge – had moved out, each one carving out their own path, their own life away from the confines of your childhood home. Lucy was about to move to Lyon, Sophie had landed her dream job in a bustling city, and Jorge was travelling, always chasing the next big adventure. They were all living their best lives, while you were left behind, navigating the echoes of their absence.

With them gone, the purse strings had loosened a little. The financial pressures that had always weighed so heavily on your parents seemed to ease with each sibling's departure. There were fewer mouths to feed, fewer expenses to cover. For the first time, there was a little breathing room – a bit of space for something more than just the basics. And in that space, something unexpected happened.

On your thirteenth birthday, your parents handed you a small, neatly wrapped box. The excitement you had long suppressed bubbled up cautiously, a mix of anticipation and doubt. You had learned to keep your expectations low, to shield yourself from disappointment, but this time, something felt different. As you carefully peeled away the wrapping paper, your heart skipped a beat. Inside was a camera – an old, second-hand one, but to you, it was a treasure beyond measure.

Your parents had saved up for it, they explained, seeing how much time you spent doodling and drawing, how your eyes would light up whenever you saw something beautiful. They wanted to give you something that was just yours, something that could help you express yourself, to capture the world as you saw it.

The camera became your constant companion. You took it everywhere, eager to capture the beauty you saw in even the smallest things – the way the light filtered through the leaves of the trees in your backyard, the subtle smile on your mother’s face when she thought no one was looking, the old, weathered buildings in town that seemed to whisper stories of a time long past. Through the lens, you began to see the world differently, noticing details and moments that had always slipped by unnoticed.

But more than that, the camera gave you a voice. It allowed you to tell your own stories, to frame your own experiences in a way that was meaningful to you. It was your way of processing the complicated emotions that had built up over the years – the loneliness, the longing, the sense of not quite fitting in. With each click of the shutter, you were able to capture a piece of yourself, to express feelings that had always been too difficult to put into words.

And as you delved deeper into photography, something else began to happen. You started to see yourself differently. The shy, withdrawn girl who had always felt like an outsider was slowly transforming into someone with a purpose, with a passion. The camera gave you confidence, a sense of control over your own narrative that you had never felt before. It didn’t matter that you had grown up in the shadow of your siblings, or that you had often felt neglected and overlooked. With your camera, you were finally able to step out of that shadow and into your own light.

Your parents noticed the change in you. They saw how the camera brought you out of your shell, how it gave you something to look forward to, something to be proud of. They encouraged you, in their own quiet way, to keep going, to explore this new passion. For the first time, they seemed to truly see you – not just as their youngest child, but as an individual with your own dreams, your own talents.

At fifteen, you were asked to participate in the local exhibition. You had won a competition for the local paper, and this was the prize. ‘Alnwick by the Locals’ – it was to be put on display up at the castle. You had asked Lucy if she could make the trip over from France.

Lucy had been away for so long that you weren't sure if she'd even come. Her life in France was a whirlwind of training and matches, and the little requests you made felt insignificant against the backdrop of her bustling career. Still, you hoped – hoped that this time, she might see things differently.

When the day of the exhibition arrived, you could hardly contain your excitement. The castle was adorned with your photographs, each framed image capturing slices of life in your small town. You stood by your display, anxiously scanning the crowd for any sign of Lucy. Your heart raced with a blend of nerves and anticipation.

As the afternoon wore on, there was still no sign of her. You tried to push the disappointment aside, focusing instead on the visitors who stopped by to admire your work. They complimented your eye for detail and the way you had managed to capture the essence of Alnwick. Each positive comment felt like a small victory, a validation of the passion and effort you had poured into your photography.

You were losing hope fast. She wasn’t coming. Of course she wouldn’t come. She hadn’t responded to your text message asking her to come and giving her a date. She hadn’t responded to the email you had sent with her ticket attached. All she had to do was book the flights. It had been luck that it landed on a free weekend for her. You wouldn’t have asked otherwise.

As the afternoon stretched on, your excitement began to wane, replaced by a creeping sense of disappointment. Each passing minute seemed to amplify the absence of the one person you had hoped would be there to witness your moment of triumph. You forced yourself to stay positive, engaging with the visitors who complimented your work, but the empty space where Lucy should have been felt like a physical ache.

You wandered through the exhibition, making small talk with guests and answering their questions about your photographs. The praise for your work was a small comfort, but it couldn’t fully compensate for the gap left by Lucy’s absence. The castle, once a place of eager anticipation, now felt like a grand but empty stage, highlighting the solitude you felt.

By the time the exhibition was winding down, the weight of Lucy’s no-show had settled heavily on your shoulders. You packed up your things with a mix of resignation and sadness, feeling the sting of what could have been. Your parents, who had come to support you, tried to lift your spirits with kind words and encouragement, but their efforts fell short of erasing the feeling of emptiness. Your other siblings had turned up. Your sister-in-law had appeared, holding a bunch of flowers and looking around the space in wonder. Why couldn’t she have been your actual sister?

In the quiet of the car ride home, you tried to focus on the positive aspects of the day – the success of the exhibition, the connections you had made with people who appreciated your work. But it was hard not to remember that Lucy hadn’t turned up.

Back at home, you retreated to your room, muttering something about being tired and disappearing upstairs before anyone could stop you. Your room was covered in photographs. You didn’t have many of you as a child – a downside of being the youngest of four to very tired parents you supposed. There was one that you kept pinned above your bed. It was the day you were brought home from the hospital. You were in Jorge’s arms as Lucy and Sophie stood either side of him, all of them beaming brightly. You were fairly sure it was the only photo you had of Lucy smiling at you. The rest of the photographs were taken by you. Jorge and your father. Sophie and your mother. Your parents in the stands waiting for Lucy to play. Narla chasing a ball. Your grandparents looking out to sea.

You knew opening social media wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was the third picture you saw. Lucy, sitting next to Keira and Georgia – wide smiles and happy faces. She was in Manchester. She had made the trip over to England after all. Just not to see you. The image was a punch to the gut. Lucy, in a casual outfit, her hair pulled back, was surrounded by her friends, their joy on full display. You could almost hear their laughter through the screen, see the ease and comfort of their togetherness. The pain in your chest grew even more.

You hadn’t been told she was moving back to Manchester. Mum had mentioned it in passing, commenting that she was so excited to finally be able to see her daughter play with comparative ease. You had lied when she asked you why you looked confused – making up something about homework you had remembered you needed to complete. The pain was something you were so used to by now, that you were surprised it still hurt. The last time you saw her at home was Christmas. She had missed your birthday completely – again. But that was fine. You could play happy families for a few weeks whilst she was back. You had been to a few football matches for hers – only the big ones. The Champions League finals mainly. The rest of the time you made up excuses. Homework was a reliable one. You were just too busy. Exams were around the corner, you couldn’t afford to take the time off, even for just one weekend.

You had become adept at masking your feelings, but the truth was, each time you saw Lucy’s life in the media, each time you heard about her successes and adventures, it reinforced the distance between you. It was as if she existed in a different world, a world where you didn’t quite belong. Even when she was physically present, her mind seemed to be elsewhere, her focus entirely on her career and her own life.

You hadn’t been told that Lucy would be moving to Barcelona either. Another thing she failed to mention. You knew that Lucy and your parents met up in Manchester regularly – it was easier for them to make the trip to watch her games that it was for her to travel to you. But you would have thought she would’ve mentioned it at the Euros. The night after they won was the longest you had spent in her presence since you were about twelve. She had willingly drawn you into a side hug as your parents snapped a photo of all their children. Looking back, it was clearly the alcohol in her system, and the adrenaline high she was still running on.

You had been dragged over to Australia too. Not that you let your parents know about your distaste in going. You couldn’t do that to them. They knew that Lucy and you had a strained relationship, but not how deep the cuts ran. You would not be the one to tell them that either. It would break their hearts to find out that their favourite daughter, and their youngest child barely co-existed together. No, you were more than happy to put up a front for them. They had given you everything, it was the least you could do.

“Hi, I’m Ona, it’s nice to meet you.” She smiled amicably, a bit nervous perhaps, but she seemed nice enough.

“Hola, Soy la hermana de Lucy … o la llamas Lucía?” She blinked, startled by your Spanish.

“Tú hablas español?” she asked impressed.

“Un poco, hice español A-level en la escuela. Pensé que sería una buena manera-” You joked, ignoring the strange looks from Lucy.

“Ona, c’mon, I think your parents want you.” Lucy’s voice cut through yours, effectively cutting you off.

You had been so hopeful, so eager to make a connection, but the moment had been abruptly cut short by Lucy’s interference. At the time, you had shrugged it off, thinking it was just Lucy’s usual impatience. Now, however, it seemed like yet another piece in the puzzle of Lucy’s world that you never fully understood.

The news of not-quite-breakup with Keira, and her new relationship with Ona reached you indirectly, through snippets of social media posts and the occasional mention by your parents. They were often caught up in their own busy lives, struggling to balance the constant demands of work and home. Conversations about Lucy's new life was interspersed with discussions about their own challenges, leaving little room for deeper insights or personal connection.

Ona, who you had briefly met in the whirlwind of the World Cup, was now a fixture in Lucy’s life. The contrast between their lives and yours felt even starker. While Lucy was jet-setting across Europe and building a new chapter in Barcelona, you were back in your small town, navigating the complexities of your own world through the lens of your camera.

It was the biggest day of your young life. You had been asked to put up ten photographs on display in London. Your photographs were going to be seen in London. By paying members of the public. The significance of the event was almost overwhelming. You had worked tirelessly to curate the best of your collection, selecting pieces that told a story, captured emotions, and showcased your unique perspective.

The morning of the exhibition, you arrived at the gallery with a mixture of nerves and excitement. The building was impressive – an elegant space with high ceilings and large windows that let in natural light, perfect for showcasing art. You were greeted by the curator, who showed you to your designated space and helped you set up your work. It was surreal to see your photographs hanging on the walls, each one carefully framed and lit to perfection.

You had only met Ona a few times, when she had been brought to England to meet your family. She was kind and sweet. Maybe it was because you were relatively close in age, but you couldn’t shift the familiar sting. Why couldn’t she have been your sister instead? It was the summer, the Olympics in full swing, so you knew it was too much to ask for her to be there. But you couldn’t help the small bubble of hope that Lucy would turn up.

You had it on good authority from Keira, Leah and Georgia that she had agreed to go. Ona’s game was due to finish at 4 pm the day before opening night. The journey would probably be tiring for Lucy, but she had promised her friends she would be their. If not for you then to see them before pre-season started up again.

The day of the exhibition arrived, and you were enveloped in the excitement of seeing your work displayed in such a prestigious venue. The gallery buzzed with activity as people streamed in, their voices a mix of appreciation and curiosity. The atmosphere was electric, and you tried to focus on enjoying the moment, even though the small, nagging hope that Lucy would show up lingered at the back of your mind.

Hours passed, and as the evening drew closer, you began to accept that she might not make it. The crowd was engaged and appreciative, and the positive feedback was reassuring, but the absence of your sister was a constant ache. You tried to push it away, concentrating instead on the connections you were making and the compliments you were receiving.

Your parents had come, and their pride was evident in their smiles and the way they spoke about your work. They marvelled at how far you had come and how talented you were. Their support and encouragement were the best comfort you could have asked for, and you felt a sense of accomplishment in sharing this achievement with them.

Just as the event was winding down, you were approached by Keira, Leah, and Georgia, who were all beaming with excitement. They had come to show their support and to catch up with you after the event. Why couldn’t Lucy do the same thing? Did she really hate you so much that she couldn’t even fake it for a few hours for the sake of her sister?

“We told Lucy about the exhibition,” Leah said, her eyes twinkling with excitement as she looked around the space.

“She said she would come back for it.” Keira added, her tone warm but carrying a hint of concern.

Keira had always been the one who was more in tune with the undercurrents of relationships, and she knew how complicated things were between you and Lucy. She was the only one who truly understood the depth of the tension that simmered beneath the surface. She had offered to take you and Lucy out for lunch – letting your parents rest after the long day of travel.

During that lunch, Lucy’s walls were visibly up, and her responses were curt and distant. The conversation often felt forced, with long pauses and polite but empty exchanges. It was strange Keira had watched with a mix of frustration and disbelief as Lucy struggled to engage, offering only grunts and monosyllabic words in response. She had never seen Lucy like that. She was usually great with kids. She usually revelled in making them laugh and enjoy their time with her. She had watched you sink further and further into yourself, until she was the only one speaking, a far cry from how dinners with Lucy’s family normally looked.

When the subject of family came up in conversation, Keira’s knowledge of the strained dynamics between you and your sister was never far from her mind. Keira’s attempt to mend the gaps had been a sincere effort, but it usually just ended in a fight between Lucy and her girlfriend. You often wondered why you couldn’t have had Keira as a sister instead.

“But … we haven’t heard anything from her today.” Georgia confessed; her voice tinged with concern.

Keira, ever the perceptive one, gave Georgia a sharp nudge, a silent reminder to tread carefully. She glanced over at you, who had been trying to mask your disappointment with a forced smile, though the tightness around your eyes betrayed your emotions.

“I’m sure she’s just caught up with something,” Keira said, trying to sound reassuring. “She’ll be here soon, I promise.” Her words were meant to comfort, but Keira couldn’t shake the worry that Lucy’s absence might be more than just an oversight. You knew otherwise, Lucy wouldn’t be coming.

Leah, sensing the shift in mood, quickly changed the subject. “Your photos are absolutely stunning,” she said, her enthusiasm genuine.

“Thanks, Le,” you smiled back at her. “Did you see the one of you guys?”

“What? I’m … we’re in here?” She clearly hadn’t made her way to the back of the room yet.

“Yeh, it was after the Euros.”

Leah and Keira were standing together on the makeshift dancefloor, a vibrant space that had been hastily set up for the occasion. Their laughter and the rhythm of the music filled the air as they danced with uninhibited joy. Wrapped around their shoulders were colourful flags, their bright hues fluttering with every movement. The flags added an extra splash of festivity to their energetic performance.

Amidst the swirl of movement, Georgia bounded up to them with infectious enthusiasm. She launched herself into the scene, her head playfully peeking out from between Leah and Keira. Her excitement was palpable, adding a new dimension of liveliness to the group. The trio's shared joy and friendship were evident in their spontaneous and carefree expressions.

“Wow,” Leah breathed. She was in genuine awe. She remembered that day like it was yesterday, she remembered the moment she saw the camera being aimed at her, a quiet but smiling you behind it.

Keira joined her, leaning in to get a closer look. “You really captured the energy of that moment. It’s like I can hear the music just looking at it.”

You smiled at their reactions, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over you. “I’m glad you like it. That was one of those moments where everything just felt perfect, you know? The music, the people, the atmosphere. It was one of those nights that you just want to hold on to forever.”

Georgia nodded, her smile widening. “And you’ve done just that. It’s not just a photograph; it’s a piece of that night.”

Keira looked around at the rest of the exhibition. “Seriously, all of your work is amazing. You’ve got such a unique perspective. It’s like each photo has its own story.”

“Thank you, Kei. Coming from you … that means a lot.” Keira was the closest thing you had to a sister that cared. Not that Sophie didn’t care, but she had a similar indifference that Lucy had. It wasn’t as bad, but you only really saw her on the holidays and if she ever came home for a weekend.

As the night came to an end, you couldn’t shake off the lingering disappointment. The exhibition had been a success, but the empty space left by Lucy’s absence felt like a heavy shadow. Another milestone in your life had come and gone, and once again, you hadn’t been important enough for her to show up. You couldn’t fathom why she hated you so much. She showed up to Sophie’s things, and Jorge’s. Why not yours?

The weight of this realisation grew heavier with each passing moment. As you the taxi took you back to your hotel, the quiet of the car only seemed to amplify your sadness. By the time you arrived, you were in no mood to face the evening alone with your thoughts. Maybe ordering a bottle of the strongest thing they had from the hotel bar wasn’t your best idea. But you were alone and sad after what should’ve been the best day of your life.

The hotel room was big and expensive – your one treat to yourself in congratulations. A luxury suite in a five-star hotel in London. The alcohol burned your throat, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to sit with your emotions any longer. You wanted to stop feeling. Anything to numb the pain that had been a constant your whole life.

You weren’t sure when the idea came to you. One minute you were on the hotel balcony, wallowing in your sadness with the bottle in your hands, the next you were pulling out your phone. You weren’t expecting her to answer. You weren’t even sure she had your number saved.

When her voicemail finally picked up, the sound of her voice – a cheerful and upbeat recording informing you she couldn’t make it to the phone and to leave a message for her – felt like a final slap in the face.

“Luce … Lucy … Lucia Roberta. It’s me,” you giggled, the alcohol making you feel oddly detached from the situation. “By me, I mean your sister. Not Sophie, your other sister. Y/N … you’re probably not even going to listen to this, so I can probably say what I want to.”

You took a deep breath, struggling to keep your words coherent. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make it tonight. Actually, no that’s a lie. I do know why you didn’t come tonight. You hate me. That’s why.”

Your voice wavered, and you wiped a stray tear from your cheek. “Remember that time you said you’d come to my year 6 school play? You didn’t make it. And the Alnwick Castle exhibition thingy? And my GCSE results meal? And my A-level party? And my uni send-off? I know you didn’t want another sister. I don’t think I even appear on your Wikipedia page. I know ‘cos I use it to keep updated on your life. You never tell me anything so.” You took another shuddering breath and a swig from the bottle.

“What was it this time? Did Ona need you? I know you’re at the Olympics for her. I like Ona. She’s really nice. And funny. And pretty. I wish she was my sister instead of you. Or Keira… Keira was good… is good. She actually cares about me. She showed up today.” A bitter chuckle escaped your lips, and you shook your head, trying to push away the tears.

“I don’t know what I ever did to you, Lucy.” You stared at the dark hotel room around you. “I don’t know why I even bother sometimes. Maybe I should just stop pretending that you’re ever going to be there for me. Maybe I should just stop hoping for something that’s never going to happen.”

Your voice softened, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I’ve tried to be understanding, to see things from your side. I know you’re busy, and I get that life doesn’t always align. But it’s like I’m always on the outside of your world, never really part of it. It’s exhausting, waiting for something that never comes.”

A long silence followed as you struggled to gather your thoughts. “Anyway, I don’t expect you to call back. I don’t expect you to make any grand gestures or anything like that. I really need to stop expecting anything from you. I just needed to say it. I needed to get it off my chest, even if it’s to your voicemail.”

You let out a long sigh, feeling a strange mix of relief and sadness. “Take care, Lucy. I hope things are going well with you, even if I’m not a part of it and you hate me for the rest of your life. I really do.”

It was another hot day in France. The sun beat down on Lyon, the heatwaves fogging the horizon. The cobblestone streets shimmered in the intense light, and the usually bustling markets were quieter than usual, with vendors seeking refuge in the shade of their awnings. The air was thick with the scent of fresh baguettes and ripe fruit, but even these familiar aromas seemed to waver in the oppressive heat.

Outside, the rhythmic clatter of a bicycle's wheels on the pavement was one of the few sounds cutting through the heat. The cyclist, a young woman with a wide-brimmed hat, pedalled slowly, her face glistening with perspiration. She was on a mission to find a place where the heat was more bearable, perhaps a hidden garden or a cool courtyard where she could rest and escape the relentless sun.

Ona looked back towards Lucy, who was still in bed, her dark hair splayed out over the pillow like a cascade of midnight. The room was filled with a soft morning light that filtered through the thin curtains, casting a warm glow on the walls. Ona smiled, feeling a sense of contentment that she hadn’t experienced in weeks.

Last night had been exactly what they needed. The weight of the Olympics had finally lifted, if only temporarily. She had underestimated how exhausting the Games could be – Lucy had been right when she described it as a marathon. The endless competition and pressure to perform had taken their toll, and last night’s reprieve from it all felt like a much-needed breath of fresh air.

She leaned over and gently brushed a strand of hair from Lucy’s face. Lucy stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open. She gave Ona a sleepy, contented smile, her hand reaching out to rest on Ona’s.

“Morning,” Lucy murmured, her voice thick with sleep but warm with affection.

“Bon dia,” Ona replied softly, her heart swelling with the simple joy of being beside Lucy.

Ona let her fingers dance across Lucy's face, across her brow and down her nose before delicately tracing the outline of her lips. The soft morning light filtering through the curtains painted a serene glow across the room. Everything felt calm and intimate, a stark contrast to the intensity of the past weeks.

Just as Ona leaned in to place a tender kiss on Lucy’s forehead, the piercing ring of her phone shattered the quiet. Ona’s eyes fluttered open, and she sighed, glancing at the screen with a frown. The phone buzzed insistently on the bedside table.

“Mmmm, who, who is it?” Lucy grumbled sleepily.

“No n'estic segur,” Ona muttered back.

“Too early for Catalan,” the Brit groaned, twisting away to pick up the phone

“Oh,” her demeanour changed abruptly.

“Who is it?” Ona asked, her voice laced with curiosity and concern as she reached over to peek at the phone.

“Just a voicemail,” Lucy said, her voice distant and troubled. She rolled over in bed, clearly unsettled by the message.

“From who?” Ona persisted, her brow furrowing. She was trying to understand the sudden shift in Lucy’s mood.

“My sister,” Lucy replied, her voice flat and weary. The mention of her sister’s name seemed to weigh heavily on her.

Ona’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why would Sophie be phoning you now? It’s only 6 am in England.”

“It’s not Sophie,” Lucy clarified, her tone tinged with a mixture of frustration and resignation. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes as if trying to wake herself from a troubling dream. “It’s Y/N.”

Ona’s expression softened with empathy. She was aware of the strained relationship between you, though the reasons behind it had always eluded her. She had heard bits and pieces about their complicated dynamic but had never been given a full explanation. She wasn’t even sure Lucy had a definite answer for her.

“Maybe you should listen to it?” Ona suggested gently, her voice filled with concern. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on Lucy’s shoulder.

“No,” Lucy’s answer was abrupt and to the point. She seemed almost angry with herself for letting the voicemail disturb her morning. She threw the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her movements sharp and restless.

The movement managed to throw Lucy’s phone off the bed as well. She must not have locked it properly. Before they could react, your voice filled the room.

The voicemail had begun to play on speakerphone, and Lucy’s heart sank as your words echoed around them. “Luce … Lucy … Lucia Roberta. It’s me,” your voice slurred slightly, you were clearly drunk. “By me, I mean your sister. Not Sophie, your other sister. Y/N … you’re probably not even going to listen to this, so I can probably say what I want to.”

Ona’s eyes widened in surprise, and she looked at Lucy, whose face had gone pale. The voicemail continued, your words growing more emotional and raw. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make it tonight. Actually, no, that’s a lie. I do know why you didn’t come tonight. You hate me. That’s why.”

I hope you enjoyed it <3<3<3

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anantaru · 2 days

Text

⚝ DAY 2 — POWER IMBALANCE

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — blade, jing yuan, aventurine

— warnings. — fem! reader, power imbalance, oral (fem! receiving), toxic & manipulation, hard syx, dom/sub

⚝ — BLADE

blade feels to you like a storm, his grip on you endlessly overwhelming yet not because he's forcing it on you, no, but because his dependence on you was suffocating.

the stellaron hunter was dangerous, you were very much aware of it, although never pondering on the fact that you were playing with fire here.

his cock slides in between your folds before slipping to your hole, right then, you can feel the hot push of his tip, slow at first, but persistent, burning and stretching you. blade opens you up as you clutch at his shoulders each time, you're certain you can take him, you can't— it won't fit—such always crosses your mind but, you see, your skin was burning and hungry, submitting to him, to his cock sliding in fully— so smooth on your walls, thick inside, searing.

blade clings to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to sanity, and well— maybe you were, he certainly looks at you with an intensity that borders on desperation, a string he needed to hold on to if he wanted to keep at least a little bit of humanity inside himself or else, he’d fall apart.

"you ground me," he murmurs, voice low, his hand searching for your own as he grips it a little too tightly— his neediness haunting as he slumps forward, still thrusting hungry shoves of his cock into you as the rhythm changes just a little, but the pressure was increasing, becoming more meaningful.

in this rare moments, the way his hands tremble slightly when he brushes your hair behind your ear, there’s a tenderness, yes, but you cannot shake off the feeling of being scared of him— were his words the truth? did he mean what he said? would he hurt you in the end or are you really the one to put a light in his dark, twisted world?

⚝ — JING YUAN

jing yuan was always in control, his charm making each and every friend or foe bend to his will effortlessly— and well, you’re no exception.

frankly, he's used to people following his lead without question, without turning on their own brains, his words were so fittingly persuasive that you barely even notice when you started agreeing with everything he said.

you whine out a breathy, "fuck, more—" as he laps at your clit, the vibrations of his hums and groans making you arch your back into him— you're so sensitive, jing yuan makes you feel all of it with his tongue, all the nerves down there and how muscle slurped and licked a stripe along your slit to tease you, shamelessly moaning against your pussy right after.

"i’m only looking out for you," he lazily mumbles into your cunt, "I know what's ugh—, what's best for you," his fucked out grin disarms you completely as you look down, admiring the view of his hands, big hands, clutching at your trembling thighs before he gives your stomach an anticipatory twist.

he's not forceful though, don't misunderstand, yeah? because simply, jing yuan doesn’t need to be, his self assured confidence made it feel like any resistance would be literally ridiculous.

after all, his charisma pulls you in, his beauty and face being chocolate box pretty, ethereal and powerful, leaving you wanting to please him too, so badly yeah, to stay on his good side.

⚝ — AVENTURINE

from the outside, aventurine was unable to be read— and even once you got close to him, you found yourself having more difficulties reading him.

his standards were impossibly high, that's for sure, and he never hesitates to point out when you fall short. for some reason he critiques everything you do, from the way you handle the tasks he's given you to your smallest habits, never failing in exhaustedly rolling his eyes with an edge of frustration.

however, wasn't it just amazing how he was always there to clean up the "mess" you made in getting all the tasks wrong, or anything really.

something unmistakable random could happen in your life, even just a favorite item you suddenly lost and aventurine would always be there to help you— like a white knight.

of course, you cannot question him on anything, he was your superior and losing your job would be the last thing you wanted, next to losing the little relationship you've built over the last couple of months with him.

you feels it in your legs, your stomach, your hands, your soul when he touches you— pleasures you.

it's the desire overtaking you first, making you give yourself up entirely to the harsh rhythm of his hips displaying no mercy. aventurine hisses as you squeeze him, the faintness in his head almost making him swoon as your leg tremble and his cock throbs hard in you, the tremulous thrill inside your belly building to a merciless dance.

"i’ll be here, buried right here—" he hums and grinds his hips, his fingers drawing a line on your stomach, up and down, "feel that? you feel me there?"

"not that you, fuck— deserve it," he grunts, cupping your cheeks and brushing a thumb over your lips, "you made so many mistakes today," he breathes while staring down at his cock splitting your puffy cunt.

he adds, "you should be thankful i was there,"

an embarrassed, little sorry was all you managed to get out in return and ugh— the friction of him rubbing against your walls felt absolutely sickening, like you're about to cum and scream any second now.

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr smut #honkai star rail smut #honkai starrail x reader #honkai starrail smut #blade x reader #blade smut #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan smut #aventurine x reader #aventurine smut #hsr x you #honkai starrail x you #honkai star rail x you

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reidmarieprentiss · 2 days

Text

Lucky

Summary: Based on this request! Reader encourages Penelope to go on a date, which ends in tragedy. This event shakes the team, leading to conflict, particularly between reader and Spencer, who blames her for what happened.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: angst, fluff

Warnings/Includes: gun mention, Penelope gets shot, typical BAU crime stuff, people getting mad at reader/blaming reader, Spencer icing reader out, Spencer being questionable boyfriend, Spencer saying mean things about reader, happy ending, Penelope is okay, self doubt/blaming

Word count: 16.7k

a/n: Spencer is kind of an ass for a while but it will make sense ! He is still an angel baby

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“So,” Derek says with that familiar smirk, “who’s the lucky guy?”

Penelope's eyes sparkle as she smiles, her fingers toying with a brightly colored pen on her desk. “His name is James. Just this sweet guy I met at the coffee shop. You know... normal, stable. No dark criminal past.” She tries to sound casual, but the happiness in her voice is unmistakable.

“Uh-huh...” Morgan leans in, tilting his head as if scrutinizing her every word. “And you’re sure you want to go out with him?”

A slight defensiveness takes over as Penelope puts her hands on her hips, feigning indignation. “Yes! Why not? Am I not allowed to date now, Derek Morgan?”

Morgan's grin widens, and he shakes his head, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say that. Just... be careful, alright?”

Rolling her eyes with a dramatic sigh, Penelope can’t help but huff. “Yes, Dad,” she quips, wondering why Derek is being so weird about this.

But then Morgan’s expression shifts, softening into something deeper, more earnest. “No, seriously.” His voice drops, gentle but firm. “Just... be careful, Baby Girl. Don’t give away your heart to some guy who hasn’t earned it.”

Penelope hardens slightly, feeling slightly hurt that Derek feels the need to lecture her. “I know, Derek. But... he seems nice. Really.”

Morgan nods slowly and walks away, still caught in the cloud of his concern and overprotectiveness. She lets out a soft sigh, looking down at the pile of case files on her desk, feeling a little bit deflated despite her earlier excitement. She loves that Derek cares, but sometimes he can be a bit... much. She starts to drum her fingers nervously against her desk, mulling over their conversation.

That's when you come in. You'd been passing by and couldn't help but notice the tense exchange. Taking a quick survey of Penelope's expression—anxiousness and longing—you decide to step in, offering a soft but encouraging smile.

"Hey, Pen," you say gently, leaning against the edge of her desk, careful not to crowd her. "You doing okay? I saw the little showdown with Morgan. He can be a bit... intense sometimes, huh?"

Penelope chuckles softly, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You could say that. I mean, I know he means well, but... I just want to do normal things, like go out with a guy. And James... he seems so sweet, you know?”

“James?” you say, a teasing grin spreading across your face as you lean a bit closer. “Who is this James?”

Penelope's eyes dart to yours, and for a moment, she looks like a deer caught in headlights, her surprise quickly melting into a flustered smile. “Oh, he’s... just this guy,” she says, her voice rising in pitch as she tries to sound nonchalant. “Met him at the coffee shop. He's sweet, you know... normal.”

Your grin widens, clearly unconvinced by her attempt to play it cool. “Normal, huh? And when exactly were you planning on telling me about this ‘normal’ guy?”

Penelope tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting out a playful huff. “Oh, come on. It’s just a date... no big deal.” But the glint in her eyes says otherwise, and you know it’s a big deal to her. And that’s exactly why you’re going to keep teasing.

“Well, it’s still a deal!” you exclaim, leaning forward in your seat, eyes wide with excitement. “Tell me all about it!”

Penelope laughs, the warmth of your enthusiasm easing away the hesitation she’s been holding onto. She fidgets with the edge of her sweater, a shy smile creeping onto her face as she starts to talk. “So... I was at my usual coffee shop, you know, the one with the really good chai lattes,” she begins, her voice picking up speed as she gets lost in the memory. “And then, out of nowhere, this ridiculously attractive man just... walks up to me, like he’s in some kind of rom-com or something. And he... he asked me out.”

You lean back, eyes wide, soaking in every detail of her story. “No way,” you whisper, your excitement infectious. “What did you do? What did you say?”

“Well, I said yes, obviously!” she chuckles, though there's an underlying nervousness. “But... I felt so... I don't know. Conflicted. This just doesn’t happen to girls like me.”

“Girls like you?” Your expression shifts from curiosity to confusion, brow furrowing as you try to make sense of her words. “Penelope Garcia, you are one of the most beautiful, kind-hearted, brilliant people I have ever met in my life.” You lean in, your voice gentle but insistent, making sure she understands every word. “ ‘Girls like you’ deserve the world and more. Don’t you dare think otherwise for a second.”

Penelope’s eyes widen, your words hitting her like a warm, unexpected wave. Her smile softens, and she blinks a few times, trying to brush off the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “You really think so?” she whispers, her voice almost breaking with vulnerability.

“Are you kidding?” you say, a grin spreading across your face as you reach out to squeeze her hand. “James is the lucky one here, Penelope. Trust me on that.”

She squeezes your hand back, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she ducks her head a little. “So, you’re saying I should go on this date?” she asks, the nervousness wavering just slightly in her voice. “Because... Derek didn’t seem so sure.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning back in your chair with a dramatic sigh. “Derek is a man, and men are weird,” you say with a knowing smirk. “I bet he’s got some strange alpha-male possessive thing going on. It’s like, in his DNA or something, to protect his pack. Don’t listen to him. You should absolutely go on this date.”

Penelope’s smile widens, and she lets out a soft, relieved laugh. “Well, when you put it like that... maybe you’re right. I mean, he is just one guy. And he did buy me a coffee...”

“Exactly!” you exclaim, nodding fervently. “You’ve got a very attractive guy who bought you coffee and wants to spend time with you. And, Penelope, you deserve to have fun. So don’t overthink it, okay? Go on the date, be your amazing self, and if Derek has a problem, he can take it up with me.”

She chuckles at that, the tension finally leaving her shoulders, and the smile that spreads across her face is brighter than ever. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it. I’ll go on the date.”

“Good!” you say, beaming. “And when he inevitably falls head over heels for you, I expect a full play-by-play report.”

“Deal,” Penelope says, grinning, the confidence returning to her eyes as she envisions a night filled with possibilities.

When you walked out of Penelope’s office, a spring in your step from the lighthearted conversation, you made your way back to your desk in the bullpen. As you approached your workspace, something immediately caught your eye — a fresh mug of hot coffee sitting on your desk, the steam curling upward in delicate wisps. A secret smile spread across your face as you set your things down and wrapped your fingers around the warm mug, the scent of your favorite brew filling the air.

You didn’t need to guess who’d placed it there. Glancing up, your eyes found Spencer across the bullpen, and sure enough, he was looking at you with that sweet, soft smile that always made your heart skip a beat. The quiet gesture was simple, but it spoke volumes about the thoughtful, caring man he was.

You mouthed a silent “thank you,” lifting the mug slightly as a toast of gratitude, and playfully blew him a kiss. Spencer’s cheeks flushed that adorable shade of pink that always surfaced whenever you flirted with him, and he shyly ducked his head for a moment before glancing back up to meet your eyes. With a wink and a barely contained grin, he turned back to his work, trying — and failing — to hide just how pleased he was to have made your morning a little brighter.

The sweetness of the morning, with its light teasing and the comfort of Spencer’s coffee, was short-lived. The moment Hotch called everyone into the conference room, a palpable shift in energy settled over the team. You quickly gathered your things and followed the others into the room, the coffee that had moments ago been a small joy now forgotten as you braced yourself for the case that awaited.

On the screen in the conference room was the face of a young woman — a bright, smiling 19-year-old with curly brown hair and freckles that dotted her cheeks. The smile in her photo seemed hauntingly out of place for what followed. Abby Connors, the name beneath the picture read. Hotch stepped forward, his face grave, and began the briefing.

“Abby Connors was a 19-year-old freshman at the University of Florida,” he explained. “She left home a little over a week ago to move into her dorm, but she never made it back. Her parents reported her missing, and after three days of searching, joggers found her body near a park in the Everglades, near an area the locals refer to as 'Alligator Alley.'”

A murmur rippled through the room as the next image appeared — a crime scene photo, one that showed just half of Abby’s body. You instinctively held your breath as you took in the gruesome details: everything beneath her waist was missing, consumed by the predators that roamed the swampy area. But it was the condition of the remaining part of her body that made the room go eerily silent.

“She was found with an inverted pentagram carved into her chest,” Hotch continued grimly, pointing to the markings on her torso. “Her fingers were all cut off at the second knuckle, and her throat was slit cleanly.”

You exchanged uneasy glances with your teammates, the horrifying nature of the crime setting in as you processed each detail. “So what are we dealing with?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. “Some kind of satanic cult?”

Rossi, who had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, shook his head. “It's not as simple as that. The idea of satanic cults operating as organized serial killer groups has been widely debunked.” He sat up, his expression thoughtful but firm. “The satanic panic of the ‘80s and ‘90s sensationalized a lot of things, but ritualistic killings like this? They don’t happen often in the way people think.”

“So, not a cult,” JJ mused aloud. “But this is still a ritualistic killing, right? The pentagram, the mutilation... it’s not random.”

“Absolutely ritualistic,” Spencer added, nodding in agreement. “The precision of the throat slitting, the removal of the fingers, the inverted pentagram... they all suggest that this was premeditated, and that the unsub wanted to send a specific message with Abby’s murder.”

“This type of ritualistic behavior can escalate,” Derek said, leaning over the table, a serious look in his eyes. “It’s got all the hallmarks of a kill that’s part of a larger motive. If we don’t catch this guy, he’s likely to do it again.”

“Which means we’re looking at a potential serial killer in the making,” Emily concluded, her voice grim. “Someone with a specific set of rituals and a willingness to mutilate and kill.”

Rossi cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him as he spoke with an almost reverent gravity. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” he quoted in a low voice, his Italian rolling off his tongue smoothly. Seeing the questioning looks on some of your faces, he translated: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

A silence fell over the room as the weight of those words hung in the air. You knew, as did everyone else in the room, that this case was going to be dark, disturbing, and an all-consuming race to catch a killer who seemed to find something meaningful — perhaps even sacred — in the brutality of his crimes.

And with that, the team set into motion, knowing that every second mattered if they were going to save another girl from meeting the same fate as Abby Connors.

—

After the team closes the case, the team sits in relative silence on the jet, each member deep in thought, processing the horrors. The soft hum of the plane’s engine provides a strange comfort, and the tension of the day slowly begins to ease. Morgan sits across from Rossi, resting his elbows on his knees, staring off into the distance. Rossi watches him for a moment before speaking up.

“You did good work out there,” Rossi says, his voice steady and calm, the kind of voice that always has a way of grounding everyone.

Morgan looks up, giving a half-smile, but there’s a heaviness behind his eyes. “Yeah... but you know how it is, man. No matter how many of these cases we close, it never feels like it’s enough.” He shakes his head, running a hand over his face as if to brush away the exhaustion. “I just keep thinking about Abby’s family. They’ll never be the same.”

Rossi leans back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap, a thoughtful look on his face. “Yeah, it’s tough. But we gave them answers. And sometimes, that’s all we can do. You know as well as I do, it’s not about winning every battle. It’s about making sure we fight it.”

Morgan nods, his jaw tightening as he absorbs Rossi’s words. “I know,” he says, voice a little softer now. “It’s just... there’s so much darkness out there. And some days, it feels like it’s winning.”

Rossi’s expression shifts into something more reflective, a small, wise smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Maybe it feels like that,” he admits, “but the fact that it bothers you — the fact that it bothers all of us — that’s what makes the difference, Morgan. It means we’re still out there, shining a light in the darkness.”

Morgan's shoulders relax a little, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I guess you’re right. Just gotta keep fighting, right?”

Rossi raises a glass of bourbon from his side table, offering a silent toast. “To fighting the good fight.”

Morgan grins, and they clink glasses in a quiet, shared moment of understanding. The jet continues its journey through the night, a small point of light against the vast expanse of sky.

—

Meanwhile, Penelope walks arm-in-arm with James, her laughter bright and infectious as it echoes down the sidewalk. They reach the front steps of her apartment building, and she turns to face him. “Well, this was... really nice,” she says, giving him a genuine smile.

James grins back at her, and for a second, he leans in as if he’s about to kiss her. But at the last second, he pulls back, laughing playfully. “Sorry,” he says, scratching his head sheepishly. “Didn’t want to be too forward.”

Garcia giggles, shaking her head at his little fake-out. “You almost had me there,” she teases, turning to fish for her keys in her bag. “Well, goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Penelope,” he says, stepping back and starting to walk away, giving her one last wave.

As she turns to unlock her door, James suddenly stops, a strange stillness in the way he holds himself. He calls out to her over his shoulder, voice casual but loud enough to make her pause. “Hey, Garcia?”

Penelope looks up, smiling as she begins to open her door. “Yeah?”

James turns fully toward her, the smile gone from his face, replaced with an unsettling calm. “I’ve been thinking about doing this all night,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket.

Before Garcia can even process what’s happening, James pulls out a gun, his movements quick and fluid. The world seems to slow down around her — her eyes widen, her mouth opens to scream, but the sound never comes.

And then, in an instant, the gun fires. The crack of the shot echoes through the empty street, and Penelope’s body jerks back, eyes wide with shock and pain as she collapses to the ground, her keys scattering across the pavement.

James stands there for a moment, the smoke from the barrel of his gun curling into the night air. He watches as she gasps for breath, a cruel smile curling on his lips before he turns and disappears into the shadows, leaving Penelope lying there, her life slipping away on the cold, unforgiving ground.

—

Back on the jet, you lean back in your seat, facing Spencer with a thoughtful look. “You know, I keep wondering what Penelope’s date is like,” you muse aloud, spinning your half-empty cup of coffee between your hands. “I hope she’s having fun. She deserves it.”

Spencer’s brows knit in mild surprise, his mouth opening to respond, but before he can even utter a word, Derek’s voice cuts across the cabin. “Wait — hold up.” He’s leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide and brimming with concern. “Garcia actually went on that date?”

“Yeah, she did.” You nod, meeting his incredulous stare with a small smile. “I told her to go for it. She’s gotta put herself out there, right? No reason for her to hold back just because you’re all... alpha about it.”

“Alpha?” Derek echoes, looking around at the others as if searching for an ally. “I’m not... okay, look, I just want to make sure she’s safe. And how do you even know if this guy’s legit? Did you see him? Talk to him?”

You wave a hand dismissively. “No, but she deserves to have fun, Derek. She seemed excited, and it’s not like she doesn’t have a good head on her shoulders. I think it’s great that she’s taking a chance on something new.”

Emily nods along in agreement, leaning back with a relaxed smile. “I think it’s sweet. And Penelope isn’t some naïve kid — she’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself.”

JJ chimes in with a bright smile, “Yeah, and besides, it’s not like she’s going to let someone walk all over her. She’ll know if something’s up. And if he treats her right, then it’s all the better for her. Maybe it’ll turn into something special.”

Rossi, watching the whole exchange with an amused smirk, adds, “Sometimes people surprise you. And sometimes that surprise is exactly what someone needs to get out of their comfort zone. Our girl deserves someone to treat her well.”

Derek’s shoulders stay tense, and he shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “I get that, but... I just want to make sure she’s happy. That’s all. You know Garcia — she’s got a big heart, and I don’t want some guy messing with it.”

You reach over and pat Derek on the shoulder, a soft smile on your lips. “I get it, really. But maybe you should trust her on this. Penelope’s stronger than you think, and she’s allowed to take some risks. It’s not always about protecting her, Derek — sometimes it’s about letting her live.”

Spencer, who’s been listening quietly, finally speaks up. “She’ll be fine, Derek. And she’s lucky to have someone who cares as much as you do. But I think what she really needs right now is support... and maybe for us to just be happy for her.”

Derek looks around at everyone, the tension in his expression easing as he sees the genuine support in the eyes of his teammates. He lets out a reluctant chuckle, running a hand over his shaved head. “Alright, alright. I guess I’m just overprotective.”

“Just a bit,” you tease with a playful nudge.

“Fine,” Derek relents, lifting his hands in surrender. “But if this guy hurts her...”

“Then we’ll all be there to kick his ass,” Emily assures with a wink, and the team laughs, the conversation flowing into lighter banter, the tension dissipating as they talk about how much they hope Penelope enjoys her date — all of them unknowingly letting go of their worry while the truth of the night's events remains just out of reach.

You leaned into Spencer, feeling that familiar warmth spread through you as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you closer until your head rested comfortably against him. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, a silent show of support and affection.

The chatter of your teammates surrounded you, playful jokes about first-date jitters and guesses about how Penelope’s night might be going. It was one of those rare lighthearted moments that made the job feel less heavy. And as you closed your eyes for just a moment, feeling the calm of Spencer’s presence, everything felt okay.

The jet touched down smoothly, and you straightened up, reluctantly leaving the warmth of Spencer’s side as everyone prepared to disembark. But as soon as the wheels hit the ground, Hotch’s phone buzzed loudly against the table. He picked it up immediately, his expression going from relaxed to steely in an instant as he answered.

“Hotchner,” he said, his voice flat and professional.

The team began to gather their things, their attention still mostly on wrapping up the casual conversation, until Hotch’s face went stark white, his eyes narrowing as he listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line. His mouth opened slightly, and you saw the shock in his eyes before he steeled himself again.

“What happened?” he demanded, his tone shifting from its usual calm to something far more urgent. He stood up abruptly, stepping away from the team, but you could all still hear him as the rest of the plane went silent, each of you glancing at one another with rising concern. Spencer’s hand instinctively found yours, and you squeezed it, anxiety blooming in your chest.

“Where was she?” Hotch’s voice was clipped, a mixture of alarm and anger. “When?”

You exchanged quick glances with your teammates. It wasn’t normal to see Hotch like this, and that fear in his voice made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Is she...?” Hotch stopped, and there was a pause, a terrible pause that seemed to stretch on forever. You held your breath, waiting, every second feeling like a lifetime.

“Understood. We’re on our way.” Hotch’s voice was low, tight with a struggle to maintain control. He hung up without another word, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the tension in his muscles.

He turned back to the team, his expression grim, and you knew, you just knew, that whatever had happened, it wasn’t good.

Hotch’s voice was like ice, cutting through the stunned silence of the jet as he delivered the news that seemed impossible to process: “Garcia’s been shot. She’s in the hospital, in surgery.”

The world seemed to tilt, a rush of chaos and confusion drowning out everything else. In an instant, you and the rest of the team scrambled to grab your bags, shock and fear flashing in everyone’s eyes. It was like all at once, the air was sucked out of the room, and before anyone could fully understand what was happening, you were rushing down the steps of the jet. The roar of the engines and the slap of your feet against the tarmac seemed distant, muffled, as adrenaline took over.

Within seconds, you piled into the SUVs, slamming the doors shut as the engines roared to life, and the cars sped off toward the hospital. The journey felt agonizingly long, despite the breakneck speed. No one spoke, but the tension in the car was palpable — every breath was shallow, every heartbeat loud in your ears. Your hand was clasped tightly in Spencer’s, and he held on as if anchoring you to reality, but all you could think about was Garcia and the thought of losing her.

When you finally pulled up to the hospital, everyone practically flew out of the cars, running toward the entrance. The white lights of the waiting room were harsh and sterile, amplifying the dread that hung over the team. Hotch was the first to speak to the receptionist, his voice firm and demanding answers, but the only thing they knew was that Penelope was in surgery — no word on her condition, no updates, and, most importantly, no word on who had done this to her.

And so you waited.

The team paced, hands running through hair, fists clenching and unclenching as they tried to contain the storm of emotions within. The minutes stretched into hours, and the silence felt heavy, like a weight pressing down on each of you. Spencer held you close, one arm wrapped tightly around you as you buried your face into his chest, tears streaming down your face. He murmured gentle reassurances, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, but his own eyes were red-rimmed and his voice strained, betraying his fear.

Across the room, Derek’s frustration finally boiled over, and he lashed out, yelling at a nurse who could provide no new information. “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know anything? That’s our friend in there! You have to know something!” His voice was raw, the anger masking his pain, but before he could cause more of a scene, Hotch intervened, gripping his shoulder firmly and steering him outside.

The tension in the room didn't lessen, only growing heavier in Derek’s absence. Emily sat with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped tightly together, staring at the ground as if willing time to move faster. Rossi paced back and forth, his jaw tight, not a word leaving his mouth, but the anger and sorrow on his face spoke volumes. JJ stood near you, hugging her arms to her chest, eyes fixed on the swinging doors that led to the surgery wing, willing them to open with some kind of good news.

Hours passed in that awful purgatory, time stretching and distorting until it seemed like you’d been waiting an eternity. And then, finally, a nurse came out and told you that one person could go back to see her. As a unit, the decision was made for Hotch to go — Garcia had named him her emergency contact, and he was the steady hand, the one who would be able to bring back the information without being overwhelmed by the storm of emotions all of you were feeling.

The waiting resumed, and all you could do was cling to Spencer tighter, the fear and worry seeming to squeeze the breath from your lungs.

When Hotch emerged from behind the doors some time later, his face was unreadable, a mask of professionalism over whatever emotions he was truly feeling. The rest of you gathered around him quickly, every muscle tensed as you waited for him to say something, anything, about Garcia.

“Garcia’s going to make it,” he said, his voice low but firm. You let out a shuddering breath of relief, and the room seemed to collectively exhale. “She’s stable, but...” He paused, glancing at each of you, and in his eyes, you saw a darkness that made your stomach drop.

“It was her date who shot her,” he said quietly. “James. But his real name... is Jason Clark Battle.”

The name seemed to hang in the air like a curse, and it took a moment for the shock to register. And when it did, Derek’s expression twisted with a rage so violent it was almost frightening. “No,” he said, shaking his head as if refusing to believe it. “No, no, no—” His voice rose to a shout, and before anyone could react, he lunged toward you, face twisted with anger and pain. “You told her to go! You told her to go with him!”

His hands reached out to grab you, but before he could touch you, Rossi and Emily were on him, grabbing his arms and holding him back. “Derek, stop!” Rossi’s voice was sharp, his grip firm as he held Morgan in place. “This isn’t their fault!”

“Let go of me!” Derek struggled against their hold, his voice hoarse with fury, his eyes wild and filled with a grief that had no outlet. “I should’ve stopped her... I should’ve...”

Hotch stepped between you and Derek, his face set in a stern, controlled mask. “Enough,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. “This is not how we handle this. We find this man, and we make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

It felt like everything around you was falling apart, the walls closing in as the weight of the world crashed down on you, pressing in from all sides. Your breath caught in your throat, and you turned to the one person who could always make things feel right — Spencer. You reached out to him, seeking his comfort, his steady reassurance. But instead of the familiar warmth of his embrace, you were met with a coldness that hit you like a blow to the chest.

He stepped back, his eyes fixed on you with a look you’d never seen before — something between shock, hurt, and a kind of betrayal that cut deep. The warmth was gone, replaced by an expression that made your stomach drop.

“Spence?” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely more than a whimper. You felt your world spiraling, desperately trying to grasp onto something to steady yourself.

Spencer’s eyes darted to the floor for a moment, then back to you, and he shook his head, his expression clouded with confusion and anger. “You told her to go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with pain. It wasn’t an accusation, not quite, but it felt like one all the same. He kept backing away from you, his face crumpling into an anguish you’d never seen before, like he was fighting to hold himself together. And then, without another word, he turned and stormed out of the waiting room, his footsteps echoing.

“Spencer!” JJ called after him, her voice urgent, but he didn’t stop. Without hesitation, she rushed to follow him, leaving you standing there, frozen in place.

Your eyes welled up with tears as you tried to piece together what had just happened, a sob choking in your throat. It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you, and you were falling, tumbling into a void. You wrapped your arms around yourself, hugging your own body, trying to stave off the cold emptiness that seemed to seep into your bones. You wanted to scream, to cry out and make sense of the look in Spencer’s eyes, the pain in his voice. But all that came out was a soft, broken whisper.

“Spencer...”

Rossi was there in an instant, a steadying hand on your shoulder, guiding you gently to a nearby chair as the reality of the situation crashed over you in relentless waves. Emily crouched down in front of you, her face tight with concern as she spoke softly, her words trying to break through the fog in your mind. But you could hardly hear her. The only thing echoing in your head were Spencer’s words — “You told her to go” — a statement that seemed to slice through your heart, over and over again.

—

You left the hospital soon after Spencer did. The cold night air hit your face as you stepped outside, but the chill did little to clear your head. Everything felt like a blur — Spencer’s words, the look on his face, Derek’s anger — it all played on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with sharper edges, digging deeper into your heart. You didn’t know how to feel, how to process the whirlwind of fear, guilt, and confusion. But one thing was clear: you had to find the man who hurt Penelope.

The next morning came all too quickly. The sun hadn’t even begun to rise when you arrived at the BAU. The bullpen was already a flurry of activity, the team moving with a frantic energy that matched your own desperate need to do something, anything, that could bring justice for Penelope. But as soon as you stepped inside, the adrenaline wasn’t enough to mask the raw pain that hit you when you saw Spencer.

He sat at his desk, fingers typing furiously at his keyboard, his face drawn tight with concentration. You stood there for a moment, holding your breath, waiting for him to look up — to give you some sign, any sign, that you could start to fix whatever had broken between you the night before. But Spencer wouldn’t look at you. It was as if you didn’t exist, like he’d built an invisible wall around himself, and you couldn’t break through. The red puffiness around your eyes was the only outward sign of the sleepless night you’d had, but the exhaustion in your soul ran much deeper.

When you walked past JJ’s desk, she reached out and touched your arm gently, her eyes full of concern, the pity unmistakable. “Hey,” she whispered, trying to offer comfort, but you shook your head, swallowing hard. The last thing you could bear right now was pity. Not when you had to keep it together for Penelope.

The rest of the team looked at you with the same expressions — sympathetic, worried, but no one knew what to say. And the truth was, neither did you. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, feeling the familiar sting of guilt rise in your throat, and forced yourself to look away, trying to focus on the task at hand. It was time to work, and that was something you could still do. Something you could control.

Well, the whole team except for Derek.

Every time he walked by, you could feel his eyes burning into you, his anger practically crackling like static in the air between you. And he didn’t hold back, either. With each passing hour, he took every chance to let you know exactly what he thought, throwing thinly-veiled digs and outright accusations whenever he could.

“This is your fault, you know,” he muttered under his breath when you passed each other in the hallway. “You’re the one who pushed her into going out with that psychopath. If she’d just listened to me, she’d be safe.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as his words stabbed into you like a knife, but you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. You just kept walking, heading back to your desk with that guilt clawing up your throat, making it hard to breathe. There was no time to argue, no room to let Derek’s words take over. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shut them out.

And then there were the moments when Derek couldn’t hold it in, when his anger boiled over and his voice rose loud enough for the whole team to hear. “You know that if she dies... if she dies, it’s on you,” he spat, his eyes burning with a fury so sharp it left you feeling gutted. “Her blood’s on your hands. Because you thought it was a good idea to let her go out with some random guy.”

You could feel the eyes of the rest of the team on you whenever it happened, the tension in the room growing thick and heavy as they tried to balance the grief for Penelope and the pain of watching their family fall apart. JJ would try to step in, her voice gentle but firm as she said, “Derek, now’s not the time—” or Hotch would give him a stern look, that unspoken command to drop it. But nothing seemed to get through to him, and each word he threw at you landed like a punch, his grief and fear bleeding out as anger directed at you.

You couldn’t argue with him. You didn’t know how to defend yourself. How could you, when deep down, a part of you agreed with every word he said?

So you did the only thing you could — you kept your head down and worked, staring at files until your eyes burned, listening to updates and following every lead until you were numb to everything except the hope that finding Jason Clark Battle would somehow make it right. You tried to drown out Derek’s voice, drown out the guilt, drown out the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, if you hadn’t encouraged Penelope, things wouldn’t have gone this way. But no matter how hard you tried to bury it, Derek’s words followed you, hanging over you like a dark shadow.

And the work continued, relentless and desperate, with everyone pushing forward to find the man who’d hurt Penelope. But the team was fractured, split between their grief and their anger, and the chasm between you and Derek seemed to widen with every word he threw your way.

Even as you worked, though, you could feel Spencer nearby — that familiar presence that you could always sense, whether you were looking at him or not. But this time, it felt different, like an ache just below the surface, a heavy, unspoken rift. He still wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t speak to you, even as you shared the same space, both working to the same goal. And no one pushed him. No one had the time or the energy to force him to talk through his emotions, not when there was a dangerous man on the loose and a life hanging in the balance.

But every time you heard Spencer’s voice — every rapid-fire observation, every note of urgency — it felt like a reminder of how things had changed in the space of a night. You worked side by side, but worlds apart, both desperate to save Garcia, but more than that, desperate to find your way back to each other.

And so, the hours wore on, a relentless, all-consuming search for Jason Clark Battle, with every member of the team driven by the same furious need to bring him to justice. Because in the midst of all the uncertainty and hurt, one thing was clear: no one was going to let him get away with what he’d done to Penelope. Not while any of you still had breath left to fight.

The team found Jason Clark Battle quickly, all things considered. The determination to bring him to justice — to make him pay for what he'd done to Penelope — fueled every moment, every step, every search through records and combing of evidence. But as the moment of his arrest neared, it became a new kind of challenge: keeping Derek Morgan away.

Hotch had to physically block him from joining the takedown, knowing all too well that if Derek got his hands on the man who shot Penelope, it wouldn’t end in an arrest. “Stand down, Morgan,” Hotch had ordered, his voice like a steel blade, cutting through the thick fog of Derek’s rage. It took Rossi and Emily to finally pull him back, their hands firm on his shoulders as Derek cursed and seethed, every inch of his body vibrating with the need to rip Battle apart. But they couldn't afford to lose two team members to the fallout, and Morgan was forced to stay back, simmering with fury as the rest of the team moved in.

When Jason Clark Battle was finally caught, subdued, and taken into custody, there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing that the man who hurt Penelope would face justice. But the victory was bitter, the relief tainted by the damage left in the wake of what had happened. The case might have been closed, but for all of you, it didn’t feel like a win — not when someone you loved was still lying in a hospital bed, healing from wounds she never should have gotten.

Once the reports were turned in and the team was officially dismissed, you watched as everyone else gathered to visit Penelope. There was a sort of reverence in how they spoke of her, quiet smiles and gentle jokes exchanged as they planned to bring flowers, chocolate, and anything else that would bring a smile to her face. But you couldn't go. The thought of stepping into that hospital room, of meeting her eyes, of seeing the pain and understanding what your advice had led to... it felt unbearable. You couldn’t face her, couldn’t let her see how broken you felt, knowing how close you’d come to losing her because you thought you were doing something good.

So, while your teammates headed to the hospital, ready to surround Penelope with love and support, you went home. The silence of your apartment was suffocating, and it took everything in you to not collapse under the weight of your own regret. The emptiness of being away from the team, from Penelope, only deepened your guilt. But it was better than showing up and making things worse — better than her having to see your face and be reminded of everything that happened.

Instead, you did what little you could from afar. You sent gift baskets filled with all of her favorite snacks — crunchy caramel popcorn, brightly wrapped candies, a couple of silly trinkets you hoped would make her laugh. You sent care packages with magazines, crossword puzzles, and soft blankets she could curl up with while she healed. You tried to send all the comfort you couldn’t bring yourself to give in person, every basket and letter a quiet apology you weren’t sure you deserved to offer. You only hoped she knew that, despite the distance, you were thinking of her. That you were sorry.

And as the days went on, and Penelope stayed in that hospital, you wondered if she could ever forgive you — if one day, when she was better and things returned to some semblance of normalcy, she might understand that all you wanted was for her to find happiness. That, even though your advice had gone so terribly wrong, it had come from a place of love. But the uncertainty of her forgiveness lingered, hanging over you like a cloud, and all you could do was hope that, in time, the rift could be healed.

Until then, you stayed away, waiting for the moment you could finally make amends — if that moment ever came.

—

The next workday, you sat at your desk, your eyes fixed on the papers in front of you, but your mind felt miles away. The sound of your own heartbeat seemed loud in the quiet of the bullpen, pounding relentlessly in your ears as you willed yourself to focus on something — anything — other than the turmoil of the last few days. You barely slept, and the fatigue sat heavy on your shoulders, making every moment feel sluggish, disconnected from reality. The tension still hung in the air, lingering after Penelope’s shooting, and it felt like every step you took was on eggshells, threatening to crack under the weight of all you hadn’t said.

You didn't hear Derek's approach at first, lost as you were in your own thoughts. But when you did catch the sight of his broad form looming in your peripheral vision, your whole body tensed up instinctively, bracing for what you knew would be another wave of anger, another round of accusations that would leave you feeling raw and exposed.

Here it comes, you thought. The guilt clenched in your chest as you waited for the onslaught, already picturing the words he’d throw at you, the blame you knew you deserved.

But then, you looked up, and the expression on Derek's face made you pause. It wasn’t what you expected. The hard lines of anger that had been etched there were gone, replaced by something softer, something regretful. He stood before you, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, his hands shoved into his pockets, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to find the right words.

“Hey,” he finally said, his voice low and rough with emotion.

“Hey.” You nodded back, your voice barely more than a whisper, your body still taut like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Derek glanced down for a moment, and when he looked back up, there was an apology written all over his face. “I, uh... I came to talk to you about... you know.” He trailed off, taking a deep breath as if trying to steady himself. “About what I said. What I did. And... I’m sorry.”

You blinked, the words hitting you like a punch you didn’t see coming. “You’re... sorry?” you repeated, trying to make sense of it, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I shouldn’t have come at you like that. I... I was angry, and scared, and I let it all out on you, and that wasn’t fair. It’s not your fault, what happened to Garcia. You were just being a good friend.” He paused, letting out a long, heavy breath. “And I guess... in a way, I’m mad at myself. Mad that I couldn’t keep her safe, that I didn’t know who this guy was, that I couldn’t stop it... so I put all that on you. And I’m sorry.”

You searched his eyes, looking for any trace of the rage you’d seen before, but all you saw now was sincerity, and pain, and a vulnerability that you hadn’t expected to find there. Derek Morgan — the strongest person you knew — was admitting his own fear and guilt to you, and it felt like the world was tilting just a little bit on its axis.

The tightness in your throat made it hard to speak, but you forced the words out, your voice cracking around the edges. “I... I get it. I mean, I don’t blame you for being angry, Derek. And I’m sorry too. I never would’ve... I never thought something like this would happen.” You looked down, feeling your eyes burn with tears you didn’t want to shed, not here, not now. “If I could take it back, I would. All of it.”

Derek stepped closer, and before you could react, he reached out, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t put this on yourself. Penelope’s strong. She’s gonna be okay. And you didn’t do anything wrong — you were just looking out for her, just like I was.” He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his voice softening. “We’re all just trying to do right by each other, you know? And sometimes we mess up. But that’s not on you.”

The tears that you’d been holding back finally spilled over, and you bit down on your lip, nodding as you tried to gather yourself. “Thanks, Derek,” you whispered, managing a small, shaky smile. “I just... I just want her to be okay.”

“She will be,” he assured you, his voice full of quiet confidence. “She’s got all of us in her corner. And I know it’s hard to believe, but... we’re gonna get through this. Together.”

He gave your shoulder one last squeeze before letting go, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a small sliver of relief, like the weight pressing down on you had been lifted just slightly.

“Derek...?” you said, your voice small and timid, almost afraid to ask the question that had been weighing on your heart since you’d stepped back into the bullpen.

“Yeah, baby?” he answered, his voice gentle and warm, and the nickname — your old nickname — made you smile, if only for a moment. Spencer had been the one to call you that more often lately, and hearing it from Derek felt like a return to something familiar, something safe.

You took a breath, biting down on your lip as you looked down at your hands, your fingers nervously twisting together. “Have you... have you talked to Spencer?”

Derek’s expression darkened, and he sighed deeply, the sound heavy and full of exhaustion. He ran a hand over his face, the weariness showing in the lines around his eyes, and when he looked at you again, there was a sadness there that made your heart sink even further. “No, mama,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Pretty boy hasn’t really talked to anyone. He’s got something going on in that big head of his, but he’s not letting us in yet.”

You nodded slowly, trying to keep your face neutral, but you knew Derek could see the worry in your eyes. The way Spencer had looked at you — the way he’d walked away from you — it was like losing a part of yourself, and the uncertainty of not knowing where you stood made it so much worse. And now, knowing that he wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t letting anyone in... it made you feel like you were watching him slip further and further away, with no way to reach him.

Derek watched you for a moment, then reached out and placed a comforting hand on your arm. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. “Whatever’s going on with him, it’s not about you, alright? He’ll come around. You know how Spencer is — sometimes he just needs to get in his head before he can come out again.”

“But what if... what if he doesn't?” you asked, your voice breaking on the last word, the fear you’d been trying so hard to suppress finally spilling out. “What if he never forgives me, Derek? What if—”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Derek cut in gently but firmly, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. “You know how much you mean to him. He’s just... processing. And it might take him some time, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone. Just give him space to figure it out. And when he’s ready, he’ll come to you.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding, trying to hold on to Derek’s words. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you said, though the doubt still lingered.

Derek smiled softly, a warmth in his eyes as he gave your arm one last squeeze. “Of course I’m right,” he said, his tone lightening. “And in the meantime, you’ve got me and the rest of the team. You’re not alone, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered, trying to believe it. “Thanks, Derek.”

“Anytime, mama,” he said, his voice low and comforting. “Now let’s get that coffee. We’ve got a lot to do, and moping around ain’t gonna help nobody.”

And with that, he led you to the corner of the bullpen, and you did your best to push the worry from your mind, to focus on what you could do here and now, hoping that Spencer would eventually find his way back to you.

—

The day Penelope returned to work felt almost like a holiday. The bullpen was transformed, bursting with bright colors and streamers that cascaded down from the ceiling. Balloons, in every vibrant hue imaginable, were tied to the chairs, and the break room was packed with all her favorite snacks and drinks — colorful cupcakes, glittery cookies, and more caffeine than the doctor would ever allow. The team had gone all out, putting together a grand welcome fit for the one and only Penelope Garcia. The room was buzzing with laughter and excitement as she entered, everyone cheering loudly as she walked through the doors, wide-eyed and grinning.

It was exactly the kind of entrance Penelope deserved. And as she hugged each person, the joy on her face made the space feel warmer, brighter. But you stood in the back, a small smile on your lips, content to watch from a distance. You clapped along with everyone else, but you kept to yourself, too aware of the gnawing guilt that still sat in your chest. It was wonderful to see Penelope smiling, to see her back on her feet and surrounded by the love of her family. But being there, knowing what you’d encouraged her to do, left you feeling like an outsider, not quite sure where you fit in anymore.

When Penelope finally got to you, it took all your courage to step forward and pull her into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you said, your voice trembling slightly, and you clung to her a little tighter than you’d intended. The relief of finally seeing her in person, of knowing she was safe and whole, made your throat tighten with emotion.

Penelope returned the hug with a strength that surprised you, squeezing you tightly as if she didn’t want to let go. “I’m just happy to see you, hon,” she whispered, her voice warm and forgiving. “It’s been too long.”

You pulled back, offering a small, apologetic smile, but the warmth in her eyes made it clear that there was no anger there, no bitterness — just pure gratitude and love. And for a fleeting moment, you felt the overwhelming urge to spill everything, to apologize for not visiting, to explain the guilt that had been eating away at you. But Penelope gave you a knowing look, a slight shake of her head, as if to say not now. And you understood. This moment was for her — for the joy of being back, for the healing that still needed to happen. The deeper conversation could wait.

But as the celebration continued and the week went on, you still kept your distance. You showed up, of course, participated in the day-to-day, but any time Penelope tried to engage with you beyond work matters, you found ways to cut the conversation short, to avoid anything that could bring up what happened. You didn’t want to push her; you didn’t want to burden her with the weight you were carrying, the idea that anything you say could put her in danger. And you could see she was trying to give you space, to let you come to her on your own terms. But the longer you avoided it, the harder it became to find a way back to the easy friendship you once had.

By the end of the week, it seemed Penelope had had enough. As you were leaving the office one evening, walking toward the elevators, she appeared beside you with a determined look on her face.

“Going somewhere?” she asked, planting herself firmly in your path, hands on her hips.

“Just... heading home,” you said, trying to sound casual, but the way she was looking at you made your heart skip a nervous beat.

“Well, change of plans,” Penelope said cheerfully, not giving you a chance to argue. “You’re coming over tonight. We need some serious girl talk, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Penny, I—” You opened your mouth to protest, but the look on her face was unwavering, her smile patient but insistent, like she’d already made up her mind and wasn’t going to let you wriggle your way out of it.

“Ah ah ah, don’t even try it,” she said, holding up a finger in playful warning. “We’re way overdue for some quality time, and if I have to drag you to my place myself, I will. And believe me, I’ve got the strength to do it.” She gave you a pointed look, raising her eyebrows.

You let out a sigh, feeling the tension in your shoulders slowly give way. How could you say no? Penelope was right; you did need this. And no matter how afraid you were of having that conversation, of putting her in more danger, you couldn’t keep running from her. “Okay,” you said finally, giving her a small smile. “I’ll come over.”

“Good!” she exclaimed, beaming as she linked her arm with yours, pulling you into the elevator with a bounce in her step. “I’ll see you at seven. And trust me, it’s gonna be like old times. Pinky swear.”

And just like that, with Penelope by your side, the world felt just a little bit brighter again.

Being with Penelope felt so easy, so natural — just like it had always been. From the moment you stepped into her apartment, it was as though nothing had changed, as if the heavy cloud of the last few weeks wasn’t hanging over you. She’d set up her place just the way you remembered, warm colors, quirky decor, fairy lights draped over bookshelves, and the familiar scent of lavender. And Penelope, as if sensing your hesitation, knew exactly how to guide you back into a comfortable rhythm.

It started with laughter, of course. The kind only she could pull out of you, a sound that seemed to break down the walls you’d built around your heart. She leaned back on her sofa, legs curled under her as she went on about the latest gossip in her stack of magazines, her voice rising with excitement and exaggeration.

“Okay, so tell me this,” Penelope started, waving around a magazine with glossy pages. “How is it possible that Bruce Willis can just get hotter every year? It’s like the laws of nature don’t apply to this man!”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I guess some people are just blessed like that.”

“And don't even get me started on what I saw in the office last week,” she continued, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “I swear to you, I saw a hickey on Hotch’s neck. A hickey. On. Aaron Hotchner’s. Neck.”

You nearly choked on your drink, the image catching you completely off guard. “No way!”

“Yes way!” she nodded, her eyes wide with the thrill of gossip. “I’m telling you, our stoic unit chief has a spicy side. And speaking of spicy sides, have you seen how Emily and JJ have been looking at each other lately? I mean, come on, are they not totally vibing?”

The conversation flowed easily, effortlessly, and before long, you found yourself leaning back, laughing, the warmth of Penelope’s company soothing all those frayed edges that had been gnawing away at you for so long. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe again. It was fun to catch up, to just be with her, to hear about all the little things you’d missed — the world outside the darkness you’d been living in. And you could see how much Penelope was thriving, back in her element, glowing with that infectious positivity you’d always loved about her.

But eventually, it happened. The laughter faded, and the unspoken truth sat between you like a presence too big to ignore. Penelope’s expression softened, her eyes meeting yours with that gentle understanding you’d come to know so well. “Okay, hon,” she said softly, resting her hand on yours. “We’ve gotta talk about it. About what’s been eating you up inside.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to make an excuse, but it was like the dam broke before you could stop it. All the guilt, the fear, the shame — it all came flooding out. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you couldn’t stop the trembling as you finally voiced the things you’d been holding onto for so long.

“Penny, I... I don’t know how to say this,” you started, your voice cracking. “But I’m so sorry. I... I didn’t know, I couldn’t know what was going to happen, but I feel like it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t told you to go, if I hadn’t encouraged you to see him, then maybe you wouldn’t have...”

“Stop,” Penelope said firmly, squeezing your hand. “Just stop right there.” Her eyes were intense, her voice steady in a way that cut through all the panic you were feeling. “You didn’t know. None of us did. And what happened — what he did to me — that is not on you. Do you hear me? It is not your fault.”

“But what if it happens again?” you whispered, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. “What if I give you bad advice? What if I invite you somewhere, or we’re just hanging out, and I somehow put you in the wrong place at the wrong time and you get hurt again? I don’t... I don’t think I could handle it. I can’t go through that again. I can’t lose you.”

Penelope’s eyes softened, and without missing a beat, she pulled you into a hug, wrapping her arms around you tightly. “Shh,” she murmured against your hair. “You’re not going to lose me. I promise you that.”

You clung to her, the sobs coming freely now as all the fear and self-blame poured out of you. Penelope held you firmly, stroking your back, soothing you like only she could. “I know you’re scared,” she said gently. “But, sweetie, you can’t carry the weight of things you can’t control. What happened to me — that was on Jason. He was the one who did this. Not you. You were just being a friend, trying to help me find some happiness. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I should’ve known better,” you mumbled against her shoulder, the words muffled but filled with regret. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go.”

“Hey, listen to me,” she said, pulling back to look you in the eyes, her hands gripping your shoulders. “You didn’t push me. I chose to go on that date. And yes, it turned out horribly. But that doesn’t mean you should stop being my friend, or stop giving me advice, or living your life like you’re walking on eggshells around me. I need you, okay? And I need you to be you, because that’s the person who’s always been there for me, the person I love. I don’t want you holding back because of fear.”

The sincerity in her voice, the love, and the forgiveness shining in her eyes broke down the last of your walls. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you tried to believe her words. “I just... I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered again, your voice small and vulnerable.

“And you won’t,” Penelope said, her voice steady and resolute as she held your gaze. But then, her expression shifted, her eyes searching yours with a gentleness that only she could carry. “But I know that’s not all.”

A flicker of confusion crossed your face. “What do you mean?”

Penelope hesitated, biting down on her lip before speaking, her eyes dropping to her hands as she fidgeted with a loose thread on the blanket draped over her lap. When she finally looked up again, there was a hint of sheepishness in her expression, like she was tiptoeing into territory she wasn’t sure she should tread. “I know you were worried about me, hon,” she said softly. “And I love you so much for that, for being there for me even when you couldn’t actually be there. But… I can tell I’m not the eye of the hurricane inside your head.”

You felt your breath catch, the truth of her words hitting you with a force that left you momentarily speechless. It was as though she had seen straight through you, through all the guilt, all the fear — to the thing that lay beneath it all. And as much as you wanted to deny it, to tell her that it was just about her, you knew you couldn’t lie to Penelope.

You sighed deeply, the weight of everything you’d been holding onto crashing down on you again. You sniffled, trying to steady your voice as you nodded slowly. “Spencer,” you said, the name leaving your lips like an admission of a wound you hadn’t yet looked at directly. “Spencer hasn’t talked to me since we found out what happened.”

Penelope’s eyes widened with sympathy, and she reached out to take your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Oh, sweetie...”

“It’s like he just shut me out,” you continued, your voice trembling. “The day we found out about you, he walked out of the hospital without even looking back. He hasn’t said a word to me since, and every time I try to talk to him, he just... shuts down. I know he’s hurting. And I know he’s probably just processing everything, but...” Your voice cracked, and you shook your head as the tears welled up again. “It feels like I lost him too. Like I lost both of you. And I don’t know how to make it right.”

Penelope listened intently, her face softening with every word you spoke. She could see how much pain you were carrying, how deeply Spencer’s silence had cut you. “Have you tried talking to him? I mean, really talking to him? Not just about work or everyday stuff, but about how you’re feeling?”

You nodded, though your shoulders slumped as the hopelessness of it all settled back in. “I’ve tried, Pen. I’ve tried so many times. But every time I get close, it’s like he just... builds a wall. He won’t even look at me sometimes. And it hurts, because I don’t know what to do to fix it.”

Penelope was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful as she processed your words. Then she sighed softly, her fingers intertwining with yours. “You know what I think?” she said gently. “I think Spencer is hurting more than he knows how to deal with. And I think he’s taking that hurt and turning it inward — or maybe even outward. But I also know that he cares about you so, so much. He wouldn’t just turn his back on you for good.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over again. “But what if he has? What if he’s blamed me for this just like everyone else did?”

“Honey, listen to me,” Penelope said, her voice firm but full of compassion. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but he’s also a human. And sometimes, humans don’t know what to do with all the pain they carry. That doesn’t mean it’s your fault, and that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. He just needs time, and you might need to let yourself be okay with that. I know it’s hard, but you can’t carry both your own guilt and his.”

You sat there, taking in her words, trying to let them sink in. It was easier said than done, but hearing Penelope — wise, compassionate Penelope — tell you that it was okay to not have all the answers gave you a sliver of relief.

“Do you really think he’ll come around?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability clear in your eyes.

Penelope smiled, a genuine, warm smile that seemed to light up the whole room. “I know he will. And until then, you’ve got me.”

You nodded, squeezing her hand, feeling a small, fragile hope begin to grow in your chest.

—

The kindness and warmth Penelope had shown you was not extended to Spencer when she found him in the breakroom Monday morning. You were still settling in at your desk when you saw her storm across the bullpen, determination in her eyes and anger practically sparking off of her. You didn’t think much of it at first — Penelope’s strong-willed presence was no stranger to the office. But when you saw her walk straight up to Spencer, her expression dark and unyielding, you knew something was about to happen.

Spencer, who had been stirring his coffee absently, looked up in surprise as Penelope closed the distance between them, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. And then she let him have it.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Spencer?” she hissed, her voice low and venomous as she jabbed a finger into his chest. “Ignoring Y/N for weeks? Shutting her out like she’s some stranger? After everything you’ve been through together, and everything she’s done for you, you have the nerve to treat her like this?”

Spencer flinched at her words, his face going pale as the berating continued. He opened his mouth to respond, but Penelope wasn’t letting him get a word in.

“Y/N’s been tearing herself up over what happened, blaming herself for something that wasn’t even her fault! And you know what? Instead of being the partner she needs — the person who supports her no matter what — you’re just adding to the guilt. You don’t get to treat her like that. Not after—”

“I almost lost one of the most important people in my life because of her!” Spencer choked out suddenly, his voice cracking with emotion as he interrupted Penelope’s tirade. His eyes were wide and filled with fear and frustration, and he looked like he was unraveling with every word. “I almost lost you, Penelope, because she told you to go on that date.”

Penelope’s expression shifted then, the anger replaced by a deep, aching sympathy as she let Spencer’s words sink in. There was a silence, a heavy silence that felt like it filled every inch of the breakroom. And neither of them knew that in that very moment, you’d walked up to the door, hearing Spencer’s words, and froze. The world around you seemed to fall away as his voice echoed in your head, the raw pain in his tone seeping into your bones. You stayed there, heart pounding, unable to move.

“Spencer,” Penelope said slowly, her voice gentle but firm, trying to rein in her own anger. “That was not her fault, and you know it. Do the math, genius. Jason was targeting me from the start, whether I was on that date or not. He had me in his sights long before Y/N ever said anything. Stop blaming her for something no one could control.”

Spencer scoffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as if trying to brush off the weight of her words. “Yeah, well, you say that, but it’s not that simple. If she hadn’t—”

“No, Spencer!” Penelope’s voice cut through his, sharper now, and she pointed a finger right in his face. “You listen to me. That is your girlfriend we’re talking about. Your life partner. Your best friend. Y/N has been there for you through everything. Do you remember when you were so drugged up that you didn’t even know what you were doing, or who you were with, when you lashed out at her in the middle of the night? And did she blame you? Did she shut you out? No. She held you, she comforted you, and she made sure you got the help you needed. She has never given up on you, not once, and you’re giving up on her?”

Spencer was silent. His mouth opened as if to respond, but nothing came out. He looked at Penelope, his eyes burning with anger and anguish and something far more complicated. And for a long moment, the silence stretched between them, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, cracking with the strain of what he was feeling. “I love Y/N more than anything else in this world. But how can I trust her to make good decisions for herself, at all, if her last one almost got you killed?”

And that was all you could take. The words hit like a blow to the chest, and before you knew what was happening, you let out a sob, loud and choked and broken. The sound tore through the silence, and both Spencer and Penelope whipped around, eyes wide in shock as they realized you’d been standing there, hearing everything.

“Y/N—” Spencer started, panic flooding his voice as he took a step toward you.

But you were already moving, already running. You turned and fled, the tears blurring your vision as you rushed down the hall, away from the breakroom, away from the words that had shattered you all over again.

“Shit!” you heard Spencer yell from behind you, followed by the sharp slap of his hand hitting the cabinet in frustration, the loud bang echoing down the hall. But you didn’t look back. You couldn’t look back. All you could do was keep running, trying to outrun the pain that seemed to chase you down with every step.

“Was it worth it, Reid?” Penelope asked, her voice breaking the silence that filled the breakroom after you’d fled. There was no anger left in her tone — only a sadness, heavy and deep, that seemed to echo around them. She looked at Spencer with a sorrowful expression, searching his eyes as if she could somehow pull out an answer that would make sense of what had just happened. “Was it worth it? To get that off your chest?”

Spencer stood there, frozen, his hand still resting on the cabinet door he’d slammed shut in frustration. The thud of it still seemed to reverberate in the air, mingling with the ghost of your sobs. His jaw clenched, his eyes staring blankly at the floor where you’d stood only moments before, now empty.

He didn't respond, and for a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t find the words. He just shook his head, unable to meet Penelope’s gaze.

“Did it help?” Penelope pressed, her voice gentle but insistent. “Did it make you feel better? Because from where I’m standing, you just broke the heart of the person you say you love more than anything else.”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes tightly, fighting back the emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” he finally choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, Penelope. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make this right. I was just... I was so angry. So scared. And I... I took it out on her.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut as he let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to take it back.”

Penelope’s face softened, but there was no pity in her eyes, only a deep, aching understanding. “You can’t,” she said softly. “You can’t take back what you said. But you can make it right. You can own up to it. You can tell her the truth — that you were hurting, that you let the fear and anger get the best of you. That you don’t actually believe she’s to blame for any of this.”

Spencer finally looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed, filled with regret. “But what if she doesn’t forgive me?” he asked, his voice raw with desperation. “What if I’ve lost her?”

Penelope took a step closer, reaching out to touch his arm, grounding him in her touch. “Then you fight for her, Spence,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “You do everything you can to make her see how much she means to you. You remind her that you love her, that you need her, that this — all of this — was just you not knowing how to handle almost losing two of the people you care about most.”

She paused, her voice softening even more as she gave him a sad, knowing smile. “But first, you’re going to have to forgive yourself. Because all that anger you’ve been carrying? It’s not about Y/N. It’s about you.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, nodding, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He knew she was right — he knew it all along. But knowing it and facing it were two different things. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to truly sit with the pain of it, to feel the regret for what he’d done, and the fear of what he might have just lost.

And in that moment, the truth settled in his chest like a stone: if he had any chance of making things right, he’d have to confront his demons, no matter how much they scared him. Because he loved you. And he was going to do whatever it took to get you back.

—

You found an empty office as soon as your legs carried you far enough away, stumbling inside and shutting the door behind you before you could even think of stopping the sobs that clawed their way up your throat. You leaned against the wall, your hands over your face as you let yourself cry — really cry — until the tears came freely, the weight of Spencer’s words sinking in like a stone in your chest. Every breath hurt, and the dam of emotions you’d held back for so long finally broke. It wasn’t just about what he said, but how deeply it cut.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours; you couldn’t be sure. You let it all out, every sob, every tremor that racked through you. And then, as the tears finally slowed and the pain dulled into exhaustion, you knew you couldn’t stay hidden forever. The team was counting on you. Penelope was counting on you. So you pulled yourself together as best as you could, taking slow, deep breaths and wiping your face with the sleeves of your shirt until your hands stopped shaking.

The mirror in the bathroom was unforgiving as you stood there, splashing cold water on your face. You ran your fingers under your eyes, trying to erase the smudges of mascara that had stained your cheeks, and did your best to fix your hair, to smooth away any evidence of your breakdown. But your eyes were still puffy, red-rimmed, the remnants of your tears clearly visible. And you knew, even as you straightened your posture, forcing a calmness you didn’t feel, that everyone would see right through it. That they’d probably all heard what happened.

But you had work to do, and you couldn’t afford to fall apart again. So, with a deep breath, you steeled yourself and walked back out into the bullpen, your head held high, your shoulders squared. Even if your composure was a fragile thing, even if you felt like you could shatter with the slightest touch, you made your way to your desk, focusing on each step as if it were the only thing holding you together.

The bullpen felt different now, the energy heavier than it had been before. Conversations were hushed, the usual buzz of the office subdued as you passed by. You knew they were watching, that they’d seen or at least heard what had happened in the breakroom. But you didn’t look around; you didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. You just sat down at your desk, opened up the stack of files in front of you, and forced your focus onto the work, letting it be the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Across the room, Spencer sat at his own desk, and as soon as you walked in, he saw you. He saw the way you held yourself together — the straight line of your back, the tightness in your expression, the way you refused to let your gaze wander to his. And he hated it. He hated knowing that he had done that to you, his love, that he’d been the reason for the pain and exhaustion etched into your face. He’d never seen you like this before — so closed off, so... dim.

He watched you bury yourself in your work, your fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, your pen scribbling across the pages as if each word was a way to silence the hurt. And all Spencer could do was sit there, guilt and shame wracking his mind as he thought about what he’d done — how he’d let his anger and fear control him, how he’d let it spill out onto you, the one person he swore to protect, the one person who deserved none of it. His brilliant, loving, beautiful girlfriend, who had always stood by his side, even when he didn't deserve it.

He made you cry. He made you doubt yourself, blame yourself for something you had no power over. And the light that usually radiated from you — the brightness he loved so much, the joy you carried so effortlessly — was gone, dulled by the weight of the hurt he’d caused.

Every fiber of Spencer’s being screamed at him to get up, to walk over to you and wrap you in the biggest hug he could manage. He wanted to hold you, to whisper a thousand apologies, to promise that everything was going to be okay and that he’d never, ever make you feel this way again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to move, because he knew that it would take more than that — more than a hug, more than an “I’m sorry” — to fix the damage he’d caused. It would take time, and understanding, and patience — all things he wasn’t sure he even deserved from you after what he’d said, what he’d done.

—

Later that evening, the weight of the day still clung to Spencer like a thick fog. Unable to concentrate, unable to push past the regret that gnawed at his insides, he found himself reaching for a small comfort — your favorite book. It sat on his shelf, the well-worn cover soft under his fingertips as he pulled it down. You had gifted it to him long ago, lovingly annotated with notes, doodles, and highlighted passages. Each page was filled with bits of you — your humor, your thoughts, your heart. Categories like “reminds me of you,” “our jokes,” “my favorite quotes,” and “scenes I wish I could live with you” peppered the pages, showing just how much care, time, and love you’d put into making it special for him. It had been one of the most thoughtful gifts he’d ever received.

He settled onto the couch, the book resting heavily in his lap. And as he flipped through the pages, he let himself be pulled into the memories, letting his fingers brush over your handwriting, your underlines and notes. He read the small snippets where you’d connected a moment in the book to a joke only the two of you shared, where you’d drawn silly little hearts in the margins or underlined lines that spoke to you. And he could almost hear your voice as he read your thoughts, your teasing comments, your kind words. It felt as though you were right there with him, the warmth of you emanating from every page.

The tears came slowly, silently, at first just a sting in the back of his eyes that he tried to blink away. But as he read deeper, the notes growing more tender, the love you’d put into every word more apparent, he let them fall. He let them fall because he could feel the depth of what he’d pushed away, how much you’d loved him, how much you still loved him. And how horribly, deeply he’d hurt you.

He was reading a note that simply said, “This reminds me of the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching”. He laughed softly through his tears at your handwriting, slightly wobbly from when you’d annotated it while on a train, but the joy of that memory only made the pain sharper, cutting through him like a blade. He wished he could take everything back, go back to when things were easier and he hadn’t let his fears get the better of him.

Then his phone started ringing. Spencer’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for it, and when he saw the screen light up with your contact photo, his breath caught in his throat. It was that picture — the one he’d taken when he brought you to New York City for the first time, to the MET and the New York Public Library. You’d insisted on making a goofy growling face next to the stone lions out front, hands curled into claws as you posed, trying to match their fierce stance. He’d laughed so hard as he took the photo, snapping the picture while you were mid-roar. And now, as he stared at it, the memory made him smile, even through his tears.

His thumb hovered over the answer button for a moment, heart pounding in his chest, before he finally pressed it, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello? Y/N?” he managed, his voice cracking slightly, unsure of what to expect.

“Hi, Spence,” you sighed, your voice soft, almost hesitant. “I’m... um, I’m outside. Can I come in?”

The relief and panic hit him all at once. You were here. You’d come to him. “Y-Yeah, of course,” he said quickly, fumbling to stand as he set the book aside, the pages fluttering closed. “I’ll be right there.”

He hung up, practically stumbling to the door, his heart racing with both fear and hope. And as he reached for the door handle, he tried to steady himself, knowing that whatever came next, whatever words you had to say, he was ready to listen. Because you were here, and he wasn’t going to let this moment slip away.

As soon as Spencer swung the door open, he was met with the sight of you standing there, tears staining your cheeks, your eyes red and puffy, your breath coming out in shaky gasps.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you choked out, your hands trembling as they twisted together in front of you. “I’m so, so sorry for everything. I should have never told Penny to go on that date. I should have... I should have called to check on her, I should have thought about how all of it affected you. I’m—”

“What?” he whispered, his voice coming out strangled with confusion and pain as he cut you off. He stepped closer to you, his eyes searching yours desperately, trying to make sense of your words. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I messed everything up,” you continued, the sobs making your voice tremble as you tried to hold yourself together. “I never meant to hurt you, or Penelope, or anyone, but all I did was make things worse. If I hadn’t told her to go, if I had just stayed out of it, none of this would have happened. And you—” Your voice cracked, and you struggled to find the right words, to get out everything you’d been holding inside for so long. “You wouldn’t have had to go through this, you’d still trust me, and you wouldn’t hate me. I don’t want you to hate me, Spencer. Please don’t hate me.”

Spencer’s heart shattered at the sight of you breaking down in front of him, blaming yourself for something you had no control over, something that had haunted him every day since it happened. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the thought of you carrying this burden when it was his anger, his fear, that had driven you away. And all he wanted to do in that moment was take away your pain, to make you see that you weren’t to blame, that he had been so, so wrong.

“Hey, hey, stop, stop,” he said urgently, stepping forward to close the distance between you, his hands hovering for a second before he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. “Please, don’t say that. Don’t be sorry.” He pressed his face into your hair, his voice desperate as he tried to find the words that would make this right. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. I love you so much. I’m the one who’s sorry, I’m the one who hurt you, who shut you out when I should’ve been there for you.”

You trembled in his hold, your tears slowing down as you clung to him, and Spencer tightened his grip, trying to convey everything he felt through the warmth of his embrace. “I was scared,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he spoke. “I was so scared of losing both of you. And I know that’s not an excuse, but I... I let that fear control me, and I took it out on you, and it was so wrong. You were trying to help Penelope, trying to be a good friend, and I blamed you for something that was never your fault.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes filled with confusion and anguish, and Spencer could see the questions there, the doubt that still lingered. “But... but I was the one who—”

“No,” he said firmly, cupping your face with his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streaked down your cheeks. “No, Y/N. What happened to Penelope — that’s on Jason. Not you. And I should have been there to tell you that, to support you, instead of shutting you out. I was so scared of losing you that I pushed you away and I hurt you. And I am so, so sorry.”

The sincerity in his voice, the tears that filled his eyes as he spoke, the pain of being apart, and the love that still held you together, left you breathless.

“Please don’t apologize,” Spencer said softly, his forehead pressing against yours. “You did nothing wrong. You were just being you — the caring, loving person I fell in love with. And I am so sorry for making you feel like you couldn’t be that person.”

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing as you pulled away, giving yourself some space. Grabbing a tissue from the side table, you dabbed at your nose and wiped away the tears that still clung to your lashes. Spencer watched you carefully, the anxiety on his face clear as he tried to read your silence. You didn’t speak for a long moment, your gaze fixed on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you thought through everything that had happened. He stood there, holding his breath, afraid to interrupt whatever was going through your mind.

“I love you, Spence,” you whispered finally, your voice shaking but full of truth. “I love you so much.” You finally lifted your head to look at him, letting the words hang between you like a fragile thread of hope.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, a small flicker of relief crossing his face as he stepped closer to you, his eyes searching yours. “I love you too,” he murmured, the words spilling out quickly, like he was afraid you might change your mind if he didn’t say it fast enough. “More than anything. And I’m not going to let anything come between us again.” He reached out, his hands hovering just in front of yours, desperate to close the space between you. “Please... don’t leave me.”

“Leave you?” you asked, your brows furrowing in confusion as you took in the worry on his face. “Spencer, why would you say that?”

“Well, I—I treated you terribly, and we weren’t talking, and we fought, and I was so awful to you,” he stammered, his voice shaky as the fear spilled out. “I... I know what I did, and I know I hurt you, and I just... I was scared that maybe... maybe you wouldn’t want to be with me anymore.”

“Spencer,” you said softly, taking his hands in yours, your fingers intertwining as you squeezed them reassuringly. “That doesn’t mean we’re breaking up. We had a fight. A really bad one. But now we have to work through it. Together.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, all you saw was vulnerability — the way he was trying to hold himself together, the way he was fighting not to let the guilt and fear overwhelm him. “But what if... what if I hurt you again?” he asked, his voice so quiet it almost got lost between you. “What if I say the wrong thing, and you...”

“Then we’ll talk about it,” you said firmly, your voice steady as you spoke. “We’ll talk, we’ll talk and we’ll figure it out, and we’ll make sure we don’t let it happen again. But I’m not leaving you, Spencer. Just because we had a fight... that doesn’t mean we’re over. We’re stronger than that.” You paused, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “I know we have a lot to work through. I know it’s not going to be easy. But I love you, and I’m here. We’ll do it together, okay?”

He nodded, a flicker of hope brightening his eyes, and he let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through him. “Okay,” he whispered, tightening his grip on your hands. “Together.”

“And, baby?” you asked, your voice soft but steady as you tilted your head to look up at him, trying to catch his eyes and make sure he really heard you.

“Yeah?” Spencer responded, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes meeting yours with that familiar mix of love and uncertainty, as if he was afraid to say or do the wrong thing.

You squeezed his hands gently, your thumbs brushing over his knuckles, grounding both him and yourself in that touch. “You have to talk to me if something is bothering you,” you said, your tone gentle but firm, the words full of the honesty you both needed. “I can’t fix anything, and we can’t work on anything, if I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. If you’re hurting, or if you’re scared, or angry... you have to let me in. Okay?”

Spencer nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, and you could see how hard he was trying to take in your words, to let them settle in his heart. “Okay,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I... I’ll try. I promise.”

You gave him a small smile, leaning in just a little closer. “That’s all I’m asking,” you said gently. “We have to be able to talk to each other. No matter how hard it is, no matter what’s going on — we have to do it together.”

He closed his eyes, and you watched as he took a slow, deep breath, the tension in his body finally loosening as if he’d been holding it in for far too long. When he opened his eyes again, something had changed. It was subtle, but you saw it — a spark of determination that hadn’t been there before, a promise to do better, to be there for you in all the ways you both needed. But there was something else, too — a hunger, an intensity in his eyes that you hadn’t seen in so long. It was the way he used to look at you, that mix of need and devotion that made your heart race.

“God, I missed you so much, darling,” Spencer sighed, and before you could respond, he pulled you into another hug, his arms wrapping around you so tightly you almost lost your breath. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if to remind himself of your scent, the comfort of your presence, the closeness he'd gone too long without. His hands gripped your back firmly, holding you as though you might disappear if he let go.

You melted into his hold, your own arms winding around him as he pulled you flush against him. It was a hug that spoke of all the longing and pain and love that had built up between you, a hug that was both desperate and grounding all at once. You could feel the way his breath hitched as he held you closer, the way his fingers dug gently into your back, and you knew that this was more than just an embrace of comfort — it was everything he’d held back for so long, all the love and want and need finally spilling over.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear as you pressed yourself closer to him. And for that moment, nothing else mattered but the two of you, tangled together, holding each other like you never wanted to let go.

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and filled with a need that made your stomach flip. His hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks as he spoke, his voice low and breathy. “Can I kiss you, Y/N?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, the words full of both desire and hesitation — a question that held the weight of all that had passed between you, of all he hoped to mend.

You giggled softly, your heart swelling at the sight of him so close, so vulnerable. “I’d be offended if you didn’t,” you teased, leaning into his touch, a smile tugging at your lips as you nodded.

Spencer’s lips twitched into a smile, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw that light return to his eyes — that playful, loving look he always gave you before pressing his mouth to yours. And then he was kissing you, soft at first, like he was trying to remember how it felt. But as soon as his lips met yours, you felt the relief and longing melt between you, and he kissed you deeper, his lips moving against yours with all the tenderness and passion he’d been holding back.

The world around you seemed to blur, everything fading away as you sank into him, the feeling of his mouth on yours so familiar, so perfect, like coming home. You could taste the salt of tears, his and yours mingling together, and as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing to feel all of him — his warmth, his love, the steady rhythm of his heart beating against yours.

He kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered, like he was trying to memorize every second, every touch, making up for every painful moment you’d spent apart. There was something so intense, yet so tender about it — a kiss filled with all the love and longing, spilling over with every movement of his lips against yours. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t slow either; it was the kind of kiss that lingered and sank deep into your bones, like a promise of something stronger, something unbreakable.

It was the sweetest kiss you think the two of you had ever shared. You felt every ounce of passion and desire radiating off him, every bit of love poured into that moment. Spencer’s hands were gentle as they rubbed your back, his fingers moving in small, slow circles, not daring to roam too far but enough to make you shiver at the warmth of his touch. Each caress was careful, as if he was both holding you close and holding himself back, trying to savor every second of feeling you close again.

You clung to him, your own hands gripping the fabric of his shirt so tightly your knuckles were turning white, and you couldn’t bear to let go. You didn’t want to lose even an inch of contact, afraid that if he pulled away, even for a moment, you’d lose this — lose him. The world seemed to dissolve around you, and all that existed was the pressure of his mouth on yours, the faint taste of coffee on his lips, the way his hair brushed against your forehead as he leaned in closer.

Spencer broke the kiss for just a second, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mixing with yours as he let out a soft, shaky sigh. And then he was kissing you again, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t bear to be apart for even a second. You could feel the desperation in his touch, the depth of what you meant to each other — not just words, not just promises, but something tangible and real. Something that neither of you were willing to let go.

And in that kiss, you felt the world right itself, felt the cracks begin to heal, and the pieces of both your hearts start to fall back into place. You didn’t know what tomorrow would hold, but for now, this was everything. And that was enough.

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