#i wanted the kind of crying where you can barely breathe from sobbing so hard and everything hurts and your head is screaming | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eowynstwin · 3 months ago

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peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fight to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #am i happy with the photos i used? no #am i going to make an effort to change them? also no #does that image of a whirlpool look terribly erotic? oh yes #selkie soap #peristalsis

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mywritersmind · 6 months ago

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CURB FLIRTING - LN4

summary : In which Lando finds a girl crying on the side of the road and decides to help her a bit.

listen up : this is the cutest thing i’ve ever written. no pt.2‼️

word count : 1438

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Tears stream down my face, I try to control my breathing but I'm still in shock. Even though I'm sobbing, I want to laugh.

I’m sitting on a curb outside of a club, it’s gross and there’s cigarette butts by my feet. I can only smell alcohol and the scent of my vanilla perfume.

I want to rip it off my body. I try to take a deep breath but my chest hurts and I start coughing. People around me ask if I'm okay but when I nod they leave.

Until a man’s shoes appear in front of me, “Are you alright?” I look up, breathing heavily still before nodding and looking back down at his shoes. I like them.

He sits next to me, “You sure?” He has an accent. British, I think.

“No.” I laugh as he cracks a smile.

“I’m Lando.” He holds out his hand for me to shake, so I do. His ring is cold against my burning skin. When I meet his eyes again, I realize they’re green and unfairly stunning.

In fact, his whole face is stunning. He’s got curly hair, dark and mullet-ish, his clothes are light and his jewelry is nice.

“I’m Y/n.” I sniffle, wiping a tear from my face, “I like your shoes.”

He smiles again, “Thank you. I like your dress.” I glance down to my bare legs, hot and uncomfortable with the icy air. He seems to notice my body language and shrugs off his jacket, laying it over my legs.

I frown, crying more, “Hey- I didn’t mean to make it worse.” He looks genuinely worried.

“You didn’t. I’m just- Thank you.” He nods, “I’m kinda embarrassed.”

“No need. Plenty of strangers have seen me cry.” He shrugs, eyeing my hair and earrings, “You don’t need to worry though, you’re a pretty crier.”

I let out a laugh, something I haven’t done for a few hours, “I doubt you aren’t.” His presence is oddly comforting yet also awkward because I was bawling in front of him.

His smile is kind and soft while his body looks sharp and hard. “You flatter me, Y/n.” I like the way he says my name. But that could just be because of my tears.

“What’s your deal, Mr. Lando no last name?” My eyes are still wet but my tears are no longer falling, “Are those your friends?”

We both look over to the group on the other side of the road, three men staring. Lando eyes them but quickly looks back at me, “Uh, yeah.”

“Do they think a twenty four year old woman is going to hurt you?” I look at them again, “Because they sure are protective.”

He laughs, “Protective is a good word for it. Where are your friends?” This makes me frown and he sees it instantly, “Are you visiting Monaco?”

I nod, “Yeah. Are you?”

He shakes his head, “I live here.” My eyes instinctively widen at this. He looks young. I mean, he could be studying here I guess but still.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty five.” This makes my brows pull together, he laughs at this.

“Are you… rich?” I whisper it as if it’s illegal.

He leans it a bit close, “Sort of.”

I hum, “How…?”

“I’ll tell you if you come and sit in my car with me.” I raise a brow at this, crossing my arms, “I promise it’s just because I'm worried you’re gonna catch a cold.” I look at him skeptically too, “You can hold my keys if it makes you feel better.”

I stand, holding his jacket close to me as he drops his keys into my hand. I stare down at them, blink. “A McLaren?” I roll my eyes.

“An eye roll is not the usual reaction I get for that!” He starts walking and I follow him.

“Oh, so you bring all the girls you find crying in the street into your car?” He eyes me, a slight smirk on his face.

“Only the pretty ones.”

I roll my eyes, “You’re going to let a stranger take the keys to your McLaren?” He just shrugs.

“I know your name. You know mine.”

He lets me sit in the driver's seat, he turns the car on and Mamma Mia starts blasting. “Shit.” He mumbles, turning it down quickly as I giggle.

“A musical fan…?” His face is serious and definitely embarrassed. I can’t help but laugh more, “Okay, Okay. How are you, Mr. very mysterious Lando no last name, rich?”

He stretches his arms up, grinning but staying silent. Oh god. He’s fit as hell.

“Oh no.” I feel doom approaching me.

“What?” he asks.

“Don’t tell me you’re a footballer.”

He looks horrified, “An american footballer?” I did forget about that one little difference between us. “Why would I be an American footballer?”

“Well you’re-” He raises a brow as I groan, “You clearly work out.” He laughs at me. “Lando! I’m serious, you’re an athlete aren’t you? Oh god I don’t want to know. Do you play soccer? You’ve got the height for it.”

His jaw is dropped at this point, “Calling me hot then calling me short is insane!”

“I did not say, ‘hot’!” I scoff, turning towards him, “Tell me what you really do then. Are you in the Mafia?”

He sighs, leaning his head against the glass of his car. I hadn't realized before, but I'm much more comfortable here. Well, I suppose a McLaren has got to be more comfortable than a street corner.

It’s quieter and definitely warmer. Plus, I do feel safe with Lando which is a bit odd because I just met the guy.

“I’m a formula 1 driver.”

Oh?

“Oh.” I nod. I don’t know anything about motorsport so I'm a bit lost, but I guess I got my answer, “So you drive cars?”

He looks happy at my answer, his smile making my cheeks heat, “Yeah… Yeah I drive cars.”

Lando Norris.

An interesting name for an interesting man. We stay in his car for another… hour? I don’t know. I lose track of time when Lando starts telling me about everywhere he’s traveled.

He lets me rant or stay silent, something I've been waiting for all night. Or maybe all my life.

He leaves me for five minutes alone, in which I peek around his car, finding absolutely nothing but a golf ball and a bag of chips. He comes back with a smile on his face and an ask.

I move to the passenger seat, saying hi to his friends. He said that he wanted me to feel safe and after the conversation with his friends, I really do. I don’t think I've ever laughed harder at a man’s friend group.

He plays ‘Thank you for the music’ on low while I look out the window, my hair blowing in the wind.

“Hey uh-” he clears his throat, “Could I get your number? Just to check in tomorrow.” I bite my lip as he hands me his phone, smiling to myself as I type in my number.

“Dont abuse it.” I joke as he taps his finger against the wheel.

He's grinning again, “Can’t promise anything.”

I sigh, watching the city pass by me, some of the boats on the water quiet and some bright and loud. I like it here. Even if me crying had to get me in such a good mood.

“Thanks for driving me.”

“Of course, I hope to do it again, one day.”

“You know we're probably not going to see eachother again, right?” I see the corner of his mouth quirk downwards, “I’m going home tomorrow.”

“And I have access to private planes.” He shrugs as I scoff.

“Lando. I just met you. What if I was some crazy stalker?” Does this man not know stranger danger?

He eyes me, “Well, are you?”

“No…”

“So,” he glances at me, a curl falling into his face, “I'll see you soon.”

Sadly, my hotel isn’t far and when he pulls up to the front, I get an odd sensation of sadness washing over me. “Want me to walk you up?”

I shake my head, “You’ve done enough for me.” I lean over the middle console and press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Have a good night, Lando.”

“You too, Y/n.” I grab my bag, and slip out the expensive car, looking back one last time to see Lando watching me. His eyes are meaningful and something I have a feeling I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

#fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando norris comfort #lando norris fluff #lando x you

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dreamauri · 19 days ago

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♪ — 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗧 𝗜𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗕𝗔𝗗? lando norris x girlfriend! reader ( smut ) fic summary . . . lando had you cumming his fingers twice and once more but it's not what you want, you need him, doesn't matter that you can barely talk or the fact that your shaking (589 words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut, dom lando, overstim, sub reader, pnv, unprotected sex [wrap it before you tap it], did I say overstim? )

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Your legs are shaking. You don’t know what time it is. You don’t know your name. All you know is him.

Lando is grinning down at you, smug and glowing, two fingers still slick and shiny where they rest against your inner thigh — the same fingers that had you screaming just minutes ago, the same fingers that’d curled inside you like they were searching for treasure, and fuck, they found it.

Twice.

And then once more, just to watch you cry a little.

“You’re ruined,” he says sweetly, like it’s a compliment. Like he’s proud. And he is. So fucking proud of the way you tremble, the way your thighs stay open just for him, even when your body’s all done and your mind is soup. He leans in, kisses your cheek, all soft and sugar. “You still with me?”

You nod — kind of. It’s pathetic. It’s precious. Your voice is so thin when you speak, Lando could drink it like a milkshake.

“Need you,” you whisper. “Wanna feel you, Lan. Please, please, please—”

He chuckles, but it’s not mean.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?”

His hand traces up your side, warm and grounding. “Didn’t I just make you come so hard you forgot how to speak?”

You whimper. A high-pitched, helpless sound.

“That doesn’t count,” you whine. “It wasn’t you. Need your cock. Need you to fuck me. Please, Lando. Please.”

Your hips roll up without permission, chasing the idea of him, even though you’re so sensitive it burns.

Lando watches with stars in his eyes. “God, you’re unreal,” he breathes. “You want it that bad, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “I—I ache for you, I—fuck—I can take it, I promise—”

“You’re already trembling,” he hums, sliding his hand between your thighs again, gently cupping the mess he’s made. “Poor thing. Look how messy you are for me.”

You can’t even answer. Just whine. Just need.

He leans in again, pressing a kiss to your throat like a reward. “Okay,” he says softly. “I’ve got you. Let’s make that pretty little brain of yours even mushier, hmm?”

He lines himself up, slow and careful, hands on your hips like he’s anchoring you to the earth.

And then—

Oh.

He’s inside.

All the way.

You cry out, legs twitching. The stretch, the heat, the fullness— it’s too much. it’s everything.

You’re so sensitive it feels like being lit up from the inside.

Lando’s groan is pure filth. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he pants, jaw clenched. “Still so wet for me. Good girl. You’re taking me so, so well.”

He starts slow. Deep. Gentle. But every thrust pushes you higher, makes your body jerk, makes your eyes roll back.

You’re sobbing now, overwhelmed and fucked-out and wrecked, but your hands are on his back, pulling him closer, dragging him deeper, chasing every last drop of him like you’ll die without it.

“You feel that?” he whispers. “That’s me. All of me, baby. Giving you everything.”

You nod, tearful, voice cracked.

“I love you,” you sob. “Love your cock, love you—”

And that’s it. That’s what shatters him. His rhythm stutters and he buries his face in your neck like he’s praying.

“I love you too,” he gasps. “So much. You’re perfect. You’re mine.”

And when you come again — when you fall apart with his name on your lips and stars behind your eyelids — he follows, moaning into your skin, whispering how proud he is, how good you are, how he’ll never stop taking care of you.

Even when you’re mush. Especially then.

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reidmarieprentiss · 2 months ago

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Grass is Always Greener

Summary: based on this ask. Reader is in love with Spencer, he moves on while they're dating. Then reader gets kidnapped and Spencer has some monumental realizations.

Pairing: bi!Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: hurt/comfort, angst

Warnings/Includes: kidnapping, typical CM violence, emotional cheating, bi-sexual Spencer, heartbroken reader

Word count: 7.5k

a/n: i really loved this prompt!! thank you for asking :) there will be a part two by the way don't worry heheh

main masterlist

For the past six months, you and Spencer have been inseparable, caught in the kind of love that novels fail to describe adequately. It isn't just affection—devotion, a deep-rooted adoration that feels like it has existed long before you met, as though you were meant to be intertwined from the start.

You love him in the way you always wished to be loved. You show it in every trim, thoughtful act—baking his favorite pastries just because, ensuring that breakfast is warm and waiting for him before he even wakes up, making sure dinner is ready when he returns home, exhausted but comforted by you.

You bring him flowers, because why shouldn't he receive them too? You find books you know will capture his mind, wrapping them in delicate paper just to see the soft wonder in his eyes when he unwraps them. You plan excursions he'll adore—museum dates, guided historical tours, moments where he can lose himself in the past while you stay anchored beside him.

Your love isn't just spoken—it's lived, woven into every gesture, every detail, every careful thought put into making him feel cherished. Because that's what he is to you—irreplaceable, essential, the other half you never realized was missing until he was there, filling every space with something more profound than connection, something that feels like fate.

If only Spencer felt the same way about you.

—

Your heart stopped. Your lungs refused to work, your breath catching somewhere in your throat like a broken sob that refused to form. The room around you blurred at the edges, your vision tunneling in on Spencer—Spencer, the man you had given everything to, the man you had loved so deeply, so purely, that it had consumed every part of your existence.

"What?" The word came out strangled, barely audible, your voice cracking as tears welled in your eyes. You didn't want to cry in front of him, didn't want to give him that power, but your body betrayed you.

Spencer still couldn't look at you. His hands, which you had held so many times, trembled at his sides. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. "I thought it was the right thing to do," he muttered, as though that was supposed to make sense, as if that explained anything.

Your stomach churned with nausea, fury, and disbelief. "The right thing to do?" Your voice wavered between a whisper and a scream. "The right thing to do was to fuck someone else?"

Spencer flinched at your words and their vulgarity, but he didn't immediately deny it. That silence spoke louder than anything.

Finally, he swallowed hard and said, "I did not—" he hesitated, knowing every word he chose would dictate what happened next. "—I did not sleep with him."

Him.

It hit you like a freight train, a new layer of betrayal unfolding before you. You stepped back as if distance would protect you from the shattering of your heart inside your chest.

"Then what, Spencer?" You forced the words out, your entire body trembling. "What did you do?"

Spencer's face twisted in pain, in something that almost looked like guilt but didn't quite feel like enough. Not for what he'd done. Not for the way he was shattering you into pieces so small you weren't sure you'd ever be able to put yourself back together.

"I fell in love," he admitted, his voice quiet, like saying it any louder would break him too.

But it wasn't him breaking. It was you.

Your scream ripped through the room before you could stop it. "Spencer, that is so much worse!" Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms, grounding you against the overwhelming rush of devastation, betrayal, and fury. "How long?"

Spencer blinked at you, thrown off by the question. "How long?" he echoed as if he didn't understand or know what you were asking.

You took a step closer, the force of your heartbreak pushing you forward even as your body begged to run in the opposite direction. "How long have you been in love? How long have you been emotionally cheating on me like a pathetic, scared loser?"

His breath hitched, his mouth opening and closing like he struggled to find the right words, but there were none. There was no correct answer that would make this better.

Then he said it. "Is this because it's a man?"

You froze, stunned by how wildly he had missed the point. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped you, and you could barely recognize the sound of your voice when you spat, "I don't give a shit what mouth you want to put your tongue in, Spencer." Your hands shook, and you hated it, hated how weak you felt when all you wanted was to be furious enough to drown out the pain. "I care that you didn't respect me enough to tell me sooner! I'm not homophobic; I'm heartbroken!"

That finally made him look at you. Really look at you.

His lips parted slightly, his brow furrowing as if he were just now realizing the gravity of what he had done. As if the wreckage he had left in his wake hadn't been evident from the moment he opened his mouth.

"I didn't—" He stopped himself, inhaled sharply, then exhaled as he could barely hold himself up anymore. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

It was a pathetic attempt at an apology.

"Well, congratulations," you choked out, voice thick with unshed tears. "You did."

Spencer nodded, his expression solemn, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a physical force. He swallowed hard, and for the first time, he looked humiliated. "I'll have my things gone by the weekend," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something inside you snapped.

"Fuck you." The words tore from your throat, sharp and unfiltered, dripping with the kind of pain that no amount of time could ever truly erase. "Get it all out tonight and give me the key."

Spencer flinched. His eyes darted up to yours, desperate, pleading, as if something was still left to salvage. "Y/N—"

"Now, Spencer!" you screamed, your voice cracking, breaking under the sheer weight of the moment. Your body was trembling, fists clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms, but you didn't care. You didn't care that tears blurred your vision or that your chest ached like someone had physically reached inside you and torn your heart apart.

Spencer didn't argue.

For once, he didn't try to explain, didn't try to rationalize, didn't try to make this something it wasn't. He simply nodded, defeated, and turned on his heel.

You watched as he moved through the shared space, the home you had built together, now nothing more than a place he needed to evacuate. Every step he took, every moment that passed as he quietly gathered his things, felt like a knife twisting deeper into your already shattered heart.

You wanted to stop him.

You wanted to scream at him to stay, to tell him he could fix this, that you could find a way back to the love you had so freely given him.

But he had already thrown that love away.

And so, instead of begging or breaking any further, you turned your back on him. You wiped your face with shaking hands, steeling yourself against the overwhelming grief threatening to consume you.

When he returned, his bag slung over his shoulder, the key to your apartment sitting in the palm of his hand, you refused to look at him.

Silently, he placed it on the table.

Silently, he turned toward the door.

Silently, he walked out of your life.

And the second the door clicked shut behind him, you collapsed, sobs wracking through your body as you mourned a love lost.

—

It had been an ordinary evening. Spencer had been at the library, fingers trailing along the spines of well-worn books, his mind half-distracted by the text messages you had sent earlier—something sweet, something thoughtful, the way you always were with him. You had made dinner and were waiting for him. He had told you he'd be home soon.

But then he had walked in.

Robert.

It started with a discussion—something about Dostoevsky, of all things. A casual remark Spencer had made under his breath, something about The Brothers Karamazov and moral determinism. He hadn't expected anyone to respond, let alone engage with him in a way that made his brain spark like a live wire.

"You know," Robert had mused, leaning against the bookshelf beside Spencer, "it's funny how people always think Dostoevsky was just arguing for free will. There's a case to be made that he was just as much a determinist as Tolstoy."

Spencer had turned, brows furrowed in curiosity, and he had looked at him for the first time.

Robert had sharp eyes, the kind that saw too much. He was well-dressed but not ostentatiously so—just a crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked like someone who belonged in the pages of the books they discussed.

The conversation had spiraled from there, shifting seamlessly from Russian literature to philosophy to quantum mechanics. It was effortless. Easy in a way Spencer hadn't expected, in a way he hadn't even realized he had been missing.

And then—then there had been the moment.

Spencer had laughed—actually, he had laughed, full and unrestrained. When he glanced up, he found Robert watching him with a warm, unreadable gaze.

"Do you ever have moments when you feel like you were meant to meet someone?" Robert asked suddenly, his voice quieter and more thoughtful.

Spencer's stomach had twisted—not in guilt, not yet, but in something else. Something dangerous.

He should have said no. He should have left then and there and gone home to you, to the person who loved him and was waiting for him with dinner, affection, and unwavering devotion.

But instead, he had stayed.

And that had been the beginning of the end.

—

"Who's Robert Nelson?" you asked absentmindedly, flipping through the stack of mail on the counter. Your fingers lingered on the envelope, the name printed neatly in the return address, unfamiliar but seemingly unimportant—until you felt Spencer tense beside you.

It was subtle, the way his entire body went rigid, but you knew him well enough to notice. The way his breath hitched for just a fraction of a second and his fingers twitched before he suddenly snatched the letter from your hands with an almost defensive speed.

"A friend," he said quickly. Too quickly.

You blinked, startled by his reaction and voice, which sounded too tight or too careful. You tilted your head, studying how his fingers curled around the envelope as if he were trying to shield it from you.

"A friend?" you echoed, your curiosity morphing into something heavier, something uneasy. "Since when have your friends sent you letters?"

Spencer hesitated for just a breath too long.

"Since—uh, since he moved out of state," he said, but his voice lacked its usual certainty, the effortless confidence that usually accompanied his explanations. He wasn't looking at you, his eyes fixed on the paper in his hand as if it held the answer to whatever silent questions you were beginning to form.

You frowned, your heart beating a little faster, that gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach growing. "Why haven't you mentioned him before?"

Spencer finally met your gaze, but something in his eyes unsettled you—a flicker of something unreadable, which looked a lot like guilt.

"You never asked," he said softly.

And just like that, an invisible wall settled between you.

—

"Spencer?" you called out from the living room, glancing at his buzzing phone. The name flashing on the screen sent a strange feeling through your chest. Robert Nelson. Again.

Your fingers hovered over the device before instinct took over, and you answered. "Hello?"

There was a brief silence. Then, a smooth, unfamiliar voice. "Oh—uh, hi. Is Spencer there?"

Before you could respond, Spencer was there. He practically ripped the phone from your hand, his grip too aggressive. His fingers nearly fumbled as he clutched it like a lifeline.

"Why are you answering my phone?" His voice was sharp, defensive, almost panicked.

Your breath caught in your throat, stunned by the hostility in his tone. "I—It was ringing. I thought it might be work," you said, your voice quieter now, weaker.

But Spencer wasn't paying attention anymore.

His entire demeanor shifted in an instant.

"Hi, Robert!" His tone was bright and warm in a way that you hadn't heard from him in weeks. His body relaxed, his posture unwinding as he turned away from you slightly as if shielding the conversation from your ears.

And that was when it happened.

The slow, aching fracture of your heart.

You didn't need to hear the conversation. You didn't need to piece together the puzzle. It was already evident.

Whoever Robert Nelson was, he had already taken something from you.

—

"Hey, Reid," Derek called out as he stepped out of JJ's office, stretching his arms over his head. The bullpen was winding down for the day, the usual chatter filling the air. "You gonna invite that little number of yours to 'team bonding' at O'Kieffe's?"

Spencer looked up from his paperwork, brow furrowing slightly. "Robert?"

Derek's expression flickered with confusion, his head tilting. "Who's Robert?"

Before Spencer could answer, Elle interjected, her curiosity piqued. "Wait—who's Robert?"

Spencer adjusted his tie absentmindedly, utterly oblivious to the way both of his coworkers were staring at him now. "My boyfriend…"

A beat of silence.

Derek blinked, his mouth slightly open as if he'd misheard. "What?" His tone was a mixture of shock and something else—concern, maybe. "Since when? What happened to Y/N?"

At that, Spencer finally hesitated, his fingers tightening around his pen.

There it was—that fleeting look of guilt, so quick that anyone who wasn't trained to notice microexpressions might have missed it.

Elle's eyebrows shot up, catching on to the shift instantly. "Yeah, what did happen to Y/N?" she echoed, crossing her arms, her sharp gaze locked on him.

Spencer opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He hadn't prepared for this conversation and hadn't thought about how it would sound when he finally said it out loud.

That he had left someone who loved him more than anything.

He said that he had fallen for someone else while still wrapped in the warmth of Y/N's love.

Her name, which Spencer used to say with so much affection, now felt like a reminder of what he had destroyed.

His silence lingered just a little too long.

And that was all the answer they needed.

—

"Round table. Five minutes." Hotch's voice carried across the bullpen, his usual no-nonsense tone making it clear there was no room for delay.

The team exchanged glances, some groaning about Monday morning's abruptness, others silently gathering their things and making their way toward the conference room. Spencer followed, clutching his coffee; the bitter taste ground him in the early morning haze.

Once they were seated, JJ took her usual spot at the front, but something about her demeanor was off. Her shoulders were tense, her expression pinched in a way that wasn't just professional concern—it was personal.

She clicked on the projector, and the screen illuminated with a digital map of Virginia. Red markers pinpointed locations across the state—too many markers.

"A string of kidnappings has taken place here in Virginia," JJ began, her voice steady but strained. "All within the last two months. The victims all match the same victimology."

As she spoke, she clicked on the next slide.

A series of photos appeared on the screen. The faces were of women in their twenties with similar features and build. This pattern should have been just another set of behavioral data points in the grander scheme of the case.

But Spencer's stomach plummeted.

His grip on his coffee tightened involuntarily, his breath hitching in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs in recognition, dread coiling in his gut like a living thing.

The victims—they all looked like you.

It's the same hair color. Same facial structure. They have the same soft smile in some photos and the same sharp glint in their eyes in others. They weren't you, but they might as well have been.

His pulse pounded as JJ continued speaking, words blurring together as the room suddenly felt too small.

"The unsub is abducting women who fit this profile, holding them for an unknown period, and then—"

Spencer barely heard the rest.

All he could think about was you.

You—who had barely spoken to him since he left. You—who he had destroyed. You—who he no longer had the right to check in on, to protect.

But as his vision swam, his chest tightening painfully, only one thought cut through the noise.

Were you safe?

…

The answer came quicker than Spencer could have ever prepared for.

No. You weren't safe.

Once the team broke off into their assigned pairs, the case had already begun unraveling alarmingly fast. The latest victim's body had been recovered, their time of death recent—too recent. It meant the unsub was either already hunting for a new woman… or they already had one.

By the time Spencer and Elle arrived back at the BAU, the tension in the air was palpable. The office's usual controlled chaos had been replaced with something far heavier. He could feel the urgency with which agents moved in the hushed voices and sharp exchanges. Something had shifted.

Then he saw it.

His first clue was the woman sitting at JJ's desk, shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed. It took him a second to recognize her—your best friend.

His second clue was even worse.

His entire body locked up as his gaze landed on the case board. The details of the investigation had changed.

And there you were.

Your picture.

Your face.

Pinned in the center of the board, more significant than any other victim's. A fresh missing persons report was tacked beside it, and the timestamp was barely hours old.

The breath left Spencer's lungs like he'd been punched in the gut.

His vision blurred at the edges, the words and numbers on the board becoming nothing more than meaningless static.

His hands clenched, the phantom memory of holding you flashing through his mind. His brain, the same brain that could recall statistics, equations, and case files with perfect clarity, was failing him now, drowning him in nothing but cold, raw terror.

You were missing.

And Spencer had never felt more helpless.

The room around him faded into a blur of voices, movement, and urgency—but none mattered. Only you mattered. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, pushing him toward JJ's desk, toward your best friend who was still crying into her hands.

"When?" The word tore from Spencer's throat, rough and desperate. "When was the last time anyone heard from her?"

Your best friend lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes red and swollen. "L-last night. We were supposed to meet for brunch this morning, but she never showed up. She—she wouldn't just disappear. She wouldn't—" Her voice broke, fresh sobs wracking through her as JJ placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Her phone's off," JJ said, her face tight with emotion, her voice barely steady. "Local PD found her car still parked outside her apartment. No sign of forced entry. Her purse was left behind."

Spencer clenched his jaw, his stomach twisting painfully. He knew what that meant. She was taken from inside. The unsub had been watching you, had known your routines, and had waited for the perfect moment to strike.

And he hadn't been there to stop it.

A hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Reid." It was Hotch. His voice was firm, grounding, pulling Spencer back into reality. "I need you to focus. We will find her, but we need to move fast."

Elle spoke up, flipping through the case file. "Unsub's pattern suggests he holds victims anywhere from 48 to 72 hours before…" She didn't finish the sentence, but they knew how it ended.

Before he killed them.

Spencer had 48 hours to save you.

He swallowed hard, forcing his mind to snap into place, to work past the terror and focus on finding you.

"Where was her last known location?" he demanded, stepping toward the board, his eyes locking onto your picture, committing every last detail of your presence to memory. He knew he would never forgive himself if he failed and lost you.

JJ pointed at the map. "Er, apartment. The surveillance cameras didn't catch anything obvious, but we're combing through traffic cams now. We need to figure out where he took her."

Spencer's hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white.

"Then let's start there," he said, his voice steady now, ice-cold determination replacing the panic.

He had failed you once.

He wasn't going to fail you again.

The search was relentless. The entire team moved unyieldingly, combing through evidence, footage, and witness statements with the desperation that came when one of their own was in danger.

But for Spencer, it was different.

It was you.

He felt it in his bones, a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest, an overwhelming tide of guilt that gnawed at him with every passing second. He should have never left you. He should have never chosen something else, someone else.

Because now, as he stared at the grainy traffic cam footage of your last known whereabouts, he realized the truth.

Robert was never going to replace you.

He had been a distraction, a fleeting novelty, someone new and engaging in a way that had tricked Spencer into thinking he was feeling something more. But what was new had worn off, and emptiness had remained.

You were never dull.

You were home.

And he had walked away from it—walked away from you.

And now, he might never get to tell you how wrong he was.

"Reid," Hotch's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Spencer turned sharply, his eyes burning, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

"We have something," JJ said, her face tight with restrained emotion. She motioned to the screen. "Traffic cams picked up an unfamiliar van near Y/N's apartment. No plates, but it made three passes before stopping."

Spencer's pulse hammered as he stared.

There.

In the grainy footage, a dark-colored van sat idling just across from your apartment, a shadow behind the wheel. And then—a figure.

You.

You stepped out of your building, completely unaware. His breath caught in his throat as he watched the scene unfold, knowing precisely what was coming next but unable to look away.

The van door slid open. A person—the unsub—moved fast, grabbing you before you could react. You fought, your body twisting, struggling—but you were outmatched.

Then, just like that, you were gone.

Spencer's hands curled into fists.

"We need to identify that van," Hotch ordered. "Garcia, get into the city's surveillance system—track that route. Find me where he took her."

"I'm already on it, sir." Garcia's quick and focused voice came through the speaker.

Spencer barely heard them. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, on you, on the last moment before you had disappeared.

He had spent so much time thinking you would always be there, that there would always be time to fix things and make things right.

But time was running out.

And if he lost you—if he never got the chance to tell you how much he still loved you, how you were the only person who ever truly mattered to him—

He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live with himself.

Garcia worked fast—she always did—but this time, Spencer could hear the urgency in her voice, the rapid clicking of her keyboard through the speaker, and the barely restrained panic beneath her usual rapid-fire delivery.

"Okay, sugarplums, I got something,” she announced, voice tense. "That creepy, unmarked van? It popped up on a traffic camera near an abandoned industrial site about fifteen miles from Y/N's apartment. There are no stops between the two locations. I'm sending you the coordinates now."

Spencer barely waited for Hotch to give the order before he was moving, grabbing his bag and gun and shoving past the concerned glances of his teammates.

This was it.

This had to be it.

The drive was agonizing. His fingers twitched on his knee as he stared out the window, mind racing with every possible outcome. If you were there—if they got to you in time—he could still fix this. He could still tell you the truth.

He had made the biggest mistake of his life, confused comfort with monotony, and was a fool to think there was something better than the love you had given him so freely, so wholly.

That you were the only one he had ever truly wanted.

The convoy of SUVs screeched to a halt outside the factory, tires kicking up dust and gravel. Guns were drawn, and orders exchanged in hushed, precise tones. Spencer's pulse hammered as he fell into formation with Morgan and Hotch, his grip on his weapon too tight, his breathing too shallow.

They breached the building in seconds.

The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of rust and decay. Spencer's stomach twisted as they moved swiftly through the darkened corridors, his ears straining for any sound—any sign of you.

But there was nothing.

No muffled cries, no scuffling footsteps, no you.

Then—

"Clear!" Morgan's voice rang out from another room, frustration cutting through the tension.

"Clear," Elle echoed from the opposite side.

Spencer's heart plummeted.

The space was empty.

Empty.

No unsub. No van. No, you.

They only discarded debris, a few rusted chairs, and the lingering, suffocating feeling they had just lost time they didn't have to spare.

Spencer stood frozen in the center of the room, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The futility of it all hit him like a brick wall.

His knees felt weak.

"No, no, no," he murmured under his breath, his gun lowering as his vision blurred. "She was supposed to be here! He took her here. She—she was supposed to be here!"

"Reid." Morgan's voice was cautious, but Spencer barely heard it.

He couldn't—not over the deafening roar of panic, regret, guilt.

His hands were shaking. His chest was tight. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to breathe, to focus, but all he could see was your face, your picture pinned to the board, the footage of you being taken—

And the realization that he might never see you again.

"Reid." This time, Hotch's voice was sharper, more commanding. Spencer snapped his head up, his breath ragged.

"We'll find her," Hotch said firmly. "But we need you to keep it together."

Spencer's breath hitched, his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear anything else. They were wasting time. Every second spent standing here, every moment spent catching their breath, was another second you were still out there, terrified and alone, waiting for someone to save you.

And he had promised to love you.

And he had failed.

"Oh, you need me to keep it together?" Spencer snapped, his voice shaking, his entire body shaking. His vision was blurring at the edges, rage and fear coiling so tightly in his chest that he could barely contain it. He turned on Hotch, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild, desperate thing. "Well, Y/N needs me to find her! She needs not to die!"

The words tore from his throat, raw and broken.

Morgan's eyes widened slightly, JJ flinched, Elle turned away—but Hotch didn't waver. He stood firm, unyielding, his sharp gaze locked on Spencer with a kind of patience Spencer didn't deserve right now.

"And we will find her," Hotch said, voice calm but edged with authority. "But not if you lose control."

"Lose control?" Spencer let out a short, bitter laugh, his fingers digging into his arms as if to ground himself and keep from completely unraveling. His throat burned, his head spun, and all he could see was you. You, you, you. "She's out there, and we don't even know if she's alive! We don't know if we have hours or minutes before she—before—"

His breath caught.

Before you died.

The word sat there, a looming specter he couldn't bring himself to say out loud.

Morgan stepped forward, voice softer this time. "Reid, listen, man—"

"No!" Spencer cut him off, wild-eyed, frantic. "You don't get it! None of you get it! I—” His voice cracked, his body swaying slightly, the weight of his guilt pressing so heavily on his chest it felt like it was crushing him. He tried to steady himself, but he felt like he was drowning. "I—this is my fault."

A thick silence settled over the room.

Spencer's vision blurred with unshed tears, and his breath ragged.

"She loved me." His voice was quieter now, almost hollow. He clenched his jaw, blinking rapidly, his nails digging into his palm. "And I—I walked away. I left her for someone who meant nothing." He let out a shuddering breath, his chest tightening so hard it physically hurt. "And now I might never get to tell her that she was—is—the only person I've ever truly loved."

A lump formed in his throat.

"I don't—I don't deserve to find her," he whispered, the truth burning as it left his lips. "But I need to. I have to. Or I'll never—I can't—"

He couldn't finish.

If he didn't find you and fix this, nothing else would ever matter.

Elle had been watching Spencer unravel since they returned from the failed lead, her sharp gaze tracking every minute detail of his breakdown—the frantic pacing, the erratic breathing, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. And now, after his outburst at Hotch and how he looked like he was about to self-destruct right in front of them, she had had enough.

She moved fast.

Before Spencer could react, Elle's palm cracked across his face.

The sharp smack echoed through the room, cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. Spencer's head snapped to the side, his breath hitching in shock as pain bloomed hot and fast across his cheek.

For a second, no one moved.

Elle wasn't finished.

She grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward, forcing him to look at her. "Get your shit together, Reid!" she hissed, her eyes burning with something more than anger—something more profound.

Spencer froze.

His chest heaved, his mind scrambling to catch up, to process what had just happened. His cheek stung, but it was nothing compared to the tidal wave of rage, frustration, and unrelenting guilt that had been crushing him from the inside out.

"What the hell was that?" he gasped, staggering back, touching his face like he wasn't sure the pain was real.

"That," Elle said, voice low and dangerous, "was me snapping you the fuck out of it." She jabbed a finger into his chest, stepping closer, invading his space, making sure he couldn't look away.

"You're losing it, Reid. And you cannot afford to lose it right now."

Spencer opened his mouth, but she wasn't done.

"You think you're the only one who's scared?" Elle seethed. "You think you're the only one who wants to tear this city apart to find her? We all do. But guess what? You spiraling like this? It's not helping. It's making it worse."

Spencer's breath hitched, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I—"

"No, shut up," Elle snapped, cutting him off, her voice sharp enough to wound. "I don't want to hear you start whining about how guilty you feel, about how this is all your fault, about how you were an idiot for letting her go."

Spencer's throat closed up.

"You screwed up," she stated, flat and brutal. "You got bored. You wanted something new. And now you've realized you had something irreplaceable and threw it away."

His eyes widened slightly—because, fuck, she knew.

Elle saw right through him.

"But guess what, genius?" Elle leaned in, her voice dropping just enough that the words hit like a punch to the ribs.

"None of that fucking matters if you don't find her."

His stomach dropped.

Elle's gaze was unrelenting, her expression hard as steel. "You want to feel sorry for yourself? Fine. Do it after we bring her home." She stepped back, releasing her grip on his collar. "But right now, Spencer? You need to be the smartest damn person in this room."

Spencer exhaled sharply, still reeling, his cheek throbbing, his pulse raging.

But he understood.

Elle wasn't slapping him because she was angry. She was slapping him because she refused to lose another teammate. Because she refused to lose you.

Because she knew that he was the best chance you had.

Spencer straightened, inhaling deeply, forcing his mind to clear. His face still burned, his chest still ached with remorse, but for the first time since seeing your picture on that board, he wasn't drowning in it.

Elle watched him closely, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she saw the shift.

"Good," she said, giving him one last firm look. "Now, let's go find her."

Spencer nodded, jaw tight, mind finally sharpening into focus.

Because Elle was right. None of his regrets, self-loathing, orlizations meant anything if he didn't bring you home.

"Damn, Greenaway," Derek mumbled, rubbing his jaw as he shot Elle an amused glance. "What's a guy gotta do to get a little love tap?" His smirk was wide, teasing, attempting to lighten the crushing weight pressing down on all of them.

Elle, still standing firm after knocking some sense into Spencer, turned her head slightly, giving Derek a slow, deliberate once-over. "Keep talking, and it'll be a lot more than a tap," she shot back, a smirk of her forming. Then, with a playful wink, she turned back to the case, already flipping through files as if she hadn't just physically assaulted a coworker for his good.

Spencer barely registered the exchange, his brain already re-firing on all cylinders. The sting in his cheek was nothing compared to the fresh surge of determination flooding through him. And so, the team buried themselves back into the investigation, working with precision, intensity, and the desperate, unyielding need to bring you back.

Morgan and Hotch went back through the victimology, looking for any deviation in the unsub's pattern that could hint at where he had taken you.

JJ and Elle were in the batcave, working with Garcia, pushing for more footage, leads, and anything else to tighten the search radius.

Spencer was at the board, staring at your photo, the location pins, and the scattered details. His mind ran every scenario, analyzing every variable. His hand hovered over the map, tracing each route the unsub could have taken.

Think, Spencer. Think.

He had 72 hours.

Time was running out.

And he wasn't about to lose you.

And then he heard it.

Garcia's sharp victory cry rang through the speaker, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Oh, hell yes! Gotcha, you sick son of a—"

Spencer's head snapped up, his heart slamming against his ribs as the bullpen erupted into movement.

"Garcia?" Hotch demanded, already reaching for his earpiece. "What do you have?"

"I have him, sir; I freaking have him!" Garcia's voice was a mixture of triumph and pure adrenaline. "Okay, listen up because I found this guy's most incriminating, unsub-like, foolish mistake—his utility bills."

Spencer's pulse skyrocketed.

Garcia barely took a breath before launching into explanation mode.

"So, I was cross-referencing every possible known location the previous victims were held in—warehouses, abandoned buildings, private properties, all that jazz—but something wasn't adding up. All of those places had been searched already, right? So, I started looking at nearby structures that weren't in use but still had active utilities. Gas, electricity, even just running water, because let's face it—no creepy serial kidnapper is taking sponge baths in a rusty bucket."

"Garcia," Hotch cut in, his patience thin, "where is he?"

Garcia let out an excited, breathless laugh.

"There's an abandoned farmhouse thirty miles outside town, just off an old service road. It's been off the radar for years, but someone's been paying the bills—sporadically, inconsistently, just enough not to raise alarms. And guess what, my sweet crime fighters?"

Spencer gripped the edge of the table.

"The latest bill?" Garcia continued, triumphant. "It was paid yesterday."

Spencer inhaled sharply.

That meant he was still there.

That meant you were still there.

Morgan was already reaching for his gear, his movements quick and efficient. "That's it. That's our guy. Let's move."

Hotch didn't hesitate. "Gear up. Now."

—

"Can you shut up for the love of God?!" the unsub snapped, his voice cutting through the cold, damp air of the farmhouse basement. His patience had worn thin, and the roughness in his tone carried more frustration than malice.

You hiccupped through your tears, your body trembling—not from fear, but from overwhelming exhaustion. Your wrists ached where they were bound, your face was sticky with dried tears, and yet, despite everything, you couldn't stop talking.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed, sniffling dramatically. "It's just—" Another sniffle, another watery gasp for air. "He left me, and then I get kidnapped, and now he's probably gonna save me, and then I'll go home to an empty house, and he'll go home to his stupid boyfriend."

Your captor's eye twitched.

"For the last fucking time," he growled, turning toward you with visible irritation, "they're not going to find you!"

You barely reacted, too caught up in your despair.

"You don't know that," you muttered, your voice wobbly but oddly conversational. "I mean, he's like a genius or whatever. And his team is good at their jobs. They always catch the bad guy." You sighed dramatically, tilting your head back against the wooden beam. "So, yeah, I'd say the odds aren't exactly in your favor."

The unsub's jaw clenched. He paced in frustration, his hands raking through his unkempt hair.

"You should be scared," he spat, though there was less conviction now.

You sniffled again. "I'm too heartbroken to be scared."

Your voice cracked on the last word; it wasn't just for show this time.

The unsub laughed, a cruel, condescending chuckle that grated against your nerves. "You're pathetic," he sneered, shaking his head.

You let out a soft, bitter huff, your fingers twitching where they were bound. "And you aren't?" Your voice was steady now, sharper than before. "You have to kidnap women just to get one to talk to you."

The unsub's face twisted with rage. His hand shot out, grabbing the back of your head roughly, yanking it back so you were forced to look up at him.

Then, cold metal pressed against your temple.

"I could fucking kill you right now," he snarled, his breath hot against your skin, his fingers digging into your scalp.

You blinked up at him. Not flinching and not pleading.

Just looking.

"Okay," you said simply.

For a long, tense moment, he didn't move.

Your heartbeat was steady, even as the seconds stretched between you. His grip was tight, his breathing heavy, the gun unwavering against your skin.

But you didn't break.

Because, honestly? You didn't care.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. It could be the sheer emotional devastation of everything leading up to this moment. Or maybe it was the painful, gut-wrenching realization that even if Spencer saved you, he wouldn't stay.

That hurt more than anything else.

The unsub groaned, exasperated, and after a few lingering moments, jerked back, lowering the gun.

He paced, rolling his neck like trying to shake off whatever he had just felt.

"You don't fear death, do you?" he muttered, more to himself than you.

You let out a small breath, watching him, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Not really."

—

The farmhouse was empty.

It was abandoned.

And that realization hit like a freight train.

As the team swept through the decrepit structure, their boots crunching against the dust-covered floorboards, the air grew heavier with every room they cleared. The farmhouse was utterly vacant—there was no sign of you, no sign of the unsub, no proof of where you had been taken next.

And then Spencer's world crashed down. Again. He didn't know how much more he could take.

His knees hit the ground before he could stop them, his whole body wracked with sobs. The grief that had been building inside him for hours, days, weeks—since the moment he walked away from you—exploded all at once.

Morgan was there instantly, his strong arms steadying Spencer, pulling him into a solid, grounding hold as Spencer fisted his hands into his vest.

"No, no, no," Spencer choked out, shaking violently. "We're too late, we're too late."

"Hey, hey—stop that." Morgan's grip tightened, his expression strained with worry. "We don’t know that."

But Spencer's mind wasn't listening.

Because the only explanation for an empty farmhouse was that the unsub had already killed you.

That he had already moved your body.

And Spencer would never get to tell you.

I never got to say he was sorry. Never get to tell you that he loved you, was a fool for leaving, and would have spent his entire life making it up to you if he could.

That you were his heart.

And now you were gone.

The team stood frozen, the weight of failure settling over them like a suffocating fog.

And then Spencer's phone rang.

His breath hitched, and his fingers clumsily fumbled for the device. His whole body felt numb, and the ringing pierced his grief. It was JJ.

He barely had time to answer before her voice rang through the line, breathless, disbelieving, urgent.

"Spencer—she's here."

His heart stopped.

"What?"

"Y/N just—she just walked into the precinct." JJ sounded just as stunned as he felt. "She's unharmed. She's safe."

Spencer felt his entire world tilt so violently that he nearly collapsed again.

He was on his feet in seconds, his head spinning, his chest heaving.

"She's alive?" The words tumbled out of him wild and frantic, like he feared saying them out loud would make them untrue.

JJ exhaled sharply. "She's alive, Spence. She's okay."

Spencer's legs nearly gave out.

Morgan caught him before he could crumble.

The team exchanged stunned glances, their exhaustion, and devastation shifting into something else entirely.

Hope.

Relief.

Victory.

Hotch's voice cut through the moment, commanding but urgent.

"Let's go. Now."

Spencer was already running.

—

Practically stumbling into the precinct, his breath ragged, Spencer's heart slamming against his ribs as he scanned the room in a frenzy. His eyes darted wildly, looking for you.

And then he saw you. Alive. Standing near JJ's desk, your arms crossed, your expression completely unreadable as you answered one of the officer's questions with a nod. No visible injuries. No signs of distress. Just… there.

Breathing.

Existing.

He felt like he was going to collapse.

The relief hit him so hard that he nearly forgot how to move, breathe, and function. His vision blurred, his pulse roared in his ears, and for a second, he could only process that you were here and safe.

Then you turned, and your gaze met his.

And everything inside Spencer froze.

Because there was no relief in your eyes.

No joy.

No desperation, no tears, no emotion at all.

It's just tired indifference.

His lips parted, and his feet moved toward you instinctively. His hands itched to touch you, feel you, hold you, apologize, beg, and break at your feet if he had to.

But before he could say anything, you exhaled deeply, turning back to JJ, dismissing him entirely without a second glance.

Like he was just… some guy.

Some stranger.

Someone who meant nothing.

The rejection was like a blade to the throat.

Spencer finally found his voice, but it was weak and hoarse. It was filled with exhaustion, guilt, and everything he had wanted to say to you but had never had the chance.

“Y/N—”

You barely spared him a glance.

"I just want to go home," you said flatly, your voice drained, emotionless, like you had nothing left to give—not to the case, Spencer, or any of it.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because he had prepared himself for your tears, he had braced himself for anger, for screaming, for you shoving him away, slapping him, hating him outright.

But this? This emptiness? This indifference? This was worse.

This was so much worse.

Spencer stood there, stunned, feeling himself shatter in real-time as you sighed, rubbing at your tired eyes, before quietly saying to JJ,

"Can someone take me home?"

And just like that—

You were gone.

And Spencer had never felt more alone.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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junkpuppet225 · 3 months ago

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note: This is just something that came to me. It’s basically just smut with no plot. Minors beware. You’re responsible for the content you consume. Enjoy!

Daryl clutches the door handle to his bedroom so tight you swear you hear wood cracking from the force of his hand. Shit. You were just having fun - pretending you weren’t living in absolute hell where the dead walk.

It wasn’t the first time Daryl caught you doing stupid pointless shit but the first time you were only trying on wedge sandals at a department store you and the archer were scavenging. This time you were standing in front of a floor length mirror in his bedroom wearing a luxurious black dress that slid over your skin like silk - hugging you tight in all the right places.

“I’m sorry—- I just wanted to see the whole thing and your room is the only one with a mirror like this. It was in the back of my closet and I didn’t have anything going on right now—-, I thought you were on a run.”

You’re pretty sure that entire statement came out in one long rush of air escaping your lungs - standing frozen in place with your eyes locked on his in the mirror’s reflection - your hair still gathered in your hands above your head.

Daryl hasn’t said a word - his lower lip grinding between blunt teeth as he watches you.

He’s going to yell at you again. Tell you that none of this materialist shit matters anymore and that it’s stupid to waste time thinking it does. He’s going to make you cry again. Not loud and sobbing, the worst kind - a single tear betraying you as he paces at your back or the tremble of your hand while he reminds you of all the walkers surrounding the place while you’re in here wasting fuckin’ time!

…except he doesn’t say anything and his eyes are burning into yours from across the room. The only sign of life coming from him is the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“Daryl?”

He blinks, finally letting his eyes fall from yours to take in every inch of your body. You let your hands fall from the soft strands of your hair, moving them down the silky material as his ocean eyes linger on your ass a moment too long before he looks down at his feet with a grunt.

“I’m sorry I was in your room—-, I’ll go change.”

You try to push past him but he grabs your arm roughly - jerking you to his side as he pulls the door shut with the other. This close to him you see there’s nothing slow about his breathing, his chest expanding deeply to try and drag air into his lungs as he lifts his eyes to your parted lips causing a groan to rumble in his throat. He smells so fucking good - like pine, earthy and delicious and you can’t help but step closer to him to breathe it all in.

“Daryl I—-.”

Before you can register another thought he crashes his mouth to yours, pulling you to his chest as his other hand sinks into your hair - holding you to him. His kiss is hot and desperate - his tongue demanding yours as he pushes your back into the door hard causing a gasp to rush from your chest. Your heart is pounding so hard you worry you’ll pass out as you slide a shaky hand up Daryl’s chest, savoring his kiss as your fingers caress his jaw and he wraps a strong arm around your middle - brining your hips together to sink his body further into yours. The feel of him - all of him - has your mind spinning as you try to get a grasp on what the hell is happening.

Daryl has never kissed you before - he barely even speaks to you and when he does you wouldn’t call it friendly. You press your palms to his chest but his kiss has you to weak willed to push him away - all you can focus on is his desperate mouth on yours and when you try to jerk your face from his to make sense of this he grabs your throat - holding you in place while he kisses you.

It’s so fucking hot you have to press your thighs together to try and dull the ache he’s causing between your legs. You curse the dopamine that surges inside of you - your heart pounding against Daryl’s chest as he presses his hard length against the inside of your thigh, his fingers tightening around your jaw as his tongue continues to assault yours and stars dot your vision.

“Daryl.” You need to catch your breath. You need to make sense of whatever this is but he can only allow one, pulling away just enough to take in his own needed breath before his mouth is on you again. This time he kisses a wet line down your throat - still grasping your jaw tightly as his teeth graze the sensitive skin just below your jugular and a soft moan falls from your lips causing his grip to falter slightly as he pushes his leg between yours still pressing you to the door.

“…want to fuck you…” He grunts against your lips - it’s the only thing he’s said since barging in on you admiring the dress - groping roughly at the silky fabric clinging to your body, cussing against your throat as he tries to gather it around your hips with no luck. It’s tight in all the right places and unzips from the side so he’s going to have to back off an inch so you can fumble with the mechanics a moment. Or, he just grabs the material in his hands and yanks hard - ripping the dress at the narrow thigh slit causing you to gasp before his mouth is on yours again. You spread your legs for him slowly as he palms your hip before slipping between your thighs to brush his thumb against your damp panties, a cry escaping you as he runs his fingers over the soft material and whispers some inaudible words about how wet you are for him before ripping them off without a thought.

Good thing you aren’t living in an apocalyptic nightmare with limited goods like nourishing food and clothes that actually fit.

Daryl kisses you until you’re lack of underwear disappears from existence - barely clinging to reality as he works two fingers inside of you - beckoning you to come for him as your insides begin to quake. His chest is heaving with desire and his words are whisper quiet between you. “…please let me fuck you.” It’s not a question so much as a statement and your heart seizes in your chest as he finally pulls away to look in to your eyes. There’s an unmistakable longing between the two of you as you nod and lean into his kiss once again.

With your dress ripped all the way to your waist now it’s easy for him to gather the ruined material in one hand - fumbling with his belt with the other before lifting your leg to thrust into you with a deep moan. He stretches your soaked cunt slowly, pushing further until he’s buried deep - your nails digging into his arms as you try to steady yourself from the feel of him. “…feels so fucking good.” You slide your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck as he thrusts up into you hard and fast - tightening his fingers in your hair as he swallows your moans with his rough kiss. He has to pull away again to take in a breath - looking between your bodies as he sinks himself inside of you over and over, low desperate grunts filling your soul.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before - waves of pleasure filling you as he fucks up into you desperately, one hand back on your hip - bruising delicate skin as you feel yourself come undone around him, eyes closing tight as a surge of euphoria explodes inside your core chased by Daryl’s own release as he fills you with a quiet groan, chest heaving as his eyes lift to yours and a slow smile creeps to his lips.

“That’s some fuckin’ dress, sunshine.”

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starfruitii · 4 months ago

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cws & notes. reader is kind of insecure. akaashi keiji x gn!reader. established relationship. slight angst. 600+ words. idk where this came from but enjoy?

“Do you think you’ll get sick of me, one day?”

You regret the words as soon as they leave your lips. In your head, it sounded like a perfectly sound question, but with the way Keiji is looking at you, it’s clear he doesn’t agree.

“I beg your pardon, dear?” His voice is painfully soft, brows furrowing in concern as he places his book down on the coffee table. Under his gentle gaze, you feel stripped bare, exposed in all your insecurity. You should have swallowed the question down, as sharp as it felt in your throat, anything to avoid the way he’s staring at you now.

“Nevermind,” You say quickly, snatching the TV remote from the table, and busying yourself with choosing a show. The screen flicks between channels, flashing brightly coloured lights across your faces. “That was a dumb question. I’m sorry, just forget it.”

“My love,” Keiji reached out a hand, lightly brushing the side of your face. With a gentle, but firm grip, he grasped your chin and tilted your head to the side to face him. “[Name]. Why are you asking me that?”

“No reason. Don’t worry about it.” You try to laugh it off, but you can only choke out a quiet sob. Somehow, somewhere between asking the question and now, your eyes started burning, glazing over with unshed tears.

Damn. He’s looking even more concerned now. Why couldn’t you have just kept it to yourself, tucking those doubts far into the dusty corners of your head, where his ears would never reach them?

“Hey,” Keiji brushed his thumb under your eyes, wiping away a stray tear that falls. “You’re getting me worried now. Are you okay? What happened?”

There was a long pause, and something inside you cracks. You let out a sniffle, then a gasp, then the last piece of your self-control breaks, in a mess of tears and snot. Keiji’s face crumples, and he tugs you forward into his chest, rubbing your back soothingly as you continue to cry.

“Did I do something?” He presses. “Am I not treating you the way you want to be treated? I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, but please tell me what I did–”

“No!” You quickly say, regaining your composure slightly. He’s never done anything, never hurt you, intentionally, or unintentionally, never said the wrong words, never made you feel unloved. That was the problem. Because nothing gold shines forever, and every good thing comes to an end. You were just waiting for the end, the moment he decides he is done with your self-consciousness, your bad habits, your looks.

There is always a reason for someone to leave; you’ve learnt that the hard way.

“I-I don’t know,” You mumble, tracing your nail against the couch. “I just–I guess, most people do. Get sick of me, that is. And I d-don’t wanna lose you too.”

Keiji was silent for a moment, and for a moment you worry that you've ruined things. The thought lingers in your mind for only a second, because a second later there are half-a-dozen kisses being pressed to the top of your head.

“I love you,” Keiji whispers between each peck. “I love you, so, so much. I love you, and I love you, and I will say it as many times as it takes you to believe it.”

The feeling of his breath tickles your skin, making you laugh weakly.

“I'm never going to get sick of you,” He continues. “I adore you, and every part of you. No matter what happens, I'm never leaving. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper back.

Keiji kisses your cheek. “Good. Now, why don't you put on a movie for us to watch?”

#🎧 : now playing !#odysseyofsaia #haikyuu x reader #haikyu x reader #hq x reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji x reader #keiji akaashi x reader #keiji x reader #akaashi fluff #haikyuu fluff

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macfrog · 1 month ago

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the jellyfish | one shot

today marks one year since i posted the fic i’m proudest of, san angelo. i loved this joel and this girl so much that even after i posted their story, i couldn’t shake them. i wrote a little extra for my own heart, never intending to share — but now feels as good a time as any. enjoy.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader summary: they just drift, jellyfish. they go wherever the current takes ‘em. i think you and i were a little like that. i think the universe delivered me straight to you. warnings: story is inserted into canon, so all the expected major character deaths. star-crossed lovers who transcend universes to be together and all that good shit. word count: 5k

psst. you might wanna read this post before you jump into this fic. x

She comes through on the heels of a sunbeam.

You don’t know how long it’s been. Ten seconds or ten minutes or ten days, maybe – but she’s still a kid with rosy cheeks and plaid pajama pants, so you figure it can’t have been long.

No, it can’t have been long at all.

“Sarah?”

You push through the ghostly glow of a thousand other people. It’s iridescent chaos, wherever this place is. A flurry of panicked strangers – their forms hazy and only half-here.

They sweep from your path like silk. The screaming is deafening. Some are on their knees, sobbing into the nothingness. Others are searching every face, calling names you don’t recognize, crying out to a god or a universe you know is no longer listening.

All you know is this is it. Whatever you had, whatever you knew – it’s over now. All that’s left is here. Some kind of dreamscape, an astral plane.

If you didn’t know better, you’d call it heaven.

She looks just like the photographs he’d shown you. First day of school, he said – and he grinned wider than you’d been able to make him the entire night. Shoot, this one’s a little blurry, but – you see that trophy in her hand? Fifth-grade science fair. Smartest kid in her class.

“Sarah,” again.

She turns.

Her eyes meet yours, crystal blue and streaming. And as if she, too, knows your favorite superhero and the way you like your mac and cheese – she holds her arms out.

You pull her in, feeling her little hands lock around your waist. Your cheek falls to the crown of her head. She smells like bitter iron. It makes your teeth hurt.

She’s crying. Wetting the front of your shirt, pushing her face so hard into your tummy that she can barely even breathe.

“What happened?” you ask, cupping the back of her head.

Her hair is linen soft, fair and cropped at the top of her neck. Sweet like bubblegum pink shampoo, she smells just like strawberries.

“Tell me, honey – what happened?”

The smallest voice you’ve ever heard. She speaks between thick sniffles. “I don’t –” gasp, “– I don’t know.”

You kneel in front of her, cupping her cheeks. Your thumbs catch her tears as they come. “Where’s your dad?”

“I don’t know,” she sobs, and wraps herself around you again.

She asks who you are on the third day.

By now, you’re wandering around hand in hand. Things have settled, the pale fog has cleared. Your world is one of bursting greens and rolling blues; flowers which lift with the sun and sprawling hills which cushion her fall at the end of each day.

Gently, one by one, the others disappeared. Into the night, into the sun – into their own little corners of this world. You and Sarah are the only two left, settled in a snug valley populated by wildflowers and families of deer.

It’s better this way. It’s calmer. You can listen to the sway of the long grass, can pluck out the different types of bird just from their song.

You hush Sarah to sleep every night. You’ve managed to quieten her crying, had done by the second sunset. She has no reason to trust you, but she does – and you figure you owe it to him to watch over her, anyway.

At least until he gets here.

“I knew your daddy once,” you tell her, taking in the dusky pink sky. The sun is lowering. She’ll grow tired soon. He wouldn’t want her up past her bedtime. “We met a long time ago.”

“Did he like you?” she asks, earnestly – but you pause.

It rises from your chest like painful little bubbles, each one shattering more violently than the last. Tears spring along your waterline. You swallow the tremble in your voice.

“I hope so,” you whisper. “I liked him very much.”

She hums to herself, walking on. Her arms wrap tighter around the firewood she’s holding. “I bet he liked you just as much,” she says. “You musta been pretty special.”

It lingers for a moment. The beauty and the pain of it; the flood of violet that designs a fresh bruise. The memory swirls around you in the breeze.

In the next life.

Promise.

Sarah strolls off in the evening light. The clouds tint her hair a peachy rose. She’s already out of your reach.

The blood jumps in your veins. You gather your skirt and hurry back to her side, masking your nerves with a smile. “Well, I feel it,” you nudge her, “being in your company.”

She giggles for the first time since you found each other. This sweet little melody. It blends in with the birdsong.

The kid goes everywhere on your back.

Closer than your own shadow, hanging from your arm, watching everything you do with a filial affection. Becoming someone’s person wasn’t exactly something you meant to do, but then – neither was meeting her dad in a dive bar.

You’ve been dealt worse hands.

You braid her hair while you sit in the valley. Knots of gold threaded with daisies and dandelions. She names the deer and nods hello to each of them. She stands on your toes and walks backwards, squeals when you trip over one another and tumble across the bed of grass.

It’s not hard to see why he loved her so much. This little dove of a girl. Soft around the edges, a springtime sweetness to her like cherry blossom or fresh snowdrops. Something you want to cradle, tend to with careful hands and shield from the rest of the world.

She wraps her arms like twigs around your shoulders. She chatters in your ear about soccer and movies; asks to hear your favorite everything so she can compare it to hers.

She talks about him every day. Talks about him the same way he’d talked about her: laughter splitting her words, each one rounded by the toothy grin on her face.

When she sleeps, her head in your lap, your fingers sifting through her hair – you look for him. You try to find him.

It’s a gift and a curse that you always do.

Boston, at least at first. Gruesome and unforgiving. Dingy streets and dirty deals; a woman with a mind as sharp as her tongue. He trusts her. He feels safe around her. She relieves some of the ache in his chest and that relieves some of the ache in yours.

You walk in stride with them at night. You watch him break bone and break his own heart, over and over. He looks nothing like he did in San Angelo. His brother can’t look him in the eye anymore.

He’s an open wound. Agony from the inside out. A heart split like the skin over his knuckles.

You follow him back to his apartment and try to whisper words through the dark. Can you feel me? I’m here. I’m right here.

He only ever rolls over and scoops the bare pillow, wrapping his huge arm around it. He’s lonely, drowning in it, though he’d never admit it. He’d never admit any of it: he’s not hurting, he’s not grieving. He doesn’t remember her smile or the weight of her on his back.

That’s the thing. He remembers all of it. He can’t shake her from his shoulders. He can’t stop answering when he hears echoes of her voice. Crying only seems to pain him all the more, the burn of salt on his skin.

You curl up behind him, hoping he might feel your heartbeat through worlds. Hoping he might feel your arms around him and know, somehow, that he’s carrying his kid, too.

Sarah asks in the morning why your eyes are so red.

“No reason,” you reply, tucking a forget-me-not behind her ear. “Let’s go pick some apples.”

She slings herself over your back, an empty string bag dangling from her wrist. She kicks her legs as you wander from shade to shade, dodging the blazing sunlight.

Sarah’s no idiot. She’s her father’s daughter. She can feel the effort in every step, sense the burden heavy on your shoulders. She jokes that your shadows look like some kind of giant cockroach wearing a summer dress, and it makes you laugh.

In the orchard, she climbs up onto your shoulders. She reaches above, clawing for the shiniest ones. Deep reds with freckles just like hers.

“Be careful,” you mutter, feeling her rock with the branches to pick the best fruit. Your grip tightens around her ankles.

The fear sets like a pebble, heavy in your stomach. The same fear that sinks anytime she leaves your reach, the same fear that plummets when she’s shoulder-deep in the river and you think the current might sweep her off at any moment.

She’s not your kid. She’s not. But she’s his – and he was as much yours as anyone.

The sun flashes between the leaves, becoming too hot to stay out much longer. You must be in the thick of summer by now. It’s scorching.

“Sarah,” you plead, squinting up at her swaying silhouette. “Please be careful.”

“You got it,” she calls, voice strained. She plucks and plucks, a satisfied sigh with each apple she rolls into the bag.

Back home, you stand by the sink. The cool shade of the cottage, fruit bobbing in the water. Sarah wants to slice some of them, sit outside and watch the bees pollinate the flowers.

You flick your blade up, fishing the biggest apple. As you line the silver against the swollen skin, you feel her eyes on you.

“You okay, honey?”

She smiles. Her eyes flit to the blade in your hands, the droplet of juice dribbling between your knuckles. “Can I do it?”

“Chop the –?”

Sarah nods.

You look back down at your hands, hesitating. The blade winks back. Heat begins to creep up your spine. “I…I guess.”

She swaps positions, spreading her fingers over the fruit. Her small hands curve around the handle of the knife. The sight of it makes your stomach turn.

“Like this?” She positions it between her first and middle fingers.

You wince, laying your hands on her wrist. “Yeah,” you gulp, “but just be –”

“– careful?” she says, smirking. “Daddy lets me help him with the cookin’ all the time.”

Yeah, you think, that’s ‘cause Daddy can’t do it by himself.

The knife plunges down with a wet crunch. The halves roll apart. The air punches from your lungs.

Sarah looks up, bright eyes twinkling.

With a sickly anxiety, you realize she wants to do it again.

“Good job,” you say, voice wobbly, fists balling on the counter. Your nails dig into your palms. “Now, uh – now half ‘em again, and make sure you cut the seeds out. You eat the seeds, an apple tree grows in your belly.”

She snorts. “I know that ain’t true.”

The dragonflies hover politely near the river, metallic wings fluttering.

You lay a blanket down in the shade of a willow, fringed from the rest of the valley by its drooping curtain of leaves. You suckle on the shards of fruit, lips lined with a sticky sweet.

Sarah picks the best apples. You know this by now.

She sucks her fingers clean, staring at the sparkling river as it trickles by. You’ve been here longer than you could guess – longer than you care to – but still, she asks, “What if you’re lying?”

You dig between your teeth for apple skin. “Huh?”

“You said you knew my dad,” she says, turning back. She rubs one eye with her knuckle. “What if that’s not true?”

“Then I’d be pretty damn good at bluffing.”

She snickers. “I believe you,” she says, “I always did. There has to be some reason you found me.”

You sit back, leaning on the heels of your palms. Your chest swells with emotion, the lonely pain of waking up to an empty bed and an empty apartment.

“You like soccer,” you tell her. “You play for the…the Defenders, right? Number fourteen. You won your fifth-grade science fair with a project on jellyfish.”

Sarah looks down at the grass, cheeks lifting. She picks a daisy and twirls it between two fingers. “You remembered all that?”

“Like I said,” you sigh, “I liked your dad a lot.”

You keep looking for him every night.

He’s been out of Boston for a while, and you’re glad of it. He found himself a shadow of his own right before he left – a little girl with freckles and a light like sunshine.

Just like yours.

She’s spunky, she has heart, and she can kick ass. Every second word is a curse, feels like. She tells stupid jokes and she pulls on all the right threads. She’s unwinding him, and you’re sure neither one of them knows it yet.

She’s saving him.

You took to her the day they met. He took a little more convincing. You knew he’d come around eventually, and you spent weeks waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It didn’t happen so suddenly. Day by day, hour by hour, he mellowed. His bark quietened, the blaze in his chest tamed. Soon, he let her close enough to warm her hands.

And he was aglow all over again. He looked the way he had two decades before.

It must be years now – the way he’s grayed and she’s sprouted. You can’t keep up with the passing of seasons, the way their conversations change. Change and change and wither away.

And – just as you’ve adopted all the other scars and bruises and fractures in his soul – their distance hurts you just as much as it hurts him. It feels hollow, like his bones are protecting nothing. Ghostly. Barren.

The worst of his pain comes during a blizzard.

It’s a fucking mess, the entire thing. You can’t hear anything over the kid’s screaming. Faces keep bleeding in and out of view; grunts and gasps and terrible, terrible groans.

He’s on the floor – that’s what drew you in. He’s on the floor, broken in two. A mammoth captured in a snowstorm, slain in the basement of a mansion.

You wait for him to notice you. He’s come close before – scuffles in backstreets, on horseback with a puncture in his stomach – but he’s never looked at you before.

You stumble around the edge of the room, stifling your screaming as the girl’s arms lift again. The bite of metal is nauseating. The blood is spattered up the windows behind him.

A shell of himself – this man who once held you, whispered sweet nothings and silly jokes in your ear. Who held his palm open and let you trace over it, score secrets into the skin forever.

He’s done some shit, sure – but hasn’t everyone?

She brings the club down on his skull. His body bends in on itself, breaks in a way you never knew it could. He’s past able to make any sound. The size of him gives one final shudder, and just then –

He looks.

He looks you square in the eye.

Joel?

He blinks. A wet gurgle leaks from his lips.

Joel, can you –? Shit, can you see me right now?

It’s dribbling from his chin like tar. Thick and black. It runs quicker when his lips try to move.

You can, can’t you? You can see me.

His brother and kid are out cold. You step between them, whispering apologies as you pass, and kneel at Joel’s side.

I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay, baby, you’re okay.

Your eyes screw shut. He’s in your bed, his shitty Motorola in one hand and your fingers in the other. He smiles. He smiles and he laughs and he kisses you again.

God, Joel, you sob, I love you. I love you so much. Tell me what to do. I don’t know what to fucking do here.

Please. I need you to get up. Can you get up for me?

Can you – can you move? Can you hear me?

Joel?

Sarah brings you tea and sets it down on the table.

She sits beside you, tucking her knees right under her chin. She warns about the flies, says you’ll be drinking bug soup if you don’t get to it quick.

You force your lips into a smile and thank her, ruffling her sun-bleached hair. One tiny sip – only to please her – and your head rolls back, face skyward.

“Are you feeling better?” she asks, laying a hand over yours.

When she finally managed to wake you, you were both crying. She said your scream almost deafened her. She thought something terrible had happened, until she lit the lamp and saw you clutching your bedsheets, sobbing into the cotton in your sleep.

You squeeze her fingers. “Yes,” you lie. “I’m sorry I scared you. It was just a bad dream.”

“I used to have those sometimes,” she says, sniffing. She rubs her nose with the back of her hand. “Not since I came here.”

“You know what it is?” You turn to look at her, one eye closed in the sunlight. “I ate cheese before bed. Cheese gives you funny dreams.”

Her head tips back with a giggle. “No, it doesn’t. That’s so silly.”

You lift your eyebrows. “I blame the cheese, Sarah Miller.”

She nudges the mug an inch closer, and you take another sip.

It’s good – the tea. She knows exactly how long to brew it for, exactly how much sugar you like. It’s as if she counts the granules by hand – and, if you know Sarah, you wouldn’t put it past her.

You balance the warm mug on your breastbone. “Wanna help me hang the sheets up?”

She nods. Always eager to help, eager to do everything and anything. She disappears back into the cottage and you listen for the sloshing of water, the wet slap of the sheets being flung into a basket.

Nothing has come of it. Your dream. No knock at the door, no calls of either of your names echoing through the valley. After you convinced Sarah to go back to sleep, you stood outside and listened to the wind for forty-five minutes.

He is not here.

It’s the first time you’ve ever wondered where here really is, anyway. For this long, it’s been yours and Sarah’s. A secret kingdom in some dusty shelf in the universe; pixies and sunshine and splitting apples by the river.

You don’t want any of it, if he’s not here.

You’ll pack a bag, pull Sarah over your back. Find somewhere else. Somewhere with room for him, too. She needs her dad, and you need your – well.

Sarah meets you by the clothesline. She drops the basket with a sigh, then twirls around the pole as you untangle the sheets. She spirals until she’s sat on the grass, legs crossed, passing you clothespins as you work.

“I was thinking we could stay up late tonight,” you say, slotting a pin over the sheet. Forcing a casual air through your voice, trying to keep it steady. “Watch the sky for a little while, maybe hunt for shooting stars.”

You’re only trying to wring out the hours you’ll be without him. You don’t want to spend the night staring at the ceiling, slowly forgetting what he looks like.

Sarah says nothing. She knows you’re full of it. She leans forward and picks a ladybug from your skirt, rotates her hand to count its spots.

The sheets lift in the breeze, billowing and twisting around one another. The clouds turn over – rolling from perfectly white to an afternoon blush. The world is preparing to turn in already.

And that’s when she says it.

“Daddy?”

Your back is turned. You’re sipping at your tea. “What, honey?”

She pulls herself up and steps forward. She walks through the sheets, ducking her head to miss their brilliant flashes. Staring straight ahead at something you can’t see yet.

“Dad…”

In one swipe of the linen, she’s gone.

With a gasp, she sprints off downhill. She screams as she goes, footsteps thundering through the valley.

“Sarah!” you yelp, swatting the laundry out of the way. It swirls around your arms, waving across your vision in a white smirk. “Sarah, come back –”

The fabric spills over your arm when you lift it. Your heart stops short in your throat.

He’s knelt in the grass, arms wide open. Same jeans, same wintery boots. He flicks his fingers and his little girl collides with him, her tiny body crashing into his.

They roll back into the soft grass and for a few seconds, they disappear. But as quickly as your heart stops, it starts again. He rises from the flora, Sarah in his arms.

He nuzzles his face into her shoulder. He’s sobbing, you can hear it from way up here. Sobbing, then roaring with laughter, then gasping for air – though he won’t pull away from his little girl long enough to breathe.

They have the same laugh. The exact same. It echoes between them, this delighted string of sound. That hearty, giddy laugh.

She stands straight, still holding tightly onto him. Like she’s scared if she lets go, she’ll lose him again. Planted between his knees, fixing threads of silver hair from his eyes. Talking to him, yapping and giggling, her head bobbing all over the place.

He talks straight back – bass voice even deeper than you remember. The only words you can make out are baby girl. He can’t stop stroking her hair, can’t stop bursting into euphoric laughter.

After a minute, he stands. One hand locked in hers, arms swinging. He scopes the valley, murmuring something to his daughter while shaking his head in disbelief.

She points everything out to him. The hills and their peaks. The spot where the sun rises and the spot where it sets. The willow by the riverside, the knolls where the rabbits burrow. And then – she spins around and points to you.

Your hands knot at your stomach.

Shielding his eyes with his arm, he looks up and spots you. He pauses for a few seconds, just stares and stares. He doesn’t move until Sarah tugs on his wrist.

She drags him the whole way back to the cottage. “It’s…it’s…” she pants, squirming with joy as she hauls both of them uphill. She takes your outstretched hand and shakes it. “It’s my dad!”

“Sure is,” you whisper. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to think. It hurts to be so close to him and still nowhere near enough.

Joel mirrors your expression, loose with shock. He reaches the yard and sighs. His shoulders rise and fall with the effort of his breath, sweat lining his brow.

He’s older. Of course he is, it’s been twenty-five years. Salt and pepper, just like your dreams. More wrinkles, more scars – though, in the sunlight, he looks just like the man you knew. Those same embers of light in his eyes, smirk unconcealable even behind his thicker beard.

He looks the exact same. He never changed a day.

“She said she knew you from long ago, Dad,” says Sarah, beaming up at him. She won’t let go of either of your hands, a little chain link between this world and the last. She blinks back and forth between you.

“Yeah, baby girl,” he finally says, and you hear that familiar sandpaper rasp, smoothed over by a lacquer drawl. “We knew each other pretty well.”

The girl squints in the sun. “She taught me how to make tea. You want some tea?”

He finally drops your gaze. He looks down to Sarah and smiles tenderly. “I would love some tea.”

She squeezes your hand, then turns on her heel and skips back to the house.

Joel watches as she disappears into the kitchen, then turns his attention back to you.

His hairline is rusted with dry blood, eyes still a little bleary. His blood-soaked jacket is gone – and, if you know him half as well as you think you do, you know he rid himself of it sometime before his daughter noticed him.

He hooks a thumb through his belt loop and smiles, perplexed. He drags a heel through the terrain, stones scuffing under his boot. He lifts a finger and points in your direction.

“Mind’s still a little hazy,” he says. “Have we met?”

It floods through your body. That same twenty-something-year-old feeling. A kiddish glee, a teenage flush. You bite right into it.

“I was wondering the same thing. You look familiar. Did you do something with your hair?”

His head tips. He runs his hand through the flicks of hair by his neck. “That oughta be it. I grew it out,” he drags his fingers down his jaw, “Grew out my beard, too.”

“Mm. Yeah, I see that. Looks good.”

Your voice is breaking. It’d be embarrassing if you were paying attention to it.

His arms cross. “You look good. You look beautiful.”

Another little hm. Then –

“If you don’t touch me right now, I’m going to scream.”

And he jumps.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you suddenly and heavily against his chest. He’s so solid and yet so soft; so weathered and still the safest thing you’ve ever known. He feels just like he did all those years ago.

“Joel,” you sob into his shirt, and he kisses your head.

“Hi, baby,” he whispers into your hair, sniffling. He kisses down your neck and across your shoulder.

“Hi,” you weep. You pull back, cradled in his arms, blinking through your tears.

His cheeks are glistening, eyes streaming all over again. He laughs with you, shaking his head. “Jesus,” he chuckles, “look at us.”

You nuzzle into his palm, closing your eyes. “I missed you so much,” you whisper.

“Oh, darlin’,” Joel strokes your cheek, “I missed you, too. I thought about you every day. Every –”

“– damn day,” you echo. “Me, too.”

“I wish I’d gone back for you,” he admits. “I should’ve found you, I –”

“Hey,” you lift his jaw and press your forehead to his, “You found me. I’m right here, see? Feel me? You ain’t gotta worry anymore. You found us.”

He pulls you into the same bear hug again. He squeezes tight and breathes in your hair.

“This is where you’ve been?” he asks, still drinking in the expanse of the valley.

“Yep,” you mumble into his chest.

He kisses your forehead. “And you looked after my little girl?”

“She looked after me, too.”

He laughs, tears slipping though his beard into your hair. “How? I mean – how?”

“She just – appeared. Right in front of me. Like it was meant to be.”

“That night?”

You nod, welling up. “I was already gone, Joel.”

He turns away for a second, pain twisting across his face. He holds you protectively. “Baby,” his voice breaks, “I’m so sorry.”

You press your fingers to his lips.

It needn’t matter now. None of it. Not here, where the sun drowns the valley each morning and the flowers dance in the breeze. Not here, where you and Sarah played handclaps and you taught her how to make daisy chains.

Not here – where the universe finally gave him back to you.

“It happened,” you shrug, “Look where I wound up.”

He nods, but you know it’s a bruise. You know it matters to him. Matters more than any of the rest of it. You can feel his heart throbbing in his chest.

“The next life,” Joel whispers. “Is this the one I get to keep you in?”

You smile. “Yup.”

He hums, playing with your hands. His head drops and he takes a deep, painful breath.

“There are some things you should know about,” he says – and for the first time, it’s like he’s uncomfortable. “Things that probably got a lot to do with why I’m here.”

“I already know,” you say. “I was with you the whole time.”

“You were?”

Your eyes close. “Mhm.”

“Shit,” Joel winces, “I never wanted you to see –”

“Shh.”

You take his hand and open his palm. It feels like velvet against your lips; as warm as the day you met. You kiss each mount, each plain of skin. When you pull away, you run your fingers over the same lines you read all that time ago.

“See? Still the same,” you reassure him, smiling. “You’re still my Joel.”

“Your Joel,” he teases. He tightens around you again, nuzzling your nose with his own. “That who I am, huh?”

“Uhuh,” you giggle, squirming when he tickles your waist.

His lips find yours in a crash of a kiss – a hungry, messy thing. His hands on your jaw, yours in his hair. Vanilla and pine, the scent of home you’ve been searching for ever since that very first night.

You tug gently and Joel groans into your mouth, his tongue rolling against yours. He tastes like beer and second-hand smoke, like the pinch of lime and the sting of love. He tastes like you, like twenty years too long apart.

He tastes like forever still to come.

The wind picks up and swirls around you both. The sun washes over your skin. The sheets snap back and forth, drumming over the kettle’s whistle inside.

“C’mon,” you whisper, leading him to the door. “Your daughter makes the best tea in the world.”

“Hey,” he says, reeling you back in against his body. He smooths your skin with his thumb. The same honey glow in his eyes, the same hidden magic.

“I love you,” he says. “I loved you the minute I saw you at that bar. Loved you no matter how many miles or worlds were between us. It’s the one thing that never changed.”

You smile, bringing his hand to your lips.

“It’s over now, Joel. You can come home.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #fic: the jellyfish

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sturniololuvz · 28 days ago

Note

can be about literally anything but i crave an angst imagine with reader as their younger sister🙏🙏

yessss i love ANGST

“Say That Again”

The house was fucking silent.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that comes right before shit hits the fan.

You’d been spiraling all week. Anxiety? Through the roof. Sleep? None. And today? Today was the last fucking straw.

They ignored your texts. Again. You asked for one thing — one. tiny. thing.

And they couldn’t even do that.

⸻

You slammed your door so hard it shook the hallway.

It took less than a minute for Nick to storm in.

“What the fuck was that?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look at him.

“Oh, we’re doing the silent treatment now? Bet.”

Matt appeared next. Then Chris. All three of them standing there like they had the right to be pissed.

You snapped your head up.

“Where were you guys?!”

Chris blinked. “What are you talking about—”

“The meeting!” you shouted. “The one I begged you to come to! I waited for two fucking hours—alone—while everyone else had parents or someone there, and I sat there like a fucking idiot!”

Nick scoffed. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re throwing a fit over that?”

“A fit?” Your voice cracked as your chest heaved. “You think this is a fit? I was terrified, Nick! I was sitting in a fucking office while they told me I might not graduate if I don’t get my shit together. And I had no one.”

Matt raised his voice. “So what? We’re your parents now? We’re not your fucking babysitters, Y/N—”

“NO, YOU’RE MY BROTHERS!” you screamed, eyes blurring with tears. “You’re supposed to show the fuck up! You act like you care until it’s inconvenient.”

Chris’s voice was sharp now. “Watch your mouth.”

You snapped.

“Fuck you, Chris. Seriously. You only play the protective brother when it’s performative. You don’t give a single shit unless it makes you look good.”

Nick lost it. “The fuck did you just say?”

“I said you don’t care! None of you do! You love the idea of being good brothers, but the second I actually need something from you, you all vanish!”

Chris yelled. “You’re out of line.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

Matt stepped forward, his face twisted in anger. “You have no idea how lucky you are. We give you everything. A house. Food. Shit people would kill for.”

“I don’t need your fucking money, Matt! I need you! I need a fucking family!”

The room exploded.

Everyone yelling over each other. Your voice cracking from screaming, theirs rising with rage. Chris cursing under his breath. Matt pacing like he wanted to punch a wall. Nick shouting until he was red in the face.

And then, it happened.

Nick — eyes filled with disgust — spat the words that cut the deepest.

“You’re such a fucking burden.”

The room went dead silent.

Even he looked like he regretted it the second it slipped out.

You stood there frozen, your entire body numb. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Just a soft, broken whisper.

“…okay.”

Then you turned. Walked to your door. Closed it.

And this time?

You locked it.

⸻

You didn’t cry right away.

You sat on your floor, shaking like a leaf, your head between your knees, trying to hold it together.

But then it hit you all at once.

Everything.

The loneliness. The pain. The fucking heartbreak of knowing the people who were supposed to love you — the ones who promised they’d never hurt you — just ripped you to shreds like it was nothing.

You screamed.

You sobbed so hard you could barely breathe.

Outside, you heard Chris bang on your door.

“Y/N, open the door. Please. I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Leave me the fuck alone.”

Matt’s voice followed, quieter. “Y/N… we didn’t know. We didn’t realize—”

“You don’t care. You never did. Just go.”

Silence.

And for the first time in a long time…

They actually listened.

⸻

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo x reader #matt stuniolo fanfic #sturniolo #sturniolos #matthew sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sister sturniolo #sturniolo series

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mrs-weasley-reid · 1 year ago

Text

THIS LOVE CAME BACK TO ME

Aaron Hotchner x (former) bau!reader

Sypnosis: A friend's death brings you back to the loving arms of the BAU family. And like a high tide, it also brought back old feelings that Aaron finds difficult to control. WARNING: fluff! cursing. mentions of death, divorce, miscarriage (tell me if I forgot something) A/N: this can be read as a stand alone but is a part 2 for you're too sweet for me. it's loosely inspired by This Love (Taylor's Version)

The sight of you is like a dream.

Aaron thinks it might've been the haze of loss and woe that was making him see things, but it isn't. His breath hitched audibly. The sound causes David and Spencer to turn to Aaron, following his line of sight to where you stand at the front door.

As your eyes roam in the crowd of people clad in black, Aaron is the first you see. Your eyes are rimming with red heat and overflowing with tears. Your feet race to Aaron, snatching him into a tight hug like the cavalry was out to get you, and he is your only lifeline. "Hotch..." Your voice cracks upon his name as you bury your face on his chest, soaking the fabric of his dress shirt like it hadn't been more than a decade since you saw him last.

Shock fills Aaron's chest, but his hands still remember your frame in his arms so well they wrap themselves around your waist like second nature. Lavender and chamomile. You smell just as he remembers. A mixture of solace and gaiety. Your sniffles sound the same. So distinct that his ears itch.

His mind questions whether seventeen years of his life were all a dream and he'd just woken up. Your embrace feels like a day has never gone by, and you two are young and stupid again. Okay, maybe not stupid. You were never stupid. Not a day in your life were you ever stupid. Aaron insists on the thought.

Right then, Aaron decides that you are real because no one else in his life has ever grabbed him into a bone-crushing hug the way you do. Arms wrapped around his neck like vines. Toes pointed at the earth so you could reach his insane height. He can only think of one other person who'd do that: Jack. But the boy could barely wrap his arms around Aaron's legs at the moment, so it was definitely you.

He closes his eyes, and tears quickly trickle down his face like he's been holding it in. He was. He is under the impression that with all the tearful sobs his team has wept, he should at least swallow his. As usual, he wanted to be a strong foundation for the others. A shoulder they can cry on. So, Aaron forbade himself to cry. At least not in front of everyone.

But then your hold is so tight the heartache finally explodes. You roll in with the reminder that he is permitted to cry, too. To feel the sorrow. To crumble like everyone else in the room.

"I came as soon as I heard," You muffle in his shirt, pulling away to wipe your bottomless tears with the back of your hand.

It takes all of Aaron not to hold you back when your body leaves his cold and empty. Your peripheral had caught David's familiar figure, prompting an automatic brain response to capture him into a hug.

Aaron watches as you exit out of David's embrace, forty-five seconds shorter than his. He doesn't let himself think too hard of it. Afraid that he is to get his hopes up for nothing.

David pats your back, "Glad to see you, kid."

There it is.

Your smile.

A smile so bright it blurs out your chapped lips and runny makeup, "I missed you."

Aaron swears he would've fainted if you'd said that to the Aaron Hotchner from seventeen years ago. The one who can't even pluck up the courage to tell you his feelings. As if he's got the prowess to do it now. As if he hasn't been feeling like a schoolgirl, giddy with any kind of affection you offer him in the past three minutes.

For a moment, Aaron let himself indulge in the delusion that you came for him and only him. His bubble burst into a sharp pop in an instant, though. Because then your eyes shift away from him, "I missed everyone." You reiterate with much clearer keywords.

A tug aches Aaron's chest. How can he forget? You are kind to everyone. You are a safe space for everyone. A light for everyone. So, as special as your embrace was for him, it was a normal thing for you.

Then the realization hits him. He was at a funeral, for Pete's sake. He beats himself up mentally. For letting his unrequited feelings for you go rogue like wild animals, hysterical.

Focus, Aaron. He scolds himself.

Your effect on him is still as rabid as ever. He hates it a bit. Blames your perfection in his eyes. Blames himself for still harboring feelings that should've withered years ago. How the love glowed in the darkest depths of his chest as soon as you'd said his name. How a glimpse of you revived every piece of shattered heart. How the high tide of your arrival brought in waves and waves of his feelings back. He claims you are being unfair. Considering the fact that you are oblivious and at no fault.

A cough cuts the reunion short.

Aaron's thoughts dissipate like a fog blown by a violent wind. He mentally thanks the person for bringing him back to reality.

The three of you turn to Derek Morgan. You don't know the man, but you offer him a soft smile—one with your lips closed but curvy enough to be friendly or display an apology—in hopes that he doesn't form the wrong impression of you.

Other faces come into view. Now you wonder who they might be and what special place they hold in Jason Gideon's loving memory. Was he a mentor, a boss, a friend, or a family? Because your senses have never let you down, feeling the capacity of their mourning through their sullen faces and glossy eyes.

Then again, it has been years since you stepped foot on American soil. You aren't sure how many people Jason Gideon made acquaintance with. Maybe you were smiling too widely that it offended people. It's his funeral after all.

Aaron doesn't let your thoughts wander too far, clearing his throat. As if he sensed your insecurities rattle in the pit of your stomach. If you were flushed by it, your puffy face hid it well. He stands between you and the group of people who watched him in detail.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet an important vessel of the behavioral analysis unit..." Aaron introduces you with great renown. He says your first name with an undertone the team picks up but doesn't mention. "We worked on many cases together when the unit was too small to focus on one case at a time." He turns his entire body to face you. A hand makes its way to the lower of your back as if to tell you that the strangers are safe enough to be in close proximity with. "These are agents Derek Morgan, Jennifer Jareau, Kate Callahan, Dr. Spencer Reid, and tech analyst Penelope Garcia. The A team." He beams with pride like he'd just shown you his golden medals.

Your jaw drops, hands landing over your chest as a soft gasp escapes you. You look between Aaron and David to confirm, earning two series of nods. "This is the team? Like a team, team?" You can't help but tear up from the utter joy that rushed through your veins.

The said team found you overdramatic. They exchange looks between them. A silent conversation, judging whether they should let their eccentric impression of you stick or give you another chance to redeem yourself. They guessed that the death of a friend may have contributed to your screwy image.

Still, a woman with a kind smile and breathtaking beauty doesn't hesitate to approach you. "You can call me JJ," She starts and offers her hand. You shake it firmly like she's about to interview you for a job. "I used to work with Gideon as a liaison. I never imagined that I'd be one of the profilers who'd solve his case." An awkward smile laces atop her lips, also shock with the randomness of her last words.

Wonderment masked your face. The fact you were supposedly at a funeral was forgotten momentarily. You glance at David with twinkling eyes. "A liaison?" You squeal in a whisper.

"Wait until Penelope Garcia shakes your hand," David whispers back as he leans close to you.

You follow his subtle gaze at the other blonde woman across. Technical Analyst. You remind yourself. An amused scoff bounces off your throat.

Aaron chuckles and hands you a square cloth, "A lot has changed since you left. We have a floor to ourselves now." He is unaware of the team's watchful eyes, taking notes of his every motion next to you.

"Oh, I'm sorry," You take his handkerchief and blot your weepy face. "I must look crazy." A bright giggle roars out of you. "It's just... There were only four of us as a unit, and we had to share our workspace with other units. Cases took a lot more time to solve back in the day."

"How long?" Penelope curiously asks, as if it is the most important detail she has yet to hear. She is a sunshine. It takes one to know one. You swear she's glowing despite the dry mascara stain on her face from all the tears early on the day.

"Too long," You shake your head, trailing off as your face flashes a dreadful expression. "I'm just glad all of you were there to solve Jason's case. I really wanted to help, but I had important matters to take care of." You vaguely share. Your mind quickly shoves the thoughts that you deem irrelevant to the moment.

"You knew Gideon?" The tall boy with unruly hair asks with sorrowful eyes. Dr. Spencer Reid. He had a frown on his face.

"You're not the first genius Jason picked up," David quips, causing a chuckle to most except the young doctor.

Spencer throws his gaze somewhere else. He has been impacted by Jason's death more than anyone else on the team. The tear stains on his face had yet to fade. So, joking about Jason still made his heart ache.

You glance at Aaron, asking him all the questions in your head without letting it slip out of your mouth. Your connection never broke. He could hear your questions loud and clear just by meeting your eyes, and it felt euphoric. Still, he concentrates on your airy curiosity, nodding once.

Just like that, your attention drew to Spencer, "He used to beat me in chess." You state at random, making the group quiet.

Spencer offers you a tight-lipped, wistful smile, "Me too."

You walk closer to him with a soft smile and a "has he ever given you tickets?" The two of you took off to another part of the room, chatting, cheering him up just a bit.

Somehow, the small interaction between you and Spencer made Aaron explode in happiness. He doesn't know why exactly, but it felt fatherly. He wasn't too far older than Spencer, but he'd watched him grow into a great profiler. He knew Spencer like the back of his hand, even if bits of Spencer's life were swept under his palm. So, he knew that it wasn't easy for Spencer to be generously welcoming, especially when someone important to his life just died. And when you knew exactly what to say, understood what Aaron's nod meant, it made his heart swollen. You bonded with Spencer in mere seconds as if you were the one to give him life. Aaron adored it. He couldn't explain the reason, but he hoped that Spencer could find refuge with you.

The day wheels into the night. Fewer and fewer people scatter around Stephen Gideon's residence. You find yourself standing by the terrace with David and Aaron, reminiscing the old days, coddling a glass of whiskey.

Aaron is stunned by your choice of alcohol. He remembers you preferring a much sweeter drink.

"I've always liked whiskey," You correct him gently. A laugh forced its way out against the neat liquid sliding down your throat.

"That sounds wrong," Aaron chuckles, "I swear you even hated it with a passion."

You give him a weird look with a subtle grin, "You must be thinking of someone else because Jason and I like the same exact brand of whiskey. You're getting old, Hotchner." You tease, hiding the butterflies in your stomach.

Aaron's eyes widen as he points an accusatory finger at you, "Jason introduced me to whiskey! You're definitely lying!"

"Well, duh!" You roll your eyes, "It's Jason. He's practically our father." You state, straightening your back as you lean against the railing. The wind whips across your face.

"So, what? I was just a fly on the wall? I'm starting to regret calling you back home." David interjects, spreading his arms as he furrows his brows. He caters to his own glass in the comfort of a chair.

"You're mother bird. Everybody knows that," You grin. The urge to cry has finally stopped. Though, you suspect it was the jet lag and hunger from the ghastly flight.

The three of you fell into fits of laughter. Well, just you. Aaron and David only had wide grins on their faces. After all these years, they still refused to laugh loudly. You didn't mind it, though. Because you felt at home.

Aaron nudges your shoulder, "How'd you get here so fast? If I'm not mistaken, the flight from Paris to Virginia is at least nine hours long." He tries to sound casual, like he hadn't looked up the distance long ago and that, for some reason, he kept the knowledge tucked in one of the wrinkles in his brain.

A smug grin made its way to your face, "Does the BAU have a jet?" You brag, sipping your glass empty as you raise your chin with pride.

"You'd be surprised," David takes the liberty to respond, shaking his head while his brows raise in disbelief. A ring brings his attention to his phone on the table but continues to finish his thoughts out loud. "The team's filled with young people now, and suddenly, I'm ancient history. Hold on, you two. I need to take this." And he slips back inside the house to find a quieter space.

You and Aaron exchange looks.

A smile slowly lifted the ends of his lips. It was a handsome sight.

It felt like time had stopped.

You break from his gaze, "So? How's everything? How long has it been? Like, thirteen—"

"Seventeen," Aaron cuts you off, nonchalantly drowning his throat with liquor.

You blink, "That long?" He nods at the air. "Damn, Hotch. You're making me feel old." You nudge his side, though you barely caused any impact. Your brows are drawn as if you aren't certain whether to take it lightly or feel slightly offended.

He rolls his eyes. Had his team know how much of his expressive side had the habit of showing every time he was with you, they'd start a riot.

"You didn't age a day. You still look young." You still look beautiful.

"Flattery won't get you access to the French database, Hotch. You know that." You kid, playing with the ice cubes in your glass. The clinking sound makes you smile. You convince yourself it was the reason, at least.

"You caught me," Aaron says in a sarcastic tone. He lets the silence sink in for a moment, spoiling himself with your presence for a brief moment. Just for a second, he wants to keep the moment to himself. Just the two of you. Just you and him.

And when he felt satisfied enough, he brought his life into the mix, "I got married." He almost jumps from his spot at the sudden snap of your neck. You beam with excitement, encouraging him to say more. "Haley... she was a great woman, person. We have a son, Jack. He's nine years old."

You looked like a child listening to a fairytale. You pat his shoulder, "Hotch, that's so amazing! Are they here? Did you bring them with you?" You glance inside the sliding glass door, scanning the crowd.

He should've continued talking. "W-we... We got divorced, and... she died," Aaron's voice got lower with each syllable, completely soundless by the end of his sentence. He doesn't know why he feels shame. It has been years, and even if it still makes him sad sometimes, Aaron takes pride in the fact that Haley sacrificed her life.

"What?" The excitement plummets off your chest.

Aaron takes a big gulp. You'd missed so much it became difficult to tell you more. "She died. Five years ago." He clears his throat, "But I'm okay now. Jack and I are doing well on our own."

Your expression softens, and a hand unconsciously sits atop his hand, "I'm so sorry, Hotch." You squeeze his hand. Part of you felt guilty for feeling excited, for getting ahead of yourself like usual. You fear that your enthusiasm may have caused Aaron triple the heartache he is already feeling.

"It's a long time ago. I'm really fine. Jack's growing up like a spitting image of her. He's an amazing kid." He doesn't want to bring the mood down. He's honest when he says that he feels fine. "Enough about me. How about you? Do you have anyone waiting in France? Any kids?" If he can recall, you always told him how badly you wanted to have a family.

You lick your lower lip into a thin purse. You gaze at the evening view of the backyard with a heavy sigh, loosening your shoulders, "I was going to..." Aaron's brows scrunched at the way you phrased your response, but he didn't say anything. "Before I became the chief, I was part of the undercover agents. Days before my new assignment, I found out that I was pregnant. Louis wanted me to take a break from work, but I insisted that I work. The day I learned I was going to have a boy, I got caught in a crossfire. I tried to fight for him, but it was either me or him." You release a heavy sigh, "The doctors chose me. They chose wrong... Louis blamed me for losing our baby. I still do, too. We had a hard time bouncing back up after that. We just finalized our divorce yesterday." You smile weakly at Aaron, masking the hurt that pierced every inch of your heart. You quickly swipe the single drop of tear that managed to trail down your cheek.

Aaron glances at your intertwined hands. He feels guilty for liking it despite the dense atmosphere of your conversation. So, he lets go of it to snake an arm around your shoulders, giving you a tight side hug. "Don't say that, sweetheart..." The endearment rolls off his tongue like butter. He doesn't dwell on it, eager to lessen your pain. "I'm certain that he's glad you lived. He wouldn't have liked the world if he never got the chance to be raised by you." He starts to imagine how awful Louis looks and how much Aaron would make him look worse. He's barely known the guy, but he despises how horrible he's treated you at the time you needed a loving husband the most.

The next thirty minutes became quiet, and Aaron thought that maybe catching up wasn't such a great idea. He should've known that your lives weren't exactly on the greener side.

Then he wonders what life would've been if you hadn't left. He shakes his head. Despite the unrequited love he had for you, he still loved Haley with all his heart and would never change anything if it meant Jack being born. He assumes you'd think the same.

"I sometimes wish I came back here, you know." You blurt out as if you are reading straight from his mind like a book, breaking the silence. "I missed out on so much. Your wedding. You becoming a father. David's other weddings... Jason. I wish I was here for everything." You lean your head against him, letting his warmth spread on your skin. "I don't regret going to France or anything that happened in my life, but I wish I could've been in both places at the same time."

Aaron nods, "Yeah, it would've been nice to have you here." He thinks otherwise because he wishes you stayed. He hoped that despite his cowardness, he'd got you around the block and not a continent away.

He takes it up to himself to change the topic into a lighter tone.

He starts talking about Jack and the satisfying struggles of fatherhood. He shows you videos and photos from his phone. You are engaged in a heartbeat, laughing at the littlest humor he'd throw in. You adored his son. That made Aaron beam with pride. Granted, a lot of people have told him the same thing, but coming from you, it was like he'd received an accolade.

Somewhere in the evening, Stephen steals you from Aaron's company. You're easily filled with joy at the sight of an old friend, ignoring the fact that Jason's son used to have a childish crush on you. Other old acquaintances got a hold of you, too.

Aaron never got to see you again for the rest of the evening.

— ✦ — ✦ ✦ — ✦ ✦ ✦

It has been eleven months since Aaron last saw you when his peripheral caught your figure as soon as he stepped inside David's home.

"She's with the team," David announces casually.

Aaron's brows knit together as he brings his gaze back to David, "What's that?"

"I said she's with the team," David repeats, glancing down the hallway. "You better catch her before she leaves. I got lucky when I called her. She's about to take her flight back to France. This is why I set an arrival time—" Before he could finish his last sentence, Aaron was already halfway down.

Jack Hotchner watches as his father speedwalks inside David's house, "Is Dad okay?" He looks up at David with worried eyes.

"He's alright," David pats Jack's head. "See, kiddo. Your dad used to have a crush on someone before he married your mom."

"Is she pretty? Is she nice?" Jack queries.

David smiles, "How about you decide yourself?" He guides the young Hotchner toward the center of the celebration.

Meanwhile, you are in the middle of wishing Dr. Tara Lewis good luck for her new place in the BAU when Aaron calls your name. You pivot on your heels. A smile instantly brightens your face at the sight of Aaron, "Hotch!" You exclaim, engulfing him in a hug.

"You should've told me you were in the area." Aaron's grin is brighter than yours.

Unbeknownst to him, a couple of watchful profilers keep their eyes peeled at you and Aaron.

"Are they?" Tara trails off next to Penelope.

"They worked on many cases together," Penelope replies suggestively, wiggling her brows as she sips from her swirly straws.

JJ grins at the conversation, "He's like an entirely different person with her. Think of Spencer." She hides a grin behind her glass of wine.

Spencer furrows his brows as he looks at JJ. "Should I be offended?" He clutches the mug of eggnog close to his chest.

"No," JJ shakes her head defensively, elongating the last letter. The others erupt into silent chuckles.

Derek nudges Penelope while he's got an arm wrapped around Savannah, nodding towards you and Aaron's direction, "Look. Hotch is about to introduce Jack to her. How much are you betting he's trying to get Jack's approval? Will Jack even like her? She looked crazy at first—Ow!" He rubs the side Savannah just elbowed, wincing.

Jack shyly stands in front of his father as he looks up at you. You had no doubt he looked a lot like his mother now that you'd meet him in person. You don't forget about Aaron, though, because they had matching eyebrows that narrow every time they attempt to read someone intently.

You squat down to Jack's height, "Nice to meet you, Jack. Your dad has told me a lot of great things about you!" You rummage into your bag, fishing out a huge peppermint lollipop disk. "I didn't expect to meet you today, so I wasn't prepared to bring a gift you'd like, but you can have this if you want it."

Jack glances at his dad from behind him and then back to you. A wide smile spreads across his face as he takes the sweet from you, "I like this one, too! Thank you!" You almost stumble down when he launches to hug you.

"You're welcome!" Your giggle echoes in the entire house. You hadn't expected him to attack you with a hug, let alone a stranger you'd identify yourself as.

Aaron couldn't help but feel overjoyed. He doesn't know how to keep his heart from beating faster as you glance at him with a tooth-rottenly sweet smile while hugging his son.

You really were unfair to him.

He's hopeless. A lost cause. He should've known from years ago. Should've known that you'd leave a permanent mark on him.

"Dad," Jack gestures for Aaron to get down. He leans close as soon as his father oblige to his command, covering his mouth.

Aaron's eyes subtly widen. His ears burn into a beet-red blush. He clears his throat, "How about you say hi to the others? Play with Henry and Reid, okay?" He dismisses, ignoring the innocent words that rang in his ears. He gently pushes Jack toward the team's direction.

"He's such a sweetheart," You say as you get back on your feet. You glance at Aaron, "You're doing amazing. He's lucky to have you." You turn to the team. Laughters passed between one another. "They're all lucky to have you." You add, crossing your arms on your chest.

"She's good," Savannah nods in amazement. She's only heard of you from Derek but can finally see the difference in Aaron's demeanor the moment he caught a glimpse of you.

"Who randomly has a giant lollipop in their bag?" Derek states in disbelief, the total opposite of how Savannah reacted. He hands JJ a ten-dollar bill, though.

Spencer shrugs, "I would've been way nicer to her if she offered me one last time." He pouts at the sight of Jack waving the lollipop like a taunt.

JJ and Tara laugh.

"Oh, shoot!" You exclaim, twisting your wrist to glimpse at the time. "I still have to pass by somewhere before my flight. Say bye to Dave for me, yeah?" The rush makes you quite frantic, pulling Aaron in. You leave a peck on his cheek, patting his shoulders like it's tradition. "Merry Christmas, Aaron." You bid farewell with a smile and began to walk.

"Wait—" Aaron grabs your wrist. It's so small in his hand. He makes sure he held you tight in a gentle grip. The last thing he wants is to break your wrist.

Your body recoils a few steps back to him as a product of his pull. "Yes?" Anticipation sparks in your eyes as you wait for his response. You must've drank wine too fast because electricity surged through veins, all coming from his firm hold.

A huge lump forms in his throat. "I—" Suddenly, Aaron is tongue-tied.

I want you to stay.

He fights hard to swallow the rock that kept him from talking and clearing his throat. "I'll walk with you," He wishes the ground would swallow him whole. But he suspects that even the devil himself is too embarrassed for him to let him in.

"Oh..." You don't know why you felt disappointed. What were you even expecting in the first place? You flash a smile, though. "Sure."

— ✦ — ✦ ✦ — ✦ ✦ ✦

Aaron stays at David's for two more hours before he decides that Jack needs to catch up on some sleep before they leave for Jessica's place in the morning. So, he drives through the light traffic, listening to Jack sing along the radio.

Jingle Bell Rock had just ended, and the DJ interjects for an update about the evening traffic during the transition to the next song when Jack asks a question. "Where did your crush go, Dad?" He inquires all too nonchalantly.

"What did you say?" It takes everything in Aaron to will his eyes to stay on the road and his hands to keep complete control of the wheel. He glances at Jack from the rearview mirror.

"The pretty, nice lady who gave me this," Jack hoists the lollipop in his hand like a wand. He takes a taste of it and adds, "You think she likes Christmas movies? Can we invite her?"

Aaron blinks fast. He couldn't believe how much Jack had grown fond of you in only minutes of interacting with him. He ponders whether you're some kind of a witch. He clears his throat in an obvious fake cough, "I'm sure she'd love to, buddy."

"Can you call her to come back? We can invite her for hot cocoa!"

"Sorry, buddy," Aaron feels bad. He doesn't even know your phone number, even if he could get it within seconds from Penelope. "She had to go and do some work. Maybe n-next time." He isn't sure why he was stuttering in front of his child.

"You didn't ask her to stay?"

It felt like a freezing wave of water filled with ice washed over Aaron. Then, for a moment, he feels proud to know that Jack's innocence has given him the bravery Aaron couldn't even muster.

"No, bud... I didn't." He admits more melancholy to a nine-year-old than he intended to.

Jack sighs, "Aww. Yeah, maybe next time, Dad. I'm sure she'll like to hang out with you if you give her a lollipop. She'll think you're nice. It worked for me. I think she's really nice." He stares at the molded sugar in his hand.

Aaron couldn't believe his son was talking some sense into him. Where did the time go? Jack sounds more mature than Aaron has ever felt for months since he's seen you after years. He tightens his grip on the wheel, clenching his jaw from the sudden torrent of courage that blazes his chest.

"Jack, would you mind passing by somewhere before we go home?"

The boy shakes his head, "It's okay as long as you're okay with me staying past my bed time." Jack giggles.

Aaron chuckles, "I'll let it slide this time," He jests, then turns the wheel and heads to the airport.

You come back from the restroom, looking for a place to sit and wait, when a small figure wraps his arms around your torso, "Jack? What are you doing here? Are you by yourself? Are you okay?" You quickly scan him from head to toe. You could barely move from the way he held you.

He's okay. You tell yourself. Had he been hurt you weren't sure how to face his father.

"I found her, Dad!" Jack shouts, earning looks from exhausted patrons. He leans backwards but still tangled around your legs like his life depended on it.

You panic for a second. Unsure what to make out of his statement. You look around first to mutter an apology on behalf of the boy, but somewhere along the lines you felt like you were a mother denying her child.

"Great job, Jack." You hear a voice so familiar you needn't have to look up to confirm your guess. Aaron walks closer to the two of you out of breath. He tries to play it out but the rise and drop of his shoulders didn't pass your gaze.

You lift your vision up and meet with Aaron's heaving self. "Hotch? What's going on? Is everything okay?" You coax like you aren't sure if he's going to tell you the truth.

Aaron tucks a portion of his lower lip. Fuck. He ran out of courage. His throat is tight. His brain is frozen. His body is stiff.

Jack takes his father's hand and pulls him closer to where you stood. He looks up at you, "Dad has a crush on you. I also think you're nice. Can you watch Christmas movies and drink hot cocoa with us, please?" He says intelligently like he's tired of his father freezing on the spot whenever he faces you.

Your brows knit together, but a huge grin raises the ends of your lips. "He what?" You meet Aaron's blushing gaze. You've never seen his neck, face, and ears glow in rosy red except that one time during an undercover case.

Aaron melts into a chuckle, lowering his head. "I, uh..." He scoffs a laugh, "I can't believe you heard it from Jack first." He meets your eye once more, "Would you mind staying for a bit?" It's clear he has no idea what he was doing. He thinks he's about looking idiotic in front of many people and, most importantly, his son.

You hear your name from below, looking down at Jack as he gestures for you to go down. You do as he says, leaning close when he moves next to your ear, "Dad is very shy, but he really likes you. He smiles when he talks to you. I think he would be happy if you hang out with us." Jack whispers so well Aaron is left to wonder.

"You really think so?" You ask audibly for the sake of Aaron's sanity. You ruffle Jack's hair as he nods eagerly. "I don't mind at all," You smile at Aaron so sweet he feels euphoric.

All three of you leave the airport. The traffic then has grown more difficult to maneuver into, and by the time Aaron parks his car in the driveway, Jack is already ten minutes in his sleep.

You chuckle as you both turn to the backseat, "I stand corrected," You smirk, "I think you're lucky to have him."

"Yeah," Aaron titters, "He's a lot braver than me." He adds gently, reaching out to fix Jack's hair.

A comfortable silence basks the two of you. Jack's soft breathing faintly rings in the background as if both of you had to make sure he's there.

Aaron looks at you, though. He relishes the way the dim light from outside casts a shadow on your face. He loves the way your soft features are still visible despite the dark. "Stay," He blurts out.

"Sure, I'll stay 'til I find another flight—"

"No, I meant..." He struggles to swallow the saliva in his mouth. "I want you to stay. Here... with me." Aaron shifts his eyes down on the gearstick. "I'm not saying that I never loved Haley, but I never stopped loving you." He's sure that no normal person would declare their love the way he just did. He hoped that some foreign spaceship would open the roof of his car and take him away. "I don't know if I make sense. I'm certain that I'm ruining my chances the more I speak, but I want you to stay. I should've asked you to stay a long time ago."

Your gaze sinks into Aaron's eyes. You tuck your lips. Then, you smile. "I agree," You acknowledge, moving your eyes on his lips for a milisecond.

Aaron straightens his back, "I know it's been years," He babbles a laugh, moving his hands as he speaks. "It's okay if you don't— wait—" He blinks once or twice. "Did you just agree? To what exactly?" Only you can make him stumble on his own thoughts.

"I'll stay," You declare, biting the inside of your lower lip. You scoff a silent laugh, "I should've done this a long time ago."

"Done what?" Aaron narrows his brows.

Your gaze jumps between his eyes and his lips, "This," You cup his face with both your hands, clashing your lips like he's in need of saving from a true love's kiss.

Aaron melts into your hold. Not long does he track his hands up your shoulders. Then, to your back, pulling you closer. His hands travel all over you, exploring every inch.

All his life he's seen you as some idea of sweet poison. But as his lips dance with yours, he couldn't ignore the lingering bitter taste of whiskey. He laughs into the kiss. He's been ignorant, wrapped in a saccharine image of you. Was he so wrong for that.

He claims you're still too sweet for him, but was he so glad you came back to him.

Jack moves in his sleep. You both freeze on the spot, lightly pushing Aaron to create space between you.

A soft giggle echoes from your lips, leaning your forehead against his shoulder, "We should bring him upstairs."

"I think that's a good idea," Aaron quips. He unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his door, but before he gets out, he steals another peck on your lips.

#aaron hotchner #ssa aaron hotchner #fem!reader #criminalminds #criminal minds #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch x you #hotch #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner fluff #hotch x reader

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sundew199 · 7 months ago

Text

Can't Help myself

a/n: first time writing Jean on his own :)

tags: jean x f!reader, dacryphilia, kinda soft gentle sex, teasing, overstimulation

kinktober day three: dacryphilia

He was at a point of no return, not with the way your hips raised into the air, seeking out the friction of the head of his cock that hadn't even entered you yet, so whiny. Jean gripped the base, curling his fingers into where he held onto the headboard and stared down at your glistening cunt. So ready and wet for him after spending almost fifteen minutes at least down between your legs, drawn into your sweet addicting taste, not wanting to even come up for air.

It sounded like you were sobbing when he sucked on your clit there towards the end, trying to focus on your face to see if these new sounds were a good thing, never hearing such desperation come from you until now. And now he regrets looking up from between your legs, seeing the shiny overstimulated tears rolling down your cheeks and absolutely loosing his mind. Jean was making you feel so good to the point of...crying? What an oxymoron that was, and yet it stiffened his cock even more and made the goal of making you cum one last time on his tongue all the more important.

Unfortunately they were dried on your cheeks now, the orgasm that had rattled your entire body put a cease to the tears, but also giving Jean a new goal. I mean why not? His tongue had been able to bring you to tears, so why can't his cock as well?

"You look so pretty," He cooed hovering over you, cradling the side of your face in his palm, stroking his thumb over the dried tear stains on your cheeks, attempting to stay composed at the aftermath of the pleasure he brought you too.

"I can always count on you to remind me." Humming back sweetly, pulling him down just enough to slot your lips in his, Jean's eyes fluttering to the soft press. You were so sweet, always so needy and ready for him, so why did he feel a pang of guilt swirling in his gut at the idea of wanting to make you cry from fucking you? Maybe it was because he'd always associated crying with negativity and felt as if his brain wouldn't properly differentiate this scenario. But the craving and lust of witnessing your pleasure reach new height to the point of crying was stronger than the guilt.

" 'Need you to be good for me sweetheart, alright?" Moving his hips just a little to barely push the head of his cock inside of you, sucking in a deep sharp breath at how tight you were, and he wasn't even inside all the way yet.

"M'kay."

"Want you to listen and do what I say, got it?" Now passing the tight ring of muscle to tease you with just the tip, your breath hitching underneath him at the satisfying intrusion. Jean sighed, taking his time entering you, savoring the clench of your walls when he first thrusted in. God, how were you so addicting? How can everything about you make him so needy? What kind of a spell did you have on yourself to make him yearn for you so intensely?

"okay, anything for you." Came your soft whispered response, seeing your eyes tightly squeezed shut and your brows pinched together so blissfully and he hadn't even really started moving yet.

His hand gripped the wood of the headboard, pulling his hips back and slamming them back forward, your body jolting underneath him with the force of his single thrust, a whimper escaping your lips and Jean's body running hot. He repeated the same drag and snap of his hips a couple more times, loving the way you arched and tensed beneath him, digging your nails into his bicep and trying so hard not to let the noises leave your lips, but failing miserably.

"I want you to cum when I tell you too,"

"But Jean-"

A sudden sweet kiss fell on your lips, interrupting your protests. Jean smiled a little smugly when he released, still inches away from your lips when he cradled the side of your face.

"Said you'd do anything for me right?" Using your delirious words from earlier against you, letting him be selfish in the desire to make your cry from fucking you. And it truly wouldn't be hurting either of you, it's not like he wouldn't let you cum at all. A small innocent nod was the only response he got, and that was more than enough for Jean, kissing you softly one last time.

Moving his hand away from holding onto the headboard to grip your waist, Jean sucked in a large breath and held it, picking up a pace that was relatively fast but nothing you couldn't handle. Your face pinched in pleasure, mouth falling open in quiet almost silent moans as his dick glides in and out, sending shivers up his spine at how tight and inviting you were. You were so innocently greedy with they you continuously sucked him back in, never getting enough and always making it impossible for Jean to go just one round with you.

The steady pace went on until you were squirming for more, like he expected you, breathing a bit heavier and writhing on the sheets. This was the cue for Jean to get you to that point of desperation and overstimulation he had you in earlier, hoping those sparkling tears would roll down your cheeks again for his own satisfaction.

Abruptly stopping, sheathed all the way inside, he chuckled low in his chest, coming back to hover over your face and pepper it with soft kisses.

"Jean please,"

"Let me love on you baby." Through another soft laugh knowing that was anything but what you wanted, robbing you of the lengthy dick reaching that itch deep inside you, making you frustrated.

Good. He thought to himself, dragging his lips down the side of your neck and palming your breast in his hand, thumbing over your hard nipple. He wanted you frustrated and begging for him to move, begging for him to let you cum. Jean was dying to see those pretty eyes of yours overfill with tears and run down your cheeks.

Leaving one last sloppy kiss to your lips, he pulled himself back up, one hand by the side of your head and the other faintly brushing over your clit, never letting his touch linger for long. His hips snapped back and forward, shoving himself inside so hard, your back bent at an unachievable angle he'd never seen before. Fuck, just seeing you in this state was forcing himself to focus on not cumming too quickly and ruining his end goal.

Giving you some grace and resuming a much faster pace than before, Jean smiled when your moans turned vocal, your nails dragged down his arms leaving red in his skin. They quickly turned to whines and choked sobs of his name as he pound his hips into yours, smacking his thighs into yours to make a clap, clap, clap.

Shit, you were so good to him, how'd ever land someone as willing an compliant as the one in his bed, arching and whining his name so prettily? No time to question any of that now, not when your voice strained and choked on itself, hinting at what Jean was hoping for.

Stopping completely once again, your eyes shot open with confusion and irritation, swirling something hot and fiery in his gut. He all but winked, using one of his hands to press one of your legs flat to the bed, gathering a glob of spit to drop down onto your clit, smearing it and rubbing it in with his thumb.

"So needy, are you getting close?" Tone smug and domineering, reminding you subtly of what he asked of you.

"Yes, can I?"

It was amazing how your voice could ask so sweetly and lustfully, a perfect blend that almost made him give in at just the sound.

"Not yet."

Another whine of his name, only to be cut off by Jean snapping his hips forward at an ungodly fast pace. He pressed his forehead to yours, letting his hot breaths fan down on your face, putting all of his weight on the hands on either side of his head. Your neck strained as you threw it back into the pillow, letting out a sob and giving Jean the thing he'd been striving for this entire time. A single tear rolled down your cheek, cinematically slow and making him release a growl sort of sound from his throat.

Just a little more and he'd let you cum.

"Jean,"

God, the way you said his name made his dick throb inside of you. Fuck he couldn't falter, not when he was this fucking close. All he needed was to send you past the point of return.

Slowing his hips again, pressing the pad of his thumb to your swollen clit, did a real sob bubble in your throat. He traced his hand from your hip to your face, holding on side and swiping over the few tears breaking past your waterline. He shouldn't find you this pretty in this state, right?

"So pretty baby." Rotating his thumb in a circle on your clit and leaning forward to kiss the fresh tear rolling down one side of your cheek.

Your arms tried to wrap around his neck so you could bury your face there, but he prevented you, sitting back on his hunches and thrusting softly.

"I wanna see you," Making sure you wouldn't try to hide yourself before leaning back over, kissing your lips gently. "Wanna see you fall apart of my dick before you cum on it."

"okay."

Responding shakily, biting down on your bottom lip when he resumed his pace, moving away just so he wasn't as close. Jean smiled through a huff of a laugh, stealing a glimpse of his dick disappearing and reappearing from your cunt, how wet you were and how easy it was to slide in and out.

In a split second, Jean was back to the brutal fast pace, hoping to bring more of those glistening tears and what a smart move that was, because you were a waterfall. He'd been "unintentionally" edging you and still not letting you cum even though he got what he wanted, you sobbing below him as he ruined you on his cock. Oh but the sight was so addicting and appealing, why would he want to end it so soon.

"Look at you, crying cause it feels so good huh?" Taunting as he grabbed your jaw gently and tilting your head to look at him in the eyes. Yours were red and wet, eyelashes clumping together from the tears and making him thank himself for following through. You'd never looked prettier than right now, crying and making a mess of yourself.

"Please let me cum."

"Can you hold out a little longer?"

Your bottom lip quivered with frustration, throwing your head back and crying a bit more. And Jean had never felt more turned on than that very second, despite it being a little mean, he was being selfish.

"Jean please - I can't,"

He didn't respond at first, focusing on the fast pace thrusts and the echo of his skin smacking into yours. You then resorted to pleading, grabbing at his biceps and spouting a bit of nonsense, so overstimulated and shaking. He was losing focus, nearly cumming himself, smashing his mouth back onto yours, silencing it all.

You whined and whimpered into his lips, your tears smearing onto his cheeks, making him keep his mouth on yours for longer than he intended. He nipped and pulled at your bottom lip with his teeth, holding you down at the hip and eventually breathing directly into your mouth, nearing the end of how much longer he could hold out.

"Cum for me, cum on my dick baby."

He felt you clench and flutter around his cock before he could even finish his sentence, groaning into your mouth and soaking in the shaking whines and sobs as you finally orgasmed. He knew he wouldn't be lasting much longer, running his tongue across the tear stains on your cheeks and following it up with decadent kisses where his tongue just swiped. Your arms flung around his neck, pressing yourself to his body, meeting his final thrusts with your hips as he came hard.

Panting into your mouth still, Jean let out a sort of pitiful groan as his dick pulsed inside you, painting your tight gummy walls with his cum. He waited to catch his breath before pulling out, pushing some of it back in out of habit and flitting his eyes up at the whine you gave.

Gently his hands roamed across your thighs for comfort, prior to grabbing a rag from the bathroom to the clean up the mess he made between your legs. Your droopy eyes watched him, reaching a hand out to run through the ashy hair on his head, allowing him to toss the used rag aside, slip his arms underneath your body and wrap you into an embrace, holding you to his chest as the exhaustion took over and you fell asleep in his arms.

#jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirstein x you #jean kirschstein smut #aot jean #jean smut #jean kirstein #snk jean #snk smut #aot smut #kinktober

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ange1sang · 9 months ago

Text

going under

gallavich/ian x mickey, word count: ~996

summary: the first time mickey tells ian he loves him. ; canon compliant, set seasons 4-5, hurt/comfort, fluff, crying, sex

a/n: here's my contribution for mickey's birthday !!! a day late but i just moved yesterday and fell asleep trying to finish it so </3 here it is !!

Mickey's drowning in Ian. He isn't sure how but he knows he is, every last sense overwhelmed by the redhead above him.

The smell of his skin - soft, clean - and the smell of his cologne - strong, overly masculine - clings to his nostrils. The taste of his spit and sweat, spread over his lips like a thick layer of cheap chapstick. His skin is so hot beneath his palms it feels like he's pressed his hands to a stovetop. His voice buzzes in his ears, every breathy moan and groan and bit back curse word like a shot of adrenaline. And when he focuses his eyes on the face above him, it's like a too-hard hit to the head, the kind that has him thinking he's seeing God.

Ian's beautiful. He'd been gone for so long Mickey'd almost forgotten what it was like getting to see his face. Getting to see his freckles, count every little patch of them like stars in the sky. Getting to grab the back of his neck and pull him close enough that they're breathing the air straight out of each other's lungs.

It reminds Mickey of his very first nicotine high. Veins thrumming, stomach tingling, fingertips trembling. His bottom lip shakes, hands scrambling for purchase. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shut out the dizzying feeling in the back of his head. His hands land on Ian's shoulders, nails digging into the freckles scattered across Ian's right shoulder, leaving behind little red marks that Mickey wishes would stay there forever.

"Gonna cum?" Ian asks, and he asks like he's teasing, but the strain in his voice gives him away. He's probably closer than than Mickey is. If this were a year ago, or even months ago, Mickey would've teased right back, would've poked fun and called Ian one of the dumb nicknames he seems to love so much. But right now his voice ties itself into knots, catches in his chest.

Ian leans down, kisses along his jaw. Open-mouthed and gentle, nudging his nose into Mickey's cheek like he's committing his scent to memory. Ian buries himself deep inside him, rocks his hips and presses as deep into Mickey as he can get. He's groaning through gritted teeth and Mickey could live off of that sound, could spend the rest of his life drowning in it like he's doing right now.

"Gonna cum, Mick," Ian murmurs into his cheek and his voice is so gentle that it rocks Mickey's world. "Want me to jerk you off?"

Mickey tries to nod, tries to do anything less embarrassing than what he can feel his body trying to do. It doesn't work. Ian reaches down between them, and a sob tears itself from Mickey's throat.

"Mick?" Ian asks, pulling back from his cheek to look him in the eyes. Concern shines through when their eyes meet, and it makes Mickey's heart squeeze in his chest. Because Ian's been so absent since he came back, eyes always half-lidded or open too wide, always focused on someone else or not focused at all. He's been so out of it, so drugged up and so fucked out that Mickey isn't sure a single one of his words has gotten through to Ian since he's been back. Ian pauses where he's pressed into Mickey, stops his movements in the middle of cumming even though his arms start to shake where they're holding him up. "Mickey?"

And as much as he'd rather drown, Mickey has to come up for air before he's totally smothered by Ian.

"I love you," he says, voice barely reaching a whisper. Hot, fat tears roll down his temples, and he crosses his arms over his face so Ian won't see them. His chest heaves even as he swallows back another sob. "You asshole. I love you. I thought you weren't coming back."

Ian stays quiet, but his body melts against Mickey, hands sliding down his sides and pulling him into a sweaty, sticky, uncomfortable hug. It's the sweetest way anyone's ever touched Mickey. He cries shallowly, and in doing so breathes in another mouthful of Ian's scent.

"I came back," Ian whispers, and it's all Mickey can do not to smack him upside the head. He settles for punching his shoulder weakly.

"Fuck you," he mutters. Ian's lips press to his temple and turn up to form a small smile as he kisses him there. It reminds Mickey of the smile he gave him when he visited him in juvie for the first time. His heart squeezes so hard in his chest it hurts.

"I love you too," Ian says, lips moving against Mickey's skin. He moves his head just enough to kiss his ear and then the trail of tears on the side of his face. "I love you too."

It sounds so easy when Ian says it, nothing like how the words tore themselves from Mickey seconds ago. It sounds like he was meant to say it. Mickey uncovers his eyes and Ian pulls back to look at him, to really look at him, for the first time since he's been back. He smiles, soft and sweet and freckly and dorky like Ian's been since the first time Mickey saw him, and the clenching in Mickey's chest lets up a little.

"Stay, then," Mickey mumbles, and it sounds pathetic. It's weak. It's like he's pleading. It's the gayest thing he's ever said. He can't find it in him to feel embarrassed or ashamed like he expects to feel.

"Okay," Ian replies, once again like it's the easiest thing he's ever said. He leans in to kiss him and it's like being able to breathe underwater. Mickey breathes him in, runs his fingers through his hair, swallows as much as he can get.

"I love you," he says right into Ian's mouth. It isn't easy this time either but it hurts less. He hopes one day it won't hurt at all.

#shameless #gallavich fic #ian gallagher fluff #mickey milkovich fluff #gallavich fluff #ian x mickey #shameless fic

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tortillamastersblog · 2 months ago

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Rock Bottom - Part 2 | Vada Cavell

Pairing: Vada Cavell x reader

Warnings: mentions of school shooting, PTSD, panic attacks, and gunshot injuries

Summary: The aftermath of your fallout with Vada…

Previous Part | Masterlist

_______________________________________________

I don’t know how long I stay in my car, gasping for breath and shaking, trying to block out the sound of gunshots and screams echoing in my head.

Hearing Vada tell her mom that she kissed Mia didn’t just break my heart because I never thought she was capable of doing something like that. It broke the dam inside me, the one I had built to keep all my emotions at bay.

I tried so hard to get over the shooting and what happened. I must have started actively blocking it out until now—until it all came crashing back over me.

At one point, I’m pretty sure I almost passed out from hyperventilating, but I can’t be sure. Everything is a blur.

The ringing of my phone, over and over again, is what finally pulls me back to reality. When I grab it from the passenger seat, I see that it’s almost 4. I’ve been sitting here for nearly five hours.

Incoming call: Mom

I wipe my eyes and sniffle a few times before picking up and raising the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Sweetheart? Oh my God,” my mom exclaims with a breathless sob. “Are you okay? We’ve been worried about you. Where are you? We called Vada’s mom, and she said you left hours ago.”

Guilt washes over me for making her and my dad worry. I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair, feeling drained from crying so long. I don’t want them to worry. I just want this day to be over.

“I’m fine, Mom. Sorry. I just lost track of time, that’s all,” I say quietly.

“I—Darling, where are you?” she asks, clearly not buying my excuse. “Tricia said you and Vada—”

“It’s nothing, Mom. I’m on my way home now. See you in a bit.”

I hang up before she can say anything else, breathing heavily at the reminder of what happened before I left.

Vada kissed someone else. Vada kissed Mia.

She cheated on me.

I have several missed calls from her and a few messages I can’t help but read.

Vada <3 (11:02 AM)

please pick up, i’m sorry

Vada <3 (11:03 AM)

i’m so sorry

i know you don’t want to talk to me but i can explain

please

Vada <3 (11:04 AM)

i’m sorry

Vada <3 (1:43 PM)

where are you?

your mom just called and she says you’re not home yet

Vada <3 (1:45 PM)

i know you don’t want to talk to me, but please answer i’m worried about you

Vada <3 (3:03 PM)

baby, please

i’m so sorry

i love you

I love you.

My eyes sting, but I’m quick to blink the tears back. I can’t cry again. If I start, I might never stop.

I stare at Vada’s texts for a moment longer, hating how my mind conjures up all kinds of images of her kissing Mia, before tossing my phone onto the passenger seat and starting the car.

I pull onto the road and drive home on autopilot, barely aware of how I got there until I’m parking in the driveway.

Almost as soon as I turn off the engine, the front door flies open and my mom rushes out. She meets me halfway and tries to cup my face in her hands, but I shrug her off and brush past her.

“Sweetie—”

“I’m fine,” I snap, dodging my dad as he rushes out of the kitchen at the sound of my voice. I take the stairs two at a time, desperate to get to my room.

I know they can tell something happened. I know they know I’m far from fine.

But right now, I just want to sleep.

My head pounds from crying so much, and I just want this day to end. As soon as I reach my room, I lock the door, draw the curtains, and crawl into bed.

Death is a weird thing. One moment you’re there—alive, breathing, taking in the world—and the next, you’re just… gone.

I don’t know if I believe in ghosts or an afterlife or something beyond this, but I do know one thing: I’m afraid of dying.

Until now, every time we discussed what to do in case of an active shooter at school, I always imagined myself as the brave one. The person who tackles the shooter or throws themselves in front of their friends to save their lives. But now, after what happened?

I don’t remember much of the shooting, but I do remember being paralyzed with fear. I’ve never been so afraid in my life, and I’ve never had a stronger urge to stay alive than in that moment.

There was a very real chance I could have died. I mean, I almost did. If the bullet that tore my ear to shreds had been aimed just a little more to the right, I wouldn’t be here right now. But I am. I’m alive. Brody isn’t.

That thought settles deep in my chest as I watch his casket being lowered into the ground.

After locking myself in my room and ignoring my parents all night, I got up this morning feeling numb and exhausted. I dressed for the funeral and left under their watchful eyes. They cautiously offered to drive me, but I declined quietly.

I hate that they’re walking on eggshells around me, now more than ever, but I don’t have it in me to tell them to stop. I don’t have it in me to tell them what happened yesterday. They probably already know—Vada’s mom must have told them—but they also probably have a million questions I’m not ready to answer.

One of them is probably whether or not Vada and I are still together.

I honestly don’t know. What she did seems like a drunken mistake, but that doesn’t change the fact that she did it. She kissed Mia. No matter how drunk or high she was, there’s no excuse for that.

She’s been pushing me away ever since the shooting, and now this.

I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to fix what we had, but I do know that for now, I need space.

I watch Brody’s older brother throw a handful of dirt onto the lowered coffin. His parents drop a rose onto it while the preacher says a few words that go in one ear and right out the other.

Almost everyone around me is crying, especially Brody’s family. Some of my teammates shed a tear or two, but me?

I can’t cry.

After last night, I literally can’t. I have no more tears left in me.

I stand there, watching everything through a haze of numbness, until the service is finally over.

Some of my teammates ask about my ear, about how I’m feeling, and all I give them are vague, half-truths before moving on to offer my condolences to Brody’s family. Then, before the reception starts, I leave. I have no interest in small talk or in listening to people talk about what a great guy Brody was.

I drive home, relieved to find the house empty. My parents are both at work, so I make myself something to eat and sit at the kitchen island, eating in silence.

Every now and then, my phone vibrates with a message—either from Vada or from my teammates—but I ignore them all. Instead, I waste away the rest of the day on the couch, staring at the black screen of the TV.

Dinner is awkward. My parents try to talk, but I don’t have the energy. I tell them I’m going back to school tomorrow.

They ask if I’m sure, reminding me again that I can stay home as long as I need to. They’ve been telling me that a lot lately.

I tell them I’m sure.

I need a distraction.

I can’t sit at home anymore, alone with nothing but my thoughts.

I pull up in front of the school half an hour before the first class starts, yet the parking lot is already packed. Students linger around, catching up and goofing off like it’s just another day.

I watch as one student pulls up on a motorcycle and parks it in front of the school, the same spot where I used to park, which makes my mind replay the morning of the shooting when I was the one pulling up on my bike.

Since then, my parents had it towed back home, but I haven’t ridden it because the helmet would only irritate my ear and because my parents, now hyper-aware of every possible danger, won’t stop reminding me of how unsafe motorcycles are, so for now, I’m stuck driving my car.

As the minutes go by, more students arrive, and much to my relief, I don’t spot Vada among them, I know she’s here today and there’s a good chance we’ll run into each other, but we don’t have the same classes, so maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to see her.

Because if I do, she’s going to want to talk about what happened, but I’m not ready, I’m still processing, still hurting.

Ever since I found out what she did, it’s like a blanket of numbness has been draped over me, I don’t really care about anything anymore. What’s for dinner? I don’t care.Am I going to make it to my next therapy appointment? I don’t know.

On one hand, it’s peaceful, like, for the first time in my life, I don’t have to stress about anything, but on the other hand, it’s exhausting, and every now and then, when I see something beautiful, like a sunset, I want to enjoy it the way I used to, but I can’t.

After sitting in my car for a few more minutes, I finally grab my bag and follow the other students inside, I don’t make it far before someone calls my name and yanks on my bag when I don’t turn around.

I spin, ready to snap at whoever it is, only to deflate when I see Nick standing there.

For a split second, I panic because where Nick is, Vada usually isn’t far behind, but this time, he seems to be alone.

“Hey, you’re back,” he says cautiously, like he didn’t just yank on my bag the way someone tugs on a stuck drawer, impatient and forceful.

“I—yeah,” I say quietly, doing my best to ignore the glances from passing students, their eyes flicking to the bandage still wrapped around my head.

Nick looks at me expectantly, waiting for something more, so I add, “Uh—I saw clips of your protest the other day, it was great, really powerful stuff, man.”

I don’t know how much Nick knows about what happened between Vada and me or if he knows anything at all, but if he does, he doesn’t bring it up, instead, he nods and nudges me playfully.

“Thanks, I’m just really glad it got as much attention as it did. You know, things really need to change, and ever since what happened, I’ve been thinking… why did I survive, like, is there a reason, and I realized that maybe this is what I was meant to do all along.”

He keeps talking, telling me about his upcoming interview on NNC, the petition he started, and everything else, and I only half-listen as we grab our things from our lockers and head to class together.

All the while, I keep looking around, hoping to see Vada, dreading to see her, but she never appears, not once throughout the entire day.

Nick sticks by me almost the whole time, his endless talking filling the silence I don’t know how to deal with, and I don’t mind, it keeps me distracted.

When I get home, my parents are both there early, they ask how my first day back was, and all I say is that it was fine before excusing myself to my room to do homework.

Since the funeral yesterday, Vada hasn’t tried to contact me again, and the silence leaves a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I know I told her I needed space, but does her not texting or calling mean she’s giving up on us?

I keep replaying our last interaction in my head, the way the color drained from her face when she saw me standing in the hallway and realized I had heard everything she said.

At first, I was hurt, still am, then yesterday, after the funeral, I was angry while I wasted the day away on the couch, but now?

Now, I just feel empty, like her absence has left a hole inside me that only she can fill.

Still, she cheated, and I don’t know how to get past that or even how I feel about it anymore.

It’s only been three days, but I already miss her, and at the same time, I hope she stays away.

I finish my homework quickly before my dad calls me downstairs for dinner, we eat outside on the patio by the pool, the water glittering in the golden light of the setting sun.

Afterward, I excuse myself, go inside, shower, and climb into bed. I put on some trash TV, occasionally checking my phone for any new messages, but there aren’t any.

I fall asleep a few hours later, still waiting for something I’m not sure I even want.

The next morning isn’t much different from the last. I get ready, my movements slow and my mind foggy, eat breakfast with my parents, who try to include me in some small talk before eventually giving up, then head to school, not listening to the radio even though it’s turned up pretty loud in an attempt to fill the void inside me.

Nick greets me in the parking lot almost as soon as I get out of the car, and we make our way into the school, my eyes searching the sea of students for Vada, but she’s not there. Once again, we don’t have the same classes, so I guess we won’t be seeing each other again, but then, in the middle of French class, I get a text that makes my heart stop.

Vada <3 (11:12 AM)

come 2 stairs im hiiiigh

I frown, lowering my phone so it’s hidden under the table before quickly typing back.

You (11:12 AM)

What?

She hasn’t texted me since her last I love you, and my eyes keep darting between the two messages until she replies almost instantly.

Vada <3 (11:13 AM)

hurry im drowning

Confused and a little concerned, I raise my hand and ask to go to the restroom before hurrying out of the classroom and down the empty corridors. I keep checking my phone in case she texts something else, but she doesn’t. Then, when I turn the corner, I freeze.

Vada is lying on her back at the bottom of the stairs, a lazy smile on her face, her dark hair wild and splayed around her, covering parts of her face as she clumsily tries to brush it away.

"Vada?" I ask tentatively, snapping out of my trance and approaching her slowly so I don’t startle her.

At the sound of my voice, she lifts her head slightly and smiles, unfocused and loopy. It’s only then that I realize her lips, the entire right side of her chin, and her fingers are covered in ink.

What the hell did she do?

I thought maybe she lied in her text just to get me to talk to her, but she actually seems high, and when she speaks, it confirms it.

"Oh, heyyy," she drawls, letting her head fall back down with a thunk that makes me wince on her behalf, but she doesn’t even react.

I pocket my phone and rush to her side, my confusion momentarily overshadowed by my concern.

"Vada, what did you do?" I ask, kneeling next to her and brushing her hair out of her face.

She blinks blearily, chuckles, then falters as her eyes focus on me, her expression shifting slightly.

"What'r you doin' here?" she slurs, her hands grasping onto the hem of my sweater.

I look her over, making sure she doesn’t have any injuries from maybe falling down the stairs before meeting her glassy, unfocused eyes again.

"You texted me," I remind her, glancing around nervously. If anyone sees her like this, she could get expelled.

"Why is your mouth all blue? What did you do?" I ask again, making her whine as she turns her head away.

"Pen exploded in my mouth," she mumbles dramatically, writing nonsense on the floor with an imaginary pen, though her grip on my sweater doesn’t loosen. "I just..."

"You just...?" I prompt, but she completely blanks, staring at the bottom of the stairs like she’s forgotten what she was about to say.

Goddamnit.

I sigh, looking around again, jumping slightly when I hear a door close somewhere nearby.

"Shit, we have to get you out of here before someone sees," I whisper, but she doesn’t reply, just closes her eyes and hums, her fingers twitching against the fabric of my sweater.

Pulling out my phone, I quickly text Nick to meet me in the parking lot before slipping my phone back into my pocket and tapping Vada’s cheek lightly to get her to look at me.

"I’m going to get you out of here, okay?" I say, and for a moment, she just stares at me, a dazed, almost forlorn smile on her face before she nods.

"Mkay."

Slipping my arms underneath her knees and shoulders, I scoop her up, getting to my feet with a huff. I’ve carried her before—when she fell asleep on the couch and I brought her to bed, or when she passed out in the car after a long drive—but my lack of proper sleep and food has taken its toll, making her feel heavier than usual despite the fact that she weighs almost nothing.

I make sure her head is tucked against my chest, pausing for a moment when I see her eyes are closed, before making my way to the parking lot.

I almost run into a teacher or student twice, but I always manage to duck behind a corner just in time before slipping outside, where Nick is already waiting, leaning against his car.

He’s on his phone, frowning, but when he sees me coming, his jaw drops. He quickly puts his phone away and rushes over.

"Oh my God, what’s going on? What happened?" He brushes some hair out of Vada’s face, making her grumble against me while his nose wrinkles at the sight of the ink around her mouth before looking at me expectantly.

"She’s high," I say, tightening my grip on her when she turns to bury her face against my chest.

"She’s—what?" Nick gapes at me, but I just shake my head, my patience thinning as my arms start to ache.

"She’s high," I repeat, a little more impatiently. "I don’t know what she took, but she texted me, and I found her like this at the bottom of the stairs. We have to get her home before anyone sees."

"Shit. Okay... Yeah." Nick nods, fumbling for his keys before unlocking his car and opening the passenger door so I can put Vada inside.

I don’t have my keys with me since they’re still in my bag, and I didn’t bring it with me, so he’ll have to drive her home.

I carefully settle a grumbling Vada into the seat, but when I try to pull back to buckle her in, she tightens her grip on my sweater and pulls me closer again.

"No, don’t go," she whispers, her eyes still closed, and my stomach sinks.

I swallow thickly, my gaze tracing over her face before I gently pry her fingers off me. I wasn’t expecting our first time seeing each other again to turn out like this, and I don’t know whether she really wants me to stay since she hasn’t reached out to me, or if that’s just the drugs talking, so I pull back completely, buckle her in, and lower the back of her seat so she’s more comfortable.

Nick watches me with concern before sliding into the driver’s seat, turning on the car, then looking at me expectantly when I don’t get in the back.

"Well? Aren’t you getting in?" he asks.

I shake my head and take a step back, making him frown.

"Why not?"

"It’s... complicated," I say after a moment, watching his eyes dart between me and Vada. Before he can ask anything else, I add, "Just take her home, please?"

He hesitates for a moment before nodding. I offer him a grateful smile, then close the door and watch as he drives off.

What the fuck was that?

The next day, unsurprisingly, Vada wasn’t at school. Nick texted me after dropping her off, saying she’d be fine, but he didn’t press about what’s going on between us, which I’m thankful for.

She didn’t text me either, which makes me worry a little, but I feel like I’d be crossing a line if I texted or called to ask how she’s doing.

I still don’t know why she did drugs at school, she barely even used to touch alcohol when we went to parties before, much less anything harder, so I’m completely blindsided by her behavior, but then again, since the shooting, she’s changed a lot and I don’t feel like I know her anymore at all.

The hurt of what she did has finally settled, and even though it’s not as sharp as before, it still stings, leaving me sad and confused.

My parents are more worried than ever, but I still avoid them, barely acknowledging them during dinner or breakfast, but they don’t push me, which I’m grateful for.

Now it’s Friday, and I watch with bated breath as students file into the classroom while Ms. Foster squares some papers on her desk, waiting for everyone to arrive before she begins her lesson.

More and more students trickle in, and for a moment, I think Vada might not come to school today either, but then she appears in the doorway, and I tense at the sight of her.

She’s dressed the way she usually is—an oversized shirt that absolutely does not match her basketball shorts and sneakers—but what catches my attention is the fact that the shirt she’s wearing is mine.

It’s old, something I had forgotten about until now, until she just walked in, casually wearing it while her eyes sweep over the room.

She looks tired, dark circles resting under her eyes, her whole body sagging in on itself, but her long dark hair looks freshly washed, falling down her back in soft waves, and her mouth is no longer stained with blue ink.

All in all, she looks good, the way she always does, and I feel a tug of longing deep in my chest at the sight of her, but then I remember how she kissed someone else, and my heart sinks.

Her eyes continue to scan the room until they finally land on me. She straightens slightly, though her face remains unreadable, adjusting the strap of her bag where it hangs halfheartedly off her shoulder.

For a moment, we just look at each other, taking each other in, until someone shoves past her to get inside, forcing her to move further into the classroom. Her eyes flick toward our usual seats at the front, where two open spots remain—almost as if everyone else knows we usually sit there—but today, I’ve chosen a seat near the back, surrounded by occupied chairs with no empty spots beside me.

Seeing her is painful, and even though I helped her two days ago, I’m not ready to talk to her yet, if that’s even something she wants to do.

She looks between me and the empty seats again, and when a flicker of guilt crosses her face, I look away while she reluctantly takes a seat by herself.

The day goes by faster than I expected since I manage to avoid Vada for the rest of the day after our first class together. Now, I’m walking to my car, headphones in my ears, listening to some podcast my therapist recommended the last time I saw him.

I unlock the car and open the back door when I reach it, shoving my bag into the back seat before closing it again and reaching for the driver’s side door. Before I can open it, I feel a tap on my shoulder, making me flinch and yank my headphones out of my ears.

"Sorry," Vada mumbles sheepishly when I whirl around, wringing her fingers together in front of her.

So much for successfully avoiding her…

I clear my throat and pause the podcast, taking a step back so I’m not so close to her.

"It’s, uh, okay."

I glance up hesitantly and find Vada already looking at me, her expression conflicted. Her eyebrows are drawn together slightly, and her dark eyes, which usually shine with mischief, are dull and full of sadness.

"I..." she hesitates, shoulders tensing. "Can we talk?"

A part of me wants to say yes immediately because, after the last two days, I’ve realized I miss her horribly, but the other part of me—the part that was hurt—pushes that feeling to the back of my mind.

She hurt me.

She hurt me like no one else ever has, and she did it while I was trying to be there for her, while I was suffering myself.

She kissed Mia.

I really want to say yes, especially because those eyes of hers always make me weak, but I can’t. Not yet. Not only because I don’t know what I’d say, but also because I’m not sure I want to potentially hurt her by saying something I don’t mean in the long run.

I helped her when she was high, yes, but that doesn’t mean we’re good again. I still have a lot to process, and if she doesn’t get that or respect that, maybe our relationship wasn’t meant to be in the first place.

I’m about to say no, but my tongue feels heavy, so I take a moment before settling on, "I can’t. I have therapy."

"Oh." Vada steps back and nods, her lips pressing into a thin smile. "Okay..."

I offer a small, equally thin smile—not because I’m happy, but because the whole situation is just awkward—then watch as she turns and walks away, looking utterly defeated.

I sigh, then slide into my car and pull out of the school’s parking lot.

I do have therapy, but not until tonight.

I just couldn’t bring myself to outright say no, so I used it as an excuse.

"Hey..."

I look up from my book on my bed to find my dad standing in the doorway, dressed in a nice suit and wearing the watch my mom got him for their ten-year anniversary.

"Hey, what’s up?" I ask quietly, slipping a finger between the pages to keep my place before closing it.

He steps into the room, brushing his fingers over my track medals on the hook next to my door with a small smile before turning his attention back to me.

"Mom and I are heading out now. Are you sure you’re going to be fine all alone?"

I chuckle softly and nod, running a hand through my hair. "I’m sure, Dad. We’ve been over this. It’s just a business dinner. It’s not like you’re going on a cruise for months on end."

My dad raises his hands in mock surrender, shaking his head fondly. "Okay, okay. I’m just making sure."

It’s Saturday night, and I spent the whole day catching up on schoolwork until I finally had enough and flopped onto my bed to read. My parents have an important business dinner tonight with one of their high-profile clients, and even though they offered to have one of them stay home to keep me company, I insisted they both go. It’s an important dinner, and it’s best if they’re both there.

"It’s fine, Dad." I wave him off and go to open my book again, expecting him to leave, but he lingers at the bottom of my bed, making me raise an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

He stiffens slightly, as if surprised I noticed, then gives me a hesitant smile. "Oh, nothing, it’s just… You know you can talk to us about anything, right?"

Sighing, I put my book down for good and sit up a little more against the headboard. This isn’t the first time he or Mom has said something like this, but until now, I just nodded and brushed them off. It’s getting to be a bit too much, though, so I think it’s time I address it.

"I know," I say honestly, because, really, I do. I can talk to them about anything. "But I’m not ready to talk about anything yet, Dad. Not about the shooting, or about Vada, or anything else, okay? I... need more time."

His expression softens, and he pats my foot gently. "Okay. I understand. I’m just saying."

"I know." I smile, too—one of my first genuine smiles in a while.

"Good." He pats my foot again just as my mom calls for him, saying she’s ready. "That’s my cue."

I nod, wishing him a good night and reassuring him that I’ll call if I need anything before he finally leaves, once again touching my medals on his way out.

I hear the front door open and close downstairs, followed by the sound of the car pulling out of the driveway. Then… silence.

The palm trees outside my window rustle in the wind, carrying gray clouds across the sky all day, a warning of the coming rain. I ignore it, settling back into my book until my stomach rumbles.

Heading downstairs, I heat up some leftovers from lunch, eating at the kitchen island while watching a random YouTube video on my phone. Outside, the rain finally starts, tapping softly against the windows as I finish my meal.

After putting my dishes in the dishwasher and turning it on since it’s full, I make my way back to my room. Halfway up the stairs, I stop though when a loud pounding echoes from the front door. Frowning, I pause before cautiously making my way back down.

I check the camera feed on the panel next to the door, a jolt of surprise shooting through me when I see who it is.

It’s Vada.

I open the door, immediately getting whipped in the face by wind and stray drops of rain. But that’s nothing compared to what Vada is dealing with.

She’s drenched, her arms crossed over her chest against the cold, her hair dripping wet. A few strands stick to her forehead and the side of her face, while the rest is pulled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck.

She’s shivering, and as soon as I open the door, she looks up at me with wide, uncertain eyes.

I’m so shocked to see her here, not having expected it, that I don’t even give her a chance to speak before grabbing her arm and pulling her inside.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" I scold, my voice sharp with concern. "You’re going to get sick!"

"I'm sorry," she says quietly, and just like that, I soften.

"Don't apologize," I correct gently, tugging on the sleeve of her soaked shirt. "Just come with me. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes."

She looks at me like a deer caught in headlights, frozen in place, and it takes a small nod of my head toward the stairs to make her mumble a quiet "okay" and follow me to my room.

My mind is racing, wondering why she’s here and why she walked all this way in this weather, but I push the questions aside. I’ll ask once she’s in dry clothes.

In my bedroom, she lingers by the door, looking uncertain, and my heart aches at the sight. She used to feel so at home here, used to jump onto my bed without a second thought or grab whatever she wanted from my closet like it was hers, but now she just stands there, hesitant, like she’s waiting for permission.

I pull some sweatpants and a hoodie from my closet, knowing they’ll be way too big on her, but it’s all I have, so it’ll have to do.

"Here," I say, handing them to her before stepping into my en-suite bathroom to grab a towel for her hair. "I’ll be downstairs when you’re done."

Vada looks like she’s close to tears, and I can’t blame her. This is the most we’ve talked since I found out about the kiss—well, apart from when she was high, but that doesn’t count—but she doesn’t say anything except a meek little "thank you" before I step out of the room and close the door behind me.

I head downstairs, my mind racing with all the possibilities of why Vada came here. From the looks of it, she showed up on a whim, otherwise, she would have asked Nick to drive her, or worn a jacket, or at least brought an umbrella, but that still doesn’t answer the question why?

Without thinking, I fill the kettle next to the coffee machine with water and pull two mugs from the cupboard, mindlessly dropping teabags into them, ginger lemon, Vada’s favorite, before waiting for the water to boil.

As steam rises, filling the kitchen with the warm, citrusy scent of the tea, I pick up the mugs and carry them to the living room just as Vada comes downstairs.

She fumbles with the too-long sleeves of my hoodie, pulling them over her hands, and I feel a strange mix of emotions at the sight of my last name printed across her chest. I hadn’t even realized I gave her one of my official track hoodies—the one with our school’s name and my last name embroidered on it.

My sweatpants pool around her ankles, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her hair is drier now, loose and falling in soft waves over her shoulders, framing her face in a way that makes her look smaller, more vulnerable than I’m used to.

She hesitates, unsure of what to do, watching me carefully as I sit down on the couch and set the mugs on the coffee table. After a moment, she slowly joins me, keeping a noticeable space between us.

"Here," I say quietly, nudging her tea closer before taking my own mug and lifting it to my lips.

It’s too hot, and the second I take a sip, I wince as it burns my tongue, but I set it down quickly, pretending like nothing happened.

"Thank you."

Vada picks up her mug with both hands, wrapping her fingers around it in search of warmth before taking a hesitant sip, careful not to burn her tongue the way I did.

I dip my chin in acknowledgment, keeping my eyes on her while she drinks. Her gaze meets mine over the rim of her mug before quickly darting away. She slowly lowers the mug into her lap, pulling one leg onto the couch and shifting so she’s sitting on her ankle. It looks like she’s deliberately stalling for time, but I don’t push her. She came here for a reason, and she’s just not sure how to say it yet.

Yesterday, I said I wasn’t ready to talk, but when she showed up at my door, soaking wet and looking so lost, I couldn’t help but let her in. Now, I want to know why she’s here and what she has to say.

"I..." she starts quietly, but her voice falters when her eyes meet mine again.

She watches me for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek until her chin starts quivering. Her eyes fill with tears, and she quickly looks away again.

A lump rises in my throat, but I try to swallow it down as I sit back, hugging my arms around myself while she struggles to find the words.

"I'm... so sorry," she says eventually, sniffling. "For coming here, for causing even more trouble... and I know you said you weren’t ready to talk, but I just had to see you. I—I miss you."

She hesitantly meets my eyes, as if she’s afraid of what I might say, but I stay quiet, my chest tightening with every word that leaves her.

"This past week... I’ve been miserable without you. Every morning I wake up, hoping that what happened was just a nightmare, but it’s not. It’s not and it’s all my fault."

Her breath hitches, and she lowers her head, a tear slipping down her cheek that she doesn’t bother to wipe away.

"I kissed Mia, and I hurt you, and there’s no excuse for that. I kissed her even though I knew it was wrong, but ever since the shooting... I’ve been feeling so... empty. At first, I had constant nightmares. I was afraid to go back to school. I even peed my fucking pants once because I didn’t go to the bathroom all day and then I stepped on an empty can outside and it scared me so bad I—" She chokes on a sob, her grip tightening around her mug, but I still see the way her hands shake. "Then everything just stopped. I shut everything and everyone out because it was easier, but the emptiness took over and I felt like I was drowning."

She chokes on another sob, her breathing uneven.

"Every time I see you, I’m reminded of what happened and how close I came to losing you, and it broke me more than you could ever imagine. I know that isn’t an excuse for anything, I know. I fucked up so badly, and I won’t even blame you if you don’t ever want to see me again after this, but I just had to let you know...

She swallows hard, her voice growing weaker.

"Mia reached out to me after the shooting because she was home alone, and we hid together that day. We spent most of our time at her place because her dads are in Japan somewhere, and we drank wine and smoked weed and..."

She trails off, pressing her lips together, shame written all over her face.

And then we kissed.

She doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t have to. The words get stuck in her throat.

I clench my fists and close my own eyes, willing the image of her and Mia out of my mind.

"I swear, I never meant to hurt you, but I did, and if I could take it all back, I would. I never would have shut you out, I never would have kissed Mia, and I never would have done drugs, but I can’t change what happened." Her voice is thick with regret. "All I can do is try to explain and say I’m sorry, because I am. I’m so fucking sorry—"

She gasps between words, sobbing harder now. "But I get it if you want to kick me out. I get it if you hate me and don’t want to see me again, but—but—"

Before she can start hyperventilating, I open my eyes and scoot closer, prying her tea from her hands and setting it on the coffee table.

"Vada, Vada, stop," I say quietly, making her look up, her chest still heaving.

Her bottom lip quivers, and I blink back my own tears, forcing myself not to reach out, not to brush her hair behind her ear, not to wipe away her tears.

"I don’t hate you," I admit softly.

She lets out a broken whimper.

"And I get it. I get it, believe me, because I’ve barely coped either since it happened. But you really hurt me, and I... I can’t just move on as if nothing happened."

Vada meets my eyes, and the regret and sorrow I see in hers make my heart clench.

"I missed you, too," I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. "But... I need time, okay?"

She plays with the sleeves of my hoodie, her breathing still shaky but more controlled now. Slowly, she nods.

She doesn’t say anything, so I say, "Okay?" again, gentler this time.

She finally meets my gaze, whispering a broken, "Okay..."

The silence between us settles, heavy but not unbearable. The storm outside grows stronger, as rain pelts against the windows and thunder rumbles in the distance.

Vada swallows thickly and wrings her fingers in her lap before abruptly getting to her feet. I follow suit, our half-full mugs abandoned on the coffee table.

"I should go," she says quietly, already making her way around the couch toward the front door.

I catch her wrist gently and shake my head, looking at her incredulously.

"Like hell you are," I say. "It’s pouring out there, it’s dark, and I’m not letting you walk home. It’s not safe to drive either."

She looks at me, as if asking Then what am I supposed to do?

I sigh, releasing her wrist. "Come on, you can stay the night."

Her eyes widen. She wasn’t expecting that at all.

We’re far from being okay, but I’m not about to send her out in weather like this. I’m also not comfortable driving her home in this storm, and there’s no way I’d let her take a shady Uber either. So, without giving her time to argue, I tug her upstairs, ignoring her dumbfounded expression as I lead her to my room.

"You know where everything is," I say, referring to the toothbrush and face wash she’s left in my bathroom before. "Take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch."

She whirls around, seemingly ready to protest, but I’m already at the door with my hand on the doorknob.

"Good night," I say quietly.

She exhales, deflating slightly. "Good night."

Her eyes stay on me until I close the door behind me.

I brush my teeth in my parents’ bathroom, grabbing a spare toothbrush from under the sink before heading back downstairs and settling onto the couch.

I get what Vada means—trying to find something, anything, to replace the emptiness inside you—but like she said, it doesn’t excuse her kissing someone else. I still don’t know how I feel about all of this.

Right now, I’m just tired.

Before settling in, I pull out my phone and quickly type out a message to Millie, just in case she or her parents are worried about Vada’s whereabouts.

You (11:42 PM)

Hey, just letting you know Vada’s safe. She showed up here in the rain, and with the storm, I didn’t want her driving home, so she’s staying the night.

I don’t wait for a reply. I just turn off my phone and pull the throw blanket from the back of the couch over myself, tucking it under my chin and closing my eyes as the storm rages on outside.

I fall asleep a couple of minutes later to the sound of rain pelting against the windows and thunder rumbling in the distance.

"So, what are you doing today?" Vada asks hesitantly as I pull onto her street.

The entire drive has been quiet, the weight of our conversation from last night still lingering in the air.

This morning, my parents found me on the couch and asked why I wasn’t in bed. When I simply said "Vada's here," their eyes widened slightly before they quickly nodded in understanding, not pressing me for more before heading upstairs to bed.

They didn’t comment on her presence at breakfast either. When she came into the kitchen, they greeted her the same way they always do, but excused themselves fairly quickly, vanishing somewhere in the house with their coffee and toast while Vada and I silently ate cream cheese bagels at the kitchen table.

She wanted to leave right after waking up, but when she admitted she hadn’t eaten dinner last night, I insisted she have breakfast first. So we ate together, still saying little, before I offered to drive her home.

"I don’t know yet," I say honestly, stopping in front of her house. "I still have to catch up on some schoolwork, so… yeah."

Vada hums in acknowledgment and reaches for the door handle. She hesitates for a moment before opening it, turning back to me with a cautious expression.

"See you around?"

"See you around," I confirm, offering a tight-lipped smile.

She steps out, still dressed in my clothes, and makes her way up the front steps. When Millie opens the door and sees me, she waves, and I wave back, offering her a brighter smile before watching both of them disappear inside.

Only when the door closes behind them do I finally put the car in drive and head back home.

It’s Monday again, one week and a day since Vada showed up on my doorstep in the rain, and to be honest, not a lot has happened since then. I’ve been going to school like always, keeping up with therapy, and I finally got my stitches removed from my ear. It looks a little awkward now since the bullet basically severed the shell of my ear almost completely from the side of my head, but honestly? I’m just grateful to be alive, and it doesn’t look that bad.

Vada and I see each other occasionally at school, acknowledging each other with small nods, but other than that, we haven’t really interacted. I still sit in the back of our shared classes, but unlike the first time, she doesn’t look regretful anymore—just sad. When she sees me, she offers a small, knowing smile before sitting at the front without complaint.

Nick’s caught in the middle, and I’m pretty sure Vada told him what happened because when he saw me last Monday, he had this look, like he knew everything but didn’t want to pry. He’s always been more her friend than mine, so I can’t be mad that he mostly sticks by her while I’ve been hanging out with my track teammates instead.

Brody’s death somehow brought us all closer, and after practice on Friday, we went bowling together. It was nice, in a bittersweet kind of way.

My parents have also backed off the way I indirectly asked them to, but I do notice how their smiles get a little brighter whenever I engage in small talk with them. Considering everything, I guess I am doing better. The nightmares still come, but less frequently now. The only thing that really keeps me up these days, the one thing that still lingers like a thorn in my side, is Vada’s absence from my life.

Ever since I dropped her off after she spent the night at mine, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what she said. She wasn’t there to beg for forgiveness—she just told me what happened because she felt like it was the right thing to do. And when she said she’d understand if I wanted her to leave, or if I hated her? That broke me a little.

Because I don’t hate her. I couldn’t.

If she’d slept with Mia… okay, that would be a different story. But kissing her? In a drunken haze, just trying to feel something in the emptiness the shooting left in her? I get it. Maybe I should still be mad. Maybe I should still be hurt. But the truth is, I’m not.

And it doesn’t help that she’s everywhere.

At school, where she keeps a respectful distance. On my phone, where a picture of her drinking a Slurpee is still my background, or on my bedside table, where there’s a framed photo of us curled up in front of the fireplace in my backyard, taken by my parents when neither of us was looking.

She’s just... there. Always.

I keep telling my therapist the same thing—how I should be mad, but I’m just not anymore, and that I miss her. He tells me there’s no timeline for how long we feel things, and that if I miss her now, then that’s okay. If I want to do something about it, I should.

And I will. I know I will.

But I can feel it, I just need a little more time. Just a fraction of space before I take that step. Because the last thing I want is to rush into something I’m not completely ready for. That wouldn’t be fair to her, or to me.

And I know Vada. I know she’d rather wait for something real than settle for something that doesn’t last.

The last bell of the day rings, dismissing me and the rest of the class. I pack everything up with a slight frown, a headache pounding behind my eyes. Almost all of the other students have gone home already, but a handful of us had to stay for an extra AP math class. Vada and Nick both left after lunch since they don’t take this class, and honestly, I’m kind of jealous even though I like math.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out of the classroom amidst the other students, saying goodbye to Mr. Henson on the way out before making my way through the mostly empty school and across the parking lot. I get in my car, throwing my bag onto the back seat before plugging the AUX cable into my phone and turning on my playlist. Only when the music is playing do I start the car, rolling the windows down to let the late autumn air brush against my cheek as I drive home.

I’m only on the road for about five minutes when my phone starts ringing at a red light. Glancing at the screen, I’m surprised to see Millie calling. I answer and put my phone on speaker just as the light turns green and I start driving again.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Y/N,” Millie says hesitantly. “Is now a bad time?”

“No, not at all. What’s up?” I ask, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. No matter what happened between Vada and me, I’m still really fond of Millie, and even though I’m surprised she’s calling, I don’t mind.

“This is kind of weird, but practice just finished and Mom was supposed to pick me up, but she just called and said Vada’s therapy appointment ran over, so she won’t be able to make it across town for another forty minutes. I was wondering… if you’re not busy or anything, if you could maybe pick me up?” Her voice gets unnaturally high at the end of her sentence, and before I can say anything, she rushes to add, “I would call Dad, but he’s still at work, and I don’t want to bother him. I just thought—”

Already making a U-turn to head toward Millie’s middle school, I chuckle and cut her off gently. “It’s fine, Millie. I’ll come get you. I’m in the car anyway.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” I say. It’s not the first time I’ve picked her up from somewhere, and I’d hate for her to sit around for almost an hour waiting. “I’ll be there in ten, okay? Do you want to stay on the phone until then, or are you fine?”

“No, it’s fine. Maya and Lilly are here too, so I’m fine. Thank you,” she says quietly, making me smile softly.

“Alright then. You’re welcome.”

She hangs up, and I drive to her school, pulling into the parking lot near the lacrosse field, where she’s still dressed in her jersey and shorts, gym bag slung over her shoulder as she chats with two other girls—Maya and Lilly, I assume.

I pull up next to them, smiling when Millie immediately waves at me. She hugs the other two girls before getting into my car, stuffing her bag between her feet and buckling herself in.

“Hey,” I say, pulling back onto the road while she grabs my phone to change the music. “How was school?”

She sighs heavily and launches into a rant about how one of her teachers should be fired for sheer incompetence and only still has a job because of tenure. Then she tells me about lacrosse practice and how their coach had them doing shooting drills today before turning in her seat to look at me with a sheepish smile.

“What?” I ask with a confused grin.

“Can we go to Starbucks?” she asks, her eyes darting to the drive-thru coming up on the right.

I chuckle softly, already switching lanes. “Sure, but you’re not getting anything with caffeine. I don’t want your mom to kill me when you’re bouncing off the walls later.”

“Yay!” she beams.

I pull into the drive-thru, letting her order some ridiculously sugary drink that will definitely keep her up just as much as coffee would have (I obviously didn’t think this through, but oh well). I get a matcha for myself, then we grab our drinks and make our way back onto the road.

Millie flips through songs on my phone, sipping her drink with a satisfied smile before she suddenly turns a little more solemn, glancing at me.

“Yes?” I say without looking away from the road, sensing her shifting nervously in her seat out of the corner of my eye.

“What?”

“Spit it out,” I say. “There’s clearly something on your mind.”

She hesitates for a moment, just as one song fades out and a softer one starts playing.

“Are… Are you and Vada okay?” she asks cautiously, right as I turn onto her street.

I let out a slow breath and don’t answer until I’ve pulled up in front of her house. Turning in my seat to face her, I offer a small smile and shrug. “I don’t know yet,” I admit honestly. She looks a little sad at that, so I quietly add, “But I think we’ll be fine.”

That makes her perk up a little, and she smiles tentatively before nodding, not pushing it further. She picks up her bag from between her legs and places it on her lap, but she doesn’t make a move to get out just yet. “Do you want to come in for a bit?” she asks hopefully. “I was planning on filming a new vlog and could use your help.”

I want to say yes because I have nothing else to do tonight, but Ms. Cavell’s car is in the driveway, which means she got home earlier than expected. It also means Vada is home and I’m not ready to face her like that just yet. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” I lie, adding, “Some other time, though. Okay?”

Not having expected much, Millie only resigns a little and nods. “Okay. Thanks for picking me up again. And thanks for—” she waves her empty Starbucks cup with a small grin.

“You’re welcome.” I send her a smile and watch her get out of the car, waiting until she’s safely inside before driving home.

“You’re not at practice for a little over a week, and you’re already slower than a turtle,” one of my teammates teases as I sit on the track, breathing heavily after taking a sip of water.

It’s my first time back at practice since the shooting, but I’m not that slow.

“Oh, shut up, Johannson,” I retort, rolling my eyes as I push myself up. The rest of the team is gathered around our coach, so I make my way over to join them.

“That’s it for today, people. You did good. Now go home, get some rest, and come back tomorrow for some more ass-kicking,” he says, making us all chuckle as we break apart and head for the locker rooms.

The sky above the track is painted in shades of pink and orange as the sun starts to set, and I take a moment to enjoy the cool evening breeze before finally heading inside.

I shower quickly and get dressed, throwing my bag over my shoulder before wishing the others a good night.

Tonight, my parents are taking me out to dinner—even though it’s a school night—and I’ve got to admit, I’m looking forward to it. I haven’t gone out since the shooting, and after practice, a good meal sounds like exactly what I need. It’s a small step toward normalcy after the craziness of the last two weeks.

I’m about to get into my car, my legs feeling heavy after practice, when someone calls my name from a distance, making me stop and turn around.

Much to my surprise, I see Vada half-walking, half-running toward me, clearly in a hurry to catch me before I leave. My eyebrows knit together as I take her in, a little confused about why she’s still here at school when it ended two hours ago.

“Vada? What are you still doing here?” I ask, my tone curious rather than accusatory.

She comes to a stop in front of me, slightly out of breath, and I watch as her sheepish smile fades into something more uncertain. It’s like she didn’t think this all the way through, like she hadn’t considered the possibility that I would stop and wait for her.

“I—Nick and I had to finish a project in the library,” she finally says, and just then, I spot Nick walking out of the school, phone in hand. When he catches me looking, he just nods and waves, completely unsurprised to see me standing here.

I glance at Vada again. A project? My gaze flicks toward Nick, noticing that neither he nor Vada has their bags with them. They must’ve left them in their lockers—if they even brought them to begin with.

Something tells me they didn’t.

I drag out my “Okay…” watching her closely, but she either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore my suspicion.

“I just… I saw you coming out of the locker room, and I—I wanted to thank you for picking up Millie yesterday,” she says quickly, like she just thought of it and used it as an excuse to talk to me.

I don’t call her out on it, though. Instead, I shrug, offering a small smile. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, it was no big deal, really.”

Vada shakes her head and glances over her shoulder, where Nick is making his way to his car—not parked too far from mine. It’s obvious he’s giving us space.

The fact that she waited here this whole time just for a chance to talk to me makes something warm settle in my chest.

She shifts on her feet, fiddling with her fingers, and I soften at the nervous habit.

“No, it was. Thank you. She kept talking about how you got her Starbucks at dinner. Like, she wouldn’t shut up about it,” she continues, her voice a little uncertain, as if she’s trying to make conversation just to keep me here a little longer.

I exhale sharply, not quite a laugh, but something close to it. “Well, good to know she had a nice time.”

She hums in acknowledgment, and a charged silence settles between us. I shift on my feet, hesitating before reaching for the door handle of my car, when she suddenly blurts out,

“Can we talk?”

I freeze.

“Like, again,” she clarifies, her voice softer now. “I feel like a lot of stuff is still unsaid between us, and—and I would like to know where you stand, so…”

Her words hang in the air between us.

A week ago, I would have said no. I would have told her I wasn’t ready. But I’ve had time to reflect, to sit with everything, and I’ve realized I do want to talk. I want to hear what she has to say, and maybe more than that, I just want her.

I meet her eyes, my throat a little dry as I nod. “I’d like that.”

She blinks, her jaw slackening for a split second before she quickly recovers. Her back straightens, and she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear in a way that makes my chest tighten.

“O-Okay.”

I smile softly, even though she isn’t looking at me anymore, and add, “But I can’t tonight. My parents are taking me out to dinner.”

She looks up with wide, hopeful eyes and nods quickly. “Sure, okay. No worries… Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

I nod. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Vada hesitates for a moment, then nods again, mumbling a quiet, “Okay,” before turning on her heel and walking off toward Nick’s car.

I watch as she says something to him that makes him raise his eyebrows before he glances at me with an amused smile. Whatever she told him makes him smirk, and before he can tease her, she quickly shoos him away and practically shoves him into the car.

I chuckle as I watch them drive off, then get into my own car, a strange giddy feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.

Maybe I’m just hungry.

But I don’t think so.

A cup being set down on my table makes me look up the next morning, and when I see Vada standing in front of me with a shy smile, I can’t help but smile a little too.

“Uh, hi,” I say. “What’s this?” I glance at the cup, noticing she has one too, and so does Nick, who’s chatting with some friends near the door.

“Nick and I went to Starbucks—”

“Per usual,” I tease lightly, cutting her off.

She blinks, momentarily taken aback, before a small spark of amusement flickers in her eyes.

“And I thought you might want some too. Oh, and—” She shifts her bag, which is slung over one shoulder, pulling it in front of her and setting her cup down momentarily before digging inside. A second later, she pulls out a small brown paper bag and sets it in front of me. “—cake pops.”

Overcome with emotion, I clear my throat and take the bag from her without immediately looking up, which makes her pause. When I finally do glance at her, she’s watching me with a hesitant, almost crushed expression. It dawns on me that she probably thinks I don’t appreciate it.

“Thank you,” I say quickly before she can say anything else, offering her a reassuring smile.

She perks up again almost instantly. “You’re welcome.”

She moves to turn around, likely heading to her usual seat at the front of the class, but before I can think twice about it, I stand up abruptly. My chair scrapes against the floor, making her pause and turn back around, a small crinkle forming between her brows.

“Uh—You can sit here,” I say, nodding at the empty seat beside me. “If you want to.”

Her eyes widen slightly, darting between me and the chair as if she isn’t sure she heard me right.

The bell rings, snapping her out of it, and she’s quick to say, “Yeah, okay…” before slipping into the seat beside me.

As class begins, I catch her stealing glances at me every now and then, and for the first time in weeks, the weight in my chest feels just a little lighter.

Mr. Wilson drones on about atomic bonds, his voice blending into the usual background noise, until the class finally nears its end. Just as I start to zone out, he announces that we’ll be holding a presentation in pairs next week on an atomic bond of our choosing.

Some people groan, others get excited, already turning to their friends in hopes of pairing up, but then Mr. Wilson shuts that down by stating we’ll be working with the person next to us.

My heart does this weird little flutter as I glance over at Vada, only to find her already looking at me with a tentative smile.

I smile back, a silent way of saying I don’t mind being paired with her, and just like that, the class is dismissed.

“So…” Vada says as we stand, grabbing my empty cup to toss in the trash as we walk out. Nick stays back to ask Mr. Wilson something, leaving us alone in the hallway. “When do you wanna work on this thing?”

Our next chemistry class is on Friday, which means we either start after school today or tomorrow.

“Well, I have therapy and practice tomorrow, so maybe tonight? I could swing by after practice?” I suggest without really thinking.

Vada stops walking for a brief second, clearly caught off guard by the casual way I suggest going to her place instead of the library. It’s something we always used to do—either at mine or hers—so it didn’t even register as a big deal when I said it. But now, I wonder if it was the wrong thing to suggest.

I open my mouth to offer an alternative, but before I can, she nods and gives me a genuine smile.

“Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Just text me when you’re on the way over so I can lock Millie in her room so she doesn’t hog you,” she jokes lightly, though I can hear the slight hesitation in her voice.

I laugh, and the tension in her shoulders visibly melts away, her face lighting up in a way that makes something warm settle in my chest.

“Okay,” I say, still smiling.

Right then, Nick rejoins us, raising an eyebrow as he glances between us. “You guys good?” he asks casually.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Vada answers almost too quickly before glancing at me for confirmation.

I hum in agreement, and Nick nods in approval. “Good,” he says before whisking Vada off toward their next class while I head in the opposite direction to Math AP.

As I make my way to class, I can’t help but feel a mix of nerves and something else I can’t quite name. I’m not sure how tonight is going to go, but honestly? I’m not mad that we got paired up.

Maybe this is the push we need. Maybe this will finally get us to talk.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, but every time I think about going to Vada’s, my stomach flips—whether in a good or bad way, I’m still not sure.

At practice, Coach kicks our asses as usual, putting us through sprint intervals before finally dismissing us around five. We’re all exhausted, showering and changing in near silence before exchanging tired goodbyes and heading home.

On my way to my car, I send my parents a quick text about the project, then hop in and start driving to Vada’s.

My hair is still damp from the shower, so even though it’s a nice night, I keep the windows rolled up. Maybe I just need the quiet, a little containment before I have to face whatever this is going to be. The drive feels way shorter than I expected, and before I know it, I’m pulling into the Cavells’ driveway behind their two cars.

I hesitate for just a moment before grabbing my school bag—leaving my gym bag in the backseat since it smells like pure death—and making my way to the front door.

I ring the doorbell, and almost immediately, I hear some commotion inside, followed by Vada’s voice snapping, “Millie, I swear to God—” before the door swings open.

She’s wearing sweatpants and a comfortable shirt and looks a little breathless when she says, “Hi.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “Hi.”

We just… stare at each other for a second, the air between us feeling heavier than it should, before Vada blinks and steps aside, gesturing me in. I toe off my shoes by the door, the familiar smell of their house hitting me harder than I expected.

“How was practice?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“Exhausting,” I say, running a hand through my still-damp hair.

She gives me a sympathetic look, and for a split second, I see a flicker of something else in her eyes. Fondness? Nostalgia? Maybe both.

She used to stay and watch practice sometimes, perched on the bleachers with a drink in her hand while my teammates relentlessly teased me for it. I never minded, though. If anything, it made me push myself harder—partly to impress her, and partly because I knew exactly what she was thinking whenever I wiped sweat off my face with my shirt.

I shake the memory away as Vada leads me through the dining room, where her parents and Millie are sitting at the table, playing what looks like an aggressively intense round of Uno.

For a game that’s usually loud and chaotic, the three of them are suspiciously focused.

Millie barely acknowledges me when I pass by, too busy squinting at her mom like she’s about to make a power move. I wave a little awkwardly at them, and Mr. Cavell shoots me a quick grin before his eyes dart back to his cards.

Vada barely slows down, brushing past them without a second glance and leading me straight to her room.

Inside, the soft glow of fairy lights wraps around the headboard of Vada’s unmade bed, casting warm shadows along the walls. Her signature candle is already burning, filling the air with its familiar scent. Papers are scattered across her desk, her laptop resting on top of some of them, and though there’s a sweater draped over the back of her chair and a lone sock near the bed, the room doesn’t feel messy. It feels lived in—comfortable, familiar.

I feel myself relax as Vada grabs her laptop and sits on the bed, waiting for me to do the same—just like we’ve done so many times before. There’s still a bit of space between us as we both lean against the headboard, but it’s not as stark as the distance that separated us on my couch. It’s comfortable.

We agree on making our presentation about covalent bonds, falling into an easy rhythm: I research while Vada puts the slides together. We work for nearly an hour until we’re almost finished, only needing to add pictures. She reassures me she’ll take care of it tomorrow, rubbing at her eyes before closing her laptop and setting it on her nightstand.

I tuck mine into my bag at the foot of the bed, then, feeling a little awkward now that the work is done, sit back and bury my hands in my lap, playing with the strings of my sweatpants. Vada shifts beside me, mirroring my hesitation, before clearing her throat.

“Do you… also have nightmares about what happened?” she asks quietly.

The question catches me off guard. I assumed if we talked about anything tonight, it’d be about us, but instead, she’s asking about that.

I take a moment to answer, keeping my gaze on my lap. “I do,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “Not as often as before, though. You?”

She hums in response and shifts lower on the bed, rolling onto her side and curling her hands against her chest. “I do,” she says, voice quieter now. “But since I started therapy, they’ve been happening less.”

Right. Millie mentioned that Vada was seeing someone now. The thought makes me proud—proud that she’s trying, that she’s working through everything rather than letting it eat her alive. And I’m relieved that it’s actually helping.

A beat of silence stretches between us before she exhales softly. “I keep dreaming about being stuck in that bathroom stall again. It’s… loud. And the stall keeps shrinking in on me until I can’t breathe, and all I hear is screaming and…” She pauses, glancing at me hesitantly. “And gunfire.”

I swallow hard, my chest tightening as I picture it.

Her eyes flick to my ear for just a second before darting away again, like she’s afraid to linger too long.

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. I wouldn’t wish those nightmares on anyone.

She nods, her lips pressing together, and I take her in for a moment. The glow from the fairy lights makes her eyes glisten, dark pools of something deep and unreadable. And because she was so honest with me, I decide to be honest with her, too.

“I usually dream about you.”

Vada’s brows pull together. “Me?”

I nod. “Mhmm. Every time I have a nightmare, it’s about you getting hurt. And I can’t do anything to stop it. I’m always too late, or I’m frozen in place, forced to watch everything happen.”

Just saying it out loud makes my chest constrict. The helplessness I feel in those dreams, the sheer terror of not being able to reach her in time—it’s suffocating.

Vada looks at me with… understanding. Maybe a little guilt, too, but mostly understanding. Then, after a moment, she hesitantly reaches for my hand.

She’s cautious, like she’s afraid I might pull away.

I don’t.

She laces our fingers together, wordlessly holding onto me, and I squeeze her hand lightly in return.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. We’re both hurt. We both still have so much to work through, but we’re going to be okay.

For a few moments, we just lie there, quietly watching each other, hands still linked between us, before a soft knock at the door makes us both sit up and, almost reluctantly, let go.

“Yeah?” Vada calls out.

The door cracks open, and her dad pokes his head inside with a kind smile.

“Hey, you two. Just came to check how things are going—and to see if Y/N wants to stay for dinner? I made pasta.” He pauses, then adds, “With garlic bread.”

Vada turns to me, and I catch the hope in her eyes, like she’s trying not to make a big deal out of it but still wants me to say yes.

I glance between her and her dad, thinking for just a second before nodding. “Yeah. I’d like that. Pasta sounds amazing.”

Vada visibly brightens.

Her dad taps the doorframe. “Great. Come on, then.”

She reaches for my hand only to pull me up this time, making me stumble slightly as she tugs me toward the dining room.

When we step inside, Millie and her mom are already at the table. And, to my surprise, there’s an extra place setting waiting for me like they already knew I was staying.

I have a sneaking suspicion Millie had something to do with that.

She shoots me a grin when she sees me, then nudges her mom under the table like they know something I don’t.

Vada and I sit down next to each other as her dad starts dishing out the pasta, and for the first time in what feels like forever, something inside me settles.

When I get home later that night, my parents are still at the office, but it doesn’t bother me as I make my way to my room. I drop my bag by the foot of my bed, brush my teeth, and wash my face before crawling under the covers, feeling exhausted but content for the first time in a long time.

Dinner was great. The food was good, and we mostly listened to Millie rant about her one teacher who still hasn’t been fired. No one brought up the shooting, and no one mentioned anything weird going on between me and Vada. It was just… normal. Easy.

When I left, I even absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair behind Vada’s ear at the door before quickly pulling back, realizing what I was doing. She didn’t comment on it, just smiled with red cheeks and told me goodbye, watching me drive away until I turned the corner at the end of the street.

I grab my phone to check if my alarm for tomorrow is set, and feel myself smile slightly when I see I’ve got a message from Vada.

Vada <3 (8:57 PM)

i had a great time tonight

thank u for staying for dinner

I get comfortable, turning onto my side before texting back.

You (9:01 PM)

Me too.

Of course, your dad’s cooking was amazing as always.

She sees my message immediately, and I watch the three dots dance at the bottom of my screen before her next message pops up.

Vada <3 (9:02 PM)

ill tell him u said that :)

good night

see u tomorrow

You (9:02 PM)

Yeah, you do that.

See you tomorrow.

Good night :)

I watch my screen for a moment longer, waiting to see if Vada texts something else, but she doesn’t. So I turn my phone off, slide it onto my bedside table, and fall into a dreamless sleep almost instantly.

The next day, I go to school looking forward to seeing Vada again, but I don’t spot her until the end of the day when everyone is either leaving or heading to their respective sports practice. I’m on my way to the locker room when I see her leaning against her locker, talking to someone. I find myself smiling, but as I get closer, I realize who she’s talking to and feel my stomach clench.

Of all the people, she’s talking to Mia.

Mia spots me first, her eyes flashing with recognition over Vada’s shoulder. My pulse jumps, and before I even think about it, I turn down the nearest hallway, taking the long way to the locker room to avoid walking past them.

I don’t know what just happened, but seeing them together brings back a lot of feelings I thought I’d moved past. It’s not even anger, more like a sudden wave of something I don’t know how to name, and I don’t want to stand around figuring it out. I get to the locker room and change without engaging in small talk before heading out to the track earlier than usual.

Coach raises an eyebrow at my sulking, but he doesn’t say anything. When the others finally join us, he sends us off on a few warm-up laps, followed by interval training in pairs. We finish practice with sprints, and by the end, I’m a panting, sweaty mess. I pushed myself harder than necessary, hoping to burn off whatever this feeling is. It leaves me exhausted, but not any clearer in my head.

In the locker room, the team makes plans to grab food, but I tell them I can’t because I have therapy. They nod in understanding, throwing out casual, maybe next time’s and let us know if you change your mind’s, before heading off.

As I walk toward my car, the last person I expect to see is waiting for me.

Mia stands there, arms crossed, shifting on her feet as she glances around, clearly nervous. When her eyes land on me, she straightens, but I can see the hesitation in the way she grips her elbows.

“Mia?” I ask, brows furrowing as I approach.

“Yeah, hi,” she says, forcing a small smile. She’s wearing a crop top and shorts, shivering slightly in the late afternoon breeze. She must have been waiting for a while. “Sorry for waiting around like a creep.”

She chuckles awkwardly, but I don’t return it. I’m too confused, too unsure about how to feel after seeing her with Vada.

“It’s… fine. What do you want?” It comes out harsher than I intended, and Mia flinches.

“I—I just wanted to talk to you,” she says with a grimace. “About Vada.”

Hearing her say Vada’s name sends a fresh bolt of irritation through me, but before I can say anything, she continues.

“I know you know what happened between us,” she says quietly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “And I saw the way you looked earlier, so I just wanted to say I’m sorry, I guess. I know that probably means nothing to you, but I felt like I owed you an apology. What we did—it was unforgivable, and I’m not trying to make excuses, but it didn’t mean anything. For either of us.”

She exhales sharply, shaking her head at herself. “We were drunk and high, and we were both hurting, and it just… happened. As shitty as that sounds, I regret it. I would take it back if I could, but I can’t, so yeah… I just thought you should know.”

I blink, my brain struggling to process what she just said. She must take my silence as disbelief or anger because she quickly adds, “If it bothers you that I talk to Vada, I can stop. No hard feelings at all. I get it.”

“What? No.” I shake my head, adjusting the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Don’t do that—I mean, don’t stop talking to her.”

Mia watches me cautiously as I sigh and drag a hand down my face.

“You were there for Vada when she shut everyone else out. I don’t like what happened, but you seem to understand her, and you’ve been a good friend to her. And honestly? You’ve got some guts coming to me with this. So… I guess what I’m saying is that we’re fine.” I exhale and meet her eyes. “We’re not friends, but I get where you’re coming from, and we’re fine. I appreciate you telling me.”

Now it’s her turn to look stunned. She blinks before nodding slowly. “I—wow. Okay. Thanks.”

I nod and give her a small, tight-lipped smile.

“I guess I’ll see you around then,” she says, hesitating before smiling a little.

“Yeah,” I say, waving her off before getting into my car and heading to therapy.

When I get there, I end up asking to cut the session short because I’m exhausted. Afterward, I drive home, greeting my parents when I find them in the kitchen. They ask what I want for dinner, and when I say I don’t really care, they decide to just order pizza, which is fine with me.

We eat together, and then I head to my room, completely ignoring the pile of unfinished homework on my desk. I climb into bed and fall asleep almost instantly, completely drained from the day.

Blinking at the sliver of sunlight blinding me, I roll over with a groggy sigh and reach for my phone, only to sit up abruptly when I see that it’s almost eleven.

Shit, shit, shit.

I must have forgotten to set an alarm, but when I check, I see that I did. I must have turned it off in my sleep without even realizing it.

It’s Friday, and Vada and I were supposed to present our chemistry project today.

Shit.

I stumble out of bed, literally face-planting on the ground before scrambling back to my feet. Rushing into my bathroom, I turn on the shower and let the water heat up while I grab my clothes. I’m still digging through my closet, trying to find something to wear, when there’s a knock at my door.

“Mom?” I frown, still half-buried in my closet. She should be at work by now. And I should be at school.

What are the chances we both overslept?

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says casually, leaning against the doorframe.

I straighten up, confused. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the office? And why didn’t you wake me if you were home?”

“Calm down,” she says, stepping into the room and placing her hands on my shoulders to still my frantic movements. “I’m not at work because I wanted to be here when you woke up and see if you wanted to go to the beach today.”

I blink at her, caught off guard.

“I heard your alarm going off earlier, and when it wouldn’t stop, I came in and saw you still dead asleep. After how exhausted you looked last night, and hearing from your therapist that you cut your session short, I thought it might be good to give you a day off.”

Some of the panic drains out of me, replaced by reluctant understanding.

“I… Thanks, that’s really nice, but I had a presentation with Vada today, and now I missed it.”

Her face falls, guilt flashing across her features. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I just thought—”

“It’s fine,” I cut her off gently. “It’s already too late now.”

The thought of Vada standing at the front of the class, waiting for me to show up, makes my stomach twist. But it’s almost eleven, and school will be over in two hours anyway. I might as well stay home.

“I’m really sorry,” she says again.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair before offering a small smile. “It’s okay.”

She studies me for a moment, then smiles softly. “So… beach?”

I roll my eyes playfully before shrugging. “Actually, could we just chill by the pool today? I’m not in the mood to drive anywhere.”

“Sure,” she says, clearly just happy I’m not upset. “I’ll get started on your breakfast. How do pancakes sound?”

“Great,” I say, my smile growing as I watch her leave.

Once she’s gone, I grab my phone to check my messages, and my stomach sinks when I see a few from Vada. But when I open them, I’m surprised to see she’s not mad—just concerned.

Vada <3 (8:57 AM)

where r u?

are you okay?

class just started

Y/N?

Vada <3 (9:40 AM)

sorry phone got taken away

are u okay?

are u sick? is that why ur not here?

I exhale, relieved that she’s not upset. Quickly towel-drying my hair, I type out a response.

You (10:50 AM)

I’m so sorry, no I’m not sick. My mom gave me the day off since I looked exhausted and apparently slept through my alarm.

Vada replies almost immediately.

Vada <3 (10:51 AM)

oh okay haha

i was just worried for a sec

and don’t worry u didnt miss the presentation we were set to go last and the others didn’t finish theirs on time so we’ll go next class

I sag against my bed in relief.

You (10:52 AM)

Okay, good.

Again, I’m sorry.

Vada <3 (10:52 AM)

i told u its fine <3

just get some rest

I hesitate for a moment, my thumb hovering over the emoji keyboard. I want to text a heart back, but I don’t know if it’s too soon. So I don’t.

Instead, I finish getting dressed, now feeling lighter knowing I didn’t let Vada down too much, and head downstairs, the smell of pancakes already wafting through the air.

The rest of the day is spent lounging by the pool with my mom, just enjoying each other’s company. We share a watermelon for lunch, and it’s the most relaxed I’ve felt in a while. When my dad gets home, he surprises my mom with a bouquet of roses. He asks about our day before mentioning a business dinner he has to attend.

I can tell he’s hesitant to leave since my mom already took the day off, but I suggest she go with him. It sounds like a serious event, and she already missed an entire workday.

They’re reluctant at first, but after I reassure my mom that I had a great time with her and that I’ll be fine for a few hours by myself, she agrees. She heads upstairs to shower and change before the two of them leave, pressing kisses to my cheek on their way out.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m alone in the house without feeling lonely.

I make myself some plain buttered toast for dinner before heading upstairs and flopping onto my bed with my laptop. I scroll through my watchlist, ready to put on a movie, but as I go to start it, my eyes drift to the picture on my bedside table—the one of Vada and me, curled up together in front of the fireplace, caught in a moment of quiet happiness.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I reach for my phone.

You (7:42 PM)

Want to come over?

The second I hit send, my heart pounds a little harder. It’s been building up all week, this need to be around her again. Ever since that dinner at her house, the distance has felt unnecessary—like I’ve been holding myself back for no reason. I don’t need more time. I don’t want any more space.

I just want her.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

Vada <3 (7:43 PM)

omw :)

A smile tugs at my lips as I shove my laptop aside and get up, glancing around my room to make sure it’s not a complete disaster. I pick up a hoodie from the floor and straighten my pillows, but I know Vada won’t care about the mess.

Still, I can’t sit still.

I head downstairs and linger in the kitchen, waiting for her there so I’ll be closer to the front door. She knocks not even ten minutes later, and I hurry to open it, feeling like the breath gets knocked out of me the second I see her.

She doesn’t look any different than usual—wearing an oversized shirt and sweatpants, her hair in a messy bun at the nape of her neck—but somehow, it’s like I’m really seeing her again for the first time in a long time. Even though I saw her just yesterday.

“Hi,” I say, suddenly breathless, which makes her laugh nervously.

“Hey,” she replies, and I quickly move aside to let her in, my heart fluttering when she brushes past me, leaving a faint trace of her sweet perfume in the air.

She toes off her shoes and turns back to me with a soft smile, but it shifts into something a little more confused when she notices my unwavering attention on her.

“What—”

“I missed you,” I blurt out before she can finish, and she lets out a surprised, breathy laugh.

“We saw each other two days ago,” she teases, but I shake my head.

“No, I mean… I missed you. I miss us,” I say. Now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. The words pour out like they’ve been waiting for this moment. “I miss how effortlessly affectionate you used to be. How you’d just touch me or kiss me whenever you felt like it, without worrying about how I might react. I miss your smile, your laugh, holding you close at night and feeling your breath against my neck. You hurt me—a lot—but… I just miss you so fucking much. Without you, I feel empty, and I can’t keep going on like this. I want you back in my life. I want to kiss you again, hold your hand, take you on stupid little dates.”

At some point, I realize I’m tearing up, staring at the floor instead of at her, but when I finally lift my gaze, she’s already looking at me. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, her lips curved into the softest smile.

“I missed you, too,” she whispers.

And before I can react, she throws her arms around my neck in a bone-crushing hug.

“I missed you too,” she repeats, chuckling when she adds, “so fucking much.”

I let out a choked laugh of my own, wrapping my arms around her waist before, without thinking, scooping her up to balance out the height difference. She lets out a surprised squeak but immediately tightens her hold on me, wrapping her legs around my waist.

She squeezes me tighter, and I feel the damp warmth of her tears against my neck before she pulls back. Her hands cup my face gently as her tear-stained eyes drink me in like she’s afraid I might disappear.

She brushes the wetness from my cheeks, her fingers tracing over my skin before one hand shifts to cradle my jaw, her thumb resting against my chin. “I love you,” she says after a moment, her voice thick with emotion.

Another tear slips down my face, and I close my eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I love you too,” I whisper.

When I open my eyes again, she’s already looking at my lips.

“Can I… Can I kiss you?” she asks, barely audible.

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear before nodding, my other arm still wrapped securely around her.

She exhales softly, resting her forehead against mine for a beat, then finally closes the distance between us.

Her lips are warm and soft, the kiss sending sparks through my whole body. I kiss her back without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut as I melt into her. Slowly, carefully, she deepens it, her hands slipping to the back of my neck to pull me closer. I squeeze the backs of her thighs, grounding myself in the feel of her, and a quiet, appreciative hum slips past her lips.

When we’re both breathless, she pulls back just enough to nudge her nose against mine, making us both laugh softly.

Then, before I can even fully catch my breath, she kisses me again.

And again.

My head spins, my chest aches with something deep and overwhelming, but for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel empty anymore.

Yeah. We’re definitely going to be alright.

_______________________________________________

Holy moly, guys. This is almost 16k words long... I think it's longer than anything I've ever written.

It was a lot of fun to write though. Reader and Vada really deserved their happy ending after how the first part ended.

I can feel myself burning out though, and writer's block has made it difficult to finish this, so I will probably be taking a break from writing again.

I don't know how long yet, but I need some time to recharge my creative battery after this.

I hope you all had a wonderful weekend and wish you a great week ahead.

All the love,

Soph <3

#x reader #fluff #angst #angst with a happy ending #vada cavell #vada cavell x reader #the fallout #vada cavell x y/n

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