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lvrclerc · 4 months ago

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✶ UNTIL SUNRISE

summary: you and charles broke up a year ago ─ it was messy, brutal, but not unexpected. what was unexpected, though, was to see each other at a monaco party thrown by your socialite friend. between champagne, stolen stares and bittersweet regrets, things left unsaid come back to haunt the both of you.

F1 MASTERLIST | CL16 MASTERLIST | PT2: UNTIL SUNSET

pairing: charles leclercﾉex!f!reader

wc: 7k

cw: angst, bittersweet, smut (oral f!receiving, p in v, unprotected - mdni!), second chance, exes to lovers, reader is BITTER, accurate french, ocs for plot purpose, english is not my first language

a/n: the weeknd the party & the afterparty on repeat, while there is smut it's entirely skippable! if you just want to read the clean vers beginning and end will be marked by bolded words :) i'll still ask minors not to interact

DRENCHED IN SUNSET, Monaco glistened under waves of gold and orange, highlighting the marble of its buildings and the shine of the coast. The streets bustled with laughter dangerously mixed with the motor of fast cars and the crash of the waves. The air smelled like salt, and the tall buildings of the city centers looked like lazy Saturday afternoons spent losing yourself in the neverending streets. Monaco was a country of fast heartbeats and taken chances, and for a time now long past, it felt like home.

It didn’t anymore. As you stepped out of the car, you couldn’t feel more like a stranger.

You thanked the driver with a small smile and a generous tip before he turned around and drove away. The marble structure in front of you shone as the last ray of the sun caressed it ─ it was the stuff of wonder: tall windows and ancient Italian architecture. Your friend, Bridget, always knew how to go all out, but this time she had every right. It was her engagement party after all. You felt ridiculously small as the butlers opened the massive doors when you entered. Monaco and you had been estranged for more than a year now, you should be used to the feeling, but the bitter taste of heartache and tears was stuck in your throat like glue as you made your way up the stairs to the reception.

Enough of that, you thought, you came to celebrate your friend and her fiancé. You came to have fun, not to dwell on the past. You clutched your purse, plastered on a bright smile, and blended in the crowd.

Bridget didn’t make the guest list with a nimble hand, that was for sure. The room was swarming with people, all dressed to the nines, some you did and didn’t recognize. You fit in amazingly well, your dress sweeping the floor and the warm air hitting your bare back, a delicate necklace dropping between your shoulder blades. Soft jazz echoed against the walls, and conversations and champagne flowed as you took laps around the room searching for Bridget.

You knew she found you first when her hands wrapped around your waist in a bear hug. “You came!” She yelled in your ear.

A surprised screech escaped you while your friend twirled around you in ecstasy, all in silky white and tanned skin. Guests turned around, laughing at her antics, while the first real smile out of your evening broke your stunned expression. “What made you think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know!” Bridget stood in front of you, holding you by the forearms as if she were afraid you’d run away. “You just─ We haven’t talked a lot the past year, and you moved out. I thought that maybe you didn’t want to come back here.”

Your chest tightened a little at her self-consciousness. Leaving was necessary, and you had found a semblance of peace by doing so, but you might have neglected a few connections in the meantime. Bridget included. “I know I haven’t been as present as I should have been, but there was no way I would have missed your engagement party,” you reassured her. “It’s just that with everything that happened, I needed some time to think. But I’m here now! We can celebrate properly. Where’s Jaime?” Her fiancé, soon-to-be husband.

The glimmer of happiness your consolation brought to Bridget’s eyes vanished as soon as you mentioned the events that caused your sudden disappearance. It had that effect on people. Nobody had expected it, except maybe you and the other party involved. “About that… the whole thing… there’s something I need to tell you about tonight, Y/N…”

“There you are, Bree! Look who I found trying to sneak his way to the piano.” You and Bridget turned at the sound of Jaime’s voice ─ and the second he came into view, the blood in your veins turned icy.

Because behind him was the reason you moved out of Monaco. Dressed in a sharp black suit with the trademark red tie around the collar of his shirt, his hair an artful mess of brown, the green eyes that promised you so much widening in recognition.

Charles Leclerc, your ex-boyfriend─ no, scratch that, the ex-love of your life, stood before you, champagne in hand, and you were mentally back in the threshold of his apartment a year ago, where your life fell apart in the slamming of a door.

You didn’t miss the way his knuckles tightened around the glass, nor how his pace faltered behind Jaime when he set his eyes upon you. The overwhelming distance between the two of you, whether physical or emotional, still stabbed you in the stomach.

You shouldn't have been surprised he was invited. He was one of Jaime's closest friends, they had known each other for years. There was a small part of you who knew but didn't want to face the possibility of Charles being here. Now, it was way more than a possibility.

The four of you went quiet. Bridget bit her lip, Jaime awkwardly stepped from one foot to the other, aware of what he’s caused, Charles’ eyes were stuck on you, almost transfixed. The air in the room became scarce, almost impossible for you to grasp fully: your world was limited to Charles. Apparently, a year was not near enough to swallow down the hurt and the gaping hole he left in you.

You couldn’t let the silence go on longer or you’d drown. Almost as a reflex, a fabricated smile made its way to your face and the split second of hurt across your face disappeared. “Doesn't surprise me at all!” You glanced at Charles, and the fake sympathy in your voice seemed to startle him out of his trance. “Well, don't let me keep you longer, Bridget. You have guests to attend to. Jaime, it was really nice to see you again. Now if you'll excuse me.”

You didn't stick around for any reactions. The bar at the other end of the room was practically screaming your name and if you were to survive tonight, you needed something stronger than champagne. Fighting to get out of the suffocating sphere around Charles, you almost dropped your whole weight on the red-cushioned stool, startling the bartender. “Can I have an Espresso Martini? Don't go easy on the vodka. Please.”

You barely had time to sip the sugary drink when the cocktail got in your hand before a dark, warm amber perfume you knew all too well grazed your nose and swallowed you whole, heart with it. Shutting your eyelids tight, you took a deep breath.

“I didn't expect to see you here,” Charles said.

He put his back against the bar, sipping from his champagne flute and carefully avoiding the distrusting glance you threw his way as if he wasn’t the one striking up a conversation with you. You couldn’t help the venom in your voice when you answered. “Well, Monaco’s not that big.” You wished it was. It would have been less painful to come back, to feel him so close to you ,and to still react to it.

That made him look your way, at least. Charles almost looked pained but quickly regained his usual composure. You graced him with a half smile, trying to sweeten your words. “And I wouldn’t miss Bridget’s engagement party.”

He chuckled at that, swirling the bubbly liquid in his glass. “We did play a big role in that happening, it would’ve been a shame.”

Yes, you did. After you and Charles got together, it was only a matter of time before both of your friend groups merged ─ friendships were extremely important to the both of you, and there was no way it was going to work if you didn’t get to know them at some point. During a dinner Charles organized for your birthday, you both noticed how Charles’ friend Jaime was making eyes at your friend Bridget, and how Bridget seemed to laugh a little too loud when he was around. Next thing you knew, you two were playing Cupid between muted giggles and stolen kisses. Not even a year later they were engaged.

And you and Charles weren’t anything anymore. The memory erased the sweetness of the sugar in your cocktail and left you with a bitter aftertaste. You didn’t want to remember anymore. It hurt too much.

“Yeah, well, looks like they’re doing much better on their own.”

You threw your head back and downed the end of your drink. If Charles wanted to answer anything, he swallowed it back, preferring to watch you with the same calculation he used on the track. For the second time in your life, you felt like a statistic in his life. The double dose of vodka you ordered was starting to wreak havoc on your empty stomach, and acidic words flew out before you could stop them. “So, still driving like you have something to prove?”

A flash of hurt distorted his delicate traits, but he didn’t miss a beat. “Still running away from your problems?”

Silence stretched between the two of you, letting the words marinate in the air. Music and chatter were getting louder but the only thing you could hear was the sharp sting of his words. You signaled the bartender for another drink ─ bad idea, but again, everything you were doing right now didn’t exactly fit in the good decision category. “That’s rich,” you laughed humorlessly, “coming from the guy who spent months pretending I didn’t exist.”

He exhaled sharply. “Don’t act like you were the only one hurting.”

“Oh, I’m sorry─ did I ruin your life by walking away? Because I remember doing it and you just─” you gestured vaguely, “letting me.”

“And what, you expected me to beg?”

Your fresh drink barely even grazed your lips before you slammed it down on the bar. The room was suddenly too loud, too crowded, too suffocating. “No, Charles, I expected you to care.” You despised how your voice broke at the end of your sentence.

That lands. His facade crumbled ever-so-slightly, enough for you to see the vulnerability you became all too familiar with. The regrets rippling in your stomach did not correlate with the words you spew out. Charles took a step closer, and suddenly his expensive cologne and something so distinctively him overwhelm you. “You think I didn’t?” Barely contained frustration curled around every syllable, his voice an octave lower. “You think it didn’t kill me to watch you go?”

“If it really killed you, you would’ve stopped me.”

His gaze dulled, and the fingers around his glass twitched. “And if you really wanted to stay, you wouldn’t have left.”

The words settled between the two of you like a live wire, buzzing and electrifying. Charles’ eyes scrutinized yours, and as he put his empty flute of champagne on the counter, you couldn’t stand how your pulse stuttered when his fingers grazed yours. The same hand flexed by his side.

Whatever anger you felt when you started spewing venom at him slowly died down, replaced by something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Acerbic regrets, maybe, mixed with the wet outrage of misplaced resentment. Your limits were drawn at the emptiness of your stomach, the hum of the vodka in your veins, and the hollow of Charles' pupils when he looked at you.

You no longer knew what it meant, and you weren’t sure you could handle the uncertainty.

“We shouldn’t be doing this at Bridget’s party,” you murmured. “She deserves to have a good night. Jaime too.”

“You’re right.” He looked at the ground, and you swore his eyes were shining. “Is there even a right time to do this?”

“There’s none for us. Not anymore, at least. You missed your opportunity a year ago.”

You slowly slid a bill toward the waiter, took your cocktail, and carefully avoided looking at Charles as you walked away. You’d have to shorten your time at this party if you wanted to survive it. Bridget would understand ─ she always did. Something cruel in the back of your mind wondered if Charles would do too.

Most of your time was spent mingling with old friends and acquaintances. You answered the same questions with the same smile and tone for each of them: Yes, you needed a fresh start, that’s why you left. No, you were at peace with your current situation, it was a clean slate. Maybe you’d want to join them for dinner, one day. No, you didn’t care Charles was there tonight, not at all.

Yet, you were painfully aware of the Monegasque’s presence. It was a magnetic pull, in the way you wanted to avoid him like the plague but neither of you could stray too far away: you were both orbiting around each other, far enough for your heart to settle but too close for comfort. It wasn’t enough ─ you didn’t know which one you were talking about.

You found Bridget after another good hour of waltzing around the room, and she dropped on you with a flurry of apologies about not telling you sooner, that she learned last minute Charles was coming. You laughed it off to reassure her, but the truth was that you were already ready to leave. A minute spent there was one more minute dipping your toes in a dangerous type of nostalgia. You didn’t feel capable of handling it any longer.

But you did promise Bridget to stay until the slow dance.

It was fairytale-like, how the jazz music and the incessant rumbling of conversation turned into soft piano and hushed whispers as Jaime and she stepped onto the dance floor. The color coordination of their clothes, their smiles as they basked into each other’s presence, happy, their graceful yet discreet movements to the music ─ they would have a beautiful wedding, and Bridget would make the most beautiful bride. A single teardrop slipped past your lashes.

You were in the first rank of the circle that formed around them. People were elbowing others to share your spot, so it wasn’t much of a shock when Charles ended up next to you. You still had to repress back a sharp gasp at his sudden proximity. “They look perfect,” he whispered, barely audible.

You didn’t know if he spoke to himself or if he noticed you next to him. You answered nonetheless. “They really do.” Charles didn’t look surprised by your interjection, which made you understand the comment was indeed directed at you.

“Do you…” He hesitated, sneaking a glance that you met by accident. “Do you think we looked like that, at some point?”

Music filled the air between you. “Yes. We did.”

A half-smile stretched your lips, though without any substance to it. Slowly, people and couples all around you joined Bridget and Jaime on the dance floor. Their partners took hold of their waist, intertwined hands, and slowly glided around the marble floor. It was hypnotizing.

Charles’ fingers twitched in the dim light of the room, brushing yours oh so innocently. Shivers ran down your spine at the soft contact. It was only a matter of seconds before you subconsciously sought his touch once more, out of habit or homesickness, you didn’t know. Casually, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, your hands intertwined. It was hesitant, and you just kept staring at the slow dance in front of you, but the feeling of his knuckles grazing yours, the back of his hand you’d trace the veins of during long nights…

The weight of memories made you nauseous.

You needed to get out. Now. You barely even muttered an excuse before snapping your hand back and rushing outside.

The night was sharp against your overheated skin, but the three cocktails you inhaled were enough to keep you warm. Breathe in through the nose, out by the mouth ─ again and again, until the palpitations against your ribcage finally ceased. What the hell was that?

Your fingers still tingled from where Charles had touched them ─ so innocent, so casual, like he hadn’t once held your entire world in his hand and let it slip away. You squeezed your eyes shut: you couldn’t handle this party any longer. You stuck until the slow dance, you fulfilled your promise. Except you were supposed to sleep at Bridget’s tonight, sparing you the added expense of a hotel in Monaco, and she wasn’t leaving her own engagement party anytime soon, even for you. You could hitchhike or call an Uber if you knew where her house was.

No hotel booked. No backup plan. No escape.

A familiar voice broke your thoughts. “Running again?”

You turned abruptly to see Charles at the grand entrance of the building. He stood there, hands buried in his pockets, the soft light of the entry hall graciously dancing on his features. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes─ God, his eyes. They held something between concern and something else, something unreachable and unspoken. You swallowed with difficulty.

“Not everything is about you, Charles.”

He hummed. “Didn’t say it was.”

Silence. He took a few steps closer, and the thick fog of the situation tightened around you ─ the past, the present, the fact you had nowhere to go. Charles titled his head, studying you. “You don’t have a place to stay, do you?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hating how easily he could still see right through you after everything. “I’m sleeping over at Bridget’s.”

“But you don’t want to stay until the party’s over.”

You prayed somebody would make him shut up as you answered through gritted teeth. “I’ll figure something out.”

At this point, the Monegasque was close enough that you could see the muscle ticking in his jaw, like the idea of you wandering through the city alone at this hour physically pained him. A few seconds passed before a sigh escaped him and he spoke up again.

“Come to mine.”

You blinked. “What?”

Charles' gaze softened, almost making your knees buckle under the heaviness of it, but his tone remained steady, if somewhat quieter when he confessed, “I still have some of your things. It makes sense. I know you’re not capable of waiting until the end of the party.”

It makes sense. Like it was logical, like it wasn’t dangerous for your heart to step back into the house that held so many feelings and memories. Your lips parted, forming a protest, but Charles beat you to it. “I’ll sleep on the couch if that’s what you want.” His voice dipped, now lower with insistence and blatant worry. “But don’t be stubborn. Just let me take you home.”

Home.

You exhaled shakily. The word was enough to make you shudder, or maybe it was the hopeful way Charles’ tone curled around it.

Any person in their right mind would have said no. You should say no. You should call a cab to a random hotel and make do like you always did. But your body betrayed you: you nodded, slowly, before your mind could catch up with your actions.

Charles didn’t gloat or smile. Instead, a visible tension seemed to leave his shoulders and he stepped aside as if waiting for you to move first to his car, you could see the familiar shape of it in the distance. He was giving you the opportunity to leave, the one he never gave you back then.

You still sat in the passenger seat.

The city lights blurred past during the short ride. It was quiet, not awkward ─ just heavy. You couldn’t forget the way to his house, your house, even if you tried to. It was a tear in your soul, a reminder. Every streetlight brushed against his features in flickers. You tried your best not to stare, but his sharp jaw, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tight… Neither of you spoke. Maybe that was safer.

When he pulled into the garage and killed the engine, you finally exhaled.

“Come on,” Charles said softly, as if he was afraid too much noise would break whatever fragile thread held you together.

Walking into his house was like stepping into the remnants of a dream when the morning came.

It smelled the same ─ clean, and the faint trace of his amber cologne clung to the air and your skin like melted plastic. “I’ll get you something to sleep in,” Charles said, disappearing into his bedroom. Once, it was yours.

A few things had changed, you’re pretty sure the lamp in the corner of the living room wasn't there before and he changed the rug ─ you always hated it anyway. But some hadn’t. A red sweater you used to steal regularly hung over the couch. You ran your fingers along the kitchen counter, a ghost tracing the memories of a past life. How many times had you leaned against this exact spot, laughing at some dumb joke he made while he cooked?

When Charles returned, he was changed into a simple white tee shirt and gray sweatpants. He held out something all too familiar ─ white shorts and a tee-shirt of his, brown, soft, and worn. After a while sleeping at his, it became more yours than it was his and he ended up giving it to you. It was your favorite.

You hesitated. “You kept it?”

“I kept most of it.” He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

Your fingers brushed his as you took it and for a second, neither of you moved. “Thank you,” you whispered. Charles just nodded and you made your way to the bathroom.

You changed, hands trembling as you slipped the shirt on. It smelled like fresh laundry and something so undeniably him. You hated how much comfort it brought you. How good it felt on your skin. You looked around the bathroom, noticing some of your leftover skincare products aligned next to the mirror of what used to be your side, and you swallowed with difficulty. He kept most of it. Your heart threatened to give out right here and there. When you walked out, Charles was sitting on the couch, staring into the emptiness.

You should go to sleep. You should pretend this is normal and turn away. But there are a lot of things you should have done tonight and didn’t do, so what was one more?

Instead, you walked over and hesitantly settled beside him, a little bit closer than you should be, the pounding in your chest so loud you were afraid he could hear it. The city lights poured through the windows, drenching his face in long shadows and nostalgia. Neither of you said anything for a while, basking in the stillness of what was.

Then, so quietly you barely caught it─ “I missed you.”

The corners of your eyes started burning the second the words left his lips. His head sharply turned toward you, eyes searching for something in your face. “I know… I know I don’t get to say that, but it’s the truth.”

Your breath hitched. If you were a better person, you would have let it go. Let it sit in the air, fade away like all the things he should have said but never did. But the weight of them, the sheer audacity they let transpire after everything ─ it would kill you to just let it be. Your fingers curled against your knees as you forced out a wet, bitter laugh that didn’t even sound like yours.

“That’s your problem, Charles. You always tell the truth when it’s too fucking late.”

His jaw visibly tensed. “That’s not fair. You’re not innocent either.”

“Isn’t it?” This time, you fully turned to face him. You were angry, but underneath all that rage was something fragile hiding in the depths of your facade, something so desperately broken, begging to be fixed. Your voice wavered as you continued. “You missed me? Where was this when I was actually there? When I was waiting for you to show up, to choose me over everything else for once?”

“You think I didn’t want to?”

You scoffed. “I think you didn’t.”

The silence was deafening. Charles leaned back against the couch, and he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You don’t understand.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and the feelings you spent a year trying to bury under the pretense of peace rushed to the surface, drowning you with it. “Then help me,” your voice broke, “make me understand, Charles, because all I can remember is feeling like I was never good enough.”

His head snapped toward you. His expression─ Raw. Devastated. Emotions painfully obvious in every trait. “You were enough. More than enough, you were everything. And I─ I just didn’t know how to keep you.” His voice was just as teary as yours, if a little stronger, as if he was mad at himself. Your heart twisted violently in your chest.

“Then why did you let me go?”

Charles ran a hand down his face, looking up at the ceiling like the answer was hidden in the dark lights. His next sentence came out in something next to a whisper. “Because I thought it’d be better for you.”

“You don’t get to decide that.” You let out a wobbly breath.

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to take back the words and shove them back in his mouth in shame ─ but he didn’t. He let them simmer between you two, like so many other things.

You had spent so long thinking that Charles didn’t love you enough to fight for you. But now, here in the dim glow of his house, the faint sounds of cars and laughter coming from the streets echoing against the walls, you realized the truth was even crueler. He loved you enough to let you go. It didn’t make it hurt any less ─ for all you knew, it wrecked you even more.

Everything was so fragile. The tension between you, the past, the feeble source of city lights shining on you both. And then─ his fingers twitched. Just slightly, resting on the couch beside you, brushing against yours, remnants of what happened in the party hall. It was small, hesitant. A question.

You knew where this would lead. You knew that nothing had changed, that the past still sat uncomfortably between you like an open wound. But, God help you, you turned your hand over almost immediately, allowing your fingers to thread through his. A shaky breath left his lips. Relief, surrender, and his thumb traced soft circles against your skin, old habits reignited like they never left.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” Charles murmured.

“Then what do you want?”

He swallowed, his grip on your hand tightening as if he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You. Just you.”

Your heart rate picked up, your resolve crumbling like sand through an hourglass. Because you wanted him too. Maybe you always would.

And so, Charles leaned in, imperceptibly, hesitant and almost afraid in his gesture. His eyes darted from your eyes to your lips to your eyes again, and there was no coming back from that. Your lips crashed onto his.

It was different, distinguished from all the other ones you shared before. It wasn’t fueled by anger, desperation, or habit. The way his lips moved against yours in perfect synchronization, the ghost-like touch of his fingers running up your arms, his shaky breath against your skin when you parted for a split second too long. It was soft, lingering. The kind of kiss that felt like home.

And maybe, just for tonight, you’d let yourself believe that was enough.

You threw your arms around his neck, and melted against him when his rough palms found the dip of your waist. It was a rhythm you didn’t forget, no matter how many months passed. Charles lifted you up easily, as if you were nothing, settling you in his lap and his lips never once leaving yours. The kiss, so delicate and gentle, grew more and more erratic and his hands started roaming your sides, lower, right above the curve of your ass.

A quiet sigh escaped you when his head buried in your neck, nibbling against your supple skin, breathing you in like a drug. Your hands tangled in his hair. Charles’ grip on your hips got tighter, pressing you against him. He hissed, and you could feel every centimeter of him through his sweatpants touching your throbbing core. The effect you still had on him would have made you smile if your senses weren’t completely captured by the feeling of his mouth on your body, the delightful friction sending waves of pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Please, Y/N,” he pleaded, high-pitched and desperate into your neck. He pushed himself up against your shorts, and a moan drew out of you, louder than any of your silent sighs. “Bordel, please, let me…”

There was no hesitation in your voice when you answered. “Yes.”

Charles wasted no time. His hands grabbed your thighs hard enough to leave marks and lifted you up, lips still on yours. You locked your legs around his waist and, carefully, he walked you to the bedroom.

He set you down on the silky sheets as if you were made of porcelain, yet the way he kissed you was anything but gentle. His tongue slipped past your lips, demanding access you offered without a second thought. You could finally taste your shared breath, remnants of champagne, espresso, and tears lingering in the way he angled his mouth. He bruised you with his kiss. How you missed it. Him. The both of you.

Charles’ hands traveled further up, slowly dipping underneath your shirt. It didn’t take long for it to end up on the floor. He leaned back, staring at your body, leaving you panting from the sudden lack of contact. He took you in like a priceless painting, breathless himself like you hung the stars in the sky for him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Charles whispered, and the ache between your legs only intensified. One hand came to knead your naked breast, fingers ghosting over your erect nipple. You whimpered at the sudden contact. “Fuck, I missed seeing you like this. Hearing you. You can’t imagine how many nights I spent thinking about what I’d do to you if you were mine again. Just once.” He pinched your sensitive bud, and this time, his name slipped past your lips.

“Charles…” You gasped, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. His gaze darkened at the sound of his name, and you saw how cock twitch through the thin fabric of his pants.

Your hands reached to untie the knot tying his sweatpants. His hands simply grazing you weren’t enough. He wasn’t the only one who spent nights reminiscing and gasping alone at night in an empty room ─ you needed him close. In every way. You needed it to be real.

Gently, he pushed your hand away and you couldn’t stop the whine that came out of your mouth. “Doucement,” Charles whispered.

He leaned down and dragged his lips on the curve of your neck, tasting your skin. He planted a kiss in the middle of your chest, took a nipple in his mouth he swirled around on his tongue and let out with an erotic pop, followed the line of your stomach until he reached the dangerously low hem of your shorts. He would look patient if the iron grip he had on your hips wasn’t betraying him.

Your breathing was uneven, and anticipation stained your underwear and shorts with a wet patch you would be ashamed of if you weren’t so desperate for touch. Charles untied and slipped off your shorts with a timed precision, and when his fingers started playing with the border of your panties, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Please…”

Charles dropped a kiss on your clothed cunt, and you squirmed beneath him. “Tell me you want me.”

His words didn’t register in the fog of want clouding your mind. He repeated, this time with a little more force. “Tell me you want me, Y/N. Please.”

Your chest tightened at the pathetic need in his voice. “I want you. I want you so bad, Char─”

You didn’t notice him push your panties aside. All you knew was the feeling of his tongue, a slow lap along your folds, and any words you wanted to say died on your tongue with a silent cry.

It wasn’t soft or relaxed. Charles ate you out like a starved man as if the air he needed to live was between your legs. It was messy, a newfound fervor found as he circled your clit with his tongue, sucking on it, torturing it. You bucked under his mouth, pushing your hips against him, always craving more, more, more. More of the tightness in your lower stomach, more of him. When he lowered himself further and started exploring your warmth, you could barely breathe through the gasps and whines spilling from your lips.

Charles watched you eagerly from his point of view, hooded eyes glazed over by pure lust and need. His arms were hooked beneath your thighs, smothering himself in your cunt, and with his tongue pushing deeper inside you, the pad of his fingers came pressing down on your clit, making rapid and hard circles. The pace, fast and needy, his drunken look, the familiarity of it all… it was all too overwhelming. You were a writhing mess underneath this man.

After a year, he still knew your body by heart.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him as close as you could, eliciting a groan out of him that reverberated straight into your core. The knot in your stomach grew tighter and tighter, your breathing erratic. “Charles, I’m gonna─ Fuck! I’m close, please, I’m─”

And right as you were about to let yourself go, he stopped.

The high slipping through your finger was enough to throw you in deep confusion as you glanced down at him, your hands falling from his hair to the side of his face. Charles’ lips were glistening with your arousal, his gaze dark and hair messy, heaving. He looked downright pornographic.

He spoke up before you could word your protest. “Need to be inside of you, mon amour. Need to feel you coming around me.” His voice was hoarse and possessive, leaving no room for argument. The familiar pet name sent shivers down your entire body and you couldn’t find it in you to oppose him, not when you craved the same.

Charles was a man possessed, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats as you hurriedly helped him out of his shirt. His lean muscles on display, you traced them with your palm, feeling every scattered breath and the hitches of it when your nails grazed his skin. You stopped at the waistband of his boxers. You wished you weren’t as impatient, otherwise you would have savored the begging scrunch of his eyebrows, or the quiet whimpers escaping him. Instead, you released him from torture and helped him take it off.

His cock sprung out and tapped his stomach. At some point in your life, you got used to the size of it ─ now, you weren’t sure if your body knew how to take its length anymore. Slowly, Charles' hands gripped your hips to slide you closer to him, grinding his engorged member against your entrance. The sensation, so little and so much at the same time, had you release a strangled cry.

Charles leaned in closer, upper body above you, palms pressed next to each side of your head. “D’you want it? This? Me?” His tip nudged your hole a little harder, and the small shock had you seeing stars. “Us?”

The question was charged with emotions and tears pricked your eyes. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him as close as you could. “Yes. More than anything.”

Those were all the words he needed. In a slow, agonizing push, he slid inside of you.

Nothing in the world could ever matter after that. It was dizzying, you could get drunk on the feeling: Charles filled you up so completely, reaching every sweet spot inside of you without even trying, and your back arched as if answering to his command. He took the opportunity to capture your back with one arm, bodies flushing against the other. You couldn’t remember the last time something had felt this right.

“Fuck… you feel so good, so tight,” he moaned in your ear. “Made for me. You were made for me.”

You answered between sharp intakes of air. “Yours, Charles.”

You felt his cock twitch inside of you at your words. He bottomed out, sucking in the thin skin of your collarbone. You croaked as he asked, “Mine?”

“All yours. Always have.”

All you could remember from here was the tangled mess of limbs you both became. His thrusts were erratic, slamming his hips upon yours like he was trying to mold your body to fit his. Your nails dug into his back ─ you dragged them down, finding no other outlet for the ache within you. Twisting, biting, moaning and kissing, lips and tongues at war to see who will leave the biggest imprint. Charles’ iron-clad hold on you only intensified the feverish state of the two of you, your skin glistening, panting. You couldn’t think straight anymore. All of you was his and all of his was yours.

“Shit, ‘M getting close,” Charles managed to articulate. “Need you to finish first. Fuck, need you to fall apart so I can see.”

You could only cry out his name in response, an unanswered prayer spilling from your lips. “I’m right there,” his pace picked up, his thrusts uneven between the plush of your thighs. “C’mon, I know you can do it. Let go for me, mon ange.”

The pad of his fingers drew slow circles on your clit, his rhythm relentless. It did it for you: in a flash of white, the knot in your lower stomach snapped. Everything narrowed down to the stuttering of Charles’ hips, spilling soon after you. He coated your insides with his warmth and broken pleas escaped you as he fucked your high and his with languid movements, gradually slowing down, bringing you down in the softest way possible.

The sheets were tangled, the air of the bedroom thick with heat, but neither of you spoke as Charles collapsed next to you. It was the type of silence that only came before something inevitable.

Your chest was still rising and falling unevenly, skin warm, raw from the way you had just taken each other apart. Charles laid on his back, one arm draped over his forehead, taking steady and measured breaths─ like he was trying to regulate something deeper than exhaustion. In the dim glow of his bedroom, reality finally settled in.

What you just did, with the guilt, heartbreak, and relief coming with it.

You sat up until you reached the edge of the bed, gazing emptily in front of you, wrapped in the sheets that smelled like you and him, your fingers playing with the hem of the fabric as you tried to remember how to breathe. You didn’t know what you should do from here and desperately dug in the depths of your mind to find an answer.

Behind you, Charles shifted. The mattress dipped under his weight, and before you could register his sudden closeness, you felt the warmth of his palm grazing up and down your spine, featherlight.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You swallowed hard, staring at the Monaco lights outside his window. “I don’t know how not to.”

Silence. Then, a whisper- “Come back to bed.”

You closed your eyes. The words shouldn’t have made you feel anything. They should have been meaningless, casual, something you could ignore ─ this whole ordeal should have been a one-time thing you could have forgotten when the morning came. But they weren’t.

Because you remembered this.

The way he used to whisper it on nights where you’d get up at ungodly hours, restless. The way he always reached for you, even in sleep. You turned slightly, catching sight of him in the semi-darkness of the room: messy hair, kiss-bruised lips, green eyes heavy with a feeling you knew too well but were too scared to name.

“Charles…”

“I know,” he said, almost frustrated. “I know we─” He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. Softer─ “I know it doesn’t fix anything. I know we’ll wake up tomorrow and we’ll still be…”

Exes. Strangers.

People who still fit together in every way that mattered, except the ones that actually kept them from breaking.

“But… just for tonight, can you stay? With me? We can talk about it tomorrow. Just… stay.”

You hesitated.

Then, gently, you let the sheets slip from your naked shoulders as you turned fully, shifting back onto the mattress beside him. For a second, neither of you moved or even dared to breathe, too afraid to ruin it. Hesitantly, carefully, Charles reached for you. It wasn’t demanding, nor possessive like he was when you were busy unraveling each other ─ it was in the heat of the moment. This was raw, emotional, uncertain. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

You made the choice for him. Moving closer, you tucked yourself against his side, tangling your legs with his and resting your hands on his chest in an all too familiar fashion, the heat of skin warming you up.

Charles melted and released a slow, shaky exhale as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer. His fingers retraced the same patterns he did earlier along your back. The contact made your chest twist.

You chose to ignore it. You chose to ignore it all ─ tonight, this will be enough. You, him, and the unsaid. Everything else could wait until sunrise.

©DRGNSFLY 2k25 ─ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

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nanasrkives · 4 months ago

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navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! the mha EP!

"DO YOU FEEL IT TOO ?" — Bakugo Katsuki

a/n : never knew i had it in me to write something this long bakugo being into shojos gives me life content : fluff fluff fluff. a LOT of pining. 3rd year bakugo. f2l i guess. +12k words. blue spring ride references.

Bakugo Katsuki doesn’t read romance for the fluff.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s about structure. Pacing. The way a story builds tension out of glances instead of battles, silence instead of shouts. That’s what he tells himself. But he knows the truth.

What it really is—what it’s always been—is longing.

That ache in the chest when two people stand an inch apart and say nothing. The sharp inhale before a hand is taken, or not. It’s in the words people don’t say. In the space between panels where everything unsaid lives. He reads it and feels seen in a way that pisses him off more than he can explain.

It started with a volume of Blue Spring Ride left in the common room. Someone had abandoned it between cushions. He picked it up without thinking, without planning to. He read the first chapter standing. The second while pacing. By the third, he was sitting on the floor, the book open in his lap, heart tightening with every page.

Now he has the full set. And more. Stupid shit with pastels and sparkles and characters that cry too much. A box of feelings he can’t name shoved under his desk.

No one knows. No one’s supposed to.

Which is why tonight is a mistake.

Inviting you over to study always is. You’re too comfortable in his space. You sit on the floor like you live there, flipping through the textbook you’re not even reading and every time your knee bumps his, he has to pretend he doesn’t feel it like a static shock to the ribs.

He leaves the room too fast. “I’m getting snacks. Don’t touch my stuff.”

You hum. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But when he gets back, he stops in the doorway like he’s forgotten how to move.

You’re kneeling on the floor, half-turned toward his desk, and in your hands—one of the volumes from the box he swore he’d hidden better. His brain stalls. There’s the blanket, shoved to the side. The cardboard lid askew. The spines of half a dozen shojo mangas catching the light just enough to betray him completely.

You’re holding Blue Spring Ride. Of course you are. He knows the cover by heart. He knows exactly which scene is bookmarked, too. The one he reread three times before closing the book like it might say something out loud if he stared hard enough.

You don’t laugh. Don’t look smug or surprised or ready to tease him. Your fingers hold the book gently, like it’s something fragile. Like it matters.

“I didn’t know you read this kind of stuff,” you say, your voice quiet—not mocking, not even curious, just... soft. Careful.

His feet finally move, but only because he forces them to. He crosses the room with a grunt that lands somewhere between a warning and a deflection, and drops the water bottle onto his desk with more force than necessary.

“I told you to not touch my crap,” he mutters, heat already crawling up the back of his neck.

You lift a pen in your other hand—the one you dropped, apparently—and glance back at the box with a small shrug. “Well, sorry if it was in the way.”

That should make it better. It doesn’t. His chest is tight, heart thudding in the kind of silence that feels louder than yelling. You flip the book open. The page is still folded. Fucking chapter twenty-three. Of course you find it. Of course.

“This part,” you say, eyes scanning the page like you’re revisiting something old and intimate, “this one always hit me.”

His mouth is dry. He can’t decide if he wants to grab the book back or walk out of the room entirely.

“She’s trying so hard to get through to him, though she knows even if he doesn’t say it.” you go on. “But he doesn’t know how to let her in yet. Not because he doesn’t care. Because he doesn’t think he can.”

You don’t say it like you’re talking about the characters. You say it like you’re reading him.

He sinks slowly to the floor beside you—cross-legged, arms folded tight, like he’s trying to hold something in place. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps his gaze fixed on the page as if it might rescue him from the way your voice softens when you speak.

“He’s bein' a fuckin' coward,” he mutters, the words falling out like they’ve been waiting there, unsaid, for too long.

You tilt your head slightly, not pushing, not correcting him, just letting your voice land somewhere softer. “He’s scared. That’s different.”

The pause that follows feels like breathing underwater—slow and thick, full of things neither of you will touch directly. You turn another page, and this time your thumb lingers at the edge of the panel like you’re touching something fragile.

“This moment right here,” you say, quieter now, but still with that strange, steady certainty you always seem to have, “it’s my favorite.”

You don’t point to it, but he knows exactly which one you mean. The close-up of Futaba’s face, words floating just above her expression.

"Beacause I like you" I just want to hear you tell me that

You don’t elaborate. You don’t press. But the weight of it hangs there between you, not heavy, not demanding—just quietly waiting to be understood. And when your shoulder brushes his as you shift slightly to lean back, it stays there. No recoil. No excuse. Just warmth, still and deliberate.

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t move away either.

It doesn’t come up again that night. You go back to studying like nothing happened, like you didn’t just brush fingertips against the deepest thing he’s been hiding since he was fifteen. But something’s changed. You can feel it in the air, in the way he doesn’t complain when you lean your arm against his or when your laugh gets too loud in his room. He doesn’t roll his eyes anymore. He just watches, and he’s quieter than usual, but it’s not the kind of silence that means distance. It’s the kind that listens.

A few days later, you leave a new book on his desk. You don’t say anything. You don’t ask if he read the one before. You don’t press. Just the soft sound of a cover meeting wood and your back turned as you leave his room. When he picks it up later, there’s no note. Just a folded corner two-thirds of the way through, and that’s somehow worse. Or better. He’s not sure yet.

He reads it in one night.

Doesn’t mark it this time. Doesn’t fold anything in return. But when he hands it back, he does it slowly. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but his fingers hold the book like it’s something delicate. Like he’s afraid you’ll notice the way the spine is softer now, or how he paused on that chapter more than once before letting the ending reach him.

You lend him another. He reads that one slower. It becomes a rhythm you never name. The exchange of folded pages and lived-in dialogue. Notes in the margins. Underlined phrases. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re devastating. Sometimes they feel like code. And he starts wondering, around the fourth or fifth book, whether you’ve been saying something in them the whole time, and if maybe, just maybe, you’ve been waiting for him to answer.

He tries to. In his way. A small pencil mark beneath a line that says You don’t have to say it out loud for it to mean something. A sticky note, blank except for a question mark next to a panel where a character walks someone home without saying why.

He doesn’t ask you to meet him outside the gym, but you’re always there. He doesn’t offer to walk you to the dorms, but he always ends up at your side. You don’t say thank you, and he doesn’t tell you he wants to stay longer, but neither of you rushes those steps.

One night, he gives you a book you didn’t lend him. One from his own collection, older, more worn. There’s a quote faintly marked near the end: You were the only thing that made staying feel worth it. He doesn’t say anything as you read it, but when you look up, he’s already watching you like he’s bracing for something to fall.

You don’t ask.

But you don’t forget the page.

And when you hand it back the next week, there’s no new book in your hand.

Just a quiet, expectant pause as you sit beside him.

It should feel normal by now—the silence, the weight of books between you—but something in it hums differently. He knows you’re about to say something, but you don’t. Instead, you shift forward slightly and slide a thin paperback across the carpet between you. He picks it up. Turns it over. It’s familiar, but new. Not one he’s read before. You don’t explain.

He flips it open. Finds a folded page before chapter one.

Sometimes I think if I say it out loud, it’ll become real—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

He reads it three times. Closes the book without a word.

That night, when he walks you home, he doesn’t say anything at your door. You turn like you always do, waiting for a smart comment or a sarcastic farewell. You blink. The hallway light buzzes behind you. He’s standing with one hand in his pocket and the book tucked under his arm like a shield. His face is unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything else. But you swear you heard your name echo all the way down the hall as you close your door.

He reads the line again that night. The one you folded. He flips to it so many times he doesn’t need the crease anymore. The words burn into his skull until they feel like his own. If I say it out loud, it’ll become real—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

The truth is, it already is.

He’s already ruined himself a little for anyone else. You’re in everything now. In the way he thinks. In the way he breathes. In the way he starts to reach for your hand without realizing it and has to curl his fingers into his palm before it gives him away. He stares at the folded page, pencil in hand, and mutters under his breath, “Why the hell would you give me this one?”

He tries to write something in the margins. His pencil hovers over the paper, tip faintly pressed to the edge of the dialogue bubble. But nothing comes. Every word feels like too much or not enough. Eventually, he gives up and just draws a small dash beside it. Not even a full mark—just a pause. A breath. His version of a maybe.

The next time he sees you, you’re already on the floor when he walks in. You glance up, then down at the book in your lap—the one you gave him—and ask, “Did you get to the part I folded?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

You wait, but he doesn’t offer more. Your eyes linger on him like you’re trying to decide whether to push, or just let it sit. “I thought it was... kind of relevant.”

Bakugo snorts, but it’s not sharp. “To what?”

You raise a brow. “You tell me.”

His jaw flexes, and for a second he looks like he might actually say something. But then he mutters, “Dumb line anyway,” and sits down beside you like the conversation didn’t happen.

You don’t call him on it. But your hand stays closer than it used to. Close enough to touch if either of you moves just slightly.

He notices. He doesn’t move.

You're not sure how long you’ve been sitting in silence. Ten minutes. Maybe more. The book is still open on your lap, but neither of you has turned the page in a while. Bakugo’s beside you, legs stretched out, his fingers twitching near his knee like he wants to say something and can’t. The quiet isn’t tense, exactly. It’s just heavy. Like both of you are holding something in your mouths and waiting for the other to make it easier.

You should say it. You know you should. You’ve been sitting with it for weeks now, maybe longer—this soft, aching thing in your chest every time he underlines a sentence or walks you home or says your name like it means something.

So you breathe in, slow. Then you blurt out, “I really like you.”

He doesn’t react at first. Just blinks once, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t expect them to sound like that—so simple. So final.

You keep your voice steady. “I’ve been trying not to say anything because I didn’t want to make things weird. Or make you feel like you had to say something back. But I just—I couldn’t not say it anymore.”

He exhales like he’s been punched. Not loudly. Just enough that his shoulders drop a little and his fingers go still against the floor.

“I thought I was gonna be the one to say it first,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.

Your head turns before you can stop it. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I was gonna. I’ve been meaning to. Every time you gave me a new book or looked at me like—like that.” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “I’d open my mouth and then I’d just... freeze. Like a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“No, I am,” he says, sharper now. Not angry—just embarrassed. “You don’t get it. I’ve never felt like this. Not for anyone. Not like this.” His fingers rake through his hair, rough. “You give me these lines and scenes and looks and I know they mean something and I still—I still choke, damn it.”

You’re quiet for a second, watching him fall apart quietly beside you, the way he always does when he’s feeling too much at once. You shift slightly closer, enough that your knee brushes his, and he doesn’t move away.

“I didn’t give you those books to say something,” you say gently. “I just hoped maybe you’d feel it, too.”

He lets out a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I felt it.”

You swallow. “So what now?”

He finally looks at you. His eyes are darker than usual—focused. Honest in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I want this shit. I want to try. With you.”

Your chest loosens. Just a little

“I’m not gonna be good at it,” he adds quickly. “I’m gonna overthink everything and probably mess up and say the wrong shit—” You reach for his hand.

He stops. And then, very slowly, he lets you hold it.

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” you say. “You just have to mean it.”

“I do.” His voice is rough now. Lower. “I really fuckin’ like you. It’s annoying.”

You laugh into the quiet, and he squeezes your hand once like a question. You squeeze back like an answer.

Neither of you moves for a while. The book is still open, the page folded neatly in the corner, and there’s a line sitting there that neither of you points out.

Then, slowly, his thumb shifts against the side of your hand. You feel it before he speaks, the way his breath changes—like he’s on the edge of saying something else, or doing something reckless. You turn to look at him and find him already watching you, gaze heavy but uncertain.

“Can I—” he starts, then cuts himself off. He doesn’t need to finish it.

You nod.

He leans in carefully, like he doesn’t trust the floor to hold the weight of it. His free hand hovers awkwardly at first before settling lightly against your jaw, fingers warm, unsure. And when he kisses you, it’s soft in a way you weren’t ready for. Gentle. Hesitant.

Nothing practiced. Nothing smooth.

Just quiet. And real.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead brushing yours. You’re still holding hands. Neither of you has let go.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he mumbles, the words almost lost in the space between you.

“I know,” you say, voice just as low. “Me too.”

You stay there, close and steady, the kiss lingering somewhere between your mouths and your heartbeat. It’s not perfect. But it’s yours.

You don’t talk much after that.

Not because there’s nothing to say—just because for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there’s nothing left to prove. The air between you is still full, still warm, but it’s not buzzing anymore. It’s just steady. Like the moment has stopped needing to be chased.

The book lies forgotten on the carpet between you, half-folded against the blanket. He’s stretched out now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other still within reach. You’re lying beside him, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the soft shift of his breathing.

Every so often, he glances at you. Not intensely. Just long enough to check if you’re still there and you are. “Is it weird,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “that it doesn’t feel different?”

Bakugo’s brow furrows faintly, and for a second, you think maybe he took it the wrong way. But then he exhales and turns his head toward you. “Nah,” he says. “It just means we didn’t fuck it up.”

You smile at the ceiling.

“Not yet,” he adds, because he can’t help himself. “Still time.”

You elbow him lightly, and he huffs out a sound that’s too close to a laugh for him to argue it.

It’s peaceful like that for a while. Not exactly sleepy, but the kind of soft that feels like it could lead there. A shared quiet. Familiar and unhurried.

He rolls onto his side at some point, propping his head up on his arm, eyes half-lidded. He looks like he’s about to say something. Then doesn’t. Then tries again.

“You were right, y’know,” he murmurs. “Back then.”

You blink over at him. “About what”

“When you said she can feel it, even if he doesn’t say it” His voice is rough, not from emotion—just from exhaustion. Like something in him finally gave up resisting. “I didn’t say it. But you still knew.”

“I didn’t need you to,” you say. “I just wanted you to feel it, too.”

He reaches over and brushes his fingers against yours. It’s barely a touch, but it says more than anything he could put into words. “I did,” he says quietly. “I do.” And then he lets the silence come back. This time, it settles between you like a blanket.

Not heavy. Just warm.

BONUS :

Your daughter has no chill.

Not when it comes to bedtime stories. Not when it comes to anything, really. She’s all knees and curls and a voice too big for her body, bouncing on the mattress like she hasn’t already stalled for twenty minutes.

“Not the one with the dragon hero,” she says with a groan. “That one’s boring. I want the kiss one!”

Bakugo raises an eyebrow from where he’s sitting at the edge of her bed. “The what now?”

She throws herself dramatically onto the pillows, limbs flailing like it’s the end of the world. “The kiss one! With the guy and the girl and the charm and the love stuff!”

From the hallway, you call out, “My Love Story!!, sweetheart. Volume five.”

“Tch.” Bakugo mutters something under his breath—probably about corruption or sentimental brain rot—but he reaches for the shelf without protest. The cover is faded from too much handling, spine softened like it’s been loved for years. It has. It’s the same one you used to pass back and forth, long before either of you thought about bedtime routines or toothbrush arguments or which sippy cup color would cause a meltdown.

He flips it open and frowns. “Where even is the part with the charm?”

“She says it’s near the middle,” you say, appearing in the doorway with a knowing smile. “She has it memorized.”

“Of course she does.” He doesn’t hide the pride in his voice as he sits back down and adjusts the blanket around her. “Spoiled brat.”

“She’s your brat you know,” you remind him, folding your arms as you lean against the frame.

“Unlucky kid.”

She kicks at his side half-heartedly, already settled against his shoulder, thumb in her mouth, other hand gripping the edge of the book.

He reads, voice lower than usual. Calmer. Every line slow and steady, like the words are still sinking into him after all these years. When he gets to the charm scene—the one she always waits for—she gasps, loud and delighted, and points.

“That’s the part! That’s when he says he likes her!”

Bakugo pauses. Just for a second.

And then he nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch the two of them: your daughter, curled against his side, and Bakugo Katsuki—gruff, impatient, still pretending he doesn’t like romance—reading a love story with the same kind of care he used to hold his feelings for you.

Later, when the house is quiet and her room is dark, he finds you at the shelf.

You’ve pulled out Blue Spring Ride. You don’t open it. Just hold it, fingers resting over the soft crease of a long-folded page. “I used to think this was where everything started,” you say.

He stands beside you, close enough to feel. “Wasn’t it?” You glance at him. “Maybe it was where we figured it out.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, without ceremony, he slips the book from your hands and slides it back into place. You don’t miss the way his fingers brush yours.

“I love you,” he says, almost absently, like it’s a habit now. Like it’s something you’re meant to hear at the end of a long day, right between goodnight and I’m home.

You smile. “Yeah. I love you too.” He kisses your temple.

And in the quiet that follows, you both know it was never just about the stories you folded into pages. It was always this. The soft part. The part that stayed.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @cherrysurf @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @g-h-o-s-t-b-a-b-i

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nakylvr · 5 months ago

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— ALL THE THINGS I NEVER SAID

sophia laforteza x fem!reader

summary જ⁀➴ you've had a crush on sophia for a while now. on the week before valentine's day you write a letter confessing your love to her, but hide it away. until one of your friends finds it and gives it to her on valentine's day without you knowing.

warnings/tags જ⁀➴ fluff, college!au, mild language

wc જ⁀➴ 2,4 k

you were a person with a lot of thoughts. a lot of words left unsaid because they weren't important or you didn't have the confidence to say it out loud. you were quiet, you didn't have a big group of friends, but you had the ones that counted. you weren't exactly seen in classes unless you answered a question and then the moment would pass and you would be forgotten again. but, you didn't mind it a whole lot.

valentines day was one of the most obnoxious days in the year. at school, at least. you thought once high school was over that it would tone down but no, it got worse if anything. you’d have to sit through multiple classes of boyfriends coming in and asking their girlfriends out on dates, you’d have to deal with girls giggling about what their boyfriends did for them for the holiday, shit, you even had to sit through your roommate being serenaded by her girlfriend first thing this morning. you weren't big on the holiday. what was the point if you didn't have someone to celebrate it with?

and as much as you would hate to admit it, you hated missing out.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

you didn’t have crushes on a lot of people. a few here and there throughout the years, but none of them went farther than admiring from afar. you never confessed, too afraid of it backfiring and ending in a mess. and it was the same this year.

sophia laforteza, aka the girl so far out of your league that you would rather die than admit your feelings for the girl. you had spoken to her a few times with you being in technical theatre and her being the star of all the musicals and plays alike, and you ended up falling for her. her warm smile, her sweet voice, her beautiful eyes. it was hard not to. especially once you saw just how many people were pining for her.

you walked into the theatre with your binder in your arms filled with all the things you needed to get finished before rehearsal for “romeo and juliet”. could you guess who juliet was? pretty easy. but it still surprised you when you saw sophia sitting on the edge of the stage looking at papers in her hands as the door shut loudly behind you.

sophia’s head perks up upon hearing the door close, and a smile grows on her face at the sight of you. “sorry, i didn't think anyone would be coming in this period,” she says apologetically.

you could feel your heart skip a beat just at the sight of her smile towards you, feeling your anxiety creeping up the closer you approached the stage clutching the binder in your hands like a lifeline. “oh, it's okay!” you assure quickly, shaking your head. “i’m usually in here during free periods when a show is coming up. there's a lot to get situated.”

“i’m sure.” sophia nods, setting the papers down next to her and crossing her leg over the other. “you do a lot of work in tech, don't you?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.

“uh, well, i guess you could say that,” you respond shyly with a short nod. this was the longest you've held a conversation with sophia without one of you being dragged off, and you didn't know what to do. “but, i mean, you do a lot too. i’m sure memorizing all the lines and stuff is hard.”

sophia just shrugs her shoulders lightly. “i guess, but it's nothing technical, literally, like you do. i may be the one on stage, but you're the one who lights me up.” she smiles at you, not a hint of hesitation in her voice as she talks.

“well when you put it that way…” you mumble, glancing down at the ground. your face is heating up the longer you feel her gaze on you, your heart practically beating out of your chest. when you finally meet her eyes again, you quickly look away again. “i uh i need to get some things done before rehearsal today so uhm, yeah,” you manage to say. “you can stay though! or do whatever it was you were doing! i don't mind!” you quickly add, not wanting her to think you were kicking her out.

the giggle that comes from sophia makes your face turn redder than it already was as she smiles at you. “if you don't mind me talking to myself repeating the same lines over and over again, i’ll stay.”

“i don't.” you shake your head, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

a moment of silence fills the large theatre before you clear your throat and make your way to behind the stage, scurrying off like a scared cat having a showdown with another. once you were behind the stage and sophia was out of your line of sight, you let out a sigh of relief as you set your binder down on the table with a thud. running a hand through your hair, you started to get things ready.

you heard a few people talking about thirty minutes into you doing your work, leaving you confused as you overheard a few things. but, you tried not to think of it too much. that was, until a ginger-haired girl crashed into the back room, literally.

“megan! jesus christ!”

you stare at the scene in front of you, wires in your hands that you were trying to set up for the lighting as sophia rushes in after the ginger.

“holy crap! there's all this shit back here?”

“megan!” sophia grabs megan by her arm, yanking her up off the ground before her eyes land on you. “i’m sorry! my friends wanted to help with my lines. i told them not to come back here.” she shoots a look at megan who puts her palms together.

“i’m sorry! please don't kill me, pretty theatre tech lady!” megan apologizes immediately.

“what?” you let out in surprise, your face turning red.

“it's her words, not mine!” megan continues.

“and we're leaving!” sophia smiles, but her eyes are wide with an emotion you couldn't recognize as she then drags megan back out onto the stage.

what the fuck was that. you stand there frozen for a few minutes trying to process what just happened, hearing the faint voices assumingly yelling from you being able to distinguish a few of the voices. shaking your head, you quickly finish what you were doing before going to your bag.

searching through your bag, your eyes widen when you realize something is missing.

every time you had a crush, you wrote a letter. it was the easiest way to express everything you were feeling rather than mess it up by not knowing what to say at the moment. you poured your heart out into every one you wrote, and it was only a few.

so when the letter you had in your bag is now gone, you obviously were going to freak out.

“shit, shit, shit,” you curse, pulling items out of your bag to see if it was at the bottom or in another part of it only to find it nowhere. “oh my god…” you mumble quietly.

and then, you remembered something. your best friend, danielle, had asked to look in your bag for a spare piece of paper, and you were too busy doing something else that you didn't even notice she never took paper. she probably took the letter.

grabbing your phone you call her, waiting a minute until she picks up.

“yn? what's up?”

“did you take the fucking letter?” you angrily ask quietly.

“what letter?”

“don't even right now!” you try to keep yourself from yelling, knowing that sophia and her friends were still out there. “did you take it?”

“maybe. you needed a push! i’m that push! i’ll give it to her after rehearsal. i know you signed it so it won't be weird.”

“oh my god, danielle, what the fuck?” you sigh dramatically. “this is insane!”

“no, it's me being an amazing friend and getting you a girlfriend!”

“it's not going to work! it never does!” you say, your voice getting louder without noticing.

“because you don't try! trust me, this will work.”

you didn't even respond, just hanging up instead and setting your phone down. letting out a loud sigh, you put your face in your hands.

“i’m doomed.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

rehearsal went well. or, you assumed it did, seeing as no one texted you saying things were going wrong. you couldn't even show up. not when you knew danielle would give sophia your note at the end of the day.

you sat at the bleachers of the field, looking at your phone with your headphones on, not paying attention to anything else around you. you tried to keep your mind off what was probably going to go down tomorrow. word will probably go around, you’ll end up rejected, and you’ll move schools as a result. you knew it was a dumb idea to write the letter in the first place, but to be fair, you were never going to give it to her! it just had to be danielle to take matters into her own hands. for your sake. little did you know just what had happened after the rehearsal, or how the day would finish.

feeling a light tap on your shoulder, you jump, turning your head and sliding your headphones off to see sophia standing there, making your heart drop to your stomach.

“oh, h-hey!” you mentally curse at yourself for stuttering right off the bat.

“you weren't at rehearsal today,” sophia says, sitting down next to you.

“yeah, i got caught up in some stuff,” you lie, looking away from her.

“not because of the letter?” she asks.

your heart is beating so fast you think you're going to pass out in a minute or the next at her question. you don't even know if you're breathing at this point. you can't even think of how to respond.

sophia hesitantly reaches her hand towards yours, gently grabbing ahold of it, causing you to slowly look at her and see the small smile on her face.

“you didn't want danielle to give it to me, did you?”

“no,” you whisper, shaking your head. “i-i didn't want you to have it anyway.”

“why?” her expression turns confused, eyebrows furrowed together.

“because i knew you wouldn't like me too,” you mumble quietly.

“you thought i don't?” sophia asks you, her eyes softening once realizing you were serious.

“i mean, yeah.” your voice gets quieter. “i thought you didn't even know i existed until this play.”

sophia hums and nods her head. “i guess i was pretty bad about it at first. but i saw how much work you put into phantom that i kept trying to get a part even if i didn't really want it. i just wanted to see you, even if i was just awkwardly staring from afar and messing up my lines multiple times,” she admits, letting out a short laugh. “i read your letter, and i thought it was really sweet. you have a way with words, y’know. and i’m glad danielle gave it to me, because it made this whole thing a lot easier. i really like you, yn.”

“what?” you accidentally say. to say you're shocked would be an understatement, because you weren't even believing the words that left sophia’s mouth. “are you serious?” you question.

“yeah,” she answers with a nod.

there's a short silence then, as you try to come up with what to say. you couldn't find any words. thankfully for you, sophia speaks up.

“can i kiss you?”

your eyes widen subtly in surprise, and you ultimately nod your head, not trusting your voice. sophia’s other hand cups your jaw as she slowly leans in before softly pressing her lips against yours. the kiss is slow, almost hesitant with both of you not wanting to push it too much, and when she pulls back, her smile is wide and she giggles at the dazed expression on your face.

“you're so cute,” she says fondly, her thumb wiping off a bit of the lip gloss that transferred from her lips to yours. “are you doing anything tonight?”

“no.” you shake your head.

“then be ready by six, and wear something nice,” she tells you, her smile widening. “i’ll be waiting outside your dorm.”

“how do you know where my dorm is?” you ask, looking at her confused.

“your roommate kazuha is my friend daniela’s girlfriend. i was told how irritated you looked when she and megan showed up this morning," sophia answers.

“oh my god.” you shake your head. “okay well, i’ll make sure to be ready.” you smile at her.

“good, cause i don't want to be waiting outside in the hallway all night.” sophia stands up, still holding onto your hand. “you don't mind if i keep the letter, do you?”

“huh?” you look up at her. “uh, no. why would you want to keep it, though?” you ask.

“like i said, it was really sweet. i want to remember it,” she answers like it was nothing. “promise you’ll meet me at six?”

“yeah, i promise.” you nod, trying to ignore her answer to your question. “as long as you don't kidnap me.”

“you think that low of me?” sophia gasps dramatically, acting hurt. “all i’m doing is taking you to a nice dinner, nothing more! unless you want to–”

“okay!” you cut her off, laughing. “i’ll be ready, i swear.”

“you better.” sophia leans down, kissing your cheek. “i’m really glad today turned out this way.”

“me too,” you respond quietly.

“i’ll see you later, pretty.” sophia smiles, pecking your lips before walking away.

watching her walk away, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, missing the warmth from her lips on yours and her hand holding yours. your phone buzzes in your pocket, and when you take it out you shake your head. “loser,” you mumble under your breath reading what danielle sent you.

you hated to admit it, but you were happy with how things went today, even if it wasn't how you originally planned it to be. it went better than you expected, and you were thankful for that. even if it was because your best friend stole your letter and gave it out. but you would never say that out loud.

#katseye thoughts 💭#katseye x reader #katseye imagines #sophia laforteza thoughts 💭#sophia laforteza x reader #sophia x reader #sophia imagine

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deesseshesca · 22 days ago

Text

Where is your second chance ?

OMG GUYS ! Just started a whole new book in my life ... I can feel it !

PILE 1

4 cups (reverse)

Honestly babe I would love to knock some sense into you or even tell you to stay focused but you are truly going through it. The reason why life is dragging by your panties is because of yourself but you need grace and a hug more than anything.

First thing first … I actually don't know what to say. I don't know if I should say sorry or tell you to seek help. So all I can type knowing it is true even if it is hard for you to believe rn… time will pass, the scar will heal and all will transform into a beauty mark. You guys have lost your love. I’m not talking about break ups … I’m speaking of death. No is nothing to be happy about because they were amazing lovers. They loved with all their might until their last breath. A lot of y’all you were literally the last thing on their mind before their body released their soul. It has been years now, for many of you at least but the pain is still there just translated in another way. You feel like seeking love again would be a betrayal. Some of y’all feel an unsaid pressure because you are still close to their family. For others you feel nobody is going to look at you with that many stars in their eye, be speechless because of your natural beauty, give you the amount of support in all your endeavors or even fill the spot you gave to them as your spouse and future parent of your child. You are like: ‘’What’s even the point of trying again …when I know damm well nobody will ever be as good as them’’. Instead of finding the where … you need to focus on the fact that healing is not linear. You may feel like you should be over the whole BS by now but babe grief is like a fever dream that would probably never cease. You learn to first deal, then cope and finally live WITH IT. It will never really vanish, that's an unrealistic expectation but remember the focus is to learn to LIVE WITH IT. Your second chance is on the other side of pessimism (when you are ready of course). When ultimately you are going to get over the guilt of falling in love with such a beautiful soul.

Extra messages : You have a very cute tooth gap. I feel before them you never like it but they appreciate your shy and awkward smile. What a pleasure I got to experience it. Babe don't kill yourself (your mental health) over the fact that you failed you driver liscence. Pick yourself back up and go ahead. No it does not define you. My mom got her license at 32 after failing 3 times. You got it babe !

PREVIOUS READING

2. PAC (FREE ) : Why you SHOULD BE petty ?

3. COLLECTIVE READING (FREE) : BLOSSOM.

4. FIRST EVER REAL YT VIDEO ;PAC : What's your toxic trait ?

(Go show some love babes ... XOXO)

PILE 2

3 swords (reverse)

Hey babe ! How are you doing ? Damn you are glowing and dare I say you ass got fatter ! That skin tho… we both know is not just skincare. Even though I must give you your 10¯ you have been for months now consistent in your self care. You finally got over that fuck up ex. I can't say it was toxic because he never did anything abusive but packed his stuff and left randomly. Or for some choosing his toxic family over you even tho you pour your all into them. As I am diving into your energy, it is completely clean, no residue of the confused spirit. Also I must applaud you because instead of crashing out or taking it personally… you move on and heal your wound never regretting the love you gave. I need to learn a thing or 2 from you …

Anyways I feel like you are a bit hesitant. Some of y’all are overthinking because you may be oversharrer. You are scared that you are making a fool of yourself. Also before going further, maybe not every woman on this planet is meant to be sexy, some are pretty and others beautiful. You are cute. There's many cute women. Believe there's many men that enjoy cute beauty. Don't fall into the propaganda. Do not touch that beautiful round face and don't you dare try to put your hands on some ozempic. You are healthy and you look like it. Futhermore you are happy so why are trying to fuck it all up because of beauty standart force upon us. Let's go back to the business that pays me, the person you are crushing hard on. I see you flirting�� hard and being charming. I love to see a spiritual girly shooting her shoot ( me : Yes … You should all learn from HER !). They find you quirky, charming and cute. They may have called you cute which disappointed you bit because they may be more on the handsome side. You think they are out of your league because they are smoking hot with their heigh,t muscles and tattoo. They also have colorful eyes and black hair with an amazing jawline. They genuinely fancy you babe. They are as smitten as you. They don't realise it… yet. They enjoy spending time with you. When you are not there, they go and look for you. They love hearing about all your unusual stories. No worries, no competition. My advice and I think this is where your second chance is; allow yourself to chase babe. You do the first step, flirt like no tomorrow and don't mind being a bit vulgar when you are under heat. Let yourself be the one to blush and be surprised. Is actually going to fasten the process on the person you plotting upon. Let them miss you …

PREVIOUS READING

2. PAC (FREE ) : Why you SHOULD BE petty ?

3. COLLECTIVE READING (FREE) : BLOSSOM.

4. FIRST EVER REAL YT VIDEO ;PAC : What's your toxic trait ?

(Go show some love babes ... XOXO)

PILE 3

Emperor (reverse)

Good evening my wild babes. How are you doing ? What’s going on, you guys seem to be more calm as of rn ? Are you guys resting before going all in for the official summer time ? I hope so because babe you are about to have a wild one.

‘’Mommy… Mamacita … A mom of what ? A real baby…’’. You guys may be bikers. Fuck the waiting for one or aint nobody seating around just waiting for some dick. You guys are the embodiment of that energy. If a man can, so can your pair of tits also. What makes it even better is that you guys have a rather bimbo aesthetic (which I LOVE. I have loved bimbos since I was a kid). You enjoy getting your nails done, you never miss a hair appointment, you have a perfect makeup base but at the same time you study at a trading school. Some of y’all are engineers others may actually be athletes. For a very small portion of y’all not only do you enjoy F1, you actually know how to ride fast car. In all your femininity, grace and playfulness fire is brewing and some of y’all have been manifesting that event for a hot minute now… a beautiful, submissive man is entering your life. This summer you are going to be honey to the bees. There's not a single man that is not going to try to shoot their shot, flirt with you or even pay for your drinks. You may also get a pass at the club like this summer pretty privilege are working over fucking time ! You are not new to this. You have always been a pretty girl and always receive attention. Yet you never actually dated. You refuse to settle until you HAVE it. Very bratty when it comes to the matter of the heart. A lot of y’all are virgin and never been in a relationship because you refuse to give it up until the PERFECT one comes through. The second chance you need to give is to the tarot community … lol. Maybe a lot of reading throughout the months or even years promise it to 2. I swear babe hes very fucking close.

PREVIOUS READING

2. PAC (FREE ) : Why you SHOULD BE petty ?

3. COLLECTIVE READING (FREE) : BLOSSOM.

4. FIRST EVER REAL YT VIDEO ;PAC : What's your toxic trait ?

(Go show some love babes ... XOXO)

#tarot #tarotcommunity #divination #tarot reading #tarot cards #pac #pick a card #pick a picture #pick a pile #free readings #free tarot readings #free tarot #intuitive guidance #intuitive readings #intuition #divine timing #divine guidance

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atlabeth · 1 year ago

Text

dance until we're bones

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem reader

summary: you and hotch both confront a lifetime of things left unsaid when a case forces your past into the light.

a/n: so i started this. two years ago. got 1k in and left it, came back now for some reason, wrote like a freak until it was done. lol. this is quite heavy and different than most things i usually write and it is SO much longer than expected but im very proud of it 🫶 i didn't really pay attention to the canon timeline so just know that reader and hotch were in their early and late 20s in law school (90s) and early and late 30s in present day (early 2000s). title from i lied by lord huron and allison ponthier

wc: 17.2k

warning(s): a lot of angst. typical bau case stuff, murder (familicide), implied/referenced past child abuse, reader and hotch go at it basically the whole time, character death, kidnapping, slight mention of drugging, injuries, mentions of blood. i wouldn’t say a happy ending but a hopeful one

Hotch can barely stay awake.

He got the call thirty minutes to 4 a.m, and if he hadn’t already been up, he would likely be in a much worse mood. He can only hope that the rest of the team has gotten used to rude awakenings at this point.

It’s poor planning on his part—he already got out late due to extra paperwork, and once he got home, he found himself staring at the wall, and then staring at the ceiling. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to sleep on the jet. If things go the way they usually do, he won’t be out until their first night in a hotel.

He started making calls to the team on his way to the office, but to no one’s surprise, he was the first one there. He had time to wash down a shitty office coffee and get started on a second one by the time everyone’s there.

Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ all have coffees—JJ comes prepared with her own thermos, but Morgan and Prentiss fall victim to the BAU’s supply—Reid is fighting back yawns as he tries to fix a hastily made tie, Garcia is slightly less energetic than normal as she passes out files, and somehow Rossi looks the same as always.

Hotch just hopes he’s put together enough to make the team feel better about being here at an ungodly hour.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Garcia greets, setting down the last folder in front of Reid before taking her spot next to Hotch at the front. “As lovely as it is to see all of you this morning, I’m afraid that we’ve got a grisly one on our hands, hence the hour.”

“Great,” Prentiss mutters. “How bad is it?”

“Three married couples have been murdered in St. Louis, Missouri in the past two months, with the most recent one happening yesterday,” Hotch says, and Garcia grimaces as she clicks onto the pictures. “Mom and dad are killed, but the children are spared.”

“Awful lot of similarities between the parents,” Morgan says dryly as he flips through the folder. “Looks like our killer has some family issues.”

Reid nods. “The unsub likely stalks these families once they see the similarities. I’m guessing he was abused as a child, seeing as they kill the parents but keep the children alive.”

“Probably has a grudge against his father,” Prentiss remarks. “They make it out the worst every time.”

“There’s no method to the torture,” Morgan says. “It looks like he’s just trying to make it hurt as much as possible.”

“Our guy probably isn’t trained in anything, then,” Rossi says.

Reid flips to another page in the file. “Serial killers like to see their victims suffer. If he’s not torturing the mom physically, then he’s likely making her watch.”

“He doesn’t kill children, though,” JJ notes.

“Maybe he thinks he’s doing them a favor,” Reid says.

“The unsub sees himself in the kids?” Morgan suggests. “He’s doing what he didn’t get the chance to do.”

“Whatever it is, we have to keep a tight hold on this,” JJ says. “The press eats this stuff up, and the last thing we need is a terrified city making it harder to do our jobs.”

“Especially with families being killed,” Morgan murmurs.

JJ sighs. “I’ll draft something on the jet and make some calls when we land.”

Hotch nods and he closes his file. “Wheels up in thirty. I hope you’re all ready for a long day.”

The jet is silent the entire way to Missouri, full of sleeping agents trying to delay the inevitable—save for JJ scribbling down notes on a legal pad for the first thirty minutes, but even she knocks out sooner rather than later. Thankfully, Hotch manages to fit an hour in himself, though it doesn’t do very much for him. He spends the rest of the time reading through the case file.

The team settles in quickly at the city’s precinct, and Hotch takes charge as usual. The uniforms are just as tired as they are, but he makes it work. Soon enough, JJ is off to work with the local liaison to craft a narrative, Reid has situated himself in an empty conference room to get to work analyzing maps with Garcia, and Hotch and the rest go to check out the crime scene.

It’s brutal—much too brutal for this early, but Hotch forces the emotions out of it and gets to work questioning the present officers. Morgan follows suit, with Prentiss and Rossi going to investigate the rest of the house.

They don’t learn much from the officers that they don’t already know. This is the most recent crime scene—George and Marsha Springfield, undeserving of such a grisly fate. Their two kids, 8 and 9, were off visiting their grandparents in Nebraska when it happened, and though they avoided the same fate, they’re going to deal with a lifetime of guilt.

It’s all Hotch can think about as he examines the first body. The six children left to deal with the carnage, about their past and future marred against their control.

All he can think about is Jack, and the dreary fate that awaits him if his father falls in the field.

Hotch swallows his doubt and his guilt all in one and forces every thought out of his mind. He has to be unshakable for the team, for what’s left of these families, for a city on the brink of hysterics.

They’ll find whoever did this. That’s what gets him through it.

They spent early morning at the crime scene, collecting evidence and gathering information from the officers and trying to make sense of the killer’s motive. Progress is slow, partially because of the hour, but they make enough that Hotch feels comfortable moving onto the next job.

Their four a.m. start time was too early to go knock on doors and get interviews, but now it’s a more normal 10 in the morning. After a quick stop back at the station to share information with Reid, Garcia, and JJ and down a few cups of coffee, they get right back on the road.

Hotch and Prentiss take one van and Morgan and Rossi take the other, splitting up to get what they can from interviews. It’s difficult working with kids, especially with such recent trauma, so they hold off on it for now, allowing the local uniforms that have been with them for a bit longer to set things up before the BAU tries anything.

First they go to a neighbor’s house, then an alleged eye witness. They don’t get much other than personality reads, but it at least gives them the beginnings of a profile. The third place they hit is their earliest idea of a suspect.

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss reads off the file one of the local officers had put together. “Thirty-nine, born and raised in St. Charles, Missouri. High school degree, but never got to college because he was in and out of jail.”

“What has he been charged for?”

“Booked a few times for public intoxication and convicted three times for assault. Once was for third-degree assault, Missouri’s version of aggravated assault,” she says. “He got out of jail a little less than a year ago, and it looks like he’s been living in St. Louis for some of that.”

“Assault and drinking is a far cry from serial killing, even aggravated,” Hotch says. “What makes him a suspect?”

“Both parents are dead,” she says. “And from the looks of it, it was not a happy home while they were around. He’s got a sister, so it fits the initial theory of trying to replicate his family.”

Hotch lets out a loose breath and nods. “We’ll start there. Try and get a story from this guy, build a profile, see if it matches the one Morgan and Rossi have made for their guy.”

“And hope we pin something down before more bodies show up,” Prentiss murmurs.

They’re at their destination soon enough, and Hotch parks in an open spot on the other side of the road. His eyes dart around as they walk up to the front door, filing things away in the back of his mind.

The house number and last name—1432, Hartford—on the mailbox plagued with rotting wood. What there is of a yard is poorly cut, and a small garden of wilted flowers has their own corner, victims of the winter weather. One car is parked slightly crooked in a small driveway—there’s no garage, so at least he’s probably home. Two potted plants sit on either side of the door, thankfully alive.

“Remember,” Prentiss says as they come to a stop together, “be nice.”

“I’m plenty nice,” he murmurs, and she huffs the slightest laugh.

Hotch knocks on the door as Prentiss fishes around for her ID, and thankfully, they don’t wait long. The door cracks open after a few seconds to reveal a woman—certainly not their unsub, but something a whole lot more surprising.

You.

Your brows furrow at the sight of him, and Hotch has to hold back his shock.

You don’t live in St. Louis. And your last name certainly isn’t Hartford.

“Aaron?” you ask in disbelief, and he doesn’t even have to look at Prentiss to know the questions he’s going to get later.

He says your name, able to control his surprise with only the slightest crease of his brows giving it away, then corrects himself just as quickly. “Miss Hartford. My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner, and this is SSA Emily Prentiss. We’re here with the FBI.”

Your frown deepens as they show their IDs, and you actually take it from Hotch, skeptical eyes scanning over it for much too long. You glance back at him as you hand it back over. “What is the FBI doing here?”

Emily clears her throat as she puts her credentials away. “We’re here investigating the latest murders in St. Louis. Can we come in?”

“The murders?” you ask with exasperation. “What— what murders? And what do I have to do with them?”

Aaron notices the way your grip tightens on the door just the slightest bit, and a shred of sympathy strikes him before he speaks up.

“We’ll be able to explain everything if you let us in,” he says.

You swallow thickly in your throat, your gaze darting back to Aaron before you finally nod. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

You move and Hotch and Prentiss walk inside, gesturing with a hand towards your living room as you shut and lock the door behind them. “Take a seat. Uh— do you guys need anything? Water, or coffee, or…”

You trail off, and Prentiss shakes her head. “Thank you, but that’s not needed.” She takes a seat on the sofa, but Hotch can’t stop himself from looking around the house.

It’s a small place, one story—likely rented, seeing how paintings sit on countertops and mantels rather than hanging on the wall. It has a certain charm to it, but something is off about it all.

Two styles clash—decorative pillows at odds with a filled and painted-over hole in the wall, an attempt at neutral tones ruined by dark articles of clothing scattered around, one person’s mess barely being held back by another’s cleaning efforts. You lived with someone else. Likely Lucas Hartford, possibly their unsub.

“Are you gonna sit down, Aaron?” you ask, snapping him out of his profiling haze. “Or do you want to look around some more?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat as he walks over and sits down in an open chair near Prentiss. “Just curious.”

“That makes two of us,” you say, and you cross your arms as you look at him. He notices that you don’t sit down yourself, and there’s still a coldness in your eyes. “You’re FBI now?”

He nods. “I had a change of heart.”

You huff a laugh. “Thought at least one of us would be a lawyer by now. I guess not.”

Hotch frowns, but Prentiss takes over before he can continue on that particular thread. “Miss Hartford—”

You interrupt by saying your first name, and it spurns something strange in his chest. It’s been over a decade since he’s heard your voice. “You can skip the formalities.”

Prentiss nods and repeats your name. “As you know, we’re investigating the murders that have been occuring in the St. Louis area.”

“And you think I have something to do with it?” you ask, the accusatory edge to your voice not lost on him.

“Not you,” Hotch says. “Do you know a Lucas Hartford?”

“He’s my brother,” you say, and your frown deepens. “You’re not saying—”

“No,” Prentiss interrupts, “we’re not saying anything. We’re just asking.”

And just like that, your entire stance, your visage, it all changes. Hotch can sense the walls slamming up around you, and he immediately realizes two things:

Getting information out of you is going to be much harder than planned, and you’re not anywhere near the same person you used to be.

Hotch doesn’t know what he expects, really. He graduated with the intent to prosecute for at least a decade—now, he’s with the BAU. It’s not fair to assume you’re that same girl he met in law school.

“My brother is not a murderer,” you state clearly.

“And we aren’t accusing him or you of anything—” she starts.

“Me?” you interrupt, and you let out a harsh laugh. “I’m a suspect too?”

“If you would allow Agent Prentiss to finish her sentences, you would be less upset,” Hotch says.

You glower at him, but you stay silent.

“We aren’t accusing either of you of anything,” Prentiss finishes. “We’re just trying to gather information with what little we know.”

“I know my rights,” you say, unflinching gaze still meeting Hotch’s. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Prentiss looks at him as well, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “That’s unfortunate to hear, Miss Hartford.”

“You know my name, Aaron. Use it.”

He does, and the letters feel strange on his tongue after so long. “This is a serious matter. This isn’t an accusation—we’re in the early days of this case and we need all the information we can get.”

“Ask away,” you say. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss starts. “He’s your brother?”

You nod. “He lives with me.”

He lives with me, not we live together. Makes him think that you pay for the place, he came knocking, and you didn’t have the heart to turn him away.

“Why is that?” Hotch asks.

You look at him, those scrutinizing eyes attempting to peer into his soul the same way they did all those years ago. But Hotch has changed since law school, and he’s much better at guarding his emotions. It seems you are, too.

“He’s a student,” you finally say. “He goes to community college. I’m giving him a place to live while he gets his associate’s.”

“Community college and living with his younger sister at 39?” Prentiss is trying to get information out of you, even if it isn’t in the kindest way. Your jaw clenches, and he knows her words have some effect. You’ve probably heard it more than once, the way things are going.

“He’s getting his life back on track,” you say defensively. “I’m the only one left that can help him, so I am.”

“What about your parents?” she asks. “Surely they’re a better option than this.”

“Both dead,” you answer. “And no one else cares enough to help him. Are you here to do anything other than dig up my past?”

Hotch feels Prentiss’s eyes on him, likely because it’s a step in the right direction for a really shitty reason, but he can’t look away from you.

“Really?”

He knows your parents are dead—it was in your brother’s profile, and by extension it applies to you—but it still hits him.

He met your mother, had countless lunches and dinners with her. Helped her move out of her old house. Spent two Thanksgivings and a Christmas with her.

And he didn’t even know when she died.

You shrug and wrap your arms around yourself, and for the first time you look something other than defensive or standoffish. You look�� well… sad.

“Mom went a few years after you graduated,” you say, looking at Hotch. “Dad went last year.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Prentiss says.

You nod your thanks, the notion a bit numb.

“You never told me,” Hotch says with a slight frown.

“We haven’t talked in ten years,” you say. “Sorry that I didn’t know you still wanted updates.”

Hotch tries to think of something to say in response, but Prentiss starts getting a call and she stands up. “Excuse me.”

His jaw clenches for a moment as Prentiss ducks into a nearby bedroom, but he’s recovered by the time you look at him again. Your arms are crossed, but your expression is even.

“I take it this was as much of a surprise for you as it is for me.”

Hotch nods. “We came here looking for your brother.”

“Does your team know about our history?” you ask simply.

“No.”

“Do you want them to?”

“…No.”

You huff a laugh, your eyes narrowing a bit. “‘Course not. Probably counts as conflict of interest.”

You wait another beat, then ask another question. “How’s Haley?”

“Good, last I heard,” he says, and then he hesitates. “We’re… divorced.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

He nods. “This job isn’t easy for anyone.”

You look like you want to say more, but once again, Hotch is saved by Prentiss as she walks back in. Her phone is closed in her hand and she looks at him. “Morgan and Rossi have a lead. The chief wants everyone back at the precinct to go over everything we’ve found.”

Hotch nods again and stands up. Prentiss takes her card out of her pocket and holds it out to you.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Hartford. If you find out any information, or want to tell us anything else, please give me a call.”

“Pass that along to your brother, too,” Hotch says.

You reluctantly take the card, but you don’t look at it. “You can see yourselves out.”

Prentiss nods. “Thank you again. Have a good day, and stay safe.”

She leads the way, and Hotch follows after her. He fights the urge to look back before he shuts the door.

Prentiss looks at him as they walk back to the car, and he can only imagine what is going through her mind. But eventually she just shrugs and pulls out her phone again.

“Garcia?” Prentiss asks after she picks up.

“You’ve reached the office of all that is holy.” Penelope’s voice comes out through the speaker, and Hotch can’t help the smallest twitch of his lips. “What’s up?”

“Dig up everything you can find on Lucas Hartford,” Emily says, and her glance at Hotch does not go unnoticed. “And throw in his sister, too. He’s one of our only suspects, and we need to know if she’s in on it.”

“On it,” Garcia says. “I’ll call you back when I’m done.”

“You’re the best,” she says, and then she hangs up. They get back to the car, and it only takes Prentiss all of five seconds after they get in for her to start drilling him.

“Alright,” she says, buckling her seatbelt with a click before she sets her attention on him. “What was that back there? You two know each other?”

Hotch busies himself with his own seatbelt and starting the car, answering as casually as possible as the engine revs to life. “We were friends in law school.”

“Sure,” Prentiss nods. “The way you were around her, that’s not just ‘law school friend’ stuff.”

Hotch is once again reminded of how, sometimes, it was a downfall to constantly be around profilers. It was nearly impossible to keep anything a secret.

“It’s nothing,” he says as he pulls back onto the road. “We knew each other, we fell apart, we’re here now.”

Emily hums. “Is it too far to ask if you were together?”

“Yes,” he says sternly, maybe a bit too hasty. “It is.”

“Fine,” she says breezily, and she looks out the window. “But that tension was thick.”

Hotch knows what she’s thinking. Hasn’t he been with Haley since high school, what kind of history did you and him have, were you together, would he be okay to work this case—

He doesn’t really want to answer any of them. You were a part of his past he hadn’t expected to resurface any time soon—if Hotch is being honest, he didn’t know if he would ever see you again once he graduated. Not after the way he broke things off.

You’ve changed a lot. So has he.

And now your brother is a murder suspect, and you could be covering up for him.

That’s the only thing that should be on his mind.

“For the last time,” you huff as you storm down the stairs, “I don’t want to deal with this.”

“Because you know that Mia is a lying bitch!” Cleo exclaims, following after you. “I’m sick of you stealing my clothes!”

“I’m not stealing your clothes,” Mia scoffs in your wake, just behind Cleo. “They’re too ugly for me to want anyways. I bet I wouldn’t even fit into them.”

“You are! And you’re stealing my fucking jewelry, too!” she yells. “All of my shit is going missing, and I know it’s not Little Miss Law School, so it’s got to be you!”

Mia draws out a mirthless laugh. “You are not accusing me of this.”

“I don’t have anyone else to accuse!” Cleo shouts.

They both look at you, and Mia says your name. “You have to settle this before I kill her.”

“Oh, I’ll kill you first!” she hisses. “At least I’ll get all my stuff back!”

You clench your jaw as your nails dig into your palms, and you’re about to bite back when the doorbell rings. You don’t even try to hide your sigh of relief.

“That’s Aaron,” you say as you grab your coat and your bag from the table. “I’m leaving. If you kill each other, don’t get blood on the furniture.”

You don’t give them a chance to say anything before you rush to the door, open it, and shut it behind you.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” you breathe.

“What’s going on in there?” Aaron asks, amused.

“My roommates are fighting again.” You roll your eyes. “It doesn’t matter. You’re much more interesting.”

“You know this is a study date,” he says wryly, and you cut him off with a kiss.

“Still a date,” you murmur against his lips. “And something seriously needed.”

Aaron chuckles as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side, and the two of you walk to his car. “You’ve gotta get out of this house, honey.”

“I know,” you grumble. “But I can’t afford a place on my own.”

“Doesn’t have to be on your own,” he says as he opens the door for you. “It just has to be away from the girls that are making you miserable.”

“The lease ends at the end of the semester,” you sigh. “Just have to make it until then.”

“You know,” Aaron boxes you in against the car when you lean against the side of it, smiling softly at you, “I do live alone.”

“Oh yeah?” You ruffle his hair with your fingers and grin. “What are you proposing?”

He shrugs, letting his hands linger on your waist. “Just that you hate your roommates, and you don’t hate me. You could spend your time somewhere else.”

“Careful,” you warn. “You keep saying things like that and we might not make it to the library.”

“You keep saying things like that, and I might not mind,” Aaron muses.

You grin as he leans in and kisses you again, once, twice, three times as your back hits the side of his car and you card your hands through his hair. Mia and Cleo are probably killing each other inside, but you don’t really care at this point. They’ve made your life hell for a semester and a half—they can bother each other for once.

“Aaron,” you whisper against his lips, and he gets one more in between words, “I’ve got a test on Tuesday.”

“And today’s Sunday.” He nips at your neck and you laugh, your eyes falling shut as you lean your head back. “You’ll be fine, honey.”

“You have one on Monday,” you remind him, and he sighs. You feel his hot breath against your neck.

“Ruining our fun in the name of schoolwork,” he says. “No wonder all your professors love you.”

“Everyone loves me,” you correct. “Including you.”

You steal one more kiss before you open your door yourself and get in, and Aaron lets out a breathy laugh.

“You’ve got that right.”

He closes your door then gets in the other side, and you’re already rifling through the glove box full of cassettes. You pull out the mixtape you made for him for your six month anniversary and pop it into the player, and Aaron smiles as the first few notes of Stairway to Heaven come on.

“You’re a threat to my grades, y’know.”

“Maybe it’s all part of my plan,” you say. “Distract you with kisses to make sure I’m a shoe-in for this fellowship.”

“A dastardly plan,” he says with mock austerity.

“I’ve been told I have to be more of a shark,” you muse. “Consider this me taking down my competition.”

Aaron laughs, and you find yourself smiling just at the sound of it. You love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, how they soften just so, how he acts like himself around you, and not some perfected or stoic image that he thinks he needs.

Falling in love with Aaron Hotchner has been the easiest thing in the world.

“Don’t let anyone know,” he says, and he reaches over to intertwine your fingers together. “But I’ll happily fall to you every time.”

“As long as you don’t tell everyone how whipped I am for you,” you tease.

“Looks like we’ve both got reputations to keep up.”

“Looks like it.”

You share a smile, yours just on the edge of a grin as you try to bite it back. You hold hands the rest of the way, just soaking in each other’s presence with songs from bands you introduced to each other floating through the air.

(It is a goddamn struggle to get any work done at the library with that face across from you the whole time.)

You had sky-high aspirations when you were younger.

Ones that would make your teachers offer a smile and tell you to shoot a little lower, that would make your friends’ eyes widen, that your father would scoff at and your mother would humor you on just to get you to move past it.

You didn’t listen. You’ve wanted to be a lawyer since you went on a class field trip to a courthouse in elementary school and saw all the attorneys hustling about, dressed to the nines, making last-minute deals outside the courtroom.

They were just… so confident. So smart, so stoic, always knowing the answer to everything. The good ones had money, sure, but more importantly they had the power to change lives for the better. And as a kid that had to cover up bruises before the school day, nothing sounded more appealing.

All you’ve ever wanted to do is help people.

And as you sit in a cold, empty interrogation room, you can’t help but wonder where the hell you went wrong.

You don’t want to be here, obviously. But you know the FBI won’t stop bugging you until you give them answers—you know Aaron Hotchner won’t stop bugging you.

Because god— what are the odds?

What are the fucking odds of your ex-boyfriend from a decade ago showing up at your door with a badge and an attempted case against your brother?

It’s ridiculous, and it’s such bad luck that you think it could only happen to you. You’ve thought about Aaron Hotchner more than you’d like to admit over the years, especially when you found your old GW crewnecks, and the box of school supplies you used for a decade, and those photo albums from what should’ve been your golden years.

It’s not like any of it matters, though. You only agreed to come in and talk because you want them off your back and you don’t want them poking around your house. You saw it in Aaron’s eyes—he was profiling you and your place the entire time.

If the cops want to invade your privacy even further, they can get a goddamn warrant.

Your thoughts are interrupted when the door opens, and you hold back a mirthless laugh, because of course it’s Aaron. He greets you with your name, and he has a file in his hands. You wonder if it’s on you or your brother. “Thank you for taking the time out of your day to come in and talk with us.”

“Well, you seem to think my brother is a murderer.” You cross your arms as you sit back. “I’m not really gonna let that stand.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked for a lawyer,” he says as he sits down across from you.

“I don’t plan to be here for very long,” you respond tartly. “But don’t worry—that can always change. I know my rights.”

“I’m the last person you need to tell that to.” Hotch sets the file down and looks right at you. Though he’s obviously older—more grizzled, more hardened; harsher, sharper lines that define his face; lips set in a taut, unflinching line—you still see that young man from law school. The passion, the care he puts into everything, the penchant for striped ties.

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

“Your last name wasn’t Hartford when I met you,” he says. “Why is it now?”

“Not one for small talk,” you remark.

“I never have been.”

“I remember.” You hold his gaze. “It’s my mom’s maiden name. I changed it to put some distance between me and everything else.”

You can practically see the gears of his brain working, neural pathways branching off with every word you say to make sense of it and reason a thousand different meanings from it. Aaron’s always been like that, but it’s tenfold now.

You suppose one has to be like that, to try and get anywhere with the types of criminals they face.

“How long have you been living in St. Louis?”

“Seven years. I’ve had that house for three.”

“Rent or own?”

“Rent,” you scoff. “I don’t make enough for a down payment, and I don’t want a place tying me down.”

“What inspired the move?”

“Close enough to home to be familiar, far enough to not be.”

“And home is?”

“St. Charles,” you say, and you purse your lips. “Shouldn’t you already know all this?” You nod at the file in front of him. “It’s either on me or my brother, and we share a lot of the same info.”

“We prefer to get our information from the source,” he says.

“Sources can lie.”

Aaron doesn’t waver. “And we can charge you with obstruction if it harms our investigation.”

Your lips twitch for a moment, not entirely without heart. “Ask your questions, Aaron.”

He opens the folder and slides the first picture over to you—your brother’s first mugshot, taken when he was only twenty-one. You still remember riding your bike to the station in the sweltering August heat to drop off his bail and pick him up.

You had to catch the bus home together, you had to pay his fare, and his bail drained everything you’d been saving from your waitress job. But your dad refused to pay it, and you refused to be alone in that house any longer than you already had.

You swallow the memory. It still tastes as sour as the day it happened.

“Lucas Hartford is our main suspect,” he says. “He matches our initial profile—in and out of jail since his twenties, his parents are dead and he has an unstable home life, and he’s got a sister.”

“None of those sound like questions,” you say.

“Where is your brother?” he asks firmly. He’s given you a bit of leniency, but you can tell he’s getting tired of you. Some things never change, you think to yourself bitterly.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“You don’t know,” he repeats.

“I let him stay with me, and my only requirement is that he goes to his community college classes and stays out of jail,” you say. “He’s done both, so I stay out of his business.”

“And you’re telling me you haven’t questioned it?”

“I called him the other day after you left,” you say. “He didn’t pick up, and I didn’t get a call back until the next night.”

Aaron’s eyes sharpen. “What did you say to him?”

“I called to see where he was,” you say evenly. “I think you all are wrong, but I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“You didn’t tell him—”

“No,” you interrupt, “I didn’t tell him about your investigation. If I think you’re wrong, why would I need to let him know?”

He still has that look in his eyes, and you know you’re getting on his nerves with the constant interrupting, the constant backtalk. But he probably deals with much, much worse.

“Good,” he nods. “You could be putting lives in danger if you do—including yours.”

“Please,” you scoff. “He won’t hurt me. He never has.”

“Why do you let him stay with you?” Aaron asks. “You’re straight-edge, he’s a borderline alcoholic that’s been in and out of jail for years. You’ve got a law degree, he never made it past high school. You’ve got your life together, his is falling apart.”

“That’s why I do it,” you say. “Our parents are dead. I’m all he has left, and he’s all I have left. I want him to get better, so I’m trying my best to help him get there. How can Luke put his life back together if he’s got no support?”

“That’s an awful lot of faith to put in someone who hasn’t earned it.”

“I’ve gotten good at that over the years,” you reply.

Aaron stares at you, and you stare back. You let the moment linger. You hope it stings, even fleetingly.

“And you’re wrong, by the way.”

“About what?” he asks. Again, unshaken.

“I don’t have a law degree,” you say. “I dropped out.”

And for some reason, that is what gets him. He frowns, and you wonder what it means that this is the most unexpected thing he’s gotten out of you.

“Why? You were only a year out. You had stellar grades.”

“My mom got cancer,” you say. “Luke was serving his second stint, Dad fucked off to some corner of the country to drink himself to death a couple months before. I was the only one left to take care of her, and I couldn’t do that from DC.”

“I had no idea.” This is the first time he looks taken aback since you’ve met him again. “And she’s—”

“Dead,” you supply without waiting for an answer. You know he already knows it, but it still seems to have some effect on him. “Went a couple months after I was meant to graduate.”

“…I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. He’s just repeating what his agent said at your house, but it feels genuine, at least.

“It’s been a decade,” you say. “I’m just sorry it was her instead of my dad.”

Aaron’s brows knit together again, and less work goes into covering it up this time. “You seem to have something against your father.”

You huff a mirthless laugh. “Excellent profiling.”

“Child abuse is common for serial killers,” Aaron says. “We find it’s typically the root of their problems later in life, or plays a part in their MO.”

You stare at him again. This isn’t just an interrogation with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner—it’s revealing parts of your past that you never told your ex-boyfriend Aaron.

“Yeah,” you finally say. “Our dad beat us. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“You know th—”

Aaron cuts himself off before he can finish whatever he wants to say, and he lets out a short sigh with a nod. “It’s valuable information for the profile.”

The room feels a lot colder all of a sudden. “Sure.”

He still looks like he wants to say more, but he bites his tongue as he takes the picture back and closes the file.

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Would you like anything? Water?”

You shake your head and remain silent. He takes the folder and stands up, and you watch him the entire way to the door. Just before he can open it, you find words escaping without you thinking.

“Look, Aaron,” you blurt out. He pauses, and he turns to look at you. “I know this is your thing, and this is your investigation, but I’m telling you—my brother and I don’t play any part in it.”

“The profile—”

“I don’t care what your profile says,” you interrupt. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it.”

“He’s rough around the edges, I know. In and out of jail isn’t good for anyone.” You hold onto the edge of the table as you continue rambling, needing something to do with your hands. “But he’s working to get better, and he is not the kind of person to do something like this. If you believe anything I say, believe that.”

“I suppose we’ll find out,” he says evenly.

He leaves the room, and your hands fall into your lap as your nails dig into your palms. You don’t mean to be desperate, but you feel it. You’ve been defending Lucas at every chance, but you’re terrified of being wrong. You’re terrified that Aaron might be right—that he might be behind all of this.

For his sake—and your sake, honestly, because you think you deserve to be selfish when he’s all you have left—you hope you’re right.

You have to be right.

The room feels even colder.

Your stare drifts to the one-way mirror, where you know his team is watching. You saw the way Agent Prentiss watched Aaron when they came to your house—he said he doesn’t want them to know, but you think they already do.

You wonder the kind of things they’ve come up with about you and him.

Morgan whistles when Hotch walks out of the interrogation room.

“She does not like you.”

“Did you gather anything else?” he asks placidly. He sets your brother’s file down so he can fix his tie.

“Abusive dad, dead parents, criminal background,” he says. “Lucas is looking like a stronger suspect. Oh— and she really doesn’t like you.”

“If you don’t want to go back to building a file on your suspect, move on,” Hotch demands.

Morgan shrugs, clearly unfazed, but he keeps his mouth shut. Reid, meanwhile, is still staring through the glass at you. You haven’t exactly relaxed, but you’re not as tense as you were while talking to Hotch. You pick at a loose strand of thread on your sweater, and when you pull it out, you let it fall to the floor.

“Her brother feels like a prime suspect,” Reid murmurs. “I feel like I could just figure it all out if I could talk to him.”

“I told Penelope to keep an eye on him,” Prentiss contributes. “She’s tracking his cards, the car registered in his name, even called the person in charge of the AA meetings he goes to to keep an eye out—everything. We’ll know if she gets anything.”

“Serial killers want to see the damage they’ve done,” Reid says. “Things are falling apart here—the whole city is terrified. He’s gotta be in St. Louis still.”

“You’re sure that he’s still in the running.” Hotch glances back at you, and he knows he has to at least ask, for your sake. He doesn’t want to put you through anything more than he has to—not after what you’ve told him.

And Hotch knows your past is your business—he just can’t believe you never told him.

He’s turned over your relationship in his head just as many times in these past few days as he did the months after he ended things.

“I’m sure, sir,” Reid says. “I’ve read over both their files, and Lucas matches with our preliminary profile. His stressor could have been his father dying.”

Morgan frowns. “Explain.”

“Family annihilators typically go after their own family for a myriad of reasons,” he says. “Paranoia, to cover up their lies, to free themselves from what they see as oppression, sometimes just pure jealousy.”

“He’s killing the parents but leaving the children alive,” Hotch says. “Sounds like a liberator to me.”

“That’s what I think,” Reid nods. “If Lucas has been banking on killing his father for that attempt at freedom, and then lost the chance?” He shrugs. “That could be why he started going for other families.”

“Other fathers to take his place,” Morgan realizes, and he nods again.

“You should talk to her, Spence,” Prentiss says. “You’ve got a handle on the profile, and you’re pretty good at conveying info. She seems like a reasonable person—just can’t accept her brother doing something like this.”

“It’s typical for someone to deny their family member’s involvement,” Reid says. “No one wants to think their sibling is a murderer.”

“If you lay it all out for her like that, with facts and the profile, I think she’ll listen.” Prentiss looks at Hotch. “She’s too closed off with you.”

“That’s how she is,” Hotch claims.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, “but it’s much easier to hate you than it is to hate Reid.”

Hotch glares at her, and Reid clears his throat to insert himself back into the conversation.

“I’d be happy to talk to her,” he says. “I know what it’s like to be in this kind of position—I can put her at ease, sympathize with her.”

They all look at Hotch, and he wants to say no. He wants to be the one to get this out of you—some part of him wants as much time with you as possible. But he decides to swallow his ego.

“Fine.” He nods, and he hands the folder to Reid. “I trust you to handle it.”

Reid nods too, far too many times, and he takes the file. “Thank you. Uh— sir. I appreciate your trust.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but it has no bite to it, and Reid walks inside.

He says your name and sits down across from you. “I’m Spencer Reid. I know we’ve already said it, but thank you for talking to us. It may not seem like it, but it goes a long way towards figuring out this case.”

You nod. You already seem more at ease than you were with him, and it makes Hotch…

Not jealous, because that would be insane. But it makes him upset that he doesn’t understand you the way he used to—that he doesn’t hold that key to you anymore. God, it feels like he doesn’t know you anymore.

Hotch doesn’t get why a side of his brain still thinks this way about you.

“They sent a new one in,” you say.

“You looked like you needed a break from Hotch,” Reid says. “Don’t worry. We all do sometimes.”

You huff a slight laugh and your posture eases, your expression softens just so. Reid was right, as usual.

“I can imagine.”

He starts talking to you about the case, laying out all the facts, and though you don’t look happy, you don’t cut him off like you cut Hotch off.

“She’s pretty,” Morgan offers, glancing at Hotch. “And stubborn. I see why you like her.”

“Shut up, Morgan,” Hotch mutters.

He chuckles and holds his hands up, and focuses back on the interrogation.

The rest of it passes in silence, save for the occasional input from Prentiss or Morgan to elaborate on a point. You talk much more with Reid than you did with Hotch, and you don’t stare daggers at him the entire time.

Time doesn’t always heal all wounds, he thinks.

When Reid is finishing up inside with you, Morgan glances back at Hotch. “You think she’s part of this?”

He shakes his head. “No. She has no reason to kill, nothing to gain. She talks about her past too plainly—it hurt her, obviously, but it hasn’t taken over her life.”

“What about her brother?” Prentiss asks.

“The more we learn, the more I suspect him,” Morgan says.

She nods in agreement. “We just have to find him.”

Hotch isn’t sure yet.

But for your sake, he hopes his gut feeling is wrong.

Spring has finally sprung in DC, and you couldn’t be happier.

It’s hard to feel down on your walks to class when the birds are singing and the sun is beaming down on you, when you see students sitting on blankets reading and talking and actually enjoying life for once.

You’re two years into law school, and it feels like you’ve spent 90% of your time studying in either the library or your room. A bit of a sad existence, but it’s made better with Aaron.

You’re laying down on a blanket—one you crocheted yourself in undergrad—resting your head on Aaron’s chest as he reads a book, the spring sun shining down on you. It feels like the first moment of relaxation either of you have had since classes started, and you chose to spend it together in the University Yard.

You should probably be studying or doing some kind of homework, but you don’t care. It has been too damn long since you’ve gotten to just sit around and exist with Aaron, and you’ve got at least a couple days until your next quiz. That’s far enough away for you.

It’s been a rough semester for both of you, between classes and endless homework, between your internship and your endless family issues—Luke is two years in, and his parole was denied, and your dad still insists on being the reason you stay on campus year-round.

You don’t think you’re pushing it when you say Aaron’s support has been the only reason you’ve gotten through it, your grades—and your mental state—relatively unscathed.

Aaron says your name, and you hum.

“Are you listening?” he asks.

“Of course,” you say.

“Your eyes are closed.”

“I don’t need my eyes to listen,” you say wryly. “What’s up?”

You feel him tense for a moment, feel him adjust his position slightly.

“I got a call from Haley,” he says carefully.

Your eyes open and you frown.

You know the name, but only in the way that you talked a bit about your past relationships while you were still getting to know each other. She was his high school girlfriend, and it was a big deal then, but they broke up before college because they both wanted different things.

It shouldn’t be a big deal now. But he’s treating it like one, and that makes you hesitate.

“Yeah? What’d she want?”

“…She’s in DC for the weekend,” he says. “Some conference for school. She asked if we could grab a coffee or something and catch up.”

You finally sit up, his hands falling from where he’d been playing with your hair, and you look at him.

“Your high school girlfriend wants to catch up.”

“An old friend wants to catch up,” he corrects. “I haven’t really talked to her since we graduated high school.”

“…Okay,” you say slowly. “Do you want to see her?”

He shrugs. “I thought it would be nice.”

“Do you think she thinks it’ll be more than nice?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t even know how she got my landline. I think my mom might have given it to her.”

Your eyebrows rise. “Your mom gave your ex-girlfriend your number?”

“It’s the only way I can think of her getting it,” Aaron shrugs. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to her since graduation.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to think as you look at Aaron.

You’ve met his mom a dozen times. You’re insistent that she doesn’t like you, despite Aaron’s assertions towards the opposite—it wouldn’t surprise you if she gave this girl his new number in an effort to push him in a new direction.

But that train of thought feels a little crazy. You’re confident in your relationship with Aaron—you love him, and he loves you. God, he made an off-handed comment about marriage the other day. You’re not threatened by a girl from his past wanting to catch up.

“Go for it,” you finally say.

He frowns, like he was expecting the worst. “Really?”

“I trust you, Aaron,” you say. “You say she’s just a friend, I believe it.”

You lean forward to kiss him, your eyes fluttering shut, and it lasts much longer than it should. When you pull away, Aaron’s smiling softly at you.

“Thank you,” he says.

“‘Course,” you say, tipping a shoulder. “I’m known to be rational from time to time.”

He chuckles, and you smile as you lay back down on his chest. Soon after, you feel the weight of his hand on your shoulder.

“I love you,” he says. It feels more like a reminder than anything.

You entangle your fingers together and press a kiss to the back of his hand.

Sometimes you need reminders.

“I love you too.”

“Four more bodies,” Prentiss mutters. “God.”

“You can say that again,” Morgan murmurs.

Hotch is silent as he examines the father’s body. They’ve been so busy the past few days trying to nail down the profile, both on their unsub and geographically, that this happening again hadn’t been at the top of their list. There was a month between the first two, and two weeks between the second and third.

No one expected this to happen so soon.

The entire family was killed this time, and once again, the parents look similar to the other victims. It’s the work of their unsub, no doubt.

Hotch and the team had already been at the precinct for an hour going over all the information they’d found when they got the call at 8 in the morning, the bodies discovered by the family’s maid when she arrived for work.

An entire family, parents and children, senselessly slaughtered for one man’s deranged quest for liberation.

Hotch has been in this business for a long time, seen things that most people only imagine in nightmares, and he still has to take a step back when children are involved.

He sees Jack in every single one. He can’t help it.

Hotch took Prentiss and Morgan with him to the crime scene—JJ has a kid, Rossi had a kid, and he just didn’t want Reid to see it. They’ll all be more valuable working together back there anyways, and it’s imperative that JJ controls the narrative before this can break to the press.

Again, Prentiss talks to the officers at the scene and Morgan helps him examine the bodies. After all, there are double the amount.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Morgan says as he stands back up. “Our guy is killing surrogate parents to get back at his own, fine. Dad was tortured again, mom was killed with a bullet. But bringing the kids into it isn’t his thing.”

He uses a gloved hand to gingerly lift the father’s arm away from his body so he can examine the underarm. “Look at this. He’s been stabbed at least ten times, and his arm’s nearly severed from his body.”

“And his neck,” Morgan mutters. “He’s half decapitated.”

Hotch sets the arm back down. “The unsub always wants the father to suffer, but this is a new level.” He looks up at Morgan. “I don’t think he has a reason for killing the children. I think he’s getting sloppy—he’s getting overwhelmed by his anger.”

“You think he’s devolving,” he says, catching on.

“Something tells me we’re coming to the end of the line,” Hotch says. “Whatever he does next, he’s going out with a bang.”

The mood in the precinct has fallen dramatically since the last hit. The uniforms aren’t happy that they’re working around the clock, the chief isn’t happy that the BAU hasn’t figured everything out yet, and the city isn’t happy that ten murders have been committed with what they think is no end in sight.

JJ and Rossi have gone out to bring in the suspect that he and Morgan found together for the sake of covering their bases—they still haven’t been able to find Lucas, despite Reid calling you every day to check in and upping police presence around the city.

The rest of the team sits around a conference table, over a dozen coffees between them, going over everything and racking their brains for information.

“This just isn’t matching up,” Reid complains. “Lucas has just been at home for the first two, but for the third and the fourth he’s got alibis.”

“What are they?” Hotch asks.

“He was on the road all night when the third happened,” Reid says.

“And how do we know?” Prentiss asks.

“Garcia picked up his debit card being used a couple times from Des Moines back to St. Louis when the third set of murders happened,” Morgan contributes. “Must’ve been a road trip, because there are stops at a gas station, a restaurant, and a rest stop.”

“The last one happened during an AA meeting he was supposed to attend,” Prentiss says. “I called the leader and she said he was there.”

“Do we have footage from any of those places?” Hotch asks. “We need to make sure.”

Reid nods. “I asked her to check it all this morning, including the AA meeting. She must still be going through it—I can’t imagine it’s easy to get all that access.”

“What about a second unsub?” Morgan suggests.

Hotch shakes his head. “These are all meant to be personal for liberation��catharsis. Involving someone else would take away from the feeling.”

“What about your suspect?” Prentiss asks, looking at Morgan. “Could he be the unsub?”

“Patrick Fenton,” Morgan says, and he shrugs. “He fits it—dead parents, jail time, child of abuse. But he’s got two sisters, and his parents died when he was in his twenties from a car accident. I don’t see why he would start killing almost twenty years later.”

“Maybe we’ll figure something out in questioning,” Reid says hopefully.

Morgan’s phone suddenly goes off, and he hits the button to answer. “You’re on speaker, babygirl.”

“I found the security footage from those three places, the ones that Lucas was at on his supposed road trip when the third family was hit,” Garcia says, voice slightly tinny through the phone.

“And?” Hotch asks.

“I was getting there,” she says. “Lucas wasn’t there. He wasn’t on any of the footage—his sister was.”

Hotch frowns. You?

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“I’m always sure,” Garcia responds. “And I don’t know if Spencer is there, but he also wasn’t there at the AA meeting—I combed through the whole meeting, and he didn’t show up at any point. Just another guy that looked like him.”

“And you’re sure about that, too?” Hotch asks again.

“What is with this questioning of my abilities?” she asks, offended. “Yes. I’ve stared at so many pictures of Lucas Hartford over these past few days that I’ve got him burned into my brain.”

“Thanks, babygirl,” Morgan says. “We’ll call back if we need anything.”

“And you’re always welcome in this house of miracles,” she muses. Morgan chuckles before he hangs up.

“Lucas gave her his card,” Reid realizes. “It’s an easy alibi, but it falls apart when you look into it even a little bit.”

“Probably seemed solid to him at the time,” Morgan says. “He doesn’t seem like a detail oriented guy.”

Prentiss frowns. “That means he’s back on the chopping block. We can put him at the scene of every murder.”

Hotch leans over the table and grabs Lucas’s file, and he pulls out the page compiling his family. “His father died a year ago from liver failure. Hartford got out of jail nine months ago after a six year stint.”

“If he’s been plotting some elaborate murder of his father for years, just to get out of jail and find out he drank himself to death?” Morgan shakes his head. “He’d snap. It doesn’t feel like justice.”

“He thinks he’s saving the kids of these parents that he kills,” Reid says. “He sees himself in them—he can’t look past his own childhood, and he assumes those kids must want their parents dead too.”

“He’s trying to get back at his dad,” Prentiss says. “We know that.”

“But that’s not his main goal,” Reid insists. “If his dad died when he was a kid, the abuse would have stopped. His mom wouldn’t be the battered wife anymore, and he wouldn’t be the battered kid.”

“His goal has always been protection,” Hotch realizes. “Yes, he’s getting his revenge by killing his father over and over, but ultimately, he’s trying to save himself.”

“But he didn’t anticipate the kids being home this time,” Prentiss says. “He had to kill them too.”

“If he‘s seeing himself in these children, recreating what he never got to do, then that means that he effectively died in this scenario,” Reid says.

“He didn’t get what he wanted,” Morgan says. “That’s gonna take a toll on him.”

“He’s coming to the end of the line,” Prentiss nods.

Hotch’s brain is working overtime as they work information off of each other. They’re so damn close—they just need the last piece of the puzzle. If they find Lucas’s next victim, they find him.

“His next crime will probably be his last before he goes out himself,” Reid says.

“You think it’ll be a murder-suicide?” Morgan asks.

“It’s common with family annihilators,” Reid says. “Hell, it’s common with anyone who sees no future beyond their murders. It’s their way out.”

And then the answer hits Hotch like a ton of bricks. Reid is still rambling next to him.

“If his dad was still alive, I’d say he would be the target. But the only one left—”

“—is his sister,” Hotch grits out, and he’s dashing out of the conference room before anyone can stop him.

“Hotch!” Morgan yells, and he turns to Prentiss with wild eyes. “Where the hell is he going?”

“The last victim,” she says as she starts following him. “The one person he never managed to save.”

“Goddammit,” Morgan curses, and he grabs his phone from the table, dialing Garcia as fast as she can while he runs. Reid is close behind him.

“What’s up, sugar?” she asks. “Got anymore leads?”

He laughs dryly. “We’ve got a big one, babygirl. Lucas has finally reached the end of the road — he’s going for his sister. I need you to call JJ and Rossi and—”

“Send them the Hartford address and fill them in on everything?” she interrupted, and he could hear her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Already on it.”

“What would I do without you?” he asks.

“Be half the man and twice as sad,” she says. “I’ve got to call JJ. Be safe, my love.”

“Always,” he responds, and he hangs up.

Hotch distantly registers Prentiss stopping by the chief to alert him of what’s going on, because he’s in the fog of a rampage. He’s in the driver’s seat before he knows it, starting the car, and he sees Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid running out after him.

Prentiss takes shotgun and Morgan and Reid file into the back, and they’ve all got Kevlar vests in their hands. He didn’t really think of that through his haze.

“We’ve got an extra one for you,” Reid says, reading his mind.

“Thank you. I— I know what you’re all thinking—” Hotch starts, but Prentiss shakes her head.

“Just drive.” Her lips set themselves in a taut line. “We’ve got a murder to stop.”

And he does.

You sit on the curb, surrounded on either side by a box of your things. Packing up everything made you realize how little you had at his place. You thought you’d integrated yourself into his life fully, but it really just took an afternoon while he was in a lecture to disappear.

Summer has fully turned to winter, and you’re as morose as the weather. This side of town looks so depressing without the warmer months to pick it up—the sidewalks are lined with dead trees, the grass is shriveled up and yellowing, and you feel like you’re living in grayscale.

A shiver runs through you, the weather only partly to blame.

Amy is supposed to pick you up, but as usual, she’s running late. You don’t know if it’s a personal issue or DC traffic has just struck again, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way, you’re stuck here, and your bad luck seems intent on making it worse, because you watch a familiar car pull around the corner.

It parks a distance away—there’s no space in front of the complex, and he always complained that they didn’t do assigned spots—and you have to hold back a scornful scoff.

Of course you have to deal with this now.

Aaron picks up his pace when he gets out of the car, surprise—and what you think is shame—painted on his face. He says your name when he slows down.

“You’re already packed.”

You shrug. “I’m nothing if not efficient.”

“I could’ve helped you with all this,” Aaron says, frowning.

“Why do you think it’s done already?” you ask.

His throat bobs and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Let me save you the pain of chivalry,” you say. “I’ve got a friend coming to pick me up. I’ve already found a place. I called your property manager the other day and argued my way out of the lease, but I still paid my next month. You’re welcome.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

“You know what they say about a clean break,” you intone.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron tries again. To his credit, he looks like he means it. Against his credit, it’s about the fiftieth time you’ve heard it from him in the past two weeks.

“I shouldn’t have let you get that coffee,” you say with a grim smile, “should I?”

His lips pull into a taut line. “I didn’t cheat on you.”

“I know,” you say. It’s the one thing you do believe. “I just don’t think you ever fell out of love with her.”

Mercifully, you see Amy’s car pulling up in the distance. She’s your only friend with an SUV, so at least your boxes will fit.

“My ride’s here,” you say as you stand up, and you pick up one of your boxes. Amy throws on her hazards and she gets out to open her trunk.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she breathes. “Traffic was awful, and Jake has been so annoying—”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say with a slight smile as you put your box in the back. “You’re already doing me a huge favor.”

“I want us to still be friends,” Aaron calls. When you turn back, he has your other box in his hands, his expression shamelessly desperate. Amy glares daggers at him.

“Why?” you ask innocently. “So I can go without talking to you for ten years, ask you for a coffee when I’m in town, and then get you to leave Haley?”

“That’s not what happened,” he says, but you’re already shaking your head.

You take the box from him and smile thinly.

“Have a good rest of your life, Aaron. I hope it doesn’t involve me ever again.”

You let out a noise of frustration as you struggle to get the key into the lock, gritting your teeth as you try to fit it in. It’s always been finicky, but you just don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight. Thankfully, just when you start getting annoyed, you get it open.

You get a few steps in before your eyebrows rise, the sight of your brother at the kitchen table a surprise. He’s got his head in his hands, and your surprise turns to concern.

“Lucas,” you say with a slight smile, shutting the door behind you, “I didn’t know you were gonna be home tonight.”

His attention shoots to you immediately as he says your name, and he looks slightly out of it. “I was wondering when you were gonna get back.”

“Stole the words right out of my mouth,” you say wryly, and you ruffle his hair with your free hand as you walk past him. He swats your hand away in brotherly protest, and you snort. “This place has been quiet without you. Well— except for the cops. They were pretty loud.”

“They haven’t been back, have they?”

You look back at him and notice his leg is bobbing up and down insanely fast, and he keeps scratching at the soft wood of your table with his nail.

Your smile fades. “Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking.”

“Of course I haven’t,” he insists, but you turn on the kitchen light, then move closer to peer into his eyes against his protests.

“At least you’re not high,” you murmur, taking one last look before you pull away. “And stop ruining the table. I need it to last for the next ten years.”

He huffs, and you can practically hear him roll his eyes, but he stops.

“Did you go to class today?”

“You don’t have to act like Mom,” Lucas says, crossing his arms again with another huff.

“And you don’t have to act like a child.” You roll your eyes as you set your tote bag on the countertop and begin unpacking the groceries you bought. “I’m asking you about your day—that’s definitely not acting like Mom.”

“Yes,” he mocks. “I went to class.”

“Good.” You glance back at him. “I’m proud of you, Luke. You’ve been making progress.”

His smile is a bit thin, but he nods. “Thanks. How was work?”

You scoff and shake your head as you put a couple things in the pantry. “Don’t even get me started. I swear, Marie’s going to get me fired someday if she keeps her bullshit up.”

“She’s still on it?” Luke asks, and you can’t help but smile a bit.

“Don’t act like you know what I’m talking about,” you say. “Just agree with me.”

“I agree with you,” he says.

“That’s it,” you muse.

Your eyes fall back on your bag, and you’re reminded of what you meant to do next time your brother showed up.

“Oh—” You go back over to the kitchen table for your bag and pull out your wallet. You slide a debit card out and hold it out to your brother. “Thanks for letting me use it while I was up in Des Moines. I finally got my bank to get rid of the freeze on my card.”

“…Of course,” he says, and he takes it back. “Glad I could help.”

“I’ll pay you back, obviously,” you say as you get back to your groceries. “I just have to wait to get paid again.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “And uh— you never answered me. Did the cops come by again?”

You huff a mirthless laugh and shake your head. “You have nothing to worry about, Luke. I think they finally realized they were barking up the wrong tree.”

“…Good,” he says. “I can tell they’ve stressing you out.”

“Like that looks any different than my normal state,” you say wryly. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad.”

You recall the shock you felt when you opened the door to Aaron, and how nervous you were on the drive to the precinct. It’s almost been a decade, and yet he still has an effect on you that he has no right to.

“You remember that guy I dated when I was still in law school? Aaron Hotchner?”

“I think? I was in jail, so.”

You roll your eyes. “I know I told you about him when I visited you while we were together.”

“I remember you telling me how he broke your heart,” Luke says.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That he’s with the FBI now. The BAU,” you enunciate, and you huff. “He’s one of the guys on this case, coincidence that it is. They came here—they even brought me in for an interview.”

He frowns. “What’d you say?”

“The truth.” You pull your cutting board and a knife out of a drawer and get to work washing your vegetables. “That I didn’t know anything, and neither of us are involved in either way.” You shake your head with a sigh. “They must believe it, because they haven’t come back.”

“What have they said about me?” he asks.

“I’m not supposed to say.” You roll your eyes. “I think you’re innocent, but I could get charged with obstruction, and I really don’t feel like dealing with that…”

You trail off into a sigh as you finish washing the peppers and set them on a towel. “I hope they find whoever’s doing it, though. It is freaking me out that there’s a murderer out there.”

You pick up your knife and start cutting them up—they’re not the freshest, but it’s all Kroger had after work—and you glance back at Luke. “You really shouldn’t be going out so often with this going on, y’know. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m careful.”

“I doubt that,” you say wryly. “Still, though. I worry about you.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” he asks. “I’m your older brother.”

“I worry about everything,” you say. “It’s my thing.”

You hear him huff a laugh and you smile a bit to yourself. You get through your first pepper before you remember what’s been nagging at you your whole ride home.

“Oh— can you get the TV?” you ask. “Channel 8, I think. Marcy is getting interviewed for something with her nonprofit, and I told her I’d record it for her.”

Lucas doesn’t respond, though you hear the scrape of the chair as he gets up.

“Thank you,” you say. “I think they have a fundraiser coming up or something…” you trail off and shake your head as you scrape the cut peppers onto a plate. “God. I need to start paying attention in the break room.”

Another few seconds pass, and you don’t hear the television switch on. You huff and turn your head slightly. “Luke, I’m making dinner tonight. This is the least you could do.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words come out as a murmur, but you can tell he’s much closer than he was before.

You don’t even get the chance to turn around before something crashes against your head and your vision goes dark. You feel yourself fall to the ground, and your head hits the floor hard.

Then, there’s nothing.

Hotch has been breaking every speeding law there is.

The station isn’t too far from your house, but it’s still too far. All he can see is your body, crippled and lifeless just like every other victim they’ve had to look at.

It should never have gotten to this point. Lucas has been a suspect for the first day, but they looked to other suspects, got caught up in statements from neighbors and the kids of the victims.

If Hotch just found him and booked him on the first day, this wouldn’t be happening. Your life wouldn’t be in danger.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“I seriously think we’re looking at a murder-suicide if this gets to play out,” Reid speaks up from the backseat. “This is his way of ending this for both of them—the ultimate protection of his sister.”

“No one can hurt her if she’s dead,” Morgan mutters.

“Hotch,” Prentiss starts, treading carefully, “are you sure you’re okay to lead this?”

“Yes,” he says, though he wants to say what kind of question is that?

You were together a lifetime ago in law school, yes, and he might still have feelings for you that he didn’t even realize were there, yes—but he’s an agent and a professional before all of that.

It doesn’t matter that you have history. It doesn’t matter that you likely hate him.

It doesn’t matter that he thought he was going to marry you one day, and then was watching you drive out of his life after he got back with his high school girlfriend another day.

Aaron Hotchner is not going to let you die. It’s as simple as that.

Hotch’s phone rings and he picks it up and flips it open immediately. “Talk to me, Garcia.”

“JJ and Rossi are on their way,” she says. “Are you headed to their place?”

“Yes,” he says, and he puts it on speaker. “I’ve got Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid with me still.”

“Do you think there’s anywhere else he could be?” Morgan asks. “If he’s going to kill her, he might not want to do it in this house.”

“Already a step ahead of you, my love,” she says, and he can hear mouse clicks through the phone. “They grew up in a house in St. Charles—it’s abandoned, from the looks of it, some place on the outskirts. Never got another buyer after the past owners moved out. I’m sending the address to Emily right now.”

Prentiss gets a buzz on her phone and she nods in confirmation after flipping it open. Hotch immediately switches lanes and makes a U-turn, his jaw clenching.

“Tell me how to get there, Prentiss,” he says. “He’s there.”

“You need to get on I-70,” she says, and then her brow furrows. “How do you know?”

“He’s killed everyone else in their homes because he sees it as the source of it all. His sister’s rented place isn’t personal enough.” Hotch shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t he want to go back to theirs to end it all?”

“Hotch.” Penelope’s voice rings out in the car, and he doesn’t even realize he forgot to hang up.

“What?”

“Be careful,” she says, and he rushes to turn it off speaker and press it to his ear. “I… I know how important this is to you.”

Hotch’s throat bobs and his eyes burn with the beginnings of tears. He blinks them away—he can’t be weak now. He can’t let his team see him be weak now. “Dare I ask how?”

“I found an article about GW’s mock trial team,” she says. “Kind of went down a rabbit hole from there.”

Somehow, he huffs the slightest laugh. It feels like a lifetime ago—it honestly is, at this point. Before he saw carnage and gore on a daily basis and tried to solve it, when he thought the DA’s office was the endpoint, when he came home to your smiling face every night.

And now…

Hotch’s spine somehow stiffens, and he knows the other three in the car are watching him. He can’t decide whether he cares or not.

“Thank you, Garcia.”

“No problem,” she says, and he can almost hear her blink in the pause. “Uh— for what, exactly?”

For the memory, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. He can’t, not right now, so he tries his best to snap out of it.

“Keep a watch on the patrol cars,” he says instead. “Update JJ and Rossi on our plan, but tell them to stay on their path. I’m sure I’m right, but we need to cover our bases.”

“Of course, sir.” He hears her fingers flying across the keys. “I’ve got yours and the squad cars’ locations up—I’ll call them now.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Good luck, Hotch,” Garcia says softly.

Hotch hangs up before he gets too emotional. Penelope has a way of bringing that side out of him.

“We’ll get him,” Prentiss assures. She’s been watching him this whole time, he can feel it—she’s been attuned far too keenly on this entire part of the case involving you and him. “And we’ll save her.”

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, and for once, Hotch can’t find the words.

It feels like your head is slowly being cranked in a vice when you eventually wake up, a dull but insistent pain. Your arm stings too, but you don’t know why.

You blink a few times as you try to figure out where you are, a low groan slipping out as you fully come back into consciousness, and you move to rub the grogginess out of your eyes.

Your arms don’t move. You try again, panic spiking your heart for a moment, and that’s when you realize you’re in a chair—tied to a chair, your wrists bound together behind you and your ankles bound to the chair legs.

Now the panic fully sets in. There’s a murderer in St. Louis, but you don’t fit the victimology from what you’ve seen, but does any of that fucking matter when you’re stuck in something out of a horror movie?

Lucas was the only one there with you. So either he’s in the same situation, or he—

“You’re finally awake,” a voice murmurs. When he comes into view and sits down across from you, your heart stops.

For a moment, all you can do is stare at your brother with wide eyes. You see the gun in his hand through your peripherals, but you don’t look away from his gaze.

“I was worried I was too rough,” he says softly. “But you’ve always been resilient.”

“Lucas,” you breathe. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s finally going to be over,” he says, ignoring your panic. “We’ve been hurting our whole lives because of that bastard of a father, and I can finally make it all stop.”

Your brother is fucking crazy. He’s fucking crazy, and he’s going to kill you.

You’ve spent two weeks telling Aaron he was crazy and your brother was innocent, and now he’s going to be proven right when he finds your dead body.

You try to tamp down on your panic. You don’t have a law degree, sure, and you never officially practiced, but you’ve been a good speaker, a persuasive one, all your life.

And if there’s ever been a fucking time to be persuasive, it’s now.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper. “We— we can talk if you want to talk.” You tug at your ankle restraints. “This is unnecessary.”

He shakes his head. “I know you. You’d run.”

“Come on.” You manage as much of a smile as you can. “I’ve always been there for you, Luke. Why would this be any different?”

“…You’ve always been too nice,” he says, and he sets the gun down on his leg. At least he doesn’t have his finger on the trigger. “Anyone rational would’ve kicked me to the curb when I asked you for help.”

“You’re my brother,” you whisper. “I— I love you, Lucas. I’d never do that to you.”

“Family’s supposed to be everything, right?” He shakes his head. “You were the only one of us that understood that. You were there to pick me up every time my sentence was up.”

“I’ve always believed in you,” you say.

He huffs a monotone laugh as he stares at the ground. “You’re definitely the only one.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.”

“Mom didn’t care enough to stop anything,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And Dad wished I was dead every goddamn day. He didn’t have the guts to do it himself, but he definitely tried.”

You can’t defend your parents. Your dad’s a piece of shit, and your mom didn’t stop anything he did—but you could never find it in yourself to fully hate her because he hurt her too, with more than just bruises.

“I’ve dreamt of killing our dad every day for twenty years,” Lucas says. “And that old bastard had to fuck me over one last time and die while I was in jail.”

You remember when you got the news. You were next of kin—your mother was dead, and your brother was incarcerated—so you got the call from the hospital. You deliberated for hours before you bought a plane ticket to Montana—apparently that was where he fucked off to drink himself to death—and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt more numb than when you were sitting in some lawyer’s office, listening to him drone on about his will and how his estate would be divided.

“So you killed all of those people?” you asked. “Because you didn’t get to kill our dad first?”

“I was saving those kids!” Luke yells, and you shrink in on yourself. “Saving them before their parents could fuck them up like ours did to us!”

“You don’t have to do this,” you repeat. “You’re just letting Dad win. Proving every shitty thing he said about you.”

“And that’s the zinger, isn’t it? Luke laughs and shakes his head. “He was right. We’re a whole family of fuck-ups. An alcoholic abuser, a battered wife, a nonstop jailbird, and you…” He shakes his head with a sigh. “You should be out there prosecuting people like me.”

“He ruined us,” Luke murmurs. “And I’m finally going to fix it.”

All you can do is stare at your brother, wide and teary eyed. You can’t find the words, but you don’t have to.

Police sirens begin to filter through the air as they get closer, and Luke huffs. “Of course.” He eyes you. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” you say weakly.

When he leaves to peer out the front door, you take a second to look at your surroundings. It takes a second because they’re so decrepit, but you could never forget.

Luke brought you back to your childhood home—the place in St. Charles, rotten down to its bones. It’s abandoned by now, but the atmosphere is nothing less than oppressive. There’s a reason you graduated high school a year early, why you never came back once you got to college—except with Aaron, to help your mom move her things out.

You refuse to die here. Even if you have to claw your way back through the gates of Hell inch by inch—you will not die here.

You hear footsteps, and when Lucas comes back in, he has a crazed glint in his eye. He shakes his head as his finger returns back to the trigger, and you can’t help but flinch. He won’t. Not now.

“Looks like your friends the FBI are here,” he drawls. “You said you didn’t tell them anything.”

“I didn’t,” you insist. “They’re profilers—they figure things out.”

He shakes his head. “They don’t realize that I have to do this.” Luke kneels down in front of you and takes your chin in an iron grip. “This is the only way to end our pain.”

He lets go of you then stands up, moving behind you—you want to protest, but you don’t get the chance. He presses his gun to your temple and then the door is broken down. Four agents rush in, guns at the ready. Aaron leads them, and he’s got fire blazing in his eyes.

“FBI,” he barks. “Hands up.”

Lucas doesn’t seem fazed, his breathing staying the same. You stare right at Aaron, unfiltered fear in your eyes, and you feel torn bare. He’s going to watch your brother put a bullet in your head.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says smoothly. “This is a family matter.”

“Put the gun down, Lucas,” Aaron says.

“You know my name,” he says. “I know yours too, Aaron Hotchner. My sister told me you were with the feds. She also told me you broke her heart.”

“Put the gun down,” he repeats.

“I don’t think I will,” Luke says. “You see, I don’t go around just kidnapping people for fun. I have a purpose here.” He tilts his head to the side. “But you know that, don’t you? You’re all profilers.”

“You’ve been targeting families that look like your own,” he says. “You think that killing them will end the pain inside you, and protect those kids in a way that you never got.”

“I don’t think it,” he bites, “I know it. If my dad had been shot thirty years ago, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

“This isn’t going to bring you peace,” Aaron says. “Your sister has been the only person to stay by your side through every part of your life. Do you really want to lose that?”

“Trust me,” Luke says. “I’m not losing her.”

He flicks the safety off and you flinch. He’s going to kill you.

“Put the gun down,” another agent warns.

“If you all don’t leave right now, I’ll shoot her.” Your whole body stiffens as he presses the gun harder into the side of your head, your breathing going off kilter. “Except you, Aaron Hotchner. You can stay.”

“We’re not doing that,” the woman says. Agent Prentiss, you think.

“Really?” Luke chuckles. “You think you hold the cards here?”

“It’s okay,” Aaron says. “Go.”

Agent Prentiss frowns, and the other two men look different levels of puzzled. They obviously doubt the decision, but they don’t doubt Aaron, because one by one, they leave.

“Wow,” Luke muses. “They really trust you.”

“Because I know you don’t want to hurt her,” Aaron says. “Deep down, you know you’re not protecting her. Not by hurting her.”

“I’m not hurting her,” he says. “She’s always been the one to keep me safe over the years—I’m finally paying the favor back. I’m finally taking her pain away.”

“You were abused as children. Both of you.” Aaron looks at your brother. “Your sister always tried to protect you, but it never worked. It just made it worse for her, and it made you feel worthless. You’re her older brother. You’re the one that was supposed to protect her.”

“My sister said you’re profilers,” he says, and though his tone is lazy, you know your brother. You can tell it’s starting to get to him. “Is that what you’re doing right now? Profiling me?”

“You would never be good enough for your father, and your mother would never do anything to stop it,” Aaron continues. “All you had was your sister, and even that wasn’t good enough—you hurt her just as much as your dad did. At least your dad didn’t think he was a good person.”

Luke growls, and he puts a hand on your shoulder to pull you closer to him. “Shut up.”

“Your sister has told me you can be more than this,” he says. “And I think she’s right. You’re better than this—better than living between the margins and jail.”

“I’ve had a hole in my chest since I was born,” Luke mutters. “And I’ve tried to stop it, but it’s just grown and grown and grown. This— this aching pit of pain, and he caused it. You’ve got it too— I know it.”

“I— I do,” you say. And you’re not lying. You’ve had a pit of despair in you for as long as you can remember. The only difference is that you’ve fought every goddamn day of your life to keep it from consuming you. “And it hurts, Luke. Trust me, I know. It took me so long to even be able to deal with it, but I know how to. I can help you—we can both walk out of here.”

“No,” he whispers. “No—we can’t.”

“Yes, we can,” you plead. “I love you, Luke. I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life helping you if that’s what it takes to get rid of that hole.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, you think you’ve gotten through to him. Aaron never takes his eyes away from you.

“I’ve never been able to protect her,” Luke murmurs. “Not from our dad, not from the world, not even from you, Aaron Hotchner.” He presses the gun harder than ever into your head, like he wants to bury the metal in your skull along with the bullet. “But that all ends now.”

You screw your eyes shut. You don’t want to see Aaron’s face when your brother kills you.

And then it happens so quickly you barely process it.

There’s two gunshots, almost at the same time. You scream, first because of the gunshots, then because of the sudden roaring pain in your side. There’s a thud next to you, your eyes shoot open, and you see your brother’s lifeless body fall to the ground.

You scream again—you can’t even control it, it just rips out of you at the sight of the hole in his head and the blood pooling beneath it—and Aaron drops his gun to rush forward. The rest of his team thunders in after him, all in guns and bulletproof vests, and they’re talking, but you can’t focus on a single goddamn thing because your brother’s dead body is right next to you.

Aaron pulls out a pocket knife and begins to cut through your restraints, and the instant he finishes you collapse. He catches you without a second thought, and you immediately wrap your arms around him.

Torrential sobs wrack your entire body as you bury your face in the crook of his shoulder, every part of you shaking as the reality of it all hits with full force.

Your brother is a serial killer. He killed ten people, he tried to kill you. And now he’s dead.

The only part you had left of your family—gone, just like that, with four other families ruined in his wake.

Aaron’s soft voice in your ear is the only thing bringing you back from the edge of hyperventilation, his own hold on you the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs and he shrugs off his windbreaker to wrap it around your arms. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

“He’s gone,” you choke out, voice muffled as you speak into his chest. “He’s gone, and he tried to—”

A fresh round of emotions hit you, unable to get the words out, and you fully break down in Aaron’s arms.

“I know.”

Aaron’s fingers linger on your side and you feel some dull pain, but you feel his breath still for a moment.

“You were shot,” he says with your name. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

You don’t even feel it. God, you don’t feel anything. There’s a distant ringing in your ears, an insistent pain in your skull, and you finally realize Aaron is right when you pull away and see the blood on his fingers.

But black spots start to fill your vision. You may not feel it, but your body holds the score. The pain intensifies in your side as your adrenaline starts to slow down, and you collapse against Aaron.

“Get an EMT in here!” he yells, keeping an arm wrapped around you. “We’ve got a GSW— she’s losing blood fast!”

You can feel Aaron’s rapid heartbeat, can feel his steady arms as he keeps you propped up. You feel the warmth of his body, feel the warmth draining out of yours.

“Aaron,” you whisper, your strength fading. You don’t think he hears you.

He helps you up and you’re suddenly hoisted onto a stretcher, and he’s beside you as the EMTs run you out of your childhood home. The night is a blurry canvas of red and blue lights, and your eyelids feel like they’re made of concrete.

“Aaron,” you try again, and you have enough left in you to grasp his cheek. “Thank you.”

And as the world goes black around you for the second time, you see his lips form your name.

It’s not a bad thing, you think before darkness overtakes you, for Aaron Hotchner to be the last thing you see before you die.

You wake up in the hospital alone.

You don’t know what you expect. You have few acquaintances, fewer friends, and the last part of your family is dead after he tried to kill you.

The real surprise is that you wake up at all.

Lucas is dead.

He tried to kill you. You thought he succeeded.

You let out a slow, even breath, accompanied only by the sounds of beeping machines. It still doesn’t exactly feel real.

You’ve spent the last two weeks defending your brother against every accusation, and you ended it in the hospital—well and truly alone for the first time in your life.

You look at the television. Some muted soccer game is playing, and you’re thankful. You were worried that you and your brother would be the topic of the day.

Who are you kidding? You’re going to be the topic of the year. He killed ten people. He tried to kill you, and you think he nearly did. He shot you, after all.

You let your head fall back against the pillow. All of your limbs feel insurmountably heavy, your side aches like hell, and you’ve got the worst headache of your life.

And you can’t stop playing it all over in your mind.

He was going to kill you.

Your own brother, your flesh and blood, the only person you had left, tried to kill you and would have killed you had it not been for the BAU.

Had it not been for Aaron Hotchner.

The door opens and someone walks through, your eyes following the movement, and when he sees it, he pauses. And so do you—apparently the devil appears even when you think of him.

“You’re awake,” Aaron says after a moment. It’s the third time he’s sounded surprised since you’ve met him again. Seeing you, finding out your mom is dead, seeing you.

But there’s relief there, too.

He has a coffee in his hand and his tie is undone, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his forearms. It makes you realize his suit jacket has been slung over the back of the chair near your bedside.

“How long have you been here?” you ask, your brows furrowing ever so slightly.

Aaron closes the door and sets his coffee on the table before he answers you. “Three days.”

“And how long have I been here?”

“Three days,” he says. “You suffered head trauma, they discovered drugs in your system, and… you were shot. You had to go into emergency surgery.”

You frown, and he answers before you can ask any of them. “…Your brother. After he knocked you out, he used something to… keep you out. And after I shot him, he still got one off—thankfully, as he was falling. The bullet hit you in the side instead of the head.”

“How bad was it?” you ask.

Aaron glances away. “You died on the table. They managed to bring you back, but…”

“I guess Luke did succeed,” you say absentmindedly. Aaron doesn’t laugh, and you glance away too. “Sorry. Bad time for jokes.”

He shakes his head. “If anyone’s allowed to joke about this, it’s you.”

Your lips twitch for a moment, but then you look back at him as he takes a seat at your bedside again. He looks— god, he just looks tired. Tired and ragged and downtrod, and you can’t imagine you look much better.

“You were out for two days after,” he explains. “This is the first time you’ve woken up.”

“Why are you here, Aaron?” you ask quietly. “Why have you been here?”

Aaron frowns. “Where else would I be?”

Your throat feels like it’s closing up, and you feel the telltale pinpricks of tears. You blink them away before they can start.

“My brother was a serial killer, Aaron.” Your hands clench into fists as you stare at the wall. “He killed ten people while he was living with me and I— and I didn’t even fucking notice.” Your gaze moves back to him. “I went against all of you because I thought I knew him, and look where it got me.”

“It’s not a crime to want to see the best in people,” he says. “Especially your family.”

“It’s a crime to fucking murder people,” you huff, and it’s only slightly unhinged. “I— I thought I knew him, and I didn’t. And if I did, maybe none of these people would’ve had to die.”

“Don’t blame this on yourself,” Aaron demands. “Lucas was lost. Mentally ill. He was on a path for revenge, for his deranged idea of protection—nothing you could have said or done would have stopped him.”

You shake your head. “It might be easy for you to say that, Aaron, but I— I can’t. He’s my brother. I gave him a place to live, I gave him easy access to families— god, I fought with you all for two weeks about his innocence, all while he was planning his next fucking murder!”

“It is not your fault,” he repeats, slower and enunciating the words. “He was the only member left of your family, and you loved him. You were just stubborn, and that’s nothing new.”

“I just don’t know what to do.” You’ve had these walls up for so long, especially this past week, and now that everything’s come to a head and you’re in the hospital and your fucking brother is dead, the floodgates have opened. “I have to plan a funeral because I’m the only one left to plan one, but— but does he even deserve one? He’s a serial killer, and he tried to kill me for god’s sake, but he’s my brother and even though he’s gone he’s still all I have left and—”

You break off as you suck in a huge breath of air, the notion shaky as you clench your hands into fists to keep the rest of your body from doing the same.

“And I just don’t know what to do,” you repeat, barely a whisper.

You meet Aaron’s eyes, almost desperately. You feel like you’ll shatter into a million different pieces if you even breathe wrong and he might be the only solid thing in your life.

“Whatever you do,” he says, “you don’t have to do it alone. Not if you don’t want to.”

“Aaron,” you start shakily, but he continues.

“I know what you think, and that’s not what I’m suggesting.” Aaron pauses for a moment, and it’s obvious how carefully he’s crafting his words. “I’ve… always regretted how we left things. And I regret losing touch with you. This isn’t the way I would’ve liked to meet you again. But I’m thankful I have.”

He pulls a card out of his shirt pocket and holds it out to you. You realize it’s his business card, and it’s got his number.

“I’m sorry for the formality,” he says dryly, “but I don’t exactly go around prepared to give out my number for purposes other than work.”

You take it without giving yourself the chance to think about it. You run your finger around the sharp edge of the cardstock, pressing the pad of your thumb against the corner.

“Years ago, you wished me a good life, and that you didn’t want to be involved in it,” he says, still treading carefully. You can’t believe he remembers the last thing you said to him. “But— but a lot has changed since then, and I hope that has as well.”

“I’d like you to be a part of my life again,” Aaron finally says, “if you want to be a part of mine.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Two and a half years of law school flash behind your eyes—coffee shop dates and endless hours spent studying at the library. Movie nights cuddled on his couch, hauling boxes out of your house at an ungodly hour to get away from your roommates. An unhealthy amount of all-nighters immediately followed by going out to celebrate a miracle of an A on an exam. Getting through every soul-sucking part of earning a J.D. together, falling apart before either of you could make it to the other side, and somehow…

Somehow, you’ve ended up on a completely different side together.

“My life isn’t going to be easy,” you say faintly. “Especially… moving through this.”

“My life isn’t easy either,” he says. “I’m divorced with a kid and I try to solve murders every day.”

“It’s not a contest.” An attempt at a joke, but it falls flat for you. Aaron’s lips still quirk at the edges the slightest bit.

“Getting through this certainly won’t be easy,” he agrees. “But I have more experience than most in these sorts of things. So if you ever need anything, call. Please.”

“I imagine you’re pretty busy,” you murmur. “Unit chief and all.”

Aaron shrugs. “I make time for the things I care about.”

Thankfully, you don’t have to figure out how to respond to that, because there’s a knock on the door, and a nurse walks in after you call a come in.

“It’s good to finally see you awake, sweetheart,” the nurse says with a smile. It warms you from the inside out.

“It’s nice to be awake,” you say. Her smile widens and she moves over to the computer in the side of the room—to add some things before she makes her checkup, you assume.

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Aaron says.

Before he can stand up, you grab his hand. It’s fully on instinct, and he looks just as surprised as you feel.

“Don’t go,” you plead, and it’s almost a whisper. “I— just— please.”

Aaron stares at you for a moment, that shock glinting in his eyes before it transforms into something a lot warmer. He nods and sits down.

“Okay.”

And he stays.

This time, he stays.

#i was truly possessed while writing this i can't understand it #i wrote 15k words in 5 days #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner imagine #sadie writes

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snowyquokka · 1 year ago

Note

Hey I saw that you wanted ideas for some angst, thought I would shoot my shot. What if one of or all of them idk you choose the boys calls reader clingy and reader gets insecure about it. It's okay if you don't feel like it tho. Take care of yourself and drink lot's of water❤️❤️ I'm new to your blog but I really love your work hope to see more of it in the future❤️❤️❤️

CLINGY

cw - non idol!minho x gn!reader, angst (😈), swearing, fluffy ending, hurt comfort kinda

wc- 1.1k

a.n - IT’S DONE !! i am exhausted but hey it’s out 😭😭 anyway i’m sorry for being a bit MIA lately, i’ve been having a bit of a rough time but it’s getting better. i’m not sure if i like this piece or not tho :((( I LOVE YOU MUAH <3

AND I JUST REALIZED THIS IS MY FIRST LINO FIC OMG THIS IS A MOMENT IN HISTORY

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All day, the silence in the house seemed to echo with Minho's absence, each tick of the clock stretching the worry tighter across your mind. The morning had started off on the wrong foot, with Minho oversleeping- a rare occurrence which in turn threw off his whole routine. The rushed breakfast, the hasty goodbye—everything felt off-kilter. It was unlike him to be late, especially for his job at the veterinary clinic, a place he often described as his second home, where he could merge his passion for animals with his skills in care and healing. The hurried departure left a cold space in the wake of his frantic energy.

The argument from the night before added layers to your concern. It was one of those disagreements that seemed trivial in the light of day, yet in the shadow of the night, it had grown into a monumental barrier between you two. It wasn't just the words exchanged or the silence that followed, but the unresolved tension that lingered, making the air heavy with unsaid apologies and unexpressed affections. The fact that Minho had been irritable even before the argument didn't help, it only amplified the discomfort, casting a shadow over his usual bright demeanor.

As the day dragged on, you found yourself glancing at the clock, counting the hours until Minho's return. The thought of him dealing with the stress of work on top of everything else weighed heavily on you as guilt settled in. It wasn't just the worry for his mental state, but also the longing for reconciliation. You knew the importance of mending the rift, of clearing the air with conversations that bridged the gap between hurt and healing. The thought of him walking through the door, the opportunity to start anew, to offer a smile as a peace offering, became a beacon of hope in the slow march of the day. But as you continue to relive the argument you can’t help the pang of sorrow that strikes your heart like lighting, complimenting the storm of emotions whirling about your being.

The dispute sparked when you casually asked him about his day. To you, it was a simple question, but Minho perceived it as intrusive, deeming you "too clingy" and expressing his exhaustion with what he viewed as your constant nagging.Since then you’ve been running yourself into the ground trying to get as much stuff around the house as you can. If Minho comes home to a clean house, you think, then there’ll be one less reason for him to be irritated with you.

The sound of keys jingling faintly outside the door interrupts your thoughts. You had just finished cooking dinner and were plating it just in time as Minho to strolls in.

“Mm,“ he hums in approval as he wraps his long arms around your waist, gently tugging your back to his front. He rests his chin on your shoulder as he speaks, “Smells good, baby. Thank you.” You hum and nod, not sure what to do. He was just complaining about you being clingy but here he is, swaying you side-to-side. Minho clearly sensed your apprehension and pulled back with a sigh. “Why am I getting the silent treatment?”

You aren’t sure how to respond to that. You weren’t purposefully trying to ignore him, you’re just confused and you don’t know how to voice that. “I’m not giving you the silent treatment,” you turn around towards him and lean back against the kitchen island, using your hands to brace yourself.

Minho hums and folds his arms over his chest. He raises a brow, wanting you to continue. You huff and tip your head back for a moment before looking directly at him. “I’m sorry, I just don’t want to come off too clingy.” Your tone came off a little harsher than you’d planned and you watch as his expression shifts into something more serious, guilty even.

“Shit, baby I- I didn’t mean it, you know that. I shouldn’t have said it and-” You shake your head, effectively cutting him off.

“It’s fine, I’m fine. It’s just-”

His eyes begin to soften as he inches back into your space. “Hey. Hey,” Minho murmurs as his hands find purchase on your shoulders in an attempt to provide at least some semblance of comfort. He’s always been the type to have some sort of contact when talking to you like this. It makes it feel more personal, more sincere, especially when he ends up apologizing. “Don’t do that, you know I hate it. I’m the one who should be sorry, okay? I’m sorry, I was just stressed and I know that isn’t an excuse.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you, I made you upset.”

Minho shakes his head. “I want you to ask about my day, I want you to show that you care. It makes me feel important. You make me feel important.” You pull your lip in between your teeth, a nervous habit you picked up as a child.

"Are you sure? Because I will-" Minho clicks his tongue and leans his forehead against yours, his brown eyes sparkling.

"I never want you to feel insecure about anything I say, regardless of what it is. I understand I can be hot-headed, and I'm working to fix that, but I want you- I need you- to tell me when I’m doing something that’s upsetting you. I love you and I promise you I didn’t mean any of it.” He presses a soft, chaste kiss on the tip of your nose with a smile. The action makes your stomach erupt with butterflies and you know everything will be okay. You’ll always bounce back and find your way back to each other.

Minho looks down and locks his pinkys around yours before looking back up at you. “You okay now?” You nod and lean against him further with a content sigh.

“I love you too, Min.” Minho begins to open his mouth to say something but you beat him to it.

“Even if you’re a dick sometimes.” You say with amusement laced in your tone and a grin.

“I guess I’m lucky you put up with me then.”

“Now you’re getting it,”

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tags: @godslino @seungseung-minmin @myseungsunglove @azuna-sz @kaiyaba @solisyeah

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spxdyr · 8 months ago

Text

im going to try to be nice because bucktommy's are going to inevitably see this and im not trying to start shit.

i'm seeing a lot of confused bucktommy's about the breakup. claiming it was a last minute decision, it was because lou didn't want to keep dealing with it (wtv that means), that it makes no since because of 8x05, and a lot of other spiraling bs.

i even saw someone say that buddie is never going to happen because oliver said eddie is straight...

i'm going to break this down as clearly as i can, because i've historically had issues with bt's and comprehension skills.

1. the bucktommy breakup was inevitable from the moment they got together. if for no other reason than tommy himself. from the beginning of their relationship, tommy has decided if buck was ready. not buck. tommy left buck standing on the side of the road aftet their first date because tommy decided he wasn't ready. because buck was nervous to come out to his best friend in public. tommy decided that buck would break his heart and that he wouldn't be buck's last. tommy came into that relationship assuming it would end. not buck, and not the audience. we were just picking up on what tommy was telling us. especially, given the fact that buck was fully ready and able to move past the abby clark of it all. tommy was a bad partner to buck, that's why they broke up.

2. i said this after 8x05, it wouldn't have made since to give us an on screen breakup if the only thing we saw of tommy was the thirty second birthday scene in 8x01. 9-1-1 loves a three ep arc and buck's side of whatever realization he might have started on 8x05. we needed to see more of tommy so it made sense when he broke up with buck. throughout all of 8x05, we saw the seeds of doubt being sowed in tommy. from the hospital scene after denny, to the closing one, tommy realized he didn't fit or at least wouldn't for long. because he never got that built-in family. he doesn't trust/believe that anyone would have his back like that. and he made that choice all on his own.

3. lfj is fine. he's a mulit-million dollar nepo baby. one whose been callled out for negative past behaviors and some people consider that bullying. lfj knew how long he was going to be on the show when he signed the contract to come back. the networks choice not to renew that contract had nothing to do with buddie stans. his storyline was over.

4. i can't even be confident that he's gone. there was a lot of stuff left unsaid or moved past too quickly. now 9-1-1 has a history of bad writing in that regard but they also have a habit of dropping things to only come back to them episodes or even seasons later. if he's really gone well thank god, but if he's not im not totally shocked.

5. i don't know how many times i have to say this. if eddie is gay or bi or demi or wtv, the cast wouldn't be able to say so because it would be a MAJOR spoiler. does no one remember andrew garfield and tom holland lying their asses off about spiderman ffh??? actors are liars, its like the whole bit. buck was straight until he wasn't. let's stop being dense and accept that maybe they aren't telling us everything because that would the defeat the purpose of the show.

look at this point im not just in this for buddie. im in this for an eddie that gets to be unapologetically himself. and im going to emphasize one more time how dangerous and disrespectful it is to force eddie back into the proverbial closet because it doesn't fit your ship.

#911 abc #idiots in love #eddie diaz #buddie #evan buck buckely #anti tommy kinard #anti bucktommy #anti tevan #tommy kinard #911 season 8

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quarterlifekitty · 7 months ago

Text

cw: Ghost’s childhood, abuse, suicidal ideation, obsession, dark stuff

For someone faceless, Simon is perhaps blessed with a good memory. He can recall most people he meets with a surprising clarity.

It’s the one that dwells in his mind in obfuscation that paints the background of his dreams. The one that looks like charcoal smeared over vellum and left in rain. The one thing you must recall.

Simon didn’t live in a neighborhood with a lot of kids, growing up. God knows the little fucker didn’t make friends by coming to school covered in bruises with a thousand-yard stare.

There was one girl. In a house a couple down from his own. Lived across from the old lady that called him a nice young man, despite it all. She could stomach him. It didn’t matter to him that she couldn’t play outside a lot of the time. In a house where being seen was a miracle, being liked was nothing short of divine.

He was too young for a great many things that happened anyways. Everyone else probably saw it coming from miles away. The schoolboy who wanted to run away to the end of the world did not.

What is the death of a loved one to a child that can depend on nothing? It’s another rejection. A candle that blows out, leaving shadows with teeth in its place. The pain of loss is one thing, but the pain of something unfulfilled, something yet unsaid, is what cages the soul and stunts it until it warps, cramped and contorted to be unrecognizable. It makes monsters. The kind that are just as ready to point the gun to themselves as they are to the rest of the world.

Your resemblance to the emissary of his suffering is a passing one. But it’s enough for those combing teeth to snag when he sees you.

#thinking about making this a part of the serialkiller!Ghost universe #not sure #writing #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cw dark #cw abuse #cw obsession #cw child death #cw sui mention

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junedenim · 9 months ago

Text

it's three in the morning

for the long haul

warnings: piv, eating, pregnancy piv, mild dad!alex, and probably some other stuff too

word count: 8.8k

There was an attitude when you first met that you each would hold a sense of permanence in each other's lives. It wasn't completely romantic at first. You and Alex met through a series of shared friends.

This was 2013 and you were both otherwise occupied with separate relationships. His was longer and much more stable. Yours was a short passionate fury that ended by early 2014. Coincidentally, as did his.

But still, it wasn't a direct rebound. He was touring and when the band stopped in New York—your home at the time—you stuck around at the after-party with Alex. Nothing much happened there other than a questionable conversation three rounds in.

"It's all speeding up," he said. It was drunk talk and you weren't paying attention to the idea he had spoken before it but you tried your best to follow after. His body came closer and huddled so close to yours, which was excusable in the February chill, but debatable with the indoor heating.

He slung an arm over your shoulder and, with great camaraderie, you slid your arm behind his back; a "friendly" side hug. "Time is weird," you said.

Alex looked at you. His eyes were alcohol-glazy but his soul was bursting to say something. You could both feel the unsaid left lingering and his head moved forward at one point as if he were going to kiss you but it was then decided he would hesitate on that front.

He chuckled through his nose as if some joke had been made before turning his head to look at the buzzing partiers. He nodded at something and you weren't sure if it was related to your statement or not. You took another sip of your vodka Coke and he said, "Timing is everything."

He slipped away from you after that and it's possible he slept with someone else that night but you aren't sure. You don't even know if he would remember. He slept with a lot of people in 2014. It was a messy time.

Later in the year, toward the end of July, he called you from Iowa. Despite the hour, somewhere in the early morning, neither of you was drunk. Alex's sleep schedule had little idea of the concept of time with the mad case of severe jet lag he could be diagnosed with and you, well, you were asleep but you acted like it was normal for him to wake you up at 3 AM.

"Where in Iowa are you from?" He asked. Neither of you had really gotten to know one another. Not those small details. You knew he was from Sheffield but you don't know what college he went to or his parents' names or if he's ever broken a bone. Your relationship had never been built on knowing each other. It was always just about feeling each other. You had always gotten on well, never fought, always laughed, slung arms around one another, and thought about the maybes.

"Why do you ask?" You laughed at the idea of him calling you in the dead of night, sitting outside his tour bus, smoking a cigarette, talking about your tiny hometown.

"We're playing there tomorrow. Council Bluffs or something. You're the only person I know from Iowa." You told him that the first night you met and he latched onto it like it was some lie you told to impress people because people are usually so impressed with the concept of being a Hawkeye. Although, he never got more information about it. He didn't know that you grew up on a corn farm and you learned how to drive your dad's truck at 9 years old.

You scoffed, "Council Bluffs. You might as well just be in Nebraska."

He chuckled. "Sorry. I'll plan it out better for you next time."

"I'm from Beaman. It's close to the center. Very small town," you told him. "But there's a library and a basketball court that becomes an ice skating rink in the winter. It was dull but I liked it."

"Sounds like a nice place to grow up." You shrugged, not that he'd be able to see it. An air of silence hung over the conversation and you're not sure if he was waiting for you to say something in return. And then he suddenly said, "I've been thinking about you. Not just in Iowa."

You weren't sure what that meant. He was still so new to you and a one-on-one phone call had never been done before. You couldn't yet tell what he was trying to convey through the tone of his voice if this was some playful thing, a joke or something serious, a flirtation. "Why?" You questioned.

It was silent and you imagined him shrugging but you'd never know for sure if he did or not. Eventually, he answered, "Guess I just missed you. Is that allowed?" It was rolled in humour and tucked in a laugh so you took it as a joking sweetness. Some sense of sincerity lingered but it wasn't packed with desperation.

So, you told him you missed him too and hopefully you'd hang out again soon. The conversation ended and soon wasn't around the corner. You kept in touch, by text and through friends, but he didn't return from the road until November and you weren't yet one of the people he would hang out with as soon as he was back, especially since you were in New York and he was in LA when he wasn't on the other side of the pond.

But then you moved to LA, right at the beginning of 2015. Truthfully, it was for your boyfriend. It was an awful idea and you knew it. You had only been dating the guy for a few months and retrospectively it was never serious but in the moment fantasy and blurred visions came to mind and they took the wheel from you. Besides, you had a career that you could do anywhere, most of your friends were in LA, and there was, of course, Alex.

At a shared friend's birthday party, you saw Alex again through a barrier of smoke. Your boyfriend was off in the bathroom and Alex was pushing himself off the wall with a drunken stumble and throwing his arms around you.

"Huck told me you'd be here. Told me you're out in LA. How come you didn't tell me?" His words were rolling out of him quickly with little care where they ended up.

You did your best to reciprocate the hug and follow his sloppy manner as he leaned back against the wall. You stirred your gin & tonic with the flick of your wrist, still sober having just arrived. "It's all been hectic. We're just starting to settle out here."

His eyes drifted away, looking behind you, and when the cold hand touched your back you realized what he was looking at. "Yeah, well, once you are, we should get together or something. Alex, by the way." He waved to your boyfriend, staying against the wall this time. He looked like he was having trouble keeping his eyes open but his speech was clear with no slurring sounded.

You put your arm around your boyfriend's back, returning his hold. "I'd like that. We'll probably have some housewarming party at some point so..."

Alex hummed his acknowledgment like words were becoming too much work. He brought the spliff to his lips and the smell of marijuana began to give you a headache and a craving at the same time. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, pulling him away from you. It took a moment of staring before you moved to find residency on the couch, but more lingered in the air than just the smell of weed. Uncertainty persisted.

A month later, the house had been settled and a housewarming party occurred but Alex didn't attend. He had said he was out of town but you're not sure where out of town. It didn't matter much. You didn't live in that house for very long.

It would seem like fate stepped in at some point or a mere happenstance that the night you and your boyfriend broke up everyone in the world seemed to be busy. Friends were away for the weekend or had guests staying with them or simply didn't pick up their phones at 2 AM. But Alex did.

When you arrived at his house, he was peculiarly waiting in his driveway. His hands were on his hips and his head cocked in a way that some might interpret as pissed but you knew it was just his resting position.

Your unaffected nature could also be misinterpreted. You didn't feel the urge to cry, and though you were upset at the demise of a loving relationship, it didn't provoke your tear ducts and you remained indifferent.

After exiting your car, he asked, "Are you okay?"

And it was easy to nod and answer, "Truthfully, yes." It's probably easier to feel this way when you are the one who initiated the break-up.

It's also easy to feel that way when instead of going to bed you're accompanied by Alex and drinks. No rejection was involved when downing a bottle of hard liquor, especially when Alex seemed to have it stockpiled. You both operated better drunk, which could have been alarming to an outsider, but for you and Alex it was understandable. It wasn't used as coping, each other was used for that. The alcohol was just an additional treat.

"It's hard to not feel like I'm wasting away my youth," you told him, leaning your head on the back of the couch.

He was on the opposite end, cigarette stuck in his mouth as he spoke, "You're still young."

"Not forever," you lamented. "I guess that's the thing. I'm not particularly pissed it's over. I think I did us both a favour but I'm pissed about running out of time for these things. I mean, I moved across the country for this guy. I used to have fun with guys! Now I'm just following them places and desperately trying to play the role of wife. Like, who am I?"

Alex openly laughed in response.

You giggled in return, "Don't laugh at me."

He shook his head, removing smoke and cigarette from his lips. "I think you're getting worked up over nothing."

"Maybe." You shrugged. "But I don't think so. I don't know what I'm saying. Wait, yes, I do." Alex laughed again. "I'm saying I want to have fun again."

"Right." He nods.

His eyes locked with yours and once his cigarette was stubbed out and the bottle you had been clutching was placed down on the coffee table, his lips then locked with yours. It was harsh and rough like every drunk kiss that had occurred before in history.

It must have been around 4 AM at this point and everything felt hungry. Like this was—he was—your midnight snack. This is when desperation occurs. The quick need for satisfaction with no care about the journey to get there.

Alex's arms clutched around your lower back up to your shoulder blades, pulling you on top of him. Her hands grasped around the endpoints of his sharp jaw making it impossible to be stuck in a heated makeout. You straddled him but it was hard (in two ways) to not feel frustrated quickly.

You reached down, swiping your hands along his chest, and landing on the button of his jeans. Everything must come undone and he understood that perfectly. You didn't even bother to pull his zipper down, instead reaching your hand into his underwear and letting the force drag the zipper apart.

He pulled your hand out just so you could get your top off of you and while your arms were up in the air, you grind on him and soft moans escaped, swallowing it up when your lips reunited. He was a master at unclasping a bra and had easy access to your pussy through your small skirt made up of flowy material.

Your hand made small movements around his cock and his fingers grazed through your folds and he seemed to want to do a version of shared masturbation but you ached for something stronger. You lifted yourself off of him to remove your skirt and panties. He shuffled just enough to kick his jeans and underwear off the bottom of his feet. You finished reaching nudity at the same time.

Alex didn't allow you to straddle him again, pushing you onto your back as he took off his shirt. His nude body hovered over you and the back of your head hit the arm of the couch. You curled your legs around him, pushing his hips toward yours. Everything is non-verbal, all performed through signs. You've always been on the same wavelength and it feels like words would have ruined this and made this all seem questionable.

He quit the foreplay of kissing your neck and pinching your breasts and became rough like this is what you wanted, now shut up and take it. He was in you and on top of you and it's exactly what you wanted: fun. He could be described as a pleasurable jackhammer as he moved in and out of you. Everything was hard and skin was slapping but you're both moaning and none of it was silent whimpers. It was shouts of "Fuck!" and "Harder!" and "Holy shit!" and "Right there!"

It's all responded to correctly. You nipped at his neck and toward the end, he reached down to rub your clit. It's all masterfully done on both of your parts. Your walls clenched around his dick and he stretched you open to a degree that has you grasping at the couch cushions until you've come. Then, he pulled out of you, letting it all go, straight onto your stomach.

Exhaustion and complete silence fell. Alex laid back on his side of the couch, panting. A few breaths passed before he rose and grabbed a rag from the kitchen, wiping his cum off you.

"Is that your cum towel?" You joked.

His face broke a smirk and he nodded. A question hung in the air of what to do next, stuck in the middle of his hot living room. He towered over you as you sat up, slowly adjusting. He folded the rag up in his hand and then asked, "You wanna use it again?"

Laughter erupted from you but you did end up using it again the next time in his bedroom, which allowed comfort and greater sensuality. It was less rushed but left you both exhausted by the end of it. You slept like rag dolls, limbs hanging over one another, and powerful sleep.

In the morning (or afternoon, you're unsure), with your bodies connected, you both awoke around the same time, blinking away sleep and finding his eyes doing the same. Your unsaid nature returned and you weren't sure if you should even leave the bed or if you should be racing out the front door.

"Thanks for letting me stay," you whispered with tired vocal chords.

He shuffled closer, sheets rustling, and licking away sleep. "Course," he croaked. "You could stay forever."

It might have meant more, especially after fucking each other, but it felt more like a favour than a request. You ate breakfast together before you left, no goodbye kisses, and he said goodbye at the door instead of walking you to your car. Two weeks later, he joined you and a group of friends for drinks where you shared light small talk and he bought a round. You left for New York two days later with no acknowledgment of anything more. It just was what it was and neither of you was hurt by that, but both of you still felt longing for it to be otherwise.

In the heat of summer, you visited LA and met up with Alex for dinner. The LA visit was more for business but you decided to sort out the personal while you're there. His hair was longer, cut around the ears, no longer greased back. It's a reminder of that morning when everything was thrown about without care. He was dressed in a white button-down that was unbuttoned enough to have a clear view of the chain that hung around his neck and his seductiveness was so clear you have a hard time believing he didn't know exactly how this night was going to end.

There was small talk but Alex was quick to cut through the bullshit and get to the heart of things. "We've never had dinner together before," he said. "Not just the two of us." A smirk played on his face and lewd images flashed in your mind.

You sipped your wine as a coping mechanism and leaned back in your chair. You needed to be far from him, at least for now. Playing it cool was the main goal. "Are you telling me you don't want to hang out with me?"

"Oh, I want to hang out with you but I was thinking of something much different."

Intentions were clear and things were laid out on the table so when he invited you back to his house for drinks, you had no issue with him stopping in an abandoned parking lot so you could fuck each other.

Because fucking was easy and you always felt things together instead of knowing things together. So, when he takes you in the backseat, confined, and hot & heavy, it feels romantic for something usually so drenched in the word "dirty."

The leather seats stick against your sweaty back while he undoes his belt and then his trousers before sliding your underwear aside and going into you. The AC is blasting but you don't feel it and there's a lightheaded feeling likely from wine and dehydration but you blame the way his cock hits that spot in you.

The rest of the drive isn't awkward and that's when things started to feel different. It became clear that the sense of permanence with one another wasn't a platonic coincidence of sharing friends but something much more loving. You laughed that his car radio was stuck on the sports channel and made fun of the baseball announcers shouting over the Dodgers losing to the Phillies.

Before this shift, you expected to continue your intense rush to instant passion; fucking in the hallway, fucking in the living room, fucking in the kitchen, fucking on the bathroom floor, fucking in the shower, fucking in his bed, fucking against a wall, fucking on the washing machine, fucking on the ceiling if you could. Instead, you watched the rest of the Dodgers v. Phillies game, despite knowing little about baseball and Alex's knowledge reliant on Bad News Bears and high school phys ed.

Besides, little attention was paid to the game itself. He drank a beer and made you a vodka Coke and baseball is boring and Alex had suddenly become everything.

"There's a reason baseball is America's pastime," you commented. "Who the fuck wants to sit and watch this all day?"

Alex shrugged, a smile playing on his cheeks. "It's fun when they get a home run."

"It's fun when I get a strike in bowling, doesn't mean everyone wants to sit and watch me," I struck back.

He chuckled, wiping his beer lip. "You like bowling?"

"Yeah. My dad used to set up empty cans and have us play. The nearest bowling alley was 45 minutes away so we went there on special occasions."

Alex smiled, completely charmed, and that's when you started knowing each other. Later, you walked to his bedroom and had sex and while it was passionate, it had lost its spontaneity quality, which didn't lessen it, instead changing it into something new.

The following morning, you took his old words of "stay forever" to heart and never left LA. Your return move to LA was mocked by your friends for your coming-and-going nature and moving everything all over again was a pain in the ass but Alex flew to New York and helped pack your things. When you moved into your new place, Alex helped you unpack and helped "Christen the place," as he put it by going down on you on those marble kitchen counters.

Separate places felt ideal not to rush things, but soon it seemed wasteful as most nights were spent at Alex's. You weren't a big fan of your new place in comparison to Alex'ss, which wasn't shocking. Alex had a pool for Christ's sake.

Although, it still felt like the best fit. You didn't like how much Alex smoked and Alex didn't like how messy you were. While technically not living together, you fought over these things like you did.

Smoking usually went:

"It's my house. I can do it however much I want to!"

"You're going to ruin the house by smoking inside it!"

"I paid for it!"

"You're killing yourself!"

"It's my lungs!"

"I'm gonna die from secondhand smoking!"

Messiness usually went:

"You can't come over and trash my house!"

"It's barely anything! If you let me have a drawer this wouldn't be a problem!"

"It's not just your clothes! You leave dirty dishes everywhere!"

"I get to it eventually!"

"So do the rats!"

But all and all, it always ended relatively positively. Alex took to smoking on his balcony more and you would join him from time to time. You didn't really clean up more, but Alex did give you a top drawer in his dresser.

At the beginning of December, you both attended a Christmas party, where you and Alex wore a Santa hat you bought at Party City because neither of you owned anything festive. However, everyone at the party considered it to make you the cutest couple there. You both thought it was rather cheesy but you leaned into the cliche of it and got drunk off eggnog and roleplayed Mr. & Mrs. Claus at the party until it verged on too creepy.

Over a shared cup of eggnog, Alex asked you, "You want to come to Sheffield?"

Meeting the parents had never been discussed. It was easy when his parents lived in another country and your parents were scared of planes. Though excitement and nerves bubbled, you answered, "Sure" before taking a sip.

He chuckled, now accustomed to what your reactions meant. "We could do Christmas there."

You said, "Sure" and sipped the eggnog again because it helped fight against those nerves in your stomach.

Alex chucked again because he was charmed, now completely lost in you.

Christmas in Sheffield was cold. It rained heavily the whole time you were there. You and Alex only braved walking around town once on the 23rd when the rain had stopped momentarily. The city centre was time for sightseeing all his old haunts. You walked arm-in-arm with Alex in an effort to combat the cold but still keep your hands in your coat pockets.

You got a half hour in before it started pouring rain and you were left feeling like idiots for not bringing an umbrella with you. The car was far away and you both debated ducking into a bookstore but you were both already too soaked and cold and decided just to head back to the car. He grabbed your hand, leading the way, as you raced through the unbearably cold beating rain.

On the way back to his childhood home, the rain had increased even more making it nearly impossible for Alex to see properly while driving. "This is how you end up killing someone," you said.

Alex put his hand on your shoulder but kept his eyes steady on the road. "Relax. I know how to drive."

You removed his hand from your shoulder and placed it back on the wheel. "Then, keep both hands at 10 and 2," you ordered.

He laughed and reached over to kiss your cheek and while the affection made you gain a cavity, your nerves bubbled up as you pushed him away. "Eyes on the road, mister!"

You both made it back unscathed, minus your socks, which had been soaked through. The house was warm and the smell of dinner wafted through the air. The house was quiet other than the pattering of rain and some jazz record his dad had put on. It felt like coming home.

Christmas dinner, however, was hectic. You drove out to his grandparents' place and the quiet 4-person car ride led to a fistful of screaming grandchildren and uncles whose laughs broke the sound barrier.

It had you turning to him. "This is your family?"

"Yeah. Hard to believe, right?" The calmness of Alex must come from his mum's side of the family.

Once dinner was served, the noise level calmed down as people stuffed their faces and they wished to show a great impression to their American guest of honour. The questions were light and it was clear that you weren't the first American girl Alex had brought home but everyone was welcoming and Alex placed a reassuring arm on the back of your chair. He would occasionally lift his hand and play with the longest strands of your hair, bouncing the curls you had made that morning.

Later, while the young kids played with the toys they had just received as gifts, Alex and you drank tea together. It was a warm distance for the fast nights of Los Angeles. You leaned close to Alex on the settee so he could hear your words. "I like Sheffield a lot."

He turned his head away from watching the kids, meeting your eyes. A smile crept to his lips. "Good." His hand smoothed down your sweater-covered arm. "I'm happy you're happy."

That in turn made you smile. "I like this quietness. You know, of the city, not this house."

Alex chuckled and pushed the front hanging pieces of hair behind your shoulder, eyes sculpting over your body. "It's nice to come back. Feels like a reset."

You took your fancy tea cup off your fancy tea plate and took a sip, feeling like a proper English lady. "You should come to Beaman. You'll probably hate it but it's like no one else in the world exists out there."

He hummed, staring softly at you. His eyes made the ice in you melt. "If you love it, I'll love it," he promised.

"It'll just be you, me, and the chickens," you giggled.

Alex grinned, skimming his thumb over your cheekbone. "Hm. I love you."

It caught all the air in the room and it suddenly didn't feel as cold as it did a minute before. You inched closer to him and smiled because he was smiling. "You've never told me that before, you know."

He furrows his brows, playing up his acting. "I haven't?"

"Actually, you told me when you were drunk once. Back in October, at that Halloween party."

He squints seriously this time. "I don't remember this."

You coyly smile. "I know. It was when Miles and me were carrying you inside and I couldn't figure out if you were saying it to me or him."

He leaned forward, his arm pulling you toward him as he laughed in your ear before kissing your cheek. "You. Always you."

"Good." You clapped your hands. "I'll hang this over Miles's head for decades."

That night, Alex fell asleep quickly, allowing you to realize something. You nudged him awake, making him groan. "What?"

You curled your arm around him. "Nothing. I'm sorry I woke you."

His arms moved around your waist, laying you on top of him. His eyes stayed shut, not wanting to lose his sleepiness. "It's alright," he mumbled. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." You leaned into his ear, whispering, "Love you."

A grin spread across his lips, enticing you to lean over and kiss the corner of it. He hummed. "Love you too. Night."

The following year, Alex went away on tour. You stayed, he went, but it never felt like it placed a strain on the relationship. There was longing and missing but never any resentment and as Alex would put it, "It always makes for great reunion sex."

You briefly joined them in August when they played California: Santa Ana, San Diego, and Outside Lands in San Francisco. They were all one after the next and left you exhausted and though Alex was much more well-adjusted to the pace of touring, it was reaching the tail end and he struggled with the comedown on it all.

Those were the only times you grew frustrated with one another. You never really yelled or fought—maybe because you didn't want to or maybe because you were in close quarters with other people—although, you had tiffs.

Much like your annoyances at home, traveling or touring only amplified what truly annoyed you about each other but in a way—a super corny, cheesy way—you loved Alex even more for that.

"I like that you're not perfect," you said late to him one night. He was smoking a cigarette and though the weather was hot, there was a nighttime breeze that settled over the two of you.

"Gee, thanks," he quipped, puffing away.

You knocked a shoulder into him. "I'm being sweet. If you were perfect then I'd feel inadequate all the time in comparison but since you've got these flaws and vices that make you more real, in a roundabout way, you are perfect. For me, at least."

Alex grew amused with every passing word, tucking an arm behind you. "Well, you're perfect. I hope you feel that."

You shifted your body to get a full look at him. "Maybe not perfect but I feel worthy or something. You always make me feel adequate. I appreciate that."

He shrugged, unsure of how to respond. "You're easy to love. I've never struggled with that."

That's always been the word: easy. From the moment you met, it was a clear link holding you two together, and with time doing its thing, it only grew slowly into what it should be. There was never a force of change, you held onto each other until you clicked at the right time. After that, there was no way to disrupt it.

You moved into Alex's in September. After the tour (and even before), you spent all your time there anyway. He decided over breakfast one day to make it official.

He pulled out a pan to make eggs but before he could place it on the stove, he stared at it. "This is your pan," he said."

You looked up from your cereal. "Oh, yeah, you don't have small pans so I brought mine over. It's better for your eggs, you know. Heats up quicker."

Alex began to laugh, placing the pan down on the stove, and his hands on his hips. You chuckled along with him, even though you were confused. "What's so funny?"

He shook his head, trying to shake off the laughter. "Do you even have anything at your place anymore?"

"Um, I don't know." you thought aloud. You shoveled a pile of cereal in your mouth.

"Why don't you just sell the place?" He suggested. "Move in here."

You shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" He questioned.

"Yeah, I mean, I like my place."

Alex snorted. "You're never at your place."

"I still like it," you insisted.

He moved over, coming behind you like a snake, and hugging your waist tightly. "Come on, move in," he whispered in your ear.

"I'll think about it," you said as he kissed your neck.

Alex decided on other plans for breakfast. You stood up to clean your bowl but his arms stopped you from making it to the kitchen sink. "I have a convincing argument," he said, taking the bowl out of your hands and setting it down.

You laughed at his bravado but you were soon overpowered by it. He bent you over the counter harshly with a kiss to your left shoulder blade as a form of salvation. He kneeled down on both his knees and grazed his hands on your butt, playing with the fabric of your shorts. He squeezed and pulled and yanked, eventually dragging the material off of you and having it lay at your feet.

Alex's slow nature in the morning took hold as he danced his fingers around your cunt. The tips of his fingers edged on the lips of your pussy. The thumb on his other hand, touched over your asshole, making it pucker up with tension.

"Your teasing is only making me want to say no," you said, desiring relief as soon as possible.

Alex only hummed and muttered, "Interesting." He placed a light kiss on your inner thigh but it only felt like he was moving further away from the point of release. He moved up and kissed your left butt cheek, his hand squeezing the right.

His touch became light and he moved his hand back down to your lips. "I know how to get you there," he insisted. He tapped both your knees. "Spread. They're so close together. It's like you don't want me to touch you."

"It's called being bored," you retorted.

Then, Alex slapped your ass. He'd never done anything more than a pat and it was usually more in a casual setting, not when you were butt naked and not that hard.

You turned your head around, looking down at him with a squint. "Did you just slap my ass?"

"Yeah," he quickly admitted. "Why? Did you like it?" A smirk presented as if he already knew the answer.

You didn't want to give in to him. This was frustration, it wasn't supposed to be satisfaction. You wanted him begging for you, not the other way around. But you couldn't help it. You bit your lip and turned away, not wanting him to see the pleasurable smile on your face. "Maybe."

But then he overwhelmed you, diving straight in and placing his mouth directly on your cunt, dragging a long moan out of you. You could feel the coldness of the counter through your shirt, erecting your nipples. Your hands made a fist, unable to grab onto anything, thwarting you.

His tongue plunged into you and then moved up to your clit before pulling away again, making everything unbearable. His mouth moved to kiss your inner thigh before he left completely to slap your ass again. "You alright?" He asked to make sure, even if you gasped in delight at every feeling.

"Go back down," you demanded.

Alex listened and returned to your core, licking his way through your fold, and reaching his tongue up to your clit. He continued the game of agony, moving back and forth from the pleasurable, but slowly the edging made for a great build-up and he began to lay it on thick, never abandoning your clit until your legs were shaking and you were practically pushing him away from you.

He stood up and slapped your ass. You moved in on Tuesday.

Not much changed. You already had drawers in his dresser and space in his closet and pans in his kitchen. You had already infected his house with your essence and the only difference was you weren't paying rent on a place you were barely ever sleeping.

As the new year began, things slowed. Alex started growing his hair out, stopped shaving, and became far more reclusive. He had grown tired from the road, was now in his 30s, and, most importantly, settled. At times, that thought was terrifying for you, staring down the barrel of this being the rest of your life. Other times, it was comforting, usually waking up in the morning next to Alex.

But there was a lifestyle shift in Alex that you weren't yet aligned with. He rebuffed the idea of going out, talked about leaving LA, and locked himself away in his music room. You weren't particularly annoyed at the latter other than it sometimes felt like he was locking you out of part of him. The idea of leaving LA wasn't unappealing, but he longed for England more and you were American through and through. Going out, well, maybe that's where you got into trouble.

Alex's newfound life as a hermit wasn't horrible now that you were living together but you started to go out more and more without him. Usually with various groups of friends, sometimes for work, two times with Miles, and one time by yourself. Alex said no to going so often that you stopped asking. Soon, you weren't spending many nights together. He'd stay up late working on music or you'd stay out late drinking. Like everything else, it eventually came to a head.

"I think I'm going to Beaman next week," you told him while getting ready to go out one night.

He was in the shower. He was staying in. "Why?"

You furrowed your brows toward the shower curtain. "I haven't been back in a while. My mom's birthday is at the end of the month."

"Alright," he said over the sound of rushing water.

"Do you want to come with me?"

For a moment, only the shower made a noise. It didn't even sound like Alex moved an inch. You stared at the shower curtain and thought he might pop his head out. But he didn't and you didn't move to open the curtain either. Finally, he answered, "No, no. I think I'll stay here. Jamie's coming into town soon."

You thought about fighting it or asking him if he was going to do anything with Jamie, instead, you said, "Okay. I'm leaving now."

"Alright," he said, "Have fun. I love you." He never came out from behind the curtain. When you came home he was asleep.

Upon your return from Iowa, Alex picked you up at the airport. The car ride home was pleasant and he made dinner. You were scraping your fork along the plate when he asked, "Would you ever want to live in Iowa again?"

You snorted at the ridiculousness. "I left home when I was 18 and have only lived in New York and LA. Does that strike you as someone who wants to move back to the Midwest?"

Alex shrugged and thoughtfully looked down at his nearly empty plate. "I just never knew if you thought about it."

"Are you thinking about it? About England?" You leaned on your fist, eager for the answer.

He shook his head. "I'm just homesick, I guess." He then stood up and took his plate to the dishwasher.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You shouted into the kitchen.

You awaited an answer from the other side of the wall. You heard the dishwasher shut and his feet pad across the wooden floor, he stopped in the archway, facing you. With certainty, he said, "I'm happy here."

You stayed seated. "Would you want to move back?"

He looked unsure but answered, "I don't think so."

"You can be honest," you assured him. "If you think I'm worried or going to shoot it down. I mean, I'm not saying yes, but if you're thinking about it I think we should talk about it."

He shook his head. "I'm not saying I want to be here forever and maybe that's something we should talk about since..."

"Since?" You questioned, clueless of where his words were leading.

Alex laughed at you, turning away, not bearing to make eye contact. "Since we're us. You and me."

"I'm confused," you said, crossing your brows. "What's this have to do with England?"

He laughed again, nerves tackling him. "We're not just fooling around here anymore. This direction..." He motioned a straight line and though you were catching on you still wished to hear him talk in full.

"This direction?"

He rolled his eyes with a smile, exasperated by your questioning. "Look, we've talked about it."

You playfully raised an eyebrow. "It?"

He wagged his finger at you. "Quit playing games with me here."

"Oh," you nodded enthusiastically, "the marrying me thing. You talk around it like it's a curse word."

"'Cause it makes me nervous." He played with the ends of his hair as a soothing mechanism.

You shifted forward, leaning your head onto your hand, resting it on your knee. You genuinely asked, "Why does it make you nervous?"

A nervous smile played at his lips as he calmly said, "Why the fuck do you think?" He laughed, feeling overwhelmed, both of you.

"You tell me," you egged him on.

Alex threw his head back, exhausted from you toying him. "You do the laundry. I know you've been in my underwear drawer."

You giggled, remembering the sight. "Well, you put it in your underwear drawer, how cliche are you?"

"At least I didn't do my sock drawer!" He shouted, trying to insist he wasn't such an idiot. "I didn't think you'd go digging around in there."

"Hey!" You assert. "I didn't find it. It found me."

You both laughed and soon the room fell quiet. "Hey," you said. "You got me a princess cut." It was dainty like you wanted, no giant diamonds, and no uncomfortability. A simple, classic look. He did good.

He kept a small smile, despite both of your racing hearts. "Well, that's what you wanted."

You grinned back, sitting up straight, and leaning your side into the back of the dining room chair. "You got my ring size right too."

He raised his eyebrows. "You put it on?"

"On my right hand that way I didn't break any rules."

Smiles were plastered on each of your faces. "Should I just go get it?" You'll probably cry if he does go get it.

"Yes. And yes to your next question too."

"I haven't even gotten down on one knee."

You shook your head. "You don't have to get down on one knee."

"I want to." He does. And the ring fits just as well on the left as it did on the right.

Just like moving in, being engaged isn't that much different either with the exception of getting your mother off your back and a nice new piece of jewelry. Alex enjoyed calling you "fiancée" when introducing you.

You started to go out less but when he did he came more often. It was a non-verbal comparison and with a new album on the horizon, you started to stockpile time together. Any wedding talk was limited but agreed upon to take place after the tour so you could enjoy married life together. Alex also heavily enjoyed the in-between state of being engaged and what you thought would be the dull before the actual excitement of marriage, turned into its own new game.

You accompanied him more on tour, mostly because it was much longer this time. You joined him for branches, attended the US shows, made him shave his head in Texas, and made your way over to London. There were bigger breaks this time with things not packed so closely together. You spent Christmas in Iowa with Alex for the first time. You went to Hawaii for his birthday. You went bowling for Valentine's Day.

When the tour ended and there was an actual wedding to plan, everything felt stuck. It was either too cliche or too underwhelming. It became easier to just get married and worry more about planning a party. So, you got married at a cute small inn with sycamore trees with a small number of guests. Those who would be willing to sit through a wedding without getting antsy.

The reception party grew in numbers and the loveliest part is you didn't have to worry about cleaning any of the mess up. Alex got cake on his suit and you went to the bathroom more times than you can count. But overall, it was a simple, sweet night.

Honeymooning (fucking) in Fiji and then resuming life two weeks later. "Wife" became Alex's new favourite word but everything else stayed the same. Well, for about a month.

You just had a feeling. You woke up one day and felt it. You nudged him awake, it was early before the sun was up. "Alex."

He hummed in acknowledgment, shut-eyed.

You burrowed into him and nonchalantly said, "I'm pregnant."

"What?!" His eyes were wide and his face wrinkled in confusion. "Seriously? When did you find out?"

You flopped onto your back, turning your head to the side to look at him. "Just now. I can feel it."

"So, you feel like you're pregnant?" He questioned.

"Yeah."

"But you don't know it. You didn't take a test?"

"No, but I know. I'll take one in the morning, I just wanted to let you know. Night." You turned over into your pillow and closed your eyes.

Alex sat with his mouth agape. "Yeah. Night." He didn't fall back asleep.

And you were right. You shrugged and said, "Told ya." Alex laughed. Then, he cried. Then, he hugged you. Then, he kissed your stomach, but you thought that was too weird so you told him to stop.

Being pregnant definitely changed things but things felt the same just with one more thing. You fucked. A lot. Your sexual appetite increased but you had always been horny for Alex. It's just a given. But there was a point where things did change.

It was the first ultrasound. You felt it when you entered the room. The air was cold and there was a shift, everything suddenly becoming real. You enjoyed watching Alex twiddle his thumbs while you waited for the technician.

When they started to move the wand around your stomach, he became fascinated with the machine, continuously asking questions. More of them were about the machine rather than the baby.

And, well, then the whole twin thing happened.

"Like two of them?" Alex held two fingers up like he couldn't quite comprehend it.

The technician nodded and you still couldn't think of a verbal response to the news.

Then, Alex said, "We've been having a lot of sex, did we like make another baby when we—"

You interrupted, "Are you the dumbest person alive?"

Alex pinned the ultrasound to your fridge and kept a copy in his wallet. He held an affection for it that you didn't. Maybe because you were the pregnant one. The proof came attached to you. Nonetheless, you were charmed by Alex in his fatherly role, even if he stressed you out with the need to be super-ultra-prepared. His nervousness about what you could and couldn't do got annoying by the second month. He calmed down after you yelled at him.

Although, it was nice for him to take on the extra work. You picked out the design for the nursery and he did all the work, citing that you couldn't paint because of the toxic fumes and everything was a heavy load.

He knew you were full of bullshit but he didn't care. "I like helping out. Being the man in charge."

You told him not to get too full of himself. His insistence on doing everything led him to break his index finger.

But after everything had healed and two babies became two girls, you both relaxed into your final months of solitude, which really just meant lots of sex. You fucked and he went down on you but sometimes you felt too sore down there from all the pelvic pressure and though Alex insisted that no sex was fine, you insisted that release was release, even if it wasn't your release. Alex still fondled your breasts too, saying that's where all his horniness came from.

"How can I not be turned on when they're just staring at me?" They were bigger and Alex was always insatiable.

"I feel like a cow," you whined. You were bigger with two babies and the only way you did have sex was doggy style with everything hanging.

"You're not a cow," Alex said, climbing into bed. You were under the sheets, exhausted at 9 PM. He curled up behind you, whispering in your ear, "You want me to fuck you on your side?"

You thought about it, felt the ache, and said, "Okay."

You were already underwear-free because they hurt your vagina too much when you slept. You had returned to your old days of quickness. Alex pulled himself out of his boxers, gave himself a few pumps, and slid into you. You softly moaned as Alex pushed into you slowly at first before his thrusts grew quicker. He knew you were tired and needed a quick release.

"Fuck," he harshly whispered as his speed picked up, skins slapped, and sweat beads formed. He clutched your hipbone tightly and you fisted your pillowcase. Every action rushed and a final slam resulted in you falling apart and him emptying into you. His hand caressed up your bump and you knew he was very turned on but the whole pregnancy sex things and not just because of the boobs. However, he did love those too, and gave them a quick squeeze before cleaning up.

The final change came in an expected way. Labour was shorter if only for the epidural and the C-section. You wanted to resist the idea until the thought of pushing two babies out set in and the pain became too unbearable and Twin A was breached and then a C-section seemed like the best thing, even if it was surgery.

Alex liked wearing the medical gear and kept adjusting his mask. Oh, Alex, sweet naive Alex. Luckily, everything was smooth, except for the fact you couldn't hold the babies until they had sewn everything up. But Alex cut the umbilical cord and got to hold them, which was a sweet enough sight.

When you were placed in recovery and finally got to hold them, then came the hard part. "What do we name them?" You asked.

Alex shook his head. "I got no fucking idea." Names had been discussed but you never really landed on one let alone two. "You should name them. You carried them and they're getting my last name."

"It's too much pressure," you whined.

Alex sighed and concluded, "Thing 1 and Thing 2 it is then."

Eventually, you decided on Wren and Willow. You initially hated the shared first initial but Alex liked it and it became too frustrating to think of any other names.

The first month was harsh. Your body was slowly healing and you ached all the time. You had backup with both sets of parents but then everyone went back home and everything shut down and it was just you, Alex, and Wren & Willow. It didn't actually feel like much had changed. It's not like you would have left the house anyway.

Alex takes to having the girls nap on him. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes both. Sometimes he will let you nap in his arms too. The days are long but the weeks move fast.

One day, Willow laughs. It's the first time either of them has laughed. It took you both by surprise. You were feeding Wren while Willow laid on her back with Alex loomed over her. Usually, when he would blow raspberries on her stomach she would just gurgle and flap her arms and legs around, but this time she laughed, and it’s the loudest sound you've ever heard.

Alex looked down at her, completely engaged, not bearing to take his eyes off, scared to miss the sight. It gets him laughing too with tears in his throat. He leaned down again and blew more air against her tummy. She shrieks this time, giggling, and you want to capture the sound forever. Run and have Alex record it.

But you looked down at Wren and rubbed your finger against her tiny baby cheek, deciding that there was no need to move from this comfort.

They aren't easy babies. There are two of them too. They both wake each other up, which means both you and Alex have to get up because it's 2 v. 2 and they're small but mighty. They eventually get on a sleep schedule and a routine and trade-off between you and Alex is set into place.

By the end of the year, it's the new normal and you don't remember a time when they weren't around. You want to be with them all the time just like you want to be with Alex all the time.

They're great. But then they wake you up at 3 AM.

a/n: so...this slowly became a prequel to my dad!al fic and i decided to just finish it that way. i also have not read through it because i'm tired so any mistakes you did not see.

#alex turner fic #alex turner x oc #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x reader #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x you #alex turner #alex turner smut #junedenim

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tteotlma · 9 months ago

Text

Dialed In

phone sex - foreplay - dystopian

Deadpool/Reader (3.3kw)

a/n: KINKTOBER DAY THREEEEEEE -- i wanna explore w more characters so if you have any suggestions let me know. i liked writing w deadpool (it was my first time)

tw: 18+ MDNI, sexual content, strong language, adult humor, dystopian themes, violence, phone sex, masturbation, graphic dirty talk, intimate photographs, crude humor, isolation, separation, anxiety

---

The world has currently gone to hell, overrun by rogue AI and corrupt government forces, forcing many to isolate and go into hiding. Being Wade’s “Sexy Pants Love Nugget” (as he likes to put it) comes with perks. When everything went to shit Wade made sure to keep you safe in some surprise underground bunker he had.

“Oh, this?” Wade gestures around the bunker. “It’s my secret underground love lair.” He says turning to you. You only blink back at him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Okay, fine,” he huffs, clearly upset you won’t play along, but he gets it—whole world potentially ending and everything. “But it is my secret underground lair. Every superhero—or, anti-hero, in my case—needs one. Sure, Batman has his cave, Tony Stark has his fancy mansion, but me,” he thumbs his chest with a grin.

“I’ve got a bunker, baby. Way cooler.” He winks playfully, grabbing your hand and leading you to the slightly crusty-looking sofa pressed against the wall.

“People thought I was nuts, but I planned for this whole dystopian thing ages ago. Call it my ‘just-in-case-the-world-goes-to-shit-and-I-need-to-hide-out-with-my-favorite-person’ bunker.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “Stocked with essentials: Raisin Bran, chimichangas, and—wait for it—pajama onesies. We’ve got a blue unicorn, a white one, a purple one, and a whole collection of Hello Kitty undies. Oh! And the entire Golden Girls DVD box set,” he adds, pointing at a dresser stacked with DVDs and an old TV stand.

He then gestures proudly to the back wall, packed with an insane amount of weaponry. “We’ve got bean bags, grenades, Korth Super Sport Revolvers, Wilson Combat EDC X9s, Beretta 92FS Fusions…”

“Okay, I get it—you’ve got a lot of guns, babe,” you cut in, scanning the dimly lit space. It's rough, but you can tell he tried to make it somewhat livable.

“Thank you! I could’ve gone on forever.” He drapes an arm around your shoulders and walks you over to an area closed off by a curtain. With a flourish, he pulls it back, and your heart melts. “I-it’s not exactly home, but…”

You see that Wade has recreated your shared bed from home—favorite blankets, pillows, and even the sheets you love so much. The walls are decorated with photos of the two of you, Polaroids capturing goofy selfies and candid moments.

“Wade, are those my tits?!” you screech, pointing at a very questionable Polaroid.

“Whoops! No idea how that got there,” he says, ripping it off the wall and shoving it into his back pocket. “Let’s replace it.” He grabs another photo and sticks it up—a shot of his bare dick.

“Half-mast,” he says with a smirk, patting the photo. “So you don’t miss me when I’m gone.” With that, he dramatically flops onto the bed, blankets billowing up around him.

“What do you mean, ‘when you’re gone?’” you ask, your voice softening as you slide onto the bed next to him, immediately resting your head on his chest. His arm wraps around you instinctively, pulling you closer in that familiar, protective way. Beneath the layers of humor and bravado, there’s always been something deeper with Wade—something he doesn’t say out loud.

He hesitates for a moment, his usual playful banter faltering. “Oh, you know... just in case I have to run out and save the world or do something *really* heroic, like buying more chimichangas. Super serious stuff.” His voice lightens, but you can tell there’s more beneath the surface, the words left unsaid.

You gently trace your fingers over the zipper of his hoodie, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. “Wade...”

He sighs, the weight of the moment catching up to him. “Look, babe. We both know the world’s gone to hell. I mean, have you seen outside? It’s a total dumpster fire out there.” His fingers absentmindedly play with a strand of your hair as he talks. “And in my line of work, well, there’s a pretty high chance I’ll have to go out there, guns blazing, and… you know, maybe not come back. But don’t worry, I’ll leave you the last chimichanga. It’ll probably be stale, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?”

You roll your eyes at his attempt to make light of the situation, but there’s a knot tightening in your chest. “You’re not going anywhere without me,” you mumble into his suit, holding him tighter. The idea of losing Wade, even in this chaotic, end-of-the-world scenario, is a thought you don’t want to entertain.

“Aw, babe, you know I’d never leave you behind. I mean, who else would make sure I don’t do something stupid like try to fight a sentient toaster again? You’re basically my safety net.” He grins, trying to break the tension, but his eyes give him away—there’s a flicker of something more vulnerable there.

The space around you, dimly lit by the flickering lights of the bunker, feels oddly intimate in this moment. You look around at the effort he’s put into this hideaway—the mismatched sheets that remind you of home, the Polaroids plastered on the walls, capturing your life together. Even the ridiculous weapons display on the far wall feels like an odd testament to how much he wants to protect you, how much he’s planned for every possible disaster.

“I didn’t just build this bunker for me, you know,” Wade murmurs, his voice unusually soft. “It was always about you. Us. I didn’t want to drag you into all my… crazy, but look at us now. Dystopian lovebirds, right?” He chuckles, but there’s a certain warmth behind his words.

You look up at him, meeting his eyes. “You’re not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out together—whatever ‘saving the world’ means today.” You reach up, cupping his face, feeling the rough texture of his skin beneath your fingertips, a reminder of all he’s been through. All the battles, the scars, and the fact that despite everything, he’s still here with you.

Wade gazes at you for a long moment, his usual bravado melting away as he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’re too good for me, you know that?” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

You smirk. “Maybe. But you’ve got great taste in blankets,” you tease, pulling the fluffy fabric around you both, cocooning yourselves in warmth.

He chuckles, his arm tightening around you as he settles back into the pillows. “Damn straight. If the world’s gonna end, at least we’ll be cozy, right?” There’s a brief pause before he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Also, not to brag, but I do look fantastic in a unicorn onesie.”

You burst out laughing, the heaviness of the conversation lifting just a little, and Wade grins, clearly proud of himself for making you laugh.

“Okay, okay,” you say between giggles, “but seriously, we’re sticking together, right? No going off and playing hero without me.”

He nods, his expression softening as he strokes your hair. “You got it, babe. No solo hero gigs. We’re in this whole ‘dystopia survival’ thing together.”

You let out a content sigh, resting your head back on his chest as his heartbeat thrums steadily beneath you. “Good,” you whisper, closing your eyes and savoring the moment of peace. Despite the world falling apart outside, in this little bunker, wrapped up with Wade, you feel safe.

“Besides,” he adds, his voice back to its usual playful tone, “how could I possibly leave when you’ve got a *killer* set of boobs and a healthy appreciation for my half-mast photos? I’d be an idiot.”

You groan, smacking his chest lightly, but you’re smiling, and that’s all Wade wants right now. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, but your heart is light again.

“And yet, you love me,” he quips, leaning down to kiss you on the top of your head. “So, unicorn onesie or Hello Kitty undies tomorrow? Gotta plan for our next ‘post-apocalyptic fashion show.’” You laugh but don’t say anything, instead just toying with the fabric on his chest.

As you both lay there, wrapped up in the makeshift comfort of the bunker, the moment feels almost peaceful. But deep down, you know it’s only temporary. The world outside is falling apart, and Wade—despite all his jokes and deflections—has his part to play in it.

“Hey, babe…” Wade’s voice cuts through the quiet, a note of seriousness creeping back in. “About that whole ‘not going anywhere without you’ thing?” His hand absentmindedly traces patterns on your back as he speaks.

You tense, instinctively knowing where this is going. You lift your head, looking up at him, your face inches from his. “Wade…”

“I know, I know,” he says quickly, trying to keep it light. “But, I gotta head out for a bit. You know, just a quick, heroic, ‘save the day’ kinda thing. Be back in a jiffy.” He tries to throw in a wink, but there’s something in his eyes that betrays the attempt at humor.

“How long?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, but it’s hard not to feel the weight of the moment.

“Not long. A few days, tops,” he replies, sitting up and gently pulling you with him. “Just gotta check in with some ‘less friendly’ neighbors, make sure the whole ‘end of the world’ thing doesn’t get even worse.” His hand moves to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. “But don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”

“You always have a plan,” you say with a half-smile, trying to sound reassuring.

“Damn right I do,” Wade grins, but it’s softer this time. He pulls you in for a kiss, lingering just a little longer than usual. When he pulls back, his eyes are serious again. “Hey, I’ll call. Every night. Promise.”

You nod, trying to push down the unease rising in your chest. “You better.”

He kisses you once more, then with a quick, exaggerated salute, he hops off the bed, grabbing his weapons and gear in a flurry of movement. “I’ll be back before you know it. Save me some of those Raisin Bran boxes, will ya? Don’t go hogging all the cereal.”

With one last glance back at you, he’s out the door, leaving you alone in the dimly lit bunker.

A Few Days Later

The first few days without Wade pass slowly, the silence in the bunker oppressive without his constant banter and chaos to fill it. You’ve been waiting for his calls, clinging to the brief moments of contact, even if all you get is his voice crackling over the speaker.

And then tonight—finally—your phone buzzes. You grab it immediately, heart skipping a beat when you see his name flash across the screen. You pick up, the sound of his voice instantly soothing the tension you didn’t realize you’d been carrying.

“Hey there, hot stuff,” he purrs through the line, his voice lower and rougher than usual. “Miss me?”

“Maybe a little,” you tease, leaning back against the pillows, letting the warmth of his voice wash over you. “How’s the whole ‘saving the world’ thing going?”

“Ugh, overrated. Lots of running, shooting, not nearly enough hot dog carts. But let’s not talk about that. What’re you wearing?” His voice dips into that playful, flirtatious tone, and you can practically hear the smirk through the phone.

“Wade,” you roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. “I’m literally in one of your Hello Kitty onesies.”

There’s a pause, then a low, appreciative whistle. “Now that’s a visual. Wish I could see it, babe.” His voice deepens, taking on that familiar, sultry edge. “But I guess we’ll have to get creative, huh?”

Your pulse quickens at the change in his tone, warmth spreading through you as the playful conversation takes a turn. “Oh yeah? What exactly do you have in mind, Wade?”

“Well,” he drawls slowly, “I may not be there in person, but I’m pretty sure I can still make you squirm. What do you say we have a little fun, babe? You, me, and a whole lot of imagination…”

The spark between you flares to life, and as his voice wraps around you, you find yourself sinking into the moment, ready to close the distance between you—if only for a little while.

Your heart races as Wade’s voice lingers on the line, playful yet dark, and you can already tell where this is headed. The tension between you two, even across a phone, is undeniable.

“So, babe,” Wade purrs, his voice low and suggestive, “tell me… are you touching yourself yet?”

You can’t help but laugh softly at his directness. “Already jumping to the good part, huh?”

“Well, time’s a-tickin’ and I’ve got bullets to dodge, but I always make time for you. Besides,” his tone dips, slow and deliberate, “if I were there right now, I’d already have my hands all over you.”

Your breath catches a little, the way he says it making your pulse quicken. You lean back against the pillows, the soft fabric of the onesie brushing against your skin, but your thoughts are far from the cute outfit.

“Oh yeah? What exactly would you do, Wade?” you ask, your voice dropping a little, wanting to draw out the game just a bit longer.

His low chuckle vibrates through the phone. “First, I’d unzip that onesie of yours, real slow, because damn, I bet you look so sexy in it. I’d start at the top, pull that zipper down until it’s just barely clinging to your shoulders. I wanna see that skin, baby.”

You bite your lip, following his lead, your fingers trailing down the zipper of the onesie just as he describes. The fabric parts, revealing your chest, and even though Wade isn’t here, the image he’s painting is so vivid, it feels like he is.

“Are you doing it?” he asks, his voice husky with need. “Tell me what you’re feeling, babe. I wanna hear you.”

“I am,” you murmur, your voice soft, already feeling your body respond to his words. “The onesie’s almost off… feels good.”

“Mmm, I bet it does,” Wade groans through the line. “Now slide that thing off your shoulders, let it fall down your arms. God, I wish I was there, helping you out of it. I’d be kissing every inch of that skin, so fucking slow.”

You slip the onesie off, letting it pool around your waist as your fingers graze your bare skin. The way Wade’s voice dips into that raw, hungry tone sends a thrill through you, and you close your eyes, imagining him there, hovering above you, his rough hands tracing over your body.

“Are you touching yourself yet?” His voice takes on that teasing lilt again. “I need details, babe. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Your hand moves instinctively, trailing over your breasts, feeling your skin warm under your own touch. “Yeah, Wade,” you whisper, your breath a little shaky. “I’m touching myself.”

“Fuck,” he growls. “You know what I’d be doing right now? I’d be right there, kissing your neck, working my way down to those perfect tits. I’d take my time, sucking on those nipples until you’re begging for more.”

A soft moan escapes you, and you know he heard it because his laughter on the other end of the line is thick with satisfaction. “There’s my girl,” he breathes. “God, I love making you squirm. Are you wet for me yet?”

Your body reacts to the words, the heat spreading through you. “Yeah… I am.”

“Good,” Wade says, his voice low and gravelly. “Now, slip your hand between those legs. I want you to touch yourself the way I would. Make it slow, babe. Imagine it’s my fingers on you, working you just the way you like it.”s

You do as he says, your hand slipping lower, your body already aching for more. His words, that deep, dirty tone, only fuel the fire burning inside you.

“Fuck, babe, you have no idea how bad I want to be there. I’d have you spread out on that bed, legs wide open for me. I’d start by teasing you, just like this… soft touches, barely there, making you crave it until you can’t take it anymore.”

Your breath hitches as your fingers move, mimicking his words, teasing yourself, and imagining his hands instead of yours. The tension coils tighter with each movement.

“Wade,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need, “I need more.”

“Oh, you need more?” His voice is all taunting pleasure. “You gotta tell me, babe. Tell me exactly what you want.”

“I want you inside me,” you breathe, the words slipping out before you can stop them, your body already on fire.

“Fuck,” he groans, and you can practically hear him adjusting himself on the other end of the line. “God, I’d slide into you so slow. You’d feel every inch of me, stretching you, filling you up. I’d make you scream my name, babe.”

You moan softly, your fingers pressing deeper, following the rhythm he’s setting, your mind lost in the fantasy of him inside you.

“You close, babe?” Wade’s voice is hoarse, filled with desire. “I wanna hear you come. I wanna hear you fall apart for me.”

You’re right on the edge, the heat pooling low in your belly, your body tightening with every stroke, every dirty word falling from his lips. “I’m so close,” you gasp, your voice breathless, trembling.

“Good girl,” he growls, his voice dark and commanding. “Come for me, baby. Let go. I wanna hear every fucking sound you make.”

And that’s all it takes. Your body shudders as the release washes over you, your moans filling the quiet of the bunker as you ride out the waves of pleasure, your fingers slowing, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Fuck, that was hot,” Wade groans through the phone, clearly turned on by the sounds of your pleasure. “God, I wish I was there to see that. You’re so fucking sexy, babe.”

You lie there, spent and flushed, the heat still lingering in your veins, your chest rising and falling with the aftershocks of the orgasm. “Wade,” you murmur, smiling despite the exhaustion. “That was…”

“Epic? Mind-blowing? Something you’ll want to do again tomorrow night?” he offers with a chuckle, his tone lighter now but still thick with affection.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “All of the above.”

“Good,” he says, the smirk evident in his voice. “Now get some rest, babe. I’ll be back soon. And then we can pick up where we left off… in person.”

You can’t help but grin, already looking forward to it. “You better come back in one piece.”

“I’ll try my best,” he teases. “But if not, I’ll always have my half-mast pic to keep you company.”

“But you know I need more,” you tease, a playful edge in your voice.

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, then Wade’s voice drops, lower and rougher. “Oh, trust me, babe. When I get back, you’re getting all of me. No holding back.”

You can’t help but smile, your heart warming at the promise in his tone. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” he purrs, “because I plan on giving you a lot more than just pictures when I’m done here. Stay safe, babe. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Stay safe, Wade,” you reply softly, feeling the warmth of his words even through the distance.

“I will. Now get some sleep… and dream of me.” There’s a pause, followed by a mischievous laugh. “And maybe that half-mast pic.”

You laugh softly, feeling lighter despite the ache of him being away. “Goodnight, Wade.”

“Night, babe,” he says, his voice soft and sincere for a moment before the line goes quiet. “My Sweet Sexy Apocalypse Babycakes.”

As the phone call ends, you lay there, staring up at the ceiling, already counting down the hours until he returns. The world outside may be falling apart, but somehow, in moments like this, it feels a little less daunting.

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