#palm sees himself as the common denominator | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

halsteadlover · 9 months ago

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𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭

*Pics not mine credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Spencer Reid x Stripper!Reader.

• Requested: no.

• Summary: it was supposed to be a case like any other, an undercover operation like a thousand others he had done but when Spencer sets his eyes on that dancer for the first time suddenly everything fades into the background.

• Warnings: brief mention of alcohol, homicide case, nudity, fingering, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, sex, use of condoms (ALWAYS WRAP IT!!!), cursing, dirty talk, basically Spencer being a ✨man✨, tell me if I missed anything <3

• Word count: 7.6K

• A/N: PLEASE READ THIS ONLY IF YOU’RE +18. This was written in 3rd person. I had this idea for a while now but didn’t know how to write it but now here we are you have no idea how much time it took 😭 I promise I’m still working on the requests please don’t hate me I’m just trying the find the motivation to write again. I really hope you like this one please let me know what you think and comment, reblog and like ❤️ Thank you for your kindness and constant support xx

Spencer had never felt as uncomfortable as he did in that moment, surrounded by germs and all kinds of bodily fluids.

He was disgusted and couldn’t wait for this to be over soon so he could get out of there.

Damn you, Derek Morgan.

He cursed his colleague for forcing him to go in that damned place. He was in a strip club, pretending to be a normal customer so he could talk to some of the strippers and the head of the club himself about an investigation. The BAU was in fact following the case of a serial killer who lured his victims and killed them.

Since the victims – who were about four – were all affluent straight males in their thirties and there were no traces of drugs or signs on their bodies that they’d been forced to follow the killer, the team assumed the unsub was a female in her mid-twenties.

After digging into their pasts to study the victimology, the team discovered all four victims committed sexual crimes which however had somehow been attempted to be covered up. So there was no doubt those killings were about some sort of justice.

The unsub would kill them by slicing their throats with a single and precise movement, a cut so deep it was easy to say she was an expert. There was no way the four victims were her first ones, but nothing came up after Garcia searched for other murders with the same modus operandi.

After leaving their bodies on the bed of a hotel room, the unsub would also write a short note on the wall with a deep purple lipstick – a particular color – which wasn’t found on the victims’ bodies, so the team thought she wouldn’t wear it, she was carrying it with her with the sole purpose to write those simple short sentences.

The BAU had interrogated the victims of these aforementioned sexual assaults but all of them had airtight alibis so there was no real suspect. After interrogating the victims’ families and friends, they realized there was a common denominator between those four men: the Sinful Lust.

And that’s how Spencer ended up there.

He didn’t understand why it had to be him who had to be in that place. How could they think it’d be a good idea to have him to deal with strippers and people having sex around him?

Anyone could see from a mile away how uncomfortable he felt sitting there, even people who weren’t profilers. Spencer continued to look around, almost dazed by the club’s strobe lights as he tried to mask his disgust at noticing his surroundings and the intense smell of alcohol.

He never hated Derek so much.

He knew it was just his sadistic way of making him feel uncomfortable, despite the encouragement from the rest of the team though who were sure Spencer would make it.

His palms sweated with every passing second as he rubbed them on his black pants before fixing the collar of his shirt. He wasn’t used to wearing these kinds of clothes, he felt caged, in a body that didn’t belong to him.

Every woman in that place wasted no time winking at him, shooting him languid glances to which he responded with a tight and totally false smile. Some of them approached him and he had to fake interest in them by engaged stupid and languid conversations.

He couldn’t help but think about how Morgan would’ve enjoyed that situation and how he wouldn’t have wasted time making all the women in that damn club fall at his feet.

Spencer really envied him sometimes. He envied how his friend was always so easygoing and extroverted, especially with women, with a joke always ready, how he always knew what to say and when.

Suddenly the club lights dimmed and focused on the stage, stopping his rush of thoughts and indicating the strippers were about to begin the show.

Numerous tables and seats were concentrated near the stage, populated by hungry men who couldn’t wait to feast their eyes and spend their money and Spencer noted with disgust many of them were even married.

Poor wives.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding only to gasp again as some music started and the strippers began to dance. He didn’t recognize the music and the words, preferring classical music; however, his mind wasn’t focused on the bass vibrating through the room but on analyzing the scene.

But it was so damn hard when women danced sensually in front of him half naked. It’s a physiological reaction, he kept repeating to himself, it’s normal, focus Reid, do not deconcentrate.

The dim lights only added more tension to the evocative atmosphere, interrupted every now and then by men standing up and cheering to hand over their money they had probably earned with so much effort.

Spencer moved into his seat, picking up the glass of some type of liquor he didn’t know and pretending to sip before placing it back on the table, wanting with every fiber of his being for the unsub to reveal herself.

But he knew it couldn’t be that simple. If killers had written on their foreheads they were actually killers, he wouldn’t even have a job anymore.

He wondered if she was there.

Who knew if she had already chosen her next victim.

Spencer’s eyes met with one of the three dancers on the stage and a vice gripped his stomach when he realized she was already looking at him.

Her hips continued to move sensually to the rhythm of the music as her fingers played with the buttons of the skimpy top she was wearing and for an instant Spencer thought if he wasn’t mistaken or having a hallucination.

But he wasn’t wrong.

Her eyes were fixed solely on him.

She bit her lip as she winked at Spencer, and he almost melted into that chair like snow in the sun. He tried to keep his expression as casual and neutral as possible but in reality, every single cell in his body was on fire.

She turned her body and walked sensually towards the pole and Spencer’s eyes went hungrily and impertinently down her body, making him feel no less dirty than the rest of the men present.

But he couldn’t control himself as his eyes seemed to have a life on their own and he couldn’t take them off her.

His gaze traced every exposed inch of her skin, focusing on her ass covered by a skimpy short skirt, the mere sight of her making his pants tighten around his crotch. His mind began to wander with fantasy, unable to help but imagine his head buried between her legs.

Spencer shifted in his chair dejectedly, resting his hands on his lap and covering his erection as if someone was there to notice. Nobody would’ve noticed, all eyes were on her and the dancers.

He didn’t even look at the other two women on the stage, his eyes was fixed only on her, her hips, her beautiful and smooth legs, on her body that spun with disarming ease around the dance pole.

He wondered what it’d be like to feel his fingers squeezing her hips as she rode him into oblivion and this image alone almost made him come in his pants.

He was totally mesmerized.

He didn’t know what was happening to him but every cell in his body seemed to have lit up and inflamed, his fingers were trembling with desire to slide them over her sinuous body.

But it was when her eyes met his again that Spencer felt the air sucked out of his lungs. He couldn’t quite make out the color, he was too far away to be able to do that, but just the way she was looking at him made him shift in his seat again and his aching dick erect even more.

He was paralyzed, he didn’t dare move a single muscle. He didn’t know why but he was afraid if he moved everyone would find out who he really was. That she would find out.

His eyes never left hers, a small grin painting her face as she continued to dance sensually. Spencer felt arrogant enough to assume this dance was just for him.

The show eventually ended and the lights dimmed in the club again, although Spencer managed to track the silhouettes of the dancers coming off the stage. His heart jumped into his throat when he noticed a person approaching him and not just any person but her.

Spencer’s eyes followed her every movement although the light was so low he couldn’t really make out her beautiful features. He shifted in his chair again and tried to keep his concentration up when a cloud of her scent hit him square in the face, short-circuiting every single neuron in his brain.

This was the perfect opportunity to gather information regarding the case, but at that moment Spencer seemed to have completely forgotten the reason why he was there.

“Come with me.”

That was all she said and even her voice was so sweet it mesmerized him even more, as if it was a siren’s song luring the poor sailors into her clutches. He stood up without even being asked twice, his mind trying to convince itself it was just to gather the information he needed.

At that moment, however, the only thing controlling his body was the blood rushing to his penis and not the rationality that always distinguished him.

She walked through the club ignoring everything around her while he followed her like a puppy, unaware of what was coming and what she was up to. A small, tiny part of his brain kept screaming to be careful, that she was a stranger probably looking for the money – or worse to kill him. He knew he needed to focus on the case but Spencer was too attracted to her to even listen to those voices.

Nothing like this had ever happened before. He would’ve never thought of following a stranger to who knew where without an ounce of information.

They entered a room and Spencer quickly scanned it, deducing it was her dressing room. His attention, however, immediately returned to that woman. Under those lights, he could finally look at her in all her splendor and the air was sucked from his lungs as his eyes traveled along her body and analyzed her face.

She was breathtaking, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and there wasn’t a single part of him that wasn’t itching to touch her.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice broke the silence. Spencer didn’t respond at first, his eyes focused on her cleavage and the way her chest rose and fell. Only when he brought his eyes back to her face and saw the mischievous smirk on her lips he realized she had said something to him and that he must’ve looked like a complete idiot.

“What?”

She chuckled and that simple sound traveled through his body, causing his blood to rush and his penis to harden even more.

What is she doing to me?

She slightly tilted her head, her eyes vibrant as she watched – no, analyzed – Spencer.

His muscles froze as she took two steps toward him, never taking her eyes off him.

He returned her gaze with a courage he had never had and didn’t even know he possessed. Her eyes were bright but there was something particularly intense about them, something he absolutely wanted to discover and he couldn’t even name.

His breathing quickened and he prayed she wouldn’t realize how intense the effect she had on him was. She looked at him with an intensity that made him weak in the knees, with an intensity that no one had ever looked at him with.

She hadn’t torn her eyes away from his for not even a second, and although that confidence further intrigued Spencer, it scared him at the same time. He knew she was trying to get inside him, into his soul and discover his deepest secrets.

“I asked what you’re doing here.”

“You told me to come.”

She licked her lips and Spencer’s eyes flicked to her mouth, causing him to react in a way that resulted in the further restriction of his pants. He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets to avoid doing something he’d regret, but damn it was so hard.

This was also the moment he understood the true meaning of the phrase ‘blue balls’.

He was so fucking horny it hurt.

“I’m well aware of that,” she replied with a smirk, probably noticing the way he was staring at her lips. “But don’t act stupid, you don’t look like one. What are you doing here?”

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat, using the shred of rationality he had left to think of an answer. But the way she was looking at him, as if she wanted him to take her right then and now, was enough to make him no longer even remember his name.

I’m an FBI agent investigating a murder case and you, like every other dancer here, could be a potential suspect.

He couldn’t say it, but damn it if she kept coming closer to him, he wouldn’t even bother giving her his wallet and bank details.

“What all the men are doing, why don’t you go ask them?”

Well done.

“I’m asking you.” She flicked her hair behind her shoulders with a single but graceful movement of her head, leaving her neck and shoulder exposed. Spencer’s throat bobbed up and down again, his mind filled with images of him sticking his tongue out and licking and tasting her skin, sucking it and leaving marks.

Dammit Reid, get a hold of yourself.

“I’ve been watching you,” she spoke, her tone calm and sensual. “You looked like you were going to vomit when you came in and I know you would’ve never come here of your own free will; so why don’t you tell me the truth pretty boy?”

Fuck yeah keep calling me that.

Why doesn’t it sound so good when Morgan calls me that?

Stop thinking about Morgan.

“There’s a first time for everyone, don’t you think?” Spencer raised an eyebrow.

She bit her lower lip, a gesture that made him feral.

Please somebody help me.

It was only then she took her eyes away from his and let them wander slowly along his body.

She studied and analyzed him and with every inch that passed under her eyes Spencer felt his skin catch fire, especially when her gaze focused on the huge bulge in his pants.

The beautiful stranger brought her eyes back to his and Spencer didn’t miss that lustful glint in them and the way her breathing had quickened, indicating she was as affected by him as he was by her.

“What’s your name?”

“David,” Spencer replied, congratulating himself on the way he had managed to control himself and not give away his real name.

“David,” she repeated, slowly, as if wanting to taste what his name felt like on her tongue. She took another step, closing her distance and her scent hit his nostrils. It was a mixture of vanilla, coconut, innocence and sin and he was going crazy.

“I’ll pretend you don’t think I’m that stupid, David,” she winked and Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat for the third time, trying to keep his breathing to a normal pace even though his heart was pounding wildly inside his rib cage.

They continued to look at each other for an almost infinite time, the air more tense and warmer with each passing second. Spencer tried to think of something to say, anything, but the way she looked at him paralyzed him. His eyes roamed and traced the lines of her lips imagining what it’d be like to feel them pressed against his, what it’d be like to feel them wrapped around his dick and just the thought almost made him come in his pants.

I can’t do this anymore.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice so low he almost didn’t hear her. Spencer had the impression she wanted to say anything else, but she had refrained from doing it, like if she had opened her tightly closed lips she would’ve told a terrible secret.

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he replied, taking his hand out of his pocket and bringing it closer to her face. His fingers played with a lock of her hair before tucking it behind her ear. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, it was as if his body was acting on its own and had completely disconnected from his brain. Her breathing quickened at that contact and that time he was the one to smirk. “What’s your name?”

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t tell me yours.”

“It matters to me. And I did, it’s up to you to believe me or not.”

She cocked one eyebrow up. “Why does it matter?”

“I want to know whose name I’m going to moan when I’ll think of you with my hand around my dick.”

Spencer almost chocked on his own words.

What the fuck?

Again, what the hell is wrong with me?

What was he doing? What was going through his mind? He completely lost his mind but he didn’t care, not when she looked at him like she wanted to tear him apart and burn him right then and there. And the worst thing was that he probably would’ve let her do it without objecting.

He could see the way she was holding back, the way she tried to appear casual but after all it was his job to know what people really felt, what they thought. He knew it from the way her pupils were so dilated they covered almost all the color of his irises, from the way her skin was flushed and the redness on her cheeks, from the light layer of sweat covering her forehead, from her rapid breathing, the stiffness of her muscles, from the way her hands clenched into two fists as if she was leveraging on herself to not let go.

But why?

Spencer wasn’t an expert in that world, but he really thought she’d try in any way to get some money, to seduce him and then leave him broke, but then why did she hold back? Why was she rejecting him? Why did she ask him to come with her if she wasn’t trying to do anything?

In other moments he would’ve investigated more but in that instant everything had taken a step backwards, Spencer didn’t seem to be focused on anything other than putting his hands on that stranger who was hypnotizing and bewitching like no one else ever did. He had never felt anything like this, being consumed by the desire to kiss her, touch her, run his tongue over every inch of her body, he never felt that raw and primordial desire to have someone.

And he wanted her.

Fuck the consequences.

“You don’t really want this,” she whispered and it didn’t take a profiler to figure out that she wasn’t sure of those words either. It was Spencer who closed the distance between the two that time, feeling the heat of her body envelop him and attracting him like a moth to flame, as every part of her skin was screaming to be touched by his fingers. Her words repelled him but the way she looked at him said something else.

“Why did you ask me to come here then?”

Her eyes looked at him with a look that even him couldn’t decipher. She was hiding something, she was battling herself and he wanted to know why.

“You don’t belong in this place.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know…” she whispered as her gaze kept alternating between his eyes and his mouth. He wet them with his tongue, pleased when he saw the way her breath hitched.

“I just couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

Spencer may not be very experienced in the women’s game, but he could see the passionate hunger in her eyes, that glimmer of lust and desire that left him breathless.

“Do you want it?”

“Yes.”

Those two single whispered letters were enough for Spencer to destroy what little shred of control he still possessed. Before he knew it his hands were cupping her face and his lips were pressed to hers in a searing, electrifying kiss.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him, he couldn’t even recognize himself at that moment. As her mouth devoured him and her tongue tasted his, he couldn’t let go of the feeling he was watching everything as if he was an outside observer, like he wasn’t the one commanding his actions.

He couldn’t believe what was happening, that he – the man who was terrified of even shaking hands with strangers for fear of germs – was kissing that beautiful, sexy stranger who had invaded his senses ever since she set her feet on that stage. And to be honest he didn’t even care, Spencer was only focused on the world in which she was devouring him.

Their tongues intertwined in a sensual dance as their deep breaths and sighs blended into each other. There was nothing sweet about that kiss, about the way he fisted his hands around her hair, the way she had her arms around his neck and pulled him towards her, the saliva mixing. It was animalistic, raw, sloppy, messy, a kiss so deep they felt their soul being sucked out of their body.

The tension and electricity in the air was clearly palpable as time seemed to stop around them, leaving them engulfed in the fire of passion and making them both forget who and where they were.

While Spencer’s hands roamed along her body, squeezing and groping every inch of her skin he could reach, sucking in and swallowing every sigh that escaped her throat, he no longer thought he was an FBI agent who was there because he had a job to do.

And even his name was forgotten as her fingers began frantically unbuttoning his shirt, her fingertips leaving fiery marks on his skin as they slid down his chest. They both began taking slow steps, their mouths continuing to devour each other and only breaking away when Spencer’s legs touched the sofa in the dressing room. He sat with his legs apart and a very painful erection in his pants, his gaze on fire while his hungry eyes analyzed and looked with meticulous attention at the stranger.

Never more than in that moment was he grateful to his eidetic memory, because he knew he would never forget that divine image in front of his eyes. Her breasts, legs, hips, her waist, everything seemed to scream to be touched and worshiped and Spencer couldn’t wait to do it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered more to himself than to her, his hands resting on his thighs as he continued to let his gaze wander down her body.

She smiled and Spencer almost fainted. And it wasn’t a mischievous grin but a real smile, one of those that weakened the knees and made everything more beautiful and brighter. One of those he’d never forget.

He took her hands and pulled her towards him making her sit on his lap, her legs tightly straddling his thighs. He groaned as his hard dick collided with her core, relieving that feeling of pressure and pain even if for just a few seconds.

Before he could say or do anything she had pressed her lips on his again, starting to sensually move on him, shamelessly grinding herself and unleashing obscene sighs from both of them that sounded like they were coming from a porn.

Spencer’s hands cupped her ass, pressing his fingers so hard into her skin as he followed her movements while her hands instead continued to roam his chest, her nails pressing into his skin until she leaves red marks on it.

“Fuck I want you so bad,” she breathed into his lips and he let out a particularly loud groan when she bit his bottom lip, sucking it. Her lips parted from his, leaving wet kisses along his jaw, down his neck, sucking, biting, nibbling at his skin.

Any trace of whatever indecision she felt was gone and he couldn’t control himself anymore. His body seemed to move automatically. Lust and desire had clouded his mind, that sublime mind that had done everything to prevent these moments from happening but that had given into the most primitive of instincts. Sex.

His hands went up to the skimpy top she was wearing, ripping it off without even thinking twice before dropping the broken material on the floor, soon joined by her bra as well. His hands cupped her breasts, teasing and pinching her turgid nipples that so recalled his mouth.

Spencer obeyed that wish, wrapping his lips around one of her breasts sucking it while he continued to grope the other. Her hands threaded through his hair, curling into fists and pulling, causing another groan from Spencer. He didn’t even know he was into this. His hips jerked up, continuing to grind against her for some relief.

“Please…” He let go of her breast, throwing his head back and fearing he’d explode right then and there. He wanted to know that stranger’s name, he desperately wanted to moan it and he equally desperately wanted to tell her his, just so he could hear it screamed by her beautiful mouth as he fucked her. “I’ll come in my pants if you keep doing this.”

She giggled and this was a further shock to Spencer, who thought he was going to have a heart attack at any moment. Her hands fumbled with his belt, undoing the button and pulling down the zip of his pants. He let out a sigh of relief when, after slightly lifting his hips, she lowered his pants along with his precum stained boxers, finally releasing his erection.

“Shit…” he hissed a curse through gritted teeth as her hand wrapped around his dick. It started to move up and down with it and he closed his parted lips as he tried to suppress his moans. His eyes were glued on that stranger’s hand who gave him pleasure, a vision he’d never forget. Her hand was so delicate and perfect, in stark contrast to the sinful and dirty action she was doing.

“Don’t hold back, I want to hear you moan for me, okay?”

Spencer met her gaze and nodded, not trusting his own voice. She lifted herself from his lap and knelt between his spread legs and if Spencer hadn’t already been sitting down, the mere image of her on her knees with her hand wrapped around his dick would’ve made him fall to the ground.

“Is this okay?” She asked and Spencer found himself nodding again, this time with so much enthusiasm that she chuckled.

“Yes please…” he breathed as she continued to masturbate him, alternating fast and slow movements and making him lose his mind even more, if that was even possible. Her thumb drew imaginary circles on his red, wet tip, making him gasp against his will.

He placed a hand on her cheek, her skin hot against his palm, his thumb caressing her lips. His breath hitched in anticipation when she wrapped her lips around his thumb, her eyes never leaving Spencer’s as she sucked on his fingertip. “I’m dying to have this pretty mouth around my dick, do you want to show me what it can do?”

Spencer had no clue where this confidence was coming from, but he was too horny to think about shyness and what to say.

She let go of his thumb and stuck her tongue out before tracing the shaft of his penis with a single, excruciatingly slow lick from the base to his tip. He let out a deep, loud groan, throwing his head back as he felt his silky skin against her tongue. It was an aphrodisiac sensation and if Spencer was to believe in heaven and an afterlife, her mouth would definitely be his.

“Shit just like that,” he moaned as her tongue drew imaginary circles on his tip, sucking and taking away every trace of precum. His soul nearly left his body when she encircled his tip with her lips, sliding his length into her mouth until his dick hit the back of her throat.

She placed a hand on his bare, hairy thighs, dragging her nails across his skin as if to draw his attention to her and Spencer granted her wish, lifting his head and looking down at that sin dressed as an angel who was sucking his dick.

Fucking hell I don’t even believe in angels.

It was immoral, the most unethical thing he could’ve done, something for which he could’ve even be kicked out of the team but Spencer couldn’t care less, not when that mouth was sucking him like her life depended on it and making him feel a pleasure he couldn’t even think was possible to feel.

“You’re so good little angel,” he praised her, placing a hand on her head threading his fingers through her hair and a little spark lit up in her eyes. She definitely had a praise kink. “This mouth will be the death of me.”

She hollowed her cheeks, picking up the pace as her head bobbed up and down and her tongue licked circling his dick. Spencer felt like he was already one step away from exploding in her mouth, but he didn’t want to come, not before being buried deep inside her. “Dammit… Stop, stop, I don’t want to come yet.”

He cupped her face pressing his lips to her swollen, wet ones while simultaneously pulling her on his lap again. He kissed her as if he wanted to suck her soul out of her body, resting his hands on her smooth, bare thighs as his fingers pressed into her skin, teasing her but never touching that magical spot where Spencer couldn’t wait to sink.

“For fuck’s sake touch me,” she hissed impatiently pulling on the young man’s hair, earning a small grin from him.

“Tell me how much you want it,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her neck, inhaling deeply that scent he knew would torment him for the rest of his life, that scent that drugged and marked him in the span of very few seconds. His thumbs kept drawing circles on her inner thighs, dangerously close to her pussy as she squirmed under his touch and Spencer was loving every single shred of the desperation she showed.

She wanted him.

She wanted him desperately.

Spencer never had someone who wanted him so badly, sure he had his experiences with women – albeit very limited ones – but he had never felt anything so deep, animalistic and visceral. He had never had any woman looking at him with that fire in her eyes, as if he was the only man who existed for her, as if he was everything she wanted, as if she could die at any moment if he didn’t give it to her.

But that stranger did.

And damn it felt so good.

“Please, I want it… I want you…” she cried out in an impatient and desperation tone and that was music to his ears. If there was some divine entity Spencer thanked it for making her wear a miniskirt.

His fingers slipped into her panties, moaning to himself as he felt the amount of fluids wetting her pussy. “So wet… You’re going to kill me, you know that right?”

She didn’t answer, she threw her head back while Spencer looked at her with hooded eyes and one of his fingers wasted no time in penetrating her. Her hips moved in rhythm and he trembled with anticipation, imagining her walls squeezing his dick.

“Fuck yes…” she moaned loudly, her hands in Spencer’s hair as he inserted a second finger inside her, watching her reaction and how her body writhed in pleasure.

“You’re so tight little angel, I can’t wait to be buried deep inside this wet pussy,” he murmured with pleasure before taking one of her breasts into his mouth, too temptingly as he sucked and licked it. His other arm went around her hips, holding her in place and keeping her from squirming away. “How many of them did you let fuck you mmh? How many have made you feel this way?” He licked her chest, her collarbone, every inch of skin he could reach before he began torturing her other breast.

“No one…” she breathed, unable to finish her sentence due to her heavy panting and moaning. Her thighs were shaking, her hands gripping his hair. “Nobody… Holy shit…” She trailed off again, her body contorting forward if it wasn’t for Spencer’s arm holding her and he knew his fingers had hit her G-spot.

He actually had no idea what he was doing or how to move but he was an attentive observer. His eyes glued to her studied with careful attention every single breath, the intensity of her moans, the way her muscles trembled, the way her pussy clenched, the way she held him, studying her body and quickly adapting to her reaction.

“Oh God yes, yes, you’re so fucking good keep going…” she cried out and then looked down at him. Her thumb traced his lips and – just as she had done earlier – he wrapped them around her finger, sucking on it as his fingers continued to pump in and out of her. Her walls clenched his wet fingers and if the vision of her coming over them didn’t make him lose his sanity, then he didn’t know what else would.

Spencer left her no room to catch her breath or strength after her orgasm.

“Open.” He ordered, bringing his fingers that until a few moments before were inside her, close to her lips. She didn’t hesitate to lick Spencer’s wet fingers clean, making him dizzy as her eyes watched with adulation and lust at the way his tongue sensually moved her fluids. “Yeah little angel, just like that.”

He was going crazy. He seriously thought his vessels were going to explode from how horny he was.

She let go of his fingers and sloppily kissed him, making him taste her juices on her tongue. “Fuck what are doing to me…” She whispered and something told Spencer she didn’t mean to say those words out loud.

“If you think I’m anywhere near done with you, you’re completely wrong,” he murmured against her lips. “Show me how a good girl you are and sit on me, let me see how this pretty pussy soaks my dick.”

Good job Dr Reid.

I’m really proud of myself.

“And here I thought you were a virgin,” she chuckled before getting up and taking a condom from one of the drawers in her closet, but not before taking off her panties. She settled down by straddling his thighs again before slipping the condom onto his painfully hard dick. She lifted her pelvis and wrapped her hand around Spencer’s dick, letting herself be penetrated until she found herself completely sitting on it. “But I know behind this cute pretty face you’re so dirty, filthy enough to fuck a stripper whose name you don’t even know.”

Spencer clung to every ounce of strength in his body to concentrate on anything other than the warm, wet walls of that stranger’s pussy or he would’ve come instantly.

He had even forgotten how good it felt to have sex after so long and remembered why people were so obsessed with it, why his team pestered him to get laid.

Her pussy engulfed him so perfectly it seemed to have been made just for him.

“You feel so good god…” she breathed out a moan interrupting her sentence as she slowly raised her hips and lowered herself again. Spencer couldn’t control a deep groan as she continued to tease and torture him with that slow motion, rolling her hips on his dick.

Spencer’s fingers found themselves on her ass for the second time, groping and spreading her ass cheeks trying to maintain control but it was so damn hard when all he wanted to do was fuck her brains out of her head.

“F-faster… You’re torturing me…” he panted brokenly, his chest quickly rising and falling as if he was running a marathon.

Instead, she kept going with her slow, destabilizing pace, lifting her hips again and slowly lowering herself on his raging dick, torturing him further as the sounds she let out filled the room. Those alone would’ve been enough to make him fall into the void and never be able to get back to the surface.

“Beg me.”

“Please, please… Make me feel good little angel, make me come,” he obeyed, not caring about sounding pathetic. The smirk that formed on her lips was the manifestation of the most pure form of sin, a sin for which there was no absolution or redemption.

Luckily Spencer didn’t even believe in these things.

But if there was a definition of heaven and hell, if they ever existed, it would’ve been her.

Her and those eyes that looked at him like they wanted to capture what was left of his soul, those eyes that would’ve made Spencer thrown himself off a cliff if she had asked.

Her and those hands that held him and touched him, causing him sensations he didn’t even know the meaning of, and this said something for a person who knew the meaning of every single word written in the dictionary.

Her and her deadly mouth that continued to kiss him until there was no air left in his lungs, her teeth biting him, her tongue licking his skin and sucking his tongue.

Her and those moans and gasps she couldn’t hold back and that Spencer was absorbing one by one, imprinting them in his memory so he could repeat them again and again.

“Look at you, aren’t you a desperate little thing? So hungry for me,” she sensually whispered in his ear and biting his earlobe. Fulfilling Spencer’s wishes, she began to increase her pace, placing her hands on the back of the couch for support.

Nothing resounded except their moans, pants, grunts mixing with each other, the sound of their skin rubbing and flapping and their lips smacking with each kiss with the smell of sex, sin and prohibition filling their nostrils.

Spencer’s eyes were glued on her, on her parted lips and her head thrown back, her eyes half closed, her tits bouncing in rhythm with her thrusts which he didn’t waste time taking into his mouth and sucking them, biting the nipples until they were numb.

She fisted Spencer’s hair again, pulling it and forcing him to tilt his head back to look at her. That gesture made him grunt and aroused him even more than he already was, and his hips twitched against her, giving a particularly deep thrust that made her curse.

“I can see how you’re holding back pretty boy,” she sighed, continuing to ride him but slowing her pace this time causing a pathetic cry to escape his lips. She kept brushing her lips against his without kissing him, with the sole aim of torturing him and driving him crazy. As if she hadn’t already done it. “Don’t hold back, I can see how much you want to ruin me, how much you’re dying to destroy me.”

“Fuck.” He cursed and something snapped inside him.

He thrusted his hips so deep into her she choked out a moan and he was sure she felt it in every corner of her pussy. His long fingers continued to press into the red, heated flesh of her ass holding her still while he jerked his hips forcefully, taking command even though she was still on top of him.

His dick kept pushing in and out of her, engulfed by her pussy as it tightened around him. Spencer knew how fundamental the importance of using protection was, especially with strangers, but he wished he didn’t wear that damn condom so much, so he could feel every wet corner of her around his dick.

“Oh fuck yes… Just like that,” she loudly moaned and he was sure that by now everyone had heard what was going on in that dressing room but had chosen to ignore it.

Spencer didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. He needed to come but he didn’t want to, he didn’t want this to end.

That’s why he made her get up off him, earning a confused expression before flipping her onto that couch and laying on top of her. He opened her legs and positioned himself between them. He left her no room to say anything as he aligned his dick with her entrance, penetrating her in one motion.

Her legs encircled his hips, her heels pressed against his skin as he fucked her on that couch like his life depended on it, with hard, deep thrusts that made her eyes water.

He had completely lost control.

His hand went around her throat, a gesture that happened spontaneously and that Spencer didn’t even realize until he saw the smirk and expression of pure ecstasy on her face.

How long has he been into choking?

That damn woman would be his downfall.

“Is this what you wanted?” he groaned, his fingers tightening sideways around her throat, being careful not to press on her windpipe. Some strands of hair fell in front of his eyes but she removed them, almost making him faint at that sweet gesture, in stark contrast to the animalistic way in which they were fucking.

“I knew there was a little devil inside you pretty boy, God you’re so fucking sexy,” she gasped, biting hit lower lips and making him increase his pace. “Yes, yes, yes I’m going to come… Keep going fuck yeah…”

His thrusts were deep, messy and although he tried to keep himself from coming, wanting to prolong that feeling of ecstasy as long as possible, it was impossible as her pussy kept clenching around him, moaning “I’m coming” in his ear so sexily it made him come. Spencer exploded and with one last thrust he let himself go into a mind-blowing orgasm that made his body tremble and his eyes blind for a few moments as he poured all his sperm inside the condom.

There were a few moments of silence, broken only by the panting and deep breathing of the two as they caught their breath.

After the ecstasy of the orgasm, Spencer stood up, noticing out of the corner of his eye that she too was trying to get up but her still shaking legs prevented her from doing so. He tried to hold back a smirk, giving her a hand and helping her to get on her feet before earning a feeble “Thank you.”

What the fuck did I just do?

I just had sex with a stripper who could be a potential witness/suspect while undercover.

I’m so screwed.

He realized the enormous mistake he had just made, not even imagining the consequences. He thanked no one in particular for not having worn the microphone or, holy shit, that would’ve been difficult to explain.

Spencer didn’t say a word and he was grateful that she didn’t either, too dazed and groggy to be able to face a conversation.

They both cleaned up in silence and after throwing the condom in the bin, Spencer tried to tidy himself up, tucking his shirt into his pants after buttoning it.

His profiler nature, however, couldn’t help but notice the way how her demeanor completely changed, going from that sexy vicious woman to a silent shy one. She hadn’t so much as glanced at him, he noticed how her shoulders were tense while she moved frantically as if she was trying to vanish from that dressing room as quickly as possible.

She was nervous.

But why?

“You still haven’t answered my initial question, you know?” Spencer broke the awkward silence, before he could stop his tongue.

Damn it Reid why do you want to complicate things so badly?

She turned her head towards him, looking at him with a confused expression trying to make up her mind.

But then a small smile spread across her features before she closed her backpack and placed it on her shoulder. “No one’s been lucky enough to get in here,” she replied, effectively giving the answer Spencer was looking for and for some strange and absurd reason he believed her. “Or unlucky, depending on your point of view.”

Before he could answer she gave him one last glance and left the dressing room. He was supposed to be relieved, there would be no question he couldn’t answer – especially after she realized David wasn’t his real name – but for some reason he couldn’t let go that sinking feeling in his stomach.

He was good at analyzing other people’s emotions, every facet and change of expression, but he wasn’t as good with himself.

He was tempted to follow her, at least to know her name, to find out who the woman who had fried his brain was, but before going out he noticed a small object near the door, probably fallen from her backpack before she went out.

He knelt to pick it up from the ground, but his blood froze in his veins and his heart stopped beating for a millisecond when he realized what the object was.

It was a purple lipstick.

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writefightandflightclub · 8 months ago

Note

Blurb request?

What if you stole Santiago's favorite hat, and he caught you wearing it, very casual, nothing to see here, nothing at all.

Make you mine: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x GN!reader

Thanks so much for sending this, Rally! 🧡☺️ I wrote a hat-based thing with Frankie x reader, but I gave this a bash too as I love the concept with Santiago (my beloved) too! I hope you like it!

Warnings: fluff, steam, lots of mentions of erections, cum kink sorta (brief), light-hearted. 🧢 🍆

A hard swallow trails down Santiago’s neck as he clocks you. Wearing his hat.

He’s arrested by the sight of you, an instant flare of heat blooming across his skin as he realises, in no time at all, that he likes it. Likes seeing you in something of his. Or more so, looking like you’re his by association.

The attached and very intrusive thought is powerful and sudden on the heels of that realisation.

He’d love to see how you’d look wearing his hat and nothing else.

He quirks a brow in interest. He didn’t know that, specifically, would do it for him, but in fairness, he’s pretty sure you are the common denominator here. With you, he’s always discovering new ways that you turn him on.

Shame he can’t act on it though. You and he have been flirting back and forth, sure. But, you’d told him, not long after you’d met that… things were complicated for you. You and him? Maybe there was an instant spark, but you’d been clear the two of you would be nothing outside of friends.

So, he tries to compose himself as you walk over to him. A glass in each hand - one for him. “Thank you,” he smiles smoothly, clinking his glass with yours in a “cheers”.

The other boys have retired inside, after a poker night out on the deck. But you and he have lingered. For some air.

He lets his gaze linger on you, confident enough to drink you in for a stretched moment, your coy gaze even more alluring than usual from beneath the brim of his hat. He tries his best to ignore the blood thudding to his crotch. But you make that difficult to do - no-one else could ever.

“I’m cosplaying you.” You tease, brazenly acknowledging your blatant and unforgivable theft. “Pass me a stick of Wrigleys, Santi? It’ll really up my authenticity.”

He chuckles. Unable to take his eyes off of your bright smile. Your gaze flits gently over his face in return. Lingers on the creases radiating out around his eyes. Dips to his mouth. It makes him self-conscious - which he isn’t used to. Then again, he’s never met anyone who has quite the effect on him that you do.

He perches himself on top of the wooden porch rail. Gestures for you to join him and you seat yourself there too, body angled in towards him.

He can’t help it now. Looks up at his cap perched on your pretty head. He spreads his thighs a little to accommodate his growing bulge between his legs. “-You know. If any of the boys touched my hat…”

“Oh, I know,” you pout comically, shaking your head side-to-side. “Dead to you.” So you know his hat is famously off-limits then? In that case, either you must have put together that he’s a soft-touch for you; or, you’re trying to provoke him. But hey. He doesn’t exactly mind either option. “So.” You take a casual sip of your drink, your eyes flashing with mischief from over the brim. “The boys would be in for it. But what will my punishment be?”

Santiago takes a deep, steadying breath he dearly hopes is subtle as the bulge between his legs grows uncomfortably swollen, pressing up against the seam of his jeans in a way that makes his eyes prick with tears.

Fuck, he doesn’t normally have this much trouble controlling himself; but there’s something about you. Lord knows, he’s trying to keep his internal monologue clean but all he can think is: mine.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Undoubtedly, he can think of a few (hundred) ways he could “discipline” you, if that’s what you’re into. His palm itches where it rests against his thigh, becoming suddenly tacky.

“Well. First of all. Here,” he offers, pulling a pack of gum from his pocket. “You’re not really nailing ‘me’ yet. Needs more work.”

Nailing him? Fuck, that’s an unfortunate choice of words when he’s trying to take his mind off of ravaging you.

“No?”

“Not seeing the resemblance, cariño.”

“Well. That checks out.” You tug performatively on the brim of his cap as though you know exactly what you’re doing to him, actually. “I am a hell of a lot cuter.”

Fuck, you’re not wrong. You’re fucking adorable.

You take a piece of the offered gum, beginning to chew rather obnoxiously on it. “How about now?”

An easy laugh bobs in his neck. “Holy shit. Now it’s like looking in a mirror.”

You slide closer to him, shimmying yourself along the porch rail. An urgent heat prickles at his skin. Your proximity slips a warm snake down his spine.

“So, you approve, Santi?” Santiago could swear your voice has taken on a lusty quality. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on his part. “You like me wearing your hat?”

He almost chokes on his masking swig of his drink. Christ, if you only knew how much he approves. If you could see the sordid images playing on a loop in his head right now? Well, you’d probably throw your drink in his face, to be honest. Actually - he could do with it, to cool off. Maybe he can pour his own drink over himself if things get really dire.

“You think Frankie’s cap would suit me too? Or do I look better in yours?”

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Even the drum of his heartbeat feels like it’s trying to claim you. Trying to bust out of his chest to reach out for you.

Fuck. Are you trying to kill him? He doesn’t have a gasket, but he’s pretty sure he’s about to blow one all the same. “You know you look good,” he assures huskily, voice hollowed out by want, though still trying his damn best to toe the line.

Friends. You don’t want him to do the things he’s doing to you in his head right now. Right?

You smirk, looking all too pleased with yourself before taking a swig of your drink. His gaze is fixated on you as you wrap your plush lips around the mouth of the bottle, your fleet of pink tongue poking into the rim. The image certainly is… inspiring.

Fuck, he’s sweating. Swipes the back off his hand across his forehead, catching the moisture gathering inexplicably at his temples.

Then, to his horror, you stand, slinking towards him and slotting your hips in between his spread thighs. You crane around his form, careful that the brim of his own hat doesn’t poke his eyes out, and you dip your plush mouth towards this shell of his ear. Your whisper beds down right under his skin. “How do you think I’d look wearing this and nothing else, Santi? Would I look like I was…yours?”

Wearing my hat. Wearing my hat. Wearing my cum.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Santiago’s brain fully short circuits. He blinks dumbly at you, mouth slightly agape, as you simply look on in amusement, biting down on your lip.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to jump at the chance to find out, but…

He sniffs. Shoots for non-chalant and doesn’t pull it off. “I thought we… I thought. Just friends?”

“Santiago,” you purr. “I stole your hat. Catch-up.”

Catch-up? Holy shit. Maybe he’d have a clue what you were up to if he could think straight. His erection is straining against his pants so hard now he has to shift his hands to cover it. Has to bite back a strangled whimper at the painful pinch.

Your mouth twitches around a delicious self-satisfied smirk as you clock the state he’s in. You giggle, brazenly eyeing his bulge with interest. “Benny told me this might do the trick.”

Santiago’s eyes tighten then. He pouts up at you, eyes twinkling, almost wistful. “Honey.” He lifts the hat from off of your head, setting it down on his own instead. “You? You don’t need any tricks.”

“No?”

Fuck, the way you’re both so devious and so shy at the same time is killing him. “Nuh uh. I’ve wanted you for a long time. You’re gorgeous.”

He boxes you in a little more tightly with his sturdy thighs. Slips his hands on to your waist. Your breath hitches, and he likes the fact he’s finally managing to turn the tables. He dips his mouth towards you, and you manoeuvre around the brim of his cap until your mouth is a whisper away from his kiss. “Wait,” you urge. “I have gum.”

He can’t help but laugh - a resonant chuckle shucking in his throat- as you take a moment to toss it aside, and then he’s just looking at you again. Gaze flitting softly over your face. Arms drawing you close to him once more until his lips brush yours. The contact sends tingles all the way down to his toes; he’s waited so long for this.

He deepens the kiss, soft and more tentative than he’d usually pitch it, his tongue probing into your mouth, but you return his growing fervour. Your palms brace against his sturdy thighs, and he swallows the smooth moan which blooms from your mouth as he clasps you to him.

You pull back for air, looking slightly giddy, and you survey him, a cheeky, devilish glint in your eyes. “You know. You look really fucking good in my hat, Santiago.” Your dark, teasing voice is like honey poured into his middle.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You look like you’re mine.”

He shucks air from between his teeth in surprise, his face splitting into a lopsided, awed smile. His eyes turn dark with hunger, pupils eating away at warm umber.

He is. He is yours, if you want him.

He decides then, that he can push this a little further. You seem keen - and Lord knows he is. And so, with a knowing, playful smirk, he dips his lips forward towards the shell of your ear. Whispers to you. “So, how about I wear this and nothing else for you?”

You visibly shiver as his words wind their way into you, your smooth facade cracking apart. “Santiago. Fuck. Are you trying to kill me?”

With his erection continuing to throb against the seam of his pants, he really thinks it’s the other way around.

“No,” he promises. “Only trying to make you mine.”

Mine. Mine. Mine.

That’s all he’s wanted since he met you.

He devours your mouth in another hungry kiss, tongue shoving against yours, opening you up. Stubble raking over your skin.

And, before your delicious kiss knocks every other thought - and word and concept - right out of his head, he logs the fact he definitely owes Benny a favour.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He always wanted to be more than friends.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #Santiago Garcia x reader #triple frontier #Oscar Isaac

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cumikering · 8 months ago

Text

Werewolf Keegan x reader 7

2.3k | angst, suggestive Keegan was the common denominator (part 1) (part 8)

Keegan felt like he was losing his fucking mind.

It was a full moon that Friday night, but it had been long since he’d learnt to control his urges, and they were never about chasing or biting. Even when he felt “alright” the day after, he didn’t trust himself. He locked himself home that weekend, not wanting to find out what other shenanigan his body was doing to him.

Of course you’d texted and called, but in his panic, he barely wanted to talk, still ashamed of what he did to you. It was an understatement to say he freaked out. His short texts only assured he was alright, but couldn’t meet.

The week dragged on, unbearable, like nails on a hundred chalkboards. Instead of you, his hoodies and beanies you wore were his only company. He couldn’t keep you in the dark, hell, he always knew this. The dagger was his silent promise, but what happened made him think twice if it was a good idea that you were involved with him. He didn’t know what he was capable of anymore.

On the couch, as the TV played quietly in the background, he stared at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. Raider curled up by his feet, the bland takeaway dinner half-eaten on the coffee table. He lamented the past few months, that he got damn close to getting what he wanted. How it had perched in his palm, but before he could grasp it, it had floated away.

Perhaps it was just as well he never met your girlfriends, saved you the shame of being involved with someone like him. A weakling who couldn’t even tell you what he felt towards you.

“Guess it’s just you and me again, buddy.” Like how it’s always meant to be.

His phone dinged. He knew it was you from the custom tone he’d set. He reached for it, dread lodged in his throat from having to give you another sorry excuse when what he wanted to do the most was to touch you, hold you in his arms.

It’s obvious you’re not into this anymore. I would appreciate it if you’re honest so we can both move on from this.

He sat up so fast, his head spun as his heart pounded against his ribs. No, no, this isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

I’m heading to yours right now.

When Keegan got to your door, he was panting from sprinting up the stairs.

For the first time, understandably, you didn’t answer with a smile. You let him in wordlessly and he followed you to sit at the dining table where a huge bag lay. Judging by one of his jackets poking out of it, you had packed his stuff. His stomach twisted.

You stared at him, and he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so scrutinised, disgraceful. He averted his gaze to his clenched fists under the table.

“I’m not asking for a reason, but I hope you know what you’re doing isn’t fair.”

He swallowed. “Yes, I know. That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I don’t want to be your second choice.”

He looked up at the wobble of your voice. “You’re not. There’s never been anyone else, only you.“

“Good.” It was your turn to look away, brows furrowed as you blinked hard. “Okay. Well, thanks for showing up.” You voice cracked as you pushed the bag towards him. “Here are your things.”

“Pea-“ He caught himself, sighing heavily as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t come here to say goodbye, but if you could hear me out… I’m not ready to talk about it, but something happened last year on a mission and I haven’t been the same. Last Friday, I got really scared when I hurt you. I’d never done that before and I’m terrified of doing it again. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I do.”

Your gaze stayed on him.

“I’m still into you. Fuck me, I’m still so fucking into you.” He laughed to himself. “I hated not seeing you, but I’m stuck. I don’t know what’s happening to me and I don’t know what to do. I’m scared you’d leave if I tell you.”

Your eyes softened. He’d missed you so much, your eyes, your smile, your voice. The past week had been truly horrible.

“I don’t know what happened, and I’m not going to make you tell me if you’re not ready.” You paused. “But if you’re worried my feelings would change, no, I don’t think they will, if you’re the same Keegan I’ve been spending my time with the past few months. Are you?”

“I am,” he said breathlessly.

“Then I don’t see what you need to be scared,” you whispered, a tear finally slipping.

“I never want to see you cry, peanut.” He knelt beside you and wiped the stray tear with his thumb. “Especially not because of me.”

“Don’t make me feel like I’m the only one who wants this,” you said in a small voice, eyes closed as you tilted towards his touch.

“I won’t, I promise.” He pressed his face onto your shoulder, arms wrapping around you. He felt like the biggest idiot for making you feel like he didn’t want you. “I’ll tell you what happened-”

“Just hold me.”

Later, upon your request, he carried you to bed as the heat crept up his neck. With the lights off, you pulled him with you when he laid you down, sighing as he finally tasted your soft lips again. Despite the dark, he saw your silhouette, the way you bit your lip as you lay bare for him, under him. You were hopelessly beautiful, the way your lips parted, the way your body shivered under his touch. Your hooded gaze made his breath hitch.

All for me.

He pressed against you, feeling everything he always wanted, your thighs soft against his hips. His chest was going to explode at the noises filling the room, the lovely cries of yours that had been a mere fantasy to him.

“My pretty, pretty little thing,” he panted against your temple between kisses as you clung desperately to him, your back arching.

He’d tell you tomorrow, he swore to himself. He wanted all of this and he’d get his heart shattered into a thousand pieces trying to keep it.

Keegan wished he didn’t wake up from the best sleep of his life for a few more hours, but the soldier in him thought otherwise. You were in his arms in nothing but a t-shirt, the comforter kicked halfway off the bed. His gaze lingered on you. With the early sun caressing your flawless skin, you couldn’t be more beautiful to him.

“I love you, peanut,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

He thought he saw your lips curl into the softest smile. He let out a small chuckle before pulling the comforter over you and that’s when he saw it. From your hip down to your upper thigh ran a set of tan birthmarks resembling scratches.

Just like his scar from that night.

Fated mates share scars and/ birthmarks… Rejection would cause the werewolf to stay in his wolf form permanently by the 8th full moon…

His body went cold. You were his mate. If he thought your addicting scent was an amusing coincidence, it was undeniable now with the scar you shared. He counted, that night he bit you was the 6th full moon since he first saw you in the woods. The clock had started ticking long ago and he was none the wiser.

It dawned on him it wasn’t his imagination that his sight and smell became better, reflexes faster, that these bizarre impulses had been tormenting his mind as he neared his curse of eternal savagery.

He got dressed and left as fast as he could, being careful to not wake you. Back at his, he sat on the couch with a blank stare, Raider next to him, confused by his grave handler.

Am I dying?

Okay, no, he wasn’t, but he was turning into a wolf. He knew he said being a wolf wasn’t bad at all, but that was before you. Now he just wanted to be normal, to be with you.

What the fuck was he going to say to you? ‘Yeah, if you don’t return the feelings of the huge wolf from the woods who’s hopelessly in love with you and won’t let him bite your neck at the next full moon. Well, I’ll be that wolf forever and foam at the mouth from a broken-heart.’

What about his mum? His friends? ‘Last year a wolf attacked me in the field and I’ve been able to turn into one ever since. Oh, and because no one loves me, I won’t be human anymore so goodbye forever! Don’t come visit me in the woods if you don’t want rabies.’

What would he do as a wolf, nap all day? He needed a job. Would Elias consider a wolf a K9? If not, his deployment in two days would be one of the last. He’d never be able to hold a rifle ever again, cook grenades or toss flashbangs, or bark orders and scare the scrawny recruits.

What would he eat in the woods? Warm, raw meat sounded irredeemably revolting and riddled with pathogens. He wouldn’t be able to eat PB sandwiches anymore, nor his mum’s lasagna. It had been too long since he saw his family and had his mum’s cooking too. He missed them, and you hadn’t even met them yet.

It hit like a ton of bricks to realise how much he came to appreciate in the past months, how much he held close to his heart now. A striking contrast, when for years he gladly took risks, unattached to his life, ready to go to hell any day. But after you… With your laughter and company, the world seemed to not be half as bad at all.

Keegan was fucked. He didn’t deserve you. To have you return his feelings was too tall an order when you could have anyone. His chances were in the negatives.

But he had to tell you, even if you didn’t feel the same and he’d turn into a wolf next month. At least you had to know how he felt for you.

Consumed by his thoughts, he didn’t realise it was way past noon. He left without saying a word. Guilt-ridden, he reached for his phone to call you, but it rang in his hand instead.

It was Merrick, calling for an emergency shipping out. Immediately, Keegan packed and rushed to base with Raider. After a thorough mission brief and preparations, the Ghosts boarded the plane at sundown. It was then he realised he never got to call you. A text would have to do for now.

Peanut, I’m shipping out right now. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say bye. I’ll call you the first chance I get.

Close to 24 hours later, he finally made it to the safe house, but no message was waiting for him. He must have upset you for leaving. It was his fault for bailing whenever he panicked. He sat outside in the chilly night next to Raider and called you. Despite multiple attempts, they all went straight to voicemail. He sighed and the pooch licked his hand as if to soothe his handler.

Call me back, peanut. I miss you.

Another day passed and there was still nothing from you. He checked – the reception was good enough. His calls went to voicemail again.

Still waiting to hear from you. Please reply?

On the third night, still empty-handed, he borrowed Ajax’s phone. When asked what for, he glared at his friend who immediately dropped his teasing smile and averted his gaze. He dialled your number as his heart raced, clutching your handkerchief. He lingered before pressing call, dreading to confirm his suspicion. The call went through although unanswered.

You’d blocked him. It sent a pang to his chest. He understood what it looked like. After giving you the cold shoulder for a week, apologising and spending the most memorable night with you, he was gone again without a word before you even woke.

He realised he was the bad guy here, the fool too fucking stupid for his own good. He saw it now. He was the common denominator of all his failed relationships after all.

He tossed Ajax’s phone back to him, not caring that it landed on his ribs making him wince.

“Why, did you get dumped?”

He had no energy to respond. With a heavy sigh, he buried his face in his pillow. The lump in his throat sat uncomfortably. He wanted to scream, to go home and fix all this with you.

In his rush to leave, it slipped his mind to pack anything apart from your gift which he always kept with his gear on base. It had been months since you’d handed it to him, and despite his better sense of smell, there wasn’t much at all to satisfy the ache, his craving for you. He could only bare a few days without your scent – he knew the buzzing would be back soon and it was going to be torture.

He prayed he could hold on until the end of the mission. He had to, to not lose his shit and land himself in more trouble. Your gift would have to do.

Days later, when evac arrived at the LZ, Keegan was near to tears at the thought of finally finishing the mission, even that he had no idea what kind of mess was waiting for him at home. He was going to make things right, once and for all.

His relief was short-lived. As Raider jumped onto the helo, a bullet made home in the K9.

@tiredmetalenthusiast @shadofireshinobi @keegansshark @two-gh0sts @rowanyaboats @mangoguy @astraluminaaa @shadowlali @eve-lie @reelovesfictionalmen @writeforfandoms

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assmaster-8000 · 1 year ago

Note

rook showing his children the photos of you and him, back when you were much younger. there you were-- 18, 19, 20, 22.... the moments he captures ranges greatly. but they see one common denominator in each and every single moment of time rook has kept away; it's you, his spouse. he'd smile everytime he saw your youthful visage, reminiscing to them about all you had shared then. when he points to you, he almost forgets to finish his story. very uncharacteristic of him, but he can't help but be breathless at your beauty-- just how lucky he is to have made you his spouse! he had taken a picture of you when you first tried on the pomefiore dorm uniform; when you went out on your very first date with him, the one to the art museum; when you two had graduated; when you were touring the very first home you and rook were considering to buy-- the album is thick, the pages with you on them never ending. god, you were absolutely beautiful. you're beautiful now, of course. rook tells you nothing less, and they know that. but even the way the pictures were taken scream a pure love from the person taking them for their muse, as though they were nothing less than the most gorgeous art piece on earth. they get to brag about their parents being the equivalent of supermodels-- and happier than one will ever be.

but god. imagine they ever lost you too soon? ? the heartbreak would be unimaginable. rook would try to put on a strong front to provide support to his children, but inside, it's as though his own heart were ripped apart-- piece by bloody piece. death was natural, a fate that befell every human. he just... never expected it to come earlier. he thought he had time. he thought he'd see your pretty face embellished with even more wrinkles and spots from age. now he has to bid you adieu, and watch as the face he loves dearly is shrouded with a white veil, before he carries out the funeral rites he knows you'd have wanted.

he couldn't even muster up the courage to cry at your funeral. not in front of everyone-- not infront of the children you two so painstakingly and lovingly brought up. when he's alone in his room, is a different story. the children don't need to hear to know he's sobbing with despaired abandon into the pillow you used to lay on-- curled up on your side, in your blankets. it's agonizing. losing a parent you love just is. even more painful when they see just how big of a toll it's taken on him in the following days.

he doesn't eat as much- he's used to eating with you, laughing over trivial stuff in the day as you tenderly wipe away the remnants of food lingering by his lips. he's an elegant eater, never used to making a mess. he only did what he did so you'd have an excuse to touch him. it doesn't matter how he eats now. it wouldn't bring you back.

late at night, he can't even fall asleep, and find refuse in unconsciousness. he's too used to sleeping with you. for decades he had rested his head upon your chest, letting your heartbeat lull him to sleep. most of the times, you'd kiss his hair and your mumble verbal affections for him that always sent his heart racing. now, there's only the bitter reality the heart he always coveted rots below the surface.

his time is too free. his routine had always accounted for you, but now you're not here. so he devotes his time to his grieving children (he hopes they don't notice the growing gauntness of his cheek and the darkening circles under his eyes).

he'd always remind them that you loved them, that you dream for them, that you'd always be there for them-- whatever makes them assured, really. he'd share all your items with them. your lotion, your jewelry, your books, your clothes, anything, really... his fingers dig into his palm to leave behind bloodied crescent moons whenever his senses catch a hint of what was once you at all. just to provide himself something to focus on other than the acute pain in his chest at feeling you but knowing you're out of reach now, and seeing his child's eyebrows knit together with sorrow. they'd cry into his chest for days, weeks-- and at some point, it's too much. he cries with them.

every night after your loss is spent flipping through the mountainous albums he has of you. fondly tracing the outlines of your hair and your jaw and your visible body parts.

thank god the photos are shrouded in the plastic of the pages--lest his unstoppable tears ruin the best memories he has of you.

he wouldn't even consider getting a new partner. of course, one is always capable of loving even after loss. there's always happiness and joy to be had outside of tragedy.

but all he loved was you. you were practically a part of him and there's nothing he can do to fill the gaping maw of despair you left behind. he can't think of loving anyone else, when he vowed to only love you-- in sickness and in health, in life and in death. even if he could bring himself to go out on a date with someone else, the memories of the way you always looked at him so reverently when you went out on dates with drive him mad with grief. to kiss them? hold them late at night? do all the things you did together? it's sacrilegious.

your love was holy to him-- utterly divine. he is as lost as a devout follower at the demise of their deity.

like a sailor with the stars to guide them home.

like a hunter with no prey, no weapon, no nothing-- bare, out in the open, without even ambition to draw him along.

the garden you had would never fall into disrepair. he'd never allow what you built together to be reduced to nothing but bygones. though, the children begin to notice the garden brims with your favorite flowers only under rook's care.

GAUDJSHF?!? rook would be soooo hooked on his spouse long after they're married. you could have put on weight, gotten more wrinkles, greyed, literally gone through an insect metamorphosis, and he'd still smile way too broad and twirl his hair everytime you guys go out to eat. grown ass 48 year old man blushing when he receives flowers just like he did when he was 18. (natural or origami! he'd preserve the natural flowers to turn them into jewelery and place the origami ones by his nightstand. give him enough origami flowers and he'll put it every damn where in your shared space) anytime a man calls him a simp for loving his partner too hard his willingness to maim for his spouse doubles

- c

GOD YOU ARE SO RIFHT 💗 rook is so ugh, people had told you "he acts like this now, when he's older it will end, all the magic will end, it's too good to be true" but the day never arrived, even when you're both old and wrinkly, evem when you need assistance for living, rook still looks at you the same way he did when he first met you, that look will never fade because rook was never able to remove the arrow you shot from his poor little heart

#sorry he doesn't deserve happiness. need him DEAD

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blorbocedes · 2 years ago

Text

"Georgie, do you know you're a robot?" Alex says casually, but the way he's assessing George is anything but.

"Ha-ha." George says with a straight face. It's not like Alex to resort to the lowest common denominator jokes, George's heard it a thousand times, he's awkward, stilted, Pinocchio, robot. Alex usually aims deeper with his casual insults and leave George up at night discovering he has a new insecurity now. Once it was 'having a side profile that was in the reject pile for Roman coins.'

"No, really." The strangest thing is Alex sounds dead serious, no upturned quirk of his lips George knows is a giveaway when he's playing a joke. "Well. You have an override that deflects self actualisation. But robots aren't supposed to fall in love either, and you overrode that." Alex scrutinises him, voice calm.

"You're not being funny, Alex." George retorts, rubbing his palms against his thighs. It's weird, he can't see any of Alex's tells, as if overnight he became an excellent liar. What else has he lied about straightlaced like this, and George had no clue? He'd always prided himself on knowing Alex, better than anyone. It makes a panicky feeling bubble up, he doesn't like thinking of Alex intentionally being duplicitous; it's paranoid, it's unbecoming.

"Come on. Aren't there things that don't add up?" Alex urges gently, takes his hands, warm against his, which are slightly sweaty. He runs a thumb over George's pulse and George can feel it thudding. George looks up at Alex, confused why he's doing this. He's barely actually registered the consideration, too ridiculous to even think about, but rather why Alex is bringing it up. Is it his roundabout way of telling George he's robotic? They're going through the motions? He had thought things were going fine. Are they not adding up anymore?

It's a little bit insecure to say, 'are you breaking up with me?' at your boyfriend calling you a robot.

"Why are you saying that?" George asks, and it sounds more pathetic than he meant it. Would a robot be this emotional, Albon? A treacherous thought in his head betrays him, that of course he would be programmed to feel them.

"Nevermind." Alex sighs, looking disappointed. George hates disappointing Alex but he doesn't know -- should he have played along? Maybe Alex is bored of his robotic boyfriend who can't play along with a joke.

"I'm sorry." George blurts out.

Alex shakes his head, smiling now, squeezing George's hand one before letting go. "Got you. I'm sorry, it was a bad joke." His hands feel awfully cold now.

It's what George wanted to hear but now Alex sounds insincere, like he's trying to cover something up -- the Alex he knows how to read. Alex presses a kiss against his temple in apology, George's heart lurches the way it always does when Alex is this close to him.

"Seriously, don't even think about it."

George thinks about it.

He thinks about it a lot, at how honest Alex had looked in his assertions. He's in the bathroom, washing his face, Alex is in their bedroom putting something on the telly. His boyfriend. Why would Alex be dating a... not a real person, George wonders hysterically, staring at the mirror like his face holds the answers.

He frowns. If Alex was a robot, but he was still Alex, George would still be with him; no questions asked. They've already gone over the worm question, George would build a terrarium with plenty of enrichment.

Staring at his own reflection until his own face started looking strange to him. Too unnervingly blueish silver eyes, a chin that juts out too much, pores around his nose, patch of redness around his neck. All these little imperfections that pile on, why would someone create something and then give it flaws? That seemed antithetical. He sprayed water over his face -- doesn't short circuit like an iPhone charger because he's a real boy.

Things that don't add up... Alex had said. Everything added up, he had a pretty average childhood like everyone else, mum dad sister and a dog. University. Alex. Alex. Alex. It was all accounted for.

'Aren't supposed to fall in love either...'

George can't remember falling in love with Alex. He frowns. He has a million memories of him, all catalogued. From the smallest micro-expression change, to how his eyes light up when he sees a cat or how he groans before coming, shivering together when they got caught in the rain, their first real fight during a road trip and Alex's casual 'we'll wing it' and finding the motel they were supposed to stay at was booked finally getting to George's need for structure, apologies in the form of convenience store snacks and hooking up in Alex's shitty Toyota. All of those are real, tangible experiences. There is life before Alex but he doesn't put too much stock into it. There's life after Alex but George doesn't think about it, that's barely living.

There's a razor, beside all of Alex's hair dye products. George is relatively hairless, something Alex has harmlessly made fun of many times -- not being able to grow any facial hair. He's never dyed his hair either, in fact altering his appearance had never been something he'd considered, even as Alex went from red to blonde to brown; gorgeous in all. No tattoos, no piercings, not even a single scar from a scrappy childhood fight; completely unblemished, unchanged. Maybe it's arrogance, he knew he was perceived as handsome -- Alex certainly found him so, so why change what works already? He chalked it off to being conservative in his fashion sense, and risk averse to never offend anyone to get in a fight, rather than any conscious decision making to avoid it.

How's this for impulse decision making? George thinks, taking the razor and swiping his against dried cheek. He'd have a tiny scar, no more unblemished and perfect. A hysterical laugh bubbles in his chest if a copper asks what happened, Officer I gave myself an uppercut because my boyfriend played a cruel joke and I had to confirm my morality, no, please don't take him away.

He swipes it before he can think of why he shouldn't, a dozen reasons why forming an excel pros and cons list in his mind with the pros side blank. A frantic voice in his head saying he's being irrational, that nothing's going to come out of this and he's going to be feel real stupid. He's never hurt himself on purpose before. Alex is going to think he's such an idiot.

It stings.

George waits for the drop of blood.

Instead, he watches as his skin instantly heals itself where George had cut it, completely disappearing, leaving it smooth and unmarked.

"Bake-off's on, get in here already." Alex calls from their bedroom.

#galex #robot gr au #cw: self harm to confirm he's a real boy and not a bunch of wires #f1 rpf #my fics #this isn't Good but it came to me fully formed and I'm stuck in traffic #robot au

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bigskydreaming · 3 years ago

Text

Random scene from a casual not-therapy encounter between Dick and Bridget Clancy, his friend slash neighbor slash sorta therapist but not really from pre-Flashpoint.

Bridget rolled her eyes and tilted her soda bottle at Dick from where she curled up on the far end of her couch, knees pulled to her chest.

“Just as a fun little thought experiment, you ever considered the possibility that you’re not the cosmic jinx you assume yourself to be?”

“Gee, Clance, don’t warm up with a couple softballs or anything,” Dick blinked.

She made an unrepentant moue of her lips before chasing it down with another swallow.

“And here I thought jumping right to the challenging stuff was more your speed.”

“Touché,” he grimaced.

“That it is. So we going for another round of deflection, or you want to just skip to the part where you answer the question?”

Dick barked a hoarse, startled laugh and settled deeper into his corner of the couch. Ground his palms into his eyes til he saw stars. Settled some more. Looked for the trail of her thoughts, tried to skip ahead and box her in. Considered the notion that might be a bit counter-productive. Oh well. Nobody’s perfect.

“I mean, its not like I just woke up one day and thought to myself, hey self, you’re a curse on your loved ones,” he shot at last. Brazen and breezily, if he did say so himself. He had no problem with acerbic, but if they were gonna play this game no reason he couldn’t match Clancy’s typical ph levels with some acidity of his own. “The awareness has always just sorta been there, whenever I stopped to look at it, y’know? I mean, my parents, Jason, Joey, a good half dozen of my other best friends, family, teammates. There’s a pretty obvious pattern there, with a single common denominator of, well. Me.”

See? Perfectly breezy.

Her skeptical eyebrow did not seem to concur, but that was just because her eyebrow was a bitch. Not Clancy of course. She was lovely. Her eyebrows however, Dick could do without. Very judgmental. Rude, even.

“Ah yes,” she nodded, agreeing in that way of hers that he knew to mean she did not actually agree at all and she was about to make him feel particularly foolish. He braced for impact and questioned not all his life choices, but just the two or three hours leading up to the decision to plant himself on her couch in the crosshairs of her annoyingly knowing gaze. Why did he decide to do that again? He couldn’t recall, all of a sudden.

“Pattern recognition, of course, being one of the most basic tools of all detectives. Probably drilled into you from a pretty young age. All things considered.”

“All things considered,” Dick agreed easily enough, if not a bit cautiously. They both skated around open acknowledgment of The Secret like a pair of professional ice dancers. She just nodded again and cast her eyes around her living room, pulling another swallow of Diet Coke from her bottle as she did.

“Quick question.....that lamp over there, my armchair, the picture over the TV....hmmm.....the pot that plant is in, and that throw pillow. What’s something they all have in common?”

He sighed and humored her, dropping his palms to his thighs and giving the room a quick scan.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged after a moment, not sure what angle she was getting at here. “They all have at least some blue in them?”

“That they do,” she affirmed, tilting her bottle at him again in an ‘Attaboy’ gesture that deserved an eye roll at most. “And that pattern leads you to conclude....what about me, exactly?”

“That you like the color blue?” Dick asked dryly.

She snorted. “Thought you were supposed to be some kind of master detective. That a question or a conclusion?”

“Hard to conclude anything when I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Clance.”

“Exactly,” she crowed, shooting a triumphant finger at him in acknowledgment. “And y’know why that is?”

"Do tell.”

“Because pattern recognition isn’t about empirical proofs, you big lummox, its just an observational tool. And you know this! Our brains are hard-wired to see connections between things, whether they’re tiny pixels of light and color that combine to form a picture or points of information that add up to an answer or explanation of some kind. That’s why its great for detectives who have problems to solve, all kinds of questions to ask where patterns can reveal things about peoples’ behavior, connect bits of evidence, all that Law & Order shit. But you know what its not great for?”

Dick sighed and folded his arms across his chest, adorning his self-portrait of a dutiful student with a wry grin even as his mind raced about poking and prodding at the notion she’d presented. “Why don’t you walk me through to the finish line.”

“What its not great for is drawing conclusions about yourself when looking at your life, at yourself, as a problem to be fixed instead of just, y’know. Life. You. Not a data point in other peoples’ lives, but a person. Someone who exists in their lives not to form a specific picture or be an answer to an equation, but just to exist. Because that’s all we’re all doing.”

His jaw tightened and he chewed on that. Tick-tock went the clock. Again and again and again, the only sound aside from his thoughts until she declared it her turn to sigh.

“All those losses you see yourself as the common denominator in, you know what else they had in common? Mortality. We’re all common denominators in the eventual deaths of everyone we’ll ever know and love because everybody dies. We could all look at that pattern of dead loved ones and walk away with the conclusion that it all traces back to us, that we’re the one common factor in the lives and deaths of everyone that we know in specific. And maybe that’s a true pattern, but is it a pattern that actually means anything? Says anything about us?”

Dick blinked rapidly, rattled by the softness she’d draped her voice in. What did it say about him that he was more comfortable with the abrasive delivery she usually dealt in? He decided not to ask. She’d probably have an answer for him if he did.

“And what if the problem is we can’t help but see ourselves as a problem to be solved?” He picked at a rip in his jeans. “If the patterns we see aren’t because we stopped and asked ourselves an actual question, but just....had that awareness of seeing a pattern there one way or another?”

Bridget pursed her lips and contemplated that for a moment. Then she just shrugged again and gestured vaguely at her room. “Same items as before. Okay, so they’re all at least a little blue, what’s something else they all have in common?”

He heaved a slow inhalation, planted his palms on his thighs and obligingly cast another glance around the room.

“I don’t know. They’re all inanimate objects,” he offered.

“Bingo.” She tilted her bottle his direction again, a congratulatory cheers.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Dick said sourly. She just grinned.

“Oh please, you get to be a hotshot genius mastermind every other day of the week. Let me have my fun.”

He sketched a quick bow in the air, hands waving a dramatic flourish. “Very well. The coup de grace then, if you please.”

“The answer’s as simple as just....looking for another pattern. Whenever you notice that....awareness of a pattern that makes you feel some type of way about what your presence in other peoples’ lives adds up to.....that’s the problem to be solved. The way that picture, that pattern you’re looking at makes you feel. So? When that’s being a problem for you, just take a step back. Look at the picture again. And find another pattern. One that adds up to something better.”

She set her drink on the side table and twisted in her seat to face him directly. Leaned forward with intent. He’d object to how downright gentle she was being at the moment - definitely not their usual speed at all - but well, it wasn’t without its merits. Obviously. Given that somehow his body had transformed into a windchime of glass and sand and breath so fragile the wrong movement might shatter him into a million pieces. Fuck. When had that happened?

“I might not have known any of those people you’ve lost, but I bet you I could find a different pattern there myself,” Bridget said softly. “All those people shared a pattern of being treasured by Dick Grayson. And as far as common denominators go, that’s not one I think anyone would care to pass up on.”

He had no idea what to say to that, so he just bowed his head and said nothing at all for awhile.

When he did finally find his voice again, it only came in the aftermath of a great, shuddering breath that had him briefly shaking all over, like shedding himself of raindrops on his way indoors. She drew back, recognizing the effort for what it was, and picked her bottle back up, tilting her head back for a casual gulp that allowed the moment to shatter instead of him.

“So,” Dick said at last, forcefully grinning through the way the single syllable left his throat feeling raw and overtaxed on its way out the door. “That easy, huh?”

“Nah,” she shrugged without so much as missing a beat. “That simple, I said. Two very different things.”

He pursed his lips, considering the point.

“You could take pretty much any one of those fancy pants gymnastics tricks you do and break it down to its basic steps,” she continued. “A-one and then a-two and then a-three. They probably all look real simple on paper.....doesn’t make them easy to do, now does it?”

His grin firmed up, a little bit closer to being on solid ground. “Well, I am a professional, Clance. They’re all pretty easy for me.”

She smirked. “Sure they are. Now. Took a fair bit of time and practice to get to that point with ‘em though, didn’t it?”

He blinked.

“I just played myself, didn’t I.”

Bridget just shrugged again.

“Did you? I hadn’t noticed,” she said blandly.

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hongcherry · 4 years ago

Text

eleven || pjm

“After you and Jimin break up to pursue your separate goals to achieve life’s success, Jimin tries to rekindle the spark that’s been flickering ever since the split.”

🕚 Pairing: Jimin x exGirlfriend!Reader(f)

🕚 Rating/Genres: NC-17; Angst, song-inspired, exes to lovers

🕚 Word Count: 5.0k

🕚 Warnings: Major character death, brief description of death scene (blood, body position, scene itself), pet names (kitten), car crash, not happy ending

🕚 Betas: @hoebii and @moccahobi // The amount of feedback and comments I received were so overwhelming. I’m so honored to have you both beta this piece. I feel like I don’t deserve to have such amazing betas D: Thank you both for making this piece sparkle. The common denominator comment was “oh no oh no oh no” lol. Thank you for the great reactions.

🕚 Author’s Note: This is inspired by YUNGBLUD and Halsey’s song 11 Minutes (feat. Travis Barker). I really love the story they created and the mv always gets me so emotional. Dom’s explanation of the song is so heart-wrenching that I just wanted to write about it. I hope you enjoy it. I’ve had a really bad case of writer’s block lately, so I’m trying to break through that. That being said, I apologize if it’s a little bleh. Also, who would’ve thought fanfic would allow me to work on my editing skills. Kinda’ proud of the banner.

🕚 Song: 11 Minutes by YUNGBLUD, Halsey (feat. Travis Barker)

“Modern society teaches us that being successful or powerful is kind of more important than loving someone else.” - Dom, YUNGBLUD

bts masterlist | main masterlist

Success.

Power.

Success and power are vital in one’s life. Success means being financially stable while having power means having the opportunity to claim what you desire from anywhere, anyone, and however you might see fit. Those are life’s top priorities.

Be successful. Be powerful.

While love is powerful, it doesn’t equate to success. Find success. Obtain power. Then maybe you can find love.

Jimin scoffs as the shit advice lulls in his mind. He forms a trench in the middle of his living room. It was easy to believe those words once upon a time—a time when he sought advice from those around him in the crowded confines of high school. From teachers to advisors to parents to friends.

Success. Power.

But where did happiness come into play?

Was it supposed to be when he found success? Was he supposed to feel happy during his journey to success? Or maybe when he gained enough power to use others as carpet? When was he supposed to smile?

No one provided an answer to that.

The light from his phone blares in the darkness of his apartment that is near campus. His thumb hovers over the telephone icon as he debates with himself. He hasn’t spoken to you since you both went your separate ways three years ago. His eyes dance over the grey circle with your initials in the middle that replaced the years-old photo of your smiling face. He always found your smile painstakingly beautiful, but now it hurts in another way. He isn’t sure how long he can cradle his trembling heart in his hands before it crumbles in his palms.

Taking a deep breath, he slams his thumb on the screen harder than necessary.

Six rings.

Then a click.

“Hello?” Jimin’s voice is hoarse, filled with emotions he is slowly coming to understand. Resentment. Guilt. Fury. Sadness.

“Jimin?” Comes the soothing voice he’s heard echoing in his dreams. The dreams that involved you both in high school, sharing laughs in different locations—the classroom, the cafeteria, your home, the café near his home, your parent’s lake house. All the places he remembers fondly with you. It all comes flooding back with his name falling from your lips.

There’s a pang in your chest and you’re filled with disbelief as you wait for his reply. His name flashing across your screen yanked you back into the past so fast you were dizzy. There’s an inkling of happiness that feels foreign to you now. A feeling that was felt so regularly was shriveled throughout the years. Your heart hammers in anticipation, yearning to hear the voice you told yourself to get over repeatedly.

You were meant to be the “it” couple from high school. That couple that was disgustingly perfectly molded for the other. You were the couple that had their faces plastered in the yearbook’s superlative section for “Couple Most Likely to be Together in 100 Years.” It was silly to Jimin, but not to you. He wished that turned out to be true.

“H-hey,” he repeats, dazed with the memories of you.

“Did you need something?” Your voice is low, wavering, and unsure. Almost as if you would shatter glass if you spoke too loudly. Surely, he wouldn’t be calling just to chat. Not after years of zero contact. While you were hopeful, you were also leery of his intentions. He was never a manipulator, but your walls were too thick to allow a single crack.

“N-no,” then hurriedly, “I mean yes. I-” Jimin struggles for his words. He takes a deep breath, pauses, then releases gradually.

“How are you?” He tries again. There’s silence on the other end that stops his heart. He pulls the phone from his ear to check if the call is still connected. It is.

“I’m fine,” you reply curtly. You’re still on the edge, teetering on if you should hang up or if you should hear him out. There’s a sliver of wishfulness that he’s calling to tell you he wants you again. That he misses your touch and the sound of your voice. But that puts your heart on the line, and it’s already too fragile.

Jimin misses when your reply would entail a dramatic story of how your day went, even if he was there at some of the events. The short answer arouses a sense of detachment and he wants to pinch himself for allowing this to happen.

His pace across his living room slows.

“That’s good,” he answers. “Are you almost on summer break?”

Jimin glances at his couch, legs aching from how much he’s moved them in the last hour, but he’s still too nervous to sit.

“Yes,” you say slowly. Jimin can sense your uneasiness.

“Would you want to meet up soon then? M-maybe we can visit the café.”

Jimin doesn’t need to elaborate on which café he is referring to. After lounging in the café near his house for hours upon weeks, it became the third home for you both—your own homes, each other’s, then the café.

The hope in your chest begins to bloom along with your anxiety. Your heart races at the idea of being in close proximity again. To see the face you could never rid from your memory no matter how hard you tried.

Belatedly, “I’ll be in town in two weeks. Does eight work for you? I’m busy in the morning.”

Jimin opens his mouth to reply eagerly but stops himself. He feels you’ll scurry off if he’s too brash.

“Whatever works for you,” he says. He hopes you can’t hear the pounding of his heart over the line. “Eight is perfect.”

“Okay,” you respond. Jimin presses the phone closer to his ear as you speak, trying to decipher your emotions over the call. Were you excited like him?

“Okay,” he echoes. “I’ll see you then. I-I’m glad to hear from you again, Yn.”

“Me too,” your voice comes out as a whisper before the call flatlines.

Jimin’s hands are shaky when he pulls the phone from his ear. He locks the device then tosses it on the couch. He runs his hands through his unkempt hair as he exhales. His heart has yet to slow, making him feel the need to move in order to get the jitterbugs out of his system.

So he imprints his steps into his living room floor as he paces the small area again until the clock strikes two in the morning.

The café is a 15-minute drive from Jimin’s house in his hometown. Ten if he speeds.

Despite this, he is running late.

Two weeks whirled past him. The short, quick text messages exchanged between the both of you had Jimin’s palms sweat. In his three years of college, he’s never been happier. The messages occurred daily but the conversations never lasted more than an hour. He wasn’t sure if you were too busy or if it was just a coincidence. No matter, he would take the thirty-one-sentence messages rather than none.

The advice he remembered earlier rings in his ears as he rushes to find his misplaced car keys. His carefully fixed hair is becoming undone as he dashes around his home. Why did he consume their advice like they were sacred words? Would things have been different if he followed his heart rather than his head?

An exasperated huff escapes Jimin’s parted lips when he finally catches sight of his keys. He snatches them up, storms his way past his front door, and slides into his car.

Ten minutes.

He can make that.

The ride stirs a mixture of emotions in his chest. The familiar windings of the road have him recalling memories of the two of you.

“Don’t you know the eight ball goes in last?” Jimin chuckled as his gaze lingered on the pocket the ball you hit rolled into then to your remaining solid balls scattered across the green cloth. Your glare told him no.

“Claws in, kitten,” he teased and plucked the black ball from the pocket. He placed it back in its previous location then took a step back.

“Oh, look, the Time Fairy appeared and rewound time. It looks like it’s your turn,” Jimin nodded his chin toward the table. “Again,” he mumbled with a small smile that was a borderline smirk.

Your glaring lasted a few seconds longer before you lifted your chin and moved toward the table. Your eyes dropped down and found your next hit. You aligned the cue stick, narrowing your eyes as you calculated your angle, then made your shot.

Your shoulders slumped when the blue ball you were aiming for stopped a few centimeters short of the pocket. Jimin “accidentally” bumped into the table, causing the ball to slowly roll into the pocket.

“Wow! What a shot, kitten!” Jimin exclaimed, offering you his charming smile.

“I give up,” you whined and set your cue stick across the table. You peered up at your boyfriend with a pout. Jimin laughed at your dramatic expression, setting his stick with yours before enfolding your body into his strong embrace. His pillowy lips found yours easily, caressing yours in a soothing kiss—causing tingles to race throughout your veins. No matter how many times your lips locked, the love-sick feeling never ceased.

“You did great,” he mumbled into your hair after he pulled away. He sealed a second kiss to your forehead and you allowed your body to melt into his at the tender touch. “Just not as great as me.”

“Babe,” you groaned and pushed against his chest to leave his grasp. Jimin’s hold tightened.

“I’ll make it up to you and buy you whatever you want at the café,” he replied and began moving toward the exit with you by his side.

“But you do that already,” you argued and glanced up at him.

“Fine,” he paused as he held the door open for you before taking you under his wing as you strolled to his car. “I’ll let you pay this time.”

“Jimin,” you huffed, causing Jimin’s laugh to echo in the half-filled parking lot.

If he didn’t think success and power were more important than love, would he still be filled with regret? Would the regret have been about not achieving his career goals instead of letting you slip through his fingers? If you were on the same path, would you both be going to the same college as each other? Would you have stayed together even then?

Jimin’s knuckles turn ghostly white as he forces himself to slow his speed when he rounds the corner. The café is in his sights.

There is no point in dwelling on the what-ifs. It isn’t as if he hasn’t done this already. No matter how much he calculated his past actions, the equation never added up. There was always something changing—always another follow-up question.

Things were changing though.

It’s been long enough to realize the empty gap in his heart wasn’t due to him not making progress to success—he was—but it was the lack of happiness in his life. And the biggest source of happiness came from you. With the endless study nights, he rarely found time for himself. He isolated himself from others and dug his head into his books. He wasn’t sure if he was cramming his nights with textbooks to distract his mind from you or if he was really trying to stay on top of his classes. It was probably both, but he didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to admit he needed you because that would mean he was lied to all those years ago. That you were both lied to. That you didn’t need each other; you needed to be successful.

He can’t remember the last time his smile reached his eyes.

After being seated, his phone rings. It’s two minutes until eight.

“Hey,” he answers, voice sounding more cheerful than anticipated.

“Hi Jimin,” you reply, the sound of your blinker emitting in the background. “I’m eleven minutes away. Sorry, I’m running late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jimin replies, unhesitantly. “Take your time. I’m in a booth to the right when you walk in.”

“Sounds good,” you pause and Jimin can hear the churn of your wheels as you take a turn. There’s a silence that signals he should hang up, but he can’t find the strength to. There’s an odd sense of comfort in listening to your breath on the other line.

“I-I missed you,” you stutter after a moment, hesitant to reveal how you truly feel. Speaking it would make it true, and that worries you. After denying you still cared for the man for three years, it was difficult to allow yourself to be optimistic. You’ve been distancing yourself to keep your heart from fracturing for a second time, but as the days passed you just wanted to yank down your walls. So many jumbled thoughts are on the tip of your tongue. You have missed him all day. His face would appear every time you shut your eyes. He was prominent in your mind.

“I’m glad you called,” you add when you realize this meet-up was his doing. If it weren’t for his call two weeks ago, you would be hiding in your house as you shoved all the memories of you and him that this city resurfaced.

Jimin’s heart clutches in a way he hasn’t felt for years at your words. He stares out the window, watching as the last bit of sun disappears along the horizon.

“I missed you too,” he breathes out shakily. He swears he hears a sound akin to relief from your end.

“I’ll see you soon then.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”

Three words die on his lips as the call disconnects. It’s too soon to say those words again but after years of ending a phone call with them, it felt strange not to. Maybe he can get back to that point in your relationship. It will come easy to him to fall back into that pattern with you. It’s not like that feeling left his heart. His entire body is stained by you. He’s a fool to think he can scrub you off him.

The prospect of being able to hold you in his arms or feel the softness of your lips makes his heart somersault. Hell, just being able to be in a six-foot radius makes him giddy.

The thought of you moving on already is in the back of his mind. He knows it’s a possibility, but he will solve his emotions if that moment ever transpires. He’ll rather fantasize about you smiling and telling him you love him than frowning and saying you didn’t. Perhaps he is being delusional, but he will hold on to the hope you still want to rekindle what you both had.

As the minute ticks by, he grows disheartened. It’s been more than eleven minutes and you haven’t stepped foot inside the café. The coffee he ordered himself is becoming cold.

Perhaps there was traffic. There wasn’t any when he traveled, but maybe you were taking a different way. Or maybe he sounded too eager on the phone. Did that scare you?

The onslaught of questions pours on him as he bows his head and fiddles with his phone. You’ll call any second and tell him how you’ve hit every red light and were running later than planned. He’ll sigh in relief, tell you it’s okay again, and maybe he’ll get you to stay on the phone longer. The sound of your voice was comforting to him, and it made warmth spread throughout his body.

He holds onto that feeling while he waits for you.

The café is closing.

The staff tells him he has to leave and ushers him out so they can clean and go home.

Jimin is distraught.

His phone remains without notifications. He had heard you driving so surely you didn’t stand him up. But perhaps you were driving somewhere else and used that as an excuse to say you were on your way. No. That didn’t sound like something you would do. You wouldn’t go through that hassle instead of telling him a simple no.

Regardless, you don’t show.

It crushes him more than he’ll admit.

He sits in his car for a few minutes, thinking of what could have happened. He decides to drive the route you probably took if you were to go to the café from your home. Maybe he can find you stuck in traffic. It’s a silly idea, but he doesn’t want to believe you stood him up.

Just his luck.

There is traffic.

The cars in front of Jimin move at an agonizing pace. He’s tempted just to ring your cell and ask where you are, but he’s fearful he was right and you played him.

He drives at an odd angle to see if there’s construction. Instead, he sees blue and red lights flashing in the middle of the four-lane road. There are three police cars and two ambulances, but none of them have their sirens on.

When he nears the accident, he spots parts of debris from the vehicles scattered along the road. He slows down more as he passes, partly due to being careful not to hit anything or anyone and because humans are curious creatures.

Illuminated by the street and emergency lights are two cars—one bigger than the other. The smaller one is flipped on its top; some of its windows are broken. The bigger car is upright, the head crunched significantly. Something about the flipped car pings familiarity but he’s not sure why. Whatever it is though, it’s strong enough to make him detour and park next to an empty cop car. He can hear the police direct him to get back in his car and leave when he steps out.

Jimin tells them something, but he’s not even sure what he’s saying. He’s too zeroed in on the upended car.

It’s not until he rounds a police car to get a better look that it clicks.

There’s an “I ♥ Billiards” sticker on the car’s bumper that he pranked you with years ago. The packaging had said it was easy to remove, but from the torn, jagged edges and scratches across the surface, that was a lie. Despite the initial groans and whines from you when you first spotted it, he knew you were secretly fond of it.

The sticker is more tattered than the last he saw it. It is as if you had tried to unstick him from your life, but similar to the strong adhesive, it wasn’t completely successful. There were still remnants of him.

Jimin walks dazedly to the front of the car. He staggers on legs that feel like twigs, struggling to support his weight. The soft pink of his cheeks is draining before he sees it.

The sight has him immediately reaching for the cop car for support, but it does nothing to stop the buckling of his knees as they collide with the concrete. The pain in his kneecaps is nothing compared to the pain in his chest.

The flashing red and blue is reflected in your eyes that stare blankly into his. One arm lays limp outside your shattered window while your head rests at an uncomfortable angle. There’s blood on your body but he can’t see its origin from his blurry vision. He swears he can spot the slow rise and fall of your chest, but he knows in the back of his mind he’s just hallucinating. Your eyes are a portal to your emotions and he can see the remnants of remorse. The look resembles how you looked at him the last time he saw you.

“Have you figured out which college you want to go to yet?” You questioned while you sat up from his warm embrace. Jimin’s hand glided down your back as you repositioned yourself to straddle his lap. He followed your lead and shifted so his back was propped against your headboard.

“Yeah, it’s in Seoul so it’ll only be a three-hour drive to see you.”

You gave him a smile, but Jimin could tell it wasn’t filled with the happiness he expected. He didn’t like the way his chest clenched involuntarily.

“That’s great, babe,” you said, flickering your gaze to his chest briefly. Jimin could sense your detachment and it scared him.

“What’s wrong? Three hours isn’t that bad. I’ll come to you so you can stay in your dorm.” Jimin reached up, wrapped his hands around your wrists then gently tugged you to his chest. Before you could protest, he encircled your back with his arms. Jimin waited for your body to relax, as it usually did when you were in his arms, but it never did.

Silence filled the room. The pounding of your heart was loud enough for Jimin to hear and he wondered what happened to have you so distressed. As he opened his mouth to reassure you again, you spoke.

“I got a scholarship,” you blurted. Your eyes closed as you rested your head against his toned chest. Despite wanting to mold your body into his, you couldn’t block the anxiousness from seeping in.

“What?” Jimin asked and pulled you away slightly to look at you. “That’s great news, kitten. You’re too intelligent to not get one.”

You hummed, a shy yet melancholy smile forming on your lips. Jimin scrunched his eyebrows when he noticed your lack of excitement.

“Isn’t that good, Yn?” He questioned. You bit your bottom lip in thought. Jimin could see the war you were battling internally and it caused red flags to sprout.

“I-It’s in the States,” you stammered and searched his eyes.

Jimin’s arms tensed around you. His crestfallen expression had you break eye contact. It was simply too painful to watch his face crumble.

“I-” Jimin started but stopped himself. He what? He’d fly every weekend to visit you? Once a month? He didn’t have that kind of money.

“I can call you every day. We can video chat,” Jimin said suddenly, eyes filled with hope that had you falling more in love.

“Yeah,” you answered, but you didn’t believe your own words.

Jimin knew it was wishful thinking. Every long-distance relationship he’d heard of ended in failure. The video calls were sufficient for the first few weeks, but as the semester got crazier, the less time the couple had for each other. They would end up drifting apart regardless of the attempts to salvage whatever was left.

“I would’ve denied it if it weren’t for the scholarship,” you added. “The university also has the major I want. My counselors believe I can be really successful there.”

While there was a glint of excitement in your eyes, the sorrow overpowered it. Jimin nodded in understanding. He was told Seoul was his best opportunity to excel in his career field. How could he pass up the opportunity to be first in his classes? With the tough competition in his field, he could use any leverage he could get to rise to the top.

“I’m happy for you,” Jimin replied. He meant it. He was genuinely proud of you and you knew that. But it didn’t make anything easier.

“Thanks,” you mumbled. Silence loomed over you both as you each got lost in your own thoughts. Your eyes trailed over his features. From his plump lips to his scattered moles across his forehead. You memorized every detail of his face and as each detail filed itself in your mind, your heart grew heavy.

“We’re not going to make it, are we?” You questioned and moved your gaze slowly to his. His eyes were dark, swirling with affliction and dread. You could already see his defense walls rising.

“I’d like to,” Jimin answered softly. “But I… It’s unlikely.”

“I love you,” you declared abruptly, the urge to tell him one last time too strong to ignore. There was a desperation to your voice Jimin has never heard before.

“I love you more, kitten.”

Jimin’s voice was gentle and angelic. You were so engrossed in the way his voice engulfed you that you didn’t realize the fallen tear on your cheek. Jimin was quick to wipe it away with his thumb, the coldness of his ring making you shiver slightly.

“I should go,” he whispered, almost reluctantly. You nodded meekly and climbed off his lap. He gracefully maneuvered off your mattress and strolled to your door.

“I can walk you out,” you offered and forced yourself to meet his eyes. In the brief time it took to move from your bed to your door, Jimin had his own tears sliding down his rosy cheeks. You mimicked his earlier actions and smoothly wiped at his cheek. He faintly leaned into your touch.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, then with a deep breath, stepped away from you. His hand was on your door handle when you gripped his wrist.

“Wait. Please,” you begged. “C-can you,” you trailed off but glanced at his lips to indicate what you wanted. He seemed hesitant. His jaw clenched as he mulled over your request.

“Just this once,” he murmured and cradled the side of your face as he leaned in. “Just one more moment like this.” His breath tickled your face as he spoke.

The kiss was overwhelming. What started off as a gentle kiss quickly turned into desperate glides of lips and tongues. Both his hands were caressing your cheeks while yours clutched his lower back. There was no hatred in the kiss. You nor Jimin were upset with each other. You both had known this was bound to happen; high school couples rarely lasted after graduation. You told yourself it was just another hardship in your life. That letting Jimin go was the right thing to do. You didn’t allow yourself to imagine a life without him because then it would be too easy to follow him to Seoul.

Only when neither of you could breathe did you pull away. The gasps of breaths and harsh breathing filled your small bedroom. The rapid thumping of your heart matched his. He was the first to pull away.

He stared at you as he placed his hand on the handle again. Your eyes were wide, silently begging him to stay, but you knew this was for the best. This was destined to happen. This wasn’t going to work in the long run and you would need to focus on your studies more in college anyway. Maybe once you graduated from university could you try to reach out again. But who knows? He could forget about you by then. You had the briefest thought of if this was truly the route you wanted to take. Was everyone right to say you needed to be successful in order to thrive in life?

Before you could change your mind, Jimin opened your door and slipped behind it.

He had seen the turmoil behind your eyes. There was a flicker of tentativeness but he couldn’t allow himself to linger any longer than he already had. You had both known your fate. If you didn’t call it quits then, you would at graduation.

But maybe you could have made it work. Maybe if you both had just tried.

From the look in your vacant eyes, he could sense the same thoughts had run through your mind. Were your last thoughts of him then? Did you die regretting listening to the same foolish advice he has been pondering over lately? Had you wished you told him you loved him one last time? Did you die wanting to hear him tell you he loved you more? He’s reminded of the way those words got caught in his throat earlier on the phone with you. Suddenly those three words tastes sour in his mouth.

His eyes refocus on you in the car.

He can’t breathe.

There’s a firm grip around his throat, blocking his airway. He feels as if the grim reaper is sucking his soul out of his fragile body. He might as well be.

Jimin can’t stop the sob that rips from his throat as his hands dig into the floor, unknowingly pressing into glass shards. He can’t feel the coldness of the concrete, the impaling of the shards, or the saltiness of his tears.

The voices around him sound distorted. They’re slow, drawn-out, and distant; but they don’t echo.

There are hands around his arms that he staggers out of.

"Please,” he hears his voice faintly in his ears. Has he been speaking this whole time?

He doesn’t make it one step because the set of hands is on him again—more forcefully this time. He tugs on the restraint, freeing one arm, but that doesn’t aid him in his escape. He’s grabbed by a second person.

He drags his feet, creating a pathway in the debris when the people pull him away from the scene.

Away from you.

Cold metal is enclosed around his wrists before he’s tucked inside a vehicle. He belatedly registers that he’s been handcuffed and stuffed inside a police car. He stares outside the window. Your static face is still in view and he presses his forehead against the chilled glass.

He squeezes his eyes shut and feels the streak of tears fall for the first time. Memories of the two of you replay in the darkness of his vision. He slams his head against the window in anguish. He needs to feel something other than this suffocating guilt.

When he opens his eyes, you’re still there.

Would things have been different if he didn’t believe the advice and sought success and power? Would he still be able to cradle you in his arms and kiss your lips swollen?

There’s nothing stopping the torrent of questions from drowning him. Everything he envisioned for the two of you comes plummeting around his feet. He wonders if he will ever be able to find true success without you.

A shuddering whimper racks his body as he continues to torture himself by staring at your lifeless body.

He desperately wishes he could sell his soul for a bit more time with you.

A/N:

“We don’t realize how much we need something until it’s taken away from us. We are so distracted and focused on what’s next, we can fail to see what is actually in front of us.” - Dom, YUNGBLUD

©️hongcherry // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

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harrywritingsbyme · 4 years ago

Note

PLEASE WRITE SOMETHING WITH THE PROMPT “if the world was ending you’d come over right?” Could be smut or fluff

Break Up’s and Make Up’s

A/N: I decided on some fluff with a light sprinkle of angst. If you want to cry a little, I highly suggest listening to the song while reading this. Enjoy 🙃

Things didn’t work out between you and Harry. It wasn’t because the love ran out between you two, it was actually the complete opposite. Neither of you were able to explain the amount of love you two had for each other and you couldn’t even fathom the idea of loving someone as much as you two loved each other. You both thought that everything was great.

But after being together for about a year and a half, things started to go south for you two. The ultimate reason for you and Harry to drift and continue on into breaking apart was life. As much as you two were solid fixtures in each others lives, it didn’t stop them from going in different directions. Both yours and Harry’s careers were going full speed ahead and they were taking you both to the places you wanted to go. The problem made it’s appearance when it came to scheduling and actually making time for each other. It became such an issue that the times where you and Harry were supposed to be spending the much needed quality time together, you two were fighting instead. And the common denominator m to all of these fights was not being able to spend quality time together. It didn’t help that even when you two were together, you still missed each other. You two changed and grew apart so much that you couldn’t even recognize one another. You and Harry both wanted to get back to the amazing place you two were once in, but nothing seemed to be working.

Eventually you two became so fed up with the entire situation, that you two mutually decided to go your separate ways. The last thing you and Harry ever wanted was to develop feelings of hate towards each other. So even though it was beyond difficult to do, you and Harry broke up. The both of you thought that it was this decision was the correct, adult way things and that it was for the best.

But once the smoke cleared and you two really took the time to process what happened, you both realized that a big mistake had been made.

You and Harry thought that by splitting up, you were eliminating the possibility of losing each other. You two even thought that you were going to still remain close and be friends despite the break up. But that wasn’t the case at all. Neither of you could even follow through with calling one another. Every time Harry went to call or text you, his heart began to pound out of his chest, and he could feel the sweat forming in his palms. Right then and there, Harry’s mind would take him to places he didn’t want to go. He’d start wondering if you’d moved on and were happier without him, even though it was still a month or two after the breakup. He would wonder if you still loved him as much as he still did, even though you two weren’t together anymore. Then he’d drift off into blaming himself for not trying hard enough to try and work things out between you two. And he’d ultimately end up in tears, sometimes even crying himself to sleep.

You both tried to navigate through it all and figure out your feelings about everything that transpired, and eventually you and Harry did. After 7 months of not being together, you two reached a point of being simply okay with it. You two were still hurting though. But despite this fact, you and Harry managed to put all the pain you both were still experiencing into a box inside of yourselves. This box was filled with the memories and feelings that you guys did your best to keep locked away. You both pushed it to the farthest corners of your minds and you did your best to move forward. The idea of pushing those feelings to the side worked, but it wasn’t going to last forever.

This ignoring and pushing aside the feelings was thrown to the wind when you and Harry just so happened to cross paths. When you two were together, the pizza shop around the corner from your home became a staple for you and Harry. That was you guys’ go to place, and still to this day it was Harry’s. That’s one of the main reasons why you weren’t completely shocked to see Harry sitting at one of the tables when you walked in. The all black joggers and hoodie, with the white vans, and the hair clip resting on the top his head were all indicators that it was Harry too.

In that moment, you didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know if you were supposed to strike up a conversation or sit on the other side of the small restaurant and not say a word. You didn’t want to be childish and try to ignore him and his presence, but you knew yourself well enough to know that once you looked at him, you’d be a goner. You weren’t going to be able to hold back all of the feelings you’d been keeping inside for the last 7 months. While you didn’t want to do this, you also weren’t sold on the idea of striking up a conversation either. It was like picking at a scab that hadn’t fully healed. If you were to keep picking at it, which in your case was trying to converse with Harry, eventually the wound is going to bleed. By the end of it all, your emotions were going to be pouring out of you and nothing was going to be able to stop them. You’d be going into the situation completely blind, and the last thing you wanted was to rehash any old feelings you had towards and about Harry that would essentially take you back to the drawing board. Causing you to have to start all over again in trying to be at least okay with it all.

While you were caught up in your thoughts about what to say or do in that moment, Harry had already walked over and sat down right in front of you. Every time he came in there, he was hoping that he’d run into you. Even if you didn’t want him anymore, he still wanted to talk to you and apologize. He wanted to see you and try to form some type or relationship with you, even if he had to settle on being friends. Anything he could get with you would be a blessing. So when he saw you walk into the shop, he thought that it was now or never.

“Y/n” Harry softly says your name form across the table, reaching out to touch your hand. When you feel and hear him in front of you, your head immediately shoots up in his direction.

“Harry” you reply, trying to tone down and control the bewildered look that was on your face. “How have you been?” You ask him him, trying to make some type of a “normal” conversation.

“Um, I’ve been fine I guess.” This was Harry’s default answer to that question. He didn’t want to say that he was feeling the greatest he’d ever felt because it’d be a boldface lie. And even if he tried, he couldn’t lie to you. “How about you, how have you been?”

“Fine, just living I guess.” You reply to him simply, mirroring his response to you. Even though you and Harry absolutely hated dry conversations and small talk, the both of you were thankful for this one. The awkwardness would have been through the roof if you two tried to make the conversation interesting. “So how has-“ before you could finish your question, your orders are being called. The both of you quickly, almost too quickly, jump up from the table and rush over to pick up your food.

The two of you go without saying another word until you both were outside of the restaurant. For you and Harry, walking out of the restaurant would have been like walking away from each other. After saying the most awkward goodbyes in the world, and seeing Harry walk away from you, something just comes over you.

“Hey Harry?” You call out to him. You didn’t know if he was taking himself and the pizza in his hands to his new girlfriend or what, but you decided to just go for it. When he turns around your heart was pounding out of your chest, but that didn’t stop you. “I don’t know if you have any plans, but I was wondering if you wanted to come to my place. Just to catch up and stuff.” You ask him. “I completely understand if you don’t want to though!” You quickly add on.

“I was just gonna go home, but your idea sounds a lot better.” He says lightly.

“Well my address is still the same, so I’ll meet you there?” You say hopefully.

“I’ll meet you there.” He confirms, sending you a quick smile before getting into his car.

In the short five minuet drive to your home, your mind managed to go off in what felt like a million directions. You were just supposed to be going to pick up something quick for dinner after work. But now, your ex boyfriend was on his way to your place “to catch up”. As you two were going inside, it all felt a little bit like deja vu. Everything seemed familiar, from the way you two trailed down the hallway to your apparent with warm pizza boxes in your hands, to Harry kicking his shoes off at the door and dropping his keys in the dish the way he used to. Seeing this reminded you of how things used to be and you genuinely missed that.

It was the same for Harry. He missed doing this with you. All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they were and just be with you. He had so many feelings about entering your apartment for the first time in nearly 8 months. When he walked inside, everything looked exactly the same, all the way down to the blanket that was draped over the back of your couch. Being there felt like home to him and he genuinely missed that. The first 10 minuets of you and Harry being back in your apartment together were spent tying to muster up the courage to bring up the very uncomfortable elephant in the room. Neither of you knew exactly what to say. How do you ease into a conversation about a breakup that neither of you really wanted? How were you both supposed to talk about this without completely breaking down.

So that’s where you and Harry were. Sitting on the couch together, with untouched pizza and wine on the table. The both of you trying to figure out how to initiate the catching up you two were supposed to be doing. At this point, Harry didn’t know how much more he could take. He couldn’t just sit there uncomfortably with you and and not become emotional and bring it up.

“I miss you.” He says quietly.

“I miss you too.” You sigh. You could feel the lump forming in your throat and the tears welling up in your eyes.

“What happened to us?” He continues, his tone carrying a mixture of heartache and disappointment. Harry was feeling the abundance of emotions that he’d been holding onto for months now beginning to spill out of him.

“They say good things don’t last forever.” You say downheartedly. When you finally muster up the courage to look at him, you wished you didn’t. You could see the pain in his eyes. You’d never seen seen him so heartbroken and defeated before.

“But we were supposed to.” Harry whispers back to you. That simple string of words opened the large floodgates of emotions that the both of you were trying to hold back all of these months.

“I know!” You stress, bringing your hands up to your face. “And I’m sorry.” You finish, giving up on trying to stay strong and just completely breaking down.

Seeing this was like someone took the knife that was already inHarry’s heart, and just turned it, making the pain even worse. He couldn’t stand to watch you, the woman that he loved more than anything, blame herself for the downfall of their relationship. If anything, Harry blamed himself for not trying harder to keep you guys together. As if it was an instinct, Harry moves over to your end of the couch and pulls you into him. When he does this, the tears come down harder

“Look at me.” He coos to you, pulling you away from him to get a better look at you. When he sees your bloodshot eyes and tearstained face, he lost it. “It’s not your fault baby.” When Harry says this, his voice cracks. He couldn’t hold back anymore. “I’m sorry for not trying hard enough to keep us together.” Harry whispers to you, cupping the sides of your head to look you in your eyes. “It’s nowhere near being your fault, and I don’t ever want you to think that. Okay?” He stresses as the tears fall down his face. All you do, or could do was nod in response. Even though he said this, you still carried so much guilt for not trying as hard as you should have.

Harry then pulls you back into him, holding you as tight as possible. He was holding you as if you were going to slip out of his grasp and leave him again. He didn’t want to be away from you the way he was for the past 7 months.

“I love you so much.” You mumble shakily into his neck.

“I love you much more than you know.” Harry says earnestly.

Even though you both were sobbing, being back in each others arms was the best feeling the world. Some days you thought that this moment would ever happen. You felt like you’d lost Harry forever. You thought that you’d lost the best thing that ever happened to you. And Harry thought that he’d lost the best thing that ever happened to him. Sure you and Harry were going places and doing amazing things in your lives, but not having your soulmate by your side was the absolute worst feeling in the world. Finally having this moment to reconnect and come back together and fix things was something neither you or Harry would ever take for granted.

The two of you just sit there, tightly wrapped around each other. You stay like this for a little while longer before finally pulling away from each other.

“We’re gonna be alright. Okay?” He says tugging your hands into his. When you give him a nod yes, Harry is quick to stop you. “I need you to say it. Tell me we’re going to be alright.” Harry begs.

“We’re going to be alright.” You repeat giving him a confident smile. “Not to break up the mood, but can we heat this up and eat now because I had a long day and the crying didn’t help. I’m starving.”

“As you wish.” Harry says with a chuckle, removing his hands from yours to take care of the now cold food on the table.

For the rest of the night the two of you sit together on the couch, while going to town on the pizzas and downing the bottle of wine. You and Harry were not only catching each other up on the last 7, almost 8 months of your lives, but also reminiscing on the great times you two had together and talking about your future and the goals you two had for your relationship. Eventually you and Harry were completely out of it. As you and Harry were drifting off to sleep, you asked him one final question.

“I have a hypothetical for you.” You begin.

“I hate those things. If I give you an answer you don’t like, you can’t blame me for that. I just stuffed my face with pizza and I’m a little wine drunk.” Harry grumbles to you.

“Okay, just hear me out.” You reassure him. “So it’s the end of the world okay?” You begin the scenario.

“Mhm” Harry hums back, his interest now peaked towards what you’re saying.

“Alright. So, if the world was ending and I called, would you come over?” You ask.

“I’d drop everything to be there with you. And just so you know, it wouldn’t take the end of the world for me to come back to you.” Harry says softly to you. “What about you?” Harry questions.

“I’d do the same. You’re the first I’d go to in then, now, and every time in between.” You reply, turning your head up towards him. “I’m glad we’re back.” You whisper to him.

“I’m glad were back too babe.” Harry whispers back down to you. Before you knew it, Harry’s lips were pressed against yours. It was a feeling that both you and Harry terribly missed.

You and Harry knew that you guys had a long way to go when it came to getting back to a better place in your relationship. But despite this bump in the road, the both of you felt confident that you guys would not only be alright, but you and Harry were going to make it to forever.

Masterlist

#Harry Styles #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles angst #harry styles x reader #harry x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles writing #my harry writing #concepts of h #harrywritingsbyme

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earthfluuke · 4 years ago

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tine teepakorn is a very important boy to me, and i don’t think i’ve expressed that a lot. hopefully, this fic does just that. everything in here is incredibly true and personal to me. and seeing how so many people relate to tine, i hope others can relate as well.

after some reflection on the show (and after a discussion with @emisfritish), i realized that despite how different type and tine are, they have something in common: they both have a ton of anxiety and a constant need to be perfect. they just express that in different ways. there was only one common denominator i could find: their parents.

i hope you all enjoy this! and tine...i’m so sorry, you have become the punching bag for all my insecurities.

Tine Teepakorn is confident. He’s charismatic and cool with a perfectly prim image. His Instagram aesthetic is carefully crafted, and each picture is chosen with the utmost care. He’s well groomed, has impeccable style, is the epitome of chicness.

Tine Teepakorn is confident, because that is what he wants people to see. It is much easier, much more widely accepted, to be the shoulders back, chin held high type of guy rather than the one with nerves bubbling in his stomach or swirls of self-sabotaging thoughts whipping through his head.

It’s easier, until he goes back home. Until it’s eyes focused on his plate, monotone answers to monotone questions, snide remarks that are meant to go in one ear and out the other but instead stick to his brain and batter his heart.

Being at college with people who care, with people who know him, has blurred the lines of what is okay where. His excitement about making the university cheerleading team is met with praise and congratulations at school. Here, it’s the scrape of a knife against ceramic, downturned eyes that don’t meet his own, the sneer of, “cheerleading, Tine, really?”

He sinks back into his chair, takes a long sip of water. This is who Tine Teepakorn is. He’s bubbly and fun and more insecure than he will ever admit.

…

“Breathe, Tine,” Type soothes softly. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

Holding his brother’s hands, Tine squeezes as he desperately tries to take in air. His breath is staggered, stiff, quick, and everything is spinning. A numbness aches through his body as he tries to remember what his father had said to send him into this spiral, but nothing comes to him.

Whatever it was, it had to have been bad if he’d excused himself to the bathroom in the middle of dinner, only to be found by Type when his parents started the dishes. It isn’t their first time in this position; it won’t be their last.

He can vaguely make out voices through the cracks in the door. Hushed and muffled, they speak fast, tones harsh. Eyes blown wide, they hyper fixate on the yellow light streaming in from the kitchen. What they’re talking about isn’t clear but who they’re talking about is crystal.

Before his breath can pick up pace again, Type tugs on his hands, pulls his focus back to him. “Look at me,” he says, just the right amount of calm and serious. “Only at me. You’re okay. Keep breathing. Like me, watch.”

They stay there for another ten minutes, until Tine’s breath is no longer ragged. Type fixes the shirt collar he’d viciously pulled at and pushes his hair back into place. He then asks if he’s okay, and Tine can only nod; because that’s what he must be as he forces a neutral smile back onto his face and leaves the bathroom to reenter the lion’s den.

…

His only solace is his mother’s cooking. It’s warm and comforting and gives him something to hold onto when the tidal waves come and try to knock him overboard.

But then there’s the disapproving hum, followed by, “your body is going to catch up to all that sooner or later.”

He drops the spoon he’s holding, forgoes the idea of a second helping. He’s become so accustomed to late dinners out with his friends and the snacks Sarawat gives him from his ever growing pile of fan gifts that he’s forgotten the countless times his father has made the remark before.

…

Silence is better than defense. It’s something he’s learned long ago. Arguing is futile, because I am right; you are wrong. It’s tiring, more work than it’s worth.

There’s no fight in him when he relays his first semester results. They’re nice, high marks, but that doesn’t mean they’re enough.

“Your brother was in much better standing his first semester of college,” his father says. Nothing follows except a swig of his wine and a heaviness in the air.

Type looks like he wants to say something, to jump to his side and make things better like big brothers should. But Tine shoots him a look, one that begs him to stay quiet, lest the real claws come out. In comparison, this is barely a scratch.

Bless his brother; he says nothing, only lets out a breath from his nose and chews the inside of his cheek. He’s clearly conflicted, wants to do something more, but this is enough for Tine. Supportive brothers take out some of the sting that comes from unsupportive parents.

“I’ll get them up,” he says. There’s no response.

…

Returning to his apartment after the weekend ends is always the same. It’s quiet, dark, something smells good. By the time his shoes are off, Sarawat is by his side, and in an instant, Tine is falling directly into him.

Everything is clockwork from there. Arms wrap around him and hold him tight. Neither of them speak. Sarawat has never asked about his trips home; not because he doesn’t care, but because he knows Tine wants to leave that at the door and lock it away from the safe space they’ve created in this apartment.

He has so many questions; Tine can tell from the tension in his jaw and fire in his eyes. He wants to do better, help more, but just having him here to care for him is enough.

From there, they find themselves in the kitchen. A bowl is pushed in front of him, and even though he claims he’s not hungry, Sarawat pushes a fork into his palm. Yes, you are, it says. You’re starving.

And he must be with the way he clears the dish in no time. It’s not the same as the family recipes his mother prepares for him, but Sarawat doesn’t hesitate to refill his bowl and offer him more. There’s a warmth there that doesn’t come from the food.

Shower, pajamas, under the covers. Their routine ends when Sarawat offers him a place on his chest, and he takes it. Feeling his steady heart beat and his fingers through his hair brings Tine back to the place he’d left a few days prior. It’s the place he always wishes to be, but that is simply a luxury he can’t be granted. At least when he’s with Sarawat, he never has to leave.

…

He has been dating Sarawat for six months, three weeks, and two days when his father says, “Now that you have a proper job, it’s about time you start looking for someone to settle down with. Don’t you think, Type?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tine sees his brother’s shoulders hunch. He says nothing, only gives a stiff nod before shoving a spoonful of rice into his mouth. He’s then given a list of criteria that their father finds fit for a Teepakorn son, but Tine has stopped listening.

He and Sarawat haven’t made a formal announcement that they’re dating, but everyone knows. They’ve never hidden who they are to each other; there’s always been Instagram posts, hand holds, flirtatious teasing in the back of the music club room.

The logical next step is to tell their families. Phukong knows. Even though she hasn’t mentioned it, Tine has a sneaking suspicion Sarawat’s mother does as well. Maybe it’s time his family knows.

He has a lot to think about.

…

Tine doesn’t blame Sarawat for the look of confusion he sends his way; he would have looked the same if he was in his shoes.

“You want to introduce me to your family?” he asks, words sounding unsure on his tongue.

Sitting next to him on the edge of the bed, Tine, unable to meet his eyes, looks to his knees. “I want them to know who I’m dating. Since, you know, I’m pretty serious about you. If you’re really it for me, I want to tell them.” Fingers digging into the underside of the mattress, he adds, “But if you’re not ready for that, I won’t force you.”

Sarawat’s hand finds his hair and pushes some back behind his ears. When Tine finally looks up, he’s offering him a soft smile. “If that’s what you want to do, then I’ll be right there with you.”

Returning the grin Sarawat sends him, Tine lifts a hand to grab one of his and squeeze. It’s reassuring to know that no matter what happens – and he has a sneaking suspicion something will – he has Sarawat by his side.

…

Just like every other person who has ever met him, his parents are taken with Sarawat the moment Tine walks him through the door. They barely make it to the dinner table before his father is talking his ear off, asking him every question under the sun.

“You’re in a band, you said?” he asks as he cuts through his slice of meat. “What instrument do you play?”

“Guitar, sir,” he answers. Tine doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so formal. He’s trying hard to make a good impression, and it’s just as sweet as it is worthless. His words mean so little in the eyes of the one who is always in the right.

He hums in thought and sends a grin over the rim of his wine glass. “Very impressive.”

“Actually,” he adds. “Tine has been learning how to play too, and he’s improved a lot.”

Cut off before he can say more, his father continues, “You’re on the football team too?” You could teach Tine a thing or two. Maybe then he could join his faculty’s team next year.”

Clearly taken aback, Sarawat swallows hard before commenting, “Well, we wouldn’t be anywhere without our cheerleaders.”

Tine bites his lip. He knows what Sarawat is trying to do, and while it’s sweet, he wishes he would stop. He doesn’t know – he couldn’t know, because Tine has never explained any of this to him – but it will only make the situation worse.

“Oh? Someone special on the team?” he infers. “What is this lucky lady like?”

“Well…” Sarawat begins to say, voice trailed off and unsure.

“That’s actually why I invited him here,” Tine picks up for him, voice shaky. His heart beats double in speed, but he doesn’t stop himself. He wants this to be said; he needs it to be. “You see, Sarawat and I–”

“She must be quite the catch to land a young man like yourself, hm?”

“What I’m trying to say is that we–”

“Perhaps she has a friend you can set Tine up with? He’s never been very good at finding someone for himself.”

“It’s me!”

The table grows silent, and the air suddenly feels cooler. A shiver runs down his spine as all eyes look to him in varying degrees of emotion. The floor feels as though it’s dropping out from under him, but he uses the table as an anchor. Holding on tight, he hardens his jaw. He’s pent up, and he’s so very, very tired. This has to be it.

“Sarawat and I are dating,” he says, the smallest bits of confidence holding his chin up. “That’s why I brought him here. To tell you that.”

It doesn’t surprise him that his father is the first to speak. “You’re dating,” he says, not believing it until he says it himself. The confusion turns to shock then to anger, and he whips his head to the opposite end of the table. “Did you know about this?”

Slack jawed and wide eyed, all Type can do is stare, and for once, Tine is the one doing the protecting. “Leave P’Type out of this,” he says. “This has nothing to do with him.”

“And what were you going to prove by bringing him here?” he barks. All of that praise he’d had only moments ago is gone as he bores fire into Sarawat. “Did you think we’d be so quick to accept this? To welcome him into the family with open arms?”

He doesn’t know what he expected. All he knows is that he doesn’t want Sarawat to be a secret, that he doesn’t want to hide. He’s not ashamed of them. And there had been a smidge of hope that his parents wouldn’t be ashamed of them either.

But that hope is dead and gone as he looks his father in the eye for what feels like the first time in years. He’s always ducked his head, found a piece of a wall more interesting, shut them tight in fear of what he’d see if he opened them. Not this time.

“I didn’t bring him here for you to accept us,” he says. “I brought him here to tell you that we’re together. And now that I have, we’ll be going.”

Chair scraping against the wooden floor, he pushes it back under the table as he looks at his mother. Always silent, never one to disobey who she’s been convinced is in charge – of her, their family, the entire world – she stares at him with a mixture of sadness and distrust. “Thank you for the food,” he says.

Turning on his heel, he goes for the door. Another chair scrape alerts him that Sarawat is following him, and his hand just meets the knob when his father shouts, “It will never last, you know. Not just because you’re two men. Has Tine told you about his past relationships?”

Every drop of confidence – and there are so few of those – flows out of him and leaves him cold. Replacing them are the bitter, awful thoughts he’s done so well to keep at bay. They’re the ones that tell him that Sarawat can do far better, has a line of potentials that reaches the entire length of Thailand waiting for him. Earn and Pam are just the start; there are so many girls, boys, people they have yet to meet who can outshine him and uproot his spot in Sarawat’s heart.

“None of them have lasted,” his father repeats, as if to wedge the knife in deeper. “What makes you think yours will?”

Sarawat replies before any words can even come to mind. “I can’t speak on Tine’s other relationships,” he says. “But I can speak on mine. I love your son, and I believe him when he says he loves me. I’ll be with him for as long as he’ll have me.”

Gently taking his hand from the door, Sarawat opens it for him. As he leads him out, he leaves them with, “And when he tells me that’s forever, I trust him.”

…

They sit in his parent’s driveway until he’s breathing normally again. He just manages to get his seatbelt buckled when he hears the shouts of “Tine!” coming from the front porch.

Type runs to the car, waits for Sarawat to roll down the window, but he says nothing. Their eyes lock, and there’s a silent understanding. There’s guilt in his gaze, apologies that go unspoken. His face is heavy and sad, and Tine wishes he could say something to comfort him but nothing comes out.

It’s Sarawat who speaks up, “Do you want to get out of here?”

Glancing back towards the house, bottom lip worried between his teeth, Type doesn’t answer, but Sarawat seems to understand. Unlocking the doors, he nudges his head towards the empty back seat. “Get in,” he says. “I’ll drop you off at Man’s.”

Engine roaring to life, they back out onto the street, and slowly, the lights dim in the distance. The irony is, the farther away they get, the brighter Tine feels.

…

“I can’t believe them,” Sarawat mutters. The two of them have cocooned under the blankets, tucked together as closely as possible. “I had a feeling it was bad, but I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“It’s okay,” Tine soothes, a hand petting over his chest next to where his head lays.

“No,” he says seriously, arms tightening around him. “It’s not okay. Don’t ever think that.”

Fingers curling into the fabric of Sarawat’s night shirt, he murmurs, “But this…we’re okay. Right?”

“Of course we are.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. Hands cupping the sides of his face, Sarawat drags him up to look at him. “Who you’ve dated, how long you’ve dated them, doesn’t matter to me. What matters is how you feel about me. And I meant it when I said I believed that you love me.”

Stroking his thumbs over his cheeks, he says, “I don’t care about the past; I care about the present.”

“And the future?” Tine asks, smiling into the kiss he presses into his lips.

“Especially the future.”

Tine Teepakorn is a lot of things. He’s confident, yet insecure; happy, yet so terribly anxious. But regardless of who he is, he finally has a place where he belongs. There are no blurred lines, no doubt. It doesn’t fix everything, doesn’t solve all of his problems. But it certainly makes things better.

#2gether #2gether the series #saratine #sarawatine #sarawattine #sarawat x tine #fic #fanfic #my writing #this is very meaningful to me #and it's kinda scary putting this out there but ya know #it's important

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makaylajadewrites · 4 years ago

Text

Almost Heaven

Summary: “You’re a very fascinating man, Spencer,” Hotch said simply in response, a suggestive message going unsaid. Reid frowned a bit, looking down to see that his wine was already more than halfway gone. When did that happen?…

This wasn’t mindless sex. This was love, existing between the two of them at degrees unquantifiable by mere human tools. It was perfect, and Spencer tried to imagine the rest of his life without experiencing this moment.

Pairing: Hotch/Reid

Potential tws: Smut, unrequited love, cheating/infidelity, angst

Word count: 3727

Read on AO3 here

Hotch had been staring at him all day. He could feel those dark, dangerous eyes tracing the shape of his figure while his nimble fingers worked over the map, pushing in color-coordinated thumb tacks. Red for dumpsites, blue for locations of interest, and black for local hotspots. That was only relevant because their four victims all happened to be teens and young adults, so by determining where they spent most of their time, they might be able to determine the common denominator between each victim.

But he couldn’t concentrate with Hotch’s constant and unwavering gaze. It was enough to make Reid somewhat uncomfortable, and the squeak of weight lifting off of a chair was enough to send a shiver up his spine. He didn’t look back, trying to keep his attention on the map in front of him when Hotch came to stand directly beside him. The lack of space between them was anxiety fueling for Reid, and he slowly turned his head to acknowledge his superior with a quirked brow, though the way his bottom lip caught between his teeth didn’t go unnoticed.

Hotch eyed him with an intense, yet oddly expressive look, and it sent a shiver directly down his spine. “Sir?…” he questioned, his voice cracking from his nerves. They had both been making predictions and voicing theories, and the sudden change from Hotch was a little disconcerting for Reid. He didn’t let it show though, save for the apparent confusion on his face which Hotch barely even paid attention to.

“I have a proposition for you, Spencer,” he said out of the blue, and Reid jerked his head upwards in surprise towards his unit chief, the mere two inch height difference now seeming bigger than ever. He felt small, insignificant beside his superior, but the eye contact between them never wavered.

“A proposition?” he parroted, feeling his heart racing in his chest now, faster than ever before.

“Yes,” Hotch confirmed, his voice low, enough to make Reid aware that he was being quiet on purpose. “After this case… We should blow off some steam together. Maybe some drinks at my place,” he suggested, and Reid swore his eyes had bulged out of his head from the shock of the statement, and a familiar tingling built up in his stomach.

“Wh-Wha-Sir, th-that’s… we can’t—“ Reid’s incessant rambling was cut off by a finger pressing to his lips, and Hotch acknowledged him with a strangely humored quirk of his lips and rise of his brows. Spencer felt his cheeks burn, and the blush on his face and neck was prominent. “Reid, if we aren’t at work, we can be friends. You’re friends with Morgan and JJ right?”

“And Penelope and Emily…” he hummed in embarrassment, and the chuckle that rumbled above him was uncharacteristic enough for Spencer’s eyes to fly upwards again.

“Exactly my point. Relax, it’s not worth stressing over. You can always say no, of course,” Hotch reminded gently, his hand gently coming up to cup the curve of Reid’s elbow, and Spencer couldn’t help the instinctive flinch at the unexpected contact, but Hotch’s hand didn’t move and he felt an odd sense of calm from its stabilizing hold. He nodded and swallowed nervously, forcing a smile on his lips since it was very difficult to tell a man like Hotch no.

That lingered on his mind all day, and Reid found himself both nervous and excited at the prospect of spending time with a man like Hotch.

Spencer had known he was abnormal for a long time. Ever since he was a kid, really, since he had never been able to fit in with the others. But that probably had something to do with the age gap between him and his peers, because while Spencer was barely on the cusp of puberty, the teens in his graduating class were nearly full grown adults. They had explored their sexuality, grown into themselves and expanded on their ability to network with others. But Spencer? Spencer was still just a child; he had no idea who he was yet, despite the fact that he could solve the most complicated of equations within a matter of seconds. He was inexperienced even now at the age of twenty-four. He had never kissed anyone before, not a man or a woman.

Aaron was definitely handsome to Spencer, even if he was ten years his senior and, most importantly, married with a baby. But growing up the way he had, he was more accustomed to spending time with people who were older than him, which probably explained why he found older people more attractive. They were mature, grown up, and much more responsible than young adults like himself. Even he was an old soul, preferring a good book and a cup of coffee over blinding club lights and sickly sweet alcohol.

Spencer, despite his participation in sexual activities, liked to identify himself as bisexual. The older he got though, he realized he had a lean towards men over women. Women were pretty, men were handsome, but something about being with a man seemed more appealing to him. A lot of women were attracted to the typical alpha male, and Spencer was honestly no different. He found Derek attractive for one, but they were better off as brothers than lovers. Besides, Derek was as straight as they came, and he couldn’t possibly hold any interest in men, least of all Spencer Reid. But Aaron? Aaron Hotchner was on a whole other level. Even if he was married.

That was probably why Spencer had been able to convince himself that spending time with Aaron might not be so bad. He sat in his car, parked across the street from the Hotchner house while scrubbing his sweaty palms over his dress pants. He still had on his clothes from work that day, although his sweater vest and tie were absent and currently on his bedroom floor. His coat was wrapped around himself, his thick glasses perched on his nose. He was biting his lip, gnawing the sensitive flesh between his teeth while staring at the lighted porch, noticing that only one car was in the driveway - Hotch’s car. This was beginning to look more and more like a suggestive escapade, and he was growing anxious.

He needed to get himself together.

This was just two friends hanging out after work, having a few drinks, doing guy things.

That was all it could be. Hotch wouldn’t cheat on his wife and Reid would never let it get that far.

With a deep breath, Reid got out of his car and stepped foot on the porch, his trembling hand wrapping against the mahogany. God, he was nervous, more nervous than he should have been, and he was afraid of embarrassing himself in front of Hotch, a man he found both attractive and admired deeply. This was a terrible idea, but he didn’t have the chance to back out, because soon, the door opened and there stood Aaron, as casual as could be, wearing a pair of jeans and a dark, v neck tee shirt.

Spencer felt like a fool, more than he ever had in his entire life. He was so insignificant compared to Hotch, even now, outside of work hours. Hotch was a handsome man, married with a kid, he owned a house all his own, a nice car, and still, he could look at Spencer and make him feel things he had never felt before. It frightened him a bit, and it made him somewhat worried about what was to come. He paled in comparison to Hotch, and Reid was definitely feeling that now, dressed like he was while Hotch was as comfortable as could be in normal out-of-the-office attire. He should have just left when he had the chance, just drove away and gone back home where he felt safe in his little bubble with a book and—

“Come inside,” Hotch said as friendly as could be, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. Reid’s lashes fluttered in slight apprehension, but he entered the house and stood awkwardly in the foyer while Hotch closed the door behind him. “I have bourbon and wine. The wine is Hailey’s, but she won’t mind,” he said dismissively, and Reid watched incredulously as Hotch strode across his living room in the direction of the kitchen as if this were the slightest bit normal.

“I-I can do a glass of wine…” he settled eventually, Hotch’s inquisitive stare meeting him from the kitchen.

“Good. Make yourself comfortable,” Aaron said calmly, and even though his nerves were on high alert, Spencer did just that. He slipped his coat off before sitting on the couch, holding it awkwardly in his lap while he waited tensely for Aaron to return. Alcohol was definitely sounding better and better. He needed something to help him relax anyway. Aaron eventually came back, carrying two glasses; wine and bourbon. Spencer took the wine glass hesitantly, and the second their fingers brushed together he felt a spark shoot up his arm, but he knew it had to only be him since Aaron didn’t react at all.

“I’m surprised you came,” Hotch said, sitting beside him on the couch, angled towards him with one of his legs crossed over the other. He regarded Spencer with an expression that was not unkind. In fact, it lingered somewhere near fondness and warmth. Spencer took a sip of the wine, hoping that one drink alone would settle his nerves some.

“Me too, actually,” he murmured rather embarrassedly, and Hotch let another rare smile form on his lips. Spencer smiled back shyly, reaching a hand up to push his bangs back, even though they seemed quite fixed, over his forehead.

“I’m glad you did though,” Hotch countered, and Spencer gulped down another drink before even bothering to think of a response.

“Why?” he questioned then, turning his upper body to face Aaron, his brows raised a bit since he genuinely was curious as to why Hotch would want to spend time with him of all people. It seemed to him like Hotch would have a much more enjoyable time with someone like Gideon, but for some reason, he was interested in Spencer. He didn’t quite understand it, and regardless of Hotch’s response, he doubted he ever really would.

“Do I have to explain my every motive to you?” Hotch said almost teasingly, and Spencer was realizing how much he liked to see him smile. He looked down and shrugged a bit, a smile lingering on his own face.

“I guess not. I just never would have imagined you would willingly want to spend time with me. Not many people do,” Spencer explained briefly, as deprecating as it was. But it was the truth, and Hotch must realize how odd it was for him to spend time with the young doctor outside of work.

“You’re a very fascinating man, Spencer,” Hotch said simply in response, a suggestive message going unsaid. Reid frowned a bit, looking down to see that his wine was already more than halfway gone. When did that happen?…

“Am I?” He asked, his voice a bit quieter. He looked up towards Hotch again through his dark lashes, and Hotch’s hand slowly came over to rest on his thigh. And the worst part was that it wasn’t unwelcome either.

“You are,” Hotch clarified, his own voice dropping as that hand slowly slid up and up and up to the juncture of his hip and thigh, and then back down to his knee where it squeezed just slightly. Reid’s eyes followed the movement very closely, his tongue flicking out over his lips. He downed the rest of his wine, and Hotch’s hand gently took the glass from him, setting it aside in favor of touching Reid again.

“We shouldn’t, Hotch,” he said, finding his voice eventually even if it was nearly a whisper. His hand came over top of Hotch’s on his leg, but Hotch didn’t waver at all. “What about Hailey?”

“What about her?” Hotch murmured, and the young doctor gasped in surprise as Aaron’s lips attached to his neck, suckling gently and trailing kisses up to the curve of his jaw, nearing his chin.

“She’s your wife,” Spencer reminded through quiet hums, and Hotch’s hot breath exhaled over his collarbones as he sighed.

“Forget about her,” Aaron murmured, rising his head up and cupping Spencer’s cheek with a warm palm. “Only think about me.”

The second their lips connected, Spencer felt all previous apprehension and hesitance leave his body. He was caught up in a whirlwind of desire and Aaron Hotchner, and although it scared him, he couldn’t back out now. This was happening, and Spencer was enjoying it far too much to even think of pulling away now. Hotch’s lips were warm against his own, and despite his own inexperience, he was guided through his first kiss very carefully and slowly, and he never knew that it could be that nice. “Come here,” he heard in a whisper, and Spencer instantly slid closer, Aaron’s hands leading him gently on top of him. Spencer’s legs straddled Aaron’s lap, and he looked down from his newly elevated position at Aaron’s face. Aaron looked more pleased than ever, his dark eyes locked onto his face while his hands found purchase over his bony hips.

A hand rose to his chin, gripping it gently and bringing him down so that their lips could meet once more. It was brief at first, just a gentle pressure, but soon it turned into something much more. Reid shuffled above Hotch as they kissed, and he moaned into the other man’s mouth as their hips slotted together, their arousals evident to one another. Hotch pulled back slowly, not saying a word as a hand danced down the column of buttons on his shirt, and one by one, they were undone and his chest was bared. Spencer shivered at the warm hands that touched his cool skin, and he felt more alive than he had in a long, long time. A muted moan burned in his throat as fingers flicked over his nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, and Aaron rumbled in laughter beneath him. “Sensitive, hm?” He murmured teasingly, and the younger man bit his lip, nodding his head frantically.

“A-A little…” Spencer confessed embarrassedly, his hands gripping onto Hotch’s shoulders. Hotch didn’t respond immediately, running his fingers over every inch of his torso before stopping suddenly. A hand came to his neck, the thumb brushing over his jaw.

“Bedroom?” He suggested, and despite the moral contradiction raging on inside of Spencer’s head, he nodded his head.

It felt wrong, to be laying half naked in Hotch’s bed where he slept with his wife. But his mind was taken elsewhere as a hand swiftly undid his pants and slipped inside to pay attention to the heat built up in his groin. Spencer moaned as that hand cupped his arousal, and he gazed up at Hotch, pupils blown wide with lust and kiss-swollen lips parted erotically. Hotch must have liked what he saw, because he loomed over him and bowed his head for their lips to meet once more, his hand fondling his cock through the wet fabric of his boxers.

“Oh god,” Spencer heard himself breathe, the friction of his boxers over the head of his erection enough to send him over the edge. He whimpered, evidence of his climax now coating the inside of his boxers. His face glowed red in embarrassment, but Hotch didn’t view him with any negative judgement. Instead, he smiled and slipped his hand out of his pants, stroking down his side and letting his fingers dip into every indent of his ribcage. Spencer panted quietly, looking away to hide his shame.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t apologize,” Hotch said without missing a beat, licking his lips, “You are gorgeous, Spencer.”

Spencer’s eyes widened a bit, and he grasped onto the front of Hotch’s shirt to drag him upwards, craving his attention once more. He had yet to initiate a kiss on his own, but he did this time, and while it was a bit sloppy, it was still passionate. Hotch didn’t seem to mind either, moving to take off Reid’s pants and soiled underwear. He pushed them over the edge of the bed before returning his focus to Spencer’s now bare body. They both moved back from the kiss, and the young doctor pouted a bit beneath Aaron, his lanky legs spreading almost on instinct while his arms dropped to rest over his head. “I don’t like being the only one naked,” he hummed, and Aaron chuckled, leaning in to kiss his cheek almost affectionately.

“I guess we’ll have to change that then,” he mumbled, sitting up on his knees between Spencer’s thighs and slipped his shirt off over his head, his toned abdomen making Spencer feel so small yet again. Hotch’s pants and underwear soon followed, and Spencer bashfully looked over Aaron’s body, his own insignificance shining through to him, although he didn’t bother to voice it. It was too humiliating, and he was just glad that Aaron didn’t seem to think of him that way.

“It’s never too late to say no, Reid,” Hotch reminded him gently but sternly, running a hand up his leg, from his calf to his thigh, and letting it rest there steadily.

“I don’t want to say no,” Spencer admitted, and that was enough for Hotch. He reached over into the bedside table, withdrawing a gold-packaged condom and a bottle of lube. Hotch wasted no time in squirting the lube over his fingers, smirking slightly at Reid as they slipped between his legs. A digit circled his puckered entrance and Spencer gasped at the sensation, looking up at Hotch nervously. Hotch didn’t say anything, but he made sure to maintain eye contact between the two of them. Spencer realized then that this was so much more than a measly one-night stand. This was genuine affection, and Hotch’s gentleness and concern for his wellbeing made him aware of that. That didn’t mean this was any less wrong.

A finger slipped in slowly, twirling against his tight walls in hopes of helping him relax. Spencer took a deep, shaky breath, exhaling slowly to aid that process, and soon, one finger turned into two. Aaron’s other hand had raised to his cock by then, pumping him slowly while his fingers scissored open his hole. Spencer was not a quiet man in bed, he had learned. He was very vocal, very responsive, and that seemed to egg Hotch on more.

A third finger breached his entrance soon thereafter, a breathless moan passing Reid’s lips. Hotch brought one of his legs over his shoulder, pressing kisses to the side of his kneecap while his fingers slid in and out of his ass with audible wet noises. Before Reid could slip over the edge again, Hotch’s hand stilled and he withdrew his fingers, his tight body barely letting them go. Hotch leaned down to press their lips together once more, their foreheads knocking together gently. “Are you ready?” Aaron asked in a whisper, and Spencer quickly bobbed his head yes without even considering the consequences. Aaron made him feel real, and he never wanted that to go away.

It was more painful than Spencer had remembered. His body fell apart in Aaron’s hands, his walls stretching around the other man’s cock as he bottomed out within him. Spencer was already a panting mess, their eyes never straying from one another.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Hotch breathed against his lips, giving Spencer all the time in the world to adjust the intrusion. Spencer had no idea sex could be this good, but Aaron’s constant praises probably had something to do with his new realization. They lazily kissed each other while giving the pain time to subside, and when it did, Spencer’s hand came up to Hotch’s face. The older man instantly moved to press his face further into his palm.

“Move,” Spencer breathed, and Hotch’s hips instantly began to rock back and forth at a slow, steady rhythm, his cock slipping in and out of his body with little resistance. This wasn’t mindless sex. This was love, existing between the two of them at degrees unquantifiable by mere human tools. It was perfect, and Spencer tried to imagine the rest of his life without experiencing this moment. His lips parted, moans slipping from him effortlessly as Aaron picked up the pace, moving much quicker than before and essentially turning Spencer’s brain to mush. This was almost heaven, and even though he was being fucked by a married man, he wouldn’t have it any other way, because this was close as he could get to heaven.

“Aaron… Touch me Aaron,” he begged in between his cries of pleasure, his voice reaching octaves unheard before. Aaron’s hand wrapped around his weeping cock once more, and that was pretty much the breaking point. Less than two minutes later, he was coming hard, sobbing out loud as his release spurted over Aaron’s fingers and onto his own belly. Hotch continued his own movements, gradually growing sporadic while his own grunts and groans grew in volume. Soon, he reached his own climax, milking himself in Spencer’s tightened passage for several thrusts. He pressed kisses across Spencer’s face, their lips meeting on several occasions until he rode out his orgasm, slipping out unceremoniously. He rolled the condom off of his softening cock, reaching over for a few tissues to clean up his younger partner.

He laid down after and gathered the younger man in his arms, a hand rubbing up and down his back. “Good… That was really good,” the older man murmured lowly into his hair, now damp with sweat. Spencer was faced with the realization of his actions, his eyes wide and watery, the emotions coming in shockwaves. Despite this, he huddled further into Hotch’s chest, the older man falling asleep shortly after. The overwhelming feelings of guilt and despair manifested in his very being, tightening his throat and collapsing his lungs until he was caught in a silent fit of sobs besides his temporary lover’s sleeping form.

This wouldn’t last.

It wouldn’t be forever, but perhaps it was never meant to be.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #heid #hotch x reid

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mrlnsfrt · 3 years ago

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The Value of Perspective

"Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." -- Hebrews 12:2 Berean Study Bible

I recently went on vacation with my family and we visited Zion National Park. I was very excited to hike to Angel’s Landing. I had read about it and heard about it from friends. I had researched it, looked up YouTube videos and I could not wait to do this hike.

Angels Landing is one of the world's most renowned hikes and is an unforgettable adventure worthy of all bucket lists. - Utah.com

I should mention that I am afraid of heights. My palms get sweaty, my heart races, my mouth dries up, and sometimes my legs begin to shake. That is part of the reason I wanted to do this. I work on my fear of heights by willingly and safely facing my fear as I have opportunities to do so.

I did not enjoy the summit for too long. My wife and kids were waiting for me back at Scout’s Lookout about one mile away from me, but since two-way traffic is tricky at many portions of the trail it was a very slow one mile. So I took some pictures and hurried back to my family.

Why do I share this story? Because I did a lot of thinking as I was hiking up that trail. One thought that kept bouncing around my head was why was I doing this and why not just go back? To which the answer was, I wanted to see the view from the top. Also, though the climb was challenging, it was not impossible. Thinking about what it would be like to stand at Angel’s Landing motivated me to keep going.

If I had focused on the fear and discomfort I would have probably just given up and come back.

Your perspective shapes your experience.

I thought a lot about this as I was on vacation with my family exploring National Parks. In the business of life, we can easily lose sight of the eternal. In the pursuit of instant gratification, we sacrifice future joys. Having the right perspective helps us prevent heartache and achieve more lasting joy.

10 If you keep My commandments, you will abide in My love, just as I have kept My Father’s commandments and abide in His love.

11 “These things I have spoken to you, that My joy may remain in you, and that your joy may be full. 12 This is My commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. - John 15:10-12 NKJV

There’s a phrase that has gained popularity over the last few years and rightly so, it is a powerful truth, and that is that Jesus is greater than religion, or people who say they are spiritual and not necessarily religious. Or that they follow Jesus and not any one type of religion. I largely agree with this sentiment or statements of this nature. I too choose to follow Jesus and the moment my religion or denomination teaches or behaves in a way that is not in accordance with the life and teachings of Jesus I question it. I believe that Jesus is our standard. However, this sentiment can easily lead me to simply avoid accountability and just follow my personal preferences. Many times this phrase “I am spiritual but not religious” is synonymous with I follow my heart, my feelings, and not necessarily any specific set of rules.

So here is my understanding of Jesus’ words as recorded in John 15:10-12. Jesus obeyed God’s commandments and He invites us to do the same because doing so strengthens our relationship with Him and He causes us to experience the fullest joy we can while living on this planet. God’s laws are not religious burdens but rather a practical demonstration of our love for God and each other.

Please follow along with me and let me know if this makes sense to you.

When I love God, I do not desire to worship any other gods. I also refrain from making images or representations of Him because that would twist my relationship with Him in an unhealthy way. He is not like other gods and idols who are not gods at all.

I would also be careful with God’s name. Words are powerful things and they shape our memories and thoughts and even feelings, so taking care of how I use God’s name increases the quality of my personal relationship with Him.

I will also enjoy spending time with God and it will be a joy to keep the Sabbath holy.

When I love those around me I will naturally honor my parents, refrain from committing murder, or adultery, from stealing and being dishonest, and I will also not covet what belongs to others.

God’s laws are basic principles and guidelines that help me not only have a healthier relationship with Him but also with everyone around me.

The way that I see it, the more I think about God the more my behavior will be shaped by my love for Him. The more I get to know God the more I fall in love with Him and the greater my desire to live a life that reflects that love.

The Value of Perspective

For this reason, I believe that perspective is so important. If I am not intentionally thinking about God or making room for Him in my life, I can end up leaning heavily on religious behavior as a replacement for an authentic walk with God. That is when legalism creeps in, and I try to earn God’s favor and salvation through my right behavior. With the wrong perspective, even correct behavior becomes a problem. This is why I believe that behavior should not be our focus, but rather perspective. I strongly believe that the “why” is of greater importance than the “what.”

Sabbath

I believe that God created the Sabbath as a reminder to look at things from the right perspective.

The Sabbath reminds me of creation. The creation account reveals an intentional, loving, and powerful God. A God who creates a perfect world, a God who makes all things good. A God who wants reality to be very good. I serve a God who is able to provide, so I can rest when He invites me to rest. The God of the Bible is interested in having a relationship with me, the Sabbath is essentially a date with God. God did not create me to simply do things, and the Sabbath reminds me of that because God is inviting me to stop working.

“Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord your God. In it you shall do no work: you, nor your son, nor your daughter, nor your male servant, nor your female servant, nor your cattle, nor your stranger who is within your gates. For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and rested the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it. - Exodus 20:8-11 NKJV

God Himself gave us the example by stopping and resting, even though He never gets tired (Isaiah 40:28). I see this as very similar to when Jesus was baptized, even though He did not need to be, but He did it to be our example (Matthew 3:13-17). God was not tired, but He rested, in doing so He legitimized rest, and also heightened the value of quality time spent in developing deeper relationships. God placed a premium on time spent with us by choosing to rest with us as opposed to working.

I believe the seventh day of the creation week also reveals the main reason God created us. God wants to spend time with us. Every week we are reminded, on the seventh day, that God created us and desires to spend time with us. This is not primarily a religious practice, this is not primarily a commandment, this is primarily a sincere desire for a meaningful connection, for a personal relationship. Religion and commandments guide and remind us, but the deeper truth goes beyond the letter of the law. God’s law reveals truths about His character, it reveals the desires of His heart. God wants to spend time with us.

Isn’t it ironic that the God of the universe wants to spend time with us every week, and we think He is asking for too much? Is it not sad that some turn the Sabbath rest into a burden and legalism? I see the Sabbath from a perspective of God’s love and desire to connect with me in a personal and meaningful way.

The seventh-day Sabbath also helps me look at life from the proper perspective. God created the world, but the emphasis of creation came on the seventh day, the highlight, the ultimate goal, was relationships. The fourth commandment reminds us of the importance of working six days but also highlights that the rest is for everyone in the family, the workers, the foreigners, and even the animals. Once again, it is not merely a religious practice, it is vital for our spiritual wellbeing. The weekly Sabbath rest on the seventh day of the week is meant for all of creation to pause, and gain perspective.

The Sabbath invites us to ponder eternal truths. God has blessed and set aside a day for us to reflect on what is truly important in life and to invest in it. I see the Sabbath day as an opportunity to invest in my personal relationship with God, with my wife, with my kids, and family members, and friends. So I freely choose to not engage in monetary exchanges. I can conduct business during six days of the week. But the seventh day is so special that I do not want to miss out on its blessings by doing things I can do any other day. This is a day to do more of what feeds my soul. Invest in my walk with God, invest in my relationships with those around me, the people I wish I had more time to dedicate to them throughout the week, on the Sabbath God has given me that time and invites me to use it wisely.

For me, to watch secular TV shows, or listen to secular music, or to engage in business, or to do school work would be to waste the precious sacred hours of this blessed day. The Sabbath is not a burden, it is an invitation to make an investment in what has deep value, even eternal value.

Deep Value

I hope you have not had to experience a funeral or memorial service recently. But in a way, that experience has some things in common with the Sabbath because it also causes us to pause and gain some perspective. At a funeral, we are faced with eternal truths and the consequences of our life choices. People usually do not talk about how much money someone made, their GPA, or their Net Worth. What do people talk about? Have you ever considered what might be said about you should you die one day? We don’t like to think about that. But I am not asking you to necessarily think about death, but rather to carefully consider how you are living.

At a memorial service, we also talk and think about eternal truths, eternal life usually, but we are also aware that another possibility is eternal destruction. We do not like to consider the second option, but we know that when it is all said and done there are only two eternal options available to everyone.

This perspective brings to light what I would like to call deep value. What in your life has deep value? How much time and effort do you dedicate to the things that have deep value?

Second Coming

When we think about life, and when we think about death, I often think about the beginning and end of the Bible. Genesis describes a perfect God creating a perfect world and the fall of that world. This is why we have death and suffering. The last book of the Bible tells us of the end of this world, this sinful world with death and sin, and of the recreation of a perfect world.

Now I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. Also there was no more sea. Then I, John, saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from heaven saying, “Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. God Himself will be with them and be their God.. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.”

Then He who sat on the throne said, “Behold, I make all things new.” And He said��to me, “Write, for these words are true and faithful.”

And He said to me, “It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. I will give of the fountain of the water of life freely to him who thirsts. He who overcomes shall inherit all things, and I will be his God and he shall be My son. But the cowardly, unbelieving, abominable, murderers, sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.” - Revelation 21:1-8 NKJV

Thinking about the second coming of Jesus is also great for providing us with perspective.

So the seventh-day Sabbath and the second coming help me frame my life in light of deep value and eternal truths.

The Cost of Perspective

I really enjoyed my vacation with my family. We visited Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon National Park, Canyonlands National Park, Arches National Park, and the Grand Canyon National Park. We did all this in 8 days total. There was a lot of planning ahead of time. We saved for this trip, we planned the trip, we rented a camper van, we bought food, we planned each day.

Things did not always go according to plan, COVID restrictions made things interesting, this was our first time so there was a learning curve, we have kids who are 7 and 8 and always keep things from being too predictable. We woke up at 2:00AM to drive three hours to Atlanta to drop our car off at a hotel (in order to save on parking fees) then take a shuttle to the airport, we made it just in time to get our flight. We flew from Atlanta, GA to Denver, CO, and had just enough time to buy the most expensive bagels and smoothie we ever purchased and eat on the flight from Denver, CO to Las Vegas, NV. When we arrived in Las Vegas we took an Uber to where we rented our vans, we were starving and grabbed some food then realized one of the van doors was not locking well so we returned to van rental place and ate in their office as they got us a new van. We had to take everything out of one van and put it in another. Then we drove to a grocery store to buy our food supply for the next few days and then we hit for the three-hour drive to Zion.

That first day was extremely exhausting. Our days were made up of cold breakfast, long hikes, and long drives. But we had an amazing time and made memories that will last a lifetime!

I tell you this story to tell you this, it is not easy, but it is worth it!

Resting on the Sabbath seems like the easiest thing on earth until life happens, and you are tempted to study for an exam, to work a few hours because you could use the money, or the boss is asking you to, or there’s a competition you want to participate in. Suddenly, you have some competition. Is your special time with God really necessary? Is it really worth it?

I find it interesting how we often rationalize that God will understand our situation. When in reality we are the ones who do not understand our situation. We lose perspective. We begin to value the things of this world above God. We place temporal things ahead of eternal things. We begin to cheat, lie, cut corners, thinking it will benefit us. Thinking it will help us get ahead, or be happier. With the wrong perspective, we fail to value what is most valuable. We sacrifice our future for immediate gratification.

Fathers walk away from kids, spouses cheat, children dishonor and hurt their parents, mostly we hurt ourselves, ruin our careers, ruin our health, ruin our finances, all because of not having the right perspective. All because we refused to make time for God in our lives. If you only make time for God when it’s convenient then God is no longer God. Jesus is no longer LORD.

The consequences of rejecting God and His will not only increase pain and suffering in the world, and especially around us, especially hurting those who love us most, it also has eternal consequences.

So even though it can be challenging to take a Sabbath break, even though it can make us a bit uncomfortable to think about the second coming of Jesus and judgment and the end of the world, I believe it is incredibly worthwhile. With this perspective, the perspective of deep truths, we can live our best possible lives. When we live in accordance with God’s will not only do we enjoy a deeper joy but we also become a beacon of hope and blessings for those around us.

Look to Jesus

Jesus is our ultimate example. Jesus went to the equivalent of church in his time and culture on the Sabbath.

So He came to Nazareth, where He had been brought up. And as His custom was, He went into the synagogue on the Sabbath day, and stood up to read. - Luke 4:16 NKJV

Jesus also spent time alone in prayer.

And when He had sent the multitudes away, He went up on the mountain by Himself to pray. Now when evening came, He was alone there. - Matthew 14:23 NKJV

[I will restrain myself from going deeper into the topic of prayer here but you can check out these posts to go deeper on this topic. Always Pray, The Privilege of Prayer, Ask, Prioritizing Prayer, Not as I will, Spiritual Warfare, Some of My Favorite Bible Verses on Prayer.]

Jesus understood the importance of perspective. When Satan tempted Jesus he tried to shift Jesus’ perspective away from His mission, away from the will of the Father, to immediate gratification, to an easy out (Luke 4:1-13).

Jesus kept the right perspective, He placed the will of the Father above His own immediate desires as a suffering human. (I know that Jesus is God but He had set aside His divinity, so He was suffering as a human)

He went a little farther and fell on His face, and prayed, saying, “O My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as You will.” - Matthew 26:39 NKJV

Jesus kept the right perspective and achieved the ultimate victory. It was not easy, but it was worth it!

looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. - Hebrews 12:2 NKJV

Call to Action

Maybe you have lost perspective recently. Maybe you never saw the need to fully commit to God and to invite Jesus into your heart. Wherever you are in your spiritual journey, I want to invite you to take one step in the direction of God. Do not put this off. Do it today, gain perspective, live with this new perspective. God is calling you to live your best life! He will enable you to do it!

for it is God who works in you both to will and to do for His good pleasure. - Philippians 2:13 NKJV

May we live our lives with the right perspective, with the joy that God sets before us. God offers us eternal life, a new world without pain or crying, or sorrow.

And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.” - Revelation 21:4 NKJV

#practical #second coming #Sabbath

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firebrands · 5 years ago

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a catalog of non-definitive acts | steve/tony (6/7)

Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, mature, 1k of meaningful glances and not enough communication | previous || on ao3

Tony’s been spending the last few days away from Steve. He’s revoked access to the penthouse, but it’s not like he’s been up there much either, only to get a change of clothes. He can’t stand the sight of his bed, can’t bear to look at the couch, everything an awful reminder of everything.

Maybe that’s why Steve never let Tony into his apartment. The lucky bastard’s probably sleeping like a baby in his room, free of marked memories.

It’s almost a week later when they all manage to get together for dinner—Bruce had wrangled Tony up and out of the workshop with the promise of chicken curry—and the only seat left has Tony sitting across Steve. He tries valiantly not to care, instead heaping praises about the food and asking Thor about Jane, all the while being hyper aware of how Steve’s gaze is trained on him.

It gets annoying. An irrational part of Tony wants to snap, just take a fucking picture, it’ll last longer, but he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore.

But it’s Clint who brings it up. “Something on Tony’s face?” Clint asks, because he’s an idiot.

Tony takes a big bite of rice and curry and chews very, very slowly. He makes a questioning sound in response, but diverts his attention to Clint when he does.

“Oh, uh. No,” Steve says, ducking his head down and pushing food around his plate.

Clint looks at Tony, confused and expecting Tony to have an answer.

Tony shrugs in response, and the conversation shifts back to Thor, regaling them with another one of his adventures.

Under the table, he feels a foot nudge his. Tony looks up at Steve on reflex, and is rewarded by a small smile on Steve’s lips—a secret smile, a slight question in the way his eyebrows are raised.

Tony tamps down hard on the way his heart swells at the look Steve is giving him. He draws his foot back and watches the smile fall from Steve’s face with sick, twisted satisfaction at his petty revenge that he’s the one who rebuffs Steve, now.

Tony’s staring up at schematics when he hears the workshop doors slide open. On instinct, he knows it’s Steve: maybe it’s the way Steve walks into a room and shifts the air with his presence. Maybe it’s the way Steve smells—that even from however many feet away, Tony can place the scent of his aftershave.

Maybe it’s that Tony hasn’t locked him out from here, the one other place that is his own. That he’d forgotten. (Had he? Or had he kept it unlocked on purpose? He can’t say. Won’t say. He said he was with this, and so he's done. No more thinking.)

Tony doesn’t turn to look, but can see in his periphery that Steve is standing beside him now, looking at Tony. After a moment, Steve turns away and looks up at the holograms.

Steve clears his throat before he speaks, which means he’s nervous. Somehow, this is heartening to Tony.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks. His eyes are still trained towards the floating blue schematics.

Tony sneaks a glance, because he’s a weak man who’s always liked the way Steve smiles at the things Tony creates. Then he looks back up at the holograms and swallows before answering.

“Thinking,” Tony says, gesturing to the schematics blown up in front of him. It feels like déjà vu; how long ago was it when Steve had stepped in, wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist, kissed the back of Tony’s neck?

Long enough, apparently, for Tony to feel the long tendrils of yearning unfurl inside him. He’s missed Steve so much, his voice, his hands.

Steve sighs, turns to look back at Tony, angles his body so that his hips rest against the table. He’s so close, but it’s not close enough—never close enough, even in the times that Tony held his face and he could count the freckles on Steve’s cheeks.

It’s silly, he’s right here, but Tony won’t let himself reach out and touch him. He can’t. He shouldn’t.

(Won’t, can’t, shouldn’t. Not, not, not. That’s a Boolean operator for exclusion, removal, helps weed out the truths from the false.)

Steve takes a step closer toward Tony, and Tony reflexively takes a step back.

Tony lets out a short breath, and watches as Steve’s body goes taut.

Steve looks up at Tony, then looks away. He’s frowning, but it’s like he’s trying to hide it. Still, Tony sees it all. Sees the way Steve takes another moment, breathes in slowly.

“What did I do?” Steve asks, quietly. His eyes flick up to glance at Tony as if to make sure he’s heard, and then he looks back down on the floor.

Tony yearns to touch him, to kiss that look off his face.

“Nothing,” he says, instead. And isn’t that the problem?

Steve’s hands curl into a fist. Tony’s dreamt of that fist, wrapped around his tie, his forearm, his cock. In a wild moment of clarity, he realizes: who was he to think he could make it work this time, anyway? After all his past failures—isn’t he the common denominator?

“Thor asked why we were fighting,” Steve grinds out. His voice is strained and monotone.

Tony watches as Steve slowly uncurls his fist and lays his palm flat on the table.

“We’re not.” Tony says.

“We’re not?” Steve sounds surprised by this, and he turns quickly to up to look at Tony.

For a brief moment Tony feels like he’s dreaming—is that hope, in Steve’s eyes? Or just the way they catch the light?

“You think we are?” Tony asks, wilfully obtuse but at the same time, a bit surprised. This isn't a fight. At least, not a fight he’s ever had.

Steve takes a breath, bites down on his lip. He takes another breath, and Tony watches, fascinated, as Steve’s jaw clenches. He’s done it now, then, pissed Steve off. A wild, uninhibited part of him thrills at this realization. Good. Good. Now you know.

Steve looks at Tony, searching his face for answers Tony won’t telegraph. “I don’t know, I haven't—what is going on?” he asks, he rubs angrily at the back of his head.

“Nothing,” Tony says. because it’s true. “Nothing’s going on.” And this is the chance, this is the chance for Steve to finally say, something is going on, Tony. Something’s been going on for a long time. I want something to keep going on.

Steve looks away, then he sighs. The accurate word, Tony thinks, is deflates.

“Nothing,” he repeats. “Okay.”

Tony knows this is what he wanted to hear, at least half of him. Message clear, then. Tony turns back to the hologram, finally, completely, totally resolute. Nothing, then. Nothing at all. Maybe it was never anything to begin with. Maybe Steve had never meant there to be anything and Tony had read all the signs wrong. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The word echoes around Tony’s mind.

“Tony, I—” Steve starts, then falters.

Tony slams his hands down on the table, angry at everything, at Steve specifically, just, all of it. Let it be nothing.

“It’s nothing!” he snaps, whirling around to stare Steve down.

Steve’s standing so close to him that a weaker man would’ve leaned close and stolen a kiss, taken it all back, let it be something. Let’s let it be something together, now, please, but Tony’s tired of this song and dance. It’s all become very clear.

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. He raises his eyes to look at Tony, and foolish men have fallen for less, and for a while, Tony let himself be foolish. Steve blinks, nods almost to himself, then leaves.

Tony watches him go. He should feel good. Any second now, he will.

Tony’s waiting in the lobby of the Tower, tapping his foot against the marble. He hasn’t been this excited to go to a charity ball in a while. (Okay, fine, maybe excited was an overly charitable use of the word, but he was eager to leave. For no particular reason, really. Really.)

He fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket and nearly calls—when the elevator doors slide open.

“Tony.”

Tony freezes up at the sound of Steve’s voice. Why was he here? Why was he speaking to him? They’d barely said two words to one another in the days that followed their discussion in the workshop. (And discussion is an overly charitable use of the word.)

He turns his head and feels his breath catch in his throat. Steve is in a suit—a new one. A velvet blue jacket. It’s awful, how in spite of the fluorescent light of the Tower lobby, it still brings out the color of Steve’s eyes.

Tony can’t will himself to speak. Funny how these firsts caused by Steve used to be novel, interesting. Now it just makes Tony feel��it makes him feel.

“I can come with you,” Steve says, his voice soft, unassuming, directly counter to what he’s saying. He doesn’t look at Tony as he says it, instead adjusts his cuffs, pulls them out from under his coat.

(A few days earlier Tony had said, no need for anyone to come with me. I have a date. Tony had kept his eyes on Natasha as he spoke, acted as if he had blinders and didn’t notice how Steve reacted on purpose.)

“I don’t need you to,” Tony says, finally finding enough willpower to turn away.

“I’d like to,” Steve says.

Oh, now you do. Tony thinks, irritably. He stays silent, doesn’t turn as he hears Steve’s shoes tap against the marble, doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes when he feels Steve standing beside him.

Steve takes a deep breath. “I’d really like to,” he says again.

Inside him, Tony feels something shatter. He’d like that, too. Even after all of this. It’s awful, how much he’s like for Steve to take his hand, lead him to the door, hail a taxi just for the pedestrian novelty of it—that way, finally, someone would know: Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, holding hands and hailing a cab. Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, together, finally,. despite everything.

Tony stays silent, thinking of the words to say. There’s always that one word, the one he’s avoided so skillfully. Then there’s the questions, why, why, why. Tony opens his mouth, ready to just turn off the filter for once in his life—

Then, a black car pulls up on the curb. Tony doesn’t have to look to recognize the car, can tell from the purr of the engine alone that it’s Bruce’s murcielago.

Steve turns back to meet Tony’s eyes.

Tony offers up a small smile, half apologetic, half smug.

“Don’t wait up.”

#stevetony #steve x tony #stony #stevetony fic #steve rogers #tony stark #things i write #a catalog of non definitive acts #ANYWAY PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU LIKED IT I AM SO NERVOUS ABOUT THIS LMAO

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animus-inspire-archive · 4 years ago

Text

Workiversary carried on from here

@urbdev-assistant

He never failed to surprise her, Rita would credit him there. She’d gotten used to a decade’s worth of habits, yet she still found herself always caught off-guard by his self-deprecation - and his unfailing kindness. She felt certain none of the other Executive assistants had Directors that even cared about city parks or ‘workiversaries’. She smiled, and yet felt a pang. She wished he could see himself as she saw him: Devoted, never giving up even in the face of failure. Hardworking. Diligent. Sweet.

“A ‘Workiversary’ celebration, huh?” The question tickles her. It feels so unexpected, him asking in earnest. Rita ponders, feeling playful. “I like that. Marking 10 years of you keeping the same assistant - clearly you’ve done some things right, even if you don’t believe it yourself,” she teases. “So that should be your sign that you made a good impression in the Corporate Archives and beyond.” She straightens her posture, grinning at him. “Actually, I always admired that you used the archive so much - most of the other Executives never bother stepping foot there….”

Rita refocuses to his question. “Anyway, let’s see, let’s see. What’s a good ‘workiversary’ plan?” She scrunches her nose, thinking deep. “Well, in January is also my 30th birthday, which means that it’s an extra special time. So obviously,” she exaggerates, “whatever we do, the occasion calls for fireworks,” she grins, feeling giddy, but grateful knowing he didn’t mind her occasional silliness.

“And I’ll have be the one to borrow Papa’s cane since someone acts like being in their thirty’s is old.” She faux-glares at Reeve, shaking her head. “I don’t know where you get this idea that you’re a creaky old man who doesn’t do enough around here. That’s certainly not the case!” She almost leaves her chiding at that, but seeing the opportunity… “Of course, if you’re feeling old, regular sleep and eating habits would also probably help with that, Director.” Rita keeps her tone light, to convey there’s no real bite to her words.

“As for what I want to do for our Workiversary…” she feels impish, excited by her plan. “Well, I have an idea. And I think it’s quite a good one…but I just don’t know you’d go along.” She sighed play-dramatically. “I’m not sure you could handle it, sir….”

@animus-inspire

Reeve was no stranger to self-deprecation, it was true. For many it was a form of defence. Or manipulation too if he was to be entirely honest. The rest of the time, he generally perceived himself to be a pretty average kinda fella. Sure he was an Executive Director in the most powerful company on the planet, and had certain other traits that could be seen to set him apart if his vast output of work had anything to say for itself. But compared to the frankly barmy collision of personalities within his direct peers, to the departments of SOLDIER and the Turks, Reeve was comparatively an everyman and he certainly did not feel special in the slightest. Neither did he much appreciate self-aggrandisement, for he saw far too much of that on a day-to-day basis. From people who really should not possess that much arrogance or conceit in his humble opinion.

If he knew of the adjectives that were passing through his assistant’s mind right now, Reeve might have struck up some debate with her assessment. Arguably he was devoted, and he tried to never give up on a problem that was challenging him to find the solution. Hardworking and diligent, objectively so, but it still felt too little for Reeve personally. And sweet? Well, he had far too much blood on his hands, metaphorically speaking, to ever entertain that notion. But he was not Rita, he was Reeve, and it was difficult to have a sense of objective perspective upon one’s own person. Much like she did not credit herself enough either, “That is entirely down to you, Rita. I remain the common denominator across your predecessors and your good self. But you?” He smiles at her, still earnest in tone but also a little tickled warm because of her teases, “You are clearly different. Ten years you’ve managed to put up with me and the... demands of this company for longer than that. Frankly, I think you deserve a medal or something.”

Reeve leans back in his office chair and folds his hands into his lap, rocking slightly as he hums, “Well as much as I like new technologies, there is something to be said for an actual book.” If Rita only knew of his childhood, where books where one of his most favourite things. Non-fiction, encyclopaedic tomes though they may have been, they nonetheless had been a perfect stimulus for a rather over-active imagination. He smiles again, more to himself as his eyes nearly close, then blinks instead to steady a gaze back at the red-head, “Plus those archive-bots are adorable, and nobody else seems to do any form of maintenance on them.”

The Director glances away when his assistant scrunches her nose up cutely in thought, though he quickly turns back with his entire body, a look of surprise on his features at her words, “It’s your birthday? Did I know that already?” He was going to add in his apologies, perhaps even an explanation, but Rita had already continued on to mentioning fireworks and the child-like side to the man was starting to let itself be known, “Oh! Fireworks, a wonderful idea!” He claps his palm on the desk edge, mischief slipping into his features, “Keep it a secret between you and I, Rita, but there is a distinct possibility that some Wutaian specialities could be ah, negotiated.” They were well reputed for their spectacle and beauty after all and Reeve had just the contact in mind.

“I’m not one to go around calling 29 year olds middle-aged,” Reeve announces rather exasperatedly into the office, “But others certainly do, I can assure you of that fact.” It still rankles him, though he tries to not let such petty thoughts distract. There was so much else to concern himself besides being perceived as old. Becoming old and unable to carry out his work for one. He merely huffs at her suggestions, also light heartedly. Who knows, one of these times, he might just listen. But not today, or any time soon. Not when there was so much left to get done, and time waits for (almost) no-one.

Oh-hoh, a challenge. Reeve flickers away his dark hazel guiltily from the thrill, schooling his features back and deciding to stand, resting back on the side of the desk, arms crossed in front of him, “You don’t say. Why not let me be the judge of what I can and cannot handle...”

#Rita || I have to protect the one thing I cannot live without #remember your filing Rita #pssst change your tracker #sorry!

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spring-emerald · 4 years ago

Text

monogram (2/4)

Part 1 here.

Please take note of the updated chapter count. :)

Pairing: Ushijima Wakatoshi / Moniwa Kaname

-----

5 years ago

His phone has been ringing, interspersed with occasional beeping for the better half of the day, only greedily accumulating the messages and calls but never answering, never returning it. It pains Moniwa to keep ignoring it, but he knows who’s on the other side of the line and he can’t talk to Ushijima yet. He doesn’t think he can take it, not when Moniwa is still figuratively bleeding from the wound Ushijima inadvertently caused with his blunt statement that morning.

He’s going to ask Moniwa if he’s alright, worried about him and Moniwa can’t trust himself that he won’t break down as he attempt to lie, so he doesn’t risk it. Sniffing, he takes his pillow and squeezes it over his head, coverring his ears to muffle the sound of his phone, while quietly willing it to stop. He doesn’t know how long he stayed like that, until eventually, it does.

He breathes easier then, when it stays quiet, and he begins to gain clarity. It’s not Ushijima’s fault, Moniwa reasons. He doesn’t know.

Honestly, Moniwa isn’t completely sure either that Ushijima really is his soul mate. It could be anyone that has the initials W and U -the completely noticeable black and bold letters spanning whole of his palms. They need to confirm it directly. They need to touch hands, touch marks, and if it burns, then it’s all the sign they need.

But they can’t do that, can they? He can’t ask Ushijima now.

Moniwa laughs wetly, leaving his pillow refuge to sit upright in his bed. Perhaps he’s being foolish. They didn’t even reveal the initials of Ushijima’s soul mate, so who’s to say he has Moniwa’s initials? He probably has a different set of initials after all. So really, it’s pointless to get hurt over something unsure. It’s foolish and stupid and unbecoming and…

And it hurts, his heart smarts, constricting in his chest, blurry eyes looking down on the damned initials on his hands, as fresh tears fall on it. He doesn’t need any physical confirmation. He knows, in an inexplicable way that it’s Ushijima. Even before the marks, he’s already been drawn to Ushijima, attracted to Ushijima, wished with all his being that it’s Ushijima.

Strong, stubborn Ushijima, who he admires and wholeheartedly supports, who would reach greater heights and gain greater achievements.

Simple, steadfast Ushijima, who deserves the best, who doesn’t need -doesn’t want a soul mate.

Where do unwanted soul mates go? Moniwa wonders before he comes to a decision.

-----

Ushijima flops down on his bed, holding his phone above him, thumb hesitantly hovering over the call button, eyebrows stitched together in a worried frown. He wants to call Moniwa again, maybe he’ll answer this time and make sure he’s alright. But it’s also already late and he’d hate to disturb him if he’s already sleeping.

In the end he exits his contacts, promptly locks his phone and puts it on the bedside table with a sigh.

Today had been eventful, to say the least. And he’d been looking forward to tell Moniwa about it –the announcement, his soul mark, the way the assistant coach gently admonished him after the press conference about saying what he said about it. He still doesn’t think that it’s big of a deal, though he’d realized that he may have been a bit cruel and completely careless with his words.

It would’ve been nice to talk to Moniwa about it, and maybe he can help him make sense of the sudden, unexplainable loss he is feeling.

-----

Present Time

Moniwa ran on autopilot and fixed the car as robotically and efficiently as possible, still reeling over the unexpected reunion. He doesn’t remember the things he’d said while tinkering with the machinery, and has vague recollection of the stiff bow and curt goodbye he’d given Ushijima and his kind driver. He doesn’t know how he made it back to the shop, considering the condition he’d been in, and just realizes with a jolt that he’s already there.

He quickly hides himself between the cars parked in the shop’s garage to give himself a sliver of privacy to process what just happened.

He’d fantasized how he’d wanted their reunion to happen, way too many times over the last couple of years. In different scenarios too, mostly serendipitous ones like a chance encounter in a café or bumping to each other while doing their morning run. Some have Moniwa seek him out, purposefully meets him like watching an exhibition game and approaching him after to ask for an autograph, or reach out to him through their disrupted but not forgotten contact, and many more other scenarios, differing in minute details, but all having a common denominator of Moniwa being in a point of his life where he’s finally prepared to meet Ushijima again.

And not the bumbling reality of him being in his dirty jumpsuit, smelling of grease and smoke and sweat; not him shutting down completely in panic and unable to make even a pathetic attempt at small talk. And being not (yet) the best version of himself that he can present to Ushijima, one that he can hopefully consider as a soulmate.

Moniwa takes a deep breath and clenches his gloved hands into a tight fist repeatedly, a thing that he does to ground himself. It’s alright. It’s only once. It’s not like he’s going to see and meet Ushijima again in the near future that soon, because he’s probably busy, like Moniwa is. Busier perhaps, because he’s a pro-athlete now and his schedule is possibly packed full of training and practices and other things that a person of his caliber does.

What happened earlier was sudden and unexpected, but it’s going to be the only time. With this thought, Moniwa calms himself enough to spend the rest of his work time and the remainder of his day in relative ease.

---

So… it seems like he can’t stop seeing Ushijima everywhere.

It’s like his chance encounter scenarios are being brought to life, his wildest fantasies coming true but in the worst possible way and in the form of a poorly written sketch. Only, it consists of him turning tail as soon as he sees the back of Ushijima’s head checking the fresh produce of his go-to fruit vendor, or hiding behind walls and in-between dark alleys when he catches glimpse of Ushijima coming from the other direction while he’s jogging.

What takes the cake though, is that Ushijima visited the shop where he works at. He found the address, went there and looked for him.

He’s coming back from his break and spies a familiar back and quickly ducks behind a nearby dumpster. He glares and curses softly at the sky, at the gods, at the fates or whoever, whatever was responsible for this, crinkling his nose at the smell but willfully ignores it as he finds himself hiding from Ushijima, again.

What is he doing here? How did he find he even find this place? Moniwa recalls handing a card to the old driver and curses his autopilot self for that. Okay, so that explains how Ushijima found out about this place.

Now, the million yen question is why is he here?

He jumps when his phone vibrated and he fishes it out from one of his jumpsuit pockets and takes the call from one of his co-workers.

“Oi, Moniwa-kun,” Sakae-san greets in a gruff voice. “Ya done wit yer break yet?”

“A-Almost done, Sakae-san. Uhm, why?”

“Well, ya better hurry. Someone’s here lookin’ for ya.”

Moniwa gulps. “A customer?”

“Nah. Don’t think he is. Just asked for ya.” There’s some rustling from the other side of the line and Moniwa takes a peak to see what’s going on. He didn’t need his phone to hear that Sakae-san asked for Ushijima’s name, it was loud enough to be heard from across the street.

“Said his name’s Ushijima. D’ya know him?”

From what Moniwa can see from his vantage point, Sakae-san is already doing his ‘gangster’ posturing on Ushijima. Puffed chest and squared shoulders. Moniwa can’t see it clearly but he can tell that Sakae-san’s giving Ushijima a once over with that intimidating frown of his meant to scare away any lesser men.

Ushijima isn’t a lesser man, just a confused and unperturbed one, but Moniwa hates to think what might happen to him if Sakae-san deems him dangerous or perceives him as arrogant.

Against his better judgment he hurriedly says “Y-Yeah. I know him, Sakae-san.”

“Huh,” is all Sakae-san says before he continues. “Well, come back here soon then.” Then, the line goes off.

Moniwa leans back on the wall, cringing at himself for making that stupid decision to tell the truth. He wonders how long he can stall, thinks about making up some excuse of not being able to return, but Sakae-san would be suspicious and he still has a car to fix and ugh. Dammit, what’s he going to do?

A stray cat makes the decision for him, when it jumps out of the dumpster, scaring Moniwa making him jump in return. And oh god, he’s starting to smell like it and he can’t have that, ugh. He takes another peak at the shop across the street before looking down on his gloved hands, fingers pressing hard on covered palms.

It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s hidden. If he can’t see it, no one can.

---

“There he is,” Sakae-san drawls upon seeing him approach. Ushijima quickly turns around to look at him and Moniwa’s confident steps faltered a little. He stops a few away from Ushijma.

“Thank you, Sakae-san. I’ll take it from here,” he says with a nod of his head, and the old mechanic waves a dismissing hand before he leaves them alone.

“Moniwa,” he says with a small smile, eyes alight with happiness Moniwa hadn’t seen in a while.

“Ushijima-san. Is there something wrong with the car? Does it need fixing again?”

Ushijima’s smile gives way to a light frown. “Uh, no,” he says with shake of his head. “The car is good. You fixed it well.”

“Oh. What are you doing here then?” Moniwa’s not used to being distant, cold, that as soon as the words came out of his mouth, the beginnings of guilt stirs in his gut. It was made even worse when Ushijima clearly hadn’t expected the treatment, what with the wide eyed, sort of betrayed expression that passed over his face.

“I…I came to see you,” Ushijima answers truthfully. “Maybe, we can talk?”

Moniwa feels his heart softening at the bashful display, but… “I’m sorry, Ushijima-san, but I’m-” he thumbs at the cars behind him, “-busy. I mean, there’s a car that I have to fix and I need to finish it today so I can’t uhm, talk.” He scratches the back of his neck while Ushijima nods at him.

“Of course. You’re right. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

“It’s alright.”

It’s clear from Ushijima’s body language that he doesn’t want to leave yet, but he bows at Moniwa all the same and eventually walks away. Moniwa can’t help but think that Ushijima’s broad back looks sad like that while watching him walk away and it tugs hard at his heart. He bites down on his lips and huffs.

“Ushijima-san!” He calls out, and it must just be Moniwa’s imagination but Ushijima quickly turns around and is striding back towards him.

“Yes?” Did Ushijima really have to look so hopeful? Moniwa shakes his head, dispelling the thought.

“I get off at five. I mean, if you’re free then maybe we can meet later, after…?”

Ushijima smiles wide this time making Moniwa’s heart catch a little. “I’ll be here then.”

Moniwa exhales as he smiles, hoping it doesn’t look forced as it feels on his face and nods.

-----

To be continued

#haikyuu!!#ushimoni #ushijima wakatoshi #moniwa kaname #hq fanfic

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