#los clusters

[playlistpollz]

songs in my playlist that share a name

[ritzjewelers]

Sapphire & Diamond Cluster Ring For Greg's Wife... Ritz Jewelers

[la-morte-vivante]

yo he pactao, se me nota en la cara que llevo un ritual en la mirada sales de fiesta a cazar alguna pava como si follándotela me empataras pero no me empatas puta, soy demoníaca

[rcmclachlan]

I'd love to hear Dana and Nico discussing Tommy's latest bout of insanity with a probie if you're up for it

"... appears the LAFD helicopter is now leading the Army on a chase..."

The very moment KTLA reporter Chris Wolf says 'chase', the entire hangar erupts into pained groans and shouts of disbelief mixed with fury, plus one enthusiastic whoop that is collectively ignored in favor of the massive white board that DeJong and Goodell rolled out of Captain Ribeiro's office about ten seconds after Kinard escaped with the AW139.

The board is a veritable rainbow of imagination, mostly because it's covered in sticky notes of various colors, and standing in front of it is the most unforgiving authority figure most of the crew have seen since grade school.

"All right, assholes, shut up!" Donato shouts, then consults the board. The hangar falls silent, waiting. "Right now Myers is in the lead with 118 shenanigans, government fuckery, and a high-octane chase, but since Nguyen also bet on 118 shenanigans and a chase that would specifically involve MH-6Ms, Myers, you may have to split the pot."

Myers grudgingly nods. Nguyen discreetly pumps her fist.

Meanwhile, their two-week old probie Mona—who was given the nickname "Idol" after Kelley accidentally pronounced her name as 'Mony' and got the song stuck in everyone's head for days, despite not being old enough to know who Billy Idol even is—takes in the tableau with wide eyes. "Is this, uh, legal?"

"In the state of California? Nah." Nico shrugs, then bites into an unpeeled grapefruit like an apple. "But here? It's fine. You stick around long enough and you'll make some serious cash. Goodell made almost five grand with the cruise ship thing."

Mona stares. "And Cap allows this?"

"Allows it? Who do you think made the first bet?" Nico points to where their illustrious captain is perusing the board with annoyance clinging to his shoulders like a cloak, muttering under his breath.

"Anytime Kinard pulls something like this, we wheel out the board," Dana says, coming to stand on Mona's other side, surveying the pandemonium.

"D-Did you place a bet?"

Nico snorts. "Dane's not allowed to bet anymore. She's dead on the money every time."

"Not every time," Dana demures.

"Okay, but no one could've seen the elephant tusk thing coming." At Mona's wild-eyed look, Nico clarifies, "poacher plane over Channel Island. Kinard brought it down."

With the way everyone's clustered around Donato and the board, holding various sticky pads in the air and waving them around, it looks like the stock market is crashing and everyone's about to dump their shares.

"Oh, speaking of." Dana scrapes at something under her thumbnail. "Did you change the sign?"

Nico says through a mouthful of rind, "I think Donato did."

"The sign?" Mona echoes faintly.

With a nail sharper than any of the steak knives in the communal kitchen, Dana points to the professionally made sign hanging next to the weight room door.

__ DAYS SINCE KINARD LAST TAUNTED GOD.

The '32' that had been sitting pretty at the front of it for the last month has been flipped back to '0'.

"T-This happens often enough for a sign?" Mona looks a little dizzy, and Dana wants to tell her that if she can't cope with a co-worker stealing municipal property and pissing off the government from time to time, she's probably not cut out for Los Angeles. But Captain Ribeiro suggested on Dana's last evaluation to keep her often-correct opinions to herself, if only to keep morale high, so she says nothing.

Nico does for her. "Ever since Kinard started seeing Buckley? Yeah."

"Buckley?"

"Human dalmatian and resident heroic dumbass at the 118," Dana explains. "He and Kinard have an on-again-off-again thing going on that threatens the populace on a bi-monthly basis. If they ever do manage to figure out their shit, it'll take out half the city."

Mona squints at the TV, where the AW139 goes into a perfect hammerhead before slipping past the Figueroa at Wilshire with the grace of a shadow, leaving the MH-6M floundering in mid-air, and everyone clustered around the board starts shouting and waving their sticky notes again.

"And this is.... on again?"

"At this point, no one knows or cares. Kinard has always been certifiable; he'd been looking for an excuse to get worse." Dana glances at the TV. The AW139 banks up, executes a textbook barrel roll, and then disappears out of the range of the KTLA's camera.

"Holy BLEEP, did you see that?!" Chris Wolf cries.

"It's a shame I never really got to talk to him much," Mona says, a little forlorn. "I would've loved to learn from him."

Nico turns a confused look on her. "You still can? He's not dead."

"I mean, he's gonna be arrested and fired, right?"

At that, Dana presses the backs of her fingers to her mouth to hide a chuckle. "Oh, Idol, you're sweet. Kinard'll gently bully that out of you when he's back on Tuesday."

[trashytracktales]

Heyy girliee, first of all I want to say that your writing is absolutely amazing. I’ve been reading your Lando fics for the past couple of days and “endings, beginnings” had me feeling butterflies in my stomach 🫢 I wanted to ask you if you could write something about lando and reader being friends but constantly having sexual tension building up between them. Maybe they flirt with each other but never think of it as something so serious and one night after a party they completely destroy each other. I fully trust you with this and how you’ll develop the story haha and don’t hold back. Thank youuu :*

Think twice | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Thank you so much for the love on Endings, beginnings & I appreciate you for taking the time to share this. Hope you like it 🤍🎀

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𐙚 summary ──── What starts as a chill party, where they sit in their old habits, ends with new boundaries crossed and a heavy tension they can no longer ignore.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, swearing, mentions of alcohol and drinking, friends to lovers, bit of jealous!Lando, smut, slight teasing, praising, fingering & oral (sit on it), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex.

𐙚 word count ──── 4.8k

𐙚 date ──── Jan. 21, 2025

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

THE TWO OF them are always standing next to each other, no matter the room they’re in. The context, just like the reason why this happens, is redundant. Plus, they don’t even do it on purpose; rather, they are unconsciously drawn to each other like two magnets.

The party has finally slowed to a lazy hum, the music just a tolerable background noise now. People linger in clusters around them, their voices a distant murmur blending with the faint bassline of a forgotten playlist. The living room is dim, lit mostly by the glow of a string of fairy lights drooping across the ceiling.

It was supposed to be a small gathering, but then a friend told a friend, and that friend told their friends. And now, it’s almost impossible to find a private spot to catch your breath without breathing someone else’s air.

Somehow, they did. They are tucked into the corner of a couch, their space a small bubble of comfort. Her legs are draped over his lap, bare skin warm against the fabric of his black jeans. He’s cradling her calf in one hand, his thumb absentmindedly stroking her skin.

Her fingers thread through his curls at the back of his head, twirling them lazily. It’s a casual gesture, but it sends a shiver through him every time she does it.

Their conversation shifted into easy gossiping about a mutual friend — someone they both think is trying a bit too hard with their Instagram posts.

“It’s fucking obvious he’s fishing for attention,” says Lando, sounding almost conspiratorial.

“I know, right? The cryptic ass captions, the mirror selfies. He thinks he’s smooth with it, too,” she replies, giggling at the thought.

Lando grins, his thumb still tracing circles on her leg. The banter feels safe, the kind of effortless connection they’ve always had. But underneath it, there’s a quiet tension that neither of them is ready to address. Because they are, maybe, a bit tipsy, or because none of them has ever had the courage to take it further, for some reason.

“Alright, I need to pee,” she announces suddenly, getting ready to stand.

But Lando tightens his grip on her legs, his lips twitching in a smirk. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” she insists, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “If I don’t go, I might pee on you.”

Lando shrugs, “Go ahead. Then I might discover a new kink,” he encourages her.

“New?” she laughs. “That implies you already have at least one.”

Lando winks at her without saying a word, the corners of his mouth curling into a mischievous smile.

She rolls her eyes, smiling back at his immature behavior. “My God. You’re actually the worst. Move.”

He doesn’t. Instead, Lando, just stares at her with an expression that’s visibly different. His usual playful gaze has shifted to something more intense, and she tells herself he’s just a little... intoxicated. Still, it makes her heart skip a beat, because he looks so adorable when his eyes focus on something so intently. And so hot, that it makes her almost forget why she wanted to get up in the first place.

“Lan, I’m not joking, I actually have to go,” she whispers, her voice softer now.

He exhales, loosening his grip but not before giving her leg a small, reluctant squeeze.

“Don’t get lost,” he says, the words carrying more weight than they should.

She shakes her head, slipping off the couch and disappearing into the hallway. Lando watches her go, his eyes trailing after her like he’s afraid she might actually not come back.

Which is ridiculous, because he should not care. There are lots of other girls that he can take home tonight if he wants to.

Want, being the keyword.

Leaning back against the couch, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s always known she was the embodiment of the perfect girl for him — funny, kind, and loyal. But tonight, there’s something else in the air that makes his mind wander. The way she carries herself, her laugh, the way she makes everything around her seem brighter.

Lando realized long ago that he wants to he in her presence. The truth hit him like a punch in the gut. And he still feels that punch sometimes, especially when he sees her interacting with other people. Especially men.

He’s had thoughts about her before. Many thoughts. Wild fantasies he brushed off as nothing more than fleeting curiosity. And they’ve joked about it, too, their drunken ‘if we’re single at 35’ pact a favorite running gag. But tonight, it doesn’t feel like a joke — he might actually marry her if she keeps letting him invade her personal space like that. Except she wouldn’t have let Lando do that if she didn’t want him there.

He finds himself smiling at his own thoughts. But then, an unwanted stiffness claws his body.

She’s on the way back when a guy leaning against the wall near the bathroom is blocking her path. He’s tall, too close for Lando’s liking, and he is gesturing animatedly. She’s always too polite, smiling as she talks, but Lando notices the way she shifts her weight, edging away slightly.

Something close to jealousy ignites in his chest, but he manages to tame the feeling by looking away, and forcing himself to take a slow sip of his drink. She can handle herself, he knows that. But he’s also ready to step in, just in case he needs to. Most men don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and he’s aware of how insistent some of them can be.

When she finally returns, Lando’s mood has shifted drastically, and she notices it the second she looks at him.

“Hey, you good?” she asks, plopping back down and swinging her legs over his lap again.

“Yeah,” he says shortly, his hand resuming its absent stroking on her shin.

Her brows knit together. “Not you lying to me. Come on, Landinho, what’s with you?”

“Nothing,” he insists, but his tone is clipped, and his eyes won’t quite meet hers.

She punches his arm lightly, trying to break through whatever wall he’s just put up. “You sure?”

He looks at her then, and the vulnerability in his gaze takes her breath away. “Sure,” he says. But his hand tightens slightly on her leg, like he’s holding onto her in more ways than one.

Her heart clenches. Lando is her friend, the one person she can always count on, but in this moment, she feels the air between them growing in different direction. It’s not the first time, and it doesn’t make her uncomfortable, but it’s not easy for her to sit in it, either.

“You’re being weird,” she states, trying to lighten the mood, but her voice wavers.

“Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, forcing a small smile. “Just tired,” adds Lando, but there’s something he hides behind his eyes, something that makes her chest ache.

She studies his face, her teasing words dying on her lips. His eyes are heavy-lidded, the usual spark dulled by the late hour and maybe one drink too many. His movements are slow, lazy, his thumb still caressing her skin.

“I can see that,” she says gently, sliding her legs off his lap. “Up. Come with me?”

The sudden loss of contact pulls him out of his haze, “Where?” asks Lando, his voice faintly slurred with exhaustion.

“Do you trust me?” she replies with a knowing smile, standing up and extending a hand to him. “My god, Lando. My friend gave me keys to one of the rooms upstairs in case I wanted to crash.”

He hesitates, glancing at her outstretched hand before finally letting out a soft laugh and taking it.

They make their way upstairs, the faint thump of music growing quieter with each step. The room isn’t far, tucked at the end of a hallway. She unlocks the door, revealing a small but cozy space. The room is dimly lit, with a single bedside lamp casting a muted glow over the single bed that’s pressed against one wall, a small dresser, and an armchair in the corner.

Lando steps in behind her, the faint hum of the party fading as the door clicks shut. His gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the space. She lingers by the door for a moment, turning the key with a soft click, locking them in; the sound feels final, and heavier than it should.

Lando notices the bed immediately, his eyes narrowing briefly before he rubs the back of his neck, a gesture that betrays his unease. His voice is low and uncertain as he says, “You know what, I can crash on the couch downstairs. It’s fine.”

She tilts her head, her lips curving into a small smile as she watches him fidget. “You can,” she agrees, knowing that Lando has the superpower to fall asleep anywhere, no matter the place or how loud the background noise is. “Unfortunately, I locked the door,” she adds with fake concern in her voice.

Lando glances at her, his expression caught somewhere between playful and wary. “Yeah. You can unlock it, though.”

“But I won’t,” she replies, her smile softening, her words carrying an unspoken challenge that Lando catches immediately.

His lips part, and for a moment, he says nothing, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Then, quietly, his voice dipping lower, he says, “Then don’t.”

His words linger between them, and she feels the weight of his gaze as it shifts to her. There’s no teasing in his expression now, no trace of the lighthearted Lando she’s used to.

She lets her arms fall to her side, her pulse quickening.

Lando’s chest rises and falls steadily, though there’s a tautness to his posture. His gaze darts back to the bed, then to her, and she swears she sees a flicker of something in his eyes — fear? Desire? Anticipation?

His jaw tightens, his eyes searching hers, and she feels the weight of everything left unsaid pressing down on them both. Every glance, every touch, every joke that lingered a second too long — it’s all there, bubbling to the surface.

The tension between them that has simmered for months, maybe even years, suddenly feels unbearable. Lando’s eyes meet hers once again, and the quiet resolve in her gaze breaks something inside him. And then, suddenly, a glance he catches from her it’s all it takes. The restraint he’s held onto for so long snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. Before he knows it, he’s closing the gap between them, his hands cupping her face as his lips crash against hers.

She responds instantly, her hands tangling in his curls as she pulls him closer. The kiss is all-consuming, months of buried feelings and unsaid words spilling out in a rush. It’s intoxicating, a heavy blend of alcohol and the faint sweetness of her cherry lip balm. His lips are soft, impossibly so, molding against hers like they were made to fit. The taste of him is dizzying, a perfect balance of warmth and want, and each movement of his mouth sends sparks of heat rippling through her.

It’s overwhelming, the way Lando kisses her — gentle, but with a growing intensity that leaves her breathless, her heart pounding as if it’s trying to match the rhythm of his. His fingers trail down to her neck, squeezing lightly and pulling her against him as they stumble backward toward the bed.

“Do you know how long—” he begins against her lips, his voice rough with need.

“Too long,” she cuts him off with another kiss while her fingers are rushing to tug at the hem of his shirt.

Lando groans as they tumble onto the bed. Their breaths are loud and uneven, filling the small space as their lips crash together again, need and desire fueling every movement. Her palm presses against the small of his back, coaxing him between her legs. He instinctively follows her guidance, his body lowering against hers until his forehead rests on hers. At that, Lando sighs, not with frustration but a soft exasperation that halts them both.

“Are we… okay?” he asks, half-amused and half-concerned. “We shouldn’t—we should not do this. Not like this.”

She doesn’t release him, her hands still on his sides, her legs loosely wrapped around him. “We are,” she assures him, her voice calm but insistent. “It’s just us, Lando.”

His brows furrow, his lips parting in disbelief. “I know. I just don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and—”

Her hands move to his face, cupping it firmly and forcing him to look directly at her. “Regret it?” the girl asks, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “Don’t be silly. You know this isn’t about tonight. I’ve wanted you for a while now. I know you do, too.”

His eyes flicker with something raw, and he swallows hard. “I do,” he agrees. “But. It’d be such a waste to mess it up.”

The weight of his confession settles over them, and he falls onto the mattress beside her. For a moment, they both stare up at the ceiling, their fingers brushing tentatively before intertwining. It’s quiet, save for the hum of the party faintly bleeding through the walls.

And then, “You’re such a good kisser, by the way,” she finally breaks the silence.

He lets out a chuckle, visibly affected. “You’re not making it any easier.”

“I’m already messed up because of you, Lan,” she confesses, turning onto her side, her fingers finding his arm and tracing slow patterns along its length. “I trust us. No matter the outcome.”

Her hand travels to his chest, her fingers brushing lightly over his collarbone before moving to his jaw. She traces the line of it, her touch light but electrifying. Finally, her thumb brushes over his bottom lip, her gaze following her movements so closely, as if she wants to devour him.

Their thoughts run wild, revisiting every stolen glance, the tension, the want — it’s always been there. Every moment brought them here.

And now?

“Do you, really?” asks Lando, his voice laced with curiosity.

She nods, her hands sliding down to rest over his, her fingers curling around his. “Completely. I trust us to figure it out as we go. Don’t you?”

He lets her words settle, a warmth spreading through his body. He does. But he still has to think twice before agreeing to something so drastic, especially when he is faced with something he wants so badly that it makes him burn with impatience.

Finally, Lando sighs, looking at her.

“It’s not a big deal, right?” she says with a quiet laugh, her voice tinged with both affection and relief. “We’ve always been good at just... being us.”

He smiles at that, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “That’s true. We’re pretty fucking great at that.”

Lando’s breathing hitches as she guides his hand to her ass, pressing it against her curves with an undeniable confidence. His grip tightens instinctively, and she drapes a leg over his waist, pulling herself closer. Their eyes lock, her fingers tracing his features, as if committing every contour to memory. They’ve never been so close to each other, and the intimacy of the moment makes his heart race, while hers almost melts under the warmth of his body.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he admits matter-of-factly.

Her lips curl into a faint smile. “Hopefully,” she whispers, her hand traveling south, to work on unbuttoning his jeans.

Lando swallows hard, his gaze darkening as he grips her tighter. “If I fuck you tonight…” his voice drops, laced with a possessiveness that makes her shiver. “I won’t be able to let another guy come anywhere near you again.”

Her eyebrows arch in surprise, finally able to put the pieces together, understanding why Lando was acting so strange earlier.

“Are you jealous, Lando?” she teases, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in her tone.

Lando’s response is silent; instead, he leans in, his lips finding the soft curve of her neck. He sucks lightly, then harder, leaving a blooming hickey that makes her gasp.

When he pulls back, his voice is firm, “No, I just want people to stay away from what’s mine.”

Her breath catches, and before she can stop herself, the word escapes her lips in a near-whisper. “Yours.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, but he doesn’t say anything, letting the intensity in his gaze speak for him. She pushes at his chest, making him fall back against the mattress with a soft laugh, and crawls on top of him, her thighs straddling his hips.

Impatiently, her hands work on his shirt, pushing it up his chest. “Off,” she demands, tugging until he lifts his arms and lets her pull it over his head.

His hands waste no time, slipping under her skirt and pulling at the lace of her panties. “These,” he says quickly, his breath warm against her collarbone, “are in my way.”

With a sharp pull, he slides them down her thighs, and she shivers as the cool air kisses her damp skin. She leans down, burying her face in the crook of his neck to hide her embarrassment as he guides her hips forward, her bare core pressing against the warmth of his abs. The firm ridges of muscle beneath her send a jolt of pleasure through her body, and she lets out a soft moan.

Lando’s hand tightens on her hip, his thumb brushing over her skin. “Look at that,” he breathes heavily, “What got you so excited, hm?”

She whimpers at his words, the heat pooling in her cheeks as much as between her thighs. “Don’t—” she mumbles into his neck, her voice muffled and shy.

He chuckles softly, the vibration of it against her skin making her shudder. “No, that’s so hot,” he teases, moving her hips just slightly so she drags against him. His own breath catches, and his hips shift upward, pressing the hardness of his length against her thigh. “You feel what you’re doing to me? It’s mutual.”

She lifts her head, her eyes meeting his as she lets her fingers trail down his chest. Next, she adjusts herself as her hand slides lower, brushing against the waistband of his pants before she pushes them down just enough to free him. His cock springs free, and she bites her lip at the sight of it, her own arousal growing as she reaches out to wrap her hand around him.

Lando groans, his head falling back against the pillow. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice rough and full of longing.

As she leans down to press her lips to his chest, her tongue flicking over his nipple, a sound escapes him that’s somewhere between a gasp and a moan. She glances up again, amused. “Well,” she teases, her voice playful but sultry, “I think I just found your new kink.”

Lando lets out a weak chuckle, his hand tangling in her hair as he pulls her back up to kiss her. “Shut up,” he speaks over her lips, but the way his hips buck against her hand tells her she’s right. “Everything you do is my kink,” he whispers, the rawness in his voice making her heart race.

Her cheeks flush a deeper shade, and with a playful glint in her eye, her hand squeezes his cock lightly, eliciting a sharp inhale from him. “Sorry,” she giggles, feigning innocence, “I just wanted to make sure.”

He scoffs, shaking his head with a smirk before his hands cup her ass firmly, pressing her harder against him. His voice is rough and dripping with need as he almost begs, “Come sit on my face.”

The unexpected plea is leaving her breathless, painting her face in confusion. “What?” she stammers, her voice nearly swallowed by the thrum of arousal coursing through her.

“Yeah, you heard me,” Lando assures her, his tone insistent, his eyes ablaze with anticipation.

Without waiting for her to argue, he pushes her skirt up around her waist, revealing the soft skin of her thighs, and pulls her closer to his face. She hesitates for a moment, her nerves warring with her desire, but when his strong hands guide her gently and his lips press a teasing kiss against her inner thigh, she gives in. The first swipe of his tongue against her entrance makes her gasp, her hand flying to the wall to steady herself.

Lando groans as he tastes her, the sound vibrating against her core and sending shockwaves through her body. One arm wraps tightly around her thigh, anchoring her to him, while his free hand drifts down to his cock, stroking himself in tandem with the rhythm of his tongue. Her moans spill into the air, mixing with his as Lando’s mouth works her over like a man starved, warm and wet and utterly relentless.

“Lan,” she breathes, her voice shaky as the intensity builds. Her hips jerk against his mouth instinctively, and he responds by pulling her even closer, burying his face deeper between her legs.

His tongue flicks, swirls, and presses in all the right places, and she can barely keep herself upright. She has to press both of her palms on the wall, but even then it’s not enough to keep her grounded. Not when Lando laps at her clit, his fingers digging into her thighs to keep her still as her body begins to tremble.

“You taste so fucking good,” he informs her between strokes of his tongue, his words muffled but clear enough to make her toes curl.

As her breaths turn shallow and erratic, she feels the pressure coiling tightly in her abdomen. Lando senses it, too, and his grip tightens, his movements growing more fervent. “Wanna come for me?” he asks as impatient as she is.

Before she can even process his question, her climax crashes into her like a tidal wave, her thighs trembling around his head as her moans echo through the room. Lando doesn’t stop, his mouth and tongue coaxing her through every pulse and tremor until she’s gasping for air.

In one swift, effortless motion, he pulls her down onto the bed and flips her over, positioning himself above her. His lips are slick, his gaze heavy-lidded with lust as he pumps two fingers into her, the wet heat of her still clenching around him.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his thumb brushing against her sensitive clit as his fingers curl inside. “Let me feel you.”

Her body arches off the bed as another wave of pleasure crests over her, Lando’s name spilling from her lips in breathless cries. The sheer intensity of his touch and the quickness of it all leave her spinning, her mind barely able to keep up as he drives her over the edge once more.

By the time her breathing begins to steady, Lando leans down, his lips brushing hers in a lingering kiss, tasting her satisfaction on his tongue. He grins against her mouth, utterly smug but entirely captivated.

“See how fucking delicious you are?” he whispers, and she can only nod, still lost in the aftermath of him unraveling her completely.

Seeing the pleasure etched across her face, Lando can barely hold it together. His hands tremble slightly as he shoves his jeans and boxers down for good, freeing himself at last. His cock, heavy and flushed, rests against her thigh, the warmth of her skin giving him goosebumps. He breathes heavily, his chest rising and falling in sync with hers as he pauses for just a moment, meeting her gaze with a mix of vulnerability and pure lust.

“Are we really gonna do this?” asks Lando, his voice hiding too much desire under its raspy tone.

His eyes search hers, looking for any hint of doubt. Luckily, there is none. She just nods frantically, her hands sliding down his back to cup the firm muscles of his ass.

Her touch sends electricity through him, and she guides him where she needs him most, her body arching in anticipation. “I want you. Please.”

Without breaking eye contact, he sinks into her, and the world stops for both of them. His head falls forward, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he feels her warmth envelop him, her slick heat drawing him in effortlessly. Her body opens for him so easily, so perfectly, that it steals his breath. The tension that had coiled tightly in her frame melts away as her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer.

Her arms encircle his shoulders, holding him tightly while she gasps Lando’s name. Her voice is music to his ears, and he presses his forehead against hers, the connection between them both overwhelming, yet grounding. Her fingers slide into his curls, playing with the strands at the nape of his neck as her hips shift instinctively, adjusting to his size.

“God, you feel…” he trails off, unable to find the words. Instead, he lets his body speak for him, drawing back before thrusting forward again. His movements are purposeful and powerful, each one making the bed creak slightly beneath them and pushing her up and down the sheets.

Her lips part with soft cries, her fingers tightening in his hair as her body meets each of his thrusts. “Lando,” she moans, her voice full of need and adoration, spurring him on. “Yes, that feels so good. Don’t stop.”

He catches her mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing her sounds as his hands wander over her body. His fingers hook under the hem of her t-shirt, and he tugs it upward, breaking the kiss momentarily to pull it over her head. The sight of her bare skin, flushed and glistening, takes his breath away. Her breasts are adorned with black lace, and the contrast against her skin ignites something primal in him.

“Stunning,” says Lando just as his hand drifts to her chest, brushing over the delicate fabric.

The way she arches into his touch, her nails scraping lightly against his shoulders, drives him wild. His thrusts deepen, his hips moving with purpose as the room fills with the sounds of their bodies meeting, her moans, and his ragged breaths.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps. His jaw clenches as he feels her tightening around him. “You’re killing me. So tight and—”

Before he can finish, she pulls him into a kiss. It’s shallow, their lips barely meeting as they breathe each other’s air. Her nails dig into his back, her legs trembling as she holds him as close as humanly possible.

“You’re so good, Lando,” she murmurs, her voice quivering, her praise like gasoline on his fire. “My favorite boy.”

Her words send him over the edge of control, his hips stuttering as he thrusts deep inside her, feeling her walls begin to flutter and clench around his cock. Her back arches, her head burying into the pillow as her orgasm crashes over her like a tidal wave. Again.

Her moans are unfiltered, and she clutches him like he’s her lifeline, while Lando stills inside her, groaning low and long as her body grips him so tightly that knocks the air out of his lungs. He presses his forehead against her chest, their breaths hurried as her aftershocks pulse around him so sweetly. Her nails scrape lightly down his back, grounding them both, continuing to whisper his name like a prayer.

It’s enough for Lando to surrender to his own orgasm, his body trembling as wave after wave of release takes him over. He stays buried inside her, unwilling to part just yet. The warm tightness around him makes him shudder, his hand gripping her thigh to anchor himself.

When he finally pulls out, he hesitates before pressing his knee between her legs, feeling the slick warmth of their combined arousal smearing against his skin. She squirms against him, her overstimulated body trembling, her hips shifting involuntarily as aftershocks ripple through her.

Lando watches her, his eyes dark with satisfaction, his voice husky as he whispers, “Forget 35. Let’s get married tomorrow.”

She exhales sharply, a laugh bubbling out of her. “I’m down,” she teases, her tone light but affectionate. “Let’s book the venue now.”

He looks at her, gaze softening, filled with something deeper as he reaches behind her and, with one measured motion, unclasps her bra. The suddenness of it catches her off guard, her eyes widening as he tosses it aside like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Before she can say a word, Lando leans over the side of the bed, fishing for his shirt. He finds it, holding it up, then tugging it over her head, the oversized fabric swallowing her frame.

“Perfect fit,” he says softly, his fingers brushing against her arms as he helps her adjust it. The gesture makes her chest tighten, her heart swelling with an ache she doesn’t fully understand yet.

After that, Lando slides back into his boxers and pulls the covers over both of them. The bed is small, forcing their bodies to press together in a tangle of limbs. It doesn’t feel awkward, though. It feels like a new home, safe and peaceful.

He rests his head on her chest, his breath warm and steady against her, while his hand absently caresses her through the fabric of his shirt, his fingers brushing over her nipple. Everything about the moment feels somehow so normal, like they’ve been this way forever.

The silence stretches on, so comforting, until she suddenly breaks it with a soft groan. “I have to pee again.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[ellswritings]

Undercover Heat

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

TW: Regular Criminal Minds violence, mentions of blood, death, and gore, suggestive content at the end (no smut), a bit of foul language, enemies to lovers, Hotch is kind of a meanie.

��»————-　➴　————-««

Sitting in the Los Angeles police station for the third day in a row has the entire team from the B.A.U stretched thin and exhausted. They’ve been dealing with a serial killer who targets couples with large age gaps in upscale, luxury clubs. He’s taken out three couples in the past three weeks. Tension was thick in the air, the exhaustion from long hours spent hunting a brutal unsub weighing on each of them.

Y/N runs a hand over her face in irritation as she leans on Morgan’s shoulder. They’ve been driving themselves crazy trying to figure out who this killer is. They’ve gone to multiple different clubs asking if anyone has seen a man between ages 35-50 who tends to sit at the bar people watching rather than engaging in the night’s festivities. But the regulars and employees said they hadn’t seen anything. Their unsub has been strangling his victims in the luxury clubs before dumping their bodies exactly two miles away in very particular positions. They’ve all been found in public spaces. But so far, they were missing something.

Hotch stood at the front of the room, flipping through the latest crime scene photos as Rossi and Morgan finished pinning the map with the last locations of the attacks. Y/N sat across from Reid, skimming through her notes as she analyzed the patterns. With an IQ of 179, a doctorate in criminology and psychology, two master’s degrees in chemistry and law, and a B.A. in history and human resources, her mind rarely rested. She could also fluently converse in four languages—French, Russian, German, and Spanish—which had come in handy countless times in the field. Despite her vast knowledge and sharp instincts, this case had left her unsettled. Something was off, and they hadn’t cracked it yet.

Rossi broke the silence. “We’ve been over this already. The unsub is hitting clubs that cater to the upper class, targeting couples with large age gaps. But there’s still a piece we’re missing. Why these clubs? Why these victims?”

Morgan crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “This guy knows how to pick his victims, that’s for sure. But he’s not choosing randomly—there’s gotta be something more connecting these places.”

Y/N frowned, glancing between the case files and the map. “It’s not just about wealth. These clubs aren’t the most high-profile ones in the city, and they’re spread out across the area.”

Reid tapped his pen against the table. “It’s true. They’re not clustered in one neighborhood, and they don’t have a shared ownership group or any overt connections that we’ve found.”

Emily Prentiss nodded from her spot at the edge of the table, deep in thought. “What about the victims? They’re all couples with significant age differences. That’s part of his ritual, but it doesn’t explain why he’s picking these clubs.”

Y/N was staring at the list of clubs they’d canvassed earlier: Ascend, Bourbon Room, Cielo. She narrowed her eyes, something beginning to click in her mind. “Hold on…”

“What is it?” Hotch asked, noticing her shift in focus.

Y/N sat up straighter, her voice thoughtful. “The clubs… they’re in alphabetical order. Look—Ascend, Bourbon Room, Cielo. He’s not just picking random spots. He’s following a sequence.”

Reid’s eyes lit up in realization. “You’re right. It’s subtle, but it makes sense. This kind of obsessive order suggests a particular form of OCD—a need to control every element of his actions. It’s not about the clubs themselves; it’s about the order they fall into.”

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, impressed. “Damn. This guy’s not just a killer—he’s a full-on control freak.”

Hotch nodded, his expression serious. “If he’s following an alphabetical pattern, we can anticipate his next move. What’s the next club in line?”

Y/N flipped through the files, pulling out the next likely target. “‘DeVane.’ It’s upscale, fits the profile of where he’s been targeting couples. If he’s keeping to this pattern, that’s where he’ll strike next.”

JJ stepped forward, pointing at the map. “Alright. So we’ve got the next location. Now we just need to draw him out.”

Rossi’s eyes light up with an idea as he looked between Y/N and Hotch, “Well, we know the unsub’s got a thing for couples with big age gaps. Looks like we need a decoy.”

Before anyone could react, Morgan’s gaze landed squarely on Y/N, mischief dancing behind his eyes, “And we’ve got the perfect couple right here.”

Y/N blinked, momentarily stunned. “Wait, hold on, what?”

Emily, catching onto Morgan and Rossi’s plan, chuckled. “He’s right, you know. You and Hotch fit the profile. It’d be perfect.”

Y/N stared, incredulous, before glancing toward Hotch. The man was stone-faced, as usual, but she could feel the tension rise between them. “You want me to pretend to be in a relationship with him?”

Morgan shrugged, his smile widening. “Well, you’re 23, Hotch is… not 23. The age gap fits perfectly.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, frustration building. “You’re seriously suggesting that Hotch and I—two people who can barely tolerate each other—pretend to be a couple?”

Hotch didn’t even look up from his files. “We’re professionals. We can set aside our differences for this.”

Y/N let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Set aside our differences? Hotch, we can’t even get through a team meeting without arguing over strategy. How do you expect us to pull off a believable relationship?”

Prentiss leaned in, smirking. “You two do argue like an old married couple already.”

Y/N threw her a sharp look. “That’s not funny.”

JJ chimed in, trying to defuse the tension. “Look, I know this is uncomfortable, but we need to catch this guy before he kills again. You two are the best option we have.”

Y/N shook her head, frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t just about being uncomfortable. We have to convince the unsub that we’re a legitimate couple—he’s going to notice every detail. And we’re not exactly… compatible.”

Hotch finally spoke up, his tone calm but firm. “We don’t have to like each other to do our jobs, L/N. We just have to be convincing enough to lure the unsub in.”

Y/N stared at him, arms crossed tightly. “Convincing? You and I can barely stand to be in the same room. How do you expect us to sell a romantic relationship?”

Morgan chuckled from the side. “Come on, L/N, you’re one of the smartest people I know. With that IQ and all those degrees, you can figure this out.”

Y/N shot him a glare. “I have a doctorate in criminology and psychology, a master’s in law and chemistry, and a B.A. in history and human resources. None of those degrees cover ‘pretending to like your boss who you can’t stand.’”

Rossi stepped in, his tone more diplomatic. “Look, we wouldn’t ask you to do this if we didn’t think you could handle it. This guy’s escalating, and we need to act fast. You and Hotch are the best team for this.”

Y/N sighed, clearly frustrated but recognizing the urgency. She looked over at Hotch, who met her gaze with that same impassive expression. “Fine,” she muttered. “But for the record, I still think this is a terrible idea.”

Hotch gave a curt nod. “Noted.”

»»————-　➴　————-««

Y/N stood in front of the mirror, eyeing the skimpy red dress that Emily had insisted she wear for this undercover mission. The fabric clung to her figure, accentuating every curve. The slit on the side revealed a generous portion of her thigh, leaving just enough room to conceal her gun but not much else to the imagination. The sweetheart neckline plunged dangerously low, exposing far more cleavage than she was used to. She felt exposed, vulnerable—but Emily had been insistent.

“Trust me,” Emily had said with a wicked grin. “You’ll knock them dead.”

Y/N took a deep breath and adjusted the neckline again, trying to reconcile the professional part of her brain with the woman staring back at her in the mirror. She wasn’t usually the type to use her looks to her advantage, but tonight was different. Tonight, the mission came first.

She stepped out into the hallway where the rest of the team was waiting. The moment she appeared, Morgan’s eyes widened, and he let out an appreciative whistle. “Damn, Y/N, you trying to kill the unsub or us?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “It’s not that bad.”

Morgan grinned, his gaze trailing over her in a playful, non-threatening way that only a close friend could get away with. “If this guy doesn’t fall for the bait, Lord knows I will,” he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth making Y/N slap his chest.

Emily stepped up beside Morgan, her eyes lighting up with approval. “See? I told you that dress would be perfect. You look like a total bombshell.”

Y/N glanced down at herself, smoothing the fabric over her hips. “Yeah, well, I feel like I’m about to flash someone.”

Emily shrugged, unfazed. “That’s kind of the point.”

Morgan shot her a wink. “You’re gonna break hearts tonight, sweetheart. Just make sure it’s the right one.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered toward Hotch, who had been silent since she entered the room. His gaze was locked on her, but he wasn’t saying anything. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way he looked at her that made her stomach tighten.

He quickly glanced away when she caught him staring, clearing his throat. “We need to focus on the mission.”

“Right.” Y/N nodded, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in her chest. She wasn’t here to impress anyone—least of all Aaron Hotchner. He was too serious, too controlled. While Y/N on the other hand tends to handle the job by hiding behind a wall of humor and sarcasm, something Hotch hates. They’d never gotten along. This was strictly business.

Still, as they walked out to the car, she couldn’t help but feel Hotch’s presence looming next to her. He hadn’t said a word about the dress, but the way his eyes had lingered on her—particularly on her cleavage—hadn’t gone unnoticed. It was like he was trying not to look, but failing miserably.

By the time they arrived at the club, Y/N’s nerves had settled somewhat. The loud thrum of music pulsed through the walls as they approached the entrance, and she straightened her spine, trying to adopt the confident persona they needed for the night.

“Okay,” she murmured as they stepped through the door. “We need to sell this. So maybe try not looking like a statue,” she grumbles lowly.

Hotch, staying ever stoic, gave a curt nod. “I know.”

But Y/N wasn’t convinced. Hotch’s body language screamed discomfort. His shoulders were rigid, his movements stiff, and he had the expression of someone being dragged to an event they wanted no part of.

She leaned in closer to him, keeping her voice low. “Hotch, you’re going to blow this if you don’t relax. We’re supposed to be a couple.”

“I’m relaxed,” Hotch said, though the tension in his jaw told a different story.

Y/N huffed in frustration. “You look like you’re about to interrogate someone, not go dancing with your girlfriend.”

Hotch shot her a look. “I’m here to catch the unsub, not dance.”

“You’re here to catch the unsub by pretending to be my boyfriend,” Y/N whispered fiercely. “Right now, you’re not doing a very good job of that.”

Hotch’s expression remained impassive, but Y/N could sense the faintest hint of annoyance in his eyes. “What do you suggest?”

“Start by putting your arm around me,” she said through gritted teeth. “Couples don’t walk into clubs two feet apart.”

Hotch hesitated, then slipped his arm around her waist. It was awkward at first, his hand hovering as if he wasn’t sure where to put it. But Y/N pressed into him slightly, encouraging him to pull her closer. After a moment, his grip tightened, and they moved deeper into the crowded club.

They found their way to the dance floor, where couples swayed and ground against each other in the dim, pulsating lights. Y/N turned to Hotch, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of their target. They had to blend in.

“Follow my lead,” she said softly.

Hotch nodded, though the tightness in his posture remained.

Y/N began to move to the music, her body swaying in time with the beat. Hotch tried to follow her movements, but he was stiff, almost robotic. She bit back a sigh and leaned into him, pressing her body against his as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“We’ve got eyes on us,” she whispered in his ear, her lips brushing against the skin just below. “Black hoodie, sitting alone at the bar. You need to make this believable. Stop acting like I have some incurable disease.”

Hotch’s hands found her hips, his grip firm but hesitant. Y/N could feel the tension radiating off him, but she kept moving, her body fluid and sensual as she ground against him. Their bodies remain close, she spins around pressing her ass against crotch, and for a moment, she felt his breath hitch.

“You’re too stiff,” she murmured, leaning her head back, her lips grazing the shell of his ear. “Relax.”

Hotch’s hands tightened on her hips as he tried to match her rhythm. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders began to ease, and he pulled her closer, his breath now becoming warm against her neck.

“That’s better,” Y/N whispered, her voice low and teasing.

Hotch’s hands moved more confidently now, gripping her hips with a possessive strength that sent a shiver down her spine. Y/N’s heart raced as she tilted her head slightly, brushing her lips against the skin of his neck. She trails kisses up and down his skin, nibbling at the soft spot that connects his shoulder to his neck. She turns back around, running her hands through his raven black hair, tugging on the strands which ends up pulling a small groan from Hotch’s lips. The music and atmosphere of the club seems to have pulled them in much deeper than they thought. It’s getting harder to breathe the closer they stay.

“We’ve got his attention,” she murmured, her lips ghosting along the curve of his jaw. She fights off every urge to leave a mark. “He hasn’t looked away for the past five minutes.”

Without warning, Y/N moves her attention from his neck and kisses him, her lips pressing against his in a way that was both soft and urgent. Hotch froze for a split second, but then his hands gripped her waist, pulling her even closer as he deepened the kiss. He’ll probably scold her for the unprofessional action later, but they need to keep this guys attention if this is going to work.

It was electric, the tension between them igniting in a way neither of them had anticipated. Hotch’s hand moves upward, gripping the back of her head. If her eyes were open, they’d be rolling into the back of her head with the way he’s dominating her. Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest as she kissed him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. For a moment, it didn’t feel like an act.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their eyes locked. Hotch’s expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—something Y/N couldn’t quite place.

“He’s hooked,” Y/N whispered, her voice breathless. “We need to get him somewhere more secluded. Before he hurts someone else.”

Hotch nodded, his grip on her waist still tight as they made their way toward the exit. Once outside, the cool night air hit them, and Y/N quickly scanned the area, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of the moment. She can’t see if the unsub followed them. The only light illuminating the area around them being the moon.

“We need to keep making this look real,” Y/N murmured as they moved toward a shadowed alley. “Just in case he’s still watching.”

Without warning, Hotch spun her around and pinned her against the wall, his body pressing into hers. One of his hands is still tight on her hip, the other one shooting up to her neck, squeezing it slightly to hold her in place. Y/N’s breath catches in her throat as Hotch’s eyes visibly darken.

“Is this believable enough for you?” Hotch whispers, his voice low and rough in her ear.

Y/N swallowed hard, enjoying the tiny amount of pressure on her throat. “Yeah… that’ll do.”

They stood like that for a few moments, their bodies pressed together in the darkness. Hotch plants open mouthed kisses from her cheek all the way down to her neck and across her chest, the neckline allowing him much needed access. Y/N sucks in a shaky breath, still waiting for any sign of the unsub. She could feel the tension between them, the heat radiating off Hotch’s body as he held her against the wall.

Suddenly, movement caught her eye. The unsub stepped out of the shadows, his gaze locked on them. Y/N’s instincts kicked in immediately. She shoved Hotch to the side, spinning around to face the unsub as he lunged at her.

In one swift motion, Y/N ducked under his arm, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back. The unsub let out a grunt of pain as she swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.

Hotch was by her side in an instant, helping to restrain the unsub as they waited for backup to arrive.

When it was all over, Y/N stood there, breathing heavily, her heart still pounding from the adrenaline. She glanced over at Hotch, who was watching her with an unreadable expression.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft but steady.

Y/N nodded, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Hotch’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he looked away, his expression unreadable once again. “Good work.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile, despite the tension still thrumming between them. “Thanks. You weren’t so bad yourself.”

As they waited for the team to arrive, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. The mission might have been over, but the tension between her and Hotch was far from resolved.

»»————-　➴　————-««

Y/N barely made it through the door of her hotel room before she kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief. Her feet ached from the hours spent in the club, and all she wanted was to peel off the red dress that clung to her like a second skin, take a long shower, and crash for the night. The team had successfully apprehended the unsub, and they’d earned a few hours of sleep before their early flight back to Quantico.

As she reached for the zipper at the back of her dress, a commanding knock on her door stopped her mid-motion. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was late, far past the time she expected anyone on the team to come knocking. Confusion settled in her chest as she moved toward the door, wondering if someone had an emergency or a last-minute update about the case.

When she opened the door, the sight that greeted her sent her heart racing.

Hotch stood there, but not like the composed, stoic team leader she was used to seeing. His tie was loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and his usually slicked-back hair had a slightly tousled look, as if he’d been running his hands through it. But it wasn’t just his disheveled appearance that threw her off—it was the way his dark eyes flickered with something raw, something he was barely holding back.

He looked… frazzled, but not in a scared or anxious way. No, this was different. It was the kind of frazzled that spoke of barely-contained desire, the kind that made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff.

Her heart skipped a beat as his eyes swept over her, lingering on the red dress she was still wearing. His gaze darkened, his jaw tightening for a split second before he quickly looked back up at her face. But not quickly enough.

“Hotch?” she asked, her voice uncertain, her brows knitting together in confusion. “What are you doing here? It’s late—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Hotch stepped forward, forcing her to take a step back. He shut the door behind him with a firm push, the click of the lock sending a shiver down her spine. His entire presence was overwhelming, the space between them growing smaller with each passing second.

“Why are you still in that dress?” he asked, his voice low and rough, his gaze once again dipping to the neckline of her dress. It wasn’t a question borne out of curiosity; it was an accusation, a demand.

Y/N blinked, completely thrown off by the intensity in his eyes, the tension radiating off him in waves. “I—I just got back. I didn’t have time to—”

But before she could explain further, Hotch took another step forward, backing her up against the wall. His hands were braced on either side of her head, caging her in. The heat of his body was intoxicating, the scent of his cologne filling her senses.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice a low growl, “what the hell were you thinking?”

Y/N’s heart was racing now, her breath hitching as she stared up at him. His face was inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin. “What are you talking about?”

“The kiss,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “The way you touched me. What were you trying to do?”

Y/N’s lips parted in shock, her mind spinning. This wasn’t an interrogation—not really. This was something else, something charged with an energy she couldn’t ignore.

“I was trying to sell the cover,” she replied, her voice faltering slightly, though she stood her ground. “We had to be convincing.”

Hotch’s eyes flashed with something dangerous. “Convincing? You were doing a hell of a lot more than that.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as his words hung between them, thick with implication. The way he was looking at her, the way his body pressed so close to hers, sent heat pooling in her stomach. She could feel the tension crackling between them, making it harder to breathe, harder to think.

“What are you trying to say?” she asked, her voice quieter now, her heart pounding in her chest.

Hotch’s gaze bore into hers, his voice dangerously soft. “You know exactly what I’m saying.”

Y/N clenched her fists at her sides, trying to regain control of the situation, of herself. But the way Hotch was staring at her, the way his body was crowding her against the wall, made it nearly impossible to think straight.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“You didn’t do anything wrong?” Hotch’s voice was thick with disbelief, and he leaned in even closer, his lips hovering near her ear. “You kissed your superior, L/N. You pushed yourself against me like a dirty whore. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Y/N felt her pulse quicken, her skin tingling where his breath brushed against her ear. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to push him away or pull him closer. The heat between them was suffocating, and her body reacted in ways she couldn’t control.

“You kissed me back,” she shot back, trying to hold on to some semblance of control, even as her voice wavered.

Hotch’s hand slid down the wall, his fingers brushing against her arm, sending a shockwave of electricity through her. His lips were so close to her neck now, she could feel the warmth of them, but he didn’t touch her—at least, not yet.

“You want to talk about what I did?” His voice was a husky whisper. “Or do you want to talk about why you did it in the first place?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her heart racing. “What are you trying to get at, Hotch?”

“I’m trying to figure out what was going through your mind,” he said, his eyes dark with intensity. “You could’ve made it believable without kissing me like that. But you didn’t.”

Y/N’s skin flushed, and she fought to stay composed. “I did what I had to do to keep the cover intact. That’s it.”

Hotch’s lips twisted into a smirk that sent a ripple of heat through her. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?”

Her pulse was in her throat now, and she couldn’t ignore the way her body responded to his nearness, the way her mind spun every time his breath ghosted over her skin.

“You’re trying to act like you don’t care,” Hotch murmured, his voice low, predatory. “But you can’t stand it, can you? You’re as affected by this as I am.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, and she pressed her palms flat against the wall behind her, trying to ground herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You may be able to lie to yourself,” Hotch said softly, his hand brushing over her side, sending a shockwave of heat through her. “But you can’t lie to me.”

Y/N’s heart was pounding in her chest, her breathing uneven as the tension between them became unbearable. Every inch of her body was attuned to his, and the more they fought, the stronger the pull between them became.

“Maybe it’s you who can’t handle it,” Y/N shot back, her voice shaky, but defiant. “Maybe you’re the only one who’s affected.”

Hotch’s eyes darkened even further, and without warning, his lips crashed against hers, all of the tension, all of the pent-up frustration between them exploding in that moment.

Y/N gasped into the kiss, her body melting into his as his hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him. A certain wetness pools between her legs as his thigh spreads her legs apart. She grounds herself against him as the kiss builds. It’s fierce, heated, and Y/N can’t stop herself, her hands tangling in his hair as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

It was overwhelming—the way his body pressed into hers, the way his lips moved against hers, demanding more. She could feel the heat between them building, igniting something deep within her that she couldn’t suppress.

For a moment, everything else faded away. The mission, the team, the rules—they all disappeared, leaving only the fire that burned between them.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other as they tried to regain control.

“This is a bad idea,” Y/N whispered, her voice breathless.

Hotch’s hand slid up her arm, his fingers brushing against her neck. “I know.”

But neither of them made a move to stop.

[careyakane]

2:05 pm - Lock Haven PA

Gun shops, 12 quart woodsheds releasing maple and oak into a winter sky. Corn rows frozen in until spring releases them with her warm hands and rains. Clusters of cows surrounding feed bins, farmers born here to die here. Kii and owl stripping back the sources of their rage and tendencies of their love brought about by absent qualities in their young mothers. Ten hours to go and then twenty five more after Tennessee before we will see the fires that hold Los Angeles and in it our home…. Freedom for a few days in the expanse of this beautiful country as our grand chariot (an 09 mercury) speeds west. In the brief time we will drive past a thousand opinions, past a thousand dreams that fell to silence in the heads of good people, we will trade brief conversations with our hopeful eyes and eager banter as we drive back to the lives we carve for ourselves out of time and ideals, such solid material they seem. We sing songs of our sufferings and we grow accustomed to our joys. — Back to the road.

[mad-maximoff]

𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵 1- 𝘔𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵

Sum: Mack Flores had always found the underbelly of society comforting. Mack works in a nightclub as a bartender. She has many friends, but not as special as Star. A 57 year-old hooker, who Mack has a little crush on. Mack wants her to quit, but Star has no other choice until Mack makes the choice for them both that'll alter their lives forever.

Warnings: *Warnings will be announced for each chapter*, language, smoking

Word Count: 4,424

Wattpad link AO3

2 AM never came so quickly. Yeah, I hated cleaning up the bar but goddamn, tonight was a cluster of new 21-year-olds from hell. Was I ever that bad? Hell, I can't talk. I'm only 23 but I feel ancient next to these fresh-faced babies.

"Yo, Mack!" My boss, Trina, was a real hippie. A 62-year-old biker chick in a skirt turned the corner of the bar coming down the small flight of stairs from her office. "Yo, Trina!" I mimicked back, it always irked her. She chuckled leaning over the bar counter. "You wanna get outta here? You can leave if you want, I can finish storing the bottles away." Her question perked my head from the counter as I crouched down and wiped a mysterious sticky liquid off the cupboard. "Hell yeah!" I bolted adjusting my belt. "Now, now. Before you go and fuck off, go take the trash out. Then you can fly away." I sighed but knew I did not want to stay longer than I had to. My boots scuffed the floor as I dragged my body to the very thing I despised most. The trash. It was sticky and a mixture of every alcohol and the flies would come out of nowhere. I quickly tied it into a knot and lifted it slowly fearing the worst of the glass clinking.

Jesus what a night...

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Los Angeles. Beautiful this time of year. When I first moved to the States from Canada, I always knew when the weather changed back home. Here, I had to make heads or tales. Though, I knew it was fall. I wasn't sweating to death at 2 am, nor was I freezing to death. I was quite content walking home. The club I worked at was on the Hollywood strip. My apartment complex was a few blocks away. It was as though my apartment was in the middle of everything. Tourists, walk of fame, and Fig street. I often found I would rather walk Figueroa than be around a bunch of tourists taking pictures of gum on a star. That, and I get to see my own star walking so famously. Shining more brightly than any star in the Chinese Theatre. Star. I waited for her at the corner of Fig as I lit a cigarette. A few girls passed me, asking if I wanted company. Another asked for a light or match. I often carry a few matchbooks in my bag. A few tampons and condoms as well. I hand them out like I'm Oprah. Star taught me that. The girls appreciate it. A few knew me by name, perhaps by knowing Star or maybe I have served them once before.

"Yoo-hoo! Starry-girl!" I hollered as the prettiest blonde stepped out of a red brick building adjusting her fur cheetah print coat. Faux, of course, she would never been seen in real fur. She's a real animal activist.

"Miss Mack Flores! Now what have I told you about waiting up for me?" Star's 6-inch heels clicked along the concrete. Star held herself up proudly, her white cream-coloured purse with a gold chain bounced against her hip. "Haha, I didn't I just got here. Tri cut me early. So, I figured I'd come find you." I matched with Star's pace. Her strides were longer than mine. Not just because of the heels but also because she was 2 inches taller than me.

Every time I saw Star there was always something new I never noticed. Today, I noticed the way the muscles in her hand moved as she flinched her knuckles. Her dainty fingers looked soft, her nails were still painted in the shade of red nail polish I got her for Christmas last year. It was Nars in the shade Chinatown.

Star huffed while she held her tightly tied corset. It was a staple in her normal wardrobe. It was a dark cream colour with a thin black outline around the chest, the strings were black tied up in the back. She wore skin colour garter pantyhose with a fine lace trim around her thighs."That's Trina for you. She makes you stay late and makes you worry, then decides to cut you."

"Come on Star, she means well." I pursed my lips against the cigarette, exhaling out and flicking the ash behind us.

"Mack, you think everyone means well. I've known Trina for years, I swear that woman is Bipolar. One minute she's happy and in a joking mood, then some minor inconvenience ticks her off and everyone's a target. Fuck, am I starving." Star halted as she looked around. "You wanna go for Greg's? I want tomato soup and coffee." Star rummaged through her purse whisking out a 20. "I'll pay this round huh?"

"No. I'm paying. Keep your cash." I nudged her as we crossed the street. "Mack come off it, I get you try to act like the strong and silent masculine lesbian here but let me pay for once. I feel like you're paying me for nothing." Star's hand dipped into mine as the traffic lights allowed us to walk. At first, I thought she wanted to hold my hand until her hand touched her lips with my cigarette stolen from my hand. I overthought that through.

"Darlin', you're off the clock. You don't need to do anything for me when I offer to pay." I pulled my leather jacket away from my body to adjust the collar. "Nothing huh? Well, I can just be your best friend for the night then huh?" I reached first for the door of Greg's diner, letting Star go first. "Always Star. That's free."

I met Star when I was 18 about 5 years ago when I first moved to LA. She was 52 at the time. I met Trina before I met Star. Trina got me a job at the nightclub as a bus girl at first, I moved up to a waitress then when I turned 21, I got to become a full-time bartender. I was working my first shift as a bartender, the place was packed. Everyone's face began to blur 2 hours in until I saw Star. She was glowing, with these little metallic star stickers on her cheeks. She had some lanky, baby-faced boy attached to her at the hip. Asking for a glass of white wine and a bottle of beer. We both chatted up and the man-child got angry. I didn't realize what line of work Star was in until I heard the man-child's words. 'Honey, I paid for 2 hours! You wanna stop showing off and start blowing me off?!' I got mad over the way he grabbed Star's arm. I never leaped over a counter faster than I did that night. Charging at him, practically throwing him into a table with a couple of punches in. Star got her money and stayed near me the rest of the night. We became friends instantly. Funnily enough, we also found out as I offered to walk her home that were lived in the same apartment complex. We lived three doors away from each other. It was as though we meant to know each other.

"You want our usual spot Honey-bun?" Star's heels made a strange noise as the ground changed from cement to brown lament. Greg's Diner was our usual hangout. Though, Greg's was Star's thing before it became mine. The upholstery on each seat was red velour from the 80s. So worn down from years of use and burnt from cigarette holes. I swear this is the only and last place you could smoke inside in Los Angeles.

Star rushed over to our usual booth. Nestled in the corner of the diner. Star liked it because she could watch her surroundings, I liked it for another reason. I sat across from Star. I had no distractions other than to stare at her. Watch how she constantly fixes her hair, thinking it isn't perfect even though the way I saw it, her hair already was. Star was perfect. Everything about her was anything but perfection. Except...for the elephant in the room. Her job.

"You see they got new waiters? Young huh?" Star adjusted herself in the booth, peeling off her fur coat from her peachy-toned shoulders. She had more freckles on her shoulders than normal. I kept begging her to wear at least a dime-sized amount of sunscreen. It fell on deaf ears. Don't get me wrong, I adored her little freckles, but it did worry me some days. The heat radiates off her body after these types of nights. Wore down, even into the morning when we crossed paths. I just wish I could help her.

"Young? What am I then?" I flagged down one of the waiters as Star raised her bag to lay it on the table beside the window. "Now, now." She giggled. "You're not 18 anymore, they're babies." She gushed watching the youngin scurrying around like a bunch of headless chickens. "So what? I look road hard and put away wet?" The waiter came to our booth, said the mandatory greeting and took our order. Star ordered a bowl of tomato soup and black coffee with sugar. They didn't offer vegan substitutions for cream so Star always suffered. Funnily enough, I thought of possibly buying a small carton of vegan milk. For how often we come here, it's something to think of. I felt bad ordering meat in front of Star, but she kept reassuring me it was fine. That she was okay with it. I ordered their classic beef dip. Their fries are seasoned like a chef has Parkinson's, every fry is seasoned deliciously. The gravy was thick and actually tasted like beef. And the au jus is immaculate. Just thinking about the toasted bread dipped in the au jus makes my mouth water.

"Haha! Mack, I was just saying you don't look that young anymore. You do look young but you've matured. You hold yourself differently than they do. I still remember your baby face behind the bar counter shaking like a leaf." As Star's words whispered out, the waiter came back with a black coffee and a beer in a bottle. Star forgot the sugar packets were in a dish beside her purse, and I was surprised over the fact our waiter remembered to pop the cap off my beer bottle.

"Yeah, I think that thing you called 'matured' is stress" My shoulders raised as I pulled the bottle close to my chest. Star shook the sugar packet against her hand until she ripped it open to pour its contents into her cup. "It's not always this rough baby-doll, you'll get there." Star's hand lifted a spoon to stir. "I'm sorry to say darlin', but when? I'm making enough for rent and other bills, but I...it's just hard. I want a savings account, and what happens if I get hurt? I have no cash for medical bills! And-..."

"Woah, woah now! That's a lot in one go, Mack. It's fine. Here, how about this? We do it the old-fashioned way, we write down your expenses. Probably you can lay off the beer for a bit." Star paused taking hold of my beer as finished mid-sip. "We figure things you can lay off. And then each paycheck, I'll teach you how much you're supposed to put away. And god forbid if you need to go to the hospital, we'll pile money together and start payment plans." Star pushed the bottle back to me as the waiter came back with our food. "I don't want you to do that Star. I'll be okay with you helping me prioritize my finances but not you helping me with medical bills." The food came piping hot. Star's soup was large with a measly packet of crackers. That I'd normally eat, and my beef dip looked as though Jesus made it himself. Hey, there's probably a line cook named Jesus back there and by god, he makes a mean beef dip.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Well, after our late dinner, I needed to loosen my belt. That beef dip hit the spot. Star and I left Greg's after I paid. I had to fight off Star's offer of pay. We exited the diner, and it strangely became colder than we first entered. Though we should've known that would happen, it was 3 a.m. Star's jaw chattered, though with every glance I took, she tried her might to stop.

"Cold are we?" My hand reached over adjusting her coat over her shoulder. "N-no, I'm fine." She continued to chatter. "Fucksake Star, come on. Lemme get us a cab. Uber?"

"No Mack. We only have 4 more blocks left. That's a waste." Star closed her coat, wrapping it around her waist. "H-hurry up." Star grabbed my bicep through my leather jacket. My arm flexed as we both shuffled faster, we made it to the gate that surrounded our apartment complex. We scurried into our complex, across the parking lot where my truck was parked in front of the set of stairs that led to our apartment doors. We both separated, Star turned left to her door as I turned right to my place at the end of the hall. My key felt more warm than my hands as I let myself in.

My place wasn't much, I didn't have decor or an actual bedframe. I had Star help me drag out a wooden pallet from work home as the frame. It wasn't fancy but it was mine. My belongings, my place. I loved coming home and everything was as I left it. Nothing moved, no one to come home to and just start judging me. It was peaceful. My phone broke the silence as it dinged with a text.

*Star*

Thank you for dinner. Sorry If I didn't say it! I was fucking frozen! Lol

*Mack*

It's fine doll, I am too lol. Goodnight <3

I threw my phone landing on my black futon. The first thing I did as soon as I stepped foot is undo my leather belt and rip off my socks. I slipped my feet in my slippers walking over to the kitchen. Still silent. What else could it be? Los Angeles at 3 am might be still noisy to a newbie, but once you get used to it, the measure of noise fades and it's finally quiet. I opened the fridge to see a sight I too used to seeing. Nothing. A few lonely bottles of beer from a 6-pack I bought at the beginning of the week and a few bottled water from a 24-pack I purchased.

"Jesus...I need to get paid." I leaned in the fridge to grab a bottle of beer. I had a butter knife lying beside my fridge. I saw this dude on TikTok, he tapped the cold bottle twice on different areas of the glass then swiped up to pop the cap off. Instinctly, I had to try. All that can go bad is broken glass everywhere. I began to tap the bottom twice, then the middle, and in one fatal swoop, the cap went flying.

"Yes! Fuck yeah!" The pressure from the bottle made the almost bubble over. I celebrated by swiping the bottle up to my lips and taking in a celebratory drink. I noticed my much-enjoyed silence was cut short by the ring of my phone. I prayed it wasn't Trina. Saying something went wrong or chewing me out for doing or not doing something to her degree. I rushed over to retrieve it to see the screen. Thankfully it wasn't, it was Star.

"Star? What's up?"

"Mack, can you come over? Please. I need a little help." Her breaths were short as she spoke. "What's wrong? Is your door unlocked?" I stayed on the phone with her as I rushed over to the front door. "Y-yes..please hurry." I slapped the door running to Star's. I rushed into her place without hesitation. I've been over at Star's so much that we might as well just move in together. That would be the dream. At least for me, I don't know about Star.

"Star? Where are you?" I panicked around like a headless chicken until I heard Star's chopped breaths in her bedroom. Star's apartment looked just like mine in layout, but she had decor. Not much. A white couch, white curtains. She loved white until you reached her bedroom. She had white bedsheets and vintage tables but she always had a little dash of colour. She had a sheer pink cloth draped from her ceiling that hung over her bed. A canopy! That's what they're called.

"There you are! What the hell is wrong?" I saw Star sitting at her vanity, cigarette in hand hanging over a crystal ashtray she loved. "Well, I kinda made a mistake. I went to untie my corset and I think I made it tighter. I can't untie it Mack." She flicked her ash as she wiped her makeup off with a wipe. "Jesus, Star. So you thought smoking would help?"

"Can you give me this lecture later? Just help me take it off." She huffed pushing her cigarette out in the crystal tray. I placed my beer on her vanity next to her makeup wipes. Star had tried her might to untie but the bow had turned into a knot. "Haha fine, you've suffered enough huh?"

"Very much so. I am so tired and sore. I know you don't like me talking about work but fuck Mack. These men think I'm a pretzel. My thighs are killing me." My nail caught onto the knot and I loosened it.

"Haha! But you kinda are Star. I'm 23 and I cannot wrap my ankles around my head but god forbid you still can." The ties unravelled against Star's back, and the corset created an imprint along her bare back stopping in the middle of her spine, whereas the string made its mark along her spine. "Still huh? Tell that to my hips...ha...it's funny. Well, not really if you think about it, but I would rather have my forehead pinned against a car window than in the motels. They're always quicker in cars." Star giggled throwing a makeup wipe in a trash bin, pulling a few glass bottles forward. I knew they were skincare, but the only skincare I knew of was moisturizer, sunscreen and cleanser. Hers looked so foreign to me. Star said I needed something that would make me 'look' less oily.

"Haha," I laughed nervously. "Well that makes sense, carpool lanes can be busy." Star snorted as she rubbed a milky-white serum on her cheeks and forehead trying to raise her eyebrows. "Oh my god shut up." She joked elbowing my hip. All of the strings of her corset were loose enough for her to remove. Star stopped her skin routine to hold the corset against her chest. She stood up kicking off her massive heels. She spun around my body turning her back to face me. She let her arms go off her chest, as the corset dropped to the floor. I peered away swiftly, however, I did take notice of Star's body move in her vanity mirror. The way Star's warm ivory skin radiated from the lightbulbs next to her bed. Her skin was golden silk. Her somewhat nude body always caught my attention. As she silently moved across the laminate floor. Her ruffled underwear slipped off tossing it on the foot of her bed, only wearing her thigh garters. The little cluster of scars on her arm from some freak accident in her childhood showed prominently as she trotted over to a large basket full of clothes. Rummaging her beloved favourites. "So you thought it was a good idea to drink more beer after dinner huh?" Star's eyes met mine in the vanity. I suppose she noticed I was watching her, or she's always known. "To be frank, I may or may not have gotten groceries in a bit." I pivoted my ankles facing Star, stretching my arms out to fetch my beer and taking a sip. Star froze her search in the basket cocking her head over to me. "Are you serious Mack!? I told you Monday you should've come with me to get groceries! What do you have for food?!" Star quit making decisions as she leaned forward for her silk rope slipping it on her arms. "Um..well...I have the rest of my 6 pack of beer."

"I see that Mack. I didn't ask about that, I asked about food." Star slipped her bare feet into a pair of white fuzzy slippers towards me. Her shoulder brushed mine as she ripped bobby pins and elastics out of her hair. "You remember that 24 pack of water from Costco?"

"Jesus Christ Mack! You have to stop doing this. Every month you do this, you scrimp and save thinking something bad will happen but you refuse to buy groceries!" Star clenched her hands on either side of my biceps giving me a small shake. "Haha...come on doll, I just forgot. That's all." I pulled away from her arms. Star huffed as her eyes rolled back. "Fine! But, you're going grocery shopping with me tomorrow." Star ushered me out of her room to the living room. Star bent her arm beside the coffee table to grab the tv remote. "You want to finish that show we were watching?" The TV light glowed with the Netflix logo popped up.

I hate to say Star was never confrontational with me, but she was. We would bicker over things but it would never escalate. She's normally a bubbly and cheery personality, though, I've seen Star drag a John 3 blocks by his ankles to an ATM. She has her moments and uses them wisely. "Sure, but I thought you didn't like it? Too scary for you remember?"

"For me yes, you had one more episode but I'm in the mood for toast. You want a slice?" Star sauntered to her little kitchenette for bread and perhaps peanut butter. I hope.

"Sure, why not. What harm can bread do before bed." I slumped into Star's well-loved white couch. Its grooves made my ass a permanent residence known all too well. I left the right corner for Star, as I knew if I dared to sit there I would be scooched immediately.

"Mack, I think you get nightmares from eating sugar before bed, not bread." Star chuckled dropping two pieces of toast in the toaster. In a thankful sight, I saw the smooth peanut butter. Star and I both agree Chunky Peanut is god-awful.

"You may be right, but I swear last time I ate peanut butter toast this late I had that one dream of that freaky amputee girl, you remember? With the glass eye?"

"Haha! Coco! I knew she freaked you out. What kind of dream?"

"Yeah, she freaks me the fuck out. High on fent and wobbling around on a makeshift leg, that girl can cause carpet burn on that broom handle."

"Mack!"

"Haha, I'm just saying that woman was rode hard and put away wet. Anyway, I always have the same nightmare that I'm walking home from work, looking for you and Coco comes up behind me. The chick comes running at me like Usain Bolt." I leaned back onto the couch as I saw Star come around with two plates.

"Maybe you need to take a new route." Star plobbed herself in her usual spot. As she handed me a plate. "Maybe you need a new job Star." My show began without a hitch as Star rustled around to get comfortable. "Mack," She sighed. "Darling in a perfect world that can work, but honey, I'm 57 years old. I've been doing this work since I was your age. I don't know how to do anything else." She muttered as she bit into the corner of her toast.

"I know honey, but there are alternatives. I just don't want you to get hurt." I finished my slice of toast quicker than Star, I leaned forward to place the plate on the coffee table. I slumped back into the cushions stretching my arms out on the backrest. "You're such a worrier. That's all you do. You're too young to worry so much."

"Yeah, I guess so." I huffed, as I held my tongue back. What I wanted to say could throw Star off. She wanted a best friend, I wanted her for more. So much more.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The ending to my show was shit. The entire series was gory and full of horror, so why is it the last goddamn episode has to be so mushy and lovey-dovey. Star actually liked it. Well, half of it that is. She fell asleep mid-way. Curled up resting her head on the armrest. I slowly got up from my spot not to wake her. Star says she doesn't snore, but I beg to differ. They're faint, but her snores are cute. Especially when she's in a good sleep and you notice a little drool. I picked up our plates bringing them to the sink. I tried my best to quietly turn the faucet to wash the dishes. I didn't want Star to wake up to anything dirty. I nested them into her drying rack as I flicked on the overhead stove light. I tip-toed back to where Star was asleep, turning off the TV. I made my way to the front door before rethinking that decision. I halted to see Star's hands were locked between her thighs. I bet she was cold in her robe. I got close enough to Star to grab the white throw blanket draped on the couch, unfolding it to lay across her. Making sure her feet were covered as well.

I wanted to stay with her, I wanted to kiss her forehead. I had to stop myself before I did something I'd regret. Maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was just me. Being me. I cannot help it, Star's everything to me.

"Goodnight Star," I whispered before opening the door. I locked the door before I left Star's apartment. The cold night air hit me roughly enough to lose my breath. I ran back to my unlocked apartment locking up for the night.

"Luxury is not a necessity to me, but beautiful and good things are." - Anaïs Nin 

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | LA Introduction | Nine.One

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) Word Count: 14.4k Requested:No | Yes Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, intimate moments A Few Quick Notes: 🎵 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it's been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any platform. Please respect my writing. 🌴 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 🏠 Requests: Open

Author's Note: The LA chapter is here!

After the electric tension of Vegas, we follow Joe and Riley as they land in LA and step into her world together for the first time. From the moment they touch down on the tarmac, everything shifts to something quieter, more intimate, yet infinitely more consequential.

This chapter explores what happens when those carefully constructed walls continue to fall away completely. In the sanctuary of Riley's Laurel Canyon home, Joe discovers a different facet of her - not the soulful, haunted New Orleans Riley he first fell for, but equally vibrant and alive in her own way. As she tells him, "My house in Louisiana is where I go to hide. This one's where I go to make noise." Cold chicken on the floor, candlelit baths, and whispered confessions create a space where vulnerability isn't just allowed but embraced.

But the real revelation comes at Sad Banger Labs, where Joe witnesses Riley in her creative element - commanding the room, solving musical puzzles that stumped everyone else, and laying herself bare through her music without hesitation. For a man who's built his life on control and calculation, watching her surrender completely to the creative process forces him to confront his own carefully maintained boundaries.

As eccentric friends arrive bearing ridiculous drinks and endless questions, Joe finds himself at a crossroads: retreat back to the safety of his structured world, or lean fully into the beautiful chaos that is Riley's life? The decision he makes might just reveal more about his feelings than he's ready to admit.

Thank you to everyone who’s been following along—this chapter’s a big one. We’re deep in it now, and I’ve loved writing Joe and Riley as their separate worlds start to merge in ways that are both messy and intimate. The moments get quieter, the stakes get higher, and what they’re building starts to feel like something they can't live without.🏡🎸✨

Drop me your favorite moments, your thoughts, your theories - I want to hear it all!

Taglist: @wickedfun9@starsyoongi@amiets2@palmettogal508@throwaway12356123@lilfreakjez

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The wheels touched down with a soft screech, and the familiar lull of Los Angeles warmth met them before they’d even stepped off the plane. It wasn’t the same dry burn of Vegas—this was softer, saltier. The sun hung low, washing the tarmac in amber as they deplaned—gilding everything it touched the gleaming handrails, a technician's distant silhouette, sunglasses propped carelessly on heads as they stepped into California light.

The buzz of Vegas still clung faintly to them—perfume, exhaustion, something unspoken—but the mood had shifted. Calmer now. Quieter.

Riley stepped off first, sunglasses already in place, her overnight bag slung across one shoulder. Joe followed behind her, duffel in hand, gaze flicking between the hangar and her back like he was still adjusting to the light.

Pete, Andy, and Haley followed behind in a slow, shuffling formation—less a cluster, more a collective hangover in motion. Still warm with each other, still easy, but moving like the last couple of days had wrung them out.

“Jesus, it’s aggressively sunny,” Pete muttered, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Feels like punishment.”

“I’ll take it,” Haley mumbled, yawning into the crook of her elbow. “Better than the blacked-out casino void. My soul needs a green juice and a nap, in that order.”

Two black SUVs waited just beyond the hangar, idling in the heat. A driver opened the rear door of the first one, and Haley immediately beelined toward it, Pete and Andy flanking her like sleep-deprived bodyguards.

“I call window,” she muttered, sliding in without pause.

Andy followed with a grin, Pete tossing his bag into the back before ducking in after them. There was a faint chorus of complaints about the sun, hydration levels, and the tequila from the night before.

Joe didn’t have to say anything. One glance passed between them, enough. Riley gave the slightest nod.

They peeled off from the group wordlessly, stepping into the second SUV, the door clicking shut behind them with the soft finality of a bubble sealing shut.

The AC hit sharp and cold. Riley leaned back with a sigh, legs tucked slightly to the side. Joe set down his duffle and slid into the seat beside her—close, but not quite touching.

The silence held between them, not awkward, just full. Weighted in a way that felt like exhaling after holding your breath too long.

“You good?” she asked, without opening her eyes.

“Yeah,” Joe said, after a second. “Just tired.”

“Same.”

But neither of them reached for their phones. Neither turned away. They just sat there, quiet, as the SUV pulled away from the hangar and melted into LA traffic—together, finally, without the noise.

The SUV moved smoothly through traffic, LA rising around them—billboards and palm trees blurred by late sunlight. Outside, the city was loud. Inside, it didn’t need to be.

Riley shifted slightly, curling her bare foot beneath her. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, not looking at him when she said it. Like it was just a truth. Simple and steady.

Joe glanced over, taking her in—the tangle of bracelets at her wrist, the sun catching in her hair, the faint crease between her brows she always got when she was tired.

“Me too,” he said, voice low.

She turned her head then, resting it lightly against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath and leaned in, his temple brushing hers for a moment.

Her fingers brushed against his on the seat between them. Without thinking, he turned his hand over, let her find his palm.

They stayed like that the rest of the drive.

As the SUV curved up through the hills, the city slipped away behind them. Things felt quieter up here—not silent, just different. The noise fell back. Trees took its place.

Joe sat forward slightly as the car pulled into a narrow driveway tucked between ivy-covered stone and wild brush. Riley’s house emerged slowly, not all at once. Like it didn’t care about being seen.

It wasn't what he expected. Not the sleek, modern glass box most LA musicians seemed to favor, but something with character. The gray-shingled house nestled into the hillside, surrounded by lush greenery and mature trees that offered privacy from the road below. Curved stone steps wound up from the driveway to the main entrance, the landscaping artfully wild rather than manicured—drought-resistant plants interspersed with strategic lighting that would illuminate the path at night. 

He didn't say anything as they approached the black privacy gate, but Riley caught the look on his face—part impressed, part curious, all Joe.

"She's got good bones," Riley said with quiet pride, nodding toward the house as she punched in the gate code. "Built in the 70s, but I've been fixing her up room by room." 

Joe took in the details as they walked up the steps—the warm lights glowing from inside, the glimpses of canyon views between trees, the thoughtful balance of security and serenity.

 "It feels like you," he said finally, and she could tell he meant it as a compliment. Not flashy or trying to impress, but authentic and unexpected in the best way.

Joe paused at the top of the steps, taking in the view that stretched out below them—a slice of the city visible between the trees, golden in the late afternoon light. 

She shot him a crooked little smile as she unlocked the door. "Welcome to Laurel Canyon."

Inside, the temperature dropped a few degrees, the house cool and shaded despite the LA sun. It smelled faintly of orange peel and old record sleeves, layered with something smokier—maybe an overworked candle or the last stick of nag champa she’d forgotten about halfway through burning.

Riley dropped her bag in the entryway without ceremony and kicked off her shoes. The hardwood creaked beneath her steps as she moved into the kitchen, already opening cabinets like she needed movement to unwind.

Joe stepped in more slowly, taking it all in.

The space was a riot of color and texture—plants hanging from every available hook, mismatched rugs layered across the floor, bright vintage posters sharing wall space with framed polaroids and setlists. A neon sign shaped like a cherry glowed softly above the archway that led into the living room, where a velvet couch in deep gold sagged under a pile of patterned throw blankets.

It wasn’t like NOLA. It wasn’t like anywhere he’d ever lived.

And yet.

“You okay?” Riley asked from the kitchen, her voice softer now.

Joe looked over, still holding his duffle. “Yeah,” he said. “Just… taking it in.” His gaze swept the room—vibrant colors, mismatched furniture, open windows letting in golden canyon light. “It’s different than New Orleans. Less haunted. Less… dead things.”

Riley snorted softly, not quite laughing. “Yeah. I leave the taxidermy to New Orleans.”

“You hungry? I think I’ve got leftover Thai, half a rotisserie chicken, or we can order something. I also have tequila, a watermelon La Croix, and two bites of a weed brownie that’s definitely past its spiritual expiration date.”

Joe smiled faintly, finally setting his bag down by the door. “Let’s start with water.”

She grabbed two bottles from the fridge and tossed one gently over her shoulder. “Catch.”'

Joe caught it without looking, cracked the cap, and leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter, eyes still tracking the space. He took a long sip, the cold hitting the back of his throat, then exhaled like it grounded him.

“This place feels like your brain,” he said finally, glancing at her over the bottle. “In a different way than New Orleans.”

Riley arched a brow. “Messy and loud?”

“Creative,” he corrected. “Alive. Like it’s got a rhythm I don’t understand yet.”

She tilted her head, like she hadn’t expected that. “It’s a lot,” she admitted, “But I like it. My house in Louisiana is where I go to hide. This one’s where I go to make noise.”

Joe nodded slowly. “It fits.”

There was another pause—comfortable this time.

“Okay,” Riley said, straightening. “We can nap. Or shower. Or sit on the floor and eat cold rotisserie chicken with our fingers like raccoons. Dealer’s choice.”

Joe didn’t answer right away. Just stepped past her to the fridge, nudging her gently aside with a hand on her hip like he’d done it a hundred times. He grabbed the chicken and a La Croix, popped the can with a hiss, then headed toward the living room.

“You coming?” he tossed over his shoulder halfway to the couch.

Riley laughed, caught off guard. “So eat like raccoons’ it is, then.”

Riley sank onto the rug beside him, folding her legs beneath her. The rotisserie chicken was cold, straight from the fridge, and neither of them seemed to care. Joe tore off a piece with lazy ease and held it out to her.

She took it without hesitation, popped it into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully, watching the last of the sun bleed through the gauzy curtains.

“This is the life,” she said, licking a bit of salt from her thumb.

Joe raised an eyebrow, grabbing another piece. “Cold chicken on the floor?”

She smiled, slow and a little sleepy. “Cold chicken on the floor with you.”

He didn’t say anything to that—just handed her another bite, a quiet kind of agreement in the gesture.

They didn’t talk much after that. Just passed pieces back and forth, eating with their fingers, the container between them, sunlight stretching gold across the rug like it had nowhere better to be.

They finished the chicken without fanfare, fingers greasy, mouths full. Neither of them said much. There was nothing that needed to be said.

Eventually, the container was empty save for a few bones and scraps, and Riley set it aside with the ease of someone who’d done this before. She stretched out a little on the floor, back hitting the rug, arms overhead. The sun was almost gone now, just streaks of honey-colored light cutting through the living room, casting long shadows across the mismatched furniture.

Joe watched her for a second, then stood—slow, quiet—and offered a hand. She took it without asking why. He gave a gentle tug, guiding them toward the couch without a word.

The couch sagged beneath them as they sank into it. Riley curled up first, legs folding easily, back nestled into the cushions like they knew her. Joe sat beside her, unsure if he should move, but she didn’t give him the chance to overthink it—just tugged gently at his arm until he shifted down beside her. She fit herself against his side like it was second nature, cheek resting on his shoulder, one hand tucked between them.

It was quiet for a long time. 

Joe felt her breathing slow, the weight of her body softening with sleep. Her hair tickled his jaw. One of her rings pressed lightly into his side. 

He stared up at the ceiling, barely seeing it. Not because he was lost in thought—but because he wasn’t, for once. Because everything he needed to think about was already right here.

She murmured something in her sleep—nothing he could make out—but her fingers curled against him like she was trying to hold on even without realizing it.

Joe stayed still long after Riley had dozed off beside him, her breathing soft and even against his chest. The house had gone quiet around them—no music, no city noise filtering in from the canyon. Just the creak of wood as the sun shifted and the distant hum of someone’s sprinklers kicking on a few hills over.

It should’ve felt peaceful. It did, in part.

But under it—threaded just beneath the comfort—was something tighter.

He didn’t know how to hold this.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. He wanted this version of her—barefaced and barefoot, curled up in his arms with trust in her bones. He wanted this room, this silence, this stretch of time where everything felt suspended, like the rest of the world didn’t get a vote.

But then he thought of everything waiting outside this house.

Of what it meant to stay.

Of the way she looked at him sometimes—like she was searching for a version of him she wasn’t sure would show up.

And underneath all of it, the quiet truth he didn’t know how to say out loud: She scares the hell out of me.

Not because she was chaotic. Not because she was loud or wild or famous or fiercely herself.

But because she saw him. And she expected something of him. Not performance. Not perfection. Just… real.

And he wasn’t sure he’d ever learned how to give that.

He glanced down at her, watched the way her lashes fluttered when she shifted in her sleep, how her hand stayed curled against his chest like she was still holding onto something even now.

He wanted to keep her.

But some part of him—deep and old and brittle—kept whispering, What if you can’t? What if you try, and it’s not enough?

Joe exhaled, careful not to wake her. Let his head rest against the back of the couch.

And for now—for this quiet, late-afternoon breath of peace—he let himself keep holding her.

* * *

The room had gone dusky, golden light bleeding into blue. Riley blinked awake slowly, eyes adjusting to the shifting colors. For a moment, she didn’t move. Her cheek was pressed to something warm—Joe’s chest, rising and falling in steady rhythm beneath her ear.

She shifted slightly, just enough to glance up. He was asleep, jaw slack, hand still loosely resting on her lower back. It looked like he hadn’t moved at all.

Her gaze softened.

“Hey,” she whispered, barely louder than a breath. “You awake?”

A pause. Then a low, gravelly murmur: “I am now.”

She smiled. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice was thick with sleep. “Could’ve stayed like that for a while.”

“We did. We crashed.”

“Dreamed you made me share the couch with a haunted taxidermy squirrel.”

Riley snorted. “Bold of you to assume that squirrel wasn’t real.”

Joe finally turned his head toward her, elbow propped beneath him. “This is gonna sound dumb.”

She looked over. “Try me.”

“I think that might’ve been the best nap I’ve ever had.”

That made her smile—tired and real. “Not dumb.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a simple, instinctive thing. “You make it easy to stop moving.”

She didn’t say anything to that, but her hand found his under the blanket, fingers slipping between his.

After another beat, she murmured, “Want to take a bath?”

Joe blinked, brows lifting slightly. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was soft. “I’ve got a clawfoot tub. Big enough for two. I light candles and pretend it’s romantic.”

He looked at her for a long second, something tender passing through him.

“Do I get music?”

“Obviously.”

His hand squeezed hers. “Then yeah. Let’s do it.”

Riley stretched, bones clicking lightly as she sat up. “Give me two minutes to make the bathroom slightly less terrifying.”

Riley padded into the bathroom, flicking on the small overhead light—then immediately turning it off again. Too harsh. Too sterile.

Instead, she struck a match and began lighting candles—one on the counter, a cluster on the floor near the tub, a few balanced on mismatched saucers along the windowsill. Fig and vetiver. Tobacco flower. That one she’d bought at a flea market labeled Sunday in June that just smelled like warm linen and something smoky.

The room shifted with each new flame—light softening, shadows stretching and curling up the tile like they were settling in for the night.

She turned on the water, twisting the antique brass handles until steam began to rise. The tub, deep and clawfooted, groaned slightly as it filled. She leaned over the edge, trailing her fingers through the stream. Warm enough. She tossed in a bath soak that turned the water cloudy with milk and lavender, then set her phone in a little ceramic dish on the shelf and scrolled for a playlist. Something soft. Something old. Something that wouldn’t demand attention but would fill the room.

By the time Joe appeared in the doorway—shirt slightly wrinkled, eyes still heavy from the nap—the bathroom was glowing.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. “This feels like a spell.”

Riley smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Then mission accomplished.”

Joe stepped in slowly, eyes tracing the edges of the space. “Do I need to know the safe word before I get in?”

She laughed under her breath, grabbing two towels from the shelf. “It’s ‘rotisserie.’”

He huffed a quiet laugh, toeing off his socks. “Noted.”

Then, after a beat, he looked up at her, deadpan. “Wait—did you say rotisserie?”

Riley grinned. “I sure did.”

Joe shook his head, smiling to himself. “Jesus.”

Joe pulled his sweatshirt off in one easy motion, letting it fall wherever it landed. Across from him, Riley was already shimmying out of her pants, her shirt tossed somewhere near the sink, her hair coming loose from where she’d tied it up earlier. Neither of them said anything—they just moved, unhurried, peeling away the layers of the day like it was instinct.

Some song she’d queued up earlier spilled softly from the Bluetooth speaker—slow and warm, something with a steady bass line and lazy vocals, the kind of track that made your bones feel heavy in a good way.

She slid her underwear off last, then stepped carefully into the tub, water sloshing slightly as she lowered herself in. Joe followed a breath later, the hot water biting at first, then easing into something almost too good to speak through.

She leaned forward to make space and he settled behind her, legs bracketing hers, his arms resting gently along the rim of the tub.

Neither of them spoke.

There wasn’t a need.

The steam carried the layered scent of her favorite candles—amber, patchouli, and something citrusy—and the bath soak she’d clearly gone heavy-handed with. The air smelled like crushed flowers, spice, and something unplaceable, like the color pink if it had heat. Heady, a little overwhelming, but not in a bad way.

Riley let out a slow exhale, her back softening against his chest. Joe adjusted slightly to fit around her better, one of his knees bumping hers beneath the water. She didn’t flinch. Just leaned into it, like this wasn’t the first time they’d done this. Like it was normal.

His hands, still damp, drifted to her thighs—light, not suggestive, just grounding. One stayed there. The other lifted, fingers dragging lazily through the condensation on her arm, tracing a line he didn’t even realize he was drawing.

Riley’s voice came after a long beat.

“You ever do this before?” she asked quietly. Not teasing. Just curious.

Joe made a low sound in his throat. “You mean sit naked in a flower-scented cauldron while… whatever this is plays in the background?”

She smiled, eyes still half-closed. “That’s the one.”

“No,” he said, brushing a thumb across her damp skin. “But I’m not in a rush to get out.”

“You?”

Riley turned her face slightly toward his, not quite looking at him. “Not like this.”

He didn’t press. Just shifted a little closer, his chin finding a place against her shoulder. His breath was steady now. Slowed. Her breathing matched it.

The song changed.

Neither of them noticed.

Joe’s fingers drifted lazily along the inside of her forearm, his touch featherlight, like he was tracing something only he could read.

Then, after a long stretch of quiet-

“Tell me something about you nobody knows.”

Riley’s eyes opened, just barely. “Like what?”

“Anything,” he said, voice low, close to her ear. “Something you’ve never said out loud. Doesn’t have to be big."

She let the silence stretch again. Let it breathe.

“I used to write letters I never sent,” she said finally. “To people who hurt me. To people I missed. Sometimes to versions of myself I was trying to kill off.”

Joe didn’t respond right away. Just nodded slowly behind her, his hand finding hers beneath the water.

“You still do that?”

“Not lately,” she said. “Lately I’ve just been trying to live in the parts I used to write about.”

He pressed his mouth to her shoulder—soft, careful. “That’s the most Riley Carter thing I’ve ever heard.”

She smiled faintly. “Your turn.”

“What, a secret?”

“Something real.”

He was quiet for so long she thought he might deflect. But then—

“I’m scared I won’t know how to be happy when this is over,” he said. “Football. The noise. The structure. I don’t know what version of me exists without it. Or if I’ll even like him.”

“I’ve spent my whole life chasing this thing—training for it, sacrificing for it, building my entire identity around it. And then one day it just… ends. And I don’t know what happens after. What I’ll do. Who I’ll be. How will I be happy when the thing I’ve given everything to is gone.”

Riley shifted slowly in the water, the soft slosh breaking the silence as she moved to face him fully. Her knees slid to either side of his hips, the space between them closing until she was straddling him—chest to chest, steady and close, the water rippling gently around them.

Joe’s hands found her thighs on instinct, but there was no rush in his grip. Just connection. Curiosity. Like he was letting her take the lead in something unspoken.

“You don’t have to know who you are without it yet,” she said softly. “You just have to be open to finding out.”

Her hands cupped his jaw, fingertips damp against his skin, grounding him with their warmth. “I’ve rebuilt myself more times than I ever wanted to. After Ethan. After label shit. After losing myself trying to be what other people needed. But I always found my way back. Eventually.”

Joe didn’t speak, just watched her—eyes steady, something fragile and raw flickering behind them.

“I’m not saying it won’t suck sometimes,” she added, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “But it’s less scary when someone’s willing to walk through it with you.”

He exhaled, like the weight of her words cracked something open inside him. His hands slid up, resting lightly at her waist.

“Would you walk through it with me?”

Riley’s expression softened, her eyes dark and steady as she leaned in until their foreheads touched.

"Yes."

They didn’t move for a while.

Riley’s forehead rested against his. Joe’s hands traced lazy patterns on her thighs beneath the water, slow and unhurried. The candles flickered, music low and unfamiliar, the kind that hummed beneath your ribs without demanding attention.

He kissed her—not hungry, not desperate. Just once. Soft and sure. Like a promise whispered into skin.

And when the water started to cool and her fingers wrinkled, they rose without speaking, drying off in the quiet hush of candlelight. Joe handed her a towel like he’d done it a hundred times. She bumped his shoulder with hers on the way out.

Riley padded out of the bathroom, towel wrapped lazily around her torso, still drying her hair with the other as she moved barefoot through the soft glow of the bedroom. The air was cooler out here—her skin prickled as she passed through it, but she didn’t rush.

She paused at the edge of the bed and sat, letting the towel fall slightly lower on her thighs, fingers idly combing through damp strands. The room was quiet except for the low hum of city life beyond the windows and the faint thump of Joe’s footsteps approaching.

When he finally appeared, it was slow—towel slung low on his hips, hair damp, jaw shadowed, eyes already on her like he’d been waiting for this moment since they’d stepped out of the tub.

Riley watched him cross the room, her gaze unapologetic. “Come here."

Riley watched him cross the room, her gaze steady, unapologetic.

“Come here,” she said, low.

Joe didn’t answer. Just tilted his head, towel still clutched in one hand, like he was considering something. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Her breath caught—but only for a second. She’d seen him before, had him before, but he still managed to knock the wind out of her in quiet, deliberate ways.

Then he stepped toward her, bare except for the towel, calm and unhurried. He stopped just close enough that her knees grazed his thighs, the space between them charged and humming.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice quiet and amused.

"I am. "

Her hands slid up his sides—slow, deliberate, reverent. Thumbs grazing just under the towel at his hips.

“Baby,” she murmured, voice warm and sure, “let me take care of you.”

Before he could answer, she rose—still damp, towel clinging to her curves—and guided him gently by the hips, turning him until he sat at the edge of the bed. He let her, muscles loose, gaze locked on her like she was the only thing holding him together.

Riley stepped between his knees, palms gliding up his chest, fingertips brushing water from his skin like she wanted to remember every inch of him this way—soft, quiet, unrushed.

Joe’s hands found her waist instinctively, but she didn’t settle in his lap. Not yet.

“Let me,” Riley whispered, and there was something in her voice—firm, tender, steady. She kissed him once, slow and lingering, then lowered herself to her knees in front of him.

His breath hitched.

She didn’t tease. Didn’t draw it out like a performance. This wasn’t about power or control—it was about care. Her hands moved with quiet confidence, fingertips tracing the lines of his thighs, her mouth warm and sure as she took him in. Joe groaned, head tipping back, one hand sliding into her damp hair. Not guiding—just grounding himself. Like he needed to touch her to stay tethered.

She moved slowly, deliberately, eyes flicking up to his face, taking in every stutter in his breath, every twitch of muscle. He was quiet, but his body told her everything—how close he already was, how much he was holding back.

When she felt his thigh tense beneath her hand, she pulled back, her palm wrapping gently around him.

“Come here,” he said again, voice wrecked and reverent.

This time, she rose without hesitation, crawling into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. His hands gripped her thighs, eyes dark and open, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

She straddled him slowly, eyes locked on his. There was no coyness, no need to perform. Just that same quiet certainty that had settled between them like steam.

Joe’s hands slid up her back, wide and warm, fingers pressing into her damp skin like he needed to feel every inch. Her hands framed his face for a beat, her thumbs brushing over the faint shadows under his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

He nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “Especially right now.”

She kissed him again—longer this time, slower. Letting it deepen as she shifted her hips against him, both of them gasping at the friction, the heat, the way it felt like something they’d been moving toward all day.

Riley reached between them, lining him up. Joe’s breath caught in his throat, and then she sank down, inch by inch, her eyes fluttering shut as he filled her.

They both stilled.

Her hands rested on his shoulders, his forehead pressing to hers. The air between them pulsed with heat and silence—so full, it felt like it might burst.

“Bird,” he said, barely more than a breath. “I feel like I’m… in over my head.”

His eyes met hers, unguarded in a way he rarely let himself be. “Like I’m gonna drown in this.”

Riley didn’t look away. Her palms slid slowly up his chest, steady. “Then hold onto me.”

She pressed her lips to his, soft and sure, her movements slow and grounding. “I’ve got you, baby. Just stay here with me.

Joe’s eyes fluttered shut, the tension in his jaw softening as her rhythm steadied them both. One hand slid up her back, needing to touch more of her, like proximity alone might be enough to keep him from unraveling.

Riley leaned in, pressing her forehead to his, breath mingling between them. Her voice was a whisper, barely there. “You’re right here.”

His lips parted, a soft, broken sound escaping as she rocked against him again, slow and sure. “You feel…” he started, but didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, her fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I know,” she breathed.

And she did.

Every inch of him. Every tremble in his breath. Every place he was still learning how to be held.

They moved like that for a while—quiet, close, tethered. Nothing urgent. Nothing loud. Just breath and skin and the slow recalibration of two people trying to meet in the middle of something that scared them both.

Joe’s head dropped to her shoulder as she rolled her hips again, slow and precise. A low, unfiltered sound rumbled from his throat—raw and grateful. Riley felt it in her chest more than she heard it, the vibration sinking deep.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, brushing her lips over the shell of his ear. “We’re okay.”

His grip tightened at her waist, not to control, but to ground. She was guiding this—had been from the beginning—and he let her. Needed her to.

Riley’s breath hitched when he kissed her neck, open-mouthed and reverent. There was no angle, no performance. Just need. Just closeness.

“I don’t want to come yet,” he murmured, the confession wrecked and boyish against her skin.

“You won’t,” she said softly. “Not until I say so.”

Riley kept her pace slow, deliberate, like she was memorizing every flicker of tension in his body and smoothing it down with each movement. Her hands slid into his hair, anchoring him to her chest as she moved—steady, patient, unwavering.

Joe breathed her in like it was oxygen. His hands traveled up her back, over her ribs, fingers splayed like he needed more surface area just to hold on.

“Bird,” he rasped again, quieter now, voice thinned out with feeling. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiled into his hair. “Then I’ll go with you.”

That broke something loose in him—a soft sound caught halfway between disbelief and devotion. His arms wrapped fully around her, holding her flush against him as she moved, his mouth finding the swell of her breast, her collarbone, the center of her throat. Kisses more like thank yous than anything else.

The pace picked up, barely—but enough. Enough for the heat between them to start cresting. Enough for her to feel his restraint start to slip.

“You close?” she asked against his jaw, lips brushing his skin.

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut, voice wrecked. “Yeah.”

Riley kissed him—deep and full and grounding—and said, “Then give it to me.”

Joe groaned, low and guttural, the sound punching out of his chest as his grip tightened. His hips bucked up into her once, twice, before the rhythm broke entirely. He buried his face in her neck, body jerking beneath her as he came hard, breath ragged against her skin, holding her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth.

She didn’t stop moving—not until he softened, until the tremor in his arms settled, until she felt the shudder in his breath ease into something gentler. Only then did she slow, easing them both back down.

They stayed like that for a while. His arms still around her. Her head bowed, forehead resting against his. Their breathing fell in sync again, like it always did.

Eventually, Joe let out a long exhale. One hand came up to brush her hair back behind her ear, fingers lingering at her jaw.

“You okay?” she asked softly, barely above a whisper.

He nodded, looking up at her with something quiet in his expression. Something raw. “Yeah. Just…” His thumb brushed her cheek. “I’ve never been that far gone. Not with anyone. And I feel like that every time—with you. Like it can’t get deeper… but it does.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I feel it too.”

Her voice was steady, but her gaze wavered—just for a second.

“That’s what scares me, Joe,” she admitted, her voice low but steady. “Because if it keeps getting deeper… what am I gonna do if you wake up one day and decide I’m too much? Or this is?”

She didn’t pull back. Just looked at him, raw and open, like the truth was safer here than anywhere else.

“You’ve seen how I am. The chaos. The noise. I don’t come quiet. “I don’t come quiet. And I see you struggle with that. We’ve been in this bubble—yours and mine, just us—but what happens when it bursts?

Joe didn’t flinch. He didn’t deflect or try to talk her down.

He just looked at her—really looked—and said, “Then we don’t let it burst.”

His thumb brushed along her jaw. “Or if it does, we ride it out. I don’t want perfect, Riley. I want real. And this? You? This is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”

A pause. Honest. A little scared.

“I don’t always know how to carry it. But I’m trying. Because I want you. Not the version that fits neatly into my world. The real one. The wild one.”

He leaned in, forehead pressed to hers. “I’m not letting go. Even if I have to figure out how to hold on better.”

Riley’s voice was barely a whisper. “Help me hold onto this, Joe.”

He stilled, forehead still resting against hers.

“Remember this,” she said, her fingers curling lightly around his wrist. “Remember how we are here. That’s what matters when the noise comes. This—” her breath hitched, “—this is what matters.”

Joe didn’t answer right away. Just pulled her in until there was no space left between them.

“I’ll remember,” he murmured against her skin. “I swear to God, I’ll remember.”

* * *

Joe woke first.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft silver of moonlight spilling through gauzy curtains. The air still held traces of the bath—amber and patchouli, floral spice, something citrusy clinging to their skin like a memory. It smelled like her. Like comfort. Like something sacred.

Riley was curled against him, one leg tangled between his, her hand resting warm and open over his chest. Her breathing was slow and even. Steady. Joe didn’t want to move. But then—

His stomach growled. Loudly.

He glanced over at the clock. 12:08 a.m.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

Riley stirred, her voice rough with sleep. “You okay?”

“I think I’m starving,” he muttered. “Like, actual survival-mode starving.”

She smiled without opening her eyes. “Should’ve eaten more chicken.”

“You inhaled it.”

“You’re the one who fed me the chicken, babe. Should’ve saved yourself a piece.”

Joe groaned softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Baby, let’s go raid the kitchen. I’m starving.”

Riley sighed dramatically. “You had your chance with the chicken.”

He chuckled, wrapping an arm tighter around her waist as he sat up. “And I gave it to you. Like a gentleman.”

Fine, Joseph,” she said, letting him pull her up. “But lower your expectations—there’s not much left in there.”

They made their way to the kitchen, bare feet soft against tile, the mood lazy and warm.

Riley popped open the fridge and held up a takeout container triumphantly. “Leftover pad Thai. Look at us winning.”

She hopped onto the counter, settling in with an exaggerated sigh as Joe peeled back the lid.

Without saying a word, he reached in and twisted his fingers into the cold noodles, pulling out a small tangle and holding it up to her mouth.

Riley raised an eyebrow—but didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, lips brushing his knuckles as she took the bite, chewing slowly.

“Still good?” he asked, already reaching for another.

She swallowed. “Cold. Slightly tragic. Perfect.”

Joe grinned, took a bite for himself, and groaned. “Okay, I know I’m starving, but this is good as fuck.”

Riley nudged his arm with her knee. “Okay, don’t hog it. Give me more.”

He smirked, twirling another bite around his fingers with exaggerated care. “Say please.”

She leaned in, all mock sweetness. “Feed me, baby please.”

He popped the noodles into her mouth, laughing under his breath. “So demanding.”

She chewed, grinning around it. “You’re into it.”

Joe stepped in closer, close enough that his knees brushed the cabinet, and wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of her mouth with his thumb—gentle, unthinking.

“I am,” he said. “I’m into all of it.”

His hand lingered for a second, thumb brushing just beneath her lip before falling away. His voice lowered—not heavy, just honest.

“I don’t want this to be undefined,” Joe said, voice quieter now. “I know we haven’t said what we are, and maybe there isn’t a perfect word for it, but… I’m in it. With you.”

Then her mouth curved, slow and a little shy. “You’re in it, huh?”

Joe nodded once. “Yeah. All the way.”

Riley set the container down beside her, legs still swinging gently from the counter. “You sure? Because this”—she gestured vaguely between them, the kitchen, the lingering scent of candle smoke and bathwater on her skin—“is easy when it’s just us. But it won’t always be like this.”

“I don’t know what the other parts are gonna look like,” he said, stepping between her knees, voice low. “But I know I want to figure it out with you. That part’s simple.”

Riley searched his face, quiet for a beat. “So what are we calling this?”

Joe’s lips twitched. “I don’t know. Feels a little high school to say ‘girlfriend.’”

She snorted. “Please don’t.”

There was a pause—just a flicker of hesitation, something tender folding in beneath the teasing.

“I want you to be mine, Riley,” he said, voice low. No performance. No bravado. Just truth.

Her expression softened. “Then I’m yours.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “And I’m yours.”

The air between them felt quieter after that. Like something had settled. Like something that had been floating finally landed.

They didn’t talk much after that.

Just passed the container back and forth between bites, too lazy and warm and full of something softer than hunger to do anything else. Riley licked sauce off her thumb like it wasn’t the most distracting thing he’d ever seen. Joe fed her the last clump of noodles with his fingers, and she let her head drop against his shoulder like that’s where it belonged.

They cleaned up half-heartedly—leftovers back in the fridge, lights dimmed, bare feet brushing on tile.

And then, back in bed, it was easy again. Familiar. She curled into his chest, one leg tossed over his hip, her breath already slowing. Joe lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other around her waist, thumb sweeping lazy circles against her spine.

His thoughts weren’t loud. Just… steady.

I don’t want to leave this.

I don’t want to lose her.

I think—I think I’m falling for her.

The realization landed quiet. No fireworks. Just a certainty that settled deep in his chest like it had always been there, just waiting for him to notice.

He blinked at the ceiling for a long time, then let his eyes close.

And finally, everything went still.

* * *

The sun was already filtering through the windows when Joe stirred, the kind of hazy, late-morning light that made everything feel slow and forgiving. Riley was still curled beside him, one arm draped across his stomach, her breath warm against his side.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

He just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to process the fact that this—whatever this was—felt different than anything he’d ever known to want.

Eventually, Riley blinked awake, her voice low and scratchy with sleep. “What time is it?”

Joe reached for his phone. “Almost ten.”

She groaned into his skin. “That’s early.”

He huffed a laugh. “It’s really not.”

She shifted, stretching against him, the sheet slipping off one shoulder. “You getting up?”

“Yeah,” he said, but made no move to go.

She tilted her head up, eyes still heavy. “Shower with me?”

It wasn’t a question that came with expectation. Just one that said I want you close a little longer.

Joe brushed a hand down her back, slow. “Yeah. Okay.”

It was late morning and already warm, light pouring through the frosted bathroom window in lazy stripes. Riley twisted the faucet, steam rising quick, curling into the space between them.

Joe didn’t say anything—just watched her for a beat, then followed.

They stepped into the heat like it was a continuation of everything they hadn’t said aloud but both knew now. No tension, no nerves. Just that quiet, grounded thing between them. The one he’d finally named.

He stood behind her, arms loose around her waist, chin tucked to her shoulder. The water ran over both of them, washing away whatever sleep still clung to their skin.

It was late morning and already warm, light pouring through the frosted bathroom window in lazy stripes. Riley twisted the faucet, steam rising quick, curling into the space between them.

Joe didn’t say anything—just watched her for a minute, then followed.

They stepped into the heat like it was a continuation of everything they hadn’t said aloud but both understood now. No tension, no nerves. Just that quiet certainty between them. The one he’d finally named.

He stood behind her, arms loose around her waist, chin tucked to her shoulder. The water ran over both of them, washing away whatever sleep still clung to their skin.

He kissed the back of her neck. She reached for the shampoo.

They took turns like that—wordless. Her lathering his hair, fingers massaging slow while he tipped his head into her touch. Him dragging a soapy palm down her spine, rinsing away bubbles with a tenderness that made her throat ache.

When she turned to face him, he didn’t try anything. Just pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes.

It was quiet. Easy. Safe.

By the time they stepped out of the shower, the mirror was fully fogged, steam curling toward the open door. Riley wrapped herself in a towel and disappeared into the bedroom, and Joe followed, padding barefoot toward the corner where his duffel sat slouched against the wall.

He crouched down, pulling it open and sorting through the contents without much thought—muscle memory from years of travel. Hoodie, black tee, soft cotton boxers. Familiar.

By the time they stepped out of the shower, the mirror was fully fogged, steam curling toward the open door. Riley wrapped herself in a towel and disappeared into the bedroom, and Joe followed, padding barefoot toward the corner where his duffel sat slouched against the wall.

“Hey,” he called, digging through it. “You mind if I throw some laundry in later?”

“Not at all,” Riley said, already rifling through a drawer. “Give it to me now and I’ll put some on.”

Joe looked up. “You don’t have to—”

“I need to do some laundry anyway,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Toss it here.”

Joe handed over the bundle without a word. Riley took it, already walking backward toward the hallway with lazy purpose, towel slung over her shoulder, hair still wet and dripping down her back.

She didn’t bother with clothes—just wandered barefoot to the laundry room in black panties and a faded bra, the kind that looked well-worn and lived-in, like it had survived more than a few wild nights and late mornings.

He watched her disappear around the corner, the quiet hum of normalcy settling into the space she’d left behind.

A second later, he heard the click of the washer lid and the muffled thud of clothes hitting metal.

Then the low hum of water filling the machine. The soft squeak of her footfalls on tile as she padded back toward the bedroom.

As she passed, Joe reached out—just a light brush of his fingers along her hip. No reason. No words. Just the instinct to feel her in motion, to keep her close in the quietest way.

Riley didn’t pause, but her mouth twitched like she felt it, like maybe she’d been waiting for it too. She disappeared into the closet.

She came out of the closet mid-step, tugging her Nirvana tee down over her ribs, the checkerboard pants already on. A blue cardigan hung open and loose around her shoulders, and her hair was still damp, tucked beneath a worn trucker hat that read bad decisions club in hot pink.

Joe glanced up from tying his shoes.

He didn’t say anything—not because he was shocked, but because he was looking. Really looking. Like he was filing it away. Color and confidence and something else quieter beneath it all.

“That what rockstar casual looks like?”

Riley smirked as she adjusted a stack of bangles on her wrist. “Something like that.”

He didn’t say anything else, just let his eyes linger for a beat longer than necessary—like he wasn’t in a rush to look away.

She adjusted a stack of bangles on her wrist, head tilted as she looked over at him. “You ready? Because not for nothing—I’m starving, and I want to hit somewhere before we go to the studio.”

Joe stood, smoothing a hand over his shirt. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The Bronco sat in the the garage, black and dusty in a way that made it look lived-in, not neglected. Like it had seen canyons and coastlines, late-night getaways and gas station snack runs. Joe recognized the type instantly—rugged, low-key, not flashy. It suited her.

He rounded the passenger side just as Riley tugged the door open and tossed her bag inside. “Don’t judge the crumbs,” she said, climbing in. “I basically live in this thing.”

Joe just grinned and shook his head, settling into the passenger seat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The engine rumbled to life with a satisfying growl. She backed out of the drive one-handed, flipping her sunglasses down with the other.

They didn’t talk much on the drive—just a comfortable quiet, the windows cracked to let in the breeze, Riley’s playlist low in the background. Something jangly and warm with a fuzzy guitar line.

As they hit a red light, Riley grabbed her phone from the console and fired off a quick voice text.

“Scout, can you do a grocery run for me? Like, actual groceries. We’re running on fumes here.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “‘We?”

She didn’t look at him. “You ate cold chicken on the floor and Pad Thai straight out the fridge. You live here now.”

Before he could respond, she turned the wheel sharply and slid into a small parking lot tucked between two buildings with graffiti-covered walls. The kind of spot you only knew about if someone cool told you.

Joe started to unbuckle, but Riley touched his arm lightly.

“Stay here,” she said casually, already climbing out. “I’ll be back with the goods.”

He watched her go—checkered pants swishing, vintage tee half-tucked, powder blue cardigan catching the breeze.

The Bronco door slammed shut and Joe looked up just as Riley rounded the front of the car, arms full of brown paper bags stacked nearly to her chin.

“Did you rob the place?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“No,” she said, setting the bags down between them. “You look like you can eat a pretty good bit. Plus, I gotta make sure my boys are fed.”

Joe leaned over, already eyeing the containers. “What’d you get? Can I have first pick?”

“Absolutely, baby,” she said without hesitation, unlocking the top bag like it was a treasure chest. “Knock yourself out.”

She started listing casually, wrist-deep in takeout bags. “Couple breakfast burritos, sweet potato hash, banana bread, something called a ‘moon muffin’ I didn’t ask questions, and—oh—there’s a tub of fruit because I guess I felt guilty.”

Joe leaned over the bags. “Pass me a burrito?”

“Good choice,” Riley said, handing one over and grabbing one for herself. “These are like, barely legal, they’re so good.”

He unwrapped it as she pulled out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other keeping her burrito steady in her lap. The Bronco rumbled down sun-drenched side streets, canyon air filtering in through the cracked window.

They drove in silence for a bit, the kind that didn’t need filling. Just chewing and sunlight and the crinkle of foil.

They drove in silence for a bit, the kind that didn’t need filling. Just chewing and sunlight and the crinkle of foil.

“How far’s the studio from here?” Joe asked, glancing sideways as he peeled back another layer of foil.

“Not far,” Riley said, mouth full. She took a swig from her iced coffee and wiped her hand on a napkin. “Daniel texted me while I was inside—he’s already there.”

“Daniel—drummer, right?”

“Yup,” Riley said, flicking on her blinker. “You’re gonna love him. He reminds me of you, actually.”

Joe glanced over. “Yeah?”

She nodded, eyes on the road. “Not the loudest guy in the room, but he notices everything. Doesn’t miss a beat. Literally and metaphorically.”

Joe took another bite, glancing over at her. “So basically… you hijacked a metal band and made them do pop?”

Riley grinned. “Yup. Dragged ’em kicking and screaming into the light. Now they pretend to hate it, but you should see how seriously they take synth settings.”

Joe looked over at her, a corner of his mouth tugging up. “Can’t decide if that’s impressive or terrifying.”

Riley shrugged, unapologetic. “Why not both?”

Riley cut the engine with a soft click. Joe took a long look around, his eyes scanning the place. The tall trees and the sprawling driveway gave the property a quiet, serene vibe. It looked like it belonged in a magazine spread—sleek, modern, but with a lived-in warmth. Pete’s got taste, he thought.

Riley caught his gaze. “Wait till you see the studio,” she said, smirking. “It’s a vibe.”

They made their way up the short path to the studio. Joe couldn’t help but be curious. As they approached the entrance, he spotted a sign hanging over the door in bold letters: Sad Banger Labs.

Joe stopped in his tracks, eyebrows raising. “That’s what SBL stands for?”

Riley grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Yup and the studio in Louisiana is called the Swamp of Sadness.”

Joe’s mouth dropped open. “WTF?”

She just shrugged, her smile mischievous. “You gotta have a name with a little character, right?”

He shook his head, half-laughing, half-shocked by the absurdity of it all. “Only you would have a studio called the Swamp of Sadness.”

“Well,” she said, pushing the door open, “there’s a little sadness in every banger.”

Joe followed her inside, the door swinging shut behind them, and immediately, he was hit with the sounds of what could only be described as organized chaos. The space was a mix of eclectic furniture, instruments strewn about, and a wall of windows that flooded the place with natural light. A low hum of conversation, some distant laughter, and the soft scratch of a guitar greeted him as they stepped further in.

“Welcome to Sad Banger Labs,” Riley said, a touch of pride in her voice as she gestured around the room.

Joe smiled, feeling the energy of the space. “This is… wild,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “In a good way.”

Riley nodded, clearly at home here. “Yeah, I think so. You’ll see. It gets better when everyone’s around.”

As they walked further into the studio, Joe couldn’t help but wonder how he had ended up in this world—so different from his own, yet somehow exactly what he needed.

* * *

Riley stepped into the studio with the food bags in hand, her steps light but purposeful. The atmosphere was warm, filled with an easy kind of energy, a comfortable chaos. Pete and Daniel were already there—both sitting around, their heads turned toward her as she entered.

Daniel, ever the easygoing guy, was the first to greet Joe with a wide grin. “Hey, man,” he said, standing to extend his hand. “Glad you could make it. We’re all pretty stoked to have you around.”

Joe grinned back, shaking his hand firmly. “Appreciate it, man. Riley’s told me a lot about you guys.”

Riley tossed her bag onto a nearby counter, then pulled out a couple of the food containers. “I come bearing snacks. You’re welcome for my service.”

Pete greeted Joe warmly. Joe nodded in appreciation, looking around. “This place looks really cool, man.”

Pete smiled, without even looking, grabbed a breakfast burrito from one of the bags, and stuffed it into his mouth. He swallowed quickly, wiped his hands on his pants, and turned to Joe. “Thanks, man. I spent a lot of time getting it right. Being on the road so much, I wanted to come home to a place that felt like peace. You want a tour?”

Joe chuckled, still surprised by how laid-back everything felt. “Yeah, man, I’d love that,” he replied, accepting another burrito from Riley.

Pete grinned. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Joe followed Pete out of the studio, still holding his burrito, and took in the rest of the house. The walls were a mix of raw, exposed brick and polished wood, with colorful rugs scattered across the floors. Plants in all sizes and shapes lined the shelves and corners, adding a touch of life to the space. There was an easy, lived-in vibe to it, the kind of place you didn’t just visit—you became a part of it.

As they walked through, Pete pointed out different sections of the house. “Over here’s the kitchen,” he said, waving toward an open space with a butcher block island, shelves of mismatched dishes, and an espresso machine that looked like it cost more than Joe’s first car. “Pretty simple, but it gets the job done. Not much of a chef, but I know my way around a grill.”

Joe took it all in, nodding as they moved into a cozy-looking living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that led out to a back patio. There was an old record player in the corner, with a couple of vintage albums stacked nearby. The whole place had a soft, earthy feel to it, like it was made for someone who loved both comfort and style.

“I like this,” Joe said, offering Pete a smile. “Feels… real. Not trying too hard.”

Pete gave him a knowing look. “That’s the point. I’m not into the whole ‘perfect’ vibe. I’m want to feel something when I walk through the door.”

They continued through the house, and when they reached the back patio, Pete pointed to a fire pit surrounded by mismatched chairs. “This is where the magic happens. Can’t tell you how many nights I’ve sat out there after a session, just chilling. You get a nice breeze through the canyon, too. It’s… well, it’s home.”

Joe stopped and looked around, impressed by how everything fit together so effortlessly. “I get it,” he said quietly. “It’s like this place has its own heartbeat.”

“Exactly,” Pete said with a grin. “So, what do you think? You feel the vibe?”

Joe nodded, still processing the calmness of it all. “Yeah, I do. It’s got something.”

They headed back inside, where Riley was already chatting with Daniel, her energy just as easygoing as the space they were in. Joe felt a weight lift from his shoulders as the atmosphere wrapped around him like a blanket. The low hum of music filled the background, blending seamlessly with the sound of Daniel showing Riley something on the drum kit. Their laughter floated through the room, light and unhurried, as they shared a moment of musical discovery. It was a comfortable, lived-in feeling—nothing rushed, nothing forced.

Riley looked up, catching his eye as he stepped back into the room. Her smile was soft, knowing, like she’d already figured out how he’d be feeling here. She gave him a subtle nod, like this place had a way of settling things without saying much at all.

“You wanna hear something we’re working on?” Andy asked, a spark of excitement in his voice.

Joe nodded, intrigued. “Yeah, man. Let’s hear it.”

Riley glanced over her shoulder, her smile widening when she saw him. “It’s totally different from anything we’ve ever done,” she said, her voice filled with anticipation.

Daniel leaned forward, glancing up. “Play the one we just finished, Riley.”

Riley turned her head slightly, just enough for Joe to catch a brief look—calm, but with a depth that told him this song was different. Her fingers hovered above the controls, then she pressed play.

The first chords hit softly, and Riley’s voice, raw and unguarded, filled the room.

I spent years becoming cool

And in one single second, you can make a decade of my efforts disappear…

Joe leaned forward slightly, the words sinking into him, like she was speaking directly to him. There was no doubt that Riley had been here before—wounded, torn down. The pain was real, and it hurt to hear it come from her like this. But it wasn’t just her ex anymore. It was bigger than that—it was about vulnerability, about the fear of giving all of yourself to someone and getting nothing in return.

I’m just waiting at the bar, and you rip open all my scars

By saying something like, ‘Didn’t know you were here.’

Joe’s chest tightened. The words didn’t leave him. They clawed at him, reminding him of the times when he’d distanced himself, built walls just so that he wouldn’t have to feel that same vulnerability. He wasn’t sure if Riley realized it, but she had written this for herself—and for him, too. She was singing it like she had nothing left to hide, nothing to lose.

I always knew I was a martyr and that Jesus was one too

But I was built from special pieces that I learned how to unscrew…

The words felt heavy, like she was dismantling herself piece by piece, for the sake of something bigger. And for the first time, Joe realized how much she had already given, how much she had sacrificed, and how often he’d held back. Could I ever be as brave as this?

And I can always reassemble to fit perfectly for you

Or anybody that decides that I’m of use

Lonely is the muse.

Joe couldn’t breathe for a second. Lonely had been her muse. Maybe it had been his, too, but in a different way. He built his walls, turned inward, shut himself off from anything that might make him feel too much. He had always thought that would keep him safe, but now, hearing this, he realized how much he’d been running from—how much he hadn’t let himself feel, because feeling made him afraid.

Riley’s voice was steady, but he could hear the cracks in it, the parts of her that had been broken wide open, laid bare. What had he been doing?

I’ll be a wind chime in the window, catching life you throw around

And I will tear apart your bedroom, I’ll call you in the night

I will exist in every second just to decorate your life.

She was in pieces, but she was still there—still giving, still offering everything to someone who would take it. And here he was, holding back from the one person who might understand all the parts of him he kept hidden.

And when you’re done, you can discard me like the others always do…

And I will nurse my wounds until another artist stains me new.

He wanted to say something, to apologize or to make it right, but the song wasn’t about that. It was about how she had always been the one to give, to share, and still came back for more, only to be tossed aside. Had he been doing that to her, too?

The song wound to a close, and the silence was thick in the air. Riley didn’t move, and neither did Joe. He wanted to say something—he needed to—but he couldn’t quite find the words.

The song wound to a close, and the silence was thick in the air. Riley didn’t move, and neither did Joe. He wanted to say something—he needed to—but he couldn’t quite find the words.

Pete, who had been listening quietly, was the first to speak, breaking the tension. He looked over at Joe with a wry grin and said, “Now you see why we call this place Sad Banger Labs.” He shrugged, giving everyone a bit of brevity, like the weight of the moment had to be lifted somehow. “Some of these songs aren’t just bangers—they’re real damn sad.”

The tension in the room eased slightly, but not the kind of tension that dismissed the seriousness of the moment. It was like the air had just been cracked open—enough room for them all to breathe again.

Joe chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he turned toward Riley, his gaze holding a mix of gratitude and something deeper. She met his look without hesitation, understanding something unspoken, something that was still unresolved, but now felt a little less heavy.

Riley smiled at him, a little softer now. “Yeah. But it’s the only way to get anything real out.”

Joe gave her a quiet nod.

The door to the studio swung open with a bang that made Joe flinch. Andy Fox burst in, a whirlwind of energy and color, his hair pulled back in a messy bun with random strands escaping around his temples.

"Sorry I'm late, but I brought reinforcements!" he announced, dropping his guitar case with a thud.

Behind him stood a striking figure—tall, elegant, with skin that gleamed like polished bronze under the studio lights. They wore a flowing kimono-style jacket covered in intricate embroidered birds over a simple black tank and leggings.

"Dex, babes!" Riley called out, her face lighting up. She crossed the room in quick strides, throwing her arms around the newcomer.

"Riley Carter, you absolute vision," Dex replied, voice rich and melodic. They held Riley at arm's length, studying her face with narrowed eyes. "You look... settled. It's disturbing."

“Joe, this is Dex. One of my best friends since high school, current fashion terrorist, eternal drama queen.”

"And spiritual advisor to these lost souls," Dex added, sweeping a graceful hand toward the band members before turning the full force of their attention on Joe. "So this is the quarterback who's been stealing our girl away."

Joe stepped forward, extending his hand with an easy confidence that surprised even him. "Joe Burrow. Nice to meet you."

Dex shook Joe’s hand—firm, brief—then took a step back and looked him over.

“Well. I see what you meant about the jawline,” he said to Riley. “You didn’t oversell it.”

"Dex, stop terrorizing him," Riley laughed, but there was no real warning in her voice.

Andy had already positioned himself on the couch, legs sprawled out as he tuned his guitar. "Ignore Dex. We all do. Though they're right about your face."

"I'm just saying," Dex continued, finally taking Joe's still-extended hand and giving it a firm shake, "I approve. And I don't approve of most things."

Pete snorted from behind the mixing board. "The highest compliment. You should be honored."

Joe caught Riley's eye across the room—her expression half-apologetic, half-amused. But there was something else there too: a quiet pride, like she was pleased to see how easily he seemed to fit into her chaotic world.

"I'll take it," Joe said with a subtle nod, feeling strangely at ease despite the theatrical energy swirling around him. "Though I'm still waiting on Riley's official review."

Riley's eyes widened slightly, a delighted surprise crossing her face at his playful comeback. She bit her lip to hide a smile, but failed.

“Oh, I like him,” Dex said, glancing at Riley. “He’s got more going on than the press lets on.”

Daniel, still focused on his drumsticks, said without looking up, “Dex, chill. You’re gonna scare him off.”

“Please,” Dex said, waving a hand. “He can handle it. Now, who's going to catch me up on what we're doing today? And where is Nick? He promised to bring those pudding cups I like."

"Somebody help me with this shit before I drop it all over the driveway!"

Pete groaned and pushed off the mixing board. "Every time," he muttered, heading toward the door.

Joe followed, partly out of curiosity, partly to be useful. Outside, a beat-up Jeep with faded red paint was parked haphazardly, its back hatch open. Nick was awkwardly balancing two trays of drinks while trying to grab a stuffed paper bag.

"Jesus, Nick, did you buy out the whole place?" Pete asked, taking one of the trays.

Nick shrugged. "Everyone texted their orders after I was already there. What was I supposed to do, say no?"

Joe smoothly took the second tray and the overstuffed bag before Nick could argue.

Nick gave him a once-over, then nodded. “Nick. You must be Riley's new man.”

“Joe.”

“Cool.” Nick didn’t elaborate. “Thanks for the assist.”

They carried everything inside, where the drinks were immediately swarmed by waiting hands. The trays held an absurd variety—green juices, coffee drinks topped with foam art, something blue that glowed almost unnaturally, and several plain iced coffees that looked out of place among the designer concoctions.

The rest of the room descended on the trays. There were vibrant green juices, layered smoothies in glass jars, protein balls in wax paper, and an alarming blue drink no one wanted to claim.

“Mango turmeric?” Riley called, not turning from the drum kit where she was talking with Daniel.

“On the counter,” Nick replied. “Labeled RC with a heart, because I’m emotionally available like that.”

Nick looked at Joe.

“Figured you were more of a clean-eating type of dude, so I got you a green juice. This one’s actually got apple in it, so it’s got a sweetness to it.”

Joe took the bottle, fingers curling around the condensation. “Thanks for thinking of me, man.”

Dex was already halfway into their drink when they glanced up, deadpan. “Did you get my chia pudding?”

Nick reached into the bag without looking and handed over a small container. “Yeah. Right here. Calm down.”

Around them, the room started to refocus—sound swelling back into motion. Pete was back at the board, head tilted as he fine-tuned a mix. Andy crouched beside his amp, twisting knobs until the feedback softened. Daniel tapped out a rhythm on the edge of his snare, loose and instinctual.

Riley moved easily through the space, all muscle memory and unspoken direction. A hand on Andy’s shoulder. A glance over Pete’s screen. A soft laugh shared with Dex. She was the current that tied it all together—chaotic, alive, grounding.

Joe caught her eye from across the room. She raised her brows in silent question. You good?

He nodded, green juice in hand, shoulder braced against the couch like he’d been there a hundred times. Somehow, even with the wires and the noise and the ridiculous drink orders—it felt…right. 

* * *

Riley was on the floor beside Andy, legs crossed, bass resting against her thigh, notebook open in front of her. Her blue cardigan had slipped off one shoulder, the Nirvana tee beneath it soft and threadbare. The checkered pants bunched at her ankles, Converse kicked halfway off. She looked relaxed—but focused, eyes flicking between the page and Andy’s hands like she was chasing something in real time.

Andy strummed a sharp progression, jagged and fast. Riley gave a nod, tapping the neck of her bass lightly in time. “Little less crunch on that last bar,” she said.

Daniel, already behind the kit, jumped in with a driving rhythm—snare hits landing crisp and fast, setting a pulse that pushed the room forward. Pete adjusted a level on the board without comment.

Riley didn’t speak again—just leaned in and started to play, fingers moving with instinctive precision. Then her voice came in—no mic, no cue, just raw and unfiltered.

“One eye open and one eye closed,” she sang, the line hitting like a confession more than a lyric. “’Cause I’ll hang myself if you give me rope…”

The room leaned into it, the track building itself around her. Andy followed her rhythm, layering guitar over the bassline, while Daniel’s snare kept pace with the storm of it. Riley’s voice climbed, fierce and unflinching:

“I lost all my faith and lost all hope / That everything means anything at all—”

Joe didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched as something unspoken pulled itself from inside her and filled the room.

The music swelled—messy, emotional, loud. And she didn’t flinch from it. She owned it. A gut-punch of a chorus with too much truth in it to be anything but real.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

The last note hung in the air for a heartbeat before Andy let out a victorious shout.

"Holy shit! That actually worked!" He spun toward Pete with wild eyes. "Tell me we got that."

Pete was already nodding, fingers flying across the board. "Got it. That bass line finally locked in with everything else." He shook his head, something between disbelief and admiration in his expression. "Three weeks we've been stuck on this."

Riley set her bass down with a satisfied grin, the instrument still humming faintly from her final note. "Funny how it just took the singer to figure out the bass part," she teased, quirking an eyebrow at Pete.

Pete rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his smile. "Yeah, yeah. Never gonna hear the end of this, am I? Riley Carter saves my bass line."

"Put it on my tombstone," she replied, already scribbling something in her notebook. Her voice had filled the room moments before—not for recording, just working through the melody as she played, letting the words find their place in the new arrangement. Raw, unfiltered, laying herself bare without hesitation.

Daniel tapped his drumstick against the rim of his snare, a quiet punctuation to their breakthrough. "It's the right feel now. Everything's breathing together."

The celebration spread through the room—Pete's grudging admiration, Andy's uncontained excitement, Daniel's understated approval. They'd been chasing this sound for weeks, and somehow, today, Riley had unlocked the missing piece.

Joe remained still, caught in the afterglow of what he'd just witnessed. The music had stopped, but he was still hearing it—feeling it—like some part of it had burrowed beneath his skin. The way her voice had wrapped around those bass notes, the way her fingers had found a pattern that transformed everything else...

This was Riley—familiar and still not. The one who curled against him on the couch, laughed over cold Thai food, who dozed off in the bath with her foot pressed to his thigh. That version lived in him now—intimate, familiar. But this? This was something else. She was all sharp edges and instinct, commanding the space without needing to try. Solving creative puzzles in real time while the rest of them scrambled to catch up.

Joe had spent his entire life in locker rooms, in huddles, watching elite athletes find solutions under pressure. He'd seen the triumph of execution up close. He knew what focused expertise looked like.

But this was different.

Riley didn't just perform or execute. She invented. Every note pulled from somewhere deep and intuitive, offered up without the safety net of certainty. The confidence in her voice as she sang, the way her fingers moved with both precision and abandon—it wasn't just talent. It was liberation.

A kind he'd never allowed himself.

On the field, Joe calculated. He mapped trajectories, analyzed defenses, made split-second decisions based on years of disciplined study. Even in the most chaotic moments, he maintained control. His greatness came from never fully surrendering to the moment.

But Riley surrendered completely. And somehow came out stronger for it.

He watched her high-five Andy, laughing as Pete promised revenge for showing him up on his own instrument. She was completely at ease in this space of creation and breakthrough. How did she move so fluidly between vulnerability and confidence? How did she dare to fail, to experiment, to reveal herself so completely—and then shake it off like it was the most natural thing in the world?

Something uncomfortable stirred in his chest. In football, improvisation was a last resort when the plan failed. Here, it seemed to be the whole point—the willingness to try, to be wrong, to look foolish in pursuit of something authentic.

Riley glanced up then, catching his eye across the room. Her smile was radiant, triumphant—she was riding the high of creative breakthrough. Instead of questioning his silence, she simply blew him a kiss, confident and playful, before turning back to demonstrate the bass line again for Pete, who watched with focused attention.

Joe felt the corner of his mouth tug upward in response, automatic and genuine. But beneath it, the questions remained. In his world, perfection was the goal. In hers, perfection was the enemy of the real. And he wasn't sure he knew how to bridge that gap, even as he found himself desperately wanting to try.

The front door creaked open, and a familiar voice called out before she even stepped inside.

“Don’t stop the magic on my account.”

A second later, Haley strolled into the studio, sunglasses still on and iced coffee in hand like she owned the place.

She held up the drink like a trophy. “I heard y’all finally broke through?”

“We nailed the bridge we’ve been stuck on for weeks,” Riley said, accepting the coffee with a grateful sigh. “It’s still rough, but it’s there.”

Haley dropped into a chair, tucking one leg underneath her. “Play it for me.”

Riley glanced toward the soundboard. “Pete?”

Pete gave a low whistle as he cued it up. “Get ready to be impressed. Fucking Riley nailed the bass.”

The track rolled through the studio, low and pulsing—still raw around the edges, but undeniably alive.

Riley crossed the room with unhurried ease and settled into Joe’s lap like it was second nature. He didn’t flinch, just adjusted to make space, one hand slipping instinctively to her waist.

When the final note faded, Haley tipped her coffee in Riley’s direction. “It’s the bass for me. Dark, heavy, perfect. Makes the whole thing crackle.”

Riley smirked. “What can I say? I’m clearly a better bass player than Pete.”

Pete didn’t look up. “Keep talking like that, and I’m retiring.”

Andy smirked, tuning a string. “Can’t wait for the tell-all where Pete admits you’ve been ghostwriting his bass parts for years.”

Haley took a sip of her iced coffee, giving them a lazy once-over. “Y'all are disgusting.”

Riley smirked but didn’t move from Joe’s lap. “You say that like you didn’t take a redeye from Vegas just to be part of it.”

Haley took another sip. “Okay, but if you start feeding each other, I’m out.”

Joe didn’t miss a beat. “That ship sailed.”

Riley just smirked, leaning into him. “Should’ve left when you had the chance.”

Haley rolled her eyes but smiled into her coffee.

Across the room, Dex looked up from their phone, eyes gleaming. “I just texted everyone. Told them we’re doing an impromptu takeout potluck tonight.”

Riley blinked. “You what?”

“They’ve been dying to meet your man,” Dex said innocently, locking their screen with a flourish. “Figured we’d make a night of it.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “A potluck?”

“With takeout,” Dex clarified, as if that made all the difference. “Everyone just brings their favorite spot."

Riley turned to Joe, her voice dropping so only he could hear. "Hey, we don't have to do this," she said, her eyes searching his. "We can go home. I will totally understand."

There was genuine concern in her expression—not pity, not worry, just a simple recognition that this wasn't what he had signed up for. Her fingers brushed his arm lightly, a silent reassurance that whatever he chose would be okay.

Joe glanced around the room—at Dex already thumbing through delivery apps, at Pete and Daniel debating Thai versus pizza, at the casual chaos of it all—and found himself hesitating. This wasn't his world. These weren't his people. This wasn't how he'd planned to spend his first night in LA.

And yet.

"Do you want to?" he asked quietly, meeting her gaze.

Riley's brow furrowed slightly. "Do I want to what?"

"Go home." His voice was steady, curious rather than pressured. "Because if you want to go, we'll go. But if you want to stay..." He shrugged, the gesture small but significant. "I'm good either way."

Riley studied him for a moment, like she was trying to read between the lines. "They can be a lot," she admitted. "And they're definitely going to ask you awkward questions and probably try to embarrass me with stories I'd rather you never hear."

The corner of Joe's mouth twitched. "Sounds like my kind of night, actually."

A slow smile spread across her face—part relief, part something warmer. "You sure?"

"Yeah." He nodded, more certain than he'd expected to feel. "I want to see this part of your life. Meet your people."

Riley's expression softened. "Okay," she said, her voice carrying a note of quiet pleasure that made his chest tighten. "But the second it gets weird—"

"We can reenact a fire drill and flee the premises," Joe finished for her.

She grinned, nudging his shoulder with hers. "You're learning."

Across the room, Dex called out, "Riley! Tell Joe we need his food order. And don't let him get away with something boring like plain chicken."

Joe reached for Dex’s phone, scrolling through the Thai menu they had pulled up. He glanced at Riley, then back at the screen. “I know we just had leftover Thai last night,” he said, “but I think I want the drunken noodles. Thai hot. And maybe those crispy pork ribs.”

Dex’s eyebrows shot up. “Thai hot? Not ‘American hot,’ but actual Thai hot?”

Joe gave a casual shrug. “I like when my food fights back a little.”

“Respect,” Dex nodded, adding it to the order. “That’s how I order it too. Most people can’t hang.”

Riley leaned against Joe’s shoulder, peeking at the screen. “Add an extra order of spring rolls. And some of those chili-lime wings.”

“Done and done,” Dex said, fingers tapping efficiently. “Nick’s getting sushi from that place on Sunset. Pete’s getting pizza. Daniel says he’s ordered something mysterious he won’t reveal, and Andy’s predictably handling dessert.”

“By ‘handling dessert,’ you mean he’s got those weird mushroom chocolates, don’t you?” Riley asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Among other things,” Dex replied with a slight grin. “Don’t worry, I made him promise to clearly label everything this time.”

Joe raised an eyebrow at Riley.

“Long story,” she muttered. “Involves Haley thinking she was getting a regular brownie and instead spending four hours convinced her houseplants were judging her life choices.”

“They probably were,” Pete called from across the room without looking up from his phone.

Daniel’s quiet laugh drifted over from the drum kit. “To be fair, it was the best mix session we’ve ever had. Got three tracks done that night.”

Riley shook her head, but her eyes were bright with amusement. “See what I mean about stories I’d rather you never hear?”

“Too late,” Joe said quietly, just for her. “I’m already taking notes.”

While they waited for the rest of the food and the slow trickle of friends Dex had summoned, the studio settled into a kind of anticipatory lull. Dex had migrated to the couch, legs tucked under them as they scrolled through delivery updates. Pete adjusted something at the board. Daniel spun a drumstick between his fingers, aimless.

Andy, mid-stretch with a guitar across his lap, glanced over at Riley. "Hey, why don't you lay down some vocals while we wait?"

Riley tilted her head, considering it. "Which track?"

"The one we just fixed," Andy said, already strumming softly. "I want to hear it with actual lyrics, not just your mumbling."

Riley rolled her eyes. "I wasn't mumbling. I was workshopping."

"Workshopping," Andy repeated with exaggerated air quotes. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Daniel tapped a quiet rhythm on his knee. "I'd like to hear it too. With the real words."

Riley glanced at Joe, something almost shy crossing her face—not embarrassment, just a flicker of awareness that this was different territory. He'd never really seen her work like this, seen the process unfold in real time.

Joe gave a small nod of encouragement. "I'd like to hear it."

Riley studied him for another beat, then slipped out of his lap with an easy grace, smoothing her cardigan back over one shoulder. “Okay,” she said, voice lighter now. “One take. It’s still messy.”

Joe watched as she crossed the room toward the mic, the whole energy of the studio subtly shifting with her.

Riley stepped up to the mic without fanfare, slipping the headphones over one ear. Pete gave her a quick thumbs up from the board, but she was already adjusting the mic height herself, flipping a few switches on the preamp without asking. Muscle memory.

Joe sat back on the couch, watching as she pulled her hair into a quick twist and tucked it behind her collar. No hesitation. No nerves.

Just Riley in her element.

The track cued up low in her headphones, and she waited through the instrumental lead-in, eyes closed, hand tapping silently against her thigh to stay with the rhythm.

Then—she began.

“One eye open and one eye closed…”

Her voice wasn’t showy or slick—it was textured. Raw in a way that made the lyrics feel lived-in, like she wasn’t reciting them but rememberingthem. Every note felt intentional, even when it cracked slightly on a breath. Especially when it did.

When the first verse faded, she pulled the headphones off and turned to the board. “Nick, take the second pass I just did and lay it under the lead—low mix, a little left pan.”

Nick nodded, already moving. “You want any delay on the back end?”

“Yeah. Real light. Just to give it a little float. Let it catch on the ‘you liar’ line.”

Pete adjusted a few levels, eyes flicking between her and the board. “You stacking harmonies?”

Riley was already nodding. “Give me one more pass—I’ll ghost the chorus and then layer a harmony behind the second verse.”

She was still barefoot, still wearing those slouchy checkered pants—but she commanded the room like she owned it. Because she did.

Joe watched her move through it like second nature, her hands shaping the air as she gave quiet direction, layering takes like brushstrokes. This wasn’t a performance. It was construction. Precision built out of chaos. Emotion built on intention.

He’d never seen anything like it.

And in that moment, he wasn’t thinking about football. Or press. Or the noise.

He was just thinking,  She’s the most capable person I’ve ever met.

Riley pulled her headphones off and stepped back from the mic, stretching her arms overhead with a quiet exhale.

“That’s a start,” she said, half to herself.

Pete tapped a few keys, looping the last few bars. “I liked the grit on that second pass—felt lived-in.”

“Yeah,” Riley murmured, already moving toward the board. “Double that line in the pre with the low octave and shift the last chorus up a half-step—see if it breathes better in the high register.”

She leaned in beside Nick, pointing to the waveform with her pinky. “You can pull the reverb here but keep the delay tail—it’s too clean otherwise.”

Nick adjusted without hesitation. “Got it.”

Joe watched from the couch, quietly stunned. Not by the music, though that was good too—but by the way she moved through it. Fast, clear, in control. She wasn’t performing. She was building something. Like her brain ran on rhythm and instinct and messy, brilliant order.

It wasn’t lost on him that she hadn’t looked over since stepping behind the mic. Not in an avoiding way—just fully locked in. Present. He kind of loved that.

The door creaked open behind them and Dex’s voice floated in.“Guests incoming. Pete, it’s your house—help get the food laid out.”

A second later, voices started trailing in—new people, laughter, the unmistakable rustle of takeout bags and the clink of too many drinks. The studio’s quiet hum gave way to something louder, looser. The night was about to shift.

Riley pulled her headphones off again and looked across the room, eyes locking with Joe’s—bright, flushed, lit from the inside with that post-creation glow.

She crossed to him without hesitation, barefoot and easy, the space folding around her like it belonged to her.

 She leaned in, bracing a hand on his knee as she bent to kiss him—soft, unhurried, nothing performative about it. Just hers.

Then, with a half-smile against his mouth: “You ready to meet my friends?”

Joe looked up at her, thumb brushing instinctively along the edge of her wrist. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think I am.”

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 102)

Welding while three days overdue in a pregnancy is hard Uzi realized.

The inside of the shuttle was warm enough that the wind and weather outside wasn't something to worry about, but the amount of strain the baby was putting on her internals was slowing her down heavily.

Even still… it was almost finished.

All that was left was the internals, the controls and the little bit of air they needed to cool their systems. And it would be ready.

And so right now she was putting in the cramped recharge pods that would be the bulk of the inside, small little upright beds that filled the function of a place to rest and…not much else.

When space is at a premium, it would have to do.

Khan was working on the airlock, big, steel hydrologic doors. His expertise. So they were nearly working side by side.

Uzi stretched upwards to reach the ceiling from the step ladder she was using,sealing up a messily managed cluster of wires within a tube of aluminum. And then doubled over in pain.

She made a wince and a squeak and held her expanded abdomen as a wave of pain shot through her.

Khan was on her in an instant, taking one of her hands in his own and helping her off the stepladder.

“Uzi! Are you alright? Is the baby-”

“N-no! No. Just uh… just them kicking me in the stomach. Ow…” She calmed him. “I almost wish…”

Khan still held her and made her sit in one of the incomplete charge pods, checking her over.

“I'm fine. Dad.” She almost laughed, but it turned into another wince as the baby proceeded to kick the shit out of her insides once more.

“Agh…”

“Maybe you should sit the rest of the construction out dronelette… you need rest.”

“What I need is to get this done. This was my plan and it needs to work and-” She struggles to get out of the pod, legs kicking our uselessly.

“And you have been every single day you have been able. It's just finishing touches, then we start packing what we can.”

Uzi crossed her arms in a huff.

“I don't wanna be useless.”

“No offense dronelette, but I think your body has more say about that then your mouth.” He smiles sheepishly, gesturing to the fact she couldn't even get out of a shallow pod by herself.

“Bite me.”

He laughed and helped her out of the pod, not letting go until both her feet were on the ground and she was steady on them.

“Where's N? Still on patrol?” He asks, hand still on her back.

“Yeah, he'll be out for awhile…”

“I gotcha.” He peered out the door, flagging down somebody.

“Nico! Can I borrow you for a minute?” He shouted, at the purple eyelighted door gaurd, who was deep in conversation with his partner.

“Aye sir!” He rushed over with a lopsided grin. Goggles bouncing on his head.

“Can you lead my daughter back to her apartment for me?” Khan asks, smiling happily at the young man.

“Dad! I can walk on my own!” Uzi protested, but it went in one ear and out the other.

“Sí Mr. Doorman.” Nico replied, getting into place at Uzi's side despite her indignant grumbles.

“Thank you, Varga.” Khan grinned, before heading back inside the ship. Nico and Uzi look at each other.

“After you senora?”

“I'm not that much older then you…” Uzi smirked, raising her eyebrow. And Nico just laughed.

“Hehe… I'm just being polite.” He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “You snapped at me for my manners once.”

“Huh?” Uzi wracked her brain. “Oh! Were you the same guy who was staring at Tera when she was a pillbaby?”

They began to walk, passing through the doors of the bunker.

“Guilty. Forgive me? Por favor? I was just surprised… you never struck me as someone who wanted kids, at least… at the time.” He grinned.

“I think I was just in a bad mood that day. I was getting lots of stares.” Uzi admitted, feeling a little self conscious.

“Lo siento, aren't you always in a bad mood?”

“Hey!” She snarled as they passed by several residential doors, before she deflated and smiled. “I guess you're not wrong.”

He laughed again. It sounded… familiar somehow.

“If dad's gonna have you tail me, I need to pick up my daughter from a freinds house before I head home.” She spoke, and at her words, his smile seemed to get a little pained.

“Of course. It's Tera right?” He asked, cocking his head. “How… is she?”

“Tera? You mean other then destroying everything soft she can get her fangs on? She's great, she's so energetic, she's a little hard to keep track of.”

He smiles, then looks confused. “Fangs?”

Uzi looks guilty, looking away from him.

“That's… my fault. My oil is… uh, effected by a condition…” She shows him a flash of her own fangs. “And I didn't realize it was contagious that way until it was too late.’

Nico furrows his brow, Uzi mistakes his concern for judgement. “It doesn't seem to effect her negatively! She's happy and healthy, it's just… she'll look different, is all.”

Nico nods once. “I wasn't judging.”

“So long as she is happy, I don't think anyone will judge. You took her in when… no one else wanted to, or could.”

“If no one has thanked you yet. Let me be the first.” He smiles, for once it seems to go up to his visor. “Gracias, Miss Doorman.”

“Uh… you're welcome?” She returns a confused smile as they stop in front of a door that reads “von Roth”.

Nico nods again before coughing and pulling out a little military canteen, taking a swig of it.

Uzi looks at him curiously.

“Ah, software issue… I go through coolant like my abuelo did battery acid! Hehe.”

Uzi nods, satisfied with his answer before knocking on the door with three quick raps.

A drone with light blue eyelights answers the door with a beaming smile. “Oh! Mrs Doorman! You're here to pick up Tera yes?” His accent is slightly Italian, and he smells slightly of fermented oil.

“That's right.”

“I'm Jason! Nice to meet ya!” He shakes her hand firmly. “My Flower’s getting her now. What a good kid you have, treats my daughter like a princess!”

“Uh, thank you Jason.” Uzi says awkwardly.

Delilah pops her head put under his arm, and he chuckles before moving out of the way for her.

“Hi Uzi! Here she is!”

Tera is handed to her… with a big fat purple bow tied up in her hair and forced into a little grey dress.

She looks defeated. Looking up at her mother with eyes that pray ‘please help me.’

“Oh God! What happened to you!?” Uzi smiled, incredibly amused at Tera's deadpan expression.

“Dress up.” Tera answers, as Delilah squeals.

“Look how adorable she looks! Though it was a lot of effort to get her in that dress…” She shows off the tiny scratches on her hands.

considering that Tera resisted being dressed in anything. The fact the Delilah was not in worse shape was astonishing.

“I'd say… Thank you for watching her.”

“Oh, no problem! She's a sweetheart, any time you need!” Delilah answers, before her husband pulls her into a little head nuzzle.

“Absolutely! Kiara needs more freinds like her!” He waves as Nico and Uzi move off, Tera crossing her arms in indignation.

“Not a fan of the dress chica?” Nico asks with an amused look.

“No.” Tera answers, shaking her head and pouting in her mother's arms. It's not until she does the toddler equivalent of a double take that she notices him and stares, cocking her head.

“Heh, Heya kiddo.” He smiles, face soft. Uzi raises a brow.

“Hi! Like you!” She says immediately, beginning to vibrate. “Name?”

“Ah. Nico.” He replies.

“Hi Nico!” She replies back, grinning visor seam to visor seam. Forgetting for a moment all about her distaste for the dress she was in.

But… too quickly, Uzi was at her door, and it was time to say goodbye.

“Thanks for walking with me. It was nice, even if my dad made you.”

“Don't mention it. You both take care, sí?” He cocked his head.

“Bye Nico!” Tera hollered, waving with all her might. And then; “Adiós!”

Uzi blinked. “Where did you learn-”

Nico was gone very, very quickly.

Who knew languages were inheritable?

Next ->

[gods-favourite-dyke]

Narcissist Graves - Saoirse's Yapfest

Cracks my knuckles. Briefly covered it in the reblog I did from Gomz but I want to talk about it properly. Sidenote, I haven't finished Modern Warfare 2 yet, so there may be things you think would lend themselves to this post that I have missed. Feel free to tell me about them!

Before I start! People who demonise NPD, Cluster B in general, believe in "narc abuse", or use the term narcissist as an insult are not welcome to interact with me.

Now then!

Phillip Graves with Narcissistic Personality Disorder

I'll break this up into symptoms using this same link that I referenced previously as my point of reference, just for continuity. This is a great resource I encourage you to read :) It uses the DSM-5 for the diagnostic criteria, which I'll finally get to now

Having a grandiose sense of self-importance, such as exaggerating achievements and talents, expecting to be recognised as superior even without commensurate achievements. I think a lot of points for this are spread throughout the rest of this post (the first that comes to mind is him referring to Shadow Company as "the pros"), but I think his first appearance lends itself very nicely to a specific example for this. Truly, Graves is just doing what he's paid to do. But he makes it quite clear that he believes the 141 and Los Vaqueros should be grateful to him, like his actions were an act of benevolence, and the way he talks to Shepherd afterward seems to suggest he believes it places him far above them.

Preoccupation with fantasies of success, power, beauty, and idealisation. Honestly, I don't have anything I think is extremely solid for this one. I think the lines I've used throughout this post and Graves' general behaviour can sort of lend themselves to this, but I honestly can't think of anything solid enough to be worth putting here. I suppose you could argue that he already has that success with Shadow Company, and the fact that he tries to cover up what happened with the missiles no matter how many lives it costs sort of highlights that preoccupation, prioritising his reputation - his success, his power - over the lives of people, guilty or innocent.

Belief in being "special" and that they can only be understood by or associated with other high-status people (or institutions). Graves makes it very clear in the tank fight that he believes himself to be far superior to the army; way too good for it. He associates himself with a general, someone with a whole lot of power that can offer Graves more power and a handsome amount of money, considering he and Shadow Company are hired mercenaries. He calls the uniform of a soldier a limitation, a skin that he shed "like a fucking soldier, son", and he snaps back at everything Soap yells at him with such confident and clean justifications and taunts that it's hard to say he doesn't truly believe what he's saying, that he's better than everyone "hiding behind that uniform". When he first appears, he also lumps himself and Shepherd into the same descriptor- "friends in high places", putting himself in league with Shepherd while also making it clear he sees himself as above the 141.

Demanding excessive admiration. Honestly the best I can think of for this is his line about "let the pros finish this". Shadow Company is absolutely far from 'the pros' of the situation, especially when they're standing next to not only the British SAS, but also the "best hand-picked warriors on the planet" to boot.

Sense of entitlement. Again, Graves sees himself as too good for the army. On top of that, he simply decides he can just take Los Vaqueros' base purely because he likes it. He clearly believes he is entitled to it.

Lack of empathy. I think Graves lacks empathy pretty much the entire time he's on-screen. There's the obvious, like all the killings he oversees in Las Almas, but I think just using that is in poor tastes. He also completely lacks empathy for Alejandro who, while a hothead, was very reasonably upset over Graves taking his base and detaining all his men. I think the way he talks to Ghost after Soap escapes his betrayal lends itself to this point too- he completely lacks remorse for what happened, for injuring two of his allies, and if anything he sounds a bit amused while talking to Ghost and is frustrated that he can't catch/detain him.

Envy towards others or belief that others are envious towards them. This one is less obvious, but I think that, yet again, some of his lines in the tank fight can be put down to this. He talks down to Soap in ways that suggest he either thinks Soap is envious of him, or should be. Mostly in the way he calls Soap 'son', 'Johnny', and lines like "Hahahah! That's almost funny comin' from you but then again, I remember my first rodeo too." He puts Soap far below him, presenting himself as the best possible turnout that Soap should either aspire to be or be jealous that he can't attain it too.

Arrogant, haughty behaviours and attitudes. Come on. This is Graves. He is truly nothing if not arrogant, he's so confident in his success that he openly mocks Soap during their final fight. Most notably in my mind is "Knock that honour shit off, Johnny. I'll be sipping tequila, forgetting where I buried your ass in a week. That goes for both of you. Can you say the same?", "There's only two rules here, boys. Walk away or win. Guess which one I choose?" and a lot of other things he says in the tank fight that I've already brought up.

I was very tired when I wrote this, so there may be points I wanted to make that I either missed or didn't finish, but right now I don't think there are. This was very fun to write and I recommend you do the same with your own favourites. Just make sure to do research into stereotypes, representation, etc.! At no point am I trying to say I think Graves is a narcissist because he does bad things. I think Graves is a narcissist and he also just so happens to be a war criminal <3

[mithosis]

Lo and behold, a new little plant guy, now sprinkled with main-plot-flavored tragedy. A Commander, Aestus, the warmest, gentlest sunshine of a sylvari who tries to be the beacon of hope for others, often to the detriment of himself. He shares the verse with a cranky not-fully-alive Marshal, Trahearne Inmorte (@lady-quen), and the Pact's own morbidly whimsical frankenstein bug Morivitae (@commanderteag), Zhaitan's Scion. Together with Aurene they provide a much-needed light to the other duo's darkness (and edginess).

The main twist on existing canon with this guy is the mortifying ordeal of not being a necromancer during PoF and resorting to... a bit unusual means of getting back up. He had to become akin to his enemy in order to defeat the rogue God running around the desert, turning himself into a construct, like the Forged and Exalted, albeit with a bonus of keeping his body.

Obligatory warning for a lot more lore under the cut! This is becoming a tradition with me at this point, apparently (the smoothest Ken doll anatomy version of the art is also at the very very end, i don't want tumblr to smite me)

Aestus is a sylvari of the Dusk Cycle whose pod formed a little ways away from the main cluster in Caledon Forest — closer to the beautiful field of tall rose flowers than anything else. Once discovered, a mender had to be stationed there to keep an eye on it. The life within the pod was weak and unlikely to ever bloom, even with menders' help — their efforts only gave it small bursts of strength to continue developing. Until one morning the once-blue fruit was discovered hanging a little lower just after a visit of a warm, kind-faced charr the day before — now tinted slightly red at the center. It was surprisingly healthy, restored almost as if by a miracle.

When the sapling finally awakened after repelling the vision of a dragon within the Dream with Caithe, the cause for such rapid healing was discovered — the newborn sylvari had a small red shard poking through the center of his chest. A piece of bloodstone that fueled the pod with its magic, his new "heart", exposed for all the world to see.

Despite — or maybe because — the circumstances of his awakening, Aestus is grateful to be alive — a cheerful, warm and driven individual, the kind of person who lights up the room with his presence. Infinitely curious, he is determined to live his life to its fullest, with no regrets — even more so as he later finds out the shard's salvation wasn't as all-powerful as it seemed. While a source of magic in and of itself, it became more unstable the more energy his body took to function — which prompted an… unusual diet of consuming anything that looked even remotely magical or weird enough (woe, toxic hog be upon ye) to balance the scales. It proved to be a valuable exercise in patience as well later in life as Aestus was attempting to gain greater control over the elements.

Nothing changes too drastically from the canon events in his story in the beginning: he dreams of the White Stag, the manifestation of hope, and saves it, and kills Gavin, the Nightmare Courtier, in a duel. He was the first person he ever adventured with as equals, only for the man to turn out the very opposite of Aestus' morals — someone with a goal that would make hundreds miserable. The first friend-turned-enemy, and the first in a row of people to die by their own weapon.

It's only a confirmation of his curiosity for the world that he joins the Durmand Priory further down the road, finding their methods to cause the least amount of casualties involved, as well as provide the most insight into what had happened. When they work, of course. Not at all because finding adventure in long-lost ruins seems to be appealing to him too, no.

Throughout all his various exploits, Aestus is a person who tries to bring the light and comfort into everyone's lives, no matter how dire the circumstances might be, whether it is by dancing his heart out during a festival to invite others to join in, or keeping someone quiet company in the darkest hours of the night. He is constantly dedicating his life to others, more and more so as the story progresses, forgetting about himself in the process more than once. He is the brightest thing on and off the battlefield, bringing all the attention on him instead of his allies — the perfect bait for any who might latch onto the Pact. He trusts his friends, and relies on them to do what they do best while he distracts and pulls focus. He's a helping hand to the family he'd find in Dragon's Watch and a living inspiration to the people fighting against the dragons. And the ticking bomb of repressed emotions, those he can't articulate without breaking the warm and grounding image of the Commander he built over the years (he really said "I'm the Commander of touching grass, i can't let them see I indulge in self-destructive thought"). He is but a humble servant to those that need it most, and it just so happens that Tyria itself needs someone who could put things back on track.

This mentality, as well as the constant feeling of running out of time as the shard grows more unstable the more he uses his magic, aside from the very obvious pull of the Wyld Hunt, is what inevitably dooms him to die at the hands of Balthazar. The God of War and Fire, the embodiment of one of Aestus' greatest fears — becoming a dictator obsessed with power, hellbent on waging endless wars against any and all that he deems fit, the polar opposite of the virtues that the sylvari holds dear to his core — that "all things have a right to grow". And to top it all off, the mage's most trusted element is useless against the God that governs it.

This is the moment where that exposed heart of his breaks, the bloodstone shattering. It will heal, or, rather, "grow" in a different form, no longer a piece of magic, but living metal, as Aestus will take the "humble servant" part of his mentality even further to come back from the dead. Using an ancient Forgotten ritual he'd been studying in his spare time all the way since the assault on the jungle, he turns his own corpse into a construct, not unlike the Forged and Exalted, made of plant matter, metal and colorful glass as his armor and the desert's sands melted and fused together with the sylvari from the sheer heat of his battle against the rogue God. The new "heart" would now tie his soul to the body in absence of anything else holding the two together. It functions similarly to the masks the Exalted are wearing — it is his tether, and if violently removed or damaged beyond repair, the Commander would die a final death.

Similar to the world's view of constructs, he arrives at the same assessment of his own situation — the image of the Commander he is supposed to be — a servant, like an asuran golem, that can either be discarded or recalibrated to fit any need, any task. This "realization" accumulates over time, but despite it Aestus would still try to do what he likes best — making people he loves smile and thrive, even as he is burning from inside out to accommodate. Becoming the kindling this world needs just so everyone makes it out alive.

Killing Trahearne with his own hands, without knowing he would come back in this verse, was probably one of the worst things to happen to him — his own death doesn't compare to the anguish he feels every time a person close to him gets hurt. And despite not ever truly knowing what it's like to lose the Marshal completely, Aestus still feels guilty for being even a little happy he is still there. After all, it wasn't his choice to stay.

The woes of the Commander wouldn't end there. He would emerge victorious over Balthazar and end him for good — or so he thought. He partially absorbed his magic, and just like Aurene, became a new "representation", a new "version" of the God against his will for those, who believed in the tyrant before — the Zaishen Order in particular. The quiet whispers in his head came after. They grew in power until Aestus recognized them for what they were — the dead God's thoughts, his essence or even his soul that latched onto him from the Mists. And it wanted out.

The experience appeared similar to revenants who are able to communicate with the fragments of the Legends long passed at first, but quickly turned dire as Balthazar would try to possess the Commander on more than one occasion, making the gentle sylvari forget himself even for a moment to gain the upper hand. The warmest sunshine of Aestus, now tainted, threatening to become the same hellfire he fought against in Elona. He has his allies to help manage this new "condition", but it does interfere with his life unlike anything else, forcing the sylvari to remain on edge so as not to give up the life he built to someone who would see it brought to ruin.

So he goes on as the beacon, the guiding light for others, tryng to navigate his own problems as smoothly as possible. Colored like the hope of the ever-present butterflies that surround Caladbolg at all times, Aestus is trudging through the greatest challenges the world has to offer. He just has to believe his loved ones would make it to the other side, even if it means he won't live to see it.

The promised smooth sylvari

[rcmclachlan]

8x15 spec fic (like, how does tommy get involved with the big emergency? but also i just want tommy to have people, too.)

+

Once Buckley starts begging for help—"please, please, if there's a-anyone out there, if anyone's listening, I'm... please, they're my family"—over an open channel through deep, heaving sobs that sounded like they're being dragged out of his belly and drawing blood on their way out, Dana figures Kinard's probably already in the air and halfway to where they're holding the rogue scientist at Fort MacArthur. But to her surprise, he's still on the ground, standing apart from everyone currently clustered around Captain Melton's desk. He's aging fifteen years before her very eyes, looking like someone's stuck a pitchfork in his gut and is starting to turn it.

Kinard values privacy more than anything and would be mortified if anyone saw feel a single emotion that wasn't humor, so she looks away.

The entire crew has been glued to the radio for the last twenty minutes as though Orson Welles is the one delivering the dramatic relaying of the 118's impending doom and how it's the only thing keeping them from being charged with domestic terrorism. For the life of her, Dana will never understand how it's always them getting into these situations. There are 106 fire stations in Los Angeles; 105 of them somehow manage to avoid getting caught up in Armageddon on the regular. She's dying to know what their insurance premiums look like.

Movement out of the corner of her eye startles her into looking up again just in time to see a large, tall flash of blue storm out of the hangar and onto the tarmac.

She has to give Kinard credit. He lasted much longer than she'd expected: almost a full minute.

Dana is at least a head shorter than everyone else on the team, so it's easy for her to slip away without being noticed. Although Lucy does, of course, and Dana gently taps her fingers against the small of Lucy's back as she goes, tilting her head a little at Nico, who's standing to Lucy's left.

Lucy has always operated on Dana's wavelength, which makes working with her a genuine pleasure, because Dana never has to waste time with talking, with explaining her reasoning for anything. Lucy just seems to know what Dana needs from her. Nico's convinced they're able to speak telepathically, and sometimes Dana can't argue against the possibility.

Even now, Lucy just inclines her head slightly and disguises it by acting like she's leaning in to hear the radio better. Before Dana leaves the office, she sees Lucy nudge Nico. 

They've been grounded ever since Captain Nash disobeyed the order, and the silence that has befallen the hangar fills Dana with dread as she walks out onto the tarmac, because a quiet base means trouble. A quiet base is death.

By the time she reaches the Bell 505 that Kinard's apparently chosen for whatever he's planning, he's strapped in and about to shut the door, but she slides into the doorway before he can.

Kinard opens his mouth, most likely to tell her that she can't stop him from what he's about to do, which is patently untrue, but she beats him to the punch.

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean? Of course I'm—"

"I mean are you sure."

She puts a little firmness into her voice, which is hard. She's not soft-spoken by choice. Her vocal cords were already weaker than normal before she joined the LAFD and fighting fires has certainly not helped. 

"It's—" Kinard swallows. "It's him. I have to."

She thinks of the Tommy Kinard from last October, who walked in every shift with a literal bounce in his step and smiled for no reason when he thought no one was watching, and how a different Tommy Kinard started coming to work mid-November. It took him weeks to start eating normally again, to lose the look in his eyes that reminded her of dead trees in standing water, to trust himself enough that he was comfortable being back in the air. 

He'd finally been on the upswing, and everyone on the A-shift had breathed a collective sigh of relief, and then last month it all seemed to come crashing down again. He'd gone home one day smiling and making jokes, and then he was back in Melton's office at the start of his next shift asking to be grounded again. 

"You'll know they'll take your wings for this," Dana says, and he nods. "Is Buckley really worth losing the sky over?" 

Dana had never been a fan of Evan Buckley's even before he took up with Kinard. He was so desperate to be liked by everyone at every scene that it made him impulsive and, quite frankly, annoying. She'd worked with him on two calls and it was like trying to wrangle a very competent puppy. 

When Kinard finally admitted he was seeing the 118's very own walking, talking billboard for Murphy's Law, Dana had been the only one at Harbor who didn't slap him on the back or offer their congratulations. She'd known exactly how it would go, and she didn't relish being right. 

Early on in the new year, she saw Buckley in Vons. He'd been loading an enormous bag of flour into his cart, and although she's certain she didn't make any kind of noise, Buckley had looked up and spotted her. After a moment that felt like a decade of staring, he lifted a hand and attempted a smile that looked painful even from where she'd been standing. She thought about returning the gesture, if only to be the polite lady her mother had desperately tried to raise her to be. Then she thought of how Kinard hadn't so much as glanced at the sky in weeks, and she turned her cart around and walked away. 

Evan Buckley has fought against his own house, the LAFD at large, and seemingly the world for everything he's wanted. The fact he didn't bother fighting for Kinard tells her everything she needs to know. She's certain about Evan Buckley.

"He is." Unfortunately, Kinard is more certain. "I'm sure."

"You will be charged with something none of us will be able to get you out of."

At that, he turns a bewildered smile on her. "Dane, why would you—I'd never expect any of you to try."

Apparently working and defying death together, not to mention countless trivia nights and dinners out, don't make a friendship. It hurts to hear.

"I know you're very attached to your whole lone wolf thing, but you do have people in your corner, Kinard." She holds his gaze and refuses to drop it. He's not going to happily walk into a federal jail cell without hearing what she'd thought was obvious all this time. "You have people who will go to bat for you."

He swallows and jerks his eyes down to his lap, then huffs a wet laugh. "Dane—"

"Which is why Nico's starting a fire in the locker room." 

That gets him to look up. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed. "He's what?"

"Or setting off the sticks of dynamite he keeps in his glove compartment. Whatever he comes up with. Aiding and abetting domestic terrorism necessitates a distraction." She lets a reassuring smile sneak out. "You've got one."

Kinard's lip trembles a little as he stares at her with something like awe, like he's been given a gift he never once expected, but she watches him visibly bite it all back in favor of reaching for the skills and fearlessness that have helped make a name for him at AirOps. She steps out of the doorway and backs up as he turns on the Bell. The explosion of air tries to ruin her hair, but the snood she put her hair into this morning holds firm. 

Through the tint in the windshield, she can see him lift a hand at her. She doesn't hesitate to lift one right back. 

When he's at least 500 feet in the air, she goes to the other Bell and gets on the radio, tuning it for the right frequency. When she lands on the same channel the call had originally come from, she patches in. 

"Firefighter Buckley, please be advised: help is on the way. Keep an eye on the skies." She thumbs off the speaker and watches as Captain Melton comes storming out of his office. As he gets closer, she clicks back in. "And let me be clear, Buckley: if you fuck things up with him again, your very talented medics at the 118 won't be able to fix what I'll do to you."

Satisfied, she places the radio back into its charging port and slides out of the Bell, then heads in the direction of the hangar. It's been quite some time since she's been in the kind of trouble that ends with being put on leave, which she most certainly will be once her voice is identified.

As Captain Melton approaches, she thinks of all the shows clogging up her Hulu queue that she'll finally be able to get to, and smiles.

[tavolgisvist]

At Laudate in Newdigate I decided that Saturday to take a very modest 250 milligrams of LSD in a final cup of tea with Joan before setting off for St John’s Wood to pick up Paul McCartney and Peter Asher and Tony Bramwell, the Apple team due next day at Bradford. <…> Paul seemed very positive and played us some rare recordings; ‘dubs’ he had made of songs, written by him for others, dubs on which he was singing for the first and last time. Maybe one day they will make an album of them, but maybe it will have to be over his dead body for I don’t see him wishing to complete that particular symphony in his lifetime. I said I had taken a dollop of the dreaded heaven-and-hell, and Paul said it should be an interesting journey, and it was. We stopped at a pub on the way up and I astonished myself by coping remarkably well up until the point where I asked the barman if I could buy a filthy table which stood in a corner covered in cigarette burns and the stains of long dead pints. <…> ‘Drink up,’ said Paul, seeing the signs and playing Dad. ‘Write your name here please, Paul,’ said the barman and we left.

We arrived in Bradford after dark. Some disabled people were operating rowing machines in a charity marathon in a local showroom. We wandered in and looked, leaving some silver in the collecting boxes, neither the first nor the last of the small spenders. It was midnight as we checked into the hotel. There wasn’t a soul or a sound except for the red-nosed night porter, as old as Moses. Paul had brought Martha (My Dear) with him – the sheepdog of the same name. ‘Can you shampoo her?’ he asked the porter who recoiled in terror. ‘It’s her arse,’ said Paul, and he put his fingers in the thick curls around Martha’s back passage and pulled off a cluster of clinkers. ‘Look!’ I nearly fainted. ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the porter. It was very late after all. Next morning, another lovely day. I felt very nice and clean around the brain, always have a lovely morning after acid. A few months earlier Paul and I had gone shopping for suits; he had told me navy blue pinstripe was already on the way back (meaning that he wore it) and I fell for it – and ordered one. I had taken it with me to Bradford; just right for Bradford I said. I wore it down to breakfast and then we went off to the Victoria Hall where the Black Dyke Mills Band were waiting on hard wooden chairs, looking bloody marvellous and real and solid and honourable and stocky and lots of other words like that. Paul had on a magenta shirt and a white jacket, double breasted, with black trousers (no one had ever told him they were on the way back), and the Black Dyke Mills Band was quite stunned by his charm and by the way he handled the music. Marvellous recordings were made, indoors and later in the street, of both ‘Thingumybob’ and ‘Yellow Submarine’. It was a good morning for everyone because the portable recording unit worked, the band and McCartney worked, and the press worked out beautifully – I saw dozens of old friends and we had a few pints and then lunch. At around three o’clock, as we filmed the last TV interview (‘How do you like Bradford?’ ‘It’s great …’; fast-moving stuff like that) I decided to off the suit and black shoes, put on a pair of red corduroys and a white Mexican cotton shirt from Olvera Street, Los Angeles, a couple of beads, an Indian scarf and down my throat went another 250 milligrams of the dreaded heaven-and-hell drug. What a day for a daydream. ‘Should be an interesting journey,’ said Paul. The chauffeur said: ‘Back to London?’ and we said ‘yes’, not sure that it was the right answer.

<…> As we rolled away from the South Midlands and approached the Northern Home Counties the acid really started to bounce. It was late afternoon and if there was a heaven to be found on this soil, then I reckoned it would be found this evening, in the green and gold of this divine countryside. ‘Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?’ ‘Yes,’ said Peter Asher. ‘Where would you like to go?’ I asked. ‘AA Book,’ said Paul. ‘Pick the most beautiful name in Bedfordshire,’ I said, ‘that’s where we should go.’ Peter looked at the map for what seemed like two hours or more. ‘Harrold,’ he said, after fifteen seconds. ‘Harrold?’ said the driver, naturally knocked out with delight to leave the M1 and crawl down B, C and D roads to a village no one in the car, including himself, had ever heard of. We wound through Bedfordshire checking off the signs steadily until we reached the village sign: Harrold. Oh, it was a joyful Sunday sight. It was the village we were supposed to have fought the world wars to defend, for which we would be expected to fight the third when told to, but won’t. It was a Miniver hamlet on the Ouse and there were notices telling of the fete next Saturday, and a war memorial which made me weep. Thrushes and blackbirds sang and swallows dived into thatches and a little old mower wheezed as we walked down the only street there was past the inn which was closed, past the church which was open, nodding to a sandy man with a 1930s moustache and khaki shorts as he clipped his hedge and stared at these city people with funny hair and clothes. It was seven o’clock and acid or no acid, it was opening time and I steered us into the most beautiful village inn the world has ever known and there were three or four people in there, or more or less; magical antique villagers with smocks and shepherd’s crooks and also there was a fruit machine offering Jolly Joker tokens. Through the dancing lights, past the sparkle of the green and tawny bottles, I saw the sandy man with the khaki shorts. <…> ‘Welcome to Harrold, Paul,’ said the sandy man, the local dentist, downing the rich gold beer he had earned with his shears. ‘I can hardly believe it, in fact I think I’m dreaming.’ We next found ourselves in his house, below dipping oak beams, a banquet provided for us, hams and pies and multi-jewelled salads, new bread and cakes, chicken and fruit and wine; and the dentist’s wife, a jolly lady, still young beyond her maddest fantasies, bringing out her finest fare. Paul McCartney was at her table in the village of Harrold.

Hiding at a turn on the crooked staircase stood a little girl, shy and disbelieving. But she had brought a right-handed guitar and landed it in Paul’s (left-handed) hands but the wizards were producing this play by now and floating with the splendour of this, the strangest Happening since Harrold was born, the dentist and his wife, and the neighbours as they crowded the windows and the parlour, and the children, all caught their breath as Paul McCartney began to play the song he had written that week: ‘Hey Jude,’ it began. I sat peacefully, full of the goodness you can find within yourself when goodness is all around and the dentist’s wife picked up on it and asked why life couldn’t always be like this and I told her there was nothing to fear, nothing at all and the dentist brought out the wine he had been saving for the raffle at the fete next Saturday and we drank that to celebrate the death of fear and the coming of music to Harrold and then, and gradually, the dentist was freaking and he asked me what I thought I was talking about and for a moment it was very tough, very. Ah, but Dr Leary’s medicine was good that day and we came back to a good position again, but I didn’t feel quite right about the dentist after that, and I don’t think he felt quite right about me, but how was he to know and what was I to do? You don’t just tell strangers you’ve been taking that naughty old heaven’n’hell drug. It was now eleven o’clock and we were still in the house and the inn was closed but a winged messenger came to say that as this was the night of nights, never to return, the inn was to be re-opened. ‘In your honour, Paul.’ It was 11 p.m. Paul had The Look on his face, the ‘do we don’t we?’ I nodded: tonight we should. The pub was absolutely full. The whole village was here. Paul played the piano until at three o’clock a woman stood and sang ‘The Fool on the Hill’ and he left the piano to dance with her and kiss her on the cheek and then I went and sat in the little garden and cried for joy that we had come to Harrold. It was a most beautiful garden, with hundreds of old-fashioned flowers, lupins, foxgloves – that sort of thing, and Alan Smith came out, pissed as a newt and said, ‘Why so sad, old friend, why so sad on such a night?’ ‘Not sad,’ I said, ‘not sad, old pal, just happy to be alive.’ We left then, waved away by the Harrolds, by all of them, and we never went back and I never looked at the map again, not even to see if Harrold was there.

(As Time Goes by Derek Taylor)

(Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI)

Add to this

[i-ship]

Here goes, my take on Sam and Cait’s crazy relationship.

// With Outlander done filming, Caitriona is leaving Scotland for LA, and Sam has one last thing to tell her before she leaves //

Long, angsty, fluffy piece. Let me know what you think ♥️

/ One last time /

Caitríona adjusted the wine bottles on the table, her eyes scanning the living room one last time. A cluster of empty glasses and half-finished plates sat on the coffee table, remnants of the night’s laughter and chatter. She glanced out the window at the Glasgow skyline, the city she’d called home for almost a decade.

The farewell party had been her idea. A proper send-off, she’d said, though the truth was, she hated goodbyes. Especially this one. With Outlander wrapped and her next big projects calling from across the Atlantic, she and her family were moving to Los Angeles. It made sense—work was there, and a toddler wasn’t exactly built for Scottish winters.

The cast had all come. Rick brought a bottle of something expensive and bad jokes. Sophie brought her dog, who immediately tried to raid the charcuterie board. Everyone laughed, took selfies, and talked about the wild ride they’d shared over the years. Everyone except Sam, who’d lingered on the edges all night, nursing a drink and saying little.

Now, as the last of the crew filed out with hugs and promises to stay in touch, Sam stood by the door, looking as though he wanted to be anywhere else but here—or maybe exactly here.

“You’re still here,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice was light, almost dismissive.

“Didn’t want to leave things like this,” Sam said, his voice gruffer than usual. “Figured I owed ye a proper goodbye.”

She paused, setting down the glasses. “Goodbye’s a bit overdue, don’t you think? Or were you planning to skulk in the corner all night and call it a day?”

Sam’s jaw tightened, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. “Didn’t seem like the right time to talk about… this.”

Her laugh was sharp, cutting. “Oh, this? And what exactly is ‘this,’ Sam? Go on, enlighten me.”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor like he was reading invisible lines off the carpet.

“Look, Cait…” He let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” she said dryly, folding her arms. “Go on, then. What’s rattling around in that head of yours?”

Sam’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but it didn’t stick. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For… well, everything.”

Her laughter was sharp, not unkind but laced with disbelief. “That’s a bit vague, don’t you think? Care to narrow it down?”

“For us,” he said plainly. “For screwing it up. For letting you go.”

Caitríona’s arms dropped to her sides, her expression shifting. “Sam, it’s been years. Don’t do this now.”

“I know the timing’s shite,” he admitted, stepping closer. “But I couldn’t let you leave without saying it. You deserved better from me, Cait. Always did.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she looked as though she might dismiss him entirely. But then her shoulders sagged, and the tension in her voice gave way to exhaustion.

“Why now?” she asked, her tone quieter. “Why wait until I’ve packed up my life to say this?”

“Because I’m a coward,” he said simply. “And because I’ve spent every day since regretting it.”

She flinched at his honesty, her jaw tightening. “You had your chance, Sam. And you made your choice. You don’t get to rewrite history just because you’re finally ready to feel bad about it.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. “I know I made a mess of it. But I couldn’t just let you leave thinking I didn’t care. That I didn’t—” He stopped himself, his jaw working.

“Didn’t what?” she pressed.

“Didn’t love you,” he finished, his voice soft but unflinching. “Still do, if you want the truth of it.”

Caitríona stared at him, her eyes glassy but sharp. “Don’t say that, Sam. Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not trying to ruin your life, Cait,” he said, his tone steady despite the emotion brimming underneath. “I just… I needed you to know.”

Her laugh was bitter now, her hands curling into fists. “What exactly do you expect me to do with that, huh? Just pack up my family and run off with you? Fuck you, Sam.”

“I don’t expect anything,” he said. “I just couldn’t let you leave without hearing it from me. That’s all.”

She shook her head, a tear finally slipping down her cheek. “You don’t get it, do you? You broke me, Sam. And I had to put myself back together while you went off gallivanting with—God, with whoever would swipe right.”

“You think I wanted to?” he said, his voice cracking. “You think it didn’t rip me apart to see you with him? To watch you settle for Tony bloody McGill?”

Her eyes narrowed, her breath hitching. “Don’t you dare talk about him.”

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” he pressed, stepping closer. “He’s safe. Reliable. A bloody beige cardigan of a man.”

Her laugh was bitter. “At least he stayed.”

Sam’s voice cracked as he snapped back, “Do you think I wanted to leave? Do you think I don’t hate myself for how I handled it?”

Her voice was sharp, cutting. “And what? You think that justifies it? You think it’s some grand tragedy that you wanted me but couldn’t handle me? Grow up, Sam.”

Her words were low, dangerous. “You think I wanted Tony because I wanted ‘safe’? I wanted you, Sam. I wanted the man who made me feel alive, the one who made me think I could have it all. And then you—” She shook her head, choking on the words. “You let me down. Every time.”

His frustration boiled over, a mix of anger and regret. He moved closer, his eyes fierce, but there was something broken in his gaze. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know that I fucked it up?” His voice cracked, but he didn’t back down. “But you never let me back in. You never gave me the chance to make it right. Every time we came close to something real, you pulled away. And I… I didn’t know how to fix it. I was scared, Cait.”

Caitríona took a step back, her eyes wild, but she couldn’t stop the heat rising between them. She’d spent so long trying to get over him, so long holding onto the anger, but now, everything was crumbling. “Scared?” she echoed bitterly, her laugh short and humorless. “Is that what you tell yourself, Sam? That you were just scared? That it’s all my fault for not waiting around while you played the field with your—” She broke off, her eyes stinging with the memories of his casual flings, of seeing him with anyone who was willing. “With your models and your apps, and every other bloody distraction you could find. I had to move on.”

Sam stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His voice lowered, hoarse, raw. “You didn’t move on,” he said, his voice cracking. “You settled.”

She shook her head, tears streaking her cheeks now. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t you dare tell me I settled. Because I didn’t. I never settled. I tried to move on, Sam. I tried.”

The anger in his eyes softened for a moment, but the hurt in his voice was unmistakable. “I tried too, Cait. But it was you. Every damn time. I could never get you out of my head. Every damn love scene we shot… I knew what you wanted. You wanted me, just like I wanted you. But we couldn’t. It was torture.”

The intensity between them was almost unbearable. “I could feel your heart pounding, Cait. Every time we kissed. Every time I held you close, I felt you—felt your body pressing against mine like you couldn’t get enough.”

She stepped back again, almost as if she were trying to escape the suffocating air between them. But he followed her, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“I felt you every damn time, Cait. In those scenes. When we kissed, I could feel you pull back, like you were just as afraid as I was, but we kept going because neither of us could stop. I couldn’t stop wanting you. I couldn’t stop feeling you in every fucking kiss, every touch. The way your breath hitched when I got close… I couldn’t escape it. You never let me escape it.”

Her breath caught, and her chest tightened with a mix of longing and rage. “And then you left, Sam. And then you walked away from me. And I stayed. I stayed and built a life with someone who wasn’t you. And you—” Her voice cracked, the fury breaking apart. “You couldn’t love me enough to try.”

Her anger had shifted to raw pain, and Sam could see it now—he could feel it in every word she said.

“You were never supposed to have to choose,” he whispered, almost as if to himself. “I was never supposed to be the one to walk away. But I was too fucked up to give you what you needed. And it destroyed me watching you move on.”

He reached out, his hand grazing her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear. “But this… this is the last thing I’ll ever do to you, Cait. I’ll never let you leave thinking I didn’t care. I loved you then, I love you now. I always have. Always will.”

She could feel his breath on her skin, his words sinking deep inside her, but she stopped him before he could take another step. She took a step back, her chest heaving as the tears finally broke free. “I can’t. Sam… I can’t.”

He didn’t let her go, though. He closed the gap once more, pressing her back against the wall, his body firm and urgent against hers. The air was thick, their emotions raw, the alcohol clouding their senses. He kissed her hard, his lips desperate, knowing that this was the last time—knowing they could never go back. She responded, her hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, as if they could make up for all the time lost.

The kiss was wild, furious, and all-consuming. His hands tangled in her hair, hers clutching desperately at his chest, as though letting go would destroy them both. Years of longing and regret poured into every movement, every breath.

He pushed her back against the wall, his lips trailing down her neck as she gasped, her hands tightening around him. She pulled him back to her, their mouths meeting again with a ferocity that left them both breathless.

It was raw, unrestrained, and utterly devastating.

“Sam… please. I can’t.” Her voice was broken, the weight of everything finally crashing down on her. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep breaking myself for you.”

He stood there, his forehead pressed against hers, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “I never meant to break you, Cait. I swear.”

The room was heavy with silence, save for the soft sound of their breaths mingling in the tense space. Sam’s eyes were locked on Caitríona, her tear-streaked face a mix of pain, fury, and something deeper—something she couldn’t quite name, even if she tried. He could feel the air between them crackle, thick with everything they’d buried for years.

Sam’s hands cradled her face, his thumbs brushing the tears streaking her cheeks. His voice, raw and hoarse, cut through the haze between them.

“You think this is easy for me? That I don’t feel like a damn fool for wanting you even now? Every scene, Cait… every time we touched, kissed, looked at each other, I felt it. Felt you. Your pulse racing, your breath hitching—hell, I could barely keep myself together, and you knew it.”

She swallowed hard, her hands trembling at her sides. “And that’s supposed to mean what, Sam? That you were tortured, what, because you wanted something you chose to throw away?”

“No.” His jaw tightened, his words sharp with frustration. “It means I couldn’t stop wanting you no matter what I told myself. Every damn second of every day, you were it for me. And I couldn’t have you—not the way I wanted—not the way you deserved. You think I don’t hate myself for that?”

She laughed bitterly, stepping out of his hold. “Oh, you hate yourself? That’s rich, Sam. You hate yourself, and I was the one left picking up the pieces every time you broke my heart. Do you even know what that did to me? To let you back in, over and over, even when I knew you’d leave?”

His voice lowered, rough with regret. “I know. God, Cait, I know. But I couldn’t stay away. Even after you started seeing him, I couldn’t stop myself. And you couldn’t either.”

Her breath caught, and she stepped closer, her anger flaring. “You don’t get to throw that in my face. You think I wanted to keep coming back to you? To betray what little chance I had at moving on? You made it impossible, Sam. You made me impossible.”

His lips quirked into a bitter smile. “And yet here we are. Still impossible.”

The air between them crackled, the tension unbearable. She grabbed his collar, her voice trembling. “Why do you do this to me? Why can’t I just—”

Her words dissolved as his lips crashed against hers. There was nothing gentle in it, nothing held back—just years of pent-up longing and frustration spilling out in the space between them. She clung to him, her fingers twisting in his shirt as if anchoring herself to him.

He pulled her closer, his breath mingling with hers as he murmured against her lips, “Tell me you don’t feel it, Cait. Tell me it’s not still there.”

Caitríona’s chest tightened. He was right. She had felt it—felt the way her body responded to his even when they were just standing next to each other. She’d tried to block it out, tried to keep it professional, but the truth was, she couldn’t stop herself. She couldn’t stop wanting him, even though she hated herself for it.

Sam growled, his hands threading through her hair as he yanked her into him, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was like the explosion of everything they had kept locked away for so long.

It was frantic, desperate—two people who couldn’t hold back any longer. His hands roamed over her body, tasting, feeling, needing her. Her lips parted, giving him everything. Their kiss was a storm, consuming them both. She could feel his heart pounding against hers, could feel the heat of him seeping into her skin, her body responding without hesitation.

They stumbled toward the wall, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just them, tangled in this fight of passion, every touch sparking the fire that had been waiting to ignite for years.

Sam’s hands slipped beneath her shirt, pressing her body flush against his. She shivered, not from the cold, but from the electricity that raced through her, the way he made her feel more alive than she had in months. In that moment, she hated herself more for how badly she wanted him, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t pull away.

Her hands found his jeans, tugging at them with a force she didn’t know she had. The world was spinning, and the only thing that mattered was the feeling of him, of them together in a way that had never been possible before.

She gasped, pulling back for a split second, breathless, her voice trembling. “God, Sam… we can’t—”

“Please,” he whispered, his voice low. “Please. I’ve been waiting for this, Cait. Waiting for you.”

And she knew, in that moment, that she couldn’t fight it anymore. She didn’t want to.

As their lips met again, deeper this time, all the words left her, and she gave herself up completely to the feeling, to the chaos of what they were creating. There was no turning back now.

[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Grandpa Ackles

Summary: Y/n was enjoying her husband’s new style post Supernatural, that is until a certain pair of glasses come onto the scene. How will Jensen feel about her teasing? 

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Word Count: 1.7K+

Warnings: Language, age gap (implied), unprotected sex (don’t be silly..)

Author’s Note: This baby was born from a little razzing session I had with @winchest09 and @deanwanddamons regarding those glasses Jensen wore. It quickly turned into this mess that I forgot about in my drafts. I hope you enjoy it. As always I would love to hear your feedback xoxo Alex

Check out Alexandra’s Library for more works by yours truly!

The love and support of the Supernatural fandom had been the spark that helped Jensen to come out of his shell. From singing at conventions to releasing his album and everything in between. He was far more at ease now than he had been back in 2005. But the truth was she hadn’t seen him blossom more than since the series finally wrapped. From getting to grow out his hair and the relentless press junket for The Boys, he’s been getting to show off his creativity and style like never before. Most of the time she was behind him all the way, but today’s choice had her questioning the man she had married. 

They were currently on set with Entertainment Weekly doing yet another interview. Y/n had followed her husband across Europe and now Los Angeles to support him in his recent endeavor. Now she found herself standing behind the cluster of monitors that showed each camera angle. Naturally, she was focused on Jensen, but not for the reason one would expect. 

It was like a train wreck, something she couldn’t look away from no matter how hard she tried. Her husband had first slipped the blue-tinted glasses onto his perfect face when they were about to walk out of the dressing room. At first, she had thought they were sunglasses and she was rightfully confused about him putting them on at that moment, but he walked right onto the set with them still in place and that’s when it hit her. They were a statement piece for his outfit. 

God, she loved her husband but she was seriously questioning his choices. The black-framed glasses were ever so slightly to big for his face. The lens appeared prescription strength in the way that they distorted his eyes to appear larger than reality. Sure, he wore reading glasses periodically at home but never had they made it into any sort of interview or red carpet before. Though he wouldn’t admit it to her, she knew it made him self-conscious about his age, especially considering the difference between them. So she would tell him how much she loved them, which wasn’t even the tiniest bit of a lie. Those glasses framed his face well and made him look refined. These on the other hand, well, as much as she tried to love them, it simply wasn’t happening. 

The interview lasted roughly an hour before they were back in his dressing room to pack up their things. Once he had cleared out the dressing room they hopped into a car to take them back to their hotel. Y/n waited with bated breath for him to remove the glasses, but he never so much as acknowledged them. Jensen conversed politely with her until they made it back to their suite. She plopped down onto the edge of the bed, watching him as he began to unpack his bag from the day. 

“Are you going to tell me why you keep looking at me like that?” He questioned finally, his one eyebrow quirking at her. 

“I-” Y/n chewed on the corner of her lip while she tried to find the words. “What is with the glasses?” 

“What do you mean?” Jensen crossed his eyes, playfully attempting to look at the specs without taking them off.

“Did you lose a bet…” her words trailed off, earning her a frown from her husband. 

“You don’t like my glasses.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t… not like them,” she tried with a smile but her husband knew her better than that. Jensen crossed his arms with a warning look, asking her to tell the truth. “Okay fine, they look like a bad 70’s accessory. I’m sorry, baby, but they are not it.” 

“These are Gucci,” he defended. Y/n hid her mouth behind her fingers, stifling a smile at his knee-jerk reaction to her opinion.

“I know this, and I love you, but just because you are playing, as you call him, a grandpa, doesn’t mean you need to dress like one.” Y/n made air quotes with her fingers as she talked. She knew she was digging herself a hole but damn it if she couldn’t stop talking. 

“Whatever, I need to change,” he scoffed as he began undoing the buttons on his shirt. The blatant roll of his eyes told her he was over this conversation but that didn’t stop what slipped out next. 

Y/n cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered, “Start with the glasses.”

Jensen froze, his eyes narrowing at his wife. She smiled at him, her tongue peeking out between her teeth. Before she could blink he darted towards her, his arms encompassing her as he tackled her into the bed.  A shriek left her mouth as the couple barreled into the plush furniture, quickly dissolving into giggles as he pinned her to the mattress.

“Careful, Jay, don’t need you breaking a hip.” Her words came out between snickers. She was quick to realize how worked up she had gotten him. 

“Funny, you weren’t saying that two days ago,” Jensen encompassed her with his form, one hand on either side of where her head lay. 

“Guess that was before I realized how close you might be to needing help from a little blue pill…” She let the words hang in the air, watching her husband’s jaw drop. 

“You gonna regret that,” he mumbled, dropping his voice as he cocked his head. 

“Promise?” Y/n bit her lip, a final challenge before Jensen dove in, capturing her lips with his own. Immediately she melted into the comforter, her hands moving to finish his job of undoing his top. Her work was distracted as the actor trailed his pillow-soft lips down her jaw and neck, using his tongue to suck the tender flesh into his mouth. A moan fell from her lips as he nipped her collarbone, the action egging him on. When she finally popped the last button, she hurriedly pushed the thin fabric from his shoulders. 

Jensen sat back on his legs, working open his belt and jeans as Y/n lifted her dress over her head. He let out a low whistle, letting his eyes roam down the expanse of her body, now just in a pair of panties. 

“I’m waiting, Grandpa,” she smirked, raising her arms above her head to emphasize her breasts for him. 

“Damnit woman,” he grunted, now in a hurry to rid them both of their offending bottoms. Once they were both exposed to the other, Jensen leaned back over her, again capturing her lips with his own in a heated kiss. He sucked her lower lip between his teeth as his hands ran down her curves. The action set her nerves aflame, warmth amalgamating low in her belly. 

In a second, his warmth was gone, and his large hands were flipping her onto her stomach. She rose to her hands and knees without a second thought, knowing that Jensen was not going to do her the courtesy of prepping her for him. The woman got no warning before her husband entered her from behind, his cock stretching her in every delicious and agonizing way. Her chin dropped to her chest as he set a grievously slow pace where she could feel every inch of him. 

“Fuck, Jay. Faster, please?” The words were a breathy plea on her lips. 

“What was that, baby?”

“I need more,” she reiterated. Jensen ran his fingers through her hair before gently tugging on the strands, pulling her frame up and flush against his own. His arms wrapped around her torso, the new muscles she loved so much dwarfing her body as he drove into her, faster with every thrust. His grunts were low, but deafening from their proximity to her. The sound was like music to her ears, each one helping to push her closer to the edge of oblivion. 

“Look at you, so wrecked from taking me like a good girl,” Jensen breathed out, his praises earning a whimper from his lover. “Do you think you deserve to come?” 

“Oh, fuck.” It was the only thing her brain could formulate at the moment. She knew this was a torture of her own creation. Y/n had pushed him to prove himself, knowing full well what would come of it, and damn it if she wasn’t regretting that now. The thing was he absolutely would deny her if she didn’t grovel. And it wouldn’t be the first time either. 

“I can’t hear you.”

“Nobody can fuck me like you. My body is yours.” It was the truth and had been since that first night together so many years ago. He had thoroughly ruined her for anyone else and still to this day proves that he knows her body better than herself. “I can’t come without you.” 

“It’s a start,” he murmured, his game punctuated with every thrust of his hips. His left hand traveled up to her throat, applying light pressure just above her collarbone. 

“Please.” She was nowhere near above begging him for release. 

“Since you asked nicely,” Jensen finally relented, using his opposite hand to press against her clit. The combination of sensations sent her over the cliff like a switch had been flipped. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the overwhelming sensations he continued to deliver until he too finished, rutting against her as he spilled himself inside her. 

His grip against her loosened and he let her back against the hotel comforter, taking care to keep her steady on her trembling legs. Y/n rolled over onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling as her breathing evened out. Her husband joined her, resting his head against her stomach. Mindlessly her fingers came down to run through his long blonde locks. 

“Still think I need the blue pill?” He asked and she could feel him smile against her abdomen. 

“Fuck you,” she huffed out a laugh. 

“I think you just did.”

“Ugh, fine, you win this one, Ackles,” Y/n playfully pushed her husband from her side. “But next, time don’t expect me to cave so easily.”

“Oh?” One of his eyebrows shot up on his forehead and immediately she regretted her words. The actor was on her before she had a chance to blink, ready to prove himself as many times as it would take. 

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